Sarah Gilbert is a freelance financial writer; she keeps chickens; and she’s a beginning urban farmer. She lives with her three small boys and husband in Portland, Oregon, and keeps her own blog, Cafe Mama.

Shared asparagus

Roasting is her method of choice

May 30, 2008

I am not pleased with my husband this Saturday night. He has been emotional and unreasonable, and I am tired of being the “big” one. I have just put the two older boys to bed, after quite the energy roller coaster, and I need to carve out some Zen in my night.

I go to the kitchen, cleaning what’s dirty, left over from a too hectic Saturday, delivered pizza poking at the corners of my angst. There, on the other side of the box, is my farmers’ market bag; I’ve left one of the bunches of asparagus I bought in it, and an errant leaf of red lettuce. I’d planned to make it earlier in the afternoon, but things — pizza, messes, arguments — got in the way.

Now it’s eight o’clock at night, and I turn on the oven. I have three bunches (the asparagus was $4 each, or three for $10, and I was in the mood to binge on seasonality), and my husband will be gone all the coming week for some Army Reserve duty in Boston. I’ll be the only adult in the house with all these vegetables. I’d better roast while the roasting is good.

roasted asparagus
Sarah’s asparagus.

I have really only one method of preparing asparagus that feels right to me, and I learned it at my friend Liz’s childhood home in Syosset, New York. She and I went to business school together in Philadelphia, and she has had far-reaching effects on my life in food. It was Liz who persuaded me to try (and love) sushi, and I remember many afternoons when we would sit in the living room of her high-rise apartment, eating edamame and green tea, boiling water in the same little saucepan for both.

I visited her family on a weekend after we’d graduated. Her funny, smart fiancé was there, and we read the Sunday New York Times in turns and talked about the interesting bits. I was happy to be away from northern Virginia, where I was living at the time, and was enjoying the undercurrents of luxury of a weekend on Long Island. It was warm and we were working together on dinner. Another friend of hers was making asparagus, and we exclaimed at its perfection. It’s so easy, she said — just asparagus, baking sheet, drizzle of olive oil, salt, and pepper, then cook at 400 degrees until it’s tender and the flowered ends begin to crisp and curl.

Indeed, it is such a perfect way to cook this particular vegetable that my picky five-year-old tried a piece last week and declared, “I tried something new. And I actually LIKED it!”

The asparagus is out of the oven now and I am sitting on a stool in the kitchen eating the spears with my fingers, dipped in the green-garlic pesto I made a few nights ago. Monroe, the baby who is always practicing his standing skills, is holding on to my knee with one hand and eating asparagus with the other.

If Truman, my three-year-old, is my partner in fantastic cheeses and cured meats, Monroe is my ever-willing consort in vegetables. He appreciates rapini, and chard, and beets, and now, asparagus. We ate a few very slender stalks raw, because we were eager to get going.

Now we are making our way through a baking sheet full of tiny green spears, and we are making discoveries. I read somewhere that the big stalks are paradoxically more tender than the thin ones, and I discover that it’s true; or maybe perhaps the fat ones were just broken off at the right place. Though they have roasted all together for the same amount of time, we can eat to the very end of the big stalks while some of the thin ones are woody at the base.

We have developed a pile of teeny ends. We have nothing else to do, so we consider every bite; we are learning all the things I could read in books or on Web sites or in gourmet magazines, only we are doing it through trial and experience. There is no error to make.

I am in a reverie, and I realize that we have been eating in silence for 10 or 15 minutes. I look at my little boy, not even a year old and already knowing more about asparagus than most people ever will. “This is asparagus, Monroe,” I say. “It is delicious.”

We leave some for my husband, who despite his faults tonight deserves to know, too.

There are 4 comments on this item
Add a comment
1. by awong on May 31, 2008 at 11:27 PM PDT

Luca loves roasted asparagus as well. But our favorite way to stuff ourselves silly is to wrap roasted asparagus with a good smidgen of local Lubbock chevre in prosciutto di parma. You may even get Truman that way...

My other favorite - fresh made pasta with roasted asparagus and fresh Oregon crab, drizzled with browned butter and shallots, hint of lemon. Deconstructed lasagna if you’re lazy. Raviolis if you’re going fancy.

2. by cafemama on Jun 2, 2008 at 10:02 AM PDT

Oooh, Aliza, you always have just the right idea! i’ll definitely try that pasta dish. i’ve done a variation on the prosciutto-wrapped asparagus (with black forest ham from otto’s, i think) but it stands to be repeated. yum.

so glad you can find local chevre in lubbock!

3. by Sarah on Jun 4, 2008 at 10:45 AM PDT

That’s my favorite way to cook asparagus as well. So flavorful! My almost-three year old gobbles it up . . . I can’t wait for my daughter to try it. She was grabbing at the spears on my plate last night, but she hasn’t mastered chewing yet, so it will be a little while longer.

4. by Gillian on Jun 5, 2008 at 8:32 AM PDT

I love asparagus and live in an area that grows some amazing spears. My favorite way to cook them (or, at least, the one we tend to use the most) is grilling them dry and then tossing them with olive oil, salt and perhaps some lemon if one is around. I find that if you grill them dry (and this might work for roasting too) they get really nutty flavored and they don’t burn. The pre-dressed asparagus (as most folks tend to use on the grill) get crispy black spots which I find less than tasty.
Dry the dry-grilling and taste the nuttiness - I was really surprised at the flavors this brought out in a vegetable I thought I knew really well.
I love how different cookings styles can bring out such subtle, but important, differences in the taste of food. I have found this to be less true of supermaket veggies but my farmer’s market / CSA / homegrown veggies can taste like two completely different foods!

Add a comment

Think before you type

Culinate welcomes comments that are on-topic, clean, and courteous. For the benefit of the community we reserve the right to delete comments that contain advertising, personal attacks, profanity, or which are thinly disguised attempts to promote another website.

Please enter your comment

Format: Bare URLs are automatically linked; use this style: [ "place text to be linked here"] for prettier links. You may specify *bold* or _italic_ text. No HTML please.

Please identify yourself

Not a member? Sign up!

Please prove that you’re not a computer

Dinner Guest

The gamification of cooking

Earning points

Most of the time with cooking and eating, the rules are clear.

Graze: Bites from the Site
First Person

The secret sharer

A father’s legacy

The Culinate Interview

Mollie Katzen

The vegetarian-cooking pioneer


Down South

Barbecue, tamales, cocktails, and more

Local Flavors

A winter romesco sauce

Good on everything

Editor’s Choice