Welcome Spring

The air this month of May is a swirl of deep red strawberry perfume, grassy-scented asparagus, soon-to-be spicy red and white radishes that, for now, are still just gently pungent. This year, more than most, these aromas are almost overwhelming, fed more by desire than reality. The desire is ours, here in every French city, town and village. We have just had the longest, coldest winter in recent history. Everything was held up for weeks, from airline flights to tender spring vegetables. We’re now in a halting spring, when temperatures rise then fall again, buds try to open, sprouts grow into sturdy little plants.

It is an excruciatingly slow metamorphosis this year, but metamorphosis it is, and excitement is in the air.

Just a few short weeks ago celery root, potatoes, Jerusalem artichokes, endive and mâche were still focal points of the menu. Not that there isn’t glory to all of these, but we’d all pureed, sautéed, baked, roasted, fried and braised ourselves through the winter and we’d had enough. Apples and pears, which always have pride of place on the winter table, in gorgeous tarts, compotes, cakes and crumbles, were beginning to annoy, like a pesky neighbor. “Oh, you again?”

Even I was ready to see winter and its foods go into hibernation. Finally, I think they have.

There is no more futile exercise than becoming impatient with fruits and vegetables, or getting annoyed by weather and season. I kept my feelings to myself, until I visited a lovely little restaurant in Rouen called L’Origine. The chef’s a friend, we shop from the same farmer, and he is the only cook I know who is as avid as I am about using local, seasonal produce.

We sat down, got our champagne and he came out from the kitchen to say hello, his head slightly hanging. It was the height of the dinner service—he should have been cooking. But his guilt had driven him into the dining room. “I’ve got strawberries on the menu,” he said, like a smuggler caught with contraband. “They’re French, I promise.” French possibly, but certainly not from Normandy, or anywhere near. “I had to buy them,” he said. “I couldn’t do another thing with apples, or pears, or lemons.”

Then a huge smile split his face. “They’re not the best I’ve ever tasted, but they’re French and they’re gorgeous, and you’ll see!” and with that he ran back to the kitchen. I saw him do a swift kick-punch of elation as he picked up a sauté pan. Later, at the end of our meal, when we tasted his delicate strawberry Napoleon and its foamy sorbet, we heard the birds twitter, saw the flowers bloom, smelled the spring showers arrive. All thanks to his transgression and those red, fragrant berries on the plate.

Now that winter is gone, it is time to move along; there are other fish to fry. Or, more accurately, mussels to steam, as they turn plump and flavorful with spring. Beginning this month I will bathe them in cream, sprinkle them with freshly ground black pepper, spice them with curry, roast them over dried pine needles, dot them in an omelette.

Along with mussels, mackerel will begin their return, first as tiny, vivid blue lisettes—the name for baby mackerel. About the size of a cigar, these meaty fish are one of the stunners of spring. They’re best stuffed with a small branch of rosemary and roasted over the coals, or under the broiler.

Other glories of this season are lettuces, which are melt-in-your-mouth delicate compared to the boisterous greens of winter. Dress them in a mustardy vinaigrette, top them with a soft poached egg, and one of the best dishes of spring is on the plate.

Just when leeks were aging, their tender spring replacements have arrived, to be barely steamed and served as salad, with herb vinaigrette. And then there is, of course, the denizen of the dark, asparagus. I’ve waxed poetic about these white and green spears already, and I could go on and on. They’re late this year. We’re still waiting for our own in Normandy, but fortunately the Loire Valley has sent up some bundles of fat white stalks. My definition of local expands during this season, as I incorporate white asparagus into my meals—braised with herbs, or steamed over water scented with bay leaves, then served with chive-flecked cream. We’ll eat them often until the third week in June when, suddenly, they’ll be gone.

Despite our long cold winter and the late asparagus, radishes turned up early at the market this year. The label said they were French, so I took a chance and bought a bundle. The French radish is not just a cute decoration, it’s a delicious little bulb, honored best by being topped with fresh farm butter and sprinkled with fleur de sel. I could hardly wait. That first, cheerful bite of radish was a hymn to spring. Was it the best radish I’ll eat this season? Not by a long shot. Being the first should never be confused with being the best.

Although, on reflection, maybe first is best. All those first foods of spring might be the best—the perfumed strawberries, the plump and buttery mussels, firm taut-skinned lisettes, fat white asparagus, slim tender leeks, mouth-melting lettuces. They may not yet be at the top of their flavor game, but it doesn’t matter. They’re the bright harbingers that gently lead us from the depths of winter. And that alone might just make them the best.

 

YOUNG LEEK SALAD
SALADE DE JEUNES POIREAUX

NOTE: It’s fine to mix the oils and the lemon juice in advance, but—very important—do not add the herbs until the very last minute. The lemon juice will bleach out their color and flavor if they sit together. If you cannot find tender young leeks, use just the white part of more mature leeks.

Two bunches of baby leeks, trimmed (about 1-3/4 lbs)
1-1/2 tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
2-1/2 tsp hazelnut or walnut oil
1 tbsp mild vegetable oil, such as grapeseed oil
2 cups fresh herbs such as basil, tarragon, lemon thyme, sweet cicely, garlic and regular chives, firmly packed
1/2 tsp coarse sea salt, or to taste

1. Trim away the root end and the green part from the leeks. Cut the white part in half lengthwise, and rinse very thoroughly.

2. Bring 3 cups of water to a boil in the bottom half of a steamer, and steam the leeks until they are tender, 8–10 minutes. Test them with a sharp knife, which should easily go through them when they are cooked. Drain them in a colander for at least an hour, then transfer them to a shallow bowl.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together the lemon juice and the oils. Taste to check the balance of flavors—the nut oil should be obvious but not overpowering. Mince the herbs and whisk them into the mixture. Whisk in the salt, then pour the dressing over the leeks, gently toss them, and transfer them to a serving dish. Serve the salad with more coarse salt on the side.

4 servings

Susan Herrmann Loomis teaches cooking classes in Normandy and Paris. website. The latest of her ten books, Nuts in the
Kitchen, is published by HarperCollins. Find it in the France Today Bookstore

Originally published in the May 2011 issue of France Today