By now, you may have had your fill of simply steamed or roasted asparagus.  I haven’t yet, but I can see that day coming.

Every spring, I gorge on plump asparagus spears from the farmers markets.  I adore the grassy freshness and pure green flavor of just-cut stalks.  Nothing tastes quite so much like spring.

But somewhere along the line, I always begin thinking of the other things I might do with those beautiful spears.  This year, my thoughts turned to shaved asparagus salad.

It began with this video from Chow.  I had never really considered the idea of asparagus in the raw before, but the ribbons of shaved asparagus looked so good, they begged for a salad that made the most of their fresh flavor.

Shaving the stalks lengthwise with a Y-shaped peeler produces paper-thin strips that don’t require any cooking at all. Marinate them in a lemony vinaigrette for an hour or so before serving, and the ribbons soften, their grassy flavor mellowing into the essence of spring.

In this substantial salad, I’ve teamed the asparagus with its classic partnerss, eggs and ham.  In this case, it’s salty prosciutto and hard-boiled eggs.

Preparing the asparagus takes a little time, but the rest of the salad comes together quickly.  Lay a stalk down on the counter and proceed to peel it in layers lengthwise.  When the stalk gets very thin, you may have to raise the stalk a little on the handle of a wooden spoon to give the blade room to maneuver.    Once you have a pile of ribbons, you’re ready to go.

I’ve added preserved lemon to the dressing to deepen the flavor.  It’s a wonderful savory condiment to have waiting in the refrigerator.  If you’d like to make your own, check out this earlier post.  Mark Bittman offered an even quicker variation in the New York Times a couple of years ago.

Of course, you could always just grate some fresh zest into the dressing.  Just don’t miss the delights of raw asparagus.

I’ve yet to meet an Asian salad I didn’t like.  The sour, sweet and salty flavors in combination with crunchy textures are so intensely satisfying.  Green papaya salad, noodle salad, Cambodian shredded cabbage salad, even that old standby, Chinese chicken salad — they all get my vote.

My latest obsession is this Asian salad made with crisp radishes and fat green onions, some of the best produce of the season.  The English cucumbers grow in Watsonville greenhouses year-round, so I include them and the fresh herbs in seasonal produce, too.  Throw in poached chicken, some glass noodles, a little chile and cashews and I’m happy.

This recipe began in a terrific cookbook by the revered British cookery writer, Simon Hopkinson,  The original is semi-vegetarian.  By that, I mean Hopkinson uses fish sauce in the dressing.  Neither meat nor poultry make an appearance, however, in “The Vegetarian Option”  (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 2010).

Still, I’m a self-confessed carnivore and if I’m making an elaborate salad for dinner, I like to include a little protein to tide me over til morning.  This recipe just called out for chicken thighs poached with Asian spices.

I didn’t make the ginger syrup and sesame paste recipes that the author specifies.  Not only do fear my old food processor is not up to the job of grinding sesame seeds, but I also can’t see devoting so much energy to an ingredient of which I’m only going to use one tablespoon.

Thankfully, the juice from a jar of pickled ginger and some roasted sesame tahini made acceptable substitutes after they were dressed up with a little sugar and chile flakes.  I’m sure the originals are better but life is short, even for the food-obsessed.

What makes this salad work so beautifully is the interplay of textures, sparked by chile, lime juice and fresh mint.  Every bite has the clean, fresh flavors I crave at this time of year, when you never know whether spring or winter will show up tomorrow.  With this salad, I’m casting my lot with spring.

The “caviar” on my mind these days involves black-eyed peas, not those extravagant little fish eggs.  Marinated with chiles, onions, bell pepper, corn and tomatoes, the humble legumes are transformed into the classic Texas caviar.

This chunky salsa is a staple in the Lone Star State—a little bit Southern, a little bit Mexican, and altogether irresistible.  Countless variations have made the round of backyard barbecues and tailgate parties since the 1950s, but the original was the creation of Texas culinary star Helen Corbitt, a cookbook author who served as food consultant for Neiman-Marcus in Dallas.

I’ve been thinking about this dish ever since I made it for good luck last month.  Southern folklore says you’ll get a dollar in the coming year for every black-eyed pea you eat on New Year’s Day.  Inflation has sort of reduced the fiscal return on that deal, I’m afraid.  I can’t eat enough peas to make a difference in my bank balance, but it still makes me feel good to uphold tradition.

Super Bowl is my excuse for sharing it now.  I don’t care much for football, but I do like the snacks.

This recipe updates the original, with home-cooked peas rather than canned, and adds tomatoes and corn kernels for color, texture, and fresher flavor.  I’ve reduced the oil a little, too.  It would be a guilt-free indulgence if I could just pass on the tortilla chips. But we all know that’s not likely.

Don’t be put off by the idea of cooking the peas from scratch.  There’s nothing to it.  They don’t require soaking in advance and cook more quickly than you would imagine—usually about an hour of untended simmering.  Or you can throw them in a slow cooker (after soaking) for 3-4 hours on high.

The cooking time will depend on how dry the peas are. When they’re tender to the bite, they’re done.  Just remember not to add salt until the end of the cooking time since it is thought to make beans tough.

Alternatively, just open the cans.  I found cans of organic black-eyed peas at Whole Foods that were quite good and not too salty.

Even with canned peas, this salsa would be the star of any casual get-together.  Say, a Super Bowl party?

The poor radish gets no respect in America.  We take it for granted, barely registering its crisp snap and remarking only when it gets a little too spicy for comfort in the scorching hot days of summer.  It’s merely the supporting actor in the garden salad, the splash of color on the crudité platter.

The French, however, have long appreciated the humble roots for their satisfying texture and gentle bite, serving them with sweet butter and sea salt.   Asian cooks treasure the more pungent varieties for pickles and stir fries.

I say it’s time to give radishes their due on this continent.    They’re the stars in this winter salad, which makes the most of what’s in season right now.

Although radishes are year-round vegetables in Northern California, they like cool weather.  They’re at their crunchy best right now with none of the bitterness that sometimes marks summer radishes. Any of the many varieties should work well for this salad.  I used the common red radishes with bright white flesh, which are easy to find.

The English cucumber they’re paired with is a hot house product at any time of the year.  I get mine from the Nagamine family, who grows them in Watsonville greenhouses and sells them at local farmers markets.

Inspiration for the salad came from Nigel Slater’s “Kitchen Diaries” (Gotham Books, 2006).  I made some key alterations, though, substituting lemon juice for red wine vinegar, introducing a bed of peppery arugula and omitting the feta cheese.  Feta is nice, but not essential to the salad.  Feel free to crumble some on top if you have it on hand.

One bite of this salad and you’ll feel like spring has arrived ahead of schedule.

One of the best gifts I received over the holidays was an introduction to this kale salad. I spotted it in the deli case when I was shopping at my local natural foods store a couple of days after Christmas and bought a quarter pound on a whim.

It was an instant hit.  My family and I began nibbling on little bits of sesame seed flecked Kale right out of the carton as soon as we got home and it never made it to the dinner table.

With all the crunchy textures and savory Asian flavors, the dish reminded me of the seaweed salad I always order at sushi bars. Most of the ingredients were readily identified—raw kale, red onion, sunflower sprouts and a trio of pumpkin, sunflower and sesame seeds. I wasn’t sure about the dressing, though.  It tasted a lot like soy sauce, yet not quite.

After New Year’s, I contacted Naomi Dresser at New Leaf Community Markets, a small chain of natural foods grocers in the Santa Cruz area.  The Coastal Kale Salad is one of the store’s favorites, Dresser said, and she was happy to share the ingredients. But New Leaf does not give out recipes.

A web search, however, brought up several mentions of a kale salad with very similar ingredients in “Esalen Cookbook,” by Charlie Cascio (Gibbs Smith, 2006). I used that recipe as a guide for some of the proportions in mine.

The mystery ingredient turns out to be Bragg’s Liquid Amino, a soybean based condiment long favored by health food advocates.  I don’t have any on my shelves, so  I’ve used tamari, a mellow cousin of soy sauce that is derived from miso paste.  Its salty, savory character gets a lift from the lemon juice and olive oil in the vinaigrette.

Although any variety of kale would work in this salad, I like it best with Tuscan kale, known as cavolo nero in Italy.  The leaves are more tender and the flavor a little more mellow than ordinary curly kale.

They’re also easier to handle.  You just fold each leaf lengthwise and strip it from the center stem.  Stack the leaves in thick bunches and slice them crosswise into narrow ribbons, which tenderize more quickly in the lemony dressing.  To speed up the tenderizing process, you also can squeeze and massage the leaves vigorously for a couple of minutes after pouring on the dressing.

Or just let the dressed leaves stand for half an hour or so before serving.  Unlike most salads, this is better when it’s made ahead of time.  The leaves get softer but don’t wilt.  So it’s even good after a night in the refrigerator.

Kale salad is going to be a regular on my dinner menus this winter.

I’ve begun to dread any recipe that starts with cutting up a winter squash.  Every time I slice open a butternut squash, I worry that I’m either going to break a knife blade or slash a finger before I’m done.  Kabocha squash, which I love, is even more of a challenge.

So it was a pleasant surprise when I sliced into a delicata squash for the first time this year.  The knife just slipped right through the thin skin and tender flesh.  The heirloom squash didn’t even require peeling.

The flavor was wonderful, too — a little milder than butternut, but sweet and rich with a creamy texture.  It’s ideal for this beautiful salad I found in one of my favorite new cookbooks, “Eat Good Food,”  by BiRite Market owner Sam Mogannam and Dabney Gough (Ten Speed Press, 2011).

The combination of roasted squash and fingerling potatoes with peppery arugula, pomegranate seeds and Parmesan is as delicious as it is colorful.  I’m planning to serve it with a pork roast for Christmas dinner.

The delicata squash looks a bit like a reverse image of its summer cousin, the zucchini.  It’s sausage-shaped and rather small with green stripes on yellow skin.  The flavor is so nice, it needs little embellishment.  Roast the slices with a little olive oil and salt until the edges begin to caramelize and  you’ve got a great side dish .

For this recipe, the squash and potatoes are sliced fairly thin for quick roasting.  Then they’re tossed with the arugula and pomegrante seeds in a vinaigrette made with champagne vinegar and shallots.  A dish this substantial could be served as a vegetarian entree but I think of it as salad and starch in one.  Just add protein, bread and a nice wine for a complete winter’s feast.

California olive oil has held a place of honor in my pantry ever since I attended my first olive oil tasting in 2006 and discovered an emerging community of producers in the Golden State.  It’s a key  ingredient in this great quinoa, pistachio and cherry salad, which I’ll get to later.

Five years ago, the best-known California oils were produced by small growers raising Tuscan varieties for artisanal oils with high prices.   I saved them for special dishes and salad dressings.  For everyday cooking, I still relied on supermarket brands of extra virgin oils from Italy.

That changed when I tasted my first mass produced oil from a large California grower that uses modern methods of harvesting and pressing. Here was a fruity, fresh tasting oil at a price low enough for everyday use.  Imported oils were banished from my shelves.  Most probably don’t meet strict international standards for extra virgin oil, anyway, according to a University of California, Davis study released last year.

My olive oil education took another step forward last week, when I was invited to experience the harvest at California Olive Ranch in Artois, nearly 100 miles north of the state capital in the heart of the Sacramento Valley.  The Ranch was a pioneer in the U.S. when it planted its first high-density orchards of semi-dwarf olive trees on 75 acres near Oroville in 1999.  It followed a modern Spanish model for planting trees along trellises and harvesting them mechanically, similar to the way wine grapes are handled.

Today, the company is the biggest olive oil producer in the nation and its moderately-priced oils are sold in supermarkets and specialty grocers from coast to coast.  It grows Spanish and Greek varieties of olives on three ranches with a total of 5,000 acres in addition to contracting with other farmers for fruit grown on more than 5,000 acres.  Its olives go from tree to extra virgin oil in a few hours, thanks to high tech mills. Every truckload is tracked from ranch to bottle.

I jumped at the opportunity to tour the orchards and see those mechanical harvesters in action — not to mention taste oil fresh off the tree.  The harvest starts in early October, when the olives begin to hit their peak oil content, and continues into November most years.

From a distance, the Artois orchard looks like rows of neatly trimmed hedges stretching toward the horizon.  Only when you get closer is it apparent that the hedges are actually closely planted trees, their tops trimmed flat at about seven feet tall, arranged in rows about five feet apart. Some 650 trees are planted per acre compared with 125 in traditional planting patterns.

Ungainly yellow harvesters, looking for all the world like sheds on wheels, roll up and down the rows at the pace of a brisk walker.  As they pass over the rows, the machines squeeze and shake the trees, harvesting all but a few olives without breaking the branches.

As a treat, ranch manager Adam Englehardt offered five other bloggers and me a chance to ride on one of the harvesters.  It was noisy, dusty and great fun to watch the olives collect in bins then move up a conveyor belt to be dumped in a trailer traveling alongside in the next row.

“It’s still a pretty new technology and it’s still being refined,” says Englehardt, who notes that only three varieties are suitable for this process now.  They’re the Spanish Arbequina and Arbosana varieties and the Greek Koroneiki.

Once they’re picked, the olives are rushed to the nearby mill, where they’re washed, sorted and pressed.  The oil emerges from the press in a brilliant green stream before being piped to 55-foot tall stainless steel tanks, where it settles before bottling.  It’s never filtered.

Much of the oil is blended into the company’s Everyday California Extra Virgin Olive Oil or the Miller’s Blend, which won best of class in the Armonia Olive Oil competition in Italy.  The rest goes into single variety Arbequina or Arbosana oils.

The majority of the olive oil pressed last week won’t see market shelves until next March.  The exception is a small Limited Reserve bottling of new oil—the olio nuovo prized by Italians — that will be shipped later this month.   In our tasting, the new Arbequina oil was grassy and fresh with a nicely aggressive pungency — that tingling sensation you sometimes get at the back of the throat when you taste extra virgin oil straight up.  If you’d like to try it, you can sign up for the waiting list.

My favorite of the standard bottles is the Arbosana, a complex oil with citrus undertones and a peppery kick.  It was perfect for the salad, pictured above, that I was tipped to by Kirsten Wanket, the California Olive Ranch’s marketing manager.

The recipe comes from Fran Gage’s “The New American Olive Oil” (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 2009) and it more than lives up to Kirsten’s billing.   Gage toasts the quinoa before cooking, which brings out layers of flavor I’d never before found in the tiny South American grain.  My only change was substituting the dried cherries I had on hand for the dried cranberries in the original.  Both bring a bright, tart note to a salad that only gets better as it sits in the refrigerator for a day or so.

One of the delights of shopping at the farmers market is the baby lettuce I’ve been getting from Blue Heron Farms.  These small heads of Little Gem lettuce look like miniature romaine. They’re just as crisp and crunchy at the heart, too, but the leaves are tender and sweet.

Lettuce this good cries out for a simple treatment.  It should be the star of the salad bowl.

I’ve been serving it in a Caesar with a garlicky dressing made with Greek-style yogurt in the place of eggs. Normally, I don’t like to mess with classic recipes. But Caesar salad has been subjected to so much interpretation that I don’t feel too bad cheating on the dressing as long as the end result is as good as this one.

It’s not that a traditional Caesar dressing is that hard to make, but I’d rather not use raw eggs and barely coddling them is a little tricky.  A moment too long in the simmering water, and the yolks get too firm to whisk with the oil.

Yogurt solves that problem.  It also reduces the fat in the dressing and makes a nice emulsion. The key is to use non-fat Greek-style yogurt, which has the right texture, neither too thick or too thin.  It’s fairly easy to find in ordinary supermarkets now.

The dressing whirls together in a blender or food processor in no time.  I like it with the traditional anchovies, although Asian fish sauce is a good substitute in a pinch.  If you absolutely cannot abide the taste of salty fish, however, add a bit more Worcestershire sauce.

Use just enough dressing to lightly coat the salad.  You don’t want to obliterate the great fresh taste of the lettuce.

Real barbecue is the antithesis of grilling.  There’s nothing quick and easy about it.  To properly cook a pork shoulder over smoldering coals for hours until its tender, moist and humming with smoky flavor takes patience and attention to detail.

So it’s no wonder we only pull out the smoker now and then.  Every time, we bite into pulled pork straight out of the smoker, though, we regret that we don’t do it more often.

It’s hard to beat the taste of well-marbled pork cooked until the outer layer becomes deep brown and crusty.  Pile it on a bun with tangy, crunchy cole slaw and life doesn’t get much better.

This is a can’t-miss dish for a party.  And just the thing for the waning days of the summer vacation season.

The recipe is an adaption of  The Renowned Mr. Brown from Cheryl and Bill Jamison’s “Smoke & Spice” (Harvard Common Press, 2003).   We use a Weber Smoky Mountain vertical water smoker, known affectionately by its fans as the Bullet. It’s solidly built, and the heavy metal body holds heat well.

However, it’s also possible to smoke the pork on an ordinary charcoal grill using the indirect method. Barbecue guru Steven Raichlen explains the technique here.  The critical elements are low, even temperatures and time — 6-10 hours of time.

And of course, there’s the all-important question of sauce and cole slaw.  I prefer the South Carolina mustard sauce I found in ”Steven Raichlen’s BBQ USA” (Workman, 2003) and the creamy, vinegar-laced slaw from ”Thrill of the Grill” by Chris Schlesinger & John Willoughby (Morrow, 1990)  Put them all together and you have a sandwich you’ll never forget.

Sure, real barbecue takes time and effort. But it’s worth it.

I can’t go on vacation without a book tucked into my bags.  Even the most exotic destination requires a good read for the plane or those odd hours between excursions and dinner.

Since I can’t go for long without thinking about my next meal, either, a food book is always a great choice. This year, my nominees for the best summer food reads include a new look at the life of M.F.K. Fisher, a beautifully written chef memoir, and an inspiring diary of gardening and cooking from one of Britain’s best food writers.

“An Extravagant Hunger,” by Anne Zimmerman (Counterpoint, 2011) and “Blood, Bones & Butter,” by Gabrielle Hamilton (Random House, 2011) are portable enough to carry in a beach bag.  They’re fascinating stories of lives shaped by food, cooking and a hunger for love and meaning.

“Tender,” by Nigel Slater (Ten Speed Press, 2011) is fairly bulky and better suited for a week or two at a country cottage, preferably with a farmers market nearby.  It practically demands that you get into the kitchen and cook after reading Slater’s loving descriptions of his London vegetable patch and the dishes he prepares from his produce.

“An Extravagant Hunger: The Passionate Years of M.F.K. Fisher”

Even though I have read and loved almost everything ever written by the venerable M.F.K. Fisher, I’ve always felt I missed something just beneath the surface of her words. While her writing is intensely personal and sensuous, it often skips lightly over important events, among them the failure of her first marriage.   Zimmerman fills in the blanks with finely researched detail in her excellent biography.

Some of Zimmerman’s conclusions about what went wrong after Mary Frances Kennedy married Al Fisher in 1929 are speculative at best.  Still, the story she has extracted from Fisher’s letters and personal papers  reveals the extent to which the woman who paved the way for modern food writing was shaped by her longing for intense emotion.   Anyone who wants to learn more about the elusive personal life of M.F.K. Fisher should read this book.

“Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef”

Gabrielle Hamilton, on the other hand, leaves very little to the imagination in her memoir.  Hamilton, who was named Best Chef: New York City at the James Beard Awards in May, is a gifted writer who doesn’t hesitate to discuss killing chickens, snorting cocaine and stealing from the boss, or cheating on her lesbian lover with an Italian doctor she later married so he could get a green card.

What sets this book apart, though, is not just the unflinching honesty.  The language is powerful and the narrative nicely structured. Hamilton earned an MFA in fiction writing from the University of Michigan between stints at the stove and it shows on every page.  The writing is so wonderful, even people who aren’t interested in food will find themselves sucked into Hamilton’s gritty world.

“Tender: A cook and his vegetable patch”

The best vacation I could imagine would be to visit London and have Nigel Slater feed me. I’ve been entranced by his lusty, no-fuss approach to cooking since I first spotted “Real Food” (Harper Collins UK, 1998) in an Edinburgh book shop.

Since that vacation is not in the cards, I’ll settle for his latest book, which zeroes in on vegetables in all their glory.  Slater’s story of planting a garden behind his urban terrace house and tending his crops is as engrossing as a novel and it nurtures my dreams of growing my own produce  once again.

Take this little treatise on growing tomatoes as an example:  “A tomato’s character is enhanced by a rough life, a certain negligence, a gasping thirst, and the occasional drenching downpour.  Pamper a tomato, overfeed it, overwater it, and you will get a Paris Hilton of a tomato.  The rougher time it has, the more ugly its appearance, the more interesting it generally is.”

The recipes that accompany Slater’s discourse on vegetables are just as compelling.  This savory dressing for tomatoes is destined to become a summer standard at my house.