[CHAPTER XI]
VEGETABLES (continued)
“Earth’s simple fruits; we all enjoy them.
Then why with sauces rich alloy them?”
The brief lives of the best—A vegetable with a pedigree—Argenteuil—The Elysian Fields—The tomato the emblem of love—“Neeps”—Spinach—“Stomach-brush”—The savoury tear-provoker—Invaluable for wasp-stings—Celery merely cultivated “smallage”—The “Apium”—The parsnip—O Jerusalem!—The golden sunflower—How to get pheasants—A vegetarian banquet—“Swelling wisibly.”
It is one of the most exasperating laws and ordinations of Nature that the nicest things shall last the shortest time. “Whom the gods love die young,” is an ancient proverb; and the produce of the garden which is most agreeable to man invariably gives out too soon. Look at peas. Every gardener of worth puts in the seed so that you may get the different rows of marrow-fats and telephones and ne plus ultras in “succession”; and up they all come, at one and the same time, whilst, if you fail to pick them all at once, the combined efforts of mildew and the sun will soon save you the labour of picking them at all. Look at strawberries; and why can’t they stay in our midst all the year round, like the various members of the cabbage family?
Then look at Asparagus. The gardener who could persuade the heads of this department to pop up in succession, from January to December would earn more money than the Prime Minister. The favourite vegetable of the ancient Romans was introduced by them, with their accustomed unselfishness, into Britain, where it has since flourished—more particularly in the alluvial soil of the Thames valley in the neighbourhood of Mortlake and Richmond, ground which is also especially favourable to the growth of celery. In an ancient work called De Re Rustica, Cato the Elder, who was born 234 B.C., has much to say—far more, indeed, than I can translate without the aid of a dictionary or “crib”—about the virtues and proper cultivation of asparagus; and Pliny, another noble Roman, devotes several chapters of his Natural History (published at the commencement of the Christian era) to the same subject. “Of all the productions of your garden” says this Mr. Pliny, “your chief care will be your asparagus.” And the cheerful and sanguine householder of to-day who sows his asparagus, and expects to get it “while he waits” has ample consolation for disappointment in the reflection that his labours will benefit posterity, if not the next tenant.
The foreigners can beat us for size, in the matter of asparagus; but ours is a long way in front for flavour. In France the vegetable is very largely grown at Argenteuil on the Seine, a district which has also produced, and still produces, a wine which is almost as dangerous to man as hydrocyanic acid, and which was invariably served in the restaurants, after the sitting had been a lengthy one, no matter what special brand might have been ordered. English hosts play the same game with their “military” ports and inferior sherries. The Argenteuil asparagus is now grown between the vines—at least 1000 acres are in cultivation—hence the peculiar flavour which, however grateful it may be to Frenchmen, is somewhat sickly and not to be compared with that of the “little gentleman in Green,” nearly the whole of whom we English can consume with safety to digestion.
According to Greek mythology, asparagus grew in the Elysian fields; but whether the blessed took oil and vinegar with it, or the “bill-sticker’s paste,” so favoured in middle-class kitchens of to-day, there is no record. It goes best, however, with a plain salad dressing—a “spot” of mustard worked into a tablespoonful of oil, and a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, with pepper and salt ad lib.
Asparagus is no longer known in the British pharmacopœia, but the French make large medicinal use of its root, which is supposed to still the action of the heart, like foxglove, and to act as a preventive of calculi. In cooking the vegetable, tie in small bundles, which should be stood on end in the saucepan, so that the delicate heads should be steamed, and not touched by the boiling water. Many cooks will contest this point; which, however, does not admit of argument.