The sunshine triggered a desire for something frivolous to drink, so I bought rosé, the sling-back sandal of the wine world. I feared this reckless act of optimism was sure to bring snow upon us, but so far it hasn’t. Seeing the ‘fresh asparagus for sale’ signs at Little Horsted confirmed summer has arrived early this year. I turned off the A26 down the lane to South Brockwells Farm to buy some from their farmyard shop, in the midst of strawberry plants for sale and wandering chickens. I wasn’t sure of the difference between Select, Choice, or Kitchen quality asparagus. The person serving told me apologetically that the owners, who would know, were watching the Grand National, so I went for the middle-sized one, Choice. £3.40 for a sizeable bunch. As soon as I got home, I turned on the oven. I used to boil the spears and eat them messily with my fingers, dripping with melted butter, black pepper and lemon juice. I love the lusciousness of butter. As a child I’d get caught trying to lick it from the dish. But I’ve become more respectful of my heart, and learnt a less artery-clogging way to eat asparagus. I snap the spears at their natural breaking point and cook the tip-ends, tossed in a little olive oil, in a hot oven (200c) for about 15 minutes. When they come out, I splash balsamic vinegar over, letting it sizzle in the baking tin for a minute, before tipping the asparagus and juices onto a plate. Sea-salt and black pepper scattered on top. Parmesan shavings work too, but then you need cutlery. Delicious eaten in the garden with fresh bread and chilled rose.