Peas release me, let me go

When I was young, my mother often served LeSeur canned English Peas with dinner. I hated them. When I told her that I hated them, she said that she did too, and that, in fact, we all hated them. When I asked her why we continued to eat them when we all hated them, she really wasn't able to give a very good answer. I don't know if she still eats canned English Peas, but I know that I don't. In England, though, English Peas are often served alongside your dinner. I had them Sunday night with my fish and chips, and then last night in a wonderful pub called the Black Friar. They accompanied a very good chicken, ham and leek pie that I had with chips and several pints of ale. Luckily, the peas that are served here bear little resemblance to canned peas. They're somewhat fresher, although I'm sure they've been frozen. They are at least green, unlike the olive drab of canned peas. They even have some taste! I'm glad to say that they don't cook them to death, something that somewhat betrays my innate Southern tendencies, but rather serve them just cooked through. I'm finding that I'm warming up to peas. Despite the truth, universally acknowledged, that English Cuisine is an oxymoron, I've yet to have a bad meal here. I've only had fish and chips once, but Indian food at least twice. Supposedly curry takeaway places outnumber fish and chips now. I like both, so I've been happy.
I catch a train from Paddington station later today to head out to Oxford. My paper is tomorrow afternoon at 4. Cross your fingers!