Asparagus

My preschool years were spent living across a dirt road from my maternal grandparents’ house.  My father had purchased a small farm when he returned from serving in the army, but he needed an off -the-farm job to support the family.  When he didn’t find a position in the area they moved to a small house on my grandparents’ farm and he worked for them for several years, while renting out the farm house.  This allowed them to make the necessary improvements for the farm to house our family and animals.

Grandma kept an immaculate home, with the help of my aunts.  She also washed all the milking equipment in the milk house and kept a huge garden.  The garden was surrounded by a white picket fence, but the painting story will have to be another slice.  The fence was a necessity, cows and pigs often get out of their pastures and pens, and they always pick the things you least want them to eat as their travel snack.

The garden was on the east side of the barn, just a few feet from the milk house.  Grandma would walk through the garden as she went back and forth to the barn and pull the inevitable weeds.  Along the west side of the garden was my grandmother’s asparagus patch.  As gardeners often do, we ate the produce that was in season.  I recall loving to eat asparagus that had been put into a white cream sauce.  Mom served it over toast as a light lunch.  It was my favorite lunch, and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t have it year-round.  My mom finally appeased me by substituting peas into the sauce, making my lunch available even in the winter.

Today as I shopped I saw the bunches of tender asparagus and put it in my cart, I won’t cream it, it will get roasted.  As I drove home I picked up my phone to call mom and reminisce about my strange childhood favorite lunch. 

I paused as I reached for the phone, and tearfully remembered mom’s gone now.  Nine weeks is far shorter than I’d ever imagined.