The farmers market was nearly empty this morning—just me, the vegetable seller arranging his last winter greens, and a woman buying tulips. I spotted something I hadn't seen in months: fresh fava beans, still in their thick, pale green pods. The vendor smiled when I picked up a handful. "First of the season," he said. "They won't last."
I bought two pounds.
Back home, I spread them across the kitchen counter. The pods were surprisingly heavy, almost waxy to the touch, with a faint vegetal smell that reminded me of spring gardens. Shelling them took longer than I expected—each bean nested in a soft, cottony lining, and after the first round, I had to peel away the thin, bitter skin from each one. My grandmother used to do this while telling stories, her hands working automatically. I remember watching her fingers move, wondering how she never seemed to tire.