Patience in droves

I spent a good deal of time yesterday at the dump. Apparently, the dump is a very popular place to be on Memorial Day, because I saw a lot of other people there, too. Most of them were after the same thing I was: free compost. (Two were playing golf, with white balls and clubs and all, over a twenty foot mountain of dirt, but I decided it was best not to ask about that.) I simply kept shoveling, and looked the other way. The compost had too important a purpose to be persuaded by distractions like that.

The compost was for the asparagus patch.

The asparagus patch is very much an imaginary place right now, but with any luck, this compost will help bring it into the world of dinner plates and dirt.

Asparagus is one of those plants I've always hoped to grow. I admire anyone who has the patience for a good patch, because waiting around happily is not my forte. To wait three years in this world—in this world of zooming emails and mobile phones and learning to instant message when you're five—to wait three years in this world to pick a vegetable is an act of amazing restraint. Growing asparagus requires patience in droves.

But the thing is, showing up at 7:30am to line up at the farmers' market every Saturday in May and June to make sure you get one of the only three or four bundles of spears before they sell out—this also requires patience of a kind. I was lucky last week—Ron Backer knew I was coming late and saved me a half pound—but I can't count on this sort of kindness all the time.

The other day, I realized that planting a row of crowns looked pretty rosy in the patience department in comparison to lining up and waiting all the time.

(Plus, I transplanted a rhubarb shoot this spring that I can't touch until next year, and despite the visions of pie I go to sleep to each night, I've managed to wait. I think maybe —just maybe—the patience department of my brain might be growing. Either that or there's something to the phrase hurry up and wait.)

So I went to the dump, shoveled compost into the truck and then from the truck to a comfortable little spot in the yard, and tomorrow, the crowns will go in.

In the meantime, last night with dirty hands and an aching back, I cooked up that half pound of spears. I heated a skillet with a pat of butter and snapped the ends from the spears, and then laid them down against the silver bottom one by one. I fit a lid over top, let their bodies go just limp, and brought them out onto a plate. They'd soaked up all the butter, every last drop, and steamed in their own moisture a bit. They were perfect—every bit spring and tenderness.

If you're patient enough to have your own patch, hopefully you've got a stick of butter hidden away, too. I can't think of a better snack than butter poached asparagus.