Vegetable of My Discontent

When I arrive at someone’s house for dinner, I’m always glad to learn that green peas are not being served on the side, or indeed, included as a part of any dish.  Ever since Mom shoveled green baby mush into my mouth, I’ve had an aversion – no, aversion is too weak a word – repulsion? – ah ha!  - a loathing-  for this vegetable.  Even eggplant – which you might think would be my most hated food after Grandma Johnson’s every-dish-has-an-eggplant-component-in-it dinner – is immune to the level of disdain that I hold for peas.  Pea.  Peas.  Who chooses names of vegetables?  This is certainly a bad one.  I mean, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, artichokes all have a slightly melodious or even clever element to them.  But pea?  Right up there with leek if you ask me.  Muffin agreed with me, too.

 As many nine year-olds do, I thought I would surreptitiously provide nutrition to our dachshund mix.  Well, Muffin seemed to be gobbling up the little green jewels (Mom’s nickname, not mine).  Content that I had a staunch ally in my war against things small, round and green,  I put them in my hand, and my canine accomplice licked them up.  When we rose from the dinner table, the floor was littered with green confetti.  To say Mom was not happy would be an understatement.

This hatred survived my childhood, and years later caught up to me when I was living in the USSR, during the winter of 1990.   During one of the worse economic times in recent history, when everyone stood in line for bread, cheese, vodka…the necessities of surviving Russian winters, I had the good fortune to be invited to a friend’s apartment for a celebratory dinner. Along with the requisite appetizers, conviviality, salads, conversation, and potatoes, Ivan and Tanya served a giant bowl of – you guessed it.  Everyone happily took large servings, commenting on the rarity and generosity of this treat.  When questioned about my reticence in taking any peas, I feigned stupidity – “What are these?  I’ve never seen them before.”  I stumbled, “No, no, please you have them all…I’ve eaten too much already.”  No luck.   I pretended not to understand what was in the bowl or the Russian word – горох (goroch) – even in Russian it sounds gross!  I faltered.  Then, aha!  "У меня аллергия" – I’m allergic to them.  Russians tend to have a soft spot for medical problems.  Heads nodded gravely.  For a moment a silent, sympathetic, collective sigh.  And, then a toast!  All was well, and I was freed for the tyranny of the Soviet pea.  I ended up being served (and eating without complaint) a giant quantity of beets and sour cream, as well as a meat product that I, to this day, do not know the name of.  But, anything’s better than peas.