Because I was such a picky eater as a kid and gagged over nearly everything, I can always recall precisely when my feelings toward certain foods took a turn for the better. Not only that, but I clearly remember how the food was prepared, and I know exactly what I read that piqued my interest in the hated food in the first place. Yes, reading makes me hungry for food I wouldn't otherwise touch with a ten-foot fork.*

I'm not talking about such usual suspects as Calvin Trillin, M.F.K. Fisher, or Eat Pray Love, either. No, my inspirations were much weirder. For instance, Bread and Jam for Frances got me eating soft-boiled eggs when all I used to endure was scrambled; Gerald Durrell had me craving grilled tomatoes on toast; Dickens made me try plum pudding; and perhaps most importantly of all, Sweet Valley High got me into asparagus.

It was in Power Play. Wealthy and spoiled Lila Fowler is caught shoplifting to get her father's attention. The angelic, nosy, and -- as of this year -- "perfect size 4" Elizabeth Wakefield manages to come to Lila's rescue. Because of this, Mr. and Lila Fowler take Elizabeth out to a fancy restaurant to thank her for being nosy and angelic and having a gold lavaliere. Never mind that Lila eventually went back to her rich-bitchy ways. Never mind that the main story is all about "chubby" Robin Wilson losing weight, gaining lip gloss, and making Bruce Patman walk into a door -- all I took away from that book was that Elizabeth had asparagus tips at the fancy restaurant.

Asparagus tips. I kept turning the words over and over in my head. I wanted asparagus tips. Except that I didn't really, did I? My older sister and I used to go around giggle-whispering, "Asparag-ASS" whenever that vegetable came up in polite conversation. (We thought we were so clever.) I remember wishing longingly that "asparagus tips" weren't a vegetable. That it meant something else entirely, preferably having to do with meat, Doritos, or cream cheese.

Nevertheless, I finally tried it. I tried it roasted. I wallowed in the crispy, olive oil-saturated tips. I got primal and ate with my hands. I sucked the salt and pepper of my asparagussed fingertips. My longing was requited, and I was crushing hard. Asparagus is back in season and tonight I'm having my spring crush over for dinner. He needn't dress, it's nothing fancy.

Simply Roasted Asparagus

Serves 4 as a side dish

Ingredients

1 lb asparagus, tough ends snapped off
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
Salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Preparation

Preheat oven to 400°

1. Toss the asparagus with the olive oil, salt, and pepper. Roast for 8-10 minutes.
2. Serve cold with Parmigiano-Reggiano.
*(Conversely, Ramona Quimby made me despise tongue and Fig Newtons even to this day.)

California produce has slain yet another one of my Hate Foods. There were quite a few groups things I refused to eat as a kid and peas were definitely one of them. I hated the mushy, tasteless, mean little things. If I piled enough butter and salt on them, I could just swallow them down with a big slosh of water but my gag reflex still worked overtime.

Last weekend, I was picking through the produce at the Sunset Andronico's and my eyes fell on the big smooth pods of English peas. Without thinking too hard about what I would do, I started stuffing them in a plastic bag.

Once at home, I perched on a sunny stool in the kitchen and took old-fashioned pleasure in slitting the pods open with my thumbnail and rolling the pale fat peas into a bowl. A few seconds dip in rapidly boiling water and slightly longer in a shocking ice bath and my peas were ready. Firm and mouth-popping, the peas were as smooth as a freshly Botoxed baby's bottom with nary a wrinkle to be found. But what to do with them?

I pulled out the butter and salt and stared at them. Ugh, I couldn't go that route. While I love the simplicity of salt and butter when oven-roasting or steaming summer corn, in order to fully expunge my childhood memories, I definitely needed something completely different. Since the peas were already cold, I opted for a salad. Peppery watercress, slightly bitter endive, and flaked ivory shavings of salty Pecorino Romano in a light lemony vinaigrette all brought out the sweetness of the spring pearls.

English Pea Salad

Serves 4

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tablespoon Champagne vinegar
4-5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 1/2 cups shelled English peas
Three heads of Belgian endive, bruised leaves removed
2 bunches small-leaved watercress, about 1 lb
Pecorino Romano, or an aged sheep's cheese of your choice

1. Whisk the lemon juice, vinegar, and olive oil together. Add salt and pepper and taste. Adjust seasonings to your preference. Set vinaigrette aside.

2. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed pot with cold water and bring to a rolling boil. Add the shelled peas and cook for about 45 seconds. Plunge the cooked peas in an ice bath to stop the cooking.

3. Slice the endive at an angle and put the slivers in a large bowl. Add the watercress and drained peas and toss with the vinaigrette until glistening.

4. Serve the salad on individual plates and shave the Pecorino Romano over each portion. Use as much cheese as you like.

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.