Bacon and Onion Pea Salad

New Year's Eve 2025. The last night of the year that gave me a great-grandson and a diabetes diagnosis and a watermelon and a titanium knee that still works and the knowledge that Gladys's cobbler is getting closer but not close enough. I am sitting in my kitchen — in Denise's kitchen, which is my kitchen — at ten-thirty p.m. with my journal and my tea (unsweetened now, which is a personal betrayal that I have accepted) and I am writing down the year.

The 2025 list: Michael Devon Brooks was born on October 14 at 3:47 a.m. That is the first thing. That is the only thing that matters. Everything else — the diabetes, the watermelon, the cobbler, the birthdays, the meals — everything else is footnote. Michael is the headline. Michael is the year. Michael is the sentence I will remember when I'm ninety and can't remember what I ate for breakfast: "In 2025, Michael came."

The footnotes: I turned seventy. Seventy years old. I don't feel seventy. I feel like a woman who has been cooking for sixty years and whose body has opinions about it. The diabetes is managed — A1C down from 7.2 to 6.8, which Kayla celebrated like a World Series victory and which I celebrated by eating a slightly smaller piece of pecan pie at Christmas, which is the most restrained I have ever been around pecan pie and which I consider a sacrifice on par with anything the saints endured. The watermelon grew. First time in seven years. Seeds saved. The garden produced. The boil fed two hundred and thirty-one people. I graduated from physical therapy. I put Earl's cane away. I picked up a great-grandson instead.

The year of exchange. That's what 2025 was. I exchanged the cane for the baby. The white rice for the brown. The invincibility for the management. The grief that outweighed joy for the joy that outweighed grief. Not all exchanges are equal. Not all exchanges are fair. But all exchanges are part of the deal you make with being alive: you give some things up and you get some things back and you hope — you pray, you cook, you feed — that what you get back is worth what you gave.

It was worth it. This year was worth every exchange.

Made black-eyed peas and rice. Brown rice. The New Year's dish, diabetes-modified. The tradition survives the diagnosis. The diagnosis does not win. The tradition always wins. Always.

Happy New Year, baby.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The black-eyed peas are the law in this kitchen on January first — have been for fifty years and a diabetes diagnosis is not about to change that. I built this Bacon and Onion Pea Salad around what I had, what I could eat, and what still tasted like the New Year’s my mother made. It’s not the dish she made, but it carries the same intention: feed the people you love something that means something, and let the tradition do its work.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes (plus 1 hour chill time) | Servings: 8

Ingredients

4 cups frozen sweet peas, thawed (or two 15 oz cans, drained and rinsed)
8 slices bacon, cooked crisp and crumbled
1/2 medium red onion, finely diced
1 cup sharp cheddar cheese, small-cubed or shredded
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/4 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon salt, or to taste

Instructions

Cook the bacon. In a skillet over medium heat, cook bacon until crisp, about 8–10 minutes. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate to drain and cool, then crumble into bite-sized pieces. Set aside.
Prepare the peas. If using frozen peas, spread them on a clean kitchen towel or paper towels and pat dry to remove excess moisture. If using canned, drain and rinse well, then pat dry. Excess water will thin your dressing.
Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, sour cream, apple cider vinegar, sugar, garlic powder, black pepper, and salt until smooth and fully combined. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Combine the salad. In a large mixing bowl, combine the peas, crumbled bacon, diced red onion, and cheddar cheese. Pour the dressing over the top and fold gently until everything is evenly coated. Take care not to mash the peas.
Chill before serving. Cover the bowl tightly and refrigerate for at least one hour before serving — two hours is better. The flavors settle and the dressing thickens as it rests. Serve cold straight from the refrigerator.
Garnish and serve. Before bringing to the table, give the salad a gentle stir. Top with a few extra crumbles of bacon and a pinch of fresh black pepper if desired. Serve as a side dish alongside rice, cornbread, or whatever your tradition calls for.

Nutrition (per serving)

Bacon and Onion Pea Salad — The Footnote That Fed Us