I love you, Honeypea

I grew up eating English Peas. Whether it was a cultural decision or my parent’s lack of creativity with vegetables, I do not know. But for the sake of my story, it was cultural. Also, let's change the name to Irish Peas instead of English. As a child, I would spend my summers in Ireland at my grandparent’s farm. Aside from these vacations being the one time a year that I could stuff my face with the best of the English candies, I could also stuff my face with hearty Irish food. Our daily meals consisted of meat, potatoes, bread, carrots and peas. These standard ingredients would be reassembled countless ways to conjure up a new dish each day, whether it was a Shepherd’s Pie or a Roast. Still, every day it was the same, and that is not a complaint in any way.
Down the lane from our farm lived an old man, a man greatly respected by my family. He existed as an enigma to me, a man of stature that I could never really understand because of our vast generation gap. There was a strange aura that surrounded his existence: one of wisdom, of respect, of age, of smell. In truth, he simply appeared to me as a silly old man dressed in Irish tweed.
All I can remember of my brief memories with him are the way he ate his peas. One by one. With a knife. The patience it took to do so baffled me. Such precision and effort was put into eating such a small and meaningless side dish. The real art of it was that his hand shook almost uncontrollably the whole time. Yet the pea lay still, as if they were part of the knife.
I saw no sense in eating peas with a knife. Not only is it impractical, but it also slows down the pacing of the meal. Still, I attempted to mimic this old man that my family viewed with such high esteem, believing that his methods had some sort of great wisdom or enlightenment to them. Meal after meal I tried to balance and coax the peas into staying on my knife. I became fixated on mastering this seemingly pointless craft. Unfortunately, my attempts were to no avail.
I stopped eating peas at dinner. At first, my parents did not notice, but soon enough they caught on to my disregard for the peas they served me. I told them I couldn't stomach the taste anymore. This was a straight lie. I loved the taste of peas. I loved stuffing my mouth full of peas the chewing them to mush. But I could never let the truth of my failings be known.
On the last night of my family’s stay on the farm there was a grand feast. Undoubtedly, the meal consisted of peas, which had now become the bane of my existence. I could not just trash the peas at this meal though, I would never dream of showing such disrespect. I was the last to arrive in the kitchen for dinner that night so my seating choice was limited. Usually, I sit next to my dad but my sister had already claimed that spot. The only remaining seat was in-between my grandfather and the old man that lives down the lane. I hesitated before finally sitting at the table. A brief stroke of anxiety over came me as I felt the two patriarchs looming over me. I refrained from talking as much as I could throughout the whole meal.
By the time the entree was served, my anxiety had calmed. As suspected, we were served the classic Irish meal: roast with potatoes, carrots and peas. I watched the old man as he began to eat his food, hoping I could con him into showing me his tricks. He did not touch his peas for the majority of the meal, as if he was saving them for last. I became frustrated and fed up with waiting, so I attempted to conquer his craft once and for all on my own. I rolled a pea onto my knife and slowly raised it to my mouth. For a short moment I felt a rush of victory, but when I looked down cross-eyed at my knife, the pea had fallen off. I was defeated. The old man noticed this and started laughing at my apparent failure. My cheeks grew red and I sulked into my chair feeling the eyes of my family upon me.
The old man leaned over to me, still laughing, and whispered in my ear with his thick Irish accent, "I eat my peas with honey, I've done it all my life, they do taste kind of funny, but it keeps them on my knife."