A Quote by Monty Don

Sweet peas should smell. Half the point of growing sweet peas is to cut them for the house; they should fill a room with an almost painful olfactory inarticulateness. But most sweet peas smell of nothing. This does not stop them being beautiful, but they are like food with no flavour.
We'd get $3.50 a bushel. A bushel is a lot of peas. You know how many peas you have to pick to fill a bushel? We would work from 6 to 2, then I'd have to go home and cut the yard.
If you gave kids peas that didn't look like peas and said they were a space shuttle, they're much more apt to eat them because it's now playtime.
There are few pleasures like really burrowing one's nose into sweet peas.
I'm building my own brand outside of the Peas. It's not Black Eyed Peas, it's Zumbao. Zumbao is different from the Peas because it's all on me and I can't feed off of anybody other than me.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
I like them cooked but I tell you what I really like - eating peas straight from the garden. If you take them straight from the pod they are delicious and really sweet.
Aspirin is so good for roses, brandy for sweet peas, and a squeeze of lemon-juice for the fleshy flowers, like begonias.
Mostly, I spend my time being a mother to my two children, working in my organic garden, raising masses of sweet peas, being passionately involved in conservation, recycling and solar energy.
[There are m]oral precepts that we consider really important, such as 'don't pick your nose' or 'don't eat peas with a knife'. There may, for ought I know, be admirable reasons for eating peas with a knife, but . . . early persuasion has made me completely incapable of appreciating them.
Lives are snowflakes - unique in detail, forming patterns we have seen before, but as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'd mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection.)
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but stiketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough; Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
It was Lisa, aged five, whose mother asked her to thank my wife for the peas we had sent them from our garden. 'I thought the peas were awful, I wish you and Mrs. Thurber were dead, and I hate trees,' said Lisa.
As cows need milking and sweet peas need picking, so writers must continually exercise their mental muscles by a daily stint.
Peas went with carrots as infallibly as ham went with eggs. For years I thought carrots and peas grew on the same vine.
I remember, around age three, peas growing in the back garden. Pinching them from their pods and popping them in the mouth was my first realisation that food came from somewhere other than a shelf.
Being sweet is something that's already given. As a beauty queen, you know that you should be relatable to people, that you should be authentic - and that makes you sweet. But you should also have that 'it' factor, and the confidence that will make you spicy.
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