Kaua'i, Hawaii and a Gluten-Free Chocolate Marmalade Cake

T and I got back last night from our honeymoon trip to Kaua'i, Hawaii. It was our first trip to Hawaii and our first vacation in seven years, so needless to say we were chomping at the bit for a week alone on a coast where the water is actually swimmable.

We weren't disappointed.

Everything you hear about Hawaii--that it's paradise, that the water is warm and aqua, that flurries of colorful fish swim just below the surface in shallow reefs (that they share with giant sea turtles!) and coral--it's all true. The picture above is from a hike we took on the Na Pali coastline on the north side of the island. The hike was muddy and rigorous, taking us over the sea cliffs and into a guava jungle to a 100 ft waterfall with a cold, deep pool. (Where no one was nude--it just looks that way.)

T taught me to snorkle, which was fun after I stopped hyperventilating. We swam and snorkeled in the calm waters of Ke'e Beach and Anini Beach on the north side, on the very slightly rougher (and my favorite) Po'ipu Beach on the southeast of the island--where on the same afternoon a monk seal crawled onto the beach to nap in the sun and a giant sea turtle hauled herself on shore to lay her eggs--and we waded in the body-slamming surf at Barking Sands Beach, on the western shore.

Other than fresh fish, the food on Kaua'i wasn't exciting. We found ourselves missing home-cooked meals and fresh vegetables, but the ahi tuna was deep red and buttery and the fruit was unbelievable. If you go, economize by eating ahi poke, avocados, and any fresh fruit you can find. I was particularly taken with dragon fruit, if only for its name and unique appearance.

And drink mai thais. The late afternoon we discovered the $3 mai thais at the poolside bar was a drunken, sweet and happy one.

T's favorite day was when we took a boat up the Na Pali coastline, stopping to snorkel and cheering on the spinner dolphins as they leaped alongside us. My favorite was our second visit to Po'ipu Beach, when we exhausted ourselves snorkeling and then lay in the shade of a palm tree, reading, sunning, and watching the chickens.

I suppose catching a wild chicken would be another bright way to economize. They're everywhere, and the roosters, while beautiful, lose some appeal during their customary 4am salute to the dawn.

If the snorkeling, wildlife, mountain valleys and bright blue ocean doesn't do it for you, then go to Kaua'i for the flowers. This is plumeria, my favorite, for its rich scent and waxy white petals.

But for those of you with a more wintry mind, or for whom the words "Hawaii" and "vacation" elicit feelings of bitterness, longing or despair, try this chocolate marmalade cake. Rich, with a light crumb, sticky, ridiculously easy and gluten-free.

Chocolate Marmalade Cake (adapted from Nigella Lawson's Feast)

• 10-14 ounces marmalade (pick your poison)
• 6 eggs
• 2 C almond meal
• 1/2 C cocoa powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1 heaping tsp baking powder
• 1 C light brown sugar, not packed
• a pinch of salt
• a handful or two of bittersweet chocolate chips or shards

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and line an 8-inch springform pan. In a bowl or food processor, combine all of the ingredients above until smooth. Pour into prepared pan and bake for around an hour (mine took about 70 minutes). You'll want to check after 45 minutes to make sure the top isn't burning--if it is, simply cover the top loosely with aluminum foil and continue baking until a cake tester comes out mostly clean. (A few fudgy crumbs clinging to the tester are fine--better to under cook slightly than to dry the cake out.)

Cool completely in the pan before slicing and serving. Enjoy alone, with barely sweetened whipped cream, with a liquored whipped cream (orange liquor or maybe brandy or rum), or ice cream.

The Meat of the Matter, and How to Make a Monte Cristo

(Or Two Dumb Bums with Beef on the Brain.)

This is me and Nathan:

About a month ago our spouses, T and M, decided to instigate a food feud between us; it was their thinly veiled objective to inspire countless evenings during which they would be fed, copiously, beautiful sandwiches inspired by mutual contempt and competition.

Unfortunately, being who we are, the competition's been mild. (Exhibit A: we keep voting for each other's sandwiches.) But the food...that's been anything but.


A couple of weeks ago we made vegetarian sandwiches with brie and goat cheese, oven roasted tomatoes and roasted garlic mayonnaise, fresh basil, bell peppers, and toasted pine nuts. They were mighty fine. I ended up being handicapped by the goat cheese--not a crowd pleaser--but even I had to concede that Nathan's fresh-tasting yet creamy sandwich was delicious.

Tonight was round two, the Meat Sandwich, and I was ready to dominate. Unfortunately, Nathan slaved away all day and made the most glorious French Dips we've ever had. He smoked and then roasted the beef, sliced it into thin strips and smattered the top with pan-fried onions. The meat and onions ended up on very lightly toasted baguettes with aged Gruyere, dipped by the eater into a rich, salty jus. Somehow intensely satisfying yet not rich.


Thank goodness, because we had to save room for the Monte Cristos.

A Monte Cristo, though recipes vary, is a battered sandwich stuffed with thinly sliced ham and melted cheese. I made mine by pressing two crustless pieces of high-quality white bread around black forest ham and Havarti, with thin smears of butter and homemade currant jelly. The sandwich is chilled, tightly wrapped, for a few hours, and then dipped into a simple batter (think thick pancake batter) and fried like grilled cheese in a hot buttered pan. The hot golden sandwiches get a final dusting of confectioners sugar and are eaten dipped into jam. Homemade blackberry jam.

In all honesty, as luscious as the monte cristo was--like savory French Toast, crisp and creamy, salty and sweet--I preferred the French Dip. I just wouldn't order anything like a Monte Cristo in a restaurant, because I don't enjoy very rich foods.

T agreed with me, but M and Nathan liked the monte cristos. So we tied.

Which, with all of the objectivity I can muster, was exactly the right decision.

To Make Your Own Monte Cristo: (1 sandwich)

• 2 slices high-quality white bread, with the crusts cut off and saved for another use (I ferret mine away in the freezer for future bread crumbs)
• 2 slices thinly cut ham or turkey
• 1 nice slice of havarti / any melty cheese you like
• butter
• jam
• confectioners sugar
• 1/3 C flour
• 1/3 C water
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 egg
  

Lay bread slices on your working surface. Butter both slices of white bread and spread jam onto one of the pieces.

Fold the ham or turkey so that it fits onto one of the slices of bread (nothing should hang off the side of the slice).

Top the meat with the cheese.

Cap the sandwich with the second slice of buttered bread and firmly press on the top and sides so that the sandwich is sealed.

Wrap tightly in plastic wrap and chill for 45 minutes to several hours. This helps to seal the bread and keeps the sandwich from falling apart during the frying process.

Next, Prepare a thick batter using the flour, water, salt, baking powder and egg. Whisk until uniform.

Unwrap the sandwich and dip into the batter, covering completely.

Fry the sandwich in butter over medium heat until golden on both sides.

Hint: My technique--and this makes flawless grilled cheese sandwiches, too--is to heat the butter until golden, set the sandwich into the butter, and then cover the pan and lower the heat to medium/medium low. Flip when golden on the bottom and repeat process. Covering the pan over a low heat encourages a golden crust to develop while trapping enough heat to melt the cheese before the sandwich burns.

Serve hot, sprinkled with confectioners sugar and dipped into jam.

Apple Dried Cherry Challah and Sweet Corn Chowder

One of the best parts of summer's end is using summer produce, like tomatoes and sweet corn, in fall dishes like soups and stews. On a rainy day earlier this week a bundle of delicate, baby carrots and sweet onion went into a beef bourguignon, and tonight we'll eat a light, creamy chowder of sweet corn and heirloom tomatoes. All week we've been biting into challah stuffed with new apples and dried cherries to welcome in the Jewish New Year, Rosh Ha'shanah.

I love this comforting food that's still fresh and green. We're in that tiny space of the Oregon year where we can enjoy the colors and diversity of summer veggies while baking the breads and stirring the thick soups essential to our damp, chilly nights. It's also the time of year that I associate with returning to our kitchen table, and replacing the hastily gobbled tomato sandwiches and pesto pasta bowls that get us through summer with longer, more complicated meals that involve sitting together with cloth napkins, silverware, a glass of wine. Summer is supposed to be languorous, but I find the fall and winter to be so; fall and winter in Oregon stretch from October to June, and the steady drip of rain sets a slow metronome rhythm to each day. The here-and-gone vitality of our summers is thrilling (look! the sun!), but it's easy to fall back into the seductive lull of rain and steamy tea pots.

That said I'm glad today is sunny. I've spent the afternoon outside sewing a quilt for Kate and listening to history podcasts on Catherine the Great and Catherine D'Medici (in case you've been wondering, the horse story is a myth, but the Black Queen earned her moniker) drinking thai iced tea with milk and sugar and missing my bike, which is at the shop, suffering from multiple mechanical woes. (The guy looked at me and said, "You ride your bike a lot, huh?" I wanted to be truthful and admit that I just commute on it, but I loved the unspoken assumption that I was a hardcore biker too much to say so. I don't know why I needed the charade, but I could almost feel my leg muscles strengthening and defining as I stood there.)

Tomorrow is phase two of the Nathan Whitney-Little Chef Sandwich Competition, in which neither chef is as competitive as his and her respective spouses, and everyone drinks too much hard cider. I think I'm going to do a riff on the Monte Cristo and stuff sturdy but soft bread with aged ham, Havarti cheese and some kind of chutney, press in the sides, dip the sandwich in egg, and fry it until golden and melty in butter or olive oil. It's not the kind of dish that I would normally eat, but it's luxurious and unusual.

And I feel compelled to say something political, given today's date, but all I feel is political exhaustion and frustration. I want the wars to be ended. I want there to be available healthcare and jobs and housing assistance for all Americans. I want the government to admit that we can't keep funneling money into a fight against an "-ism," which is only an idea and thus indefatigable in its ability to influence, to be acted upon, to be disseminated and undercut. 9/11 was a tragedy, but it is not a reason to continue dangerous and endless policies in countries whose histories and rivalries we do not understand.

To commemorate 9/11 I'm going to share a meal grown by local farmers with someone I love. I'm going to buy a Koran and put it next to my Hebrew bible. I'm going to approach my life as if I lived in the pluralistic, tolerant, humane world I would like my children to inherit. And maybe, inshallah, they will.

Slow Cooker Sweet Corn Chowder, However You Like It

This isn't so much a recipe as a suggestion. I used what I had on hand, and so should you: feel free to add in diced bell pepper, chunks of potato, leftover chicken, or sliced celery. You can also cook this on the stove--simmer until everything but the dairy is just tender and bright, and then add in the milk, heating through. It actually takes far less time on the stove--maybe 2o minutes of simmering and then 5-10 minutes after you add the cream. The advantage of the slow cooker is that it allows flavors to concentrate...and you can leave the house.

• approximately 3 C fresh or frozen sweet corn (remove the kernels from the cob)
• a few slices of bacon, diced
• 1 small onion, finely chopped
• 1-2 smashed garlic cloves
• 1 small hot pepper, minced, or a 1/4 tsp dried chili flakes
• an heirloom tomato, roughly chopped
• tiny fistful of fresh sage leaves
• 2-3 sprigs of fresh thyme
• a dash of smoked paprika
• stock
• 1-2 C milk or cream
• salt and pepper to taste

Heat a bit of olive oil in a pan and add the diced bacon. Cook until crisp and then add add the chopped onions, garlic and hot pepper (you may drain the bacon fat if you like, but it adds significant flavor). Saute until the onions are translucent but not browned. Add the onion mixture to the slow cooker, along with the corn, stock and spices. Stir and cook on low, covered, for 2-3 hours. If you are using potatoes, be sure to add them in at this stage.

About an hour before eating (less if you're making this on the stove), add the milk or cream to the soup and taste for seasoning. Salt and pepper as you desire. Cook the soup on high for about an hour. When finished, adjust seasoning as necessary and serve hot with grated cheddar and crusty bread. I bet a dash of hot sauce would be good, too.

And then sometimes good things happen

It's been a hard few days for us, and then the rain came this morning and it was difficult to get out of bed and drive to work. I fueled myself on long-steeped tea, reasoning in that not very coherent, early morning way that if Edith Wharton's characters can get a buzz from English Breakfast, so can I. (Not true. A cup of coffee and another cup of tea later, I felt somewhat conscious. Also, why is caffeine the only thing I remember from House of Mirth?) I pulled on my Oregon Girls Rock t-shirt that I save for cheerless days and my favorite ripped jeans. I packed an especially delicious and unusual sandwich. I slipped a Neko Case CD into my purse.

I was ready to be gloomy like the baddest most emo hipster poser you know.

And then I went upstairs to kiss T goodbye.

I think I married T because I had no other choice. And before you get huffy, let me explain. I met him and electrical currents zinged and I felt peace descend. My brain shut down completely except for one reverberant thought, thrumming through my limbs, that let me know, in these absolute almost godly tones, that this someone was for me. Of course, I didn't know that we would fall in love and get married and become the proud co-owners of an orange velvet couch (seriously Tom, I like the couch), but somehow I knew that future was possible.

I tried to delude myself for a little while, imagining T as a wild fling before I moved to New York for school, but it's hard to resist a 6' 3" dark-haired, blue-eyed prankster who dances to embarrassing love songs he makes up about me, and makes the best hash browns, and attracts the adoration of animals and babies everywhere, because he's really that kind. True, he also likes to pants me while I'm washing the dishes, and he's filled my Netflix queue with manga and monster movies, but I'd watch a month's worth of manga for one of T's hugs, because I feel like I'm disappearing into comfort. Six months into knowing Tom and I was hooked. More than seven years and life without him is like a Caesar salad without the anchovies in the dressing. (In other words, improbable. Inedible. Completely and utterly beyond the order of things.)

Tomorrow we will be married two years, and it's been awesome. Not easy, not all the time, but maybe better for that. I know I'm braver and kinder and just possibly, minimally less stressed because I get to kiss him goodbye each morning, and hello every night. And because he's a chiropractor and will give a back rub in exchange for a back scratch. I've never been in better alignment.

Take that how you will.

Happy anniversary, my sweet man. I love you.

Unlike Snow White

Yesterday one of Tom's childhood friends died of an oxycotin overdose. We think he took it recreationally, with his girlfriend, and just took one too many and so never woke up. Like Heath Ledger, and so many other people who take these drugs liberally, with no stigma, because doctors dispense them.

We have some experience with less acceptable drug use in my family. One of my siblings is a recovering methamphetamine addict. When she was high she was a raving lunatic with drug-induced paranoid schizophrenia and painful ulcers from head to toe, where she'd scratched the "bugs" away. People see what meth does to a person and they think they're looking at a trailer trash loser whose parents did something wrong. It's shaming to the parents, and the siblings, and eventually--if you're lucky enough that this person stops using--to the drug user, who knows that she's done something illicit and ugly. My mom thinks that the cultural stigma against crystal meth helped bring my sister back from the brink; she wanted to live in this world.

Meth is a bad drug. And while I support the legalization and de-criminalization of drugs, to reduce drug cartel violence and hopefully inspire a more transparent social conversation and response to drug use and treatment, it's really hard to say that people should be able to buy it. Heroin fits into that category, too, because it's so dangerous. Two Reedies (my Alma mater) have died of overdoses in the last year. But I'm not sure that making heroin illegal has stopped anyone who wasn't already disinclined to try drugs from using it. Instead, illegalizing drugs like pot, heroin, cocaine and meth has flooded our prison system with low level offenders and helped a devastatingly violent black market to flourish in South America and Mexico. Perhaps most importantly, making these items illegal has allowed Americans to push drug use off to the side as a marginal thing, a low-life activity; we do not face the fact that it is our country's demand for drugs that keeps the Mexican drug lords' pockets fat, and Mexico's northern states in the flux of brutality.

But we do allow Americans to take vicodin, and valium, and oxycotin, and any number of medical narcotics. The last time I was at the dentist I had a root canal, which if you haven't had one hurts, but really not that badly--not badly enough for the vicodin they offered me. I don't know why a doctor would offer someone an addictive substance when maximum strength Tylenol is sufficient; I don't understand how a drug like oxycotin, which has a physical impact and addiction risk to rival morphine and methadone, has been given to my cousin for the last ten years to help her mask the pain of a knee injury that should have been rehabbed. And yet it's okay for her to spend her days in a minor fog of substance abuse, to drive a car and mother her children. And it was okay for Rush Limbaugh and Newt Gingrich and myriad celebrities who have crashed cars, passed out, and died in their sleep, because they weren't doing drugs. They were doing medicine, and medicine is safe.

Prescription drug abuse ranks second behind pot as the nation's largest drug problem (http://www.whitehousedrugpolicy.gov/drugfact/prescr_drg_abuse.html), and yet even after several high-profile accidents and overdoses, most of the people I know love to have a vicodin and a glass of wine before bed, if they can get it. Because it feels good. I know, because I tried it once with Tom many years ago and all I can think about tonight is how goddamn lucky we are that we woke up. How unbelievably overjoyed I am that I didn't wake up like Justin's girlfriend to find the person I love most in this world gone from this world. And for nothing. The waste makes me feel like raging.

Tonight I feel sad because my husband is so deep in grief, and angry because drug use and abuse is just one problem on a long list of things we could change about American policy--and so change about the world--but that we do not because these pills make a few people a lot of money. And so tacit approval for the use of these drugs, legitimately, recreationally, leaks out into our culture and into the bodies of people who someone loves, and for whom they mourn.

Tortilla de Patata

When I was fifteen, I accompanied my cousin Kate and her dad, "Uncle" Michael, on a 7-month stay in Salamanca, Spain. We lived in a furnished three-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms (amazing when you think about it), a living room, and a sizable kitchen with the world's smallest washing machine set into the wall. My bedroom wall had a reproduction of a famous Jesus on the Cross painting, in which a gangrenous Messiah wept down upon my sleeping, Jewish form. Other rooms had crosses, and the girls' bathroom had a beday. Which blew our minds, and which we used to clean our feet.

At the time Kate was a fairly picky eater and I was a vegetarian, neither of which are ideal conditions for eating in Spain where ham is king and there are all sorts of amazing, adventurous dishes to try like fresh sardine bruschetta, paella, baby squid in lemon, olive oil and garlic, giant salads with tomatoes, olives, tuna and hard boiled eggs, Basque panfried trout stuffed with bacon, and a cocktail called Tinto de Verano, which combines Fanta Limon with red wine and is actually pretty good. In addition to being difficult eaters, Kate and I were also teenage girls, which meant that we spent a lot of time mooning over creamy American peanut butter and 6pm dinner times and crinkling skeptical noses at late night tapas. What a waste of a culinary opportunity, though I know we each grew up a lot during that often difficult but wonderful stay. We also grew up into eager eaters, so perhaps exposure, if not ingestion, has its benefits.

Amidst the seafood that Kate wouldn't touch, and the meat that I wouldn't eat, we discovered the humble tortilla de patata, or potato omelet. Creamy on the inside, barely crispy on the outside, egg yolk-yellow and rich with the flavors of olive oil and caramelized onion, the tortilla is a simple dish with a deep soul. Spaniards eat it at room temperature, cut into wedges or, better yet, placed between two pieces of fresh bread just lightly rubbed with olive oil or mayo. Kate and I used to walk down to a tapas bar on the Plaza Mayor and share bocadillos de tortilla de patata and coca-cola in glass bottles for dinner. Sometimes for dessert we'd eat coconut ice cream that arrived in the coconut shell. I remember the waiter snickering at us just a little each time we arrived, maybe because we were eating a traditional snack for dinner, or maybe because of our accents, and maybe because the simple omelet brought us so much pleasure.

I started making tortillas of my own in graduate school, when my friend Erin lent me her fantastic tapas cookbook, Tapas by Penelope Casas. The secret to the dish is an obscene amount of olive oil, which you use to slowly simmer very thinly sliced potatoes and onions until tender. You don't want to fry or brown the potatoes! They sort of boil in the oil until partially translucent, and this draws out the sweetness of the potato and creates a velvety mouth-feel. The second important trick is learning to flip the omelet. I'm still learning this technique, but at least no longer break them. What you want to do is heat the omelet pan until very hot, which helps prevent the eggs from sticking. You'll probably need to help the omelet remain unstuck by periodically shaking the pan and running a metal spatula around the sides and under the omelet. When the omelet is cooked on the bottom, place a plate over the pan and invert the omelet onto the plate so that the uncooked side is resting on the plate. Then, carefully slide the omelet back into the pan to finish cooking. Ideally, the tortilla will be golden yellow on the outside and moist within. In all honesty, I've only ever managed golden brown; I don't know how Spanish chefs achieve a yolk-yellow finished product. Just be sure not to overcook the tortilla. You want it dense and moist inside, not dry.

It might take you a few tries to master the flip, but regardless of how your tortilla emerges from the pan it will be delicious. It's a tiny bit salty and rich, with layers of creamy potatoes and dissolving onions. Eat it with a salad and some crusty bread, grab a glass of light red wine, and you'll be a happy chica.

The following is based on what I remember Penelope Casas's recipe, but I tinker slightly with the type of potatoes I use (tonight they were baby goldens from the farm, with a sweet onion) and have occasionally added a green like kale.

Ingredients:
around 3-4 russet potatoes, very thinly sliced
1 onion, I prefer sweet, very thinly sliced
1 C olive oil
1-2 tsp coarse salt
4-5 eggs

Technique:

1. Pour the olive oil into a nonstick or other skillet (I use a cast iron). Bring to a medium-high heat--it's ready when a test piece of potato sizzles gently on contact. Lower the heat to medium-low, to sustain the simmer.
2. Place a layer of potato slices in the skillet and sprinkle lightly with salt. Now add a layer of onion slices and salt. Repeat until all of the vegetables are in the skillet.
3. Let the potatoes and onions simmer until tender but not brown, stirring occasionally. Don't worry if some of the slices break.
4. When the potatoes and onions are soft, remove the pan from the heat and drain the vegetables. I like to place the strainer over a bowl in order to save the olive oil, which should amount to 1/2-3/4 C. This olive oil should be stored in a jar in the fridge and used over the next few days to cook or dip bread. It's delicious.
5. In a separate, large bowl beat 4-5 eggs until frothy. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
6. Add the potato mixture to the bowl, mix, and let sit for 5-10 minutes.
7. Meanwhile, clean the skillet and add 1-2 T of olive oil. Heat until very hot but not smoking.
8. Add the egg-potato mess to the skillet and cook until the bottom is golden.
9. Flip the tortilla using the method described above and cook until golden.
10. Set the tortilla aside to cool slightly and eat plain, with a tomato sauce or salsa, or a garlicky aioli.

Sweet Pickles

Sunday afternoon, almost hot out; Stella and Tybalt are starting to assume that Mark Twain pose. And I'm pickling.

In between my mom's overflowing sweet pea beds and the CSA, T and I have been overrun with sweet and snow peas. Remember the ending of Weird Science when the popcorn bursts through the roof of the evil (dean's? president's?) house and threatens to overtake the neighborhood? That's analogous to our pea dilemma. Open our produce drawer and the little green pods jump out in a tumble of wilted lettuce (don't get me started on the lettuce problem) and the dessicated beet tops I genuinely meant to cook three weeks ago. It's getting dangerous down there.

Luckily, I discovered a recipe for pickled sugar snap peas, which I've now applied to snow peas and, today, baby carrots and radishes. For the peas I add tiny hot chilies (you can buy them super cheaply at Indian markets and store them in the freezer) and lots of garlic, while the carrot-radish pickles got some garlic and a few sprigs from the lavender plant. I borrowed the lavender idea from a recent article in the Oregonian's FoodDay section. I have no idea what flavor the lavender will impart to the brine, but the results are so pretty--my lame camera work does not capture how vibrant these jars are--that I'm not sure I care.

I made a jar of sweet pea pickles a few weeks ago, so I can attest to how freaking delicious they are. Tart (and tarter the longer they sit in the brine), sweet, garlicky and hot all at once, these little pickles taste amazing on cheese sandwiches and chopped into tuna salad. I brought the last of the jar to my in-laws last week and Fred ate a few alone, dripping over the sink. He's picky, so I'm taking that as a compliment.

I don't know what to do with the carrot-radish pickles yet. Veggie sandwiches? Bloody Marys? A garnish/side for a meal of sticky rice and teriyaki? What do you suggest?

Sweet Pea Pickles

• 1 LB sugar snap or snow peas
• 1 1/4 C white vinegar
• 1 1/4 C cold water
• 1 T kosher or pickling salt
• 1 T sugar
• 4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
• a few whole, hot red chilies or red pepper flakes
• 1 quart jar (sterilize it first) with a lid

1. Put a dry glass jar and lid (separately) into the oven at 300 degrees F for 15 minutes to sterilize. Set aside.
2. Stem and remove the strings from the peas. (I don't remove the strings and have no issues with the pickles' texture, but you may be less lazy than I am.)
3. Heat the vinegar, salt and sugar into a non-reactive pot until the salt and sugar dissolve. Remove from heat and add cold water. Stir and set aside to cool.
4. Pack the sterilized jar with chilies, garlic and peas. Ladle cooled brine over the pickles and seal tightly. Let the jar sit in the fridge for up to two weeks to really pickle up nicely.*

*Note: We actually start eating these within the first few days. The pickling solution grows really intense after about 3 weeks--I like it, but be prepared to pucker--so at that point you might want to pour some out and dilute it with water. (I think that would be alright. I haven't actually verified that idea.)