Spring

During the season of Lent, an herbaceous perennial sends up its hearty bells of florets on sturdy stems – bridging the gap between winter and spring.

As with the season of Lent itself – a wintry season of contemplation, spiritual focus, and petition - these symbols of new life out of the deathlike state of winter are emblems of the newness of spring, rebirth, and rejuvenation.

Helleborus is the genus name for Lenten Roses to which these perennials are often referred as Hellebores. Hellebores range from garnet to ruby, lilac to lavender, and to the purest white. Once the flowers begin to fade, the petals become chartreuse and lime green, lasting for months on their stems and for days in arrangements. Some of the flowers are the simplest, five petal blossoms you’ll ever see, while others are compound arrays of florets with freckles or dark nectaries complemented by bright sepals.

Leathery leaves, pretty and green, make for a delightful texture in the garden. The dark green of the Christmas Rose, Helleborus niger, is quite stunning around Christmas time and into January. The pure white flowers dangling above the glossy greenery are beautiful sentiments for the Christmas Holidays. From there, cultivars and cross species of Helleborus orientalis will begin to emerge and bloom through the winter and especially during Lent…quite an appropriate name, eh? From bloom time to color to texture, I’m sure you’ll be able to find a Hellebore to suit your garden’s fancy.

One of the first signs that spring has arrived is the availability of bright green vegetables, like asparagus. There is something special about an asparagus spear emerging from the ground. Right now asparagus is available at the Union square Greenmarket. In the supermarket it's available all-year round, but the best time to get pencil-thin asparagus is during springtime. It's at its most tender and succulent. Steamed for a few minutes, roasted, or grilled, asparagus is a delightful vegetable prepared in any which way. Its color becomes vivid green after cooking and for me that represents the essence of spring.

I enjoy eating asparagus in many forms, but I like it most in quiche, one of the favorite brunch foods here in the States. Though the French even eat it for lunch or dinner. Quiche was originally meant just for breakfast in the French province of Lorraine, from where it originated. Surprisingly the tradition of quiche-making comes from a time when Lorraine belonged to Germany. The dish used to be called kuchen, which is German for cake, and instead of a pie crust, it was made with bread dough—basically a pizza. Once the region changed rule, the German name was eventually transliterated into French and the recipe changed too. The most well-known recipe is Quiche Lorraine, filled with just bacon.

A pile of freshly cut rhubarb stalks appeared at our back door last week, courtesy of our neighbor Ralph. This is one of the strange and wonderful things about living on the Vineyard: People are in the habit of sharing…without much fuss or fanfare. Stuff just shows up, unbidden but much appreciated. In the short time we’ve been living in the farmhouse, we’ve been the grateful recipients of beach plum jelly, wild cherry jam, honey, eggs, lobsters, codfish, sweet potatoes, pickles, warm bread and kale soup, to name a few things.

I was particularly excited to see those beautiful rhubarb stalks, since I won’t be harvesting any this year from the new plant I plopped in the ground a few weeks ago at the southeast corner of the garden. As soon as I got the plant, it immediately sent up its monstrous flower stalk. The flower is fascinating, but after admiring it for a while, I lopped it off, hoping to return the plant’s energy to its stalks. Still, it’s a baby plant and I won’t be cooking from it this year.

I knew right away what I wanted to make with the rhubarb gift — a favorite Fine Cooking recipe from years ago. It’s a fabulously tender muffin from award-winning North Carolina baker Karen Barker. The tart little rhubarb bits melt into these light coffee-cake-like treats, which are topped with cinnamon sugar. The batter has sour cream, melted butter, cinnamon, and vanilla in it, and it comes together really easily.

I know there are other things to do with rapini but I am stuck in a happy rut. I always eat it exactly the same way. Rapini also called broccoli rabe looks like a leafy miniature broccoli and has a slight bitterness to it that marries well with the richness of Italian sausage. Toss that combination with a little onion, garlic, chili flakes and pasta and you're in business.

Broccoli rabe or rapini was something I ate in Italy, there it was blanched and then sauted in olive oil with garlic. Only in Italy it was called broccoli rape pronounced "rah-pay". But I imagine the "rape" name has not helped it much in the popularity department in the English speaking world. If you look it up in the dictionary it turns out to have even more names – rapa, raab, rappone (for big bunches I guess) Italian turnip, taitcat and turnip broccoli. In Italian rapa means turnip and broccoli means broccoli.

As for the identity crisis – am I a turnip or am I broccoli? It is a relative of the turnip and yet looks more like broccoli. As far as the names goes, I think I'll stick with rapini.