When I was young, younger than five, my great-grandpa had a large garden set in rows. When we would visit, they would inevitably send our family home with a large brown paper grocery sack filled to the brim with tomatoes, the bright red cherry ones right on top. My mom would nestle the sack between my brother and I as we drove home, and I would sneak a few. They were always a little sun-warmed and bursting with bright, juicy flavor.

When I was in elementary school, my dad (an excellent gardener as well) put a big, wooden half-barrel on our back porch and filled it with kitchen herbs. Belly-ed up to that barrel garden, I learned how satisfying spearmint could be, chewed raw and fresh. I learned how disappointing chocolate mint was (Spoiler: there is NO chocolate flavor), and I learned that fresh basil torn over pizza is more than sustenance, it’s an experience.

When I was a young adult, living in an apartment with a small patch of grass, I planted tomatoes and basil and serrano peppers and felt like it was the right thing to do. As someone who has always craved motherhood, tending to plants felt as natural as breathing.

Every year since then, I’ve had at least a tomato plant, sometimes puny and leggy, but sometimes strong and vigorous. I’ve long dreamt of lazy summer afternoons among the garden plants, floppy sunhats and children in love with the taste of a garden-fresh tomato, but that just wasn’t happening. I’ve been a mom for seven years now, and I’m slowly learning to let go of expectations when it comes to the personality of my children (not their behavior-I have high expectations of behavior), but I’ll be honest, their disinterest in gardening was a little bit of a blow to my dreamer’s heart. I even wrote and illustrated a children’s book series around the garden-to-table concept in the hopes of sparking their interest in all things green, but it was only moderately fruitful. (ha, garden pun.) A few years ago, in an effort to garden earlier in the year, my daughters and I planted peas. They were a beautifully romantic variety: Magnolia Tendril Blossom. The flowers were lovely and delicate, but the most surprising thing, to both my daughters and myself, was that fresh peas are delicious. No, really, if you haven’t tried a pea right from the pod, you don’t know what peas taste like. They could not be more different from the mushy, dark green canned peas I grew up on.

More than the discovery of the superiority of fresh peas, I realized that this was the missing piece to get my kids to be excited about gardening. From the large, very plant-able seeds to the pretty flowers to the “garden candy”, as my five-year old calls them, peas have been such a delight to the hearts of my babies. Suddenly, all the other plants have become interesting. Basil seeds are understood to be the parents of future pesto-green pizzas and pastas. Flower seeds will become bouquets on our dining table, and tomato seeds will eventually become spaghetti.

All this to say, today, the very first pea of spring was picked and eaten with great enthusiasm. Every morning for the last week, my daughters would go “check the peas” before breakfast to see if they were ready, and today, they were. What a joy to watch my babies marvel at the alchemy of God’s creation. What a joy to plant peas in February and watch them grow into a snack come April. I am supremely blessed and thankful for peas today.