Asparagus with Fresh Basil Sauce

Mid-June. The international project continues: Mexican elote with miso-butter. The corn is grilled, the miso-butter is slathered on hot, the lime juice is squeezed, the cotija cheese is crumbled. The result is Mexican street corn with a Japanese depth, the umami of the miso adding a dimension that the original (already perfect) did not have but does not reject. The miso does not dominate. The miso collaborates. The collaboration is the principle: when you add miso to something, you are not adding "Japanese." You are adding depth. The depth is Japanese. The depth is universal. The depth is Fumiko, standing behind you, nodding.

Miya ate the elote and said, "This is the best corn I've ever had," which is the review that matters, the review from the person who eats the food, not the person who writes about it. The best corn she's ever had. The miso did it. The collaboration did it. The hyphen did it.

I visited Ken in Sacramento. The garden is in full summer production — tomatoes, eggplant, the shiso towering. Ken and Marco work together in the mornings, before the heat, and the work is slow and careful and productive. Ken's tremor is visible but does not stop the planting, the way the rain does not stop the cooking, the way the anxiety does not stop the writing. The thing continues despite the obstacle. The continuing-despite is the Nakamura way. The obstacle is noted. The continuing is the response.

I cooked for Ken all weekend. Fumiko's recipes. The menu was a memorial: miso soup, nimono, tamagoyaki, onigiri, gyoza. Five dishes, five prayers, five ways of saying: your mother is still here, in the food, in my hands, in the kitchen you remember, the kitchen that smelled like dashi and soy sauce, the kitchen where everything was precise and nothing was wasted and the food was love and the love was the food.

Ken’s garden was overflowing that weekend — the shiso towering, the eggplant heavy on the vine, and the asparagus catching the early morning light while he and Marco worked before the heat set in. I had come to cook Fumiko’s recipes, the memorial menu, but the garden kept offering things too, and I kept accepting. This asparagus dish, dressed simply with a bright fresh basil sauce, felt like the right companion to that weekend: nothing wasted, the vegetable at the center, the sauce there to add depth without taking over — the same principle as the miso, the same principle as everything I learned from her.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 8 min | Total Time: 18 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs fresh asparagus, tough ends trimmed
1 cup fresh basil leaves, packed
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 small clove garlic
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 teaspoon salt, plus more for blanching water
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon toasted pine nuts (optional, for garnish)

Instructions

Blanch the asparagus. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the asparagus and cook for 3–4 minutes, until just tender and bright green. Transfer immediately to a bowl of ice water to stop cooking. Drain and pat dry.
Make the basil sauce. Combine the basil leaves, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, Parmesan, salt, and pepper in a blender or food processor. Blend until smooth, scraping down the sides as needed. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Arrange and dress. Arrange the asparagus on a serving platter in a single layer. Spoon the basil sauce generously over the top, letting it pool along the spears.
Finish and serve. Scatter pine nuts over the top if using. Serve at room temperature as a side dish, or slightly warm straight from the blanching pot.

Nutrition (per serving)

Asparagus with Fresh Basil Sauce — From Ken’s Garden, With Care