What you do in between is really up to you. I offer you today only the beginning and the ending of something. But a delicious beginning and ending it shall be, I promise. I’ve recovered from all recent whirlwinds, found myself on stable ground again, bought a guitar (a relief—living without one was like a cruel form of torture or sensory deprivation), and I am beginning to cook again. (Did anyone else feel like the recent astrological activity made everything and everyone crazy?) I’m also beginning to realize that spring is quickly slipping through my fingers and that it is time, high time, to seize hold of its finest before the deluge of summer squashes and corn and tomatoes begin vying for attention. It’s already starting—last night at the Headlands Center for the Arts I ate my first cherry of the season, and my first plum, all swirled and rosy in a bit of cardamom-scented honey-yogurt. But we’ll save that for another time.
What I have for
you today concerns asparagus. And it concerns a way of eating asparagus that
was previously unknown to me. Most likely you are all fluent in this method.
Probably you’ve been doing this since you could walk. But to me, it’s been a
revelation. That method is raw, that is: DO NOT COOK THE ASPARAGUS. It seems
wrong at first—you think back to all of the asperges au vinaigre you have consumed, or the grilled spears
with parmesan that you buy pre-made at your local specialty food shop, or the
steamed kind that you slide a poached egg over, and you feel in some sort of a
deep, intrinsic way, that this just simply can not be. But of course it is.
David Tanis said so—and when, I ask you, is he ever wrong?
The recipe is
not even a recipe: I didn’t measure a single thing while I prepared it. But
that’s honestly my favorite way to cook. Baking, of course, is another story
all together, and as we learned here and here, I tend to be soothed, in those
moments, by the careful and precise need for measurements and weights, ounces
and teaspoons, leveling off and carefully folding, and all of those other
little details that come together to make the baked thing what it is—in all of
its delicate complexity, coming down, essentially, to the touch and the hand of
the baker. Cooking is similarly defined by touch—by individual nuance—but in a
way that tends to be more forgiving I think. And you can often adjust as you
go.
The difficult
thing about this recipe is a practical, skill-based one. It has to do with the
shaving of the asparagus. Tanis recommends using a sharp knife or vegetable
peeler, or a mandoline. My guess, after sweating through the process and mildly
cursing the dull blade of my
vegetable peeler, is that the mandoline would be your best bet. But I don’t
like to be dissuaded by a lack of fancy tools and neither should you. The
vegetable peeler works, it’s just harder than you think it will be, and it took
me a little practice to get the method down. I worked toward my body rather
than away from it, which seemed to be easier, and I also tried to apply a firm and
even pressure. The great thing here is that if you mess up, it really doesn’t
matter, you just need to have achieved, in the end, some relatively thin strips
of the vegetable, to be tossed in that magical combination of lemon and olive
oil and salt.
What you will
have as you progress through this “recipe” is a layering of thinly shaved
asparagus; a few leaves of arugula—just enough to catch and fill all of the
spaces between the thin, long spears; a generous squeeze of a lemon; and a
drizzle of slippery olive oil—all bedecked with salt and pepper and thin
shavings of parmigiano reggiano. This salad is an ideal springtime beginning for
a meal of any size or scope. It could even, truth be told, make a meal all on
its own. The asparagus, when raw, is crisp and fresh and tastes like the purest
essence of asparagus that you’ve never tried. It also stands up sturdily to the
acid of the lemon, making this salad something that could be prepared (with the
exception of the arugula leaves) a day or so in advance.
It is truly my
new favorite thing; and above all, my new favorite way to do asparagus.
Now, I take you
to the end of the meal. Fast forward through time a bit—you’ve started with
that delicious salad, you’ve received rave reviews all throughout: raw asparagus—they will cry—what a revelation! You’ve served some bit of fish with dill
and capers, or a pistachio-crusted bird of some variety, or some nice, tender,
well-marbleized piece of beef. Your guests are happy and full and sighing and
letting the warm, springtime sun graze their bare shoulders. The glasses are
being emptied. The beginnings of an evening light are starting to descend.
You—calm and collected, effortless and relaxed—take out a bowl of gleaming,
juicy strawberries, and set it next to a dish of just-whipped cream; cream that
has been, in all manner of ethereal beauty, infused with chamomile blossoms.
