Not Wild About Wild Asparagus

The house we moved into when I was six and a half, in October 1962, was at the end of a block-long street. Next to us on the east was a vacant lot. That lot remained vacant until well after I no longer lived with my parents, though at some point the next block of the street was paved and houses built on it.

The vacant lot was my childhood playground. The ground was sand and rounded rocks left when the nearby Columbia River receded in some eon past. My brother and I made forts out of tumbleweeds which we piled in a big hole in the lot. Sometimes we fought each other. Sometimes it was us against the pretend bad guys. We dug up ant’s nests, not to kill the critters but to watch them frantically rebuild. We got hot and sweaty and dirty, as children do on warm summer days. And when the autumn days turned cool, we got cold and our noses and fingers turned red.

The area had been a farm at some point, though it was probably part of the land that the Army evacuated in 1942 to build the Hanford Nuclear Reservation as part of the Manhattan Project. When my brother and I explored the acres around our house, we came across dilapidated shacks—old barns or farmhouses or other structures that survived from the pre-war era and had never been razed.

“Be careful,” our mother would caution. “Don’t step on a nail. And watch out for snakes.”

At the mention of snakes, I was far less eager to explore, but my brother convinced me we should. So we went, brushing sticks in front of us to scare any rattlesnakes or scorpions or other hazards. We rarely encountered anything more dangerous than a splintered board. Maybe a garter snake or two. No scorpions. Most of the black widow spiders we saw were near our home—they liked to sun themselves on webs near the warm brick.

One reason we knew that the neighborhood had once been a farm was that in the spring Mother found wild asparagus in the lot beside our house. Stalks sprouted between our yard and that big hole where we built our forts. They sprung up through the dead grass my father dumped when he mowed the lawn.

I was not a vegetable-loving child, and I did not like asparagus. And certainly not this asparagus. The stalks that grew in the vacant lot were not the thin bright green spears sold in the best restaurants. This asparagus consisted of thick, woody stalks that were mostly seed. It had to be boiled to a pulp before it could be chewed. And even then it was stringy.

But my mother thought it was wonderful. “Fresh asparagus!” she exclaimed when she found the spears. Asparagus in the grocery stores—then, as now—was expensive, and she rarely bought it. So for her, these volunteer plants were a treat.

I was an adult before I tasted good asparagus. Maybe my tastes have changed over the years, but I now think tender, blanched asparagus is an exquisite addition to steak and potatoes.

I even buy it to cook myself this time of year, though my husband prefers that I boil the color and texture out of it. (He might have enjoyed the wild asparagus along with my mother.) When only the two of us are eating it, I accede to his wishes. But when we have guests, I insist on only steaming it—no reason to inflict his plebeian predilections on a third party.

How have your tastes changed since you were young?