#pea;

[memedokies]

[blended-ice]

talking under the olive tree

[the-adventures-of-dave]

I walked upstairs to find both cats on the couch eating a bag of slowly thawing peas. Life is an adventure.

[dollettesarchive]

౨ৎ‧₊˚ "you're not special", the girls on my girlblog say otherwise

[ambivalent-amphibian]

/neutral

[sadclowncentral]

my best friend is a rapper turned college professor and he uses that combination of breadth of vocabulary and social confidence for something we like to call "weaponized eloquence" in which he engages strangers in conversations that are linguistically coherent but borderline nonsensical to see how much he can get away with. his newest version of this is gradually replacing nouns with fish species that rhyme with them — so far no one has called him trout on it

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

"top shortage" "bottom shortage" babe im EXHAUSTED

[oddarette]

REMY NO! Don’t stir the split pea soup rat!!!

[blistexenthusiast]

vintage playing card back designs

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A sandwich of battered potato and a few mashed peas, cut in half. End ID]

Smack barm pea wet (Wiganese sandwich)

When trying to replicate convenience-store food, takeout, or street food from regions other than my own, I'm often faced with something of a contradiction. Using readymade, readily available, or cheap ingredients usually means not adhering to the typical composition of a dish. Yet the closer I come to accuracy in terms of ingredients and method, the further I stray from the ethos of the dish: it becomes increasingly fussy, labour-intensive, time-consuming, and expensive.

This trade-off is inevitable, and it's a welcome reminder about the nature of the "authenticity" often touted on recipe blogs, in guide books, and in travel writing. It is an event horizon that one aims at, rather than something that can be reached—and the decision to aim for it in the first place is not inevitable, but in fact has a history and an ideology of its own. These are the kinds of things I was thinking of while shelling and drying a bunch of English peas, only to then immediately rehydrate them. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The dish

Smack barm pea wet is a common order at chippies in Wigan (a town in Greater Manchester, England). The syntax of this order may need some explaining. A "smack" (in other regions called a "scallop" or a "potato cake") is a battered and deep-fried potato slice. "Barm cakes" are soft, enriched rolls which were traditionally leavened with "barm," or the froth from the top of a fermenting vat of beer—though bakeries today use active dry yeast. Thus "smack barm" is a noun-noun compound, where "smack" gives the specific type of "barm," or "sandwich on a barm cake," that's being described.

"Pea wet," or "pey wet," is another noun-noun compound. It describes a condiment that, as far as anybody can tell, is completely specific to Wigan: the liquid, or "wet," off the top of a batch of mushy peas (though a few solid peas may make their way into the ladle as well).

This sandwich was arguably brought to the attention of the internet at large five years ago, when JOE on YouTube posted a video called "We ate a Wigan kebab - the weirdest meal in the north?" JOE is a variety channel of the "we had very old people try extremely sour candies" sort. But despite the estranging, clickbait-style title, the video's Liverpudlian host is fairly even-handed. The pea wet may look "fucking minging," but it tastes "quite nice."

The history

The explanation for the carb-and-starch-heavy style of food in Wigan chippies (another common order, the "Wigan kebab," consists of a meat and potato pie on a buttered roll) is hinted at in the video itself. The host's attention was initially drawn to the "smack" because it was the cheapest thing on the menu, at 40 pence; the owner of the chippy, in explaining to him the concept of "pea wet," was sure to note that "it's free." People in the north of England have been impacted disproportionately by the privitization and austerity measures instituted throughout the 20th century, and are, on average, significantly poorer than their southern counterparts. This is the Wigan version of the Italian cucina povera.

Some commenters on Wigan chippy meals speculate that they emerge from World War 2-era rationing. But several of the ingredients used in modern smack barms and Wigan kebabs were rationed (namely, butter, lard, meat, and milk), while several ingredients that are notably absent (namely, fresh vegetables) were not. The explanation may instead lie in subsidies: meat, potatoes, milk, and bread were the commodities that were the most heavily subsidized by the British government in 1942 and '43, allowing their prices to be controlled at levels that were affordable to "all classes." The government also set goals for the usage of agricultural acreage that vastly increased potato production. The Wigan kebab and smack barm pea wet are made almost entirely of these subsidized foods (especially if we consider pea wet as only a by-product of mushy peas).

Smack barm pea wet is thus a symbol to some Wiganers of a sort of rugged self-sufficiency. An image of the dish posted on r/badfoodporn is, of course, met with the raillery that the subreddit calls for ("Hey what the fuck"; "Roughly the nutritional value of wet cardboard and dry leaf"; "I really don't think there's any hope of rehabilitation here")—but the meal also has its share of defenders. One commenter in particular writes that "so much [of WW2-era food culture] has remained [...] because its a symbol of our resilience and resourcefulness in the face of insurmountable odds." Or, as Wiganer Stuart Maconie writes in Pies and Prejudice, "[e]very economic and political cudgel had been used to bring these people to their knees and they simply would not submit."

Yet the availabiilty of dairy, meat, and bread in wartime England was increased by the ability of the wartime British Empire to extract food and resources from their colonies in Africa, Asia, and Oceania. Much of the meat that was sold in Britain, for example, came from Canada; much of its dairy came from New Zealand. This came at immense human cost for many of the colonies, which were faced with inflation, shortages, and famine as a result of the decreased availability of locally produced food. But this is not usually part of the picture when people think of WW2-era Britain, or the impacts of this era upon the food culture, economy, and regional mythology of northern England.

Part of the problem may be the common opinion in England that the British Empire has a positive legacy, having left its former colonies better off than it found them; the reality of the extraction of wealth and labor, to the Empire's benefit and the colonies' (and other occupied nations') expense, is thus elided. Writers may also have difficulty expressing a narrative that is neither one of absolute prosperity, nor of absolute victimization.

The recipe

Back to the peas. For mushy peas, you'll need marrowfat peas, which are mature peas that are allowed to dry in the field. Fresh or frozen garden peas won't give you the right texture. Dried split green peas will do in a pinch. This recipe also includes homemade barm cakes; but any soft roll you have will work just fine.

The sandwich as a whole is delicious. The smack is creamy and tender on the inside, and crispy on the outside (even with the pea wet, and even after I had finished photographing). The curry powder and mustard in the batter make it a bit earthy and aromatic, while the malt vinegar topping uplifts and sharpens the starchy potato.

Patreon | Paypal | Venmo

Recipe under the cut!

For the barm cakes (makes 5):

Ingredients:

250g bread flour

15g (1 Tbsp) softened non-dairy margarine, or vegetable lard

1 tsp active dry yeast

80g (6 Tbsp) non-dairy milk

80mL (1/3 cup) hot water

1/2 tsp (4g) table salt

Instructions:

Mix flour and margarine.

Add other ingredients and knead for 10 minutes, or use a stand mixer for 5 minutes.

Form into a ball and coat in a little bit of oil. Allow to rise in a warm area for 60-90 minutes, until doubled in size.

Gently deflate the dough and divide it into 5 pieces of equal size. Allow to rest for 10 minutes.

Shape each piece of dough into a ball and flatten it slightly (to about 3.5" in width). Coat it generously with flour on both sides. Allow to rise for about 30-60 minutes until puffy.

Bake at 180 ºC (350 ºF) for about 20 minutes, or until just colouring on top.

For the mushy peas:

Ingredients:

4oz dried marrowfat peas, soaked overnight

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp table salt

Water to cover

Dab of margarine (optional)

Marrowfat peas are larger and have a higher starch content than garden peas. They can be purchased at a South Asian grocery store from a brand such as Rani or Jalpur; or you may buy them online.

In a pinch, you can substitute dried green split peas.

Instructions:

Combine peas, baking soda, and water in a large pot and raise heat to bring to a boil.

Lower heat to a simmer and cook until peas are soft and beginning to get mushy, 30 - 60 minutes. Add more water as necessary.

Mash peas with a potato or bean masher and cook to desired consistency. Add salt and margarine and stir to combine. Taste and adjust.

For the smack:

Ingredients:

5 slices from the center of 2 large russett potatoes

100g all-purpose flour

100g white rice flour

1 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp ground yellow mustard seed

1/4 tsp curry powder

1/4 tsp black pepper

Water or sparkling water

You can use the rest of the potato for another purpose. At home, though, it's probably fine to use the whole potato and just put two of the smaller slices on some sandwiches. Nobody can stop you.

Instructions:

Mix all dry ingredients for the batter, then add just enough water to form a batter of medium consistency (a little thicker than pancake batter).

Heat a pot of oil to 150 °C (300 °F). Dust the potato slices with some extra flour, then dip them into the batter and coat on both sides.

Carefully lower potato slices into the hot oil. Fry for 4-5 minutes on each side, or until fork tender. Remove from oil.

Increase heat to 180 °C (350 °F) and fry again until golden brown. Remove from the oil and place onto a tray.

To construct:

Cut open and the barm and spread margarine over both sides.

Add smack, salt, pepper, and malt vinegar to taste. Add some of the liquid from the top of your mushy peas.

[shotmrmiller]

god going on a date with johnny whom you matched on tinder and he's the type of guy you avoid like the plague; jaw-dropping good looks, cheeky ㅤㅤsmiles, hits the gym more in a week than you've done all year and worst of all, could charm the pants off a snake.

so it's truly no wonder that you end up letting him bury his face between your thighs and lap at your glistening sex until your moans almost turn into screams and you haven't even left the bar's driveway, then left to watch johnny wipe the condensation off the windshield with a spare shirt so he can drive you home all the while his chin drips with your slick.

he fucks you against the front door once inside, legs hooked over his arms, then again over your couch, hand curled around your throat, and again, in front of your full length mirror while he tells you how pretty you look taking all of him, to look at how pretty you look, his crystalline eyes latching onto yours through the reflection, pretty as a peach.

then he leaves you with his spend sticking your thighs together, a languid kiss that tastes of you, and with his personal number on a scrap piece of paper.

and that's the last you hear of him. he'd said that he's quite a busy man, military and whatnot, and all in all, while you'd raked your nails down his back on the first date, it had been a date. you require more than good sex to get into a committed relationship.

a swipe of your thumb brings up tinder again, and you match with another bloke not your type. big, broad man, biceps the size of your thighs with a deadpan stare that sees right through false bravado. but he's doesn't seem to care in the slightest that he makes you nervous, doesn't care that you stutter out responses to his rather abnormal questions.

simon takes you home and sits eerily silent with his hands dwarfing the steering wheel as you chew on your lip before tentatively inviting him in for a nightcap, and you must be the luckiest person on the planet because he's just as devoted to your pleasure as your last partner.

he brings you peak after peak with his tongue, his fingers, swirls your pearl with the tip of his misaligned nose. then he lets you be on top first, concentration knitting your brows togethee as you try to fit all of him in and pride warms your cheeks when you can hear his teeth audibly grind as his fingers bite into the soft of your waist once you take him to the root, thighs flush against his hips.

you come undone more times than you can count, the neighbors more than likely knowing his name by the time he walks out the front door (after checking the locks on your windows) and that's that.

until it isn't because a text from johnny awakens your phone screen, an invite to a restaurant downtown next saturday, one you've only ever fancied of eating at and well-

a date is a date, isn't it?

you tell him to pick you up at seven and he tells you to wear something you wouldn't mind letting him keep underneath, preferably something in red. (must've seen that particular number while you looked for some sleeping shorts before he left that night.)

hopefully you won't feel too bad breaking things off with whoever doesn't ask you to be theirs first.

(simon and johnny fuck each other to the thought of you back at base, simon's fist viciously tight around johnny's cock as he's got him drooling into the flattened pillow, almost like she's fucking you too, eh, johnny?)

[blended-ice]

Catching up on 20 years worth of gossip

[femmefruit]

having your dom sit you in their lap with a vibrator pressed between your pussy and their thigh.

a simple enough variation to your usual routine of thigh riding, you let out a pretty sigh and rock your hips forward once before you feel their hands grip your hips to stop you.

“be still for me, baby. no grinding, can you handle that?” you know the sweetness behind the question is all for show, that it’s designed to make you feel small and disgustingly needy. it works. you’re nodding stupidly, already letting the vibrations between your legs overtake your thoughts. they appraise your expression, the way it starts to shift from attentive to blissed out, and turn the vibrator up one setting for good measure. “good, baby. i knew you could do it.”

it’s harder than you thought it would be, holding still through the pleasure. your brain, warm and gooey, keeps trying to urge you into your usual routine of humping away at whatever your partner puts between your legs. every time your hips twitch or shake, their grip tightens around you. you wonder if it’ll bruise. you hope it will. you know you’re getting close, drooling as you kiss and bite at any inch of their skin you can reach without moving your hips. a particularly insistent throb of your pussy threatens to drag you down into an orgasm, and you remember your manners at the last second.

“can i cum?” shakier than you would’ve liked, followed by a long moan. a beat of silence hangs in the air as you realize the answer, but it doesn’t stop you from pleading again, “can i? please?”

“no, baby. wait.” your ensuing cries are hushed, one hand coming up to stroke your hair gently as though you’re not being tormented. you wind up to object again but you’re silenced by a tug on your hair that forces you to look them in the eye. “quit, baby. you know you like how it makes you feel, so wait.”

your cheeks flush hot at the accusation, knowing how much truth it held. your eyes start watering as you try to look for a way out, knowing just by their tone that this will not be a time where you could get away with cumming on accident. you drop your head to their shoulder and try to lift your hips, only to be forced back down onto the toy. your brain vaguely registers the instruction to “sit your ass down and be still,” but it’s nearly drowned out by the wail you let out as you connect with the vibrator again. you start shaking your head, pushing back against their chest in an effort to separate yourself from the overwhelming pleasure while your hips stay locked in place by strong hands. how long have you been holding this orgasm? a few minutes? seconds? it feels like it’ll never end, like you’re letting them dangle you over a cliff for their own pleasure, watching you fight and cry while you try your best to follow the instructions given.

they pull back again to admire the distress on your face, letting out a pleased hum at the state you’re in. you’re whimpering constantly, head resting pitifully on their shoulder. they know they could stay there forever, keeping you desperate and pliant as you pant into their neck. they give an experimental bounce of their leg that sends you into another fit of moaning and begging.

“please, please! i need to cum, daddy. i wanna be good but i’m going to cum, can’t hold it anymore. need you to say yes,”

the grin that spreads across their face could only be described as lecherous, listening to the way they’ve absolutely ruined you. they have to get in close to your ear to ensure you hear, holding you still through the fight you’re still putting up as they press a kiss against your temple. “go ahead baby, give it to me,” they groan out, hearing your moans start to pitch up before they even get the sentence out. as if you needed any help to ride it out, they press you down harder against the vibrator, coaxing out sob after sob as your orgasm tears through your body.

“shh, baby, i know. it’s good isn’t it? why don’t you do it again for me since you were so well behaved?”

[radiation]

Had a dream where the black eyed peas were bonding over being stuck together during a severe weather / tornado warning like sitting on the floor holding each others pinkies smiling at each other going like “we’re the black eyed peas we can do anything”

[heartnosekid]

blue dream shrimp (neocaridina davidi) having a snack | shrimpsensei on ig