Spring

Fresh chanterelles are my favorite mushroom. Sure I enjoy porcini and I certainly wouldn't pass up a truffle white or black if it crossed my plate. But there is something about chanterelles that appeals to me the most.

They are so very unique. First of all they are beautiful to look at, golden and trumpet shaped.

Not a true gilled mushroom, the underside of the cap has rounded gill-like ridges or veins that branch irregularly so their texture when cooked is velvety and tender.

The addition of fresh herbs breathes life into dishes. Herbs are vibrant, bright and introduce flavor that is so startlingly different from dried herbs that I can never understand recipes that imply they are interchangeable.

In Italy I learned to make spaghetti with garlic, olive oil, chile flakes and parsley. It wasn't just the color contrast but the lively springiness of the parsley that made this simple dish so wonderful. Likewise sage leaves crisped up in butter or olive oil lend intensity and crunch, a handful of cilantro in a tossed green salad gives it a lemony zing and a sprinkle of chives on smoked salmon adds a delicate, almost sweet oniony flavor.

I have a little herb garden and I do mean little. A harvest of herbs from my window box is roughly equal to a generous garnish, so I have to keep raiding my mother's herb garden and buying herbs if I want to cook with them. Last week I got a chance to try Daregal fresh frozen herbs and found them to be surprisingly convenient and fresh tasting. I made a lovely omelette filled with asparagus and Jarlsberg cheese and a couple of pinches of Daregal frozen dill. This filling combination feels very Scandinavian to me though I have no idea if it really is...

We bought our house in Umbria ten years ago this past summer.

A couple of months after the sale was completed the former owners, Bruno and Mayes, came over for lunch. And as the lunch lingered, as lunches in Umbria do, Bruno interrupted himself in mid-lecture on the glories of Roman pasta.

“Asparagi,” he said calmly. He got up from his chair, crossed over to the wall of our ancient wood-burning oven and snapped off a pencil-thin spear of wild asparagus that was hiding in and among the other grasses.

“It’s all over the place,” he said. “April is the time. You’ll see hundreds of contadini in the fields and by the side of the road, harvesting them. Here, taste.”

I bit off the end of the slender stalk and chewed on it a bit. It was raw, of course, and a little stringy but the taste fairly attacked me with its vibrancy. Wild asparagus is way wilder than tame asparagus.

“Just imagine,” I thought, “how it’ll make my pee smell.”

With that noble scientific quest in mind, I immediately began to search for more. I looked all around the forno, where Bruno found his and then up the hill toward the olive trees, but there were no more spears to be found.

A few weeks ago at the farmers' market I asked for a bunch of beets. The farmer grabbed a beautiful bunch: five crimson colored globes topped with remarkably long, red stalks and large, crisp leafy greens. I could practically taste them.

Then right in front of my eyes, before I could utter a word, he beheaded my beautiful beets and flung the greens into a dirty cardboard box with other sad, misfit vegetables.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"What? You didn't want them did you?" he asked, incredulous.

Didn't want them?! The beet greens are the best part.

It made me miss Carlos, the farmer from whom I bought beets all last year when we lived in LA. One Sunday when Carlos saw me coming, he ran from the table into the back of his van. He motioned me to follow him. When I reached the back of the van, he uncovered a big box full of fresh bunches of beet greens and flashed me a smile. "For me?" I asked. "For you, Miss."