This is the season when I want cheeses. I mentioned a long time back that I make cheeses, or rather, that I have occasionally made cheeses. Oddly enough, now is the time when I want to start that little impractical hobby of mine back up again. Bad timing, if you ask me, seeing that I’m soon going to be itching to be outside digging in the dirt and will not have time, or patience, to stand by the stove watching milk curdle.

It’s also impractical because it makes no sense to make your own cheese if you do not own a cow. Cheese-making evolves out of a need to use up excess buckets of white frothy milk, and I don’t see a single, solitary bucket of milk lurking in the corners of my kitchen. At three-something for a gallon of commercial milk and seven dollars for a gallon of raw milk, not to mention the cultures and rennet and wax and cheese cloth and hours spent, homemade cheeses are almost worth their weight in gold.

The two wheels of Parmesan that have been curing in my basement came of age, nine months of age, on April first. I had been excited to cut into them but now that the date is here I’m kind of scared. The cheese will probably be moldy inside its red wax casing. It’s much more impressive to say that I have two wheels of Parmesan aging in my basement than to say that I made a couple wheels of Parmesan and they sat in my basement for eleven months, rotting.

I don’t want to open the cheeses when I’m feeling at all vulnerable or susceptible. If they’re rotten I may need to go back on Lexapro, start running, and cut out coffee. Oof. Now I really don’t want to cut open those cheeses. Just thinking about it makes me want to start popping antidepressants again.

But, it’s sunny outside, so regardless of my emotional state of being (for the record, in the throes of some wicked PMS), I’m going to break open this cheese. If it’s bad I can just turn tail and run out to the garden to plant the radishes.

Here’s the cheese. As you can see from the label, I’ve been waiting for a loooong time.

Now to cut it.

Um, this is some really hard cheese. Maybe I’ve unwittingly made myself a wheel of Parmesan rind instead of Parmesan cheese. Excuse me while I put the camera down so I can use both hands.

(Insert much straining and pushing, incredulous, high-pitched laughing, and an unnerving amount of knife-slippage.)

Still a no-go. This block of cultured milk is tougher than a hunky-lunky pumpkin. Time for my largest, heaviest knife.

I still can’t do it! This is impossible! Hi-yah!

Whew. There.

I’m breathing like I just did fifty push-ups.

Now for a taste: Chew-chew-chew..gulp.

Wow! The flavor is, like, excellent, man! Like, like …. Parmesan!

But wait—the texture isn’t quite right. Oh no! The texture isn’t anything like cheese. It’s like, like …. rubber. Twang-ang-ang.

Congratulate me, folks. I aged myself a wheel of Rubberized Rind of Parmesan.

It’s not too bad when paired with hard pretzels. (Work with me here. I have PMS. I must stay positive, or else.) The flavor is really quite good—better than other hard cheeses I’ve turned out—salty and mildly sweet.

And really, really chewy.

Oh dear. I think it’s time to go plant the radishes.

I picked the first asparagus yesterday afternoon. There wasn’t much, just enough for Mr. Handsome and me to each have a serving (we told the kids they couldn’t have any; half-hearted reverse psychology that didn’t work).

When the asparagus pops up I feel like shouting with happiness “Now we won’t die of scurvy!” Because my basement is still well-stocked, despite my best intentions, with oodles of canning and freezing, I think this asparagus-induced relief must be some sort of primal response that all people have: Green things in the spring make us feel that we can go on.

I ran down cellar and brought up three trays of canned goods to restock our jelly cupboard. I’m attempting to be ruthless with the consumption of our jar-ed produce. It’s easier to fight my hoarding instincts when there is asparagus.

In her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, Barbara Kingsolver says all sorts of notable things about asparagus, my favorites of which are:

*Contrary to lore, fat spears are no more tender or mature than thin ones; each shoot begins life with its own particular girth.

*Older, healthier asparagus plants produce chunkier, more multiple shoots. Underneath lies an octopus-shaped affair of chubby roots (called a crown) that stores enough starch through the winter to arrange the phallic send-up when winter starts to break. The effect is rather sexy, if you’re the type to see things that way. Europeans of the Renaissance swore by it as an aphrodisiac, and the church banned it from nunneries.

*The earliest recipes for this vegetable are about 2, 500 years old, written in ancient Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphics, suggesting the Mediterranean as the plant’s homeland.

*Asparagus even inspired the earliest frozen-food industry, in the first century… all so it could be served with a big ta-daa at the autumnal Feast of Epicurus.

*It’s best eaten the day it is cut, period …. The fresh stems have the tight, shiny sex appeal of dressed-up matrons on the dance floor of a Latin social club, but they lose their shine and crispness so quickly when the song is over. The sweetness goes starchy.

*It’s distinctive tang derives from glutamic acid, which Dr. Ikeda named “the fifth taste,” or umami.

*Europeans celebrate the short season of abundant asparagus as a form of holiday. In the Netherlands the first cutting coincides with Father’s Day, on which restaurants may feature all-asparagus menus and hand out neckties decorated with asparagus spears.

Skillet-Blackened Asparagus

asparagus, washed, trimmed, and cut into two-inch spears
butter
salt

Put a cast-iron skillet (should be big enough so that it will hold all the asparagus in one layer) on the stove and turn the burner to medium-high heat. When the skillet is hot, add the butter (don’t be shy) and scrape it around until it has melted.

Add the asparagus, spreading it out to cover the skillet’s bottom. Allow it to cook for a minute or two before giving the first stir. Salt liberally.

Keep an eye on the asparagus, giving it an occasional stir or shake until it is no longer watery (the water comes from the asparagus itself—do not add any) and the spears are partially blackened.

Serve immediately.