After a long hard winter of yams and root vegetables, the epicurean's version of spring fever is that giddiness, that breathless anticipation that accompanies the fresh spring arrivals at the produce markets.

All the tender green things that are our reward after a long winter make an appearance now; all those lovely, tender greens — the peppery baby arugula, the little lettuces, the wee artichokes. Asparagus, prized as one more reason to love spring, pierces the soil with its delicious spears. But nothing says spring to me like fresh peas.

I have a long and affectionate history with Leguminosae, or The Legume Formerly Known As Fabacae. Growing up, my favorite part of any holiday meal was the family tradition of making "nests."

Directions: Take one mound of mashed potatoes, make an indentation at the top with the back of a spoon, fill this with peas, put the "lid" back on with more mashed potatoes, smother in gravy and prepare to say yum-yum.

Whenever peas were served at dinner, my mother would invariably recite the limerick, "I eat my peas with honey/I've done it all my life/It makes the peas taste funny/But it keeps them on my knife!" Following this, my brothers would use the little green cannonballs as weapons, shooting them catapult-style with their spoons across the table.

But the peas I knew back then had long been separated from their place of birth — the pod. I never saw a pea pod until I moved to California. Now, with the growing availability of fresh vegetables in conventional and farmers markets, I am privileged to partake in the entire pea life cycle between March and June.

A precious commodity

Starting peas from seed is tricky business if you also happen to be a bird lover, as the minute the tender vines begin to break through the soil — and, sometimes, even before — some bird will hop by, see the pea shoot, cock his head as if marveling, "For me? Why how thoughtful!" and chomp the tender seedling down his happy gullet.

As with the English pea's most wonderful cousin and one of the queens of cutting flowers, the sweet pea, edible peas get a head start if you soak the seeds overnight in warm water before planting them.

There are dozens of varietals of peas — from the smaller but faster maturing bush types, which need no trellis, to the mighty climbers, which sometimes can contain a dozen peas in a pod — true treasure troves for the pea aficionado. I prefer the climber, its need for strings and a trellis and all, as the longer the pod, the more contented hours I can spend shelling.

Pods should be picked when plump, usually beginning at the bottom of the plant. Harvest often to keep the plants producing. If the pods become too mature, they loose their sweetness.

Many pests seem to have a special fondness for the early-stage pea shoots, so I find those green plastic strawberry cartons secured over the emerging vines, or bird netting — suspended high enough above the shoots so that they don't actually start clinging to it — will help the seeds make it to a mature-enough state that they will be left alone and these safeguards can be removed.

Twine can be strung from the trellis down to the baby shoots and, in no time, they will begin to cling and climb on their own. It makes my heart soar to see that they have made it past the first danger period and that their vines are now strong enough to climb, their slender, curly tendrils surprisingly tenacious in wind.

Next, the tiny pods will be emerging from the white flowers, left behind like discarded petticoats, as the peas plump up inside their shells. It is a tricky dance between quality and quantity when it comes time to harvest the peas from the vine.

Peas are made all the more precious a commodity by the fact that the minute they are plucked from the vine, their sugar begins to turn to starch. Hence the peas you pick from the garden will taste like a different entity than the ones contained in older pods on certain grocery shelves.

I am tempted to pick the pods that are bulging only a little, as I know the peas inside will be so tender I can pop them raw right into my mouth. However, if I wait a few more days— until the peas inside are straining at their outer pod like a rotund man in an ill-fitting jacket — I am guaranteed a bountiful harvest from each pod, enough to have a whole cupful of the green pearls to show at the end of the shelling.

Sometimes I wait until the pods are so big and full that when I split them open the peas inside are slightly flat on top, shaped liked little ottomans, having grown into one another in their cramped quarters.

The choice, when you're picking peas, is bigger peas that are possibly more starchy — or a smaller harvest that will more definitely be tender.

Zen in a pea pod

It is the so-called English peas I love, not snow or sugar-snap or other peas with edible pods. I know the pods are probably a good source of roughage and involve less waste, but shelling peas is the most Zen, reassuring activity I know. And pea pods in the compost are a powerful source of nitrogen for my soil.

Before you begin The Ritual Of The Shelling, the pea pods (picked from the garden or purchased) should already be on the counter in a bag so that task is behind you. Take a hot shower to wash off the stress of the day. Put on baggy clothing and flip-flops. Bring two empty bowls, one for the empty pod, one for the peas, and the bag of peapods to an outdoor table and sit yourself in a comfy chair with a view of something pleasant. A glass of wine is optional.

Shelling methods vary wildly: some prefer to bend back the little hat on top of the pod and "unzip" it, nudging the whole row into the awaiting bowl with the top of the thumb. Others prefer to split open the pod and let the treasures inside spill willy-nilly into the bowl. But one rule is universal — as you proceed, remember that it's one pod for the bowl and one for the mouth.