When we were in the roadside stand in GA last week, Chris asked the yearly question: "Do you have any GREEN peanuts?" Green ones are pulled up, and grow actually ON the roots, beneath the ground. They're actually a legume, not a NUT, and I always find myself wanting to mutter that as Leg---yooooom-uh, in the manner of a haughty waiter.
My memories of growing them are of the great pickup-loads of the entire plants, yanked up from the earth bringing roots and dirt, and laid all over the front porch. We'd take them stem by stem, pulling off the little nodules for tossing into tubs for washing, and throwing the plants back into the truck-bed for plowing back into the land. It's fun, like digging potatoes and looking for that next lovely little nugget, only they come to YOU.
And we seem to be early or late, every time for the crop, settling for the dry heft of a couple of the orange-net bags. Of course, there was the usual bag of hot ones straight from the big old boiler, salty and soft, which I cracked gently on the fault-lines and handed to him on the half shell, one after another as he drove. He tipped each tiny bowl into his mouth like a little oyster and followed each dozen or so by a big swallow of ice-cold Dr. Pepper.
We have that thing down to a science now---I cover my lap and his front with paper towels, open the bag of peanuts inside the plastic market bag, and crack them one at a time, leaving half-a-shell in the laid-out outside bag. I hold the full half right at his hand, and then he flips the empty back into the open bag in my lap. Of course, I'm a salty, grubby-with-brown-juice mess halfway to my elbows, but a quick wash with a bagged washcloth and the next rest-top tend to that. It's a silly little ritual we do when we head home---every time.
He enjoys it a lot, because we’ve usually been out of the freezer ones for a while.
See? Anything I try to say comes out like being stoned to death with popcorn.
moire non, I hope.