It’s the middle of May, unseasonably chilly and horridly rainy where I live, and this is supposed to be asparagus season, but it’s not. Yet. Nothing to be done but just wait, patiently.
I have wonderful neighbors, Joan and Neale, who live across the street from me in a house not dissimilar to mine. The difference, apart from the fact that it’s extremely neat and inhabited by someone who is 6 foot 7 (Neale), is that their home faces directly into the sun, which it gets for many uninterrupted hours every day. Our house, on the other hand, is nestled in a grove of many half-dead pines, a thicket of catmint that draws bees from all over the state, and an ever-increasing growth of poison ivy. It’s a little like comparing the Cleaver residence to Grey Gardens.
One of the other differences is that our home is on a steep slope, so when we built our garden boxes a few years ago, we knew that we’d have watering issues; instead of being absorbed into the soil, it just runs right out of the boxes, and down the little slope. Neale and Joan, on the other hand, have a perfectly flat, level, large garden space which they’ve divided: about a third of it is devoted to the berry bushes that they put in specifically so that the neighborhood kids can pick to their heart’s content without risk of getting into poison ivy. And about two thirds of it is packed with every conceivable kind of vegetable, including asparagus. I am deeply envious of this fact, so much so that last night I dreamt that a few lone stalks were poking up through a chunk of half-barren, unworkable, rocky soil situated right next to the little stone Buddha that marks the spot where my cats Cleo and Viola are buried, deep in the backyard. I took it as a sign.
Asparagus is one of those things that requires time and patience–long, hard, patience. Being an impatient city girl, I assumed that you put in the “crowns” during the winter, and just like that, you wound up with the vegetable pushing northward through the earth, ready for picking. Of course, I was wrong. Asparagus is never in a rush, and it may not show up for a few years after planting (which I also gather is a gigantic pain in the behind, or at least, the back). By the time it deigns to make an appearance, you could be living someplace else, or retired and buying a condo in Boca.
The other problem with growing asparagus is that unless you know exactly what it looks like, it’s easy to confuse its foliage for weeds, and either pull them or weed-whack them down to little nubs. When my partner, Susan, first moved back to Connecticut from a rambling 18th century farmhouse in Pennsylvania about twelve years ago, she did just that: there, in her flat and sprawling sunny backyard in the northwest corner of Connecticut lay an asparagus patch that had been cultivated lovingly for years by a peculiar little woman who also grew cannabis and saved her dog’s hair to knit into a sweater. By the time I moved in though, the cannabis and the asparagus patch were both gone, having been mowed to bits by Susan in a rare burst of tidy efficiency.
The stuff that Susan mowed over.
Oh well.
So I’ve never actually tasted asparagus that’s been cut from the ground moments before cooking; I see older bunches of the stuff in the market at totally ridiculous prices, the middle stalks already growing flaccid and slimy after surviving the long trip up from Peru. But now, every time I walk our dog around the block, I stop at Neale and Joan’s garden fence, and scour the beds for some glimmer of hope. So far, nothing. In my dreams, as they say (literally). Local eating, I guess, teaches watchful patience; it’s also resulted in my noticing things around me that I’ve previously moved too fast to have time for—the fragrance of Lilies of the Valley in another neighbor’s yard; the sweetness of the air; the feeling of the sun on my face. It could be because I’m waiting for the asparagus. Or it could be in response to my working in a windowless, airless shoebox of an office during the day. Either way, I’ll take it.
I’ll just continue to be patient. And when the asparagus emerge, I’ll beg my neighbors for a few stalks and make two dishes that are profoundly simple yet gloriously earthy and robust: pan-roasted asparagus topped with a fried egg and a few shavings of Parmigiana Reggiano, and Lucy Vanel’s incomparably French asparagus potage, the recipe for which calls for the use of pungent sorrel, and “one old potato.” I look forward to them on late spring evenings, with glasses of cold chablis.
Until then, I’ll watch and wait.
Pan-Roasted Asparagus Topped with a Fried Egg
I first made this dish a few years ago, on a night when Susan was in the city and I was alone in the kitchen with half a bunch of fat, local asparagus from a nearby farmer’s market, and a carton of eggs. The result was delectable and comforting; the dish is elevated to magnificent if you use the freshest asparagus and eggs you can find. Swap out the Parmigiana for nuttier Pecorino di Pienza if you can find it; toss the roasting asparagus with fresh, seasonal mushrooms, if you’re feeling flush. A dash of Mark Bitterman’s crazy good truffle salt wouldn’t hurt either.
Serves 1-2
1/3 pound of fresh asparagus, woody ends snapped off and the bottom third gently peeled
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
1 large chicken or duck egg
Fresh Parmigiana Reggiano
Coarse salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1. Preheat your oven to 400 degrees F. Place the asparagus in an oven proof pan and drizzle with 1 tablespoon of oil. Roast in the oven until knife-tender for approximately 20-30 minutes depending on the thickness of the asparagus, shaking the pan frequently.
2. In a small, nonstick omelet pan, gently warm 1 tablespoon of oil over medium-high heat. When the oil begins to shimmer, crack the egg directly into the pan and lower the heat to medium. Fry the egg until the whites are firm and the yolk is still runny, about 5 minutes. (Mother-in-law’s trick: Tilt the pan, and spoon some of the hot oil directly over the yolk.)
3. Top the asparagus with the fried egg, over which you’ll grate the Parmigiana (as much or as little as you’d like). Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and eat straight out of the pan if you’re alone, or a heathen, like me.
I discovered Lucy Vanel’s terrific blog last year when Apartment Therapy linked to this recipe for one of the simplest, most exquisitely parsimonious potages I’ve ever tasted. Lucy lives in Lyon, so I wasn’t surprised to see that this silken, bright green soup is pureed, strained, and pureed again: this is the secret to a velvety consistency, and is understood as common French soup-making practice. The result is glorious and the flavor a lovely springtime mosaic of earthy and bright, thanks to the addition of sorrel. Thank you to Lucy, for letting me reproduce this here.
Serves 2-3
1/2 pound of asparagus
1 old potato
1 spring onion
1 small new carrot
1 tablespoon butter
a pinch of fresh thyme
2 european bay leaves or 1/2 california bay
sea salt
1/2 a bunch of sorrel, about 16 leaves
about 2 cups chicken stock (optional)
1. Wash your vegetables and herbs, and put the thyme and sorrel aside. Cut the ends off the asparagus but don’t bother to remove any rough spots from the stems. Slice them into 1 inch lengths. Roughly slice your spring onion, including the green part, if it’s fresh enough, peeled potato, and carrot into chunks. In a two quart saucepan, melt the tablespoon of butter, and once the foam subsides, add add the chopped asaparagus, onions, potato, & carrot. Over medium heat, sweat the vegetables until they begin to soften, about 5 mintues, stirring regularly. Toss in the thyme and the bay leaves.
2. Add liquid to cover. If you don’t have home made chicken stock, use water. (We used water today – don’t be tempted to add bouillon powder or canned stock!) Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and keep at a rather lively simmer for 15 mintues. At the end of the 15 minutes, remove the thyme and bay leaves. Use the blender to puree the soup thoroughly. Strain the soup through the chinois to remove any rough fibers.
3. Rinse the pan, return the puree to it, put it over the heat again. Roll your sorrel leaves into a cigar and quickly slice thinly into ribbons. Bring the asparagus puree to a simmer over medium heat and stir in the sorrel leaves. When the leaves soften and lighten in color (about a minute), puree the soup again, taste, and season with sea salt only. Serve with crusty bread. This goes well with a simple wine like a Macon on the dry side or petit Chablis.
