Have you ever met someone new and been so taken with them that you wondered how you lived your whole life up to that point without them? I know it sounds dramatic, but that's how I feel about ramps. I'd never encountered them (or more importantly tasted them) until a few years ago. It was as if my palette had never known such a pure, vivid, lively flavor. It's a flavor I now call the essence of spring.

Ramps have no subtlety. They don't whisper.

It's pouring rain. Is this the fourth or fifth day without sun, or maybe it's the sixth? In all honesty, I've stopped counting. But rain, I remind myself, means things will grow. The grass has turned an undeniable bright green, losing its pallid winter gray. The tiny, baby-size buds on the lilac bushes are beginning to pop and are a lovely pale green. The forsythia is here, its brilliant yellow flowers blazing like a proud banner that screams "You made it!" Spring is here. Don't lose hope." I want