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.