Kathy Slack - From the Veg Patch

Kathy Slack is a cook, veg grower and writer who previously worked at Daylesford Organic Farm. Now she works full time writing and developing recipes, hosting supper clubs and cookery demonstrations with harvests from her veg patch, food styling and developing recipes for various brands and publications. She has a column in Borough Markets award-winning magazine, Market Life, as well as a regular slot on BBC Radio Oxford. Kathy has won the Young British Foodie award and the Soil Associations Best Blog award. You can find more of her writing at kathyslack.com, where she posts about the gluts from her veg patch and the ensuing gluttony in the kitchen.

June. Dawn. One of those early summer dawns when the dew rises into a haze over the lawn and the stone walls of our house are turned amber by the honeyed morning light. Tea is brewing and I am in the veg patch, pyjama-ed.

Yesterday, while tucking wayward pea tendrils back into their netting, I noticed that some of the pea pods were plump, the peas within no longer clattering around their cavernous shells, but swelled and chubby, almost, almost bursting.

Today, I will eat them: the first peas of the year.

This is what I live for. I woke up early thinking about my peas and in the end succumbed to excitement and came down to see if they were ready. They are.

I pick a pod, open it up and eat the peas within.

Its a profound moment, almost spiritual. I know that sounds crackpot, but it is, for me at least. A couple of months ago, there was nothing but a few seeds in my hand and a chill in the air. Today, I stand amongst a tangle of burgeoning green. The dew beads on my bare feet, the sun warm on my skin, the peas sweet in my mouth. I am part of nature. I am within it. There is abundance, birdsong, sunshine, summer in all her finery, and best of all the sweet, green taste of freshly picked peas. From nothing to everything in just a few weeks. It is truly remarkable.

Some vegetables make you work for this moment, but not peas. Peas are obliging wards. You plant them: they grow. No pests, no disease, no fuss. Or not in my experience, anyway. Some have issues with pigeons, but thats got more to do with the organisational capability of your pigeons than the peas. I have dim-witted pigeons. The occasional opportunistic mouse, yes, but nothing more.

I sow seeds in modules (trays of tiny pots all joined together in one slab) in early spring, usually Early Onward or Meteor varieties, both of which are fast to grow, early to crop, and, for peas, short (60cm high), so they are manageable in a small space.

Peas can be sown direct into the soil in autumn, too, and overwintered for an early harvest next spring. But that requires a mild winter with no mice; peas are quite hardy but not indestructible. And anyway, spring sowings are only a couple of weeks behind autumns, so it hardly seems worth the bother.

Once the seedlings are 810cm high, I plant them out into raised beds or pots. Theres a great deal of lore around the mechanics of planting peas: trenches, double rows, compost bunds, and so on. Im afraid to say I ignore all of it and plant my seedlings haphazardly in 20cm-thick strips, each plant roughly 5cm from the next. In pots, I just space them evenly, 5cm apart. They all seem to survive my recklessness.

Wherever you plant, even the short varieties will need something to scramble up. In pots, this can be a wigwam of bamboo canes draped in netting or woven with string. In beds, I use pea canes twiggy prunings from sturdy shrubs, which I stick in amongst the infant peas as their climbing frame. Whatever you choose, it needs to have lots of small handholds so the tiny tendrils of the peas can wrap themselves around and support the plant as it clambers upwards to flower and fruit.

After the giddiness of the first dawn harvest, I settle into a routine of picking daily. This encourages new pods to form and is no chore. They must be eaten promptly too, before their sweetness wanes; again, no hardship. In fact, if they make it as far as the kitchen at all, its a surprise.

Those that do are kept for best; used in dishes that really make fresh peas sparkle Pea and Lemon Risotto (see ). This is where their savoury green, lemony fresh flavour can sing most tunefully.

Where I need bright, some might say monotone, sweetness in quantity, I use frozen peas instead. The reliable, uniform flavour of frozen is often better than that of fresh shop-bought peas, their sweetness having deteriorated in the first hours of picking, leaving nothing but mealy bitterness.

Of course, you could never grow enough peas for all your needs, so a mixture of fresh and frozen is inevitable. But it is worth growing some, even a single pot, just for the joy of picking that first pod on a sunny June morning in your pyjamas.

25 minutes

• 1 garlic clove, crushed
• 4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
• lime, juiced
• 1 tbsp runny honey
• 1 small red chilli, deseeded (unless you like a lot of heat) and finely chopped
• 2 tbsp chopped mint leaves
• red onion, finely sliced
• 2 tbsp cider vinegar
• 200g frozen peas, defrosted
• 125g (drained weight) tinned butter beans
• lemon, juiced
• 1 tbsp tahini
• 250g halloumi
• 30g pea shoots, to finish

Sweet green peas, sour pink pickles, squeaky, salty halloumi and a kick of fiery chilli to round it off: so much going on, but so little to prepare. Stuff it all into a baguette if youre feeling decadent. The hummus which, if Im honest, is mushy peas by another name is endlessly useful elsewhere too: with roast salmon, on toast and sprinkled with feta, or served in a bowl for dipping radishes fresh from the patch.

Put half the garlic in a small saucepan over a low heat along with 3 tablespoons of the olive oil and the lime juice, honey and chilli. Warm gently for 2 minutes so the flavours can melt together. Remove from the heat and leave to cool for a minute or two, then stir in the chopped mint. (If you add the mint when the sauce is too warm, the mint will go brown.) Set aside to mingle while you get on with the rest of the dish.

Toss the red onion in the vinegar in a small bowl, then leave for 510 minutes so the acid can pickle the onions, making them soft, pink and mellow.

Meanwhile, make the hummus. In a food processor, whizz together the peas, butter beans, lemon juice and tahini along with the remaining garlic and a pinch of salt. Check the seasoning and adjust accordingly. It might need a splash more lemon or more salt it can take quite a lot. Set aside.

Slice the halloumi through the widest part into four thin rectangles, then fry the halloumi slices in the remaining oil over a medium heat for 34 minutes on each side. Transfer to a dish and pour over the chilli-mint dressing.

Working quickly (halloumi goes tough and chewy as it cools), spoon the pea hummus onto a platter and spread it out into inviting waves. Arrange the warm dressed halloumi on top, spooning over the excess dressing as you do so, then top with ribbons of drained red onion and a few pea shoots to finish.