In the vegetable relay race of early spring, last year’s crops are now starting to flower on their mission to set seed. The leeks have sent up their flower spikes and the radicchios and chicories are finally coming to the end of their season and are about to follow suit. The kales and purple sprouting broccolis have handed the baton to the spring greens, while the autumn sown chard is having its last gasp before being replaced by the plugs that I planted out last weekend. In the polytunnel, the autumn sown salads, spinach, herbs and spring onions are still producing but, with the lengthening days and higher temperatures, they too are starting to flower and are beginning to flag. So the aim has been to eat as much as we can, before everything bolts and is cleared out in advance of the tomatoes, peppers and aubergines.
This means we’ve been eating a lot of meals where greens are the primary ingredient. Pasta with a sauce of blanched and liquidised ‘Hungry Gap’ kale. Creamed kale. Kale in a cheese sauce. Kale risotto. Kale curry. Chargrilled and roasted spring cabbage with a dressing of tahini, garlic, lemon juice and mint or smothered in chopped olives, preserved lemon and parsley. Every lunch features a salad of spinach, mustard greens and the last of the winter lettuces. While we’ve had wild rocket for days. In salads, pestos, sandwiches, risotto. We can’t eat it fast enough, as it lives up to its name in exponential growth. It’s the first year I’ve grown it in the polytunnel and it has been so successful it will now be a regular feature.
In the vegetable garden there is little evidence of growth, it has been so cold. The broad beans are sulking, just starting to flower on stubby stalks. The potatoes are still sleeping under their eiderdown of compost. As cold winds and hail whip their wire-thin leaves to and fro, the seedling onions I planted out two weeks ago look up reproachfully from their bed as if to ask what they have done to deserve such punishment. While seedling beetroot and turnips, like lambs to the slaughter, are being picked off one by one as invisible slugs and snails persist in their midnight feasts.
But there, next to the barn, in a bed all their own are vigorous signs of life. Here the sky-reaching spears of asparagus push through pristine rich, dark manure and graphically announce the start of the new growing season with their resolute upward motion. It is, I think, this ascension and determined purpose that give asparagus its special status as the quintessential spring vegetable. It expresses the re-awakening of the new season like a good stretch after a long and heavy night’s sleep.
As we stand on the threshold of the past and future periods of production there is something fitting about creating a meal from these two opposing energies. The epitome of seasonal eating. The combination of the winding-up energy of winter’s survivors as they mature to flower, with the impatient, speedy ascent of asparagus, makes a vegetable hare and tortoise race on the plate, where both pass the finish line at the same time.
I like nothing more than plain, lightly boiled asparagus with a) butter b) hollandaise c) mayonnaise d) a boiled or poached egg, but can never get enough of it when in season, so I’m always looking for other ways to cook it. Although it works extremely well served plain and with the simplest of dairy partners it can cope with stronger flavours. Firstly, its own flavour can be intensified by either roasting or chargrilling, where the smokiness accentuates its naturally green and woody taste. Allowing the spears to brown or even blacken means that they can match anything you like to throw at them including chilli, garlic, anchovies, olives, preserved lemon, onions and capers. Any of these could be added to this salad without worry.
It is also the end of the chervil season. I see this really as a winter herb, since it is so early to produce foliage. It brings a suggestion of spring to the plate as early as late February, particularly in winter salads or omelettes. Now it too is going to flower and producing its green, torpedo-like seed, which will soon ripen to black. Its warm aniseed flavour, not unlike tarragon, works well with the other ingredients here, but could as easily be replaced with parsley or mint, which are also abundant in the early spring herb garden right now.
Serve outside in the not quite warm enough air, as a spring lunch with a generous dish of buttered, boiled new potatoes or the last of the season’s Jerusalem artichokes.
Serves 2
12 spears of asparagus
8 thick spring onions or 12 smaller ones
A handful of wild rocket, about 50g
A small handful of chervil, leaves picked off
125g ricotta
50g Greek yogurt or crème fraiche
The juice and zest of half a lemon
4 teaspoons of capers, well drained
A thick slice of sourdough bread, crust removed
Olive oil
Put the ricotta, yogurt, lemon zest and a generous pinch of salt into a bowl and whip with a fork or whisk until smooth and airy. Chill in the fridge.
Tear the bread into bite-sized pieces. Heat three tablespoons of olive oil in a small frying pan and fry the bread until crisp and brown all over. Remove to a piece of kitchen paper.
Add two more tablespoons of olive oil to the pan. When smoking add the capers. They will spit at first, so use a pan guard if you have one until the moisture has evaporated. Cook until browning and crisp. Remove to a piece of kitchen paper.
Bend the asparagus near the base until it snaps. Trim the ends of the spears to tidy. Keep all of the trimmings for stock. Peel the spring onions and trim off the roots and green tops.
Put a heavy, ridged cast iron griddle on a medium high heat. Brush generously with olive oil. Cook the asparagus and the spring onions for about 5 minutes on each side until charred and tender to the point of a knife. I use the inverted lid of the pan as a weight to press the vegetable against the grill to achieve strong griddle marks.
Remove the vegetables from the griddle to a chopping board and leave to cool for a few minutes. Slice on the diagonal into two or three pieces depending on size. Put them into a large bowl. Dress with a little more oil, lemon juice and salt.
Add the wild rocket and chervil to the asparagus and onions. Toss quickly to dress the leaves. Cjheck for seasoning and add a squeeze more lemon if needed.
Spoon the whipped ricotta onto a platter and spread out with the back of a spoon. Arrange the salad on top. Scatter over the croutons and capers.
Recipe & photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 27 April 2024
