When I was little, I would walk from the back of the house through the grass and between the trees, one eye peeled for the black snake who lived under the shed but loved the warm summer sun.

When I got to the edge of the garden, I'd look down at my bare feet, and than at the red clay and dark loam of the garden. I'd cautiously step out onto the dirt baked dry, and hop and leap my way to the vines of snow peas.

I'd lift up my skirt into a makeshift basket with one hand, and pull off handfuls of snap peas. Then, I would drop some into my skirt, and bend one between my thumb and forefinger until it cracked. I'd wriggle my hand around it, and use my thumb to pry open the curve of the pod.

I'd use my thumb to loosen the peas, digging in deep. I'd spill them down my throat when they were all loosened, and the soft raw summer taste would be so refreshing that I'd have to open another pod, and another.

Eventually, I'd hop and leap out of the garden and sometimes, if it was nearby, I'd find the garden hose, and drench the pods in water. Than I'd plop myself down in some sunny spot, the peas soaking my skirt, and munch away.

Sometimes I'd devein them, letting the two halves fall apart with their shared peas separating in perfect order. Othertimes, I'd eat them like corn, tasting first the crisp shells, than the softness inside. Afterwords, I'd pull the strings from my teeth.