Spring Has Sprung, The Grass Has Riz

Just tell me where all the asparagus is

IT LOOKS LIKE A ROSE PARADE FLOAT around here right now, with all the pink and white springtime blossoms draped over everything and blowing around the street like confetti. Congratulations on making it through the winter! And it’s so pretty that it’s been a little hard for me to concentrate on springtime vegetables. But I managed.

Because they’re as beautiful as flowers, in their own way. I might be married now if a man had ever thought to send me a bouquet of long-stemmed artichokes, which, like a lot of vegetables, are also flowers—giant gorgeous thistles, in this case.

And ramps, another spring vegetable that people fall all over themselves for (“The ramps are in!” “I can’t get enough ramps!” “I have made you a curative broth out of ramps!”) are a lily, which is why they are sometimes confused with poisonous wild lily-of-the-valley plants by inexperienced foragers.

The non-springtime vegetable realm also blooms. Cauliflower? It’s trying to tell you it’s a flower with that super-obvious name. Broccoli: a flower. And capers are a flower bud, too. They’re all just so delicious that we eat them before they bloom.

I also love rainbow chard in the springtime, partly for its saturated Peter Max allure, but I don’t have it in salads. Maybe I should.

Above: Rainbow chard. Below: Peter Max art.

Spring vegetables make me happy, in a trippy dippy psychedelic way. But while I will never kick an artichoke, a morel mushroom, or a pretty radish off my salad plate, my favorite spring vegetable has always been asparagus, whose folk name is “sparrow grass,” even though it is not a grass but a flowering perennial, whose name comes from the Greek asparasso, which means “to rip,” because some species are spiny, according to The Gardener’s Botanical.

Phew. I just learned all of that. You can look anything up, obviously. But all this made me realize I’ve never really known asparagus. I just eat them. If you’re having a party and you put out asparagus, I will stand right next to them, the same way I do when there’s cold shrimp, and eat as many as I can. Don’t try to talk to me. Unless you want to talk about asparagus.

I’ve spied and picked morels, with their brain-like caps, growing under trees like body snatchers from space. I’ve seen photos of a majestic artichoke field, which made me want to melt a lot of butter. But until today, I was never sure how asparagus looked growing. I think I assumed they grew from the branches of a bush or a tree, like blueberries or peaches.

Asparagus coming up from the soil in the spring look a lot like disappearing garden eels doing their thing, whatever that is. (Getty images.)

A decade ago, I tried to find out. My cousin Toni had feathery plants growing in her yard here in Atlanta. We’d go out and stare at them, waiting to see asparagus, as if they could be coerced. When they did finally sprout—out of the ground, like disappearing garden eels— I was not around. Toni says they were tiny and delicious, but never came back again after she re-landscaped the yard. Disappearing garden asparagus.

I’m embarrassed by my lack of asparagus curiosity, and from now on I’m going to try to treat vegetables the same way respectful hunters treat animals, honoring them.

A replica of a bunch of asparagus is set up in the playground on the grounds of the State Garden Show, in Beelitz, Germany, where they are obsessed with asparagus.

After that windup, I know you’re probably expecting an extravagant asparagus salad, with lots of moving parts and a French or German name (Germans are known to love asparagus) . This is a salad newsletter, after all. And I did think about giving you the shaved asparagus contraption, which is delicious. Or the usual prosciutto-wrapped deal.

But the truth is when asparagus first come available in the spring, a salad is the farthest thing from my mind. I just steam them and make some kind of sauce.

So: We’re having an asparagus party—with three sauces!—and you’re invited.

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I’ve mentioned the multipurpose sauce for vegetables I was responsible for making as a kid: mayonnaise spiked with lemon juice or cider vinegar and a shake of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, which we’d usually have on broccoli. I’ve got a slightly more elevated version of that for you today, which is softer and herby. In addition, I’ve got a pecorino dressing that I adapted very slightly from Canal House; it’s dreamy. Plus the classic vinaigrette fortified with herbs, capers, and shallots (aka a Ravigote).

I’m using basil, dill, and chives as my herbs today, but you may use any of the other asparagus-friendly herbs, which include chervil, parsley, tarragon, savory, lemon thyme.

You may already know that I love the lemon-egg-caper asparagus treatment, especially in its most classic preparation, the mimosa, but the sauces I’m suggesting today somehow seem more asparagus-celebratory to me right now. And you don’t have to boil and peel eggs, a chore that always seems worth it to me, frankly, because you can use the extras for egg salad. (Why not try my favorite, dilly version, at the end of this bulletin? It’s perfect on half a toasted bagel.)

*RECIPE: A Springtime Asparagus Party Platter for 4 (or for 1 Person, 4 Times in a Row)

Prepare your asparagus the way you like them! I almost never roast or grill, although they are delicious that way. I like them steamed or blanched, until they’re bright green. I don’t peel them. I simply snap off the tough portion where it breaks naturally. I also do not believe in that whole super-thin-asparagus-are-best thing. I’m not interested in eating cooked sticks. I want a juicy little asparagus, with some meat on its bones!

• 4 pounds of cooked asparagus (my method is below)

• Lemon Herb Mayonnaise (below)

• Pecorino Sauce (below)

• Sauce Ravigote (below)

1. Cook your asparagus: Bring a large shallow pot of water to boil—just enough to cover however many asparagus you’re serving—then carefully drop asparagus in. Let them come back to a lively simmer. When they’ve reached peak bright-green color, immediately remove them from the water, place them in a large bowl of ice, and let them cool. You don’t want them to keep cooking. You also don’t want them waterlogged, so remove them from the ice as soon as they cool off and let them drain on a kitchen towel. A lot of people will tell you to cook them for 8 or so minutes. Some of my vintage cookbooks says 12! I find they’re really perfect at around 4, but that might be my stove, which is an inferno. (According to my friend Kevin, Augustus Caesar said: “Velocius quam asparagi conquantur!” Faster than boiling asparagus!) Ideally, once you’ve cooked them, they’ll still be crisp enough that when you hold up a single asparagus it will droop only slightly, not fall over like one of those car-lot air dancers.

2. Bring out your asparagus, arranged on a pretty platter, accompanied by little bowls of various sauces, allowing diners to dip (if they are those sorts of friends) or spoon the sauces over their individual plates of spears.

   

Canal House Pecorino and Black Pepper Dressing

Makes about 3/4 cups

In their headnote, the women behind Canal House, Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, mention that it’s absolutely necessary to use pecorino here—don’t be tempted to use Parmigiano-Reggiano. It won’t melt when you stir in the boiling water. They also assert that the pecorino stands in for acid here. You may agree; they are brilliant. But before you use it, taste it. It may need more black pepper. I’m a lemon freak, so I still wanted lemon, and adjusted it by adding freshly squeezed juice, tasting, adding a bit more, until I got it where I wanted it, which was with the rumor of lemon in the background. I ended up using the juice of one very small lemon. It’s truly delicious either way.

• 2 ounces pecorino cheese finely grated, about 1 cup (I used my microplane/rasp grater, which is perfect for this)

• 1 small garlic clove, grated

• 1/3 cup boiling water

• 3 finely minced anchovy filets

• Healthy grinding of black pepper

• ¼ cup olive oil

• 1 ½ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice (optional)

1. Place the cheese and the garlic in a medium bowl. Whisk in the boiling water. Mix in the anchovies and black pepper. Gradually whisk in the olive oil. Taste. Adjust pepper. Whisk in lemon juice if desired.

2. Note: The dressing will seem a little lumpy and ungorgeous at first. Persist with the whisk.

Herby Lemon Mayonnaise

Makes about 1 1/2 cups

You may use good store-bought mayonnaise here if you wish. Or you can start with my late grandmother’s blender mayo, which is a breeze (just make sure you start with a dry blender, and don’t use a freezing cold egg straight out of the fridge). I don’t understand why people will make, say, guacamole at home but they won’t make mayonnaise, which requires no chopping or peeling and takes just a few minutes. But I’m no snob, so feel free use store-bought mayonnaise.

• 1 egg

• 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 2 tablespoons cider vinegar

• 1 cup of corn or canola oil

• 1 tablespoon finely chopped dill

• 1 tablespoon chopped basil

• 1 tablespoon chopped chives

• Zest of ½ large lemon

1. If you’re using prepared mayonnaise, go directly to step two. Otherwise, break egg into blender and add salt, mustard, vinegar, and 1/4 cup of oil. Cover and turn blender on low speed. Immediately uncover, with blender on, and pour remaining oil in slow steady stream. Turn off motor and stir. Turn on blender again, briefly. Chill before proceeding to step 2.

2. Stir in remaining ingredients. If you wish, you may thin a bit with a squeeze of lemon. You may also want a bit of salt.

3. NOTE: Make sure the eggs are super-fresh if you make the blender mayo.  Don’t keep it longer than a few days in the fridge.

Sauce Ravigote

Makes 1 1/4 cups

• 1/4 cup champagne vinegar

• 3/4 cup olive oil

• 1 teaspoon prepared Dijon mustard

• 1 tablespoon chopped capers

• 2 teaspoons finely chopped shallot

• 2 tablespoons minced herbs (choose from parsley, basil, chives, tarragon)

1. Add the first 3 ingredients to a medium-size jar with a tight-fitting lid and shake vigorously to emulsify.

2. Add remaining ingredients, shake again to mix. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

A Springtime Asparagus Party Platter For 4 (or For 1 Person, 4 Times In A Row)

942KB ∙ PDF File

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BONUS RECIPE!

Marcella Hazan’s Orange and Cucumber Salad

Serves 6

I’ve been upset about the winter citrus leaving the markets so I decided to finally try this salad I’ve long had my eye on, from the late Marcella Hazan, whom I worship. Even though we can buy citrus and cucumbers all year round, it seemed like a nice way to say farewell to winter and hello to spring, properly. Plus, as you will soon discover, it’s absolutely delicious. I used my mandoline to slice the cucumbers and radishes thinly.

• 1 cucumber

• 3 oranges

• 6 small radishes, washed and trimmed

• 6 or so fresh mint leaves

• Salt

• Extra virgin olive oil

• Juice of ½ lemon

1. If the cucumber is waxed or has thick or bitter skin, peel it. If not, wash it and slice into very thin disks. Pave a serving platter with them.

2. Peel the oranges, making sure to remove the pith. Cut the oranges into thin rounds, removing any seeds, and add the slices to the platter attractively.

3. Trim and wash the radishes, but do not peel them. Cut into thin disks and add them to the arrangement on the platter.

4. Tear the mint leaves into two or three pieces and scatter over the platter.

5. Drizzle it all evenly with olive oil and lemon, to taste, sprinkle with salt, and serve immediately. Hazan instructs you to toss it first, but I like presenting it as a composed salad. You can slide it into a bowl and toss gently before serving if you like.

Marcella Hazan’s Orange And Cucumber Salad

1.43MB ∙ PDF File

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