In spite of Mother Nature’s plan to skip spring in Northeast Iowa, May still arrived on the calendar. I waited awhile to begin poking around the asparagus bed at Heritage Farm, but this week I was hoping to find a few brave little spears. No such luck. I ended up weeding out the Creeping Charlie, some stinging nettles and remembered that asparagus is the Patron Plant of Patience.
This particular bed, planted over 20 years ago, is a testament to that fact. The story began with a letter from an Ohio gentleman in the mid eighties. He mentioned his father always grew asparagus from seed. Although it had no name he maintained the spears rivaled any commercial variety. I have a special affinity for asparagus and rhubarb (both are my spring tonics). Plus reading his claim set off my seed saving gene—I just had to request a sample.
Opening the mail at SSE, I had become accustomed to receiving small samples of seed sent in the mail in recycled creative packaging. Seeds often arrived in matchboxes, pill bottles, church offering envelopes, folded handkerchiefs and nylon stockings. But when a three-pound Folgers coffee can appeared filled with beautiful red asparagus seed, I was taken aback.
It was the summer of 1985 and SSE had its first Iowa garden in a five acre field of fertile river bottomland. I planted long rows of the seed about two inches deep and about three inches apart in sandy rich soil. The germination was slow but eventually rows of delicate ferns resembling Baby’s Breath appeared. Seeing those “nanospears” made me realize this was going to be a long process. When these seedlings were about six inches tall, I thinned them to about two inches apart. I cared for these fat toothpicks for two years. Because they were still planted too close together the crowns had to be transplanted and spaced wider apart and about a foot deep in a permanent home. By that time SSE had purchased Heritage Farm, so I dug enough small crowns to fill the current patch in front of the barn.
Normally you wait about three years before harvest after the crowns are planted, by that time they have developed a strong root system. I had already invested two years with the seedlings and lost one year for transplanting—I would be at year six before I could expect a taste of my “coffee can” asparagus.
By year six or seven we harvested only the spears that were larger than a pencil in size and had enough for a small feast. Today some 25 years later, patience has paid off, and there is a magnificent bed of “coffee-can” asparagus. After harvesting for 7-8 weeks, I let the patch go to seed. Visitors pass by the bed and always comment on the beautiful ferns with the red berries, because not many folks ever see asparagus going to seed. Birds spread the seed and I find miniature asparagus plants placed perfectly in the gardens, the delicate ferny foliage always complimenting what is growing around them. Just this morning I passed by three fat spears in the flower beds in front of the Lillian Goldman Visitor Center. I smiled knowing the “coffee can” asparagus was taking care of itself these days.
Patience does have rewards. And one comforting thing about growing older: your asparagus patch gets better.
Photo of Diane: Jim Richardson