A Few Things I Know About Asparagus (and A Few More That I Don't)
Rebecca Duras
Photo: Rebecca Duras
The most important bloom during the Istrian spring is asparagus, a green and spiky contrast to the gentler blossoming of wildflowers.
The species foraged here is Asparagus acutifolius, which we call šparuga. It’s thinner than popular German varieties, with more delicate yet bitter stalks. A similar plant is foraged at the same time is Tamus communis, black bryony in English, bjušt in our dialect, which is thinner and has a fiddlehead-like curve.
I don’t know much about asparagus, just as I don’t know much about about mushroom foraging, butchering a pig, or driving away curses. I can’t know because my grandmother won’t teach me. She says I have what I learn in books and that is better because she only finished four years of school and this is a hard life and who would want the skills for a hard life. But I want to know.
So I turn to research about asparagus in Istria, but I have no regional cookbooks with me in Serbia (my Istrian food comes from half-remembered recipes I am usually too intimidated to try). Internet searches mostly turn up information about gastrofestivals such as Šparugijada in Lesišćina or advertisements from restaurants about their seasonal asparagus dishes. Like everything else in Istria, asparagus has become yet another thing we can package up and sell to tourists.
What I gather from encylopedias, and what I think I know on my own, is that asparagus thrives in Istria thanks to its wet winters (a hallmark of the Mediterranean climate) and rocky soil. It also grows well in the rest of the coast, on the other side of the mountain Učka in the Kvarner region (which is culturally similar to us, though they say we talk funny, and we say they talk funny).
It grows in Dalmatia, too, an obvious fact which I sometimes forget because the plant feels so tied to Istrian and Kvarner identities. For example, music. Off the top of my head, songs that mention asparagus: Šajeta’s “Rege na brege” (“mi smo šparugaši, vegeterijanci / veli Hrvati, pravi Istrijani”) and Duško Jeličić’s “Šparuga lovranska” (“pa će zibrat sama / kemu će se dati”).
I wonder if we hold asparagus in such high esteem because it sets us apart—it doesn’t grow in continental Croatia, and we like to think of ourselves as different. A people set apart. “Pa će zibrat sama kemu će se dati” means “she will choose to whom she will give herself,” and the personified asparagus has a spiky personality as well as an appearance, just like us. It requires some effort to pick the asparagus, the same way it takes some effort to get to Istria. It is hard to get to us, even harder to be accepted by us. They did dig that tunnel, but the fee is damn expensive.
Malvazija wine, the goat, and asparagus are the symbols of Istrian identity I acknowledge. Two shared qualities: gourmandise and pigheaded stubbornness. Outsiders and the tourism board may add truffles, but at least where I’m from, truffles are not for us. Expensive to buy, expensive to find (those trained dogs aren’t cheap), off-putting and smelly. Asparagus is peasant food. You may find it in upscale restaurants, but it truly belongs in my grandmother’s pantry.
Similarly, you can’t cultivate šparuga. What you forage is what you get. And foraging is hard. Like, really hard. I thought I knew what asparagus looked like, but when I venture outside, everything just looks like nondescript green. I turn around, about to declare that there’s no asparagus here—only to see my aunt with a full handful.
Asparagus lives on rocky hilltops and precipices, in inhospitable hilly terrain. I try to follow my aunt up one path and slip, falling flat on my ass just as a car full of Italian tourists rounds the bend on the main road below. My aunt takes pity on me and offers me tips. She tells me to scan the rocky ledges, and I start at the crumbling walls around the castle vineyard. In this part of northeastern Istria, where you can see Učka towering in the distance, there are plenty of abandoned houses, castles, you name it. Not great for population growth but excellent for asparagus poking its stubborn head out. Asparagus rarely grows alone. My aunt also tells me to look out for a bush called sparužina, but I remind her that the reason I need tips is because plant identification is not my forte.
Foraging asparagus is about navigating little dangers. The terrain (don’t be a twenty-something edgelord and wear Doc Martens). The spindly branches of the sparužina scratching your hands. And snakes, who share the love of the rocks with the asparagus, the reason why experienced foragers go early in the spring, when the snakes are still hibernating.
Picking asparagus is all about timing. Leave it too late and the snakes are out. Leave it to the weekend, and the groves are picked over, my aunt grumbling about out-of-towners, city slickers, and farmer’s market resellers who take it all before the working people get their shot. Most foraging in Istria winds up in a land dispute.
Asparagus thrives in the aftermath of cool and wet winters, pushing through as the spring gradually warms up. The winters have not been very cold and wet lately, so the asparagus is often late, its emergence entwined with the snakes whose sleep is disturbed by the warm winter air. The winter droughts mean that asparagus is getting harder and harder to find each spring, and my aunt recalls walking home with armfuls of asparagus—now, she only brings back a handful.
For now, I’m happy with my meager annual haul. It’s enough to keep my pride intact. You get better at spotting the little green heads swaying in the breeze and across open fields, but mastery takes years of practice—years of spending every early spring looking at the ground. Until very recently, I spent early spring doing the New York leap: jumping over the puddles of melting snow.
My aunt hates crowds, but my favorite time for asparagus foraging is Easter. Everyone comes out between Easter lunch and dinner to avoid the post-food coma nap. Rural northeast Istria, usually empty, now crawls with people. We say hello, and I feel like part of the community.
Still, I don’t know if I’m knowlegable enough about asparagus to claim a favorite time to forage it. I’ve only done this Easter foraging two or three times. When I was a child, our visits were confined to the ever-more-scorching summers. My knowledge of the rhythm of other seasons, so important to Istrian identity, so important to agricultural communities, came second-hand, clumsily assembled through quick visits when I moved to Zagreb.
The best way to prepare asparagus is in a frittata. At least, that’s how I like it, and that’s what matters. Asparagus doesn’t keep well, but you can place the freshly picked stems in a glass of water and they’ll last a few days. For long-term use, my godmother recommends pickling. For short-term transport, cook the asparagus, then put it in a sealable plastic bag for transportation on a bus to Zagreb. Or Prague.
Or wherever they will be turned into a frittata. There is no complicated recipe that intimidates me. Just beat and season the eggs, warm up the cooked asparagus and pour the egg mixture over them, and flip. A taste of early spring, and a sense that, in my own imperfect way, I am connected to the seasons the rest of my family experiences.
