Mind Your Peas And Carrots

Long before moving to Kentucky to live with my grandparents on their lakeside western Kentucky farm, my exposure to fresh vegetables was a wee bit limited. Aside from the foraged wild mushrooms, fermented vegetables, and potatoes that Frau Olga cobbled together for her eastern European concoctions or the curious things Ababa tossed into her Ethiopian stews, the scope of my vegetable realm was relegated to the offerings tucked into the corner compartments of frozen t.v. dinners. You see, my father was a struggling single military father of two young boys and frozen t.v. dinners were his  secret weapons of convenience, embracing them with overzealous gusto. The nightly rotation kept the vegetable options ever changing. Peas. Peas and carrots Green Beans. Repeat. Swimming in butter, the two-bite wonders felt exotic and fresh. More so, they were elevated to divine when the sticky fruit pie filling (cherry or apple)  bubbled over the aluminum divider and swirled through the vegetables. Hence, my life long love fest with mixing savory and sweet. As a kid, I adored those vegetables, falling for the peas and carrots combo hook line and sinker. I'm still falling.

Pan Roasted Baby Carrots With Pea Shoot Pesto.

Pesto.
While Genovese basil pesto is the undisputed king of pesto, a good pesto can be made with just about anything. I simply had gorgeous fresh pea shoots at my fingertips to help drive home the pea factor.

After rough chopping 3/4 cups pistachio nuts and 2 garlic cloves in a food processor, I added 3 cups of Lazy Eight Stock Farm pea shoots, 1/2 cup chopped fresh spinach, a pinch of salt, and 1 1/4 cup parmigiano reggiano. After a few quick pulses to break down the greens, I let it go and slowly drizzled 1/3 cup olive oil into the mix until it formed a course pesto, purposely  keeping it shy of a full out puree. I scooped the pesto into a glass bowl, covered it with plastic wrap (pressing the wrap into the pesto), and set it aside.

Carrots.
After snipping the tops from delicate Stonehedge Farm pencil thin baby carrots, I simple rinsed and buffed the carrots with a wet paper towel to gently peel away their papery skins.

Peas.
I washed and trimmed 2 pints of Shelby County sugar snap peas before blanching them in salted boiling water for 2 minutes, plunging them into ice water, drying them off, and setting them aside.

Hot skillet.
Fast and furious.
I heated a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame and hit it with a splash of canola oil. When the oil started to smoke, I tumbled  the sugar snap peas into the skillet for 5 seconds, scooped them out, and immediately added the baby carrots. Kissed by the high heat, the whisper thin carrots cooked quickly. When they started to blister, I pulled them from the heat, tossed them with the pea shoot pesto, and  tucked the sugar snap peas to the side before finishing with a tangle of fresh pea shoots and  slivers of Blue Moon Farm green garlic.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fabulous.

Mind your peas and carrots.

Simmer.

Hope springs eternal when the Farmers' Market opens after a long sleepy winter. While a few of the overwintered stalwarts  still linger, delicate baby lettuces, baby kale, pea shoots, tomato plants, bedding plants, and herbs line up side by side, fluttering through the cool Spring breezes. Every gentle leaf ushers in the new season with a subtle relaxed joy.  Although I'm keenly aware of the reawakened abundance of the early season market, I'm always a wee bit surprised when spring asparagus quietly appears. Without much fanfare, bunches and baskets dot most every farm stand. Vibrant beacons to a fresh beginning, I imagine  asparagus patches tucked in and around the fields of our local farms. Tempted to overplay my windfall by roasting, grilling, or wrapping them in prosciutto, I kept it very very simple to let the fresh spring asparagus sing.

Typically, I gravitate toward long lazy braises, frenzied high heat sautes, or charcoal/wood grilling. Unctuous gravies, rich pan sauces, and smoky nuance make me happy. Sometimes, it's fun changed things up. Why drag out the big guns when all I needed was a pot of simmering water?

Asparagus with Poached Eggs.
Simple is as simple does.
I trimmed the ends off of a gorgeous bunch of Silas Farm spring asparagus and  used a vegetable peeler to peel the ends before dropping them into a large pot of salted boiling water. After 3 minutes, I pulled the blanched asparagus from the hot bath, plunged the spears into salted iced water, patted them dry, and tossed them with a light fresh lemon vinaigrette.

Few things rival a perfectly poached egg. That said, a perfectly poached egg can be an illusive beast. Some eggs behave badly and some don't. Sometimes they break, run, flail, or overcook. Don't sweat it. A watchful eye and a little coddling goes a long way.

After filling a deep sided sauce pan with water, I brought the water to a perky simmer before adding 1 teaspoon salt and 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar. I cracked super fresh (key) Elmwood Stock Farm eggs one at a time into a small mesh strainer to let the loosey goosey  egg whites drain from the firmer whites, slid the eggs into individual ramekins, and carefully slipped the eggs into the rippling water. As they floundered about, I coaxed the egg whites to gently firm up around the eggs, covered the pot, and pulled it from the heat. When they hit the perfect poach (about 3 minutes, after a close check), I scooped them out with a slotted spoon and nestled them over the blanched asparagus before finishing with micro greens, flaked sea salt, lemon zest, and Stonehedge Farm shaved French breakfast radishes.

Poke the yolk.
When pierced, the yolks spilled from the jiggly eggs, enveloped the tender asparagus, and swirled through the vinaigrette, countering the warmth of the drinkable silky yolks with bright acidic punch. While the flaked salt added bite, the delicate shaved radishes provided assertive wet crunch.

Simple.
Sexy.
Fresh.
Perfect.