and infect your food. Few appreciate that this is where terrestrial life begins, that it supports myriad organisms, that it is being destroyed by modern farming and that it needs our stewardship every bit as much as the giant panda.
A key principle of organic farming is to understand nature and find ways of working with it rather than seeking to dominate and replace it. This applies as much below ground as above but the ecology is even more complex and poorly understood. It is an unfortunate aspect of human nature that we distrust what we do not understand and will frequently try to control or destroy it rather than taking the time to understand and appreciate its virtues. Soil sterilisation, as practised in greenhouses and strawberry growing, is one of the most hideous abuses of modern farming, virtually akin to Nazi book burnings in its reflection of the narrow-minded ignorance of its perpetrators.
Good organic farmers, and a few conventional ones, are acutely protective of their soil, treating it with the commitment, concern and empathy normally reserved for close family members. I have seen organic farmers sniffing and even tasting their soil, and describing its virtues with familiarity and affection. A handful of healthy soil can contain millions of life forms from tens of thousands of different species, almost all benign or beneficial to us and our crops. Not only do they recycle organic matter, making nutrients available to plant roots, they also out-compete and even attack pathogenic bacteria, fungi, eelworms and slugs. Pesticides, fertilisers, animal wormers, excessive and poorly timed cultivation, compaction and poor drainage can all drastically reduce these populations, not by just a few per cent but by 10 or even 100 per cent. Imagine the outcry from WWF if anyone could see the carnage.
So if you can’t see the fungi, bacteria and invertebrates and you don’t feel inclined or qualified to taste your soil, how do you know it is healthy? Earthworms are a wonderful indicator. If you can find plenty of fat, juicy worms, you can be sure you have healthy soil; I would expect to find two to five per spadeful in our soil but I have seen soils that have grown continuous cereals for decades where you can dig for a long time without finding one. It is an uncomfortable truth that the soil would be much happier if we did not cultivate it at all and went back to being hunter-gatherers. You will find the best soils, supporting the most life, where we have been denied access: in the base of an old hedgerow, for example, the debris is naturally incorporated into the soil, and the gradation from leaf litter through fungal decay and the action of invertebrates into the soil below is seamless. The structure of the soil is invariably perfectly friable, breaking easily into fine crumbs that make me, as a grower, itch to sow seeds. Our heavy machinery, and in particular the compaction that it simultaneously rectifies and causes, is a clumsy luxury afforded by cheap oil. It is notable that during my farming career the cultivations have got deeper and deeper but the soil structure has almost invariably deteriorated. The skill of a good farmer lies in being able to get a decent crop with minimum detriment to the soil in its natural state. That requires experience, sensitivity, and occasionally listening to those moles in the basement.
Asparagus is the ultimate challenge for an organic grower. After two failures, I am saving it for a retirement project. All perennial crops (i.e. ones that come back year after year rather than being planted annually) are difficult, but the likes of rhubarb and globe artichokes at least stay where you put them, coming up in more or less the same place each year. They have the additional advantage of casting a dense foliage, which helps to suppress weeds, unlike the thin, feathery foliage of asparagus.
A weedy annual crop can be ploughed in and quickly forgotten but a good asparagus bed will keep down for eight to ten years. During that time, it will need almost constant labour to control weeds. Mechanical, inter-row cultivation is rendered impossible by the rampant root system and spreading nature of the plant, combined with the random emergence of spears. In the non-organic crop, weeds can be controlled with selective herbicides during the summer, followed by a dose of blanket, kill-it-all glyphosate once the asparagus foliage has died back in the winter. In the organic system, mulches and ground covers may help but in the end there is usually no alternative to getting down on your hands and knees.
After a few half-hearted attempts, I am ashamed to say that much of the asparagus we sell is imported from Andalusia. Two farmers in our co-op, undeterred by my gloomy predictions, have recently planted substantial acreages, so I hope that they are going to prove me wrong; mind you, I have met many organic growers who reckon they have cracked it, but when I return a few years later their beds are invariably submerged in weeds. I am tempted to say that if you want in-season, UK-grown organic asparagus, you can grow it yourself. Leave the courgettes and runner beans to us and go for a real challenge. Truly fresh asparagus justifies all the hard work, but unless you grow it yourself you are going to have to be prepared to pay through the nose for it.
Asparagus is easiest to grow in low-rainfall areas and on sandy soils, so clay loams like ours in the damp west of England are always going to be difficult. Slugs can be a problem, especially for young crowns, but at least rabbits normally give up after an initial graze, allegedly because it makes their pee smell weird (I’m not sure who worked that out).
Depending on the area, the year and the variety, picking starts in early May and runs through to mid or late June, when the crowns must be left to ensure that the plant can grow enough foliage to put energy back into the roots for the following year.
Storage and preparation
Asparagus should always be kept in the fridge and, like so many things, is best when fresh. Standing it upright in a little water will help to preserve its life. The flavour is normally most intense in the tip, becoming sweeter lower down. Smaller spears tend to be produced at the beginning and end of the season and can be slightly tougher than their fatter cousins. White asparagus is normally grown on very sandy soils by cutting the spears well below ground level once the tip breaks the surface. It is less fibrous and often sweeter.
The base of the asparagus stalk is tough, and you generally need to cut off the bottom inch or so; the point at which the stalk snaps cleanly is a good guide to where to trim. The trimmings are good for making stock, to be used in an asparagus soup or risotto.
We like asparagus best sprinkled with salt and olive oil and maybe a few thyme leaves, then roasted in a hot oven (200°C/Gas Mark 6) for about 5–7 minutes. This seems to intensify the flavour. You can also steam it, but if you don’t have a steamer, chuck the trimmed asparagus into a deep pan of boiling salted water for 2–3 minutes (more for really chunky spears), ideally with the stems in the water and the heads in the steam above. They really don’t need much more than salt, and maybe some butter and lemon, or hollandaise sauce. A real treat with a poached egg, (see Stir-fried Asparagus), or dipped in a softboiled egg.
A vegetarian alternative to the classic dish – although it has to be said that a little shredded prosciutto added with the egg lifts it to a different level. This is a good way of stretching a single bunch of asparagus to feed 4.
Serves 4
1 bunch of asparagus
350g spaghetti or linguine
4 eggs
50g Parmesan cheese, freshly grated, plus extra to serve
1 tablespoon chopped chives, basil or tarragon
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Prepare the asparagus by breaking off the end of each woody stalk and chopping the rest into 1.5cm pieces.
Cook the pasta in a large pan of boiling salted water