I’ve been doing that slow walk past the asparagus in the store lately. You know the one where you casually walk by, feigning indifference, while giving the object of your affection the side-eye? I used to save this sort of behavior for attractive dudes, but now that I’m a grown-ass married woman, I freely use the same tactic on produce.
On one recent weekly shopping trip I realized that the asparagus did indeed look good enough to pick up
on. I had been dreaming of asparagus risotto ever since I read Elizabeth’s post describe it tasted like “sunshine and springtime.” I’ve made risotto several times, but I always stick to a wild mushroom variety. Tender asparagus was reason enough to branch out.
Did I ever tell you my Grandaddy grew up on a farm in the Delta that grew asparagus? It has a special place in my heart.
I deviated slightly from the recipe E posted. Because I’m a deviant. And because I already had pinot grigio instead of vermouth, and I didn’t want to add basil to my puree. Shallots, instead of onion. And I added more cheese, because well, obviously. Any glasses of wine I may have had during the cooking process were purely medicinal. I assure you.
The puree looked so lovely I took a dramatic picture of it. It’s the asparagus version of a Glamour Shot. It’s totally posting this photo on its Facebook. Also whenever I think about the word “puree” I always think about the pea puree debacle on Top Chef. Anybody else have this problem? No? Carry on.
There’s something satisfying about dumping incredibly delicious ingredients on top of the pale, buttery risotto.
There’s something even more satisfying about stirring it all together.
Ta da! The natural light was all gone when I was done so you’ll have to excuse the overhead lighting. Anthony, Isobel and I all ate huge greedy platefuls. Isobel, who’s had a complex love-hate relationship with rice, adored it and chomped on the asparagus tips until they were indistinguishable. I was going to freeze some of the leftovers and make risotto cakes with the rest, but alas, the leftovers were too good and we ate them all up before I had a chance.
I loved it so much I made up a new phrase for it, OMFN: Oh My Fucking Nom.