I try to tell myself that I am a patient person, but there are a few tasks that do try me. Shelling peas is one such task.
The nightly haul.
Sure: the reward is such sweet loveliness! Peas, especially if you pick them daily, will produce for you over a long period of time. It’s the “pick them daily” thing that trips me up, for at dinnertime, I need to set aside time to shell them. I haven’t ever quite figured out the timing: even without a commute, the end of work and the beginning of eating dinner is such a compressed period of time, and we’re usually quite starving by the time I serve. I have a good friend who has always claimed her retirement will be spent on a front porch in a rocking chair, wearing a muumuu and slippers and shelling peas. I like this image. Maybe it will wear better with me later in life, especially the idea of a muumuu.
Not quite a muumuu, but do sweatpants count?
Maybe it’s just that fine motor tasks like this tend to get me right between the shoulder blades, tightening things up there until I need to do a tennis stretch or two. So my cure is to sit on the deck and sip some wine and take on the shelling as the wonder that it is: time-intensive garden bounty. This is what I need to get over. The pea shelling season is such a short one, after all.
And as you can see, no task is done alone.