Chloe and me, we were pretty much a 21st-century urban couple of a certain type. We met at a mock Iron Chef party that some friends of friends of mine put on—I think the theme was “Battle Matzoh,” with a team of out-of-work chefs throwing down the Streit's against a crew of laid-off CNET coders. The coders were winning when I spotted Chloe in a nurse’s outfit one size too small, drinking Manischewitz shots out of a tiki mug. Well, that was it for me. I’ve always had a soft spot for women in uniform who can hold their liquor.

It didn’t take long to convince her to leave the house she was sharing with 3 roommates on Cesar Chavez and move into my place in Oakland. I had a backyard, a Vitamix, a 3-year-old Saab, room for her cat and I always put the seat down, even when she was gone for the whole day at a yoga-and-goat-cheese-making retreat.

And we were pretty much in sync around most things. We’d recently switched our coffee from Ritual Roasters to Four Barrel to Sightglass. With their roastery in Williamsburg and their farmers' market lockdown in Temescal, Blue Bottle was over, Chloe insisted, pulling her curly hair into two Dr. Seussy-looking pigtails on the top of her head, and I had to agree, although secretly, I’d been kind of looking forward to being able to get one of their insane New Orleans iced coffees to wake me up for the drive home after a Sunday of Frisbee and Tecates in Dolores Park, even when it became obvious that their generator-driven coup wasn’t going to happen.

Since we both worked in Emeryville, we got together to eat lunch together almost every other day, sharing leftover jicama-kale salad or hitting up Primos Parrilla if our supply ran low. Sometimes when she was feeling cranky I’d walk over to her office and leave a couple of cupcakes from the Cupkates truck—one for her and one that she maybe didn’t have to know about for the cute maybe-lesbian-but-maybe-not receptionist with the mermaid tattoo and the skateboard kicked up at the back of her desk.

Chloe used to be vegan in college, but like most girls, she was just waiting for someone to feed her a really good pork chop wrapped in bacon and convince her that we could be ethical omnivores together. She’s still pretty skinny though; I’d like to go in on getting a whole pig with the neighbors down the street but I don’t know what our actual capacity for jowl and trotter might be. It’s not like I’m Chris Cosentino or anything, who could probably propose to a woman with a fried calf brain and a lamb tongue and still get lucky.

So we’d had our first anniversary last month at a Stag Dinner in her friend Chicken John’s art space, down the street from the Victorian where she used to live. Pretty cool, and Chloe didn’t flinch at the oyster starter or the second course of squid stuffed with blood sausage. But now her birthday was coming up, on April 1st, and I had to come up with something to top that, without tapping into what we’re saving for going to Bali in December.

That’s when I saw it on my Twitter feed: another underground restaurant, this one by Guerrilla Greens. I hadn’t heard of them, but I figured they were probably part of the East Bay's roving, ever-shifting band of backyard-chickening, rooftop-beekeeping, front-yard-chard-growers. They made me feel old, they were so earnest and gluten-free in their muddy Carharts, foraged lemons rolling around the back of their pickup trucks. But at least a couple of these types could usually be counted on to have worked the line at Ubuntu or done a stage at Saison. I signed us up.

Ok, so maybe I should have seen something weird right then. See, they didn’t ask for an email address or a Paypal account, just my address. In fact, there wasn’t any mention of money at all, which was definitely strange, since usually these dinners are, you know, pretty expensive, especially given that the bathroom's usually down 2 flights of stairs and the main course takes three hours to come out and then it's something like three little pieces of raw goat meat in argan oil covered in flowers.

But I wanted to convince myself that maybe this was something really new. Maybe they were trying some kind of different slow-money business model with kale donated by Novella Carpenter. Not that I wanted us digging into platefuls of cougar-chomped lamb, but why couldn’t there be a new post-capitalism paradigm at work? Underground restaurant, underground biz model, right?

Until I woke up on Monday. Shower, shave, go into the kitchen to steam up an almond-milk double latte for Chloe. Except that the stove’s not there. The refrigerator is gone, too, which is okay because we stopped keeping our coffee beans in the freezer after the guy at Sightglass told us how that shocks the beans. And I usually make the almond milk myself in the Vitamix, so I still should be able to make Chloe her coffee. Except these Guerrilla Greens—and really, who else could it be?—have taken everything with a plug. The espresso machine, the juicer, the toaster, even the crockpot given to us not-really-ironically from Chloe’s mom.

There was firewood piled where the television, stereo, and Netflix envelopes had been. They’d left the iPad, which was nice, but after all, they'd need the Twitter feed to explain themselves. Even without the carefully calibrated fair-trade, shade-grown buzz I’d become so used to every morning, I was beginning to understand.

We weren’t going to their restaurant. Their restaurant was coming to us. We were becoming their restaurant. Their restaurant was inside us.

I picked up the iPad. There, on their Twitter feed, was their paradigm: THE NEW URBAN HOMESTEADING. BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

My hands were shaking. I did my yoga breathing. If only they'd left us some matches, we could still make pour-over coffee.

While I crumpled up old copies of the East Bay Express to get the fire going, Chloe came in from the backyard, a baby goat in her arms and a chard leaf caught in her pigtails.

“This..is...the…cutest…thing…I’ve..ever…seen,” she breathed, snuggling her chin between the kid’s floppy little ears. “I’m going back outside to get us some milk for breakfast.”

“But, Chloe,” I whined. “What about your lactose intolerance?” But she didn’t answer; looking out, I could see her head already tucked tightly against the furry brown side of one of the four dwarf goats wandering through the backyard, nibbling the oak branches and trimming down the blackberry brambles. "Aren't you going to be late for Hot Zumba?"

“It’s like squeezing a hairy water balloon!” she called back, as a family of quails skittered over to the compost pile, followed by three seagulls and five high-stepping pigeons. A snake lolled on one of the three discarded, empty computer monitors which were now filled with honeycomb and a swarm of slightly angry-sounding bees. A bag of clay kitty litter and a bale of straw sat in a back corner. I knew, without looking, that the next tweet would be cryptic instructions for building a cob oven.

I still need my coffee every morning, but besides that, it’s not so bad. I know what to do now. Chloe freecycled a hand-cranked coffee grinder, and we filter it through one of her old American Apparel tank tops. We’re naked now, most of the time; it just feels better, especially after a whole bunch of snails moved into the shower. We sleep on the moss under the oak tree; our futon's under the porch, growing our first crop of enoki mushrooms. Chloe says we should have our friends over for escargots in goat butter next week.

Did you know that snake makes an awesome curry? You should try it, you know. Just get on our Twitter feed. We'll tell you how.

If eating is an agricultural act, as Wendell Berry so famously said, then what better way to celebrate the connection between food and farming than at Dirt to Dining?

Jesse Cool, the down-to-earth owner-cook (don't call her a chef!) of Menlo Park's Flea Street Cafe is hosting this benefit for the Ecological Farming Association right in her own backyard--which just happens to be a bountiful edible garden on the edge of the Stanford campus.

Cool, well known for her longtime dedication to seasonal, locally-sourced and sustainable cuisine, is opening up her address book, too. On hand to nosh and chat will be dozens of organic farmers and winemakers, including those from Full Belly Farm, Frog's Leap Winery, Green Gulch Farm, Live Earth Farm, Swanton Berry Farm, Robert Sinskey Vineyards, Frey Vineyards, and more.

And of course, going along with the garden tours will be plenty of delectable food and wine. That fava-bean canapé? Probably made from beans grown by the guy sipping sauvignon blanc right next you. Never seen a fava bean in its natural habitat? It's over there, hanging on vines right next to the carrots. Dining doesn't get any dirtier than that.

Dirt to Dining: A Day in Jesse Cool's Kitchen Garden
Sunday, June 7, 2009
2pm-5pm
2150 Amhearst Street
Palo Alto, CA
Tickets: $75

Every summer I spend way too much money on cranberry beans. If you know me, you might also know that they are my hands-down, number one, absolute favorite bean. I would even go a step further and extend that statement to the entire legume family.

What are cranberry beans you ask? Well, they are not cranberries, nor beans crossed with cranberries, or even sweet or tart, or really very red. The pods are kind of mottled with a cranberry color, which is I suppose where the name comes from? Beats me. Anyway, they are shell beans, just like cannelloni, flageolet, or pintos. They grow in a pod, and you can buy them fresh or dried, but like most things, you can't beat the fresh version (however, if you do buy dried I highly recommend the excellent Rancho Gordo beans).

They taste incredible: smooth, velvety, creamy, and plump. And they are perfect in nearly any brothy soup. I often use them to make pasta e fagioli or a simple vegetable, farro, and cranberry bean soup. You can cook them with some pancetta and onion and toss them with pasta to make a simple and delicious sauce.

The freshies have a fleeting season--in the Bay Area you can find them in late summer at the farmers' market. And one thing that I've discovered about cranberry beans, is that they freeze remarkably well. So I've been known to buy very large bags of beans, and spend a pretty penny on them too, which brings me full circle.

When my mother announced recently that she was growing cranberry beans in her garden, not only was I jealous but also determined to find a way to grow them myself. Which actually turned out to be incredibly easy. All you need to grow beans are some dried beans, soil and a few little pots. I felt like I was back in elementary school, poking seeds into soil-packed egg cartons, watering them religiously, keeping them warm. Anyway, last weekend I planted them, and they are already 6 inches tall!

Here's how you do it...

Grow Some Beans

Ingredients:
1 small pot for every coupla beans you want to plant (little seedling pots or even an egg carton works fine, but if you use the carton only use one bean per cup)
Some good potting soil
2 dried beans (of your choice, but I recommend the cranberry!) per pot
Water
Plastic wrap
A cake pan or small rimmed tray that will hold all your pots
A warm sunny spot

Preparation:
1. Fill each pot with potting soil.

2. Press a couple of beans just under the surface of the soil, about 1/2-inch down. Water the soil well, and let drain.

3. Set the pots in the pan or tray and cover loosely with plastic wrap. Set the pots in a warm sunny spot.

4. Water the beans every day and keep checking them. When they start to pop up you can remove the plastic wrap and let them go! Let them grow to about 6–8 inches and then re-pot them into a bigger pot, such as a soil-filled half wine barrel (I haven't gotten to that part yet).

Good luck and happy gardening!

An update on my tomatoes: They are growing like mad! The Early Girls are taking the lead, but I have to say the Sweet 100s aren't far behind. They are all doing relatively well, but I seem to have a little tiny itsy-bitsy white bug problem. Not aphids, cause I've been flicking those off my beans. Any suggestions?

I grew up in the 1970s in Dallas, Texas, at a time when processed food was the hot new thing (think Funyuns, Cap'n Crunch and Velveeta, and the list goes on...). So you can imagine what I must have been surrounded by foodwise.

Fortunately, my mom was a foodie at heart—she baked loaves of bread, cultured her own tangy yogurt, and not only grew a good-sized vegetable garden, but maintained a healthy compost pile. She was no doubt considered "weird" for the time and the place, and I for one have never stopped appreciating her weirdness.

My mom's garden was really sweet, and gave me a whole new appreciation of fresh vegetables as a kid. I remember once she grew a cucumber that was nearly as tall as my younger brother. We were in awe. I also remember stealing plenty of tomatoes, fresh off the vine and warm from the sun. And I still think that there is probably no better thing in the world that you can eat than a freshly-plucked tomato at the peak of ripeness.

Up until now, I haven't really been in a place where I could easily grow my own vegetables. So, a few weeks ago, on a whim, I decided to buy a few half wine barrels and start my own urban garden. I managed to find 4 barrels for only $20 each with free delivery on craigslist . What a steal! Finding the soil and then lugging it up our steep flight of stairs to the front of our house wasn't quite as easy, but somehow we managed.

I have to admit I went a little overboard and bought 9, yes NINE, tomato plants and planted 3 in each barrel (I'm saving one barrel because my mom is bringing me cranberry beans to plant this weekend). If they actually work out, I'll be swimming in tomatoes, but that's ok. I love them. Especially plucked right off the vine.

How to Make An Urban Tomato Garden

Ingredients
1 half wine barrel (make sure it has a few holes drilled into the bottom)
A warm, very sunny spot
3 bricks
About 6 large handfuls of large pebbles or rocks or broken terra cotta pots
2.5 cubic feet of good-quality, preferably organic, soil
.5 cubic feet of compost
1/4 to 1/3 cup organic vegetable plant food
2 or 3 tomato plants (I chose brandywine, early girl, beefsteak, roma, and sweet 100s)
A tomato cage
A hose for watering
Gardening gloves

Preparation
1. Put the wine barrel in your sunny spot. Perch the wine barrel atop your 3 bricks so it's stable and not wobbly.

2. Get all your ingredients gathered round and put on your gardening gloves.

3. Cover the bottom of the wine barrel evenly with the pebbles.

4. Add enough soil to fill the barrel about 2/3 full. Water the soil and mix it around with your hands.

5. Add the compost and more soil, and mix them all together with your hands to make a nice, rich base for your tomatoes.

6. Water the soil again, and mix together.

7. Sprinkle the plant food over the soil and mix it in.

8. Place the tomatoes on the soil in the spot you want to plant them. Try to position them so they are evenly spaced from one another, not too close to the outer edge or the center.

9. Dig a little hole for each tomato under the spot you placed them. Remove the tomato plant from it's container (gently!) and (gently!) loosen it's roots.

10. Place the tomato plant lovingly into its hole and pat the soil around it so it feels all snug and tucked in. Water the plants again.

10. Position the tomato cage so the tomato plants can grow up and around it. You might have to tie them as they start. Make sure to water them, not too much and not too little. And give them lots of love and care, and hopefully you will get loads of flavorful, succulent, juicy tomatoes.

The pot of chives was waiting for me in Moraga. Little did I know there was an entire afternoon of wonder in store for me when I went to pick it up.

With just his hands, a shovel and a wheelbarrow, 79-year old Ze'ev Vered has shaped seven terraces of gardens and orchards. Trees bearing pistachio, quince and pomegranate push up against the golden hills. A 6-foot cyclone fence that encircles his garden, to deter the insistent deer, has long been covered with the rambling vines of eight different varieties of grapes. The paths between each hand-weeded bed switch back several times, a steep trail that leads from one beautiful, delicious plant to another.

Raised on an Israeli farm and then trained in forestry, Vered landed four decades ago in the Bay Area. He settled into insurance work to help raise his family, but much of his free time was spent building up his garden and cooking -- he handled all the savory food while his wife took care of the sweets. When he retired, Vered finally launched a business that expressed his passion: Herb Gardens by Ze'ev. He specializes in culinary herbs, helping his customers grow unique gardens that reflect their favorite cuisines, from my little chive pot to complex, professionally tended installations.

Vered treated me to a lunch: Salad Caprese with his own sun-warmed tomatoes and a lovely barley soup made from the herb-stuffed carcass of a spit-roasted turkey. After I'd had enough to eat, he walked me slowly through his garden.

Here are some highlights from my amazing tour, sprinkled lightly with Vered's salty jokes and stories:

After many years, Vered has perfected his own secret blend of soil. For example, powdered dolomite lime sweetens the mix to provide the basic pH that culinary herbs prefer.

Whenever his wife and he traveled to Mexico, they'd bring back a few pots. If you find one you like, he'll sell it to you.

Vered sequesters his newly potted plants inside wire cages for a week to protect them from squirrels, who love to dig up the plants. His plants all have well-established root systems, and as soon as you get your herb pot home, you can begin harvesting and cooking.

At one of his lectures, a skeptic kept asking Vered, "Are you sure that your plants are organic?" He answered patiently until the third time, when he couldn't help adding, "Yes, these plants are organic. And not only that, they're orgasmic -- I get a real charge out of growing them!"

Welcoming visitors at the entrance to his herb garden are pots of low-spreading, tiny-leafed Corsican mint.

The herb invites you to caress its velvety surface and then imbues your hand with its fresh, summery perfume. Someday, I'm going to have a garden path with Corsican mint growing in the cracks between stones.

The leaves of this slightly bronzed peppermint has a sharp flavor that lingers long. I could feel its menthol in my sinuses.

Spearmint has a softer, rounder flavor. Growing in this large patch is what Vered calls "Safeway mint."

A much-lauded celebrity chef, who will here remain nameless, needed fresh mint for his cooking show. Vered gets a call from the chef's assistant. "What kind of mint does he need?" Vered asks, referring to the many varieties he grows. A pause on the phone. "You know, the Safeway kind."

Three sages hold court along his retaining wall.

For the first time, I came face to face with a fresh caper. If you don't pick and pickle the small bud, it opens into a beautiful white and pink-tinged blossom.

Recently planted caper bushes that Vered hopes will soon cascade down part of his hillside.

Enough horseradish to feed a small village. Vered likes using its leaves in salads before pulling up their roots and bottling his own sauces.

Mediterranean bay, known as true laurel, has a sweeter, less harsh flavor than California bay. Here, small plants spring up from a potted tree's crown roots.

Tomatoes grow two levels down from his fruit and nut trees. Asked if he shares his fruits and vegetables with his neighbors, Vered says "Back when they used to be nice to me!"

Golden quince with their soft, delicate fuzz.

At the top of one hill, just past the plum and pistachio trees, Vered placed a bench in the shade of grape vines. He can sit and gaze across the valley. I asked him if he sat here with his wife, while she was still alive, and he smiled mischievously. "Oh yes...and sometimes we held hands."

Pistachio nuts just beginning to blush.

Over the next several months, this tiny bud will flower, fruit and ripen into a juicy pomegranate.

Vered grows a rare variety of Asian pear, the only sand pear that resembles its European cousin in shape.

Vered picked some tomatoes and plums for me to take home, and then asked if I wanted to taste some of his green tomato pickles. Uh, yes, I LOVE green tomato pickles!

The tiny, still green cherry tomatoes are tart, a nice pick-me-up after the hot afternoon sun. They're preserved in his own special brine.

To a colleague who asks for the recipe to his kosher dill pickles: "Well, first you cut the tip off each little cucumber...."

Herb Gardens by Ze'ev
Ze'ev Vered, M.S.
(510) 631-0199 (925)631-0199
P.O. Box 6486
Moraga, CA 94570

Coming back to Missouri -- the state of my childhood -- always means returning to a double life.

While I've come to terms with my family's hyphenated existence here in the Heartland, I'm only just beginning to figure out how to balance the relentless abundance of my mother's kitchen with the city's smoky, seductive barbecue.

Asian moms take it personally when you don't eat their food, even when they make more than you can humanly consume. Leaving Kansas City without eating barbecue, though, is culinary sacrilege. I've learned how to fit five full meals into one day, and still I can't fulfill both my familial responsibilities and the extensive research ("eating") that my work demands.

The first thing greeting me at my parents' home: a basket of vegetables pulled and proudly displayed just for me. If you think that CSA box is bad, try throwing away a potato your mother dug up with her own hands.

My mother doesn't have a computer, so I can confess here: I've been known to compost whole, uncooked vegetables and dump pots of soup quickly and quietly. When she asks, I make sure to say, while checking for BBQ sauce on my shirt or under my nails, how delicious everything was.

Fortunately for me, during this visit, my parents left on a trip of their own. Yesterday, I waved good-bye to my mom at the airport and then immediately called my sister for her advice: Jack Stack's? or Oklahoma Joe's?

It's a tough call. Each place has strengths and weaknesses, and only a local can offer proper guidance. Back in my day, as they say, it was mainly Arthur Bryant (for the meat) or Gates (for the sauce). This was before national attention turned each of these KC institutions into overrated marketing machines still running on fumes. Before competition cooking turned pro. Before the Kansas City Barbecue Society was around to offer not just barbecue cooking classes but barbecue judging classes.

My sister, whose ZIP code still falls inside 'cue territory, said I had to try both. But I only had time for one expedition! Back and forth we went. Did I want burnt ends or ribs? Good fries or kick-ass coleslaw? Pulled pork from heaven or beef with integrity? I couldn't decide -- I wanted it all. But when she mentioned that Oklahoma Joe's was inside a working gas station...well, that tipped the scale. I'd cross the state line for that.

A small neon pig is the only clue that beyond the gas pumps lies a working smoke pit.

Imagine a largish convenience store in which the Icee machines have been ripped out and replaced with spare tables, a few booths, a high counter for cutting meat, and a chalkboard menu.

Of the four salads offered, one actually comes without meat. Lettuce with warm pulled pork sprinkled on top impressed even this jaded pig lover.

The ribs in all their dry rub glory.

I always get long ends. Always. For those who've never ordered ribs in Kansas City, we like to divide our ribs into long ends and short ends, and maybe, if you're lucky, rib tips. The long ends are from the thin, lean, bony front part of the rack (think about the area beneath your pecs); the short ends are from the thick, meaty, fatty half (think love handles). Rib tips are the burnt edges trimmed off the racks and served to those of us who love smoky, charred, crisp bits of meat. Menus will list different prices for long and short ends, as most people are willing to pay a couple of bucks more for the short ends. As someone who loves gnawing on bones, I'm happy to pay less for my favorite cut.

The thinly sliced brisket was amazingly tender.

This time, I was tempted by assurances from my sister's husband that the beef was dream-worthy. I usually don't order brisket when I'm out -- too many disappointments and a girl learns -- but brother-in-laws are the natural experts of barbecue, so I went with a combo plate of ribs and brisket. My sister, thankfully, ordered the pork sandwich; I'd get to taste some of that, too.

Around here, pulled pork isn't topped with cole slaw. Their spicy slaw, though, is a must-try from the sides menu. I was also lovin' the fries: moist and fluffy inside, crisp and dry outside.

Like many newer barbecue places, puns proliferate, T-shirts are for sale, and sauces come wrapped in gift boxes ready to be shipped anywhere in the world. But unlike many places old and new, at Oklahoma Joe's both the meat and the sauce hold up to the test of taste.

Sauce on the table isn't really necessary, Oklahoma Joe's meat is that good, but you can add a squirt of their "Night of the Living Sauce" if you like some extra kick in your barbecue.

I couldn't finish the ribs or the brisket, so I went back to the counter to ask for a to-go box. While I was standing there I managed to order half a chicken, a quart of smoky gumbo, some baked beans and another helping of that spicy slaw.

I'm planning to live it up while my parents were away.

Back at my parents' house, onion blossoms remind me of the garden.

Oklahoma Joe's BBQ
3002 West 47th
Kansas City, KS 66103
(913) 722-3366

It's that time of year. When Bay Area markets are jumping with stone fruits. Names whimsical, actual and unpronounceable and downright silly fill signage over mysterious glowing orbs. People want to know, "What's the difference between a pluot and a plumcot, a nectarcot and an aprium? Why all the funny names? What happened to the straight up plum, apricot, nectarine and peach?"

The full answer is too wordy for this medium. But, truth be told, there are almost no fruits we eat out hand today which are their true selves in their original form. All stone fruits are hybrids of the bitter almond tree, and all have been developed by horticulturalists for hundreds of years to withstand certain weather conditions, soils and various interfering pests. And in the last one hundred years or so, farmers have been juggling/gambling with different trees in an attempt to provide Americans with what appears to be one fruit during the course of a season. The peach you eat in May is not the peach you eat in June or July. But the hope is that on each of these hot summer days, you can find, buy and eat a peach.

It's almost impossible to keep up with all the stone fruit hybrids once summer begins. They rush at us like stars in a meteor shower. Some varietals last a month, but many come and go within a week or even days! My favorite farm for stone fruit is Blossom Bluff. Ted and Fran Loewen grow dozens of varietals, oftentimes experimenting or sticking with more difficult trees and fruit to provide their customers with a delicious spectrum of complex, aromatic, texturally sensuous fruits.

It's been as big a surprise to me, as anyone else, that peaches and various plum-apricot hybrids are arriving at the farmers' market as early as this. It's May; still spring by the calendar! But here they all are, available for the picking, and in wide sweeping arrays and displays at Berkeley Bowl, Monterey Market and local farmers' markets.

Unless a farmer has stayed loyal to calling these hybrids their proper names, what you buy here will be named something different there. As of yet there's little regulation to insure names stay consistent. Train your nose and mouth to recognize new varietals. Pick fruit that has a strong scent when you go in for the smell. All stone fruit can ripen off the tree. Unless your house is very hot or humid, ripen fruit further by setting fruit on its shoulders, stem side down, until, when pressed, flesh has a bit of give. If the fruit you buy is very ripe, be sure to refrigerate it immediately.

Early fruits will be smaller and higher in acid than their later cousins. Fruit whose color bleeds right down into the stem end will ripen sweeter than those whose color is yellow or green by the stem. Look for fruit with saturated color. The sun's blush is what determines sugar in stone fruit.

But remember, some of these varietals will be gone before you can decide if you'll like them! Buy a few of each as the season progresses and jot down the name on the placard as well as the name of the farm stand. These notes will help you get a head-start on next years stone fruit onslaught.

If you have an interest in the history of these quirky hybrids, Mr. Floyd Zaiger is the first person to learn about. He has contributed more to stone fruit hybridization than any other person to date.

Short Pieces on Floyd Zaiger:

Your Produce Man
News from The Dave Wilson Nursery (where many California farmers buy these various hybrids.)

And if you are a nerdy (budding) fruit historian (pun intended) like me, you'll enjoy words written by and about the infamous David Karp, Fruit Detective extraordinaire:

California Heartland . Org
John Seabrook from The New Yorker spends a few days with our man.
Smithsonian Magazine interview.

My parents travel light, so when they told me they were waiting at the baggage carousel, I knew some food had made its way from Missouri to California. I've been treated before to freshly dug potatoes, bags of dewy herbs, a catfish with its whiskers still intact, gooseberry jam, homemade beef jerky, and a selection of Kansas City's finest BBQ sauces. As we approached the airport, I wondered what treats we'd be unpacking this time.

Before boarding that morning's plane, my mom had picked asparagus and packed them into conveniently shaped bags stashed from her newspaper delivery. Earlier in the week, when a freeze recently threatened her food supply, she'd covered her asparagus tips to insulate them from the cold. Some of the stalks were caught in the cover and curled into tight spirals. Though kinda funny-looking, they taste just as good.

As anyone who has tried to grow asparagus knows, they are a labor of love. The scraggly crowns require double-dug trenches and lots of compost-rich soil. Asparagus plants take two to three years to begin producing, and once they start sending up their shoots, they require vigilance from the gardener-cook. Reinvigorated after a winter's rest, the ground pushes out those asparagus stalks with astonishing speed. If you forget to pick your 3-inch baby tips before you head off to work, you just might find 12-inch giants when you return later that afternoon, and perhaps a flowering stalk or two by nightfall.

If you have the space, though, it's definitely worth all the coddling and cutting. I can swear to the truth: freshly harvested asparagus that hasn't traveled further than the distance of your yard (with perhaps a quick plane ride carried by someone you love) are as sweet and tender as the heart of spring.

MY FAVORITE WAY TO EAT THE YEAR'S FIRST ASPARAGUS

Roll the asparagus stalks gently in olive oil, and then sprinkle with a hint of salt and black pepper. Fire up your grill. While it heats, split a few hotdog buns, preferably the lovely egg-enriched ones from Acme Bread. It's fun to set out a selection of your favorite condiments. Some of mine include Sukhi's tomato chutney, Happy Girl's pickled peppers, basil pesto, or thin shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano.

Once your grill is hot, flash the asparagus just until they show a touch of char at their tips. I like mine with a bit of bite at their stalk ends, but go ahead and cook yours to the point you prefer. With tongs, nestle a few asparagus stalks in each of the hot dog buns. Top with your favorite dressing or condiments, or leave bare and beautiful.

Enjoy.