Even though summer is less than three weeks away, 2005 finds me in a decidedly unsummery mood. That's not entirely accurate: It's not that I don't feel summery, it's that I feel seasonless. Maybe this is the result of spending the first half of May in Scotland, or of this week's rotten weather full of cold wind, cold rain, cold, cold, cold. I'm betting, though, that it has much to do with not having visited the farmer's market since the beginning of April. In New York, May means farmer's markets full of rhubarb, herbs, the occasional fiddlehead and masses of the pungent wild leeks known as ramps. Ramp season is great fun: even though it's a blink-and-you-miss-it short season, during that season, they grow like mad. Vendors pile them chin-high, masses of white fringe, bulbs both skinny and full, green tops like inch-thick blades of grass. The scent of these beauties, in quantity, is a dizzying thing; it's impossible for me to smell them without wanting to go home immediately and fill a frittata full of them. A nice potato and ramp frittata, followed by a little dish of fresh ricotta topped with rhubarb compote, should get me feeling seasonal in no time.
Until that time, I will have to keep myself warm with thoughts of how beautifully, how grandly and happily Lloyd and I ate in Scotland. The bad news is that I am up well past my bedtime. The good news is that I'm slowly getting my pre-vacation, pre-burnout groove back, and I will be in a sharing mood. I promise.