During a lecture to a Harvard class, philosopher George Santayana happened to glance out the window and spot a burgeoning forsythia in a patch of snow. Heading to the door, he declared, “I shall not be able to finish that sentence. I have just discovered that I have an appointment with April.” She’s a sassy month, this April—and also sacred to the goddess Venus. Her name is derived from the Latin word aperire, “to open.” The so-called cruelest month is full of hope (brightly shining sun and baseball’s season opener), albeit appropriately tempered with a bit of dread (the occasional three-inch snowfall and the culmination of tax season). But those of us cloistered for the past five months cling to the openness and hope as we Rollerblade in shorts when it hits fifty degrees and call for patio reservations while snow is still on the ground. We turn our faces to the sun, reaching outward and upward in a burst of revival and celebration. We are the asparagus of life.
For the gardener, there is no better harbinger of spring than asparagus. While the rest of the garden remains frustratingly unproductive, asparagus tips poke up through the dirt for a friendly hello. Under the right conditions, the spears can grow up to ten inches in a single day, sparking excitement and the planning of menus. Indeed, to feast in spring without asparagus would be merely to vivre without the joie.
A member of the lily family, asparagus officinalis grows wild throughout Europe and Asia, a fact that makes it hard to pinpoint its origin. However, asparagus’ proliferation along the banks of rivers and near salt marshes make the Mediterranean region a good bet. Actually, the cultivation process that is used today is based on the practices of early Greeks and Romans, who sought the spears for culinary and medicinal purposes. Believed to cure toothaches, heart disease, and dropsy, asparagus became important enough for the Romans to designate a special fleet to carry the spears to far-off troops. And millennia before Clarence Birdseye, they found a way to freeze the vegetable, by running loaded chariots from the Tiber River valley to the snowline of the Alps. A huge fan of both asparagus and haste, the emperor Augustus had a habit of ordering executions to be carried out “quicker than you can cook asparagus.”
France’s Louis XIV was also mad for the plant. He ordered his gardeners to grow it in hothouses at Versailles so that he could eat it year-round. Asparagus became all the rage in France, and even today there are festivals and celebrations dedicated to the tender stalks throughout Europe. German restaurants are known to add a special asparagus menu, or Spargelkarte, during the spring harvest months.
“Sparrow grass” distinctly lacking in green has long been popular in Europe, and is gaining presence on our shores. You might have seen them around, these white asparagus, and wondered what went wrong. And why are these albino mutants so expensive? Sometime in the 1600s, the French started cultivating asparagus, basically, in the dark. They mounded earth around the spears as they pushed forth to keep them sheltered from the sun. Without sun, the plant’s chlorophyll doesn’t react to turn the shoot green (while the labor-intensive process does justify the higher price). The result, a pale ivory spear that may be tinged with yellow or purple at the tip, remains the choice of most connoisseurs, as its flavor tends to be a bit nuttier and earthier than its colorful counterpart.
Whether white or green, the key to good Spargel is cooking time. The most common preparation is a quick boil, three to five minutes depending on thickness. Spears should be a lovely bright green with a measure of crispness left in the bite. Dullish, army-green spears of a flaccid nature must be banished. But to really bring out asparagus’ charming and vivid flavors, roll the trimmed spears in some olive oil, place in a pan and roast in a ferociously hot oven (450 degrees) until they are a bit wilted and turning sweet and brown at the tips (fifteen to twenty minutes). Sprinkle the spears with sea salt and wrap them in Spanish Jamon ham, like you know you want to.
As for that most unpleasant side effect of asparagus, the Traite des Alimens, published in 1702, proclaimed “Sparagrass eaten to Excess sharpen the Humours and heat a little … They cause a filthy and disagreeable Smell in the Urine, as every Body knows.” In other words, it is believed that the methanethiol molecules in asparagus cause the distinctive stinky urine in the eater. But apparently not every Body does know: While nearly all asparagus eaters are affected, not all are able to detect the odor.
Surely the best way to commemorate the vivacity of April is to mark it with the reawakening of the farmers’ markets. This year the St. Paul Farmers’ Market celebrates its 150th anniversary. Get down to Lowertown and buy some asparagus from the folks at Costa Farms, a third-generation producer in the Stillwater area that has been a regular at the market since 1917. If you can’t find white spears there, head to a Kowalski’s Market. They buy from local producers and promise to have the palest of the pale. If nothing else, even for one day, poke your head out, face toward the sun, and dream of asparagus.
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