Sometimes, the essence of great eating can be as close as the nearest drainage ditch. Seizing opportunity, our daughter, Jessica, and her friend of the same name, henceforth known as Jessica the Younger, and I embarked on a Euell Gibbons-like adventure we dubbed Stalking the Wild Asparagus.
Euell went into the woods; we went to the family farm. Nobody remembered planting asparagus, so we figured it must be wild.
In the vegetable-hating days of my youth, I would not have climbed into the ditch near my brother's old farmhouse in search of anything green. Today, I am a latter-day convert to the joys of the perennial that gets its name from the Greek word for stalk or shoot.
In a streak of luck, the ditch -- these manmade wonders criss-cross Michigan's "Thumb," a swamp before it was drained for fertile farmland -- was mercifully empty of water.
Truth be told, it was not I who clambered down into the ditch. No, there were two fit young women with sunny dispositions for that duty. I provided the running commentary of advice, fun facts and nuisance comments. For example, asparagus is high in folate and is a good source of vitamin C. Undressed, 6 spears have only 22 calories.
"Whether your urine smells or not after you eat asparagus is determined by genetics," I intone as the two Js bend to their task.
Before either Jessica the Older or the Younger had plucked a single stalk, we began discussing the division of the spoils: If we find only two or three, maybe we could hide them from the others. (The farm always has lots of eager eaters, though not always a full complement of asparagus lovers.)
"We know Dad won't want any," said J the O.
She and I share a long history of my taking as many stalks as I wanted from the asparagus platter, her taking the rest, because my husband, Ace, remains a person without a yen for the tight, green, succulent spear.
"I love asparagus," said J the Y.
"I hope there won't be a fistfight," I said.
In the early days of my own asparagus-eating, somebody told me that the thinner the stalk, the more tender and tasty the asparagus. Not so, say revisionist asparagus researchers.
I urged J the Y and O to pick every blessed stalk that peered out of the grass.We did toss one -- its tip was beginning to fray, and it was obviously past its prime. When it comes to asparagus, toughness and longevity are not equated with desirability. That's just for trucks and tractors, I guess.
In almost no time at all, the two J's were handing me fistfuls of asparagus.
Stalking little more than 100 yards of the drainage ditch, we had gleaned enough free food to feed the people at my mother's ever-expanding dining room table. Not that she ate any. Or Dutch, my brother-in-law. Or Ace. I did not notice if my brother Jon grabbed a spear.
He may be soon, because one person who appreciated our asparagus-stalking was Jon's fiancee, Martha. In our family, the discussion often centers around the next meal. So we were interested when she offered her own recipe.
Our family recipes often revolve around the dessert masquerading as a salad, the pie with ice cream, the cake with whipping cream, so it was great to have a vegetable recipe. Hers had lots of butter, milk and asparagus over Texas toast. An occasional gilding of the lily isn't something to be avoided every day. Even Euell Gibbons probably poured some cream on his wild berries.
For myself, though, my favorite asparagus prep is simple: Wash stalks under cold water. Using two hands, lightly fold the asparagus until it breaks. Supposedly, it will Snap! in the absolutely proper place. Without even drying, lay the spears side by side, alternating bud ends, cover lightly with wax paper and microwave on high for 6 to 8 minutes. (Time will vary, depending on the microwave's wattage and the amount of asparagus being zapped.) The stalks should be crisp-tender.
Today, it seems odd that asparagus was lurking within range of my grandparents' mailbox, but I knew not. Was it Grandma's secret? Was I oblivious? Did time and age have to dovetail to lure me into the ditch?
Mom claims our own family never noticed these hidden treasures until they spotted passers-by slow their cars and go picking. At least nobody was around to brandish a gun at the asparagus stalkers. My Great-Uncle Alf used to drive off would-be poachers of his farm-fed pheasants with a shotgun.
Now Martha's joining our family means another asparagus eater in the fold. We may have to arm-wrestle for the last buttery piece.
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