Ramp Season

Part One, Sorrel

In March, I found myself in Southern California, a few hours north of Los Angeles. I arrived to work a ticketed dinner, sorely under-dressed for the rain that clung to the valley and turned to snow on the nearby mountains. With blatant overconfidence, I assumed I wouldn’t need a coat. I was determined to force an end to my own long winter.

The light in California is different; I knew this. I had only prepared to feel it shine squarely on my face. Disappointed, and cold, I shrugged into the lone sweater I brought and began writing lists for the next day.

The dinner took place on a sprawling golf course. As we prepped, one of the chefs talked about foraging sorrel from a patch next to the green. I was eavesdropping. “You would be stupid not to forage here.”

Of course. Why bring herbs in a plastic clam shell when they grow in the hills and by the side of the road? Working in a city so long, I almost forgot.

Dinner came and went with its own challenges and triumphs like any other night of service. Afterwords, the guests mingled with the chefs and employees while cleaning up. We did it, it was over.

The next morning, checking out of the hotel, I couldn’t stop thinking about the sorrel course. The almost neon green ice cream topped with oxalis oregana, red-vein, and butterfly sorrel stuck in my memory.

Sorrel begins growing during early spring, right at the close of winter. In folklore, it’s a symbol of tenacity — “the botanical equivalent of the underdog, persisting where others might wither; its presence encourages those who encounter it to keep pushing through adversity.”

Although I hadn’t found the warmth I thought might bring refuge from a challenging winter, this little plant confirmed a shift in the seasons — and it grew in wild abundance.

Part Two, Ramps

Later, back in Chicago, my restaurant prepared for a menu change.

The uneven days of Midwestern spring brought seemingly thousands of people from their homes, basements, garages, apartments. Patios popped up on sidewalks overnight. Grass regained its color.

My inbox filled with unanswered emails as I read cookbooks, wrote menu descriptions, and brainstormed wine pairings. Each day was spoken for: full of work, chores, social obligations.

Despite the monotony, my roots in Chicago grew more expansive.

Around the city, like clockwork, spring ingredients appeared on menus: white asparagus, peas, morel mushrooms, and a particular jewel — ramps.

Slow growing with complex root systems, and difficult to cultivate, ramps typically require foraging. They are a cousin of the common onion, but throughout the years have become — increasingly — “en vogue.”

Here, though, ramps are one with the origin of the city. The Potawatomi and Kickapoo tribes long referred to the large patches of ramps on Lake Michigan’s southern shores as “chikako” — a name that morphed over time into the modern day “Chicago.” I am reminded that history and belonging can hold any form, even that of a humble vegetable.

Currently, our new menu nears completion — but not without changes. Scanning the recipes, I noticed the kale on the beef course had been replaced by ramps.

Part Three, Tomatoes

It could be said that nostalgia in cooking is overplayed, yet it seems impossible to untangle who we are from what we eat. And I’m no chef. Sure, time can be measured in days and months but it can also be measured in sorrel and ramps and tomatoes. I find comfort seeing myself reflected in the growing seasons.

In college, my roommate took me to the farmer’s market during the summer. We came home and took sun-warmed heirloom tomatoes out of a paper bag and cut them up. We piled them on sourdough with extra virgin olive oil, black pepper, and Maldon salt. I remember that afternoon as the first time I ever liked a tomato.

Some say tomatoes symbolize abundance. Picasso painted them to represent victory after World War II. That summer, I hardly felt victorious returning home after an unsuccessful freshman year away. I was filled with regret.

Summer ended. Time passed. Sometimes, I still dreamed of that first tomato.

I got a job at a restaurant. I moved away again. I started to look forward to the next summer. I came back. I got an apartment in the city.

Summer, yet again, is around the corner. The ramps will soon decompose to form fertile soil for the next crops. And if anyone asks, my favorite time of year is tomato season.