USA: The Asparagus Tale

. PORTLAND, Maine / TimeGoesBy / The Elder Storytelling Place / April 30, 2009 The Asparagus Tale By Johna Ferguson It happened so long ago, 1935, one would think I could finally forget it, but no, the memory of it is seared into my mind. It was the first time in my life that I had received such treatment and I was shocked. I was five years old and my father, mother, sister and I were seated at the dinner table. Sundays were always special since my father, a doctor, often was not home in time for the family dinner. The maid brought in the food for my father to put on our plates. We were having baked salmon thanks to our friendly mailman, a patient, who kept us supplied from his weekly catches. Also we were having mashed potatoes from my mother’s vegetable garden. She even made her own butter in just a small whipping jar if we could get the cream from another patient. It was during the Depression and money was tight, so patients often paid their bills with food. Then I spied the vegetables; one was asparagus, something I hated. I had never tasted it but had seen it once at one of my mother’s luncheons, the slim green stalks on an aspic salad, like a dead body lying in its own blood. But then I saw my father also dish up my favorite vegetable, fresh peas from our garden. Dinner was beginning to look better. After grace, I dug into the peas then the mashed potatoes, leaving the salmon for last. I just ignored the asparagus as I’d already had my green vegetable for the day. Once I finished my salmon, I sat and waited for the maid to clear the dishes, but she didn’t come; my mother had not rung the little bell on the table to summon her. All of a sudden I realized everyone was looking at me. “Is there something wrong?” Mother said, “Yes, you haven’t cleaned your plate yet.” I looked down at the pile of asparagus pieces. “Mother I don’t like it, and anyway I ate my peas like a good girl.” But she was firm; she told me I must at least take a bite of it or otherwise they’d all just sit there, waiting. I had dreamed of dessert, fresh lemon pie I’d seen in the kitchen, but I just couldn’t get up the nerve to taste the asparagus. Finally my sister kicked my leg under the table so hard and gave me such a terrible look I decided I’d better at least try one bite. By bite, I meant just a tiny piece but instead, my mother loaded my fork for me with four pieces. I told my father, always so kind, that I hated the look of it and also the smell. “Couldn’t I just be excused without dessert and go to bed?” But he said, “Your mother has told you what to do, I can’t change that.” I had a sudden sinking feeling, but decided it was the only way out. I didn’t even have any potatoes left to disguise its taste with. I put the entire fork-full in my mouth, chewed and gulped it down but I gagged and out came the entire lot all over the freshly ironed white linen table cloth. I just couldn’t help myself. My mother was furious, I don’t think so much at me, but at the possibly stained table cloth. She grabbed me by the arm and told me I had to sit at the top of the basement stairs until I decided that I could eat asparagus. I hated the basement, I was afraid to go down there alone out of fear of the dark corners. The landing at the top was about three feet square so I huddled in one corner, but then after she shut and locked the door, she also turned out the basement light. Truly I thought I would die. I howled and screamed, but it was no use; either she couldn’t or wouldn’t hear me. Finally the maid let me out, but warned me not to tell my mother. I silently crept upstairs and climbed into my bed and fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. Nothing was ever said about that incident, but I noticed that asparagus was never served, not even when I returned on weekends from college or after my marriage. To this day the memory is still so fresh I cannot even think of trying asparagus again. © 2009 Ronni Bennett