I remember asparagus as a vegetable that came from a can and tasted terrible. I’d try to cover it with pieces of other things in the hope that my mother wouldn’t notice. When confronted, I’d force myself to think of other, more pleasant things, as I swallowed. Why on God’s green earth was asparagus invented?

When I was married, my mother-in-law in France served an enormous platter of asparagus stacked like logs in a storage yard. She saw the look on my face and saw me fumbling for silverware. I was hoping to eat whatever else was for dinner and cover up the asparagus surreptitiously. But there was nothing else for dinner. It was the first day asparagus went on sale at the market. Not a market like the one I walk to every day, but an outdoor market. What we call a Farmer’s Market. And their tradition was, on the first day of asparagus, asparagus was for dinner. It was served with clarified butter, salt and pepper, sometimes with homemade mayonnaise. A very simple tradition. So simple there was no silverware on the table. Fresh asparagus was finger food.

You bite down on the stem lightly, moving your teeth until the stem becomes woody and tough. And then back off a bit. The rest goes on your plate. I can remember nothing that ever tasted so good as fresh steamed asparagus with clarified butter, salt and pepper. It was almost as if the canned product was a different species, one that was mostly inedible, and this was the crowning achievement of stem science. I also learned to eat fast, because the supply was limited.

I suspect that these asparagus would be just as good if prepared properly. But another part of me says they would taste a bit like canned asparagus. They would have to airlift French asparagus, to be on the safe side, and a French woman to carefully steam and serve them. I know I’m being ridiculous, but am I? Is it really a matter of grow your own and cook them in your own pot? Is place and atmosphere nothing?

I cringe to think that my now ex-wife was sitting next to me, and that the woman whose magic brought that platter to the table was my very peculiar mother-in-law, but in my mind’s eye, when I dip that long stem into clarified butter, I remember strangely nothing but peace and happiness.