ASPARAGUS AND PUNCTUALITY

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live." John 11:25

It's actually morning here. 12:30am. I just got home from the hospital. Slow night. I had 4 admissions that I never got to do anything with when I left. There is a night secretary, and she will be doing the honors.
I'm feeling more relaxed now after starting the day off on the wrong foot. Some days are like that- just can't seem to do anything right the first time, and then I have to redo, and I'm late with everything the rest of the day.
Growing up, we were fondly referred to as the "early Imms". My parents taught me to be punctual in everything. So I married into the "late Blairs" family. Thankfully, Wendell and I have been able to lean more toward my side of the family and should probably be known as the 'on time' Blairs. Of course, I'm punctual to a fault. I can't tolerate being late for anything.
I can remember telling Wendell's dad to be somewhere a half hour earlier than necessary, and then he'd be on time.
I never did get to the asparagus patch today. I'm so anxious to see whether it's coming through the ground yet. One of my favorite parts of spring is looking for it, waiting patiently for it to be big enough to snap off and make a meal for Wendell and me. Asparagus is not something one is born to love. You have to develop a taste for it. I had to work hard to get Wendell to even try fresh asparagus, but he did (loaded with melted cheese), and now he's a fan. We taught most of our children to eat it that way, and then slowly reduced the amount of cheese till we now eat it with just a little salt or seasoning. Yummy stuff!
My mother loved it too, and she did a lot of the harvesting when she was able a few years back. One day she'd keep the harvest and the next time she'd pass it to us. By the end of summer, we had bags of fresh asparagus everywhere in the refrigerator, and couldn't use it all.
We pick it every other day.
Mum told the story of her first experience with cooking it. Dad had enjoyed it all his life, but though Mum knew what it was, she didn't have a clue how to cook it. But she was up to the challenge. She cut off those tips and threw them away and cooked the stalks till she thought they were tender enough. Dad was horrified. I have to laugh just thinking about what it must have been like.
So he taught her how to prepare it properly. You don't cut it, you snap it on the stem. It'll break at the most tender point. And, of course, you keep the tips and cook them, not the tough stringy stalks. It's a totally different flavor and texture than canned.
I planted my patch about around 1980 or so. It was on the edge of the field corn Wendell's dad had planted. Every year we picked it a little longer, till now we can pick it all summer and not damage the roots at all. In the fall, we let it go to seed. It has such beautiful ferns, and then in the next spring, we mow it off and wait.
Later today I'll post about Wendell's office visit . It's his first follow up with his PCP. He will likely let him drive short distances now. We'll see.