We bought our house in Umbria ten years ago this past summer.
A couple of months after the sale was completed the former owners, Bruno and Mayes, came over for lunch. And as the lunch lingered, as lunches in Umbria do, Bruno interrupted himself in mid-lecture on the glories of Roman pasta.
“Asparagi,” he said calmly. He got up from his chair, crossed over to the wall of our ancient wood-burning oven and snapped off a pencil-thin spear of wild asparagus that was hiding in and among the other grasses.
“It’s all over the place,” he said. “April is the time. You’ll see hundreds of contadini in the fields and by the side of the road, harvesting them. Here, taste.”
I bit off the end of the slender stalk and chewed on it a bit. It was raw, of course, and a little stringy but the taste fairly attacked me with its vibrancy. Wild asparagus is way wilder than tame asparagus.
“Just imagine,” I thought, “how it’ll make my pee smell.”
With that noble scientific quest in mind, I immediately began to search for more. I looked all around the forno, where Bruno found his and then up the hill toward the olive trees, but there were no more spears to be found.
This is a zen salad. For one thing, like meditation, it requires slowing down. Normally salad is something you throw together at the last minute. Not this one. Patience, little grasshopper. You need to marinate the tofu overnight. It's also simple and straightforward. And it requires no oil. I know what you're thinking, what does THAT have to do with being zen? I'll tell you. This is an enlightened salad. The avocado is rich enough that you really don't need any additional oil.
It was one of those days. I had run all over town doing errands when suddenly it was 5 o’clock and I remembered that the fridge was uncharacteristically empty. I got home, ran up the stairs, ran into the kitchen slightly panicked (the Mom must be fed) and saw that the 
Many vegetables take the spring spotlight: asparagus, fresh peas, and fava beans, among others. And then there a few humbler ones that fall to the wayside, like small bright-red radishes.
A few weeks ago at the farmers' market I asked for a bunch of beets. The farmer grabbed a beautiful bunch: five crimson colored globes topped with remarkably long, red stalks and large, crisp leafy greens. I could practically taste them.