So my wife went to the local farmers' market a few days ago to pick up fresh blueberries and sweet bodacious corn, and usually ends up with a few other items. This past week she picked up a sackful of pea pods.
Now, peas are one of the few vegetables that I'll readily eat without feeling the level of obligation normally reserved for signing up for the Selective Service and child support payments. So when she started shelling them, I didn't mind helping out. Normally I view the kitchen as some sort of magic room where my wife goes in and awesome food comes out, so to be part of the process was a journey akin to a hajr.
Of course, not a minute into the food preparation I began to complain. "This isn't easy on the fingers. Mine hurt."
"You're such a puss," was my wife's sympathetic response.
"Now I know what a migrant worker feels like."
"Shut up," said my wife. "Try one raw."
I did. It tasted like grass. I made pains to let my wife know that I knew what grass tasted like. She was not impressed.
Finally, we were all done, and my wife held up the bowl. It tipped over and almost spilled on her lap, but she caught it in time.
"Looks like you almost pead yourself," I said.
"I'm done with you," she said.
The moral of this story is: We're having peas some time later this week.