The topic is often too polarizing for polite conversation. Partisans inevitably retreat into two warring camps, pro- and anti-, and nurse their senses of superiority and mutual suspicions all the while expressing astonishment that anyone could think otherwise. One’s position often reflects one’s up-bringing and to my knowledge, almost nobody changes their opinion once formed. It’s something of a sore spot in my own family and I am only able to discuss it freely here on the Daily Kos because I can hide behind a screen name that protects my anonymity. And so, a confession. At the risk of putting any goodwill that I’ve accumulated here in jeopardy, I may as well tell you – I love pea soup.
Pea soup, specifically split pea and ham soup is one of those sublime culinary phenomena wherein the end product is an emergent miracle spectacularly more than the bare sum of its parts. The basic recipe could not be simpler. There are but five essential ingredients (water, a ham bone, dried split peas, potatoes, and carrots) and one essential seasoning (black pepper). All are common. All are pedestrian and all likely to be found occasionally in the humblest winter kitchen. There are variations that other cooks might use and I would entertain an argument for a sweet onion as a sixth essential ingredient but too much fussiness simply gilds the lily.
Dried split peas are the signature ingredient and if you ponder the metaphysics of it all, there can be no other reason for the existence of dried split peas. I am a ham-fisted cook so my execution can only graciously be described as “rustic”. I measure nothing. I soak the peas overnight taking care only to follow the directions on the package to “sort for the presence of stones (!).” The next day, I put a ham bone and ham leftovers in a pot and boil them until the edible bits fall from the bone. After discarding the bone, I add the soaked peas to the boiled ham and simmer them until bedtime. I put the pot in the refrigerator (or the unheated garage, or the back porch) overnight so that in the morning I can spoon off the congealed fat. I then add coarsely chopped potatoes and carrots and simmer until the peas dissolve and the root vegetables soften. I add water or boil longer as needed to get the proper consistency (smooth and porridge-like when warm, thick enough to stand a knife up in when cold). I serve it piping hot with a generous dose of freshly ground black pepper.
Simple patient simmering is key, if not for the alchemy of the soup itself, then for the transformation of the home’s atmosphere. Pea soup is a cold weather meal. An insidious side effect of insulated homes and thermostat-controlled furnaces is that we wall ourselves off from nature during winter and by degrees we get complacent about those missing connections. The simmer is the antidote. Long simmering warms the kitchen and fogs the windows and fills the house with a smoky-salty ham aroma intermixed with earthy pea-pungency. Smoke, salt, earth, and moisture evoke elemental sensations rooted in primal connections to nature that have sustained us over the millennia, and lest we forget, still do. Not coincidentally, these elements also convey the signature pleasure of fine Scotch whisky although humble pea soup has no such pretensions. Its best complements are humble as well, a cold beer and a crusty bread.
My ancestors were peasant farmers who wrestled their living from the sodden low country soils of Europe’s North Sea region. Hence, I am a product of natural selection for stubborn resistance to long cold damp winters, gray fog-bound skies, and prolonged winter darkness. I learned to make pea soup from my mom and she from hers and so on back to grandmothers who lived in sod huts and braved an immigrant’s fears hoping for a better life for her family on our Midwestern prairies. Salt-cured meats, root vegetables, and dried legumes would have been staples for survival. And that green color that is so off-putting to anti-pea-soup partisans? Why that’s chlorophyll, the vital precious chemical that converts sunlight into food for nearly everything. It’s hyperbole to describe a bowl of hot pea soup as a bowl of thick liquid sunshine – though not by much. Still, each spoonful of warm savory-smoky-sweet goodness pauses on my palette just long enough to ring the pepper-pleasure centers in my sinuses before sticking to my ribs and signaling to my hind-brain that, at least for the near term, I am snug and secure. It warms my peasant soul like a grandmother’s hug.
Sadly, my wife and kids are anti-pea-soupers and despite my best efforts with the inadequacies of the English language I cannot convince them of their wrongness. “What stinks in here?” they ask. “Gross!” It can be so lonely. My wife, I can accept. Every marriage has its disappointments and I did not do due diligence on probing for pea-soup compatibility before falling in love. My kids, though are more difficult to understand since half of their genetics are from me. The pro-pea-soup gene must be recessive and reconstructing the Medelian assortment that would explain such a pattern, I remembered a pea soup experience that led me to an uncomfortable question about my own parentage. My dad is a rock-ribbed pro-pea-souper. I thought my mom was too but some years ago, Mom rushed the preparation of pea soup when my family was back for a visit. She served the immature pea soup before the peas had fully softened leading to a disagreeable watery lentil-like consistency made all the more disappointing given the anticipation we had for her otherwise lovingly and expertly rendered pea soup.
In a lapse of judgment, Dad teased her about it. Despite loving each other fiercely, Mom would have none of it. She told Dad that she had made her last pea soup for him. We all laughed, thinking she was kidding.
She was not.
As the years passed, I tried to sustain my dad in his pea-soup deprivation. When visiting, I would occasionally sneak a Tupperware container into their freezer and he and I would exchange a knowing glance while Mom was distracted. It felt crummy. After all, Mom taught me to cook pea soup and Dad probably should just learn to make it on his own. It also never made sense. Strong willed woman that she was, Mom’s refusal to make pea soup for Dad also meant that she would be depriving herself of its sensual pleasure. Then the darker realization hit. Had she, my own dear mother, seized on the teasing incident as a long awaited opportunity to banish pea soup from their lives and was my own mother a closeted anti-pea-souper? Worse – was the original pea soup deliberately under-simmered to set up the whole ruse? Anti-pea-soupers can be so Machiavellian. I considered confronting her to satisfy my suspicions but thought better of it.
Some truths are just too painful.