I am not sure why but I don’t like peas. I think it’s a texture thing. I can just about do them if they are blitzed with other goodies like celery and mint for a soup, but when they gleam like gems in a risotto or a curry a part of my brain sets to work on how I am going to avoid them whilst not offending the cook. I think I learned this behaviour as a child.
Such was lunch today when chef prepared a tasty noodle salad with some crunchy vegetables and fresh herbs tossed in a citrusy dressing. As it came to my turn to help myself I felt a surge of childhood angst and impending embarrassment. I tried to save the situation by working out if there were fewer peas at the bottom of the bowl than the top but on discovering the salad had been tossed evenly, I took a modest portion and proceeded to eyeball the emerald offenders like a chess master as I joined my companions at table.
Eating became a skilful affair of untangling the noodles to isolate the peas and, mysteriously not wanting to reveal my irrational dislike, leaving enough of the noodles uneaten to camouflage the presence of the bright shiny interlopers.
I know this is not a vegan issue, but it’s at times like these I wonder about my own sanity, let alone maturity.
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