Fava Beans and Peas with Creme Fraiche

This was one of those recipes I never planned to blog. But then I made it, and we agreed it was fantastic, so I jotted down what I’d done on my grocery list (yes, a paper list). You know how this story ends, right?

Sure, I could excuse my foolishness by saying I’ve been preoccupied by John’s recovering, but he’s back at work. The truth is, as I creep toward 50 (gulp), the steel-trap memory I once prided myself on is eroding like a chalk cliff. Not that I’ve ever seen a chalk cliff. What the hell am I talking about, anyway?

The good news is, my cooking isn’t ever complicated. I’ll never be somebody whose recipes have multiple sauces and reductions and fancy torched toppings. The food I cook is never plated with tweezers or edible moss or God forbid, accompanied by an I-pod. There’s a place in the world for food like that. Just not a place called the Insufficient Kitchen.

This is a long-winded way of telling you fava beans and peas with crème fraïche, and incidentally, a little mustard, was easy to replicate. I should add, in the spirit of modesty, that it is fantastic not because I am such a talented broad, but because fava beans and peas are in season, and they are fantastic. Further modesty: the idea for this recipe comes from Yotam Ottolenghi’s Plenty More, wherein lives a recipe entitled Peas With Sorrel And Mustard. Although my recipe departs radically from Ottolenghi’s, my idea is based on his recipe, so credit is due him.

You can see these aren’t the primo-est of peas. Unless you garden, or belong to a CSA, starchy is the name of fresh pea game. People can get sniffy over fresh peas. They’ll also go on at length about asparagus spears and corn. Nor are they wrong. But as a committed non-gardener, I am perfectly content with slightly starchy fresh peas. If you are not, the frozen pea is a dignified thing, possibly the only vegetable that freezes beautifully. So buy yourself an enormous bag and be happy.

Moving on to the fava bean. I did not make its acquaintance until I began shopping at Berkeley Bowl Market, meaning I was in my thirties. I thought Mollie Katzen who had instructed me in the art and science of favas, but a visit to her oeuvre disproves this. More likely it was Alice Waters, in Chez Panisse Vegetables, because heaven knows everyone on Team Alice loves the fava bean. And now I do, too, their slightly fussy prep notwithstanding.

Fresh fava beans become available in spring, fading away around mid-July. If your sole experience of fava beans is Anthony Hopkins, I beg you to try them. They’re slightly bitter in the best possible way, a fresh bitterness that plays well with almost any summery veggie: green or wax beans, artichokes, added to salads. Fava beans are also wonderful cooked into softness and mashed into a paste, which you then spread on bread or use for dipping (or wolf with a spoon). Or you can sauté fava beans with peas, crème fraïche, and a little mustard.

But first you must peel them. Skilled fava observers will note the above bean would never pass Alice Waters muster–it’s no infant–but it’s fine by me. The furry pod is inedible. So are the inner pods, or podlets, shall we say, enrobing each bean. These are most easily peeled by dropping the beans into boiling water for 2-3 minutes. This softens the rather tough casing while giving the bean a bit of a pre-cook. Once that’s off, easily pierced by your thumbnail, your bean is ready. In fairness, I should warn you of the fava bean’s escape tendencies, also noted by Tamar Adler in An Everlasting Meal:

“Favas launch and bounce, so be prepared to chase them down.”

Granted, this all sounds a performance, as the English say. Provided you’re in the right frame of mind, it can be quite relaxing; the peeling goes quickly, chasing or no. David Tanis and Alice Waters say children love peeling fava beans, adding it’s a charming multigeneral chore. Me, I am Garbo in the kitchen: I want to peel alone.

Amounts of fava beans versus peas are flexible. I made this with 1 1/2 pounds of favas and 3/4 pound peas. There were more peas, but an attack of stupendous hunger saw to that. Besides, the bean police aren’t going to come knocking.

Since we’re in English slang mode, feel free to push the boat out and add a few artichoke hearts, should you be so moved.

This is a dish you should taste while cooking. Depending on their age, your peas and beans may need more or less cooking. You may prefer more or less mustard. So long as you avoid oversalting and don’t crank the burner too high, it’s hard to mess up. Just try to leave some for whoever else is eating.

About crème fraïche: authentic French soured cream is pretty much impossible to get in the United States. However, good commercial versions are available here. I purchase Bellwhether Farms in 7.5 ounce containers. If you have difficulty finding commercial crème fraïche, I’ve included a recipe below. It’s easy–mix heavy cream with yogurt and let it sit overnight on your counter.