Start not with the sandwich, but with the two side dishes to complement and complete the masterpiece. This means a venture to the garden where the asparagus spears have pierced the sky. Gather a handful of these green daggers, steam them briefly or simply eat them raw.

The second side dish will take another foray, this time to the woods. Among the blooming bloodroot and toothwort, search the forest floor for morels. In a wet year, they love to pop up around the base of poplar and maple trees or, better, abandoned orchards. These dark brown caps have the squiggly markings that always make me think of a brain, and a light tan stem pushes them through the leaf litter. It takes "morel goggles" or a certain way of seeing, and maybe a touch of madness, to find these delicacies. And they're like rabbits -- if you've seen one, more are nearby, so keep looking. Once you've gathered a handful, head home to saute them in a little oil and then add to the asparagus as you build this plate full of home-grown, home-gathered local wonders.

Now for the sandwich, start with homemade bread, a rich, wheaty mix of flour and yeast, two handles to hold onto, two frames to capture this colorful picture.

Then slather cream cheese on one piece and fresh horseradish on the other. But be forewarned, this will take a few hours. Head back to the garden with shovel and dig up a horseradish root. Once harvested, scrub clean and peel the roots to reveal pungent, white flesh. Cut into chunks and put in blender with enough vinegar to cover. After the roots are finely chopped, hold your breath and open the lid. Otherwise expect tear-inducement.

Next for this sandwich supreme, gather a poke of watercress. Again, this may take some time. Find a source of clean water and a bed of cress. That last line is worth repeating. The first time I tried cress, I harvested it from a local stream and then washed it several times -- but not enough. Something in the water made me sick enough to forswear this plant for several years. Recently, though, we found a large, developed spring with both superb drinking water and plentiful mats of dark green cress. If you don't have a clean source of water, soak the harvested plants with a purifying water tablet or cook them. Either should take care of impurities.

To harvest watercress, I put on waders, gracefully trying not to fall in, and then I snip with scissors the top portions of the plants, leaving the rooted sections to produce more greens. It helps to have a partner on shore holding a bag so you can empty your hand of a bundle and keep working. This, of course, is an ideal job for your spouse so he or she can call the rescue squad if you stumble and fall into the 6-inch deep water.

When the bag is full and hands have turned blue from the cold, clear stream, time to head home and wash the leaves once more. Then, to make the sandwich, chop the greens or simply grab as many stems as the hand will hold, squeeze them together onto the wheat bread platform, and press the top frame of this masterpiece into place.

My wife thinks I'm morel-mad and cress-crazy, but such are the pleasures of eating art.

Jim Minick, author of "Finding a Clear Path," lives on a farm in Wythe County and teaches at Radford University.