It’s ironic, really , that we dug up the asparagus bed on the Potwell Inn allotment pretty much on the first day of the official season. I’ve already written about its lack of productivity and in the end borrowed time has run out. Ours was barely 10′ x 5′ but we were down at the Lost Gardens of Heligan a couple of years ago and they had lost a very long bed. For reasons unknown to us, these beds will suddenly turn their faces to the wall and there’s nothing to be done about it. Luckily, there is a Worcester business run by the Chinn family who grow the most fabulous English asparagus no more than 50 miles from Bath. The long plane journey from Peru or wherever else is not just polluting, the flavour really deteriorates and if you, like us, can no longer grow your own it’s really worthwhile getting your hands on the local product. Then you need to make Hollandaise sauce, or at least learn to make it because again the commercial supermarket version is overloaded with chemicals and stabilizers. There’s a reason for that, because the sauce splits very easily – made properly it’s like hot mayonnaise with butter beaten into the egg yolks instead of oil. Life threateningly good for just a brief few weeks of the year; certainly not a dish to eat too often! Traditionally you add a teaspoon of Tarragon Vinegar (very easy to make your own) to the eggs at the beginning and that very faint perfume really brightens the whole dish. Our youngest son used to prep the Hollandaise by the gallon in one restaurant he worked in.
The downside to asparagus depends on your DNA because it makes your urine smell dreadfully sulphurous regardless; but only some of us can actually smell it. Like being able to curl your tongue, the rich odour of asparagus wee is a genetic gift. We had an old friend who was a member of a London club and who swore that there was a notice on the wall, begging members “not to piss in the umbrella stands during the asparagus season”. Oh how they live, the powerful! Anyway the Potwell Inn allows no misbehaviour of that sort, you’ll be pleased to know.
Actually asparagus is marvellous steamed just on its own with a dollop of butter and/or a curl of parmesan; but on high days and holidays we serve it as “Délices d’Argenteuil” in a recipe by Simon Hopkinson – you can find it online and it’s a bit of a faff but very grand as well. The combination of pancakes, Parma ham, Hollandaise and English asparagus is lovely. Then there’s the flan which Madame loves and finally the BBQ. With those four ways of cooking it and a season that lasts not much more than six to eight weeks, you’ll never get bored.
Alas, much of my time has been spent on the computer when it rains. My research into AI is very slowly gaining ground and it’s almost scarily efficient at doing those boring repetitive jobs that I so dislike. Whether or not it’s a threat to life and civilisation is almost irrelevant because Pandora’s box is open and bad actors can always find a way of exploiting new discoveries for personal gain. Our best defence is to understand the technology and use it enough to recognise the dangers when (as they inevitably will) – they emerge.
An update on the asparagus flan
24 hours later, having scoffed half of the flan for supper I feel I should report on a completely unexpected outcome. Somehow I forgot to start the timer when the flan went into the oven complete with its filling, so when I realized my mistake I had to finish cooking it by eye and instinct. Flans are simple enough to cook, and I really enjoy making them but over the years I’ve discovered that they can go from bloom to blown in two minutes. I’ve also, thinking back on it, fallen into the habit of going for a firm set of the custard which is always useful if the flan is for a picnic and going to be carried around in a box; and of course if you’re baking 20,000 a day in a factory. However, yesterday I had to make a decision without benefit of the clock, so as the top began to take a bit of colour I fetched it out of the oven and put it aside to cool. When it came time to eat it we discovered that the usual firm set middle was still a bit runny, faintly but not oppressively cheesy, unctuous and smooth; like home-made custard. The combination of crisp pastry, firm and very fresh asparagus and the unctuous sauce was absolutely lovely – an accidental discovery made in heaven. I’ve made up my mind to make a cauliflower cheese, not sauced as usual with a cheesy bechamel, but with a cream, eggs and cheese custard. Then we’ll see whether happy accidents can be turned into enjoyable insights.
