Fava Bean

Fava beans are a harbinger of spring. Like other kinds of beans, they form in pods, but they are also covered in a tough, rather bitter skin. The earliest harvests offer beans that are tiny, brilliant green, and so tender they don’t need to be peeled. When not eaten raw, straight from the pod, these are best cooked briefly with a little water and oil or butter. As the season progresses, the beans continue to mature, and they become larger and starchier. At this point they can be popped out of their pods, skinned, and cooked into a luscious, bright green purée that I adore slathering on crisp croutons or serving alongside roasted meats. Still later in the season the beans turn yellow and dry out and are too mature to use this way. Fava beans do require a bit of preparation, but their delicate taste and splash of color are well worth the effort. Popping the beans from their thick soft pods is an enjoyable group project that even little children can join. An easy way to pop the beans out of the pod is to grasp one with both hands; bend the pod back against your thumbs and press out, snapping the beans out of the pod. After the beans are shelled the opaque outer skin of the bean needs to be removed. (Although in Mediterranean cooking the skins are sometimes left on, this increases the cooking time and results in a different taste.) To do so, plunge the beans into boiling water and leave them until the skin is easy to remove. This will take less than a minute, so check one right away. (If you cook the beans too long they will get mashed when you try to slip them out of their skins.) Drain the beans and put them in a bowl of icy cold water. When they are cool, drain them, and pop out the beans, using a fingernail to slit the skin and squeezing the bean out with the fingers of the other hand. Don’t cook the skinned beans too quickly; medium-low heat is best. Stir them occasionally as they are cooking, and, if you notice that they are drying out, add a bit of water. They are done when they can be crushed into a smooth paste when pressed with a spoon. All kinds of beans, fresh or dried, can be flavored and made into tasty purées. I love cannellini bean purée, fresh cranberry bean purée, and refried pinto beans, too. Another favorite hors d’oeuvre is chickpeas with olive oil and hot pepper puréed and served with flatbread or crackers.

I love the look, flavor, and textures of this delicate and pretty dish. It’s a perfect way to spotlight the flavors of spring, when fava beans are in season. Other times of the year you can substitute frozen lima beans for the favas; either way the purée is bright from the mint and satisfies your starch cravings. Just be careful not to overcook the beans, as they can turn an unattractive gray. Red snapper, with its pinkish hue, is a quite flavorful white fish that works perfectly with the fava beans. Finish it off with a drizzle of really good-quality extra-virgin olive oil.

This is a classic combination of Italian spring vegetables, but it’s also a template for stewing any fresh veggies you like in olive oil. If you cannot get small artichokes—those so small they have no choke, so you can simply trim and quarter them—use frozen artichoke hearts. If you cannot get favas, use limas; here, too, frozen are okay, and the same with peas. This stew makes a good sauce for cut pasta, like penne. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: This is nearly a universal recipe; almost anything you can think of will work here, from spinach to potatoes to asparagus, as long as you adjust the cooking time accordingly. Mix and match as you like.

When families in Mexico give up meat—either for Lent or for other reasons—they turn to soups like this one. You might have trouble finding fresh favas, though Latin markets frequently stock them, especially in spring, and I’ve even seen them at supermarkets in recent years. Their wonderful flavor has no exact match, but fresh peas are a good substitute. The best chile for this dish is the mildly hot dried chile negro; it’s best when toasted, which is an easy enough process: put the chiles in a dry, ungreased skillet over medium heat and cook, turning as each side browns, until browned and fragrant, 5 to 10 minutes.

Falafel is the best known of bean fritters, and—because it’s usually made from chickpeas and/or fava beans—the best tasting. Canned chickpeas are too soft for falafel, but the recipe is pretty easy anyway; the dried beans are soaked, not cooked, and the frying is straightforward. The addition of an egg prevents the batter from falling apart, which is a common problem. It may not be strictly traditional, but it works. The little fritters are best in a huge pita, with a pile of raw vegetables, but they’re also nice served as a starter, with some greens and a little Tahini Sauce.

This is your grown-up chance to play with your food! Frenched lamb chops, also known as lamb lollipops, just beg to be picked up and gnawed on because the clean bones make lovely handles. Even the veg gets in on the interactive eating, with tender spring favas sautéed in their skins. Besides being fun finger food, there’s an added perk to cooking them this way: because they’re not blanched, the favas stay extra-sweet and firm. Just pick them up one by one and pop them into your mouth, like edamame served in Japanese restaurants. Don’t bother setting forks or knives at the table, but I recommend providing plenty of napkins.

There are as many springtime things in this salad as possible. In Seattle, we have so much rain that when spring comes, it comes HARD—favas, nettles, peas, spring garlic, and a host of wild little greens that go perfectly together. Regular balsamic vinegar is too heavy; white balsamic still has the sweetness, but it’s lighter and allows the flavors of the vegetables to really shine through. This recipe makes more vinaigrette than you’ll need for the salad. Use the remaining dressing on other combinations of delicate spring vegetables and greens.

The classic French preparation for snails—bathed in puddles of garlic butter—formed the inspiration for this pasta. Although the agnolotti would be spectacular on their own, wearing only the barest of sauces, adding briny snails and a bright, intensely flavored compound butter makes the dish that much more special. You can find good-quality canned snails at European markets and some high-end grocery stores. Wait to make your sauce until the pasta is cooking; if you heat the butter too far ahead of time, the herbs might brown.

I created this dish following a particularly inspirational visit to the farmers’ market, one of those visits where every vegetable looks like something holy and you want to take home every variety laid out in front of you. Think of this soup as more of a philosophy than a recipe. Use the very best, freshest, tiniest baby spring vegetables you can find, either following the guidelines here or substituting whatever looks best in the market, then accent their sweetness with just a hint of mint, lemon verbena, or cicely. If you do use favas in the recipe, be sure to follow the directions here for removing their skins; using the traditional blanching method will result in overcooked beans. The Cincinnati radish makes the soup a very pale, pretty pink that looks gorgeous served in shallow white bowls. Because this is such an easy soup to make, I also like to serve it in demitasse cups or small mugs as a walk-around first course for a relaxed spring get-together.

This cooking method only works with the very first favas of spring—the ones that are thin skinned enough to be eaten whole. Not only is this a light, crunchy, and addictive snack, but it’s also a nice way to enjoy fava beans without all the fuss. For dipping, mild green garlic makes for an aioli that doesn’t overwhelm the favas’ sweet flavor.

This unusual pesto variation, adapted from a recipe by Colman Andrews in his book Flavors of the Riviera, cries out for grilled or roasted lamb, but you will discover many other ways to use it. In fact, it’s perfectly delicious on simple grilled bread with a glass of white wine or rosé.

This is a good way to make the most of a small amount of peas (or favas). Serve alongside some wild mushrooms sautéed with a little dice of bacon for an easy springtime starter. By the way, if, in a following life, I could come back as any vegetable, I think I would be a fava bean, so I could slumber inside that velvety soft pod. Just a thought.

This fresh and satisfying salad gets its inspiration from two very different locales: the sweet and sour dressing is indebted to the Pennsylvania Dutch, while the fried green tomatoes come straight from the South. The brightly hued dressing is just the thing to enhance the interplay of tart green tomatoes; sweet, earthy beets; buttery fava beans; and tangy, creamy goat cheese. Green tomatoes and fava beans are two crops that I particularly look forward to seeing at the first farmers’ markets of spring, and this salad is a delicious way to celebrate the best of that season. If you can’t find fava beans, lima beans are a fair substitute.

I ate this rather soothing way with lettuce twice last week, once for lunch, accompanied by a piece of salmon, the second time for supper, with nothing but a hunk of soft farmhouse bread, the sort with a dusting of white flour on top. Light, juicy, and clean tasting.

Among the charcoal and garlic of midsummer’s more robust cooking, a quiet salad of palest green can come as a breath of calm. Last June, as thousands joined hands around Stonehenge in celebration of the summer solstice, I put together a salad of cool notes: mint, fava beans, and young peas—a bowl of appropriate gentility and quiet harmony.

In spring, the young leek is a welcome sight with its stick-thin body and compact green flags, particularly after the thick winter ones with their frozen cores. They are worth steaming and dressing with a mustardy vinaigrette or, as here, using as a base for a fava bean and bacon lunch. We sometimes have this in the garden, with inelegant hunks of bread and sweet Welsh butter.

This little pancake has a springlike freshness with its filling of young, peeled fava beans and freckling of feathery dill. Curiously, it is not at all “eggy.” In fact, a devout noneater of eggs, I have been known to finish a whole one by myself. A drizzle of yogurt over its crust or a few slices of smoked salmon at its side are possibilities too. I really think this is only worth making with the smallest of fava beans, and they really must be peeled.

Fava beans are gentle, soothing, calm (particularly so when they have been skinned), a vegetable without the vibrancy of spinach or even peas. Surely we don’t always want vegetables to be full of fireworks? Rather than fight this mild character with an addition of spice or bright tastes, I go along with it, and often serve the beans as a side dish with cream and perhaps a stirring of parsley. A dish as soporific as it is beautiful. Some poached ham would be nice here, as might a piece of lightly cooked white fish. Though I would be more than satisfied with some triangles of hot brown toast. Should you happen to have any summer savory in the herb bed, this is your chance to use it.