Split pea soup is a straightforward thing, and it hardly needs a recipe. Whether it includes ham or not, the process is mostly the same: get some aromatics going in a pot, add split peas and your liquid of choice, and cook until the peas soften, soften some more, and finally settle to a pleasing mush. But I learned my recipe, or the bones of it, from my friend Winnie<\/a>, and though it looks plain on paper, it really does the job.<\/p>\n Behold the Winnie in her natural habitat. She\u2019s one of the finest, most intuitive cooks I know: even when she\u2019s cooking from a recipe, she hardly looks at it. She just knows<\/i> what to do. Though she lives on the other side of the continent, I was lucky enough to get to cook with her several times in 2010, and to learn a few things in the process. For instance, I learned that one should never be without a stash of Allan Benton\u2019s country ham<\/a>, the backbone of this split pea soup and, now, the newest staple of my kitchen. I would have taken a picture of it for you, but I used my last package a week ago. 2011 is off to a rough start.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n Until Winnie let me in on the not-so-secret secret<\/a>, I used to be daunted by the idea of trying to get a hold of proper country ham: the southern kind, slow cured and naturally smoked, fragrant and salty and thoroughly hammy. I thought you had to buy a whole leg – and maybe from some producers, you do. But Allan Benton sells his in vacuum-packed slices<\/a> that are perfect for chucking into a soup pot or frying in a skillet, saucing with apple cider, and then sandwiching in a biscuit. Whatever you like. Sometimes I open the fridge, pull out a package, and just sniff at it. It\u2019s so smoky – in the true wood-smoke way, not that trumped-up liquid smoke<\/a> way – that you can smell it even through the plastic. Now you know how I spend my free time.<\/p>\n Winnie\u2019s split pea soup, as she taught it to me, begins with a slice of Benton\u2019s ham, which you fry in a soup pot with a little olive oil. When it\u2019s golden on both sides and the bottom of the pan has a few nice, browned bits stuck to it, you add some chopped carrot and onion and sweat them for ten minutes or so, and then you add split peas and water. There\u2019s no need for stock here; the ham flavor is so generous that it fills the pot. Then you forget about it for at least an hour, and likely two. And then you set the table, and because it\u2019s January and dark outside and you happen to have bought some candles at the store, you light one or two or three, and dinner is ready.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/orangette.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/14364-polasplitpeas-11.jpg\")
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\nFew things are uglier than split pea soup, but that is alright with me. I\u2019ve been on something of a split pea binge for the past month. (Am I the first person in the world to write the words split<\/i>, pea<\/i>, and binge<\/i> in sequence? If so, I assume I will also be the last.) I\u2019d made split pea soup a few times in years past, and once I even made an exotic version involving miso, but until this past fall, I hadn\u2019t found one I felt loyal to. Now that I have, I am celebrating by eating a totally immoderate amount of it. By the way, if the idea of a split pea binge doesn\u2019t ring your bell, I can also recommend a Reese\u2019s Peanut Butter Trees<\/a> binge. \u2018Tis the season, -ish. Hard to go wrong, either way.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\nSplit Pea Soup with Country Ham<\/h2>\n
Inspired by Winnie Yang<\/a><\/h3> \n \n <\/header>\n\n