The Local Food Report: giant asparagus

Do you remember Peter Staaterman, from Longnook Meadows Farm in Truro? He's the one, last fall, who grew the Dill's Giant Atlantic pumpkin that took first place at the Truro Ag Fair. Well, this spring, he's at it again. Only this time, he's growing giant asparagus:

I don't know if you can tell from the picture, but see those two little spears? Those are regular big-spear size, say, 1/2-inch in diameter. And that big guy? That's a solid inch across! Peter's been getting two or three stalks this enormous from almost every plant this season—a huge increase from last year.

The reason, he thinks, is an experiment he's been doing with manure and biochar. When Peter started farming his land in Truro, out toward Longnook, he had pretty poor soil. After a few failed attempts at growing vegetables, he knew he needed to do something to amend it, and so he got it tested and added the usual manure and compost. It worked pretty well. But this year, he also started adding biochar. We've talked about biochar once here—in connection with Bob Wells, who sells it at the Orleans farmers' market and uses it to grow fantastic blueberries—but it's still a relatively new thing. Basically, biochar is pure carbon made by burning any biomass—Peter uses wood—in the absence of oxygen. You need a special furnace for this called a retort, but once you get that, Peter says it's pretty easy. In fact, farmers in the Amazon came up with the process without any special equipment about two thousand years ago—that's how old of an idea it is.

So how does it help?

Well, mainly, on the Cape, it helps give the soil some structure. Peter kept adding manure to his asparagus patch, the way your supposed to, but because the soil is so sandy and well-drained here, the good bacteria in the manure that help digest it into compost and deliver the nutrients to the plants kept washing away, leaching out. It was frustrating. The biochar, Peter thinks, provides a home for these microbes—a repository of sorts—so that they stick around, and the asparagus is constantly fed. It's a pretty cool thing.

And the kicker is that unlike manure and other fertilizers, biochar doesn't break down. It will stay in Peter's soil for hundreds, even thousands of years—in other words, it's a permanent solution. All he needs to do now is keep adding a bit of manure, and he'll get a bumper crop of asparagus every spring.

My asparagus patch is still pretty young—I only planted it last spring—but I'm thinking of trying out Peter's idea, to try and get a jump start on things. I talked with Peter Hirst, who co-owns New England Biochar with Bob Wells, and in case you want to add a little biochar to your asparagus patch, too, here are his instructions. First of all, you can get it either by visiting their website and calling the company, or simply by showing up to the Orleans farmers' market and visiting Bob Wells at his stand. Peter Staaterman also sells a custom blend for the outer Cape—complete with biochar and other trace minerals that we lack, and that we need—at his farm stand, off of Longnook road in Truro. Wherever you get it, Hirst says you'll need about 40 pounds for an area that's 10' by 10'.

Then, once you get it home, you just mix it in with your soil the way you would any other amendment. I'm planning to add a little manure at the same time, so that I get all the microbial benefits. The ultimate goal is to make your soil 8 percent biochar by dry weight, but this is pretty tricky for a home gardener to calculate, so Hirst says go with about 1/4 pound per asparagus crown (or, if you're doing the rest of your garden, 1/2 pound per square foot) for starters, and take things from there.

Oh! and in case you're wondering whether you really want asparagus spears an inch in diameter—whether they'll still be tender and juicy and still taste good—they will, and you do. Peter's been selling his spears to the restaurant where I work, Blackfish, and they're tantalizingly good. We serve them over greens with a honey creme fraiche dressing and a local panko fried egg with the yolk still runny, and every plate I've cleared has been clean. I think it's one of those times when more really is better, if you know what I mean.

We're home

Hi! We're home. We have taken every last pair of pajamas, every toothbrush, and even a final forgotten E & T Farm tomato from Alex's parents house. We're not quite in our own bed, mind you—things are still fairly messy upstairs—but we are in our own basement, and for me, for now, that feels amazingly, ecstatically good.

We spent the entire day yesterday cleaning—scrubbing every glass, every pot, every surface of the kitchen counters and shelves. The rest of the house won't be livable for a few days yet, but hey!—I figure with the kitchen down, we have covered at least the most important ground. We can now eat, and cook, and clean up—at least once we get a little rest.

In the meantime, I wanted to share with you a recipe I've made twice in the past week—an asparagus-spinach pasta, dressed with crushed pistachios and grated Parmesan and a garlic-lemon-EVO dressing. The inspiration came from a recipe for asparagus with an orange zest-pistachio aillade I tried from the Zuni Cafe Cookbook last spring. I liked the flavors, but there were too many odd ingredients, and it was too fussy. This take is fresh, and easy, and springy, and does a good job, I think, of showcasing the main star: the asparagus.

If you make it, let me know what you think. I'll be here, scrubbing away.

GARLIC-PISTACHIO ROTINI WITH SPINACH & ASPARAGUS

We can't pick from our asparagus patch yet (it still has another two years!), but Ron Backer's had spears at the Orleans farmers' market the past two weeks. As for the pasta, rotini is the corkscrew-shaped kind that comes in short, thumb-length pieces. It isn't the only option for this, but I like the way it catches the garlic and pistachios and spinach as it rolls around in the dish.

1/2 pound dry whole-wheat rotini or other pasta

5 cloves garlic, peeled

1/2 cup shucked pistachios

1 teaspoon sea salt

1/2 pound spinach, washed

1 pound asparagus, woody ends snapped off and spears cut into roughly 1 and 1/2-inch pieces

juice of 1 lemon

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

grated Parmesan to taste

Put the pasta on to boil.

Meanwhile, pulse the garlic in a food processor until finely minced. Add the pistachios and sea salt and pulse several times, until the pistachios are crumbled.

When the pasta is about 1 minute away from being fully cooked, add the spinach and asparagus to the pot. Stir well so that the vegetables are evenly cooked, and take care not to over cook the asparagus. When the pasta is fully cooked and the asparagus is still al dente, drain the water from the pot.

Toss the hot pasta and vegetables with the pistachio-garlic mixture, the olive oil, and the lemon juice. Add more salt to taste if needed. Let it sit for a few minutes to allow the flavors to meld, then serve still piping warm topped with grated Parmesan.

The weeks to come

All I have to say about yesterday is this:

Finally! I had almost forgotten what it feels like to go outside in a t-shirt, be glad for the breeze off the ocean, and come in after two hours with a ruddy sunburn. Between the warmth and the lamb and the hot cross buns and the family, it was a pretty unbeatable day. I even got my geraniums planted.

Thank you spring.

It was the kind of day, in fact, that makes me feel like a list—an inspiration list, a happy cooking list—to usher in all the good things that come with sunny, cheerful May. The rhubarb and asparagus are up—here's what I'll be making just as soon as they're big enough for a trim:

—the Rhubarb & Raspberry Crostata from this month's Bon Appétit, but instead of raspberries some of last year's frozen strawberries that we're still going through

—a varation on this with spiced up tomato sauce from the freezer, our own asparagus, and a few of my nieces' eggs

—Crab Louie with our own lettuce & asparagus, farmers' market radishes (in Orleans, it's May 14th!), local eggs, & Maine Jonah crab meat (Alex sells it at his markets and I have recently become completely addicted)

—Brooke Dojny's Skillet Rhubarb-Ginger Chutney for spreading on sandwiches with leftover chicken or pork

—something like this Rhubarb-Cranberry Cobbler with our own rhubarb & the last of last fall's cranberries (I'm thinking either a whole wheat biscuit or this cornmeal variation might be nice)

That's all for now, I think. May the weeks to come keep us well fed, warm, and busy.

The Local Food Report: the chickens are in

Remember this picture?

I took it in January, and it was the beginning of a dream. A big dream—my friend Drew's dream—one that he came up with in his last semester at the Stockbridge Ag program in Amherst. He read a few books, watched a few documentaries, and made a decision. He was going to try to bring chickens back to his family's farm. Not just any chickens, but chickens raised right—on grass, outside, clucking and pecking and running around.

When I first talked to him, in January, there were still a lot of obstacles. He had to choose breeds and save up enough money to buy an electric fence and get a permit and order the hens and the feed they would need for the first few weeks. He had to make sure that he could use the Mobile Poultry Processing Unit and set up dates and make sure that his birds were ready when the time came. He had to build a customer base and get the word out and decide on a price.

He did all that, and fast. He picked two breeds: Red Bro, which is an heirloom bird, bred through generations to have plump, tasty meat, and the Cornish Rock Hen, a more modern breed created through gene splicing. He settled on June 23rd and 24th, July 14th and 15th, August 4th and 5th, and August 25th and 26th. And last week, he slaughtered over a hundred Truro-raised birds—the first birds at Hillside Farm in over 30 years.

We got two Red Bros raised on organic feed and pasture, and we ate both of them—I repeat, we have now eaten two chickens—in one week.

They were amazing—juicy and tender and tasty and absolutely fresh. We ate them roasted, stuffed with asparagus and peas and spring onions and garlic and rubbed down with rosemary and butter. We put a handful of baby carrots in the pan around the bird to soak up the juices as they cooked, and a cup of peas, too. We let it roast slowly, on low heat, and then cranked the oven up at the end to crisp the skin. We feasted and made chicken salad and chicken stock and then started all over and feasted again.

It was exciting, not just to eat a bird raised five miles down the road, but to eat a bird raised by a peer, and a friend. It was the kind of feeling that makes you happy to be alive, in this place, right now. I have a feeling that all summer we'll be doing it again, and again, and that on each slaughter date to come, we'll also freeze a bird.

There are other local poultry operations on the Cape—Miss Scarlett's and Paskamansett Farms and Ocean Song Farms and First Light Organic Farm even raises birds every now and again—and they're all excellent. Wherever you live, and whichever farmer you support, I think it's high time for a chicken roast with a fresh, Cape Cod bird.

ROASTED CHICKEN WITH EARLY SUMMER VEGETABLES

Roasting a chicken is one of the easiest ways to make a whole-meal feast. I made this stuffing up based on what we had in the fridge leftover from the markets last week, but it will change as the season progresses. Whatever you use, be sure to put some veggies around the chicken in the pan—they are a true treat.

one 4-5 pound chicken
4 sprigs rosemary
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper
1 slice stale bread or a handful of crackers, crumbled
1 and 1/2 cups English peas, divided
1/2 pound asparagus, cut into 2-inch pieces
3 cloves garlic, peeled
4 scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced
1/2 pound baby carrots, whole, with tops trimmed to leave 1/2-inch of greens

Preheat the oven to 150 degrees F.

Rinse the chicken, pat dry with a dishcloth, and arrange in a roasting dish. Working from the skin flap over the back of the bird, use your fingers to separate the skin from the meat. Slip the rosemary sprigs and butter under the skin, spreading out the herbs and rubbing the butter into the meat. Rub the outside skin of the bird generously all over with salt and pepper.

In a large bowl, toss together the crumbled bread, 1/2 cup of the peas, the asparagus, the garlic, and the scallions. Season lightly with salt and pepper and stuff as much of the mixture as you can into the cavity of the bird. Set any extra aside.

Tent the roasting pan with tinfoil and put the chicken in to bake. After two hours, pull the bird out of the oven and turn the heat up to 375 degrees F. Arrange the remaining stuffing, remaining peas, and baby carrots around the bird in the roasting pan. Rub the skin of the bird with more butter if it's dry, cover everything back up loosely with tinfoil, and return the roasting pan to the oven. Bake for 30 minutes; then take off the tinfoil and turn the oven to broil. In about 15 minutes, the bird's interior temperature should reach 160 degrees F and the skin will be golden brown and crispy; it's done.

Turn off the oven, take the roasting pan out, and let the bird rest for 15 minutes. Carve and serve with pan roasted veggies and stuffing, and maybe a nice green salad alongside.

We will be back

Fisher and I just wanted to say that we are home in Maine for a visit for a few days. We are very busy—turning forty quarts of strawberries into homemade jam and celebrating birthdays and anniversaries and 84 years of a long, full life—but we will be back here soon. In the meantime, Fisher has come up with something to keep you entertained: an act in which he stars as himself, balancing a spear of asparagus on his nose.

We'll see you Thursday, everyone.

The Local Food Report: week one

Three weeks—around here, that's how long pea season is.

It makes me a little frantic, to tell you the truth. How am I going to get my fill? Should I call out of work on the last night if I haven't yet fit in, say, that creamy mint and fresh peas pasta dish? Should I be eating peas for breakfast, stuck to a knife with honey, or maybe sautéed with roasted mushrooms, so as not to waste a meal? What if I need to make these crushed peas with smokey sesame dressing twice? Peas are serious business, and I mean to get them done.

This week was week one. David Light (of the Kitchen Garden in Orleans) had Coral peas at the market Saturday, and a line to match. The first sweet, fresh shucking peas of the season were flying off the table at a rate of nearly three pounds a minute, and by the time I got up front, they were almost gone. As a matter of fact—phew!—I got the last pound.

Next week, he says, he'll have more—Lincoln peas, his main crop will be coming in—and this time around, I plan to stock up. I still want to make peas and prosciutto—although given that I haven't seen any local cured meats around here, it might have to be peas and bacon—and I want to make petits pois again at least once this year, and I'm very much hoping to try this spring tabouli recipe before my three weeks are up.


The fact that we only ate a single pound of peas in this whole first week, well, it's a bit disappointing. Luckily, the dish was not. It was fresh and incredibly green, snappy and zingy and with just enough bacon to make it almost rich, too. Plus, it's the kind of recipe you look at and think: all these ingredients are just right this time of year. The markets still have asparagus, the peas are just coming in, butter lettuce is multiplying like mad, and spring onions abound.

So quick—before the window passes—dig in.

PASTA WITH PEAS, ASPARAGUS, BACON, AND WILTED BUTTER LETTUCE

I adapted this recipe from one in the spring pasta slideshow online at Bon Appetit.com. When I saw the title, and then the ingredient list, there was really nothing to stand in my way; it looked delicious, and everything I needed was either in our fridge from the market, or growing in the yard. (Ok, except the pig.) It was easy, fast, and fresh, and bright in a very early summer kind of way.

4 slices bacon
1/2 pound spring onions, chopped
a pinch of salt
1/2 cup white wine
1/2 cup chicken stock, preferably homemade
1 and 1/2 pounds asparagus, cut into 3/4 inch pieces
1 cup shelled fresh peas (from about 1 pound peas in pods)
1 pound small shell pasta
olive oil, for drizzling
1 head butter lettuce
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Cook the bacon over medium high heat in a large skillet. When the meat is crisp, remove it and set it aside on a dishtowel to drain. Meanwhile, add the onions to the pan. Sauté them in the bacon fat for 5 to 8 minutes, or until they get soft and translucent. Season with a bit of salt. Deglaze with the white wine by drizzling it around the pan; it should hiss and steam. Simmer until it is reduced by half, then pour in the chicken stock, turn the heat down to a simmer, and set aside.

Cook the asparagus and the peas in a large pot of boiling salted water for 2-3 minutes, or until just tender. Remove with a slotted spoon and transfer immediately to a bowl of ice water (this helps the vegetables keep their color and also stops them from over-cooking). Bring the water in the pot back to a boil and add the pasta. Cook for 8-10 minutes, or until al dente; then drain, return to the pot, and toss with olive oil.

Crumble the bacon and sprinkle it into the onion mixture. Add the asparagus and peas to this pan, too, and the butter lettuce. Cook until the vegetables are just hot and the lettuce wilts down. Transfer the pasta to a serving dish, pour this vegetable mixture over top, add Parmesan, and toss well. Serve at once.

The Local Food Report: Jersey Knight & Mary Washington

Every Saturday in Orleans, the asparagus at Ron Backer's stand is the first thing to go.

Right now, he has only Jersey Knight spears—from a patch of hybrids he planted back in 1998. The plants are sterile, meaning that they are all male and produce thicker, taller spears. Two years ago, though, when Backer realized that the local food movement was here to stay and his supply started having a hard time keeping up with demand, he planted another patch.

This time, he choose a more traditional asparagus called Mary Washington. Mary is known for her purple-tinged spears, although she won't produce as many big, fat ones. (Traditional asparagus has half male and half female plants, and because the female plants have to put energy into reproduction and going to seed, they produce thinner, smaller spears.) But she will make seedlings, and he can sell these at the market, so he figured it was a pretty fair trade. The Mary Washington patch is up and producing, but before he can pick it'll still be another year.

The thing about asparagus is that you have to wait three years before cutting any spears. As Backer explains it, asparagus grows from the stem, which is essentially a grass stem. The bud matures and grows four to six feet high and then turns into a fern. That fern acts like a photo cell: it captures carbon dioxide and water in the presences of sunlight and turns them into sugar. The sugar compounds into starch and gets sent down to the roots for storage. If you cut the spears before they turn into ferns those first few years, they aren't able to store any energy up. They need at least a few years storage to get off the ground; otherwise, there will never be fat spears.

Of course, once you're ready to pick Backer knows exactly what to do:

His recommendation is to blanch the asparagus, cut some toast, soft-poach an egg, mince some garlic, and finely chop a handful of basil. Then he likes to rub the toast with the garlic, layer the basil and then the egg on top, and finally, drape the spears across. Then he drizzles the whole pile with a bit of nice olive oil, sprinkles it with a few cracks of salt and pepper, and digs in.

After I got home from the market the other day with a bundle of Jersey Knights, I decided to follow the plan. Only I didn't, exactly. Instead of rubbing the toast with minced garlic, I made a garlic-anchovy butter that I'd been eying for a while from the April issue of Martha Stewart Living. I fried my egg instead of poaching it, made sure the yolk was nice and runny, and after I'd spread the toast with plenty of briny butter, layered the egg on top. Then I poached the asparagus until just al dente, sprinkled the whole thing with salt and pepper, and sat took a bite. The egg ran all over the plate, the garlic-anchovy butter melted into the bread, and the asparagus sopped it all up.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good plan. So good, in fact, that if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go make it again.

FRIED EGGS AND ASPARAGUS ON TOAST

For the bread in this recipe I used a loaf of sourdough from Pain d'Avignon bakery in Hyannis. You could probably use any rustic loaf; the important thing about this recipe is to make sure the asparagus is fresh and the egg is under-cooked, so that the yolk oozes out all over the plate.

1/2 stick butter (1/8 pound)
1 large clove garlic, peeled
3 anchovy fillets (optional)
1 pound asparagus
olive oil
4 eggs
4 large slices sourdough bread
salt and freshly cracked pepper

In a food processor, combine the butter, garlic, and anchovy fillets. Pulse until smooth.

Cover the bottom of a large sauté pan with 1/2-inch of water and bring it to a boil. Lay the asparagus into the water and cover the pan. Cook for 2-3 minutes, or until the asparagus turns bright green and is just al dente. Turn the heat off, pour the water out, cut the asparagus spears in half, and set aside.

Turn the heat to high under another large sauté pan. When the pan is hot add a splash of oil; once the oil is hot, crack the eggs into the pan. While they fry, toast the bread and get out four plates. Flip the eggs and cook them over-easy; then turn the heat off.

Put a piece of toast on each plate and spread the toast generously with garlic-anchovy butter. Put an egg on each piece of toast and arrange a layer of asparagus spears on top. Sprinkle with a few cracks of salt and pepper, and serve hot.

P.S. My Minolta is back! She arrived last week in excellent condition, and as you can see, I'm happy to have her home.

It's here

The asparagus is in.

If you see my mother, you can let her know I finally made that asparagus stir-fry she keeps raving about. She found it on 101 Cookbooks last spring—sautéed asparagus and greens with seared tofu and lime juice and hoisin sauce—and it became a staple for her and my father. Only by the time she got around to telling me about it, the asparagus was gone. It's been a long nine months.

You can also tell her that I changed the recipe a little bit. I couldn't bring myself to buy tofu, so instead I used local sea scallops from Alex's market. They were wonderful—perfect, even—except that the first time around, I didn't account for just how much liquid a block of tofu sponges up. Everything was a little too limey, a little too hoisony, a little too sauced.

The second time around, though—the second time, I got it right. I used a bundle of Tim Friary's asparagus, basil from E & T Farms, mint and spinach from our garden, and almost half the hoisin and lime. The vegetables were springy, and fantastic, and just right. The sweetness of the hoisin toned down the tang of the lime, the greens wilted into soft, aromatic ribbons, and the scallops stood firm, golden, fresh.


It was the kind of stir-fry worth waiting nine months for. And now that the asparagus is here, I have a feeling we'll be making it over and over again until the spears disappear.

ASPARAGUS & SEA SCALLOP STIR-FRY

I adapted this recipe slightly from the original over at 101 Cookbooks to take advantage of the beautiful sea scallops that have been at Alex's market recently. The most time consuming part of this recipe is preparing the ingredients—do all the chopping first—and once you fire up the stove, the actual cooking will be done in less than five minutes. Now that the farmers' markets are open in Provincetown and Orleans ( ! ) all of the vegetables can be sourced locally, just picked, and fresh.

8 ounces small sea scallops
1/3 cup toasted sesame oil, divided
4 scallions, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon peeled and freshly grated ginger
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 pound asparagus, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup cashews
1/4 cup slivered almonds
1/2 pound spinach or Swiss chard, roughly chopped
zest and juice of 1/2 lime
2 tablespoons hoisin sauce
1/2 cup fresh mint, slivered
1 cup fresh basil, slivered

Pat the scallops dry. Heat up half of the sesame oil over very high heat in a large soup pot or wok. When the pan and the oil are very hot, drop the scallops in and sear them for two minutes, or until they develop a nice golden crust. Flip the scallops and sear for another minute; this side shouldn't take as long. Turn the heat down to medium high, take the scallops out of the pan, and set them aside.

Add the remaining sesame oil. Once it's hot, add the scallions, ginger, red pepper, asparagus, and salt. Stir fry them for about a minute, then add the garlic, cashews, almonds, and spinach or Swiss chard. Stir fry, stirring frequently, for another minute or two, or until the greens start to wilt. Add the scallops back into the pan, pour in the lime juice and zest and hoisin sauce, and cook for another minute, stirring the whole time. Turn the heat off, stir in the mint and basil, and adjust the seasonings (more salt or hoisin) to taste. Serve hot, either on its own or over cooked oat groats or whole wheat noodles.

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.

On days like today

On days like today
and Sunday
and Saturday

[Monday, I think, was a dud]

I can almost imagine
that these

[green, tender, young]

aren't so terribly
far away.