HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 197 



out of it. Cutting the mess is my job. The 

 thin, thready sprouts don't go into the basket; 

 they're left on the ground. What I'm after is 

 the lusty, vigorous shoot, thick as your thumb, 

 that's made its six or eight inches of growth 

 since morning and is standing straight as a 

 soldier. I don't thrust my knife clear down 

 to the crown in cutting as the market growers 

 do, but cut close to the surface, well above all 

 woody fiber. To the last fraction of an inch 

 it's brittle and tender as a lettuce heart, and so 

 full of juice that it drips. Now, you take 

 asparagus like that, and let it be cooked just to 

 the careful turn where it loses its raw taste 

 without losing its firmness, and then let it come 

 upon the table well drained and dressed with 

 sweet butter and a dash of pepper and salt, and 

 all piping hot man, man, but that's eating! 

 It takes a big dishful to go round at our house, 

 and even then I'm always nervous lest it give 

 out. 



Just one good spring dinner with asparagus 

 a-plenty pays in delight for all the work we've 

 done on that bed and we've had a hundred 

 of those dinners since the bed was set. And 

 that, mind you, was made out of an odd patch 

 of ground that nobody had ever thought worth 



