An enemy of asparagus

Asparagus for sale at Walmart.

Note: This is an extended version of the 771-word column I wrote for the Star-Herald on February 17, 2016. My columns at the newspaper were limited to 800 words. I didn’t have the chance to write exactly what I wanted at the time and each time I tell the story, people want more details. This is the full version I wanted to write then and finally had the time to sit down and complete.

Asparagus. It’s often described as tender and succulent. As a child, it was the most vile vegetable on my dinner plate. Asparagus is high in nearly two dozen nutrients, including folic acid, iron, and vitamin K, but it’s a food my palate did not appreciate.

Before I reached double digits in age, asparagus was common on my family’s dinner plate. It was one of the many things we grew in the family garden. We didn’t have a garden because it’s fun and we liked to grow things. The garden was a cost-effective way to have healthy, fresh vegetables in the summer, and canned vegetables in the winter. Every penny was always counted. Each cent was maximized. Being poor, you ate whatever was placed in front of you. You don’t get to be picky. If you don’t like the taste of it, you eat it anyway.

According to the New World Encyclopedia, there are at least 300 species of asparagus, all indigenous to the Old World. Asparagus officinalis is the best known and has three cultivated varieties – green, white, and purple. Green is the most popular variety in the United States.

Asparagus has been eaten for thousands of years. By 3,000 B.C.E., Egyptian cultures were cultivating the plant. The Romans had an “asparagus fleet” created to find and bring back the vegetable to Rome. Fresh spears were taken to the Alps, frozen for use later at the Feast of Epicurus. The British Asparagus Festival is held each year in the Vale of Evesham. National Asparagus Day is April 23. Everyone loves asparagus except me.

Some argue the healthiest way to cook asparagus is to sauté it. My family ate it raw or boiled it, just like every other vegetable. The wretched, fetid mess would then be plopped on my plate, spreading itself over other, more desirable morsels and infecting them with its foul taste. My family’s solution to cover up its disgusting miserable existence was to pour vinegar over it. My dinner went from bad to worse. Yet, I still forced it down my throat every single time it was presented to me. I tried to eat it first so the rest of the meal would cover up the lingering putridness, but the mush mixed with vinegar overpowered anything else I ate.

One night, my young brain decided to rebel. I ate everything on my plate, except that hideous green vegetable. I sat at the table long after everyone had finished. I didn’t get to go outside and play. I didn’t spend time with my dog, Conan. I just sat and stared and this hopeless excuse of edible food. As I began to fall asleep, my mother took the plate away.

“I hope you enjoy your breakfast tomorrow,” she said, placing Saran Wrap, most likely the cheaper store version, over my plate before setting it on the left side of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. This was a semi-common experience for me. We didn’t have the money to waste food. Leftovers were a staple in my house. If you didn’t finish your dinner, it would be waiting for you in the morning.

After getting ready for school the following morning, I sat at the kitchen table and watched my sister eat Rice Krispies. I sat with my arms folded in front of me. I sat with my chin resting in the palms of my hand. I sat with my head in my hand. But I did not eat the asparagus.

My mother eventually shooed my sister and me off to school. I walked to Mechanicstown Elementary School slowly, my stomach grumbling the entire 7/10-mile. Breakfast at school was over. It didn’t matter anyway. We didn’t have the money for school breakfast. Lunch at school was delicious. My family qualified for free lunch. Sometimes, it was also disgusting and included accidentally cooked maggots in your mashed potatoes.

I don’t remember what was served that day. It didn’t matter. I was hungry and asparagus was not part of the meal. Dinner was terrible. Cold asparagus awaited me, but I did not give in. Back in the fridge it went, waiting for me for breakfast the following day.

I went hungry again the next day and the day after that. By the time dinner came around on the fifth day, the vinegar had gotten the best of this vulgar vegetable. It was soggy and limp. It smelled worse than when it was first cooked. A slimy film hung on its stalks. There was no way I was ever going to eat it. I decided one meal a day at school was good enough. I was also willing to sacrifice food on the weekend to never have this obscene green stick pass my lips.

I leaned back in my chair and stubbornly folded my arms. My legs dangled just above the floor and I gently swayed them back and forth through the air. My mother walked over to the table and took the plate away. She dumped the asparagus in the garbage and got a clean plate with fresh, tasty food, which I happily inhaled. I looked up at her and smiled.

“Shut up and eat your dinner,” she said.

It was the first time I remember besting my mother in anything.

In the years since the asparagus incident, I’ve found better ways to eat it. I just don’t. My palate doesn’t enjoy whatever manner it is prepared. I got lucky when I got married. My husband hates asparagus, too. It will never grace its presence in my home.

I still remember my manners and eat what is presented to me at other people’s houses. I suppose there are better ways to rebel than refusing what you’re mom cooked for you, but I was a stupid kid and didn’t fully understand the sacrifices made to provide me with healthy food. Mom spent good money on the asparagus and took the time to prepare it for me. The least least I could have done is eat it. They are good for you and you’ll make your mom happy.