Year two. Here we go.
Spring in Milwaukee is a negotiation. The calendar says it's spring. The weather disagrees. It was forty degrees and raining on Monday, fifty-five and sunny on Wednesday, and thirty-two with sleet on Friday. My Jeep's heater works on a schedule I haven't figured out yet. But the lake is thawing, the trees are budding, and the brewpubs are switching from stouts to lighter fare. Spring is coming whether the weather likes it or not.
The Polish honey lager launched this week. My second original recipe on the Lakefront menu. We tapped it on Thursday night and I was behind the bar again, pouring, watching faces. The response was different from Fireside — quieter, more thoughtful. People took a sip and paused. "What's in this?" they'd ask. Honey, I'd say. And rye. "It tastes like... I don't know. It tastes like bread." Yeah. That's the point. It tastes like Babcia's rye bread and wildflower fields and something you can't quite name. Marcus tasted the final pour at the end of the night and said, "This one's special, Jake. This one has a story."
I've been thinking about that — beer with a story. Fireside was a good beer. The honey lager is a personal beer. There's a difference. One is technique. The other is identity. I'm starting to brew who I am.
At home, I celebrated the launch by making Babcia's rosół — chicken soup — from scratch. Not the shortcut version with canned broth. The real version. A whole chicken, simmered for three hours with carrots, parsnip, celery root, leek, onion, and fresh dill. The apartment smelled like Sunday. The broth was golden and clear, the way Babcia's always is, and the flavor was deep and clean. I called Mom to tell her and she said, "Jake, when are you going to cook for us again?" Soon, Mom. Soon.
Sunday at Babcia's: she made a spring vegetable soup with new potatoes and dill. Light, clean, bright. The seasonal wheel turns. We turn with it.
The rosół I made after Thursday’s tap night used half a bunch of dill, and the other half sat on my counter looking at me all weekend. That’s how this pasta happened — Babcia’s herb in a lighter, faster dish that still tastes like spring finally showing up and meaning it. After a week of forty-degree rain and a beer launch that asked everything of me, I needed something I could pull together in thirty minutes that still felt like it came from somewhere real. Peas, feta, dill, lemon — that’s spring in a bowl, Milwaukee edition.
Farfalle Pasta with Peas, Feta, and Dill
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 12 oz farfalle (bowtie) pasta
- 1 1/2 cups fresh or frozen peas
- 4 oz feta cheese, crumbled
- 1/4 cup fresh dill, roughly chopped
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
- 1 lemon, zested and juiced
- 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)
- Kosher salt and black pepper to taste
Instructions
- Boil the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook farfalle according to package directions until al dente. Reserve 1/2 cup pasta water before draining.
- Cook the peas. In the last 2 minutes of pasta cooking, add peas directly to the boiling pasta water. Drain pasta and peas together.
- Build the base. While pasta cooks, heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and red pepper flakes (if using) and cook, stirring, for about 1 minute until fragrant but not browned.
- Combine. Add drained pasta and peas to the skillet. Toss to coat, adding splashes of reserved pasta water as needed to loosen the sauce. Remove from heat.
- Finish and season. Add lemon zest, lemon juice, and half the feta. Toss again. Taste and adjust salt and pepper. The feta brings salt, so go easy at first.
- Serve. Plate into bowls and top with remaining feta and fresh dill. Eat immediately — this one doesn’t wait.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 430 | Protein: 15g | Fat: 14g | Carbs: 60g | Fiber: 5g | Sodium: 390mg
About the cook who shared this
Jake Kowalski
Week 53 of Jake’s 30-year story
· Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Jake is a twenty-nine-year-old brewery worker, newlywed, and proud Polish-American from Milwaukee's Bay View neighborhood. He didn't start cooking until his grandmother Babcia Helen passed away and left behind a stack of grease-stained recipe cards. Now he makes pierogi from scratch, smokes meats on a balcony smoker his landlord pretends not to notice, and writes for guys who want to cook good food but don't know a roux from a rub.