I thought I came up with a whole new expression.
It turns out I didn’t.
I was thinking about asparagus and how it evokes emotion: the anticipation of its coming, followed by the thrill of its short season’s finally arriving. But there’s another emotion I was trying to put into words: that melancholy — sadness, even — of being in a moment and knowing it will soon be over. It makes the present feel gloomy, as if it has already passed. We get it elsewhere: a moment with your child or aging parent when time stands still. I get it at work, too, when photographing a cookbook and a group of us come together to make a set, to put on a production. It’s so real and vivid, and then, just like that, it’s over.
Recipe: Grilled Asparagus With Miso and Olives
German came to mind, with its countless words that manage to encapsulate so precisely what Brits and Americans can take sentences to convey. Someone might be feeling frühjahrsmüdigkeit at this time of the year, for example: a state of lethargy or “springtime fatigue,” left over from the long winter. Weight gained as a result of emotional overeating is kummerspeck, translating literally to “grief bacon.”
“Anticipatory nostalgia,” I thought.
Except there is not only a single expression but an entire school of thought based on the idea of “anticipatory nostalgia.” Of course there’s a fully explored subcategory of nostalgia — what was I thinking? — and of course I’m not the first to identify this feeling. Still, I’ve yet to come across the link between this emotion and asparagus, a very particular spring vegetable, and so, for now, I will claim this sub-subcategory as my own.
There’s something else that asparagus encourages me to cultivate, a skill rather than an emotion, and that’s the need for patience. There is an understandable temptation, at the first hint of spring, to rush toward the season’s offerings. After the heaviness of winter, we want to make the most of every lighter day and greener meal: to asparagus it up for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
And yet, should we? I am reading Angela Clutton’s recent cookbook, “Seasoning,” in which she reminds us not to leap too quickly or hurriedly onto spring’s bounties. “The anticipation,” she writes, of the season’s “more obvious charms is no excuse to rush the new season along too much. Let’s not do that. Let’s instead enjoy spring’s own produce in its own right and its own moment.”
After the heaviness of winter, we want to asparagus it up for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Being patient and trusting the seasons give space for a liberating feeling that comes, paradoxically, from limited choice. “The problem with most home cooks is that they have too many recipes rather than too few,” writes Christopher Kimball, a founder of America’s Test Kitchen and the founder of Milk Street. It’s so true. The more choices we have, the more likely we are to stick to a handful of reliable dishes, part of a familiar and calming routine.
There’s nothing wrong with routines, per se. What are Taco Tuesdays, Meatless Mondays or Friday-night dinners if not simple routines, repeated again and again? Routines become traditions, and traditions become who we are. But what if we were to cook largely from what is in season, in the shops? We could really relax. With a month or so in which to mainline asparagus, there’s no need to worry about tomatoes or zucchini.
Accepting defeat on creating an entirely new expression, I reverted to my true specialty: creating an entirely new recipe. Asparagus, of course, but this time it had to be different: less of the mayonnaise, hollandaise, butter and cheese; more of the umami-salty-savory miso flavors, combined with briny olives. Truly new and original, right? Well — I should have seen this coming — not quite. … In her book, Clutton’s asparagus is followed by a similar British seasonal favorite, sprouting broccoli. Hers is a broccoli tempura with a white miso mayonnaise. You’ve got to be kidding me. Of course! There really is nothing new under the springtime sun.
