Peas and Carrots
(for Nancy)
Late one evening after supper
at which not a word was said,
I walked down to the market;
my new wife went to bed.
I made a simple purchase,
a flower and a can.
On my return I woke my wife
and placed them in her hand.
“The purpose of the rose,” I said,
“is penance for my crime,
but the can’s much more important;
to explain, I’ll need some time.
If you’ll rest in my arms a while
and promise not to sleep,
I’ll tell to you a story ’bout
a pledge I vowed to keep.
When I was young, my sister
and I would always fight.
It seemed that I was never wrong,
and she was never right.
Poor mother did the best she could,
but all her efforts failed.
Despite her prayers and prodding,
my stubbornness prevailed.
To give our mom a needed rest,
one summer, we were told
we’d spend a month with Grandma,
who was seventy years old.
I glared hard at my sister;
my sister looked at me.
We rolled our eyes in unison;
for once we could agree.
Our grandma, she was nice enough;
she grandma’d by the book.
Our only apprehension
was she didn’t really cook.
We’d eaten with her oft before
and knew that we could plan
that most of lunch and supper would
come straight out of a can.
Our mom knew well her mother
wasn’t known for her cuisine,
so she made us swear we’d not complain,
and we’d eat our platters clean.
When we arrived at Grandma’s house,
she told us to unpack
while she went to the market.
We’d eat when she got back.
Before she left, she asked us each
to write down just a few
of those foods we both liked to eat,
and she’d see what she could do.
Now, I was fond of carrots,
while Sis was keen on peas.
Our mom, at home, served beets or corn
or beans with grated cheese.
For if she catered to my taste,
my sister made a scene,
and if my sister got her way,
then I turned downright mean.
You see, Sis hated carrots
and I couldn’t stomach peas.
So peas were tops on Sis’s list:
by ‘carrots,’ I wrote, ‘please.’
Now one thing ’bout our grandma
I really should explain,
she was as wise as grandmas come
and saw right through our game.
And something else you ought to know
that played into her scheme,
we’d had no food since breakfast,
just a bowl of rice and cream.
When she called us down to supper,
we saw supper was to be
two plates with peas and carrots mixed,
one for Sis and one for me.
It was clear to see that Grandma
had not mixed them in the pan;
the proof was on the counter top;
they were mixed inside the can.
On the label, ‘peas and carrots,’
and worse, we realized
that our only chance for supper
was to eat what we despised.
For nothing more was on each plate
but half a piece of bread,
which vanished in a gulp or two
right after grace was said.
Now true to what we’d promised Mom,
both sat quiet in our seat;
but hunger drove us to devise
each one a way to eat.
My fork collected carrots squares.
I tried to compensate
their lack by savoring every one.
The peas stayed on my plate.
My sister, with her butter knife,
pushed her carrots in a pile,
then guided peas from plate to spoon
then to her waiting smile.
Once I’d dispatched my carrots
and all her peas were dead,
I asked if there were seconds,
but Grandma shook her head.
I glared hard at my sister;
my sister looked at me.
The solution to our problem
struck us simultaneously.
I smiled slyly at my sister;
my sister smiled at me.
We’d been so self-indulgent,
so blind, we could not see.
And as I ate her carrots
and as she devoured my peas,
our Grandma knew that she had cured
our juvenile disease.
And since I was the oldest
and bore the greater blame,
my Grandma took my hands in hers
and firmly spoke my name.
‘The grief you cause your sister
because you taunt and tease
exasperates your mother
much more than you hate peas.
I want you now to promise me,
give me your sacred vow,
that while you’re living in my house
you’ll get along somehow.
For life is peas and carrots,
and in each can—I’m sure—
there’s something she can give to you
and you can give to her.
You’ll have to live with women
the more part of your life.
For now, you have a sister;
someday you’ll have a wife.
The nature of most women is
to give more than their share,
while men are prone to selfishness
or think fifty-fifty’s fair.
The man who would be happy,
the man who’s smart and wise,
learns quickly how to consecrate
and not just compromise.
Start first with peas and carrots,
and once you’ve learned to share,
your love for one another
will make you both aware
that when they’re mixed together,
the flavor of each one
makes them tastier than when alone
and life a lot more fun.
When two souls join together,
we make real our fondest dreams,
like cheese and macaroni,
or my favorite, pork and beans.’
I listened to my Grandma and
I curbed my selfish ways.
I haven’t lost the lessons
of those can-fed summer days.
The year she died, I promised her
that some day when I’d wed,
and we’d had our first contention,
before angry words were said,
I would tell my bride the story,
after getting off my knees,
of what I’d learned when still a boy
from carrots mixed with peas.”
I knew my bride had understood;
she had not gone to sleep.
The years have passed; we’ve made a home
where trust and love run deep,
where a dried rose and a tin can
on the mantel o’er the hearth
remind us that together
we’re much better than apart.
at which not a word was said,
I walked down to the market;
my new wife went to bed.
I made a simple purchase,
a flower and a can.
On my return I woke my wife
and placed them in her hand.
“The purpose of the rose,” I said,
“is penance for my crime,
but the can’s much more important;
to explain, I’ll need some time.
If you’ll rest in my arms a while
and promise not to sleep,
I’ll tell to you a story ’bout
a pledge I vowed to keep.
When I was young, my sister
and I would always fight.
It seemed that I was never wrong,
and she was never right.
Poor mother did the best she could,
but all her efforts failed.
Despite her prayers and prodding,
my stubbornness prevailed.
To give our mom a needed rest,
one summer, we were told
we’d spend a month with Grandma,
who was seventy years old.
I glared hard at my sister;
my sister looked at me.
We rolled our eyes in unison;
for once we could agree.
Our grandma, she was nice enough;
she grandma’d by the book.
Our only apprehension
was she didn’t really cook.
We’d eaten with her oft before
and knew that we could plan
that most of lunch and supper would
come straight out of a can.
Our mom knew well her mother
wasn’t known for her cuisine,
so she made us swear we’d not complain,
and we’d eat our platters clean.
When we arrived at Grandma’s house,
she told us to unpack
while she went to the market.
We’d eat when she got back.
Before she left, she asked us each
to write down just a few
of those foods we both liked to eat,
and she’d see what she could do.
Now, I was fond of carrots,
while Sis was keen on peas.
Our mom, at home, served beets or corn
or beans with grated cheese.
For if she catered to my taste,
my sister made a scene,
and if my sister got her way,
then I turned downright mean.
You see, Sis hated carrots
and I couldn’t stomach peas.
So peas were tops on Sis’s list:
by ‘carrots,’ I wrote, ‘please.’
Now one thing ’bout our grandma
I really should explain,
she was as wise as grandmas come
and saw right through our game.
And something else you ought to know
that played into her scheme,
we’d had no food since breakfast,
just a bowl of rice and cream.
When she called us down to supper,
we saw supper was to be
two plates with peas and carrots mixed,
one for Sis and one for me.
It was clear to see that Grandma
had not mixed them in the pan;
the proof was on the counter top;
they were mixed inside the can.
On the label, ‘peas and carrots,’
and worse, we realized
that our only chance for supper
was to eat what we despised.
For nothing more was on each plate
but half a piece of bread,
which vanished in a gulp or two
right after grace was said.
Now true to what we’d promised Mom,
both sat quiet in our seat;
but hunger drove us to devise
each one a way to eat.
My fork collected carrots squares.
I tried to compensate
their lack by savoring every one.
The peas stayed on my plate.
My sister, with her butter knife,
pushed her carrots in a pile,
then guided peas from plate to spoon
then to her waiting smile.
Once I’d dispatched my carrots
and all her peas were dead,
I asked if there were seconds,
but Grandma shook her head.
I glared hard at my sister;
my sister looked at me.
The solution to our problem
struck us simultaneously.
I smiled slyly at my sister;
my sister smiled at me.
We’d been so self-indulgent,
so blind, we could not see.
And as I ate her carrots
and as she devoured my peas,
our Grandma knew that she had cured
our juvenile disease.
And since I was the oldest
and bore the greater blame,
my Grandma took my hands in hers
and firmly spoke my name.
‘The grief you cause your sister
because you taunt and tease
exasperates your mother
much more than you hate peas.
I want you now to promise me,
give me your sacred vow,
that while you’re living in my house
you’ll get along somehow.
For life is peas and carrots,
and in each can—I’m sure—
there’s something she can give to you
and you can give to her.
You’ll have to live with women
the more part of your life.
For now, you have a sister;
someday you’ll have a wife.
The nature of most women is
to give more than their share,
while men are prone to selfishness
or think fifty-fifty’s fair.
The man who would be happy,
the man who’s smart and wise,
learns quickly how to consecrate
and not just compromise.
Start first with peas and carrots,
and once you’ve learned to share,
your love for one another
will make you both aware
that when they’re mixed together,
the flavor of each one
makes them tastier than when alone
and life a lot more fun.
When two souls join together,
we make real our fondest dreams,
like cheese and macaroni,
or my favorite, pork and beans.’
I listened to my Grandma and
I curbed my selfish ways.
I haven’t lost the lessons
of those can-fed summer days.
The year she died, I promised her
that some day when I’d wed,
and we’d had our first contention,
before angry words were said,
I would tell my bride the story,
after getting off my knees,
of what I’d learned when still a boy
from carrots mixed with peas.”
I knew my bride had understood;
she had not gone to sleep.
The years have passed; we’ve made a home
where trust and love run deep,
where a dried rose and a tin can
on the mantel o’er the hearth
remind us that together
we’re much better than apart.
Poet‘s comments about “Peas and Carrots”
Perhaps the thing that I found most difficult about being a bishop was dealing (usually unsuccessfully) with husbands and wives who were unhappy in their marriage. It breaks my heart when the relationship that, of all relationships, should be the most sweet and fulfilling is sacrificed to selfishness and pride. Compromise can save a marriage, but marriage can only be what God intended it to be when both husband and wife consecrate their individual life to their companion. This doesn’t mean that there will be no disagreement in the marriage; only that the commitment each spouse has to the other’s happiness brings swift resolution to any conflict. True joy in the marriage relationship comes only when both are willing to defer to the other without condition. Only when both have the other’s happiness as their first priority is collective happiness possible, or in other words, only when the happiness of the individual depends on the happiness of his or her spouse can marriage hope to be what it is meant to be. My failure to explain here in abstraction what the poem communicates far better through a simple metaphor was my reason for writing the poem in the first place—it’s the reason for most of my poems. One of the characters of my first novel, who is a poet, writes the poem for his wife because he has the same problem I have: abstract language, even at its best, cannot tell her how he feels.
