Asparagus, Just When the Soul's Night is Darkest

I can now definitively confirm that spring has officially arrived.  Yesterday I picked up our first bunch of asparagus from the farm of which we are members.  Lifting it from the cooler, I raised it to the sun like the thank-offering that it is -- a tubular green holy grail the luring anticipation of which led, indeed pulled, us successfully through a winter for the record books.  Thanking the benevolent gardener whose ministrations had given rise to such a blessing, I lovingly placed the bundle on the passenger seat, concluding that the seat belt might be taking my salivary caution too far.  Already I am lamenting that it will be days before we have an evening free enough to turn the kitchen loose on it; nonetheless allowing my culinary imagination to gather its wind.  Shall we steam or saute?  Bake or grill?  Roast or simply throw up our hands in greedy impatience and indulgently eat it raw?

And can there be any doubt that Kohlrabi can be far behind?  And radishes and nettles and strawberries shortly thereafter.  All of a sudden my breathing is deeper and my pulse is slower and life, itself, begins to seem -- I don't know -- more hopeful.

At least more delicious.

Perhaps asparagus was designed by the Creator as a kind of referential call to prayer, rising out of the ground each year and pointing heavenward at almost exactly the time that we have all but given up any hope of surviving:  an emergent green finger reminding us of the source of all mercy and grace.

Butterflies may be beautiful symbols of regeneration, and an empty tomb certainly a biblical image of new life.  But it could turn out to be that asparagus spears are the real emblem of Easter. 

Hang on, then.  If asparagus now, then the days of tomatoes and peppers will surely come.  Ah!  Heavenly bliss