Asparagus: The season opens officially in the UK on May 1st. In Italy and France, the season is already well under way, while on the Mediterranean littoral, the first brave little shoots of Asparagus officinalis' wild ancestor poke their heads above the prickly tangle of last year's ferns by mid-March. Regional preferences dictate the moment of gathering. The German market prefers its asparagus pure white, so the shoots which push upwards through the night are gathered just before dawn, using a special long-handled knife thrust deep into the earthed-up crowns. The French like theirs tipped with purple, which means that harvesting takes place at sunrise, when the tops have just emerged. The British like theirs gathered green, when the spears have had the chance to gather the daylight. Varieties have been developed which accentuate these properties - some are naturally a darker green or more purple- coloured than others.
Serving preferences are just as varied. In the asparagus-growing areas of upper Provence, you'll find seasonal pull-ins that serve nothing else but asparagus fresh from the field, steamed upright so the tips remain tender, with a jug of the new-season's bright green olive oil. In Carnia, the far north-eastern corner of Italy, the first of the crop was traditionally exported on horseback across the Alps, a natural icebox, to fetch high prices in the markets of Austria and Germany. The growers themselves celebrate the trade with Asparagus Bismarck, a simple dish of plain-cooked spears (usually misshapes or oversized not needed for export) and a hard-boiled egg to be shelled and mashed with olive oil and salt or grated parmesan (a luxury traditionally affordable only by the rich).
In Spain, cultivated asparagus picked green is a relatively new arrival, perhaps because of a strong preferenced for imported blanched spears conserved in brine over asparragos triguero, slender little spring shoots gathered from beneath the prickly bushes of last year’s growth on stony hillsides. Considered poor-folks’ food in Andalusia, a gypsy-crop when sold in the market, suitable only to be chopped into pea-sized pieces and mixed with eggs in a tortilla, the field-worker’s traditional midday meal.
Hop-shoots, the brewer’s asparagus, is the new growth that pops up at the base of last year’s tangle of dried-out stalks in hop-fields throughout Europe. The crop were once carted into the markets of Victorian London from the hop-fields of Kent in such quantity that sellers were taxed on profits. Odds are you’ve never noticed them in the garden unless as a welcome sign of spring. Nevertheless, ornamental varieties of Humulus lupulus, a trailing vine best known for the triangular green flowerheads used to preserve and flavour beer, are botanically and gastronomically identical to the beer-hop. In Belgium, Italy and Germany hop-shoots are grown as a commercial crop - earthed-up to preserve whiteness and smoothness just as soon as they pop their fuzzy little heads into the morning light.
In Britain, we lost our taste for hop-shoots sometime in the middle of the last century, probably during WW2 when everyone was so busy digging roots for victory they forgot (or never recognised) what was good for them right under their noses. Country people are slower to change than townies, which is no doubt why Dorothy Hartley, chronicler of rural life between the wars in Food in England, recommends serving hop-shoots with melted butter on toast, or including them in a thick pea-soup prepared with the last dried peas of winter, or adding them to a brown-butter or cream sauce instead of capers.
Bracken fiddleheads: All members of the fern family produce fiddleheads, some more palatable than others. Gather the European native, Pteridum aquilinum (fougere in France) while not yet uncurled and snap off only as far as the stem is still tender (you’ll find bracken-shoots sous-vide in oriental deli’s). To prepare, rinse thoroughly and scrape off the seeds on the inner curl as there are worries over carcinogens if you eat too many (which is lots). Do this just before cooking as the cut-surface browns quickly. To prepare enough for four, says chef Michel Bras of Laguiole in the Aveyron, you’ll need 24 fiddleheads snapped off at 9 cm or so, plunge into boiling salted water and cook for 1 minute, then drain on a clean cloth: the nicest dipping sauce is a baked egg with cream (leave the yolk runny). For a fiddlehead gratin, he continues, blanch as above, roll 3 or 4 at a time in ham-slices, cover with veal or chicken stock or a bechamel, finish with cheese and bake till brown and bubbling. Dorothy Hartley in Food in England (1954), says bracken heads have a smoky flavour rather like the scent of Darjeeling tea and are best served with a dipping-sauce of melted bacon-drippings. “You either like them very much,” she adds, “Or not at all.”
There’s an Asparagus print available from my website, www.elisabethluard.org, and I’m thinking about making prints of the cartoons…watch this space!
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Some lovely ideas - both for growing, eating and for travelling to explore local markets. I'm turning half of my allotment plot into a mini food forest & have planted a few hostas & Solomon's seal so may have enough to try a taste when they get established. Did pick asparagus at the weekend so that made me very happy 😊
Thanks for educating me on these greens. I struggle with enjoying both asparagus and fiddleheads--something about their texture I can’t get past--and have never tried hops, but your words and art are somewhat encouraging!