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Created by Chef Thomas
Crisp little gem wedges scattered with raw peas and torn herbs, dressed in something sharp and mustardy. The kind of salad that tastes like the garden smells in June.
The peas came in on Saturday. Proper peas, in fat pods that split with a clean snap when you press your thumbnail along the seam. I stood at the kitchen counter eating half of them raw before they made it anywhere near a recipe. That's how you know they're ready.
This isn't really a recipe. It's an assembly. Little gems, quartered so you get that crisp, pale heart and the cupped leaves that hold the dressing. Raw peas, sweet enough to eat straight. Mint and dill, torn, not chopped, because chopping bruises them and loses the oils. A sharp, mustardy dressing that cuts through all that green sweetness and makes it sing. Ten minutes, start to finish. We're only making dinner.
I come back to this salad every June and keep making it until the peas are done. It sits beside grilled lamb or fish, or next to bread and cheese on a warm evening when nobody wants to stand at the stove. It's the sort of thing you put in the middle of the table and let people help themselves, which is, when you think about it, the best way to eat almost anything.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. Three words: peas, mint, Tuesday. That's all it needed.
Quantity
3-4
outer leaves removed, quartered lengthways
Quantity
200g (about 80g podded)
podded
Quantity
small handful
torn
Quantity
small handful
torn or left whole
Quantity
a few stalks
snipped
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
a squeeze
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| little gem lettucesouter leaves removed, quartered lengthways | 3-4 |
| fresh peas in the podpodded | 200g (about 80g podded) |
| fresh mint leavestorn | small handful |
| fresh dill frondstorn or left whole | small handful |
| chivessnipped | a few stalks |
| Dijon mustard | 1 tablespoon |
| white wine vinegar | 1 tablespoon |
| good olive oil | 3 tablespoons |
| lemon juice | a squeeze |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
Pod the peas into a bowl. Eat a few as you go. If they're sweet enough to eat standing at the counter, they're right for this salad. If they taste starchy or dull, they've been off the plant too long and you'd be better off blanching them briefly in boiling water, thirty seconds, no more, then straight into cold water. But fresh peas, truly fresh, need nothing at all.
Put the mustard and vinegar in a small bowl or jar. Add a pinch of salt. Stir until smooth, then pour in the olive oil in a slow stream, whisking or shaking as you go. It should come together into something thick and glossy, the colour of pale honey. Add a squeeze of lemon. Taste it on a lettuce leaf, not from a spoon. You're dressing leaves, not soup. Adjust. More salt, more acid, more oil. You'll know when it's right.
Quarter the little gems lengthways through the root so the leaves hold together. If they're small, halve them. Wash them gently and dry them properly. A wet lettuce dilutes everything and the dressing slides off instead of clinging. Lay them cut-side up on a wide plate or shallow bowl. You want them arranged loosely, not piled.
Scatter the peas over and between the lettuce wedges. Tear the mint leaves roughly and drop them in. Add the dill in feathery pieces, and snip the chives over the top. Spoon the dressing over everything, letting it pool in the cut faces of the lettuce and settle around the peas. Don't toss it. This isn't that kind of salad. It should look like a garden on a plate, a bit wild, a bit careless, everything landing where it lands. Season with a final grind of black pepper and bring it to the table as it is.
1 serving (about 130g)
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