Asparagus-Spinach Pasta Salad

May. Sophie graduates on the 15th. She's graduating. Paul said he'd be there. He's not. But she's graduating. Three generations of nurses. The graduation is virtual — COVID, the lockdown, the screen. Sophie will receive her BSN from the University of Minnesota through a laptop in her dorm room, in her scrubs, alone. No auditorium. No families in the seats. No grandmother in the audience crying into a tissue. I will watch on my laptop from the kitchen table. I will watch my granddaughter become a nurse through a screen, in a house where the man who said "I'll be there" isn't there. But he's there. In the voice recording on my phone. In the plaque from St. Mary's on the kitchen shelf. In the meatball recipe on the wall. In the reading stand Erik built. In the two places set at the table. He's there. The garden is growing aggressively. The tomatoes are established. The peas are climbing. The lettuce is coming in. I spend two hours every morning in the garden, the same hours I used to spend when Karen was with Paul, except now the hours are mine entirely, nobody is waiting inside, and the freedom of the hours is both a gift and a loss. I made a May dinner: asparagus soup. The first asparagus. Blended smooth with leek and potato and cream. The same soup I've made every May. The taste of the season changing. I ate it at the table. Two places. One bowl. I said, out loud, to the empty chair: "Good soup, Paul." And then I finished my bowl and washed it and put it away. I'm talking to him. Out loud. In the kitchen, in the garden, in the car. I tell him about the garden. I tell him about the weather. I tell him about the ships (I can see them from the kitchen window — ore boats, starting the season, and I try to identify them the way he did and I get them wrong and I tell him I got them wrong and I can almost hear him correcting me). Sven doesn't judge the talking. Sven talks to me in his own way — the toenails, the sighs, the tail that wags when I say his name. Two creatures in a house, communicating with sounds that aren't quite language but that mean everything. May. Graduation. The asparagus. The talking. I'm here. I'm talking. The soup is good.

The asparagus soup I made that evening was its own quiet ritual — but the asparagus itself, those first thin stalks of May, deserves more than one meal. This Asparagus-Spinach Pasta Salad is what I make when I want to stretch the season a little longer, to keep that first-green flavor on the table for another day. It’s light enough to eat alone, substantial enough to feel like a real dinner, and simple enough that making it for one never feels like a compromise — it feels like a choice.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 27 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

8 oz rotini or penne pasta
1 lb fresh asparagus, tough ends trimmed, cut into 1-inch pieces
3 cups fresh baby spinach
1/2 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1/4 cup red onion, thinly sliced
1/3 cup crumbled feta cheese
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped (optional)

Instructions

Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook pasta according to package directions until al dente. In the last 3 minutes of cooking, add the asparagus pieces to the pot. Drain together and rinse under cold water to stop cooking.
Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, minced garlic, salt, and pepper until well combined.
Assemble the salad. In a large bowl, combine the cooled pasta and asparagus with the baby spinach, cherry tomatoes, and red onion. Pour the dressing over the top and toss gently to coat.
Finish and serve. Scatter the crumbled feta and chopped parsley over the top. Serve immediately at room temperature, or refrigerate for up to 2 hours before serving. Toss again before plating.

Nutrition (per serving)

Asparagus-Spinach Pasta Salad — The First Asparagus of May