#seasonalfood

The farmers market was nearly empty this morning, just a few early risers and the soft sound of cardboard boxes being unpacked. I spotted them immediately—pale green stalks with tight purple buds, the first asparagus of spring. The vendor smiled when I picked up a bunch, running my thumb along the ridged stems. Finally, I thought, something that tastes like March.

Back home, I made the mistake of peeling them. Halfway through the first stalk, I remembered my grandmother's voice: "The skin is where the flavor lives." She used to snap asparagus at the natural breaking point, never with a knife. I stopped peeling and just trimmed the woody ends instead, saving what I'd already peeled for stock tomorrow.

The smell hit me the moment they touched the hot pan—grassy and sweet, with that particular mineral note that only asparagus has. It's the same scent that filled my grandmother's kitchen every April, when she'd make her simple butter-and-lemon version. I added a small spoonful of miso this time, something she never would have done, but I wanted to see how the umami would play against the vegetal sweetness.

The farmers market was nearly empty this morning—just me, the vegetable seller arranging his last winter greens, and a woman buying tulips. I spotted something I hadn't seen in months: fresh fava beans, still in their thick, pale green pods. The vendor smiled when I picked up a handful. "First of the season," he said. "They won't last."

I bought two pounds.

Back home, I spread them across the kitchen counter. The pods were surprisingly heavy, almost waxy to the touch, with a faint vegetal smell that reminded me of spring gardens. Shelling them took longer than I expected—each bean nested in a soft, cottony lining, and after the first round, I had to peel away the thin, bitter skin from each one. My grandmother used to do this while telling stories, her hands working automatically. I remember watching her fingers move, wondering how she never seemed to tire.