my farmer father would say whenever things went wrong. In fact, in our family all of us—even the nonfarmers—still use that phrase in the context of bad news. But sometimes when the corn sprouts on time or the chickens really fill the egg basket or I catch my daughter slopping hogs while wearing a ballerina outfit, I say, “Well, that’s farmin’.” And I say it with a smile. ASPARAGUS Back home on the farm the last of the asparagus has been picked and the remainders are going all frazzled. Lilacs come and go pretty fast, but once the asparagus calls it a day you know summer is running full bore and spring is filed solidly under “Memories.” I cherish that asparagus patch—for the asparagus, sure, because I like asparagus. If you’d have told me when I was fourteen that I would like asparagus, I’d have said you needed to get your brain recalibrated. I used to view it with suspicion when it appeared each spring between the two silos out behind the barn, and with low-level dismay when it appeared in a bowl on the kitchen table.
