Ode to a Sparrow Grass

There's something so primeval about asparagus, each bite tasting of the sun, sea salt and earth that nurtured our species during the slow passage from the waters onto the sandy shores. The first appearance of (affordable) asparagus in the markets occasions a meal that celebrates this delectable herald of Spring, so I chose to give it a starring role in the weekend's stir fry. The elements imbibed by the woody shoots allow the spears to pair particularly well with sweet, briny shrimp. Yet asparagus is not so aloof that she will not mingle as amiably with other vegetables. In fact, when it came time for her close-up, she graciously ceded the camera's spotlight to the celery, snow peas, and zucchini, to the broad, eye-catching slices of carrot, and especially to the demure, blushing shrimp nestled in the tangle of buff fettuccine. So you will have to take Master's and my word that the asparagus, crisp and svelte in her emerald finery, was still the leading lady, her brilliant, grassy character dominating each forkful, even upstaging the glossy citrus, soy and sherry sauce in which the whole dish was draped.

Keeping Up Appearances

"It looks like a piece of meat, like the leg of some dead animal."

Master wasn't mistaken. In fairness, though, he was referring not to the food I'd prepared for last night's meal, but to my first (awful) digital photos of that meal - manicotti stuffed with broccoli rabe and chicken sausage - taken before realizing that the plate needed to be gussied up a little for its Master's Chef closeup. Otherwise, I concur that they did look more like crime-scene footage. This was not the case when the dish emerged from the oven, still entire and smothered under a thick blanket of melted mozzarella. But all that cheese obscured the telltale ridges of the pasta, and much of the gorgeous green broccoli rabe peeking out from within. A bit of doctoring reveals dinner in all its colorful glory, though it still doesn't quite convey the delights of the homemade tomato sauce, studded with just-crunchy bits of celery and carrot, and lush with torn basil leaf.

I was concerned about overcooking the broccoli rabe, which had already endured blanching, the shock of an ice-water bath, and a quick saute, with onion, garlic and the crumbled sausage, in olive oil and white wine. So I took a chance and stuffed the manicotti, with Master's gracious assistance, while it was still uncooked. The theory being that the moisture in the sauce and the stuffing would suffice to cook the pasta through during the baking, the result was that it did come to the table just a touch underdone - about a whisper away from al dente. That's how I prefer my pasta, anyway. And Master told me he had no problem with it. Good to know. For those keeping track, one box of manicotti - 14 tubes - made for generous dinner portions and lunch-ready leftovers for two. Had mine today. Undercooking the pasta paid off, as a few minutes in the microwave brought the manicotti those few shades closer to perfection.

On my own for dinner tonight, as Master and his cat take time to recover from winter colds, so I will probably indulge in something spicy. Lillian Chou's Korean-style Warm Tofu with Spicy Garlic Sauce, as popularized by Ruth Reichl and the much-missed Gourmet gang, is a prime candidate. If you can stand the heat, I urge you to get into the kitchen and try this recipe. One of my favorites - dead easy, yet delicious.

Favoring Curries

I'd noticed that the white surfaces in Master's kitchen have yet to be stained faintly yellow by spilled turmeric powder. The counters and stove top are so pristine, one almost wouldn't know that I'd ever been there. Can't have that. Besides, ever since he spurned my too-hot Thai-style coconut curry, I've been determined to redeem the good name of the curry in his eyes. So a second curry attempt was clearly in order.

But what kind of curry? I considered a keema mattar - ground lamb and peas - though I worried that it would be severely compromised without a heap of fresh chillies. I had sweet potatoes and Japanese eggplants on hand, which suggested more of a coconut milk-based curry. Instincts and indecision led me to combine elements of both. It may not have been traditional, but it sure was tasty.

One of the things I love about making a curry is the sense of "shopping" the cupboards to pull together the perfect spice mixture. After the cumin and coriander seeds have been toasted, it's entirely up to caprice. Cloves? Sure. Fennel seed? Why not? Black cardamom? Let's be crazy. You only live once. I can't remember everything else that went into the grinder this evening - probably a handful of peppercorns, paprika, Korean red-pepper flake, a dried chili, cinnamon - but it made for a dark, robust curry powder of almost coffee-like color and intensity. I packed this into a small plastic box, with a couple of bay leaves, extra cinnamon sticks and black cardamom pods. I grabbed a bag of naan from the freezer, cilantro and Sriracha from the fridge, coconut milk from the pantry, and it was off to Master's - after a call to confirm that he still had frozen peas.

Chop, chop, dice, grate, stir, stir, simmer, wait. There's not much to relate about the cooking. So I'll digress to talk about the skillet. Master has been exceptionally generous, in so many regards, and especially where kitchen upgrades are concerned. I've learned that I have to be very careful what I mutter or mumble within his earshot. Innocent comments - "I should have brought my slippers," "I want to be buried with my Microplane grater," "This can opener isn't cooperating tonight," "We might want to look for some cheap mixing bowls next time we're out," and "There's this new Thai horror film titled P that's going to be a bitch to search for on eBay" - have resulted in a growing pile of gifts. A friend joked that Master is like a personal genie; I need only rub him and make a wish. Crass, but true.

It must have been during a recent Target excursion that I made the mistake of musing aloud that a large covered skillet, like the one I have at home, would be nice. I saw Master's ears prick up, and I immediately steered us away from the kitchenware aisle. But it turned out to be only a temporary save. A few days later, he proudly presented me with a new ... covered skillet, tags still attached. He'd been unsupervised at Wal*Mart that afternoon, apparently. And, without me there to voice my disapproval, he just had to make it one from Paula Deen's signature line! Now, we'd nearly come to blows earlier over a ceramic Paula Deen casserole - a purchase I was loath to condone, wishing in no way to offer monetary support for her inexplicable crusade to poison America with sugar and artery-clogging fats. He ended up buying the casserole and, because he liked the speckled burnt-orange finish, the skillet as well. I can protest all I want. I just can't win. It's a good skillet, I'll admit. Even if the unusually high copper content does tend to turn garlic and onions blue-green as they saute - passing strangeness that always makes me pause.

So, yes. I die a little every time I use that skillet. And he knows it. But the results are what matters, and I have no complaints. Neither did he. Master loved my chimeric curry, and especially the naan - for which neither I nor Paula Deen can take credit.

Abandoned alternate titles for this post: Curry Up and Wait, Cash and Curry, A Curry Affair