Pea season begins. But people are more sad to lose asparagus than they are happy to receive peas, and when I come in, triumphant, from the field with a bushel of bright green, waxy pods, all a customer can muster is, “Peas, huh? Yeah, well, I guess I’ll get some peas. No more asparagus?”
First, you need to distinguish between asparagus and fresh asparagus, for calling them both “asparagus” is like calling north and south of the highway “Sagaponack.” Asparagus can be gotten any time of the year, but it is bound to be bland when compared to that found locally during the month of May. Sometimes there is a little in June. This year, there was some in April. But I had to quit cutting when it got warm and dry. These are young beds; I must be careful not to set them back tomorrow for marginal gain today.
These details do little to decrease the disappointment. People often tell me of a patch they had at an old family home, Grandmother’s bed that persisted as if tended by some ghost gardener for 30, 40 years, maybe still thriving now. All the children remember how it came up like fat fingers out of the dark earth, how it tasted, then, later, the grand finale—how pungent it made your pee! They’ll explain how my asparagus was like that of their youth. It is this reverie that makes them quiet on the point of a season ending too soon. Ask the iris and the peony, the lilac, all of them over too soon.
Every profession has its elves, little troublemakers that act when no one else is looking and make mischief that no one else can own up to. On the farm, the elves usually run into things. Mysterious dents are common fare, but, also, broken overhead light bulbs and lost (hidden) tools. I was surprised when I rolled into a rented farm parcel last week to discover other industries—mainly, the pool and masonry industries—have really terrible elves to contend with. Cement elves had very meanly dumped all the unused concrete mix in a large pile in the field I farm. Both companies on the site were shocked and apologetic but emphatically certain none of their guys did it.
“Hmmm ... must have been elves,” I told him.
“Elves?” he said. “Are you sure? I thought most people in Sagg sprayed for them.”
“No,” I explained, no longer angry about the blatant disrespect for the land and my profession, “not since we’ve become a village. These elves are protected here.”
on Jun 5, 2012