Charles Lamb
There are few days of the year unmarked by the liturgical calendar that have the annual capacity to inspire in me feelings of joy unencumbered by guilt.
One such is the day I eat the first english asparagus of the season. Today is that day.
I must have been about eleven when my father brought in the first spears from the asparagus bed it had taken him years to establish. Forty seasons on I still recall the astonishment I felt that anything, never mind a vegetable, could be as wonderful.
Last year's season was woefully short - about three weeks. This year the current April showers should ensure it's nearer the eight to which I feel oddly entitled.
You will know from the gentleness (or otherwise) of thoughts expressed here whether that is so.
No comments:
Post a Comment