asparagus soup

   Three and a half years ago we decided to push all our chips into photovoltaic panels. The Italian government had encouraged us with a generous incentive program and we now enjoy the benefits of essentially free electricity. However, at the time, it required a serious sacrifice. In order to make room for an ugly steel structure to support all our panels, we had to replant six fruit trees and a promising bed of new asparagus plants. The young trees we moved with the help of a mechanical excavator. Some of them lived. Some didn't. But the asparagus had to be moved by hand, and, with the Italian incentive program for solar power set to expire, we had to move fast. Rain and wet clay didn't matter.

 Today we've got roughly 16 square meters dedicated to asparagus. I'd say all of it survived the backbreaking transplant. Every Spring the mysteriously barren bed sprouts with thick asparagus spears, expensive asparagus spears, sweet asparagus spears: asparagus far too precious to be given away. If you've ever chewed the stalk of freshly pulled meadow grass, you know the difference between that and the sickeningly stinky stuff left in the lawn mower bag from yesterday's cut. When the Spring asparagus shows it's head, I'm inclined to stop what I'm doing, stop listening to my wife, stop helping the children, stop thinking about Spring bike rides, and start thinking about getting up in the morning and heading down to the veg garden.
   It's the perfect garden crop, really. It's harvested during the most beautiful season. It never grows long enough to be attacked by deer, rabbits, wild boar, porcupine, worm, or bug. It's easy to clean and prepare. It cooks in seconds. Lots of starch and it must be good for you since it's so green. Fresh, it tastes great. And when you're bored, it just grows into a durable fern that controls weed growth and takes care of itself for the rest of the summer. In fact, by the time winter comes, it provides a beautifully dry tinder to help start a woodstove.

a "selfie"

   If, during the spring harvest time, you miss a day, or two, or three; then the spears can reach two feet high and threaten to go to seed. The stems turn woody and fibrous and you find yourself wracked with guilt. The rhizomes have stored up a limited amount of energy which is devoted to the sprouts of the Springtime. The trick in harvesting is to take the first, sweet sprouts for as long as the plant has sufficient strength; and then to let it go on to produce it's ferny energy factory.
   Asparagus grows fast in a warm, wet Spring. Today was such a day. Looking down on the asparagus patch after two days of rain, I spotted a forest of tall stalks. Uhhh.
   Ok, that's fine. I'm going to spend a little time snapping off woody stalks, freeze the fresh heads and make a soup of the rest. Easy to say. Jamie Oliver makes it sound so easy. And, actually it is.
   I made the soup. And it was great. And I felt very smug.
   Now, some months later, the asparagus patch has turned into a impenetrable forest. I proudly produced a carefully bagged packet of frozen asparagus spears to take to a neighbor's feast. After thawing and a moment of cooking, the lovely spears had disintegrated into a brown, filthy mess.
   Next spring we're going to eat it all in season. Meanwhile, I've got to clean out the freezer.

blogger's block

   I received an email from a workaway volunteer we hosted several years ago. After leaving us, she began regular posting to a blog describing her experiences buying a wrecked house in rural Spain and fixing it up with her husband. Just like we were doing. Some time ago her blog went stale and finally stopped with no new postings. In her email she said she got tired of writing the same old thing, year after year. The tomatoes are in. Jay did some wiring. I'm painting the bathroom. My Spanish isn't getting much better.
   Yeah, I understand that. It does get a bit repetitive. Boring, in fact. The beautiful summer evenings and the endless slop of cement and plaster. Tomatoes are in and it's garden zucchini and pasta for supper again. Lovely fresh red wine every night amounts to nothing but a fast track to headaches and alcoholism. Repetition takes the novelty out of anything.
    I write this blog as a kind of diary. I find that if I don't keep a diary of some kind, I just forget stuff. I also keep what I call a timeline, which is a google doc of highlights of each year. I visit the timeline occasionally to add a detail or remember a date. It helps me remember when we bought the car, when we went to Portugal, when my brother died. But I began writing the blog a long time ago. I began it when Alex became pregnant and all by itself, it became an illustrated diary of what was an important time of change for all of us. I began taking pictures, too. Digital pictures. I bought an early digital camera to replace the old Nikon so I could upload snapshots to my blog.
  Actually having children at the age of 50 was something of a miracle I thought would never happen. Part of the motivation for writing was to bring the news to my parents. I was so proud that finally they could look forward to grandchildren and that it was their no-hope son who was finally coming good. None of my brothers and sisters were going to have children. In fact, none of my cousins were having children either. We were looking like a dead end, until Jenny began fostering Amanda. Since I lived in California and my parents lived in Santa Fe, I wrote the blog for them. The world-wide-web was new and I wanted email to replace regular mail as a way of bringing our events closer to my parents. But it was also a way to get some news out to other friends and relatives. The motivation grew. We sold the business when Isolde was born. We fixed up the house. Packed up our belongings. Rented, and shoved off to live in Europe. And I tried to keep the blog going so Mom and Dad could keep up with us. At the time, a round trip flight from San Francisco to London cost about $300. With cheap flights and the promise of a world-wide internet, the distance didn't seem to matter. Two weeks after we arrived at Alex's mother's house in England, two airliners flew into the Trade Towers. Distance began to matter.
   I resumed the blog after establishing a reliable connection and google account here in Europe. I really wanted to keep my ageing parents in touch with their grandchildren. They visited twice after we purchased our Italian derelict and I'm sure they must have wondered what we thought we were doing! I tried to keep up the blog for them. So they would have some reassurance that we weren't just being lazy and irresponsible. I wanted to show them we could provide a nice country house for our children just like they did for me. My brother used to enjoy reading the blog. He came to visit and help out lots of times, but my parents grew too old to travel comfortably.
   My brother died four years ago. My father died in January. I've got one aunt left and she's got medical troubles along with her husband who is barely coherent. Now my mother is in hospital with a broken hip. I missed seeing my brother for the last time. I missed seeing my father for the last time. I worry about my mother every day. She had to be moved out of her house after Dad died and although she puts a brave face on everything, I can't help feeling like she thinks it's all over. Jenny is with her and says she can't manage the internet any more.
   When I have a quiet hour or two, I open the laptop and begin a blog post. I've got several started, including one on Mary Dahlmann's visit. Isolde posted a bunch of unedited photos of our bike ride along the River Nera and I thought I'd write the story. But I never finish writing or posting my diary entries. I've got blogger's block. And photographer's block. Without my prime audience, what's the use?
   The tomatoes are about finished for the year. The weather is still beautiful. The girls are growing up and going to high school. The house still isn't finished, and the car is getting older. My Italian isn't getting any better. Nothing seems to change much except my mother is hurting. I've got blogger's block.