Seems like astronomers are continually finding new moons flitting about Jupiter, thirty-something at the last count. Saturn too has a zeal for moons hidden in the rings of that very playful looking planet. The precedence for naming of these new moons is after the gods of Rome and Greece, happily there is a surplus, which leads one to think the business about monotheism is a backhanded attempt to void the childhood task of memorizing, in alphabetical order all those gods, and their application to some household chore. How nice for someone to simplify this to convenient monotheism, if it does suggest some tendency to dullness.
The reason this comes to mind is asparagus, ‘tis the season after all. As others celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah, Thanksgiving and Easter, it is my personal custom and entirely religious rite to praise asparagus. The way I see it, orthodoxy, if not religion itself, is the creation of the village personality, fabricated by the townies or the same mind-set as created the I-system, billboards, and the passing lane…they who developed monotheism and the notion of heaven being elsewhere. Not here, certainly not now.
On personal option I ascribe to the Church of Asparagus. It is not a big church, it has no martyr, no book either but it does have an Eden and a lot better supper than the competition. Its canonical event occurs in the moon of May. My first picking was on May 6th, at a spot known only to me if alas one other unfortunate who is buried nearby. The grass has benefited by his trespass. According to my grandfather this the secret of great grass, not granular fertilizer, not manure, but a dead body buried nearby. A cat will do, a road-kill chicken, a surplus of puppies. This to provoke the kind of asparagus that rises out of the ground like the horn of a rhinoceros and about as big around. The other secret of grass, my grandfather said, was that females ought not, he meant collect it, as asparagus rising out of the ground the way it does is pretty darn adult.
The holy way of asparagus, as I was taught authorized bacon, scrambled eggs; the asparagus stirred in, small bits slightly boiled. I have observed that it is a worthy gospel. After a like breakfast on Sunday morning I no longer feel the need to go to kirk. Having gathered the grass when the morning was hushed and most worshipful, when I and cardinal both had the hour and the planet to ourselves. The dew heavy, I wet to my knees, wearing my slouch hat and canvas coat, I feel no need to creep closer to the gods than this.
The best asparagus, the absolute, ultimate nadir of asparagus isn’t with scrambled eggs, isn’t slathered with cheese, truth is I would eat cardboard so slathered. The penultimate way of asparagus is soup. Sorry grandfather, you read that right. Take the best and tenderist, the beautiful, prideful, luscious, licentious, leering, lustful asparagus…atomized it in the blender. My grandfather had no such device so he could offer no recipe. The most perfect asparagus ever, I say this in some initial disbelief. I who adore scrambled eggs above other things, toss in a few fried potatoes, a dash of catsup, then new asparagus on the side. Holy cow. Divine or close by. The soup however is pretty close to hallowed ground, asparagus smashed to bits by that kitchen dynamo. If only the blender had a motorcycle throttle on it instead of pre-set buttons I’d consider it a device worthy of manhood. The buttons favor the female sense of decorum who think unwell of revving the engine.
It was stormy last night, the wind gusting, I had been to the marsh field all day and looked it. She called to me as I washed up not to let the water out, she’d let the soil settle out and use it to fill her flower pots. I think she was kidding.
We had asparagus soup, the color honestly is disagreeable, the same hue as surgical scrubs. As makes it easier to die if they muck up the operation because who can stand that color. There probably is a reason the best soup in the local universe is ugly to look at. Relevant theology works that way.