Warm leftover lentils perked up with green sauce and fava beans (no, I don't peel them). Add a genius fried egg on top made with chili flakes instead of paprika (link below).
And I’m not the only one. The permission to go the easy route and only remove the pod and not the white-ish skin came from a few places: One, my mother does not peel favas, so because my mom said so. She likely learned not to from her Tuscan-born mother, as most of Italy, Spain, and Britain don’t peel their favas.
Two, Ignacio Mattos’s Genius Grilled Favas teaches us to eat the whole dang bean—with a fork and knife, or animal-style with our hands. He does advise to seek out the most tender fava beans at the market so their skins aren’t quite as tough, but I’ve never bothered.
The most convincing evidence for skin-on favas, however, came from the beef meatballs with fava beans and lemon recipe in Jerusalem, in which half the fava beans keep their skins on while the others are denuded. As you eat your way through the (very good) sauté (that you should really make), you’re able to do a side-by-side comparison of the favas both ways: At first bite, the ones with the skins on are like Marcona almonds: silky, oily, earthy, but firm. They then give way to melty-creaminess on the inside, like the middle of a ball of Burrata.
In your next bite, the naked beans will seem too soft, without any resistance to remind you that they’re even there. Why did you just spend so much time skinning these suckers if they won’t even show off?
So don’t let fava bean season pass you by yet again. This year, gobble them, and a little more fiber and flavor, with a whole lot less cursing. Tackle any recipe that calls for fava beans, with one less step—there are some recipes to get you started below.
(For those of you worried about the amount of roughage the skins provide, know that my stomach has never hurt after eating them—but maybe it’s because I was too happy to be eating spoonfuls of favas.)