It will be a short few weeks until we can enjoy rhubarb and asparagus, but a couple of items are ready to captivate our palates as we speak. For starters, if you've spent any time in the woods lately, you may have noticed the smell of wild onion in the air.
Those would be ramps you're sniffing. Otherwise known as wild leeks or wild onions, they are a member of the allium or lily family. They're native to eastern Canada and the U.S., have long green leaves and white bulbs and they taste fresh and mild -- but with a little zing. They're the perfect ingredient with which to kick off the coming months of abundance.
Misha Winterfeld, an 18-year-old student at Rockway Mennonite Collegiate, goes foraging for ramps annually at this time of year. He and a buddy scour the bush of his friend's property near Tavistock; on a good day, they can pick anywhere from 75 to 100 pounds of wild onions.
"They're pretty easy to spot," says Winterfeld. "They're distinctive so they're hard to miss when you find a patch of them. We actually eat them plain when we pick them because they're very sweet. The texture is really crunchy and they're very nice to eat raw when you pick them fresh."
Last year Winterfeld sold some of his ramps to Vincenzo's in Kitchener (which I unwittingly came across when I stopped in one night -- I excitedly bought a couple of bunches to take home and experiment with). He hopes to do the same this year, and also plans to get in touch with some other local foodie shops and restaurants to see if they're interested.
"They go to the end of May, just about," Winterfeld says of the growing season. "Then they start wilting away. i think that they grow wild like that is what kind of makes them a delicacy."
Jackie McMillan, a Kitchener forager, agrees, but warns that strapping on your hiking boots and trapsing through the trails is not necessarily the way to go about getting your hands on fresh ramps.
First there are the environmental concerns -- you'd be robbing a woodlot of its native plants. Then there's that mistaken identity thing.
"They look a bit like lily," McMillan says of ramps, "so that's something to be careful of. There are some lilies that have an oniony flavour but lily isn't particularly good for you. So ramps are not unmistakable."
So unless you live on a big property with access to the woods (and possess some botanical savvy), you might be better to hit up the farmers' markets and hope that someone has done the foraging for you. Chances are good you'll have success.
And if you do, let the creativity -- and the salivation -- begin. Really, any place you'd use scallions or leeks is a suitable place to use ramps. Chopped up in scrambled eggs or buttermilk biscuits, sauteed with pasta or in risotto. Grilled simply and served up with a steak. Like a green onion, you can use the whole shebang, leaves included.
McMillan says wild leeks make a great partner to spring's bitter greens, like dandelion or mustard. "Bitter gets a lot more yummy when you combine it with savoury," she says, adding that she likes to steam the two together.
Pesto is another great option. One recipe I found in Gourmet recommends blanching half a pound of ramps in boiling water for about five seconds, then popping them in the food processor with a quarter cup of olive oil and the zest of a lemon (give or take). Cook up the pasta of your choice, then add about a half-cup of that nice, starchy pasta water to the food processor, toss your sauce with the noodles and finish with some grated parmesan and salt and pepper to taste.
Here's a more official recipe for Wild Leek Pesto. This one comes from Lucy Waverman via an old spring copy of Food & Drink magazine. She served the pesto with with linguini, oven-roasted tomatoes and goat cheese but you could use it anywhere your little heart -- or palate -- desires.
Wild Leek Pesto
2 tbsp hazlenuts
1 cup chopped wild leeks (ramps)
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
Place hazelnuts in food processor and grind until roughly chopped. Add leeks and olive oil and process until still slightly chunky. Stir in parmesan cheese.
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