Braaied, butterflied lamb

From the days when lambs were born in spring in the field close by, hence on the menu, and asparagus was one of the first things that popped up in the garden. In (ex) East Germany, in the early, grey, nightingale-eveninged spring that I spent there, the only colour - aside from the brown and yellow rape fields - came from the bright green and pale white asparagus sold everywhere and served always with a sort of hollandaise that came stickily from a tube. Spargel.

My Easter spargel probably came from California, and no, I am not going to hell. I also roasted them beyond the crunch-point, another eyebrow-raiser. But you know what? They were fantastic! Lemon, salt and pepper and olive oil, and a very hot oven for 30+ minutes. Caramelized juice, creamy interior.

My roasting pan in this case was not the huge, excellent one currently residing under the daybed, but a heavy, much-abused ex-cookie sheet. I don't bake cookies. I roast things. Here the (previously deboned) braaied lamb, fresh from its coals on the terrace, is resting. I need a better source of charcoal. I miss kameeldoring.

The lamb's marinade was a tub of Fage Greek yogurt, 6 crushed and chopped garlic cloves, about a cup of grated fresh horse radish, and salt and pepper, twenty-four hours. It was the Halal butcher's fresh lamb, hence not hung and tender, and I cooked it deliberately to the wrong side of pink, as a consequence.

After it had rested under a foil tent for about 10 minutes, there was some pretty good juice. Now I'm off to see if there's any horse radish left anywhere. I am in love.

* The chopping block. It doesn't look destroyed in the picture but the crack down the middle and consequent warp, post cat sitter, makes it wobble so that I have twice this week sliced through my left thumb nail. We have not bought a new one yet. Vince's laptop is dying and he is shopping, as we speak, for a new desk top. Then there's the issue with my camera. Times is trying.