Spring Onions Quotes

Red onions are especially divine. I hold a slice up to the sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window, and it glows like a fine piece of antique glass. Cool watery-white with layers delicately edged with imperial purple...strong, humble, peaceful...with that fiery nub of spring green in the center...

What did the onion juice do? It did what the world and the sorrows of the world could not do: it brought forth a round, human tear. It made them cry. At last they could cry again. To cry properly, without restraint, to cry like mad. The tears flowed and washed everything away. The rain came. The dew. Oskar has a vision of floodgates opening. Of dams bursting in the spring floods. What is the name of that river that overflows every spring and the government does nothing to stop it?

The difference between me and Abdolkader was that I spoke to my wife with refinement and he spoke to her coarsely and violently, I took a shower once a day and he took one once a month, I didn't even eat spring onions and he ate onions and garlic and radishes by the kilo, I read her poetry by Sa'di and he belched at her... And so in my wife's eyes I was stupid and he was clever, I was an idiot and he was refined

The difference between me and Abolqader was that I spoke to my wife with refinement and he spoke to her coarsely and violently, I took a shower once a day and he took one once a month, I didn't even eat spring onions and he ate onions and garlic and radishes by the kilo, I read her poetry by Sa'di and he belched at her...and so in my wife's eyes I was stupid and he was clever, I was an idiot and he was intelligent. I was coarse and he was refined...But apparently he was a very good traveller.." Asadollah Mirza (from My Uncle Napoleon).

sauce made of virgin oil, lemon juice, coarsely ground pepper, parsley, spring onion and chopped Spanish garlic [rocambole, but ordinary garlic will do].

Memories fill my mind, as though they are my own, of not just events from Gideon's life, but of various flavors and textures: breast milk running easily down into my stomach, chicken cooked with butter and parsley, split peas and runner beans and butter beans, and oranges and peaches, strawberries freshly picked from the plant; hot, strong coffees each morning; pasta and walnuts and bread and brie; then something sweet: a pan cotta, with rose and saffron, and a white wine: tannin, soil, stone fruits, white blossom; and---oh my god---ramen, soba, udon, topped with nori and sesame seeds; miso with tofu and spring onions, fugu and tuna sashimi dipped in soy sauce, onigiri with a soured plum stuffed in the middle; and then something I don't know, something unfamiliar but at the same time deeply familiar, something I didn't realize I craved: crispy ground lamb, thick, broken noodles, chili oil, fragrant rice cooked in coconut milk, tamarind... and then a bright green dessert---the sweet, floral flavor of pandan fills my mouth.

Off Spruce, there was a little known trail. A savage gulley wound through acreage of older residential homes that met up with Green Rock Drive. A natural bouquet gust of wind assaulted me. The domestic and native encroached on each other in a battle for dominance at the edges of the cramped path's undergrowth. The tangy scent of wild onion and sagebrush intermingled with the verdant odor of wild geranium, blue flax, columbine and creeping pussytoes. The wild weeds spiced up the encroaching grass turf and the tamed floral honeysuckle vines and lilac bushes.

Cold leek and potato soup. Little pastry boats filled with minced chicken or fish in a white sauce. A large green salad, a tomato and spring onion salad, a cold roast of beef with horseradish or port wine jelly to taste, cold roasted chickens with sage and onion stuffing, with a variety of crisp cold vegetables, each with their proper sauces. Fruit salad. A marmalade-filled roulade with slices of sugared oranges and crème Chantilly which was even now rolling in its damp tea towel as though there were no such things as culinary accidents in the world. Cheeses and fruits and coffee or tea.

When spring came I dug up the garden and planted it, and weeded it, and prayed over it, and fidgeted; and almost three years of lying fallow had agreed with it, because it produced radishes the size of onions, potatoes the size of melons, and melons the size of small sheep. The herb border ran wild, and the air smelled wonderful.

Irie serves me three ramens, including a bowl made with a rich dashi and head-on shrimp and another studded with spicy ground pork and wilted spinach and lashed with chili oil. Both are exceptionally delicious, sophisticated creations, but it's his interpretation of tonkotsu that leaves me muttering softly to myself. The noodles are firm and chewy, the roast pork is striped with soft deposits of warm fat, and the toppings- white curls of shredded spring onion, chewy strips of bamboo, a perfect square of toasted seaweed- are skillfully applied. Here it is the combination of tare, the culmination of years of careful tinkering, and broth, made from whole pig heads and knots of ginger, that defies the laws of tonkotsu: a soup with the savory, meaty intensity of a broth made from a thousand pigs that's light enough to leave you wanting more. And more. And more.

The Herb Farm reminded Marguerite of the farms in France; it was like a farm in a child's picture book. There was a white wooden fence that penned in sheep and goats, a chicken coop where a dozen warm eggs cost a dollar, a red barn for the two bay horses, and a greenhouse. Half of the greenhouse did what greenhouses do, while the other half had been fashioned into very primitive retail space. The vegetables were sold from wooden crates, all of them grown organically, before such a process even had a name- corn, tomatoes, lettuces, seventeen kinds of herbs, squash, zucchini, carrots with the bushy tops left on, spring onions, radishes, cucumbers, peppers, strawberries for two short weeks in June, pumpkins after the fifteenth of September. There was chèvre made on the premises from the milk of the goats; there was fresh butter. And when Marguerite showed up for the first time in the summer of 1975 there was a ten-year-old boy who had been given the undignified job of cutting zinnias, snapdragons, and bachelor buttons and gathering them into attractive-looking bunches.

SHRIMP LOUIE SPREAD Hannah’s Note: This is best served well chilled with a basket of crackers on the side. 8 ounces softened cream cheese ½ cup mayonnaise ¼ cup chili sauce (I used Heinz) 1 Tablespoon horseradish (I used Silver Springs) 1/8 teaspoon pepper 6 green onions 2 cups finely chopped cooked salad shrimp*** (measure AFTER chopping) Salt to taste Mix the cream cheese with the mayonnaise. Add the chili sauce, horseradish, and pepper. Mix it up into a smooth sauce.   Clean the green onions and cut off the bottoms. Use all of the white part and up to an inch of the green part. Throw the tops away.   Mince the onions as finely as you can and add them to the sauce. Stir them in well.   Chop the salad shrimp into fine bits. You can do this with a sharp knife, or in the food processor using the steel blade and an on-and-off motion.   Mix in the shrimp and check to see how salty the spread is. Add salt if needed.   Chill the spread in a covered bowl in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours. You can make it in the morning if you plan to serve it that night.   Yield: Makes approximately 3 cups.

I can smell the pungent scent of garlic and soy sauce coming from the eggs... ... almost as if they had been grilled! But... the eggs are still raw! How could he...? It was then! When he slid the eggs across the heated oil in the skillet in that quick flip. Was that enough to infuse the raw egg with all the flavor of the seasonings?!" "?! Wait, you can do that?" "Heck no! If you're even the slightest bit too slow, you end up with a skillet full of half-cooked scrambled eggs." "I've got about one second to cram all that flavor into the raw egg. And to do that, cheapo bland eggs are a better choice than high-end eggs with a strong flavor. Can you even imagine it? All that thick, raw egg... ... practically bursting with the flavor of sesame oil, garlic, and roasted soy sauce. Go on, try a bite. Then you'll understand. Don't let it get cold. DIG IN." The scent of garlic and roasted spring onion... So heavy, it's just this side of being so much you could choke. The thickness of it all strokes the tongue. With each bite... ... the roasted soy sauce mixes with the rice... ... while the raw egg... ...slides slickly down the throat.

The only garnish for the noodles was sesame and spring onions. The two perfect squares of butter on top were already beginning to lose their shape in the clear broth, their outlines blurring messily. Beneath them floated the crinkled noodles with their strong yellow hue. Dissolved in the soup, the butter formed golden circles on its surface. Rika deliberately passed the noodles through those circles on their way to her mouth. The taste of lye water was a little strong, but they weren't badly cooked, and retained their bite. She sipped the soup. Against the faint chicken base of the stock she could detect the flavor of bonito. The broth was hot but it slipped down easily, lubricating her painfully dry throat. Alone, the cheap butter had an overly milky tang, but in combination with the noodles and the soup, its flavor grew golden and staked its territory, with a kind of violence. A certain depth of flavor began to assert itself, and as the droplets plummeted to the centre of her body, its arc of influence expanded. The back of her nose grew hot, and she reached for the tissue box on the counter. Feeling the moisture flowing, she blew her nose loudly. A film of butter was forming across her insides. The hot broth and the hot noodles were more assertive, more forceful than Makoto's warmth and smell. As she raised them to her mouth alternately, Rika's body regained more and more of its heat and softness. She was already warmer than she had been back in the hotel room.

Onions! Fresh, hot, sweet onions,” Sam called as Mary Lou pulled the cart down Main Street. “Eight cents a dozen.” It was a beautiful spring morning. The sky was painted pale blue and pink—the same color as the lake and the peach trees along its shore. Mrs. Gladys Tennyson was wearing just her nightgown and robe as she came running down the street after Sam. Mrs. Tennyson was normally a very proper woman who never went out in public without dressing up in fine clothes and a hat. So it was quite surprising to the people of Green Lake to see her running past them. “Sam!” she shouted. “Whoa, Mary Lou,” said Sam, stopping his mule and cart. “G’morning, Mrs. Tennyson,” he said. “How’s little Becca doing?” Gladys Tennyson was all smiles. “I think she’s going to be all right. The fever broke about an hour ago. Thanks to you.” “I’m sure the good Lord and Doc Hawthorn deserve most of the credit.” “The Good Lord, yes,” agreed Mrs. Tennyson, “but not Dr. Hawthorn. That quack wanted to put leeches on her stomach! Leeches! My word! He said they would suck out the bad blood. Now you tell me. How would a leech know good blood from bad blood?” “I wouldn’t know,” said Sam. “It was your onion tonic,” said Mrs. Tennyson. “That’s what saved her.” Other townspeople made their way to the cart. “Good morning, Gladys,” said Hattie Parker. “Don’t you look lovely this morning.” Several people snickered. “Good morning, Hattie,” Mrs. Tennyson replied. “Does your husband know you’re parading about in your bed clothes?” Hattie asked. There were more snickers. “My husband knows exactly where I am and how I am dressed, thank you,” said Mrs. Tennyson. “We have both been up all night and half the morning with Rebecca. She almost died from stomach sickness. It seems she ate some bad meat.” Hattie’s face flushed. Her husband, Jim Parker, was the butcher. “It made my husband and me sick as well,” said Mrs. Tennyson, “but it nearly killed Becca, what with her being so young. Sam saved her life.” “It wasn’t me,” said Sam. “It was the onions.” “I’m glad Becca’s all right,” Hattie said contritely. “I keep telling Jim he needs to wash his knives,” said Mr. Pike, who owned the general store. Hattie Parker excused herself, then turned and quickly walked away. “Tell Becca that when she feels up to it to come by the store for a piece of candy,” said Mr. Pike. “Thank you, I’ll do that.” Before returning home, Mrs. Tennyson bought a dozen onions from Sam. She gave him a dime and told him to keep the change. “I don’t take charity,” Sam told her. “But if you want to buy a few extra onions for Mary Lou, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” “All right then,” said Mrs. Tennyson, “give me my change in onions.” Sam gave Mrs. Tennyson an additional three onions, and she fed them one at a time to Mary Lou. She laughed as the old donkey ate them out of her hand.

She browned onions and garlic, and from the pot on the windowsill, chopped a few winter-sad leaves of tarragon. The smell was green and strong, and she thought of spring. Spring in Dijon, when she and Al would hike into the mountains with the Club Alpin, the old women forever chiding her tentative steps, her newborn French: la petite violette, violette américaine. She would turn back to Al, annoyed, and he would laugh. Hardly his delicate flower. When they stopped for lunch, it was Mary Frances with the soufflé of calves' brains, whatever was made liver or marrow, ordering enough strong wine that everyone was laughing. The way home, the women let her be. If she wanted calves' brains now, she wouldn't even know where to begin to look or how to pay. She and Al seemed to be living on vegetables and books, tobacco, quiet. She blanched a bunch of spinach and chopped it. She beat eggs with the tarragon, heated the skillet once again. There was a salad of avocados and oranges. There was a cold bottle of ale and bread. Enough, for tonight.

Without a shadow of a doubt, the first fiction ever recounted was fantasy. Guys sitting around the campfire— Was it you who wrote the review? I thought I recognized it— Guys sitting around the campfire telling each other stories about the gods who made lightning, and stuff like that. They did not tell one another literary stories. They did not complain about difficulties of male menopause while being a junior lecturer on some midwestern college campus. Fantasy is without a shadow of a doubt the ur-literature, the spring from which all other literature has flown. Up to a few hundred years ago no one would have disagreed with this, because most stories were, in some sense, fantasy. Back in the middle ages, people wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing in Death as a character who would have a role to play in the story. Echoes of this can be seen in Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, which hark back to a much earlier type of storytelling. The epic of Gilgamesh is one of the earliest works of literature, and by the standard we would apply now— a big muscular guys with swords and certain godlike connections— That’s fantasy. The national literature of Finland, the Kalevala. Beowulf in England. I cannot pronounce Bahaghvad-Gita but the Indian one, you know what I mean. The national literature, the one that underpins everything else, is by the standards that we apply now, a work of fantasy. Now I don’t know what you’d consider the national literature of America, but if the words Moby Dick are inching their way towards this conversation, whatever else it was, it was also a work of fantasy. Fantasy is kind of a plasma in which other things can be carried. I don’t think this is a ghetto. This is, fantasy is, almost a sea in which other genres swim. Now it may be that there has developed in the last couple of hundred years a subset of fantasy which merely uses a different icongraphy, and that is, if you like, the serious literature, the Booker Prize contender. Fantasy can be serious literature. Fantasy has often been serious literature. You have to fairly dense to think that Gulliver’s Travels is only a story about a guy having a real fun time among big people and little people and horses and stuff like that. What the book was about was something else. Fantasy can carry quite a serious burden, and so can humor. So what you’re saying is, strip away the trolls and the dwarves and things and put everyone into modern dress, get them to agonize a bit, mention Virginia Woolf a few times, and there! Hey! I’ve got a serious novel. But you don’t actually have to do that.

This Compost" Something startles me where I thought I was safest, I withdraw from the still woods I loved, I will not go now on the pastures to walk, I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea, I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me. O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken? How can you be alive you growths of spring? How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you? Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead? Where have you disposed of their carcasses? Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations? Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv'd, I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through the sod and turn it up underneath, I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat. 2 Behold this compost! behold it well! Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person—yet behold! The grass of spring covers the prairies, The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden, The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches, The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests, The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs, The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare, Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves, Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in the dooryards, The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead. What chemistry! That the winds are really not infectious, That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me, That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues, That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it, That all is clean forever and forever, That the cool drink from the well tastes so good, That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease. Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas'd corpses, It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor, It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.

There's caviar inside the prawn dumpling!" "I used fresh live Japanese tiger prawns and minced the meat, then mixed it with an egg. I wrapped the caviar with it and fried it in peanut oil." "The sweetness of the prawn and the rich taste of the caviar complement each other! Nice work, Yuichi!" "Ah, no..." "There are various kinds of fried prawn dumpling dishes, but it was Yuichi's idea to wrap caviar in it. He got all the ingredients and made it himself on his day off." "Tayama senpai created this?" "Yuichi, make something else for us." "Please let me off the hook now." "Yuichi, make the scallop rice." "Master!" "Just do it." "The rice has been steamed and lightly flavored with dashi and soy sauce. I basted the scallop with a mop sauce made from sake and soy sauce, and grilled the outside but left the meat half-cooked. Then I placed the scallop onto the rice just before it finished steaming--- steam it for a moment, and it's done." "Aah! The flavor of the scallop has seeped into the rice, but the scallop itself still retains its flavor too. This only works if you perfectly calculate how long to grill the scallop and how long to steam it on the rice." "He saw me making steamed clam rice... ... and that's where he got the idea to place the teriyaki scallop instead of the clams on top of the rice." "The fact that you made the scallop into a teriyaki was a nice touch." "This is great ." "One more dish, Yuichi!" "Oh, please..." "Yuichi, I've got some engawa. You want me to help?" "No way. I'll do it myself! I wrapped young spring onions with the engawa of a left-eyed flounder, brushed on a mop sauce made from soy sauce and sake, and grilled it lightly. Please sprinkle some powdered Chinese pepper or shichimi onto this, if you want to." "Yum! The scent of the grilled spring onion and engawa draws out my appetite." "I took Yuichi to a restaurant that cooked garlic chives wrapped with eel dorsal fins... ...and Yuichi said he wanted to try it with left-eyed flounder engawa and young spring onions." "I thought it would be a waste to grill the engawa, but it turned out surprisingly good when he made it that way.

And the last one is the chicken-skin hot pot. The best parts of a chicken to eat are the skin and the innards. There are many ways of cooking them, but this chicken-skin hot pot is easy to make, and it tastes great. First you heat the pot, place the chicken inside... ... and slowly cook it inside the pot. Once the oil from the skin comes seeping out, you add the innards to the pot. You basically use the oil from the skin to stir-fry the innards. After the innards have been slightly cooked, you add some spring onions which have been cut around two inches long... ...and finally add sake and soy sauce to it. The oil from the chicken skin and soup from the innards have not been thinned down with any kind of broth or dashi, so the young people will love its rich, strong taste and scent. And anybody can make it once they see it being made.

Sardine sashimi. It tastes better when you eat it with ginger instead of wasabi." "Look at the shine on that skin! These sardines are fresh!" "They're small but fatty." "And they don't smell fishy at all. As a matter of fact, they have a nice scent." "Marinated sardines. You half-dry the sardine with the backbone still in it, and then marinate it in vinegar. Then you add small amounts of sugar, soy sauce and chopped red chili... ...and leave it in the refrigerator for a day." "Hmm... it feels nice biting into the firm flesh." "The spicy and sour flavor goes well with the fatty sardine." "Fried sardine fish cakes. You mash the sardines after removing the head and the organs, add chopped spring onions, ginger juice and salt for the flavoring... ... then make them into an oval shape and deep-fry them." "It's very crisp, and it must be nutritious since the bones have been mashed inside it too.

In the refrigerated-food section, I pick up a few items, like another customer does next to me, and turn them over to read the nutritional information. I like reading the various numbers that tell me how what I am holding will transform inside a human's body. Energy: 326 cal, Fat: 16g, Carbohydrates: 38g; Protein: 11g. This meal has grains and pomegranate seeds, spring onion, olive oil, mustard seeds, garlic, and lemon. It is called a "Superfood, Super-Clean Salad.

Home is twenty-three acres on the west side of the Big Sandy River. Home is dogwoods blooming like pink-tipped pearls in the deep woods and the sharp smell of spring onions underfoot, the overgrown patch where the old barn burned and the mountainside so green and wet and alive it makes her eyes ache. Home is the place that beats like a second heart behind Juniper’s ribs.

FOOD Adobo (uh-doh-boh)---Considered the Philippines's national dish, it's any food cooked with soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and black peppercorns (though there are many regional and personal variations) Arroz caldo (ah-rohs cahl-doh)---A soothing rice porridge containing chicken, ginger, and green onions Halo-halo (hah-loh hah-loh)---Probably the Philippines's national dessert, this dish consists of shaved ice layered with sweet beans and preserved fruits, topped with evaporated milk and often a slice of leche flan (crème caramel) and ube halaya or ube ice cream. The name means "mix-mix" because it's a mix of many different things and you usually mix it all together to eat it. Lumpia (loom-pyah)---Filipino spring rolls (many variations) Matamis na bao (mah-tah-mees nah bah-oh)---Coconut jam (also known as "minatamis na bao") Pandesal (pahn deh sahl)---Lightly sweetened Filipino rolls topped with breadcrumbs (also written as "pan de sal") Patis (pah-tees)---Fish sauce Salabat (sah-lah-baht)---Filipino ginger tea Sinigang (sih-ni-gahng)---A light, tangy soup filled with vegetables such as long beans, tomatoes, onions, leafy greens, and taro, plus a protein such as pork or seafood Turon (tuh-rohn)---Sweet banana and jackfruit spring rolls, fried and rolled in caramelized sugar Ube (oo-beh)---Purple yam

ANTHROPOCENE PASTORAL BY Catherine Pierce In the beginning, the ending was beautiful. Early spring everywhere, the trees furred Pink and white, lawns the sharp green That meant new. The sky so blue it looked Manufactured. Robins. We’d heard The cherry blossoms wouldn’t blossom This year, but what was one epic blooming When even the desert was an explosion Of verbena? When coyotes slept deep in orange Poppies. One New Year’s Day we woke To daffodils, wisteria, onion grass wafting Through the open windows. Near the end, We were eyeletted. We were cottoned. We were sundressed and barefoot. At least It’s starting gentle, we said. An absurd comfort, We knew, a placebo. But we were built like that. Built to say at least. Built to reach for the heat Of skin on skin even when we were already hot, Built to love the purpling desert in the twilight, Built to marvel over the pink bursting dogwoods, To hold tight to every pleasure even as we Rocked together toward the graying, even as We held each other, warmth to warmth, And said, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry while petals Sifted softly to the ground all around us.

Blue Mosque Goat’s Cheese Tart SERVES 2 READY IN 25 MINUTES My goat’s cheese tart is a twist on the classic Turkish snack borek. I have made one large tart instead of fiddly individual portions, and stuffed it with chilli, spring onions, olives, walnuts, tarragon, goat’s cheese and paprika.

To recover an intuitive sense of what will be in season throughout the year, picture a season of foods unfolding as if from one single plant. Take a minute to study this creation—an imaginary plant that bears over the course of one growing season a cornucopia of all the different vegetable products we can harvest. We’ll call it a vegetannual. Picture its life passing before your eyes like a time-lapse film: first, in the cool early spring, shoots poke up out of the ground. Small leaves appear, then bigger leaves. As the plant grows up into the sunshine and the days grow longer, flower buds will appear, followed by small green fruits. Under midsummer’s warm sun, the fruits grow larger, riper, and more colorful. As days shorten into the autumn, these mature into hard-shelled fruits with appreciable seeds inside. Finally, as the days grow cool, the vegetannual may hoard the sugars its leaves have made, pulling them down into a storage unit of some kind: a tuber, bulb, or root. So goes the year. First the leaves: spinach, kale, lettuce, and chard (here, that’s April and May). Then more mature heads of leaves and flower heads cabbage, romaine, broccoli, and cauliflower (May–June). Then tender young fruit-set: snow peas, baby squash, cucumbers (June), followed by green beans, green peppers, and small tomatoes (July). Then more mature, colorfully ripened fruits: beefsteak tomatoes, eggplants, red and yellow peppers (late July–August). Then the large, hard-shelled fruits with developed seeds inside: cantaloupes, honeydews, watermelons, pumpkins, winter squash (August–September). Last come the root crops, and so ends the produce parade. Plainly these don’t all come from the same plant, but each comes from a plant, that’s the point—a plant predestined to begin its life in the spring and die in the fall. (A few, like onions and carrots, are attempting to be biennials, but we’ll ignore that for now.) Each plant part we eat must come in its turn—leaves, buds, flowers, green fruits, ripe fruits, hard fruits—because that is the necessary order of things for an annual plant. For the life of them, they can’t do it differently. Some minor deviations and a bit of overlap are allowed, but in general, picturing an imaginary vegetannual plant is a pretty reliable guide to what will be in season, wherever you live. If you find yourself eating a watermelon in April, you can count back three months and imagine a place warm enough in January for this plant to have launched its destiny.

I get straight to work preparing my yeast, mixing it with a splash of milk and warming it in a pan as an image of a Swedish cardamom twist comes into my head. With its elaborate plaiting, it's like a cinnamon roll but more complex. I love a bread tied in knots. I'll make mine savory. That will be interesting. I turn off the burner and rush to my designated sage-green refrigerator on the side of the tent. It's stocked to the brim, stuffed full of fresh produce, exotic fruits, and dairy from local farms. I get to work, sorting through my options. What is this? Spring onion? No, chives. That'll be perfect. I'll dice them and mix them with olive oil, so they crisp up in the cracks of the bread, along with some mature cheddar. I dig deeper in the dairy compartment and find a log of expensive goat cheese. Even better! Then I'll add a ton of fresh-ground black pepper and top with some flaky sea salt. My mouth is already watering. Pair a few of these freshly baked buns with a crisp, mineral white and aperitvo is served!

Likewise, when she sometimes found arrows stuck in the roots of trees, she quietly unscrewed the shafts and used them to stake plants in the poison garden, where Herself grew hemlock, tall thimbleweed, white snakeroot, swamp milkweed, poison sumac, and bloodroot. Poison ivy with its white berries was ubiquitous on the island and didn't need any special place. This morning the island was alive with flowery and moldy fragrances, alive with the urgent trills and chirps of birdsong, while more quietly, down low, sounds of scurrying and munching. The island was bursting with spring things to count and measure and eat--- ramps and wild onion sprouts, three-leaved trillium and speckled trout lily, dandelions, horse tails, tender new nettles for tea, pokeweed shoots to boil, fiddlehead ferns to fry.

A Chinese chef can look at an initially unattractive item like a jellyfish and ask: what can I do with this? What are its downsides and what are its potential assets? Clearly, it is colourless, almost invisible and, aside from an edge of unattractive fishiness, virtually without flavour. But what does it have going for it? Perhaps its brisk, slippery mouthfeel – something anyone Chinese would enjoy. The question then becomes: how can I compensate for its deficiencies and make the most of its assets? With jellyfish, the answer usually is to clean it thoroughly, dispelling any hint of unpleasant fishiness, preserve its vibrant texture, and prepare it with accompanying ingredients that provide what it lacks: salt and sesame oil or vinegar for flavour, slivered cucumber or spring onions, perhaps, for colour. And lo – something overlooked by every other food culture in the world becomes a delectable salad. The same dispassionate, analytical approach can be applied to anything.

They each contribute at least one dish to their new menu. It's not an extensive list, just a handful of favorites that are not only delicious and filling, but affordable as well. Peter makes the most mouthwatering shucos on heavenly soft long bread buns, buttered and toasted to perfection before being topped with halved hotdogs, guacamole, cabbage, mayonnaise, tomato sauce, chili sauce, and mustard. It's both crispy and soft at the same time, a perfect combination of textures in one's mouth. It's honestly the perfect dish for anyone looking for a quick but hearty meal for lunch. Freddie brings fish and chips to the table. Simple, delectable, but hardly anything to scoff at. He makes sure to use a beer batter to bring out the subtle flavors of the fresh halibut he uses. It's then fried to golden perfection. The fries are lovingly cut and seasoned by hand, optional Cajun spice in a small serving bowl to the side. He never skimps on the portion sizes, either. The fish is massive, and he makes sure to pile fries so high, a few always fall off the expo line. Rina contemplated making a classic pho from scratch, but eventually decided on her and her sister's personal favorite gỏi cuõn--- savory braised pork, massive prawns, soft vermicelli, cucumbers, lettuce, and diced carrots all wrapped up in a pretty rice paper blanket. The way she plates everything makes the dish look like a masterpiece that's too good to eat. Most people do, however, eat it eventually, because it'd be a right shame to waste such an amazing meal. Eden makes her mother's macaroni and cheese. The cheap, boxed shit from grocery stores doesn't even begin to compare. She comes in early to make the macaroni from scratch, rolling and kneading pasta dough with deft hands. The cheese sauce she uses is also made from scratch, generous helpings of butter and cream and sharp cheddar--- a sprinkle of salt and pepper and oregano, too--- melting into one cohesive concoction she then pours over her recently boiled pasta. She makes every bowl to order, placing everything in cute little ramekins they found on sale, popping it into the oven beneath the broiler so that the butter-coated bread crumb topping can turn a beautiful golden brown. With a bit of chopped bacon and fresh green onions sprinkled on top, it's arguably one of the most demanded dishes at The Lunchbox.

There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful. When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare. It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream. I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really. I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.

The cleaning lady is green despite her blue eyes we love her beauty to death. we sniff unwashed since the beginning of the world lusting to know. and from too much knowledge we forgot that the intersection between giving and receiving the spring mist an empty sack gurgling not even French perfume makes it go away. we’re more organic exophthalmic eyes. muddy balloons. if we don’t want she chooses from what we have. what’s better more syrupy we keep searching our memories perhaps there’s a leftover slice of bread a good deed by mistake, a sprig of onion wide as a rope. we search through everything we have at least a sprinkle of kind words. an offering she wants us to stop for a moment to change our meaning. to make us at least leaves the kitchens of growing upward. what she puts us through what she doesn’t put us through. all that’s left is a baby the size of a baguette. who hopes and hopes. we’ve started thinning out and one who passed through the no. 9 mental hospital he says he’s a national security agent we that he’s a security guard. he isn’t sick he’s always right. a metal cup or maybe a jar that expands threateningly we don’t even curse him behind his back. not because of fear we think more positively when he’s around. it took us too long to understand that No, the nervous tic, with a question mark at the end of a sentence, is actually Yes. emotions jumped out of him like strings. he told us he wouldn’t have left that manelist diva. should’ve seen how he compared her to the woman he never had. he about smashed his phone. it wasn’t our fault he was the only man without a woman. (in english by Diana Manole)

At only nine in the morning the kitchen was already pregnant to its capacity, every crevice and countertop overtaken by Marjan's gourmet creations. Marinating vegetables ('torshis' of mango, eggplant, and the regular seven-spice variety), packed to the briny brims of five-gallon see-through canisters, sat on the kitchen island. Large blue bowls were filled with salads (angelica lentil, tomato, cucumber and mint, and Persian fried chicken), 'dolmeh,' and dips (cheese and walnut, yogurt and cucumber, baba ghanoush, and spicy hummus), which, along with feta, Stilton, and cheddar cheeses, were covered and stacked in the enormous glass-door refrigerator. Opposite the refrigerator stood the colossal brick bread oven. Baking away in its domed belly was the last of the 'sangak' bread loaves, three feet long and counting, rising in golden crests and graced with scatterings of poppy and nigella seed. The rest of the bread (paper-thin 'lavash,' crusty 'barbari,' slabs of 'sangak' as well as the usual white sliced loaf) was already covered with comforting cheesecloth to keep the freshness in. And simmering on the stove, under Marjan's loving orders, was a small pot of white onion soup (not to be mistaken for the French variety, for this version boasts dried fenugreek leaves and pomegranate paste), the last pot of red lentil soup, and a larger pot of 'abgusht.' An extravaganza of lamb, split peas, and potatoes, 'abgusht' always reminded Marjan of early spring nights in Iran, when the cherry blossoms still shivered with late frosts and the piping samovars helped wash down the saffron and dried lime aftertaste with strong, black Darjeeling tea.

This soup, which is great for really cold winter days, would have been a very easy one to prepare out on the prairie. In the winter, I will make a big pot of this soup in the late morning and just leave it on the stove until late afternoon. That way, anyone can grab a mugful at any time. Serves 4 to 6 2 bunches (about 10) spring onions, trimmed ¼ cup (60 ml) sunflower or vegetable oil 1 yellow onion, coarsely chopped 3 russet potatoes (about 1½ pounds/680 g), peeled and quartered 1 quart (960 ml) chicken broth Salt and freshly ground black pepper • Cut the spring onions in half crosswise, dividing the white and green parts. Coarsely chop the white parts and set aside. Finely chop the green parts and set them aside separately. • Heat the oil in a medium pot over medium heat. Add the yellow onion and chopped white parts of the spring onions and cook, stirring often with a wooden spoon, until soft, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the potatoes and broth and season to taste with salt and pepper. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring just to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the potatoes are soft, 30 to 35 minutes. • Allow the soup to cool slightly. Working in batches, puree the soup in a blender or a food processor until very smooth. Return the pureed soup to the pot and cook over medium heat until hot. Adjust the seasonings to taste. Garnish individual servings with the reserved spring onion greens.

Sometimes my reticence over a particular food was overcome through simple drunkenness. The Chengdu equivalent of the late-night döner kebab in 1994 was fried rabbit-heads, a snack I’d heard about from a Canadian friend. I’d seen the rabbit-heads sitting ominously in glass cabinets, earless and skinless, staring out with beady rabbit eyes and pointy teeth. The idea of eating one was utterly revolting. But one night, after a long dancing session, I fetched up at a street stall bedraggled and hungry. My reason befuddled by alcohol, I ate my first rabbit-head, cleft in half and tossed in a wok with chilli and spring onion. I won’t begin to describe the silky richness of the flesh along the jaw, the melting softness of the eyeball, the luxuriant smoothness of the brain. Suffice it to say that from that day on I ate stir-fried rabbit-heads almost every Saturday night. (Later

I thought for our last session we should celebrate spring," Lillian said, coming out of the kitchen with a large blue bowl in her hands. "The first green things coming up through soft earth. I've always thought the year begins in the spring rather than January, anyway. I like the idea of taking the first asparagus of the year, picked right that day, and putting it in a warm, creamy risotto. It celebrates both seasons and takes you from one to the next in just a few bites." They passed the bowl around the table, using the large silver spoon to serve generous helpings. The salad bowl came next, fresh Bibb lettuce and purple onions and orange slices, touched with oil and lemon and orange juice. Then a bread basket, heaped high with slices of fragrant, warm bread.

limp spring onion draped itself over the edge of the wicker basket that displayed the fresh produce in the O’Driscolls’ shop, café and post office. It shared the space with a shrivelled red pepper, while the basket above it held a few sweaty-looking bags of carrots. On the ground was a large sack of potatoes. Brown paper bags dangled from string to allow eager shoppers to make their own selection from the enticing display.

21. Bacon and Cheddar "Pot-Potatoes" Preparation time: 20 minutes cooking time: 40 minutes servings: 4 Ingredients: 1 pound bacon (diced) 2 medium onions (thinly sliced) 5 medium Idaho potatoes (thinly sliced) ½ pound cheddar cheese (grated) 4 tablespoons of butter with cannabis 1 teaspoon of salt ½ teaspoon of black pepper ½ teaspoon of chili powder aluminum foil potato pot baking tray / frying pan Optional garnishes: spring onions (thinly sliced), a dollop of sour cream, etc. Directions: Enough to make the top - starting clothed your crockpot or slow cooker with some aluminum foil potatoes to cover if you're ready. Then heat a large skillet or stovetop on the stovetop (most ideally because of the large surface area) over medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon of butter with cannabis and grease your pan.

I first tried a cheesesteak spring roll ten years ago at my cousin's wedding at the Four Seasons in Philadelphia, and though I wasn't as unconvinced as Shauna, I had my doubts. That Philadelphians could bastardize a menu item didn't surprise me- this is, after all, the city that invented The Schmitter, a sandwich made of sliced beef, cheese, grilled salami, more cheese, tomatoes, fried onions, more cheese, and some sort of Thousand Island sauce- but the fact that the Four Seasons found it worthy of their fancy-pants menu intrigued me. One bite and I knew I'd struck gold. The cheesy meat and onion filling oozed out of the crisp, fried wonton wrapper, enhancing the celebrated cheesesteak flavor with a sophisticated crunch. This weekend, I'm doing a similar riff, but instead of spring rolls, I'm using arancini, the Sicilian fried risotto balls that are usually stuffed with mozzarella and meat ragu. Instead, I will stuff mine with sautéed chopped beef, provolone, and fried onions and mushrooms. The crispy, saffron-scented rice balls will ooze with unctuous cheesesteak flavor, and I will secure my place among the culinary legends.

So what can we generalize about Victorian vampires? They are already dead, yet not exactly dead, and clammy-handed. They can be magnetically repelled by crucifixes and they don’t show up in mirrors. No one is safe; vampires prey upon strangers, family, and lovers. Unlike zombies, vampires are individualists, seldom traveling in packs and never en masse. Many suffer from mortuary halitosis despite our reasonable expectation that they would no longer breathe. But our vampires herein also differ in interesting ways. Some fear sunlight; others do not. Many are bound by a supernatural edict that forbids them to enter a home without some kind of invitation, no matter how innocently mistaken. Dracula, for example, greets Jonathan Harker with this creepy exclamation that underlines another recurring theme, the betrayal of innocence (and also explains why I chose Stoker’s story “Dracula’s Guest” as the title of this anthology): “Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will.” Yet other vampires seem immune to this hospitality prohibition. One common bit of folklore was that you ought never to refer to a suspected vampire by name, yet in some tales people do so without consequence. Contrary to their later presentation in movies and television, not all Victorian vampires are charming or handsome or beautiful. Some are gruesome. Some are fiends wallowing in satanic bacchanal and others merely contagious victims of fate, à la Typhoid Mary. A few, in fact, are almost sympathetic figures, like the hero of a Greek epic who suffers the anger of the gods. Curious bits of other similar folklore pop up in scattered places. Vampires in many cultures, for example, are said to be allergic to garlic. Over the centuries, this aromatic herb has become associated with sorcerers and even with the devil himself. It protected Odysseus from Circe’s spells. In Islamic folklore, garlic springs up from Satan’s first step outside the Garden of Eden and onion from his second. Garlic has become as important in vampire defense as it is in Italian cooking. If, after refilling your necklace sachet and outlining your window frames, you have some left over, you can even use garlic to guard your pets or livestock—although animals luxuriate in soullessness and thus appeal less to the undead. The vampire story as we know it was born in the early nineteenth century. As

Chef Ferrero had taken charge of the main dish himself. Tender veal cutlets had been dipped in beaten eggs and seasoned flour, then lightly seared and served in a dark brown sauce. The presentation was completed with a sprinkle of lavender leaves and marigold petals- green and gold, like a spring morning- and served with a loaf of crusty bread rather than the customary glazed onions.

Half the food that he sends out is raw: ruby cubes of tuna dressed with a heaping mound of fresh wasabi; sea grapes the size of ball bearings that pop like caviar against the roof of your mouth; glistening beads of salmon roe meant to be stuffed into crispy sheets of nori. The other half gets the blowtorch treatment. Tuna is transformed into a sort of tataki stir-fry, toasted, glazed with ponzu, and tossed with a thicket of spring onions. Fish heads are blitzed under the flame until the cheeks singe and the skin screams and the eyes melt into a glorious stew meant to be extracted with chopsticks. Even sea urchin, those soft orange tongues of ocean umami, with a sweetness so subtle that cooking it is considered heretical in most culinary circles, gets blasted like a crème brûlée by Toyo and his ring of fire.

Sesame-free Hummus GF P SERVES 6; PREPARATION TIME 10 MINUTES (IF COOKING THE CHICKPEAS THERE IS ADDITIONAL SOAKING AND COOKING TIME) This delicious hummus can be used to accompany crackers and vegie sticks; use a dollop on salads or spread it onto sandwiches or toast for a protein-rich snack, breakfast or lunch. See Notes on following page. 1 1/2 cups cooked chickpeas (garbanzo beans)—see section entitled “Cooking guide for legumes P” for cooking instructions (or use 1x400g/14oz can organic chickpeas, drained and rinsed) 1 small clove garlic, minced 1 tablespoon rice bran oil 4–5 tablespoons filtered water 1/4 teaspoon ascorbic acid or citric acid (see ‘Soaking acids’) 1/4 teaspoon Celtic sea salt 1/2 handful or less of chopped spring onions (scallions), green parts only Place all the ingredients into a food processor and blend until smooth. Taste and adjust if necessary. Add a splash of water if a thinner consistency is desired. Hummus will last for 4–5 days in the refrigerator if stored in a sealed container. NOTES This dip is wonderfully garlicky so you may want to reduce the garlic and add more after sampling.

The next morning I invited Celia over for a breakfast of congee with pickled cucumbers and shredded pork. The dried scallop and duck wings added an extra dimension of flavors to the plainness of the rice porridge. Crowned with delicate rings of spring onion and golden bits of fried garlic, the bowls of steaming porridge were comfort food. Our toppings of choice were crunchy pickled cucumbers and sweet shredded pork floss.

I tried to remember my own passionate spiritual feelings as a child, when I had no religion and no language to understand them. There had been one early spring afternoon, raw and chilly, when I lay by myself in the muddy backyard in my snow-suit examining a fallen log, looking and looking and looking. There were patches of snow on the wet wood and, around it, spears of onion grass just beginning to poke up, and I sat up after half an hour contemplating the log. The cloudy sky above me was so huge, and I was so small. The phrase “the whole universe” occurred to me. I must have been in third grade, and no amount of papier-mâché solar system models had prepared me for the vast, heart-beating calm I felt, or for the inarticulate desire to just stay there, suspended, looking and breathing my tiny puffs of the whole universe's air, until I had to pee and went inside, shedding my wet mittens.

Mmm! This is so yummy! It's salt and spring onion flavored, right?" "Yep! I boiled some chicken tenderloins and dressed them with salt and spring onion sauce. I spread the sauce on the outside of the rice balls too!" "Yum! The salty flavor really whets the appetite!" "The body especially craves salt after exercise too." "Aah, is this kombu? Seaweed is a rice ball staple! Tsukudani kombu and... cheese?!" *Tsukudani means foods simmered in soy sauce and mirin.* "Right! The heavy sweetness of tsukudani foods goes really well with cheese." "Okay, let's see what the last one is! Yum! The garlic flavor is awesome!" "Those are my honey-garlic pork rice balls. I boiled some pork belly until it was soft... and then I let it marinate with some garlic for a day in a mixture of miso, cooking saké, and honey. It's super awesome with rice, so I thought I'd try making rice balls with it. I brought barley tea and green tea. Take your pick!" AAAAH "This is the brilliance of Megumi's cooking. It calms and comforts the heart of whoever enjoys it." "The chicken tenderloin isn't too dry, and the pork is perfectly tender. All of these are carefully and deftly made.

Migration Crows assemble in the bare elm above our house. Restless, staring: like souls who want back in life. —And who wouldn’t want again the hot bath after hard work, with soft canyons of splitting foam; or the glass of spring water cold at the mouth? To be startled by beauty—drops of bright blood on the snow. To be radiant. All morning the crows watch me in the garden putting in the early onions. Their bodies look oiled. Back in, back in, they shake the wooden rattles.

Oooh! Bacon and onion miso soup! Aaah! This too!" Unexpectedly, the bacon matches ridiculously well with the miso! The unique aroma of dried tuna stock tickles the nose. That coupled with the thick sweetness of the onions... ... wraps the whole body in fresh spring bliss!

coconut-curry chicken Serves 2 Prep Time: 15 minutes Cook Time: 15 minutes Total Time: 30 minutes 3 tablespoons cooking fat ½ onion, finely diced 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 tablespoon yellow curry powder 1 cup canned crushed tomatoes ½ cup coconut cream 1 teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon black pepper 1½ pounds bone-in, skin-on, split chicken breasts (2 pieces) 1 lime, quartered Don’t pour all the curry sauce over the chicken; once the mixture has come into contact with the raw meat, you have to throw it out. Instead, place your chicken in a shallow bowl, and pour a little of the sauce over the chicken. Brush or rub it evenly over the meat, then flip and repeat on the other side. Save the extra sauce to drizzle over the top of this dish before serving, or use it to top tomorrow night’s chicken, shrimp, or vegetables. To make the curry sauce, melt the cooking fat in a saucepan over medium heat and swirl to coat the bottom of the pan. When the fat is hot, add the onion and cook, stirring, until translucent, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the garlic and stir until it becomes aromatic, about 30 seconds. Add the curry powder and stir for 15 to 20 seconds, taking care that the garlic and curry powder don’t burn. Add the tomatoes and simmer until thickened, about 5 minutes. Transfer the contents of the pan to a food processor or blender and puree until smooth. Pour into a mixing bowl and let cool. Mix in the coconut cream, salt, and pepper. Place the chicken in a shallow bowl. Pour some of the sauce over the chicken and brush it on each side. Preheat a grill to high heat (500°F). Remove the chicken from the curry sauce and discard the extra sauce. Add the chicken, breast-side down, to the grill and sear until golden brown, about 2 minutes. (When the meat is properly seared it will pull off the grates very easily, so don’t rush this step.) Turn the chicken over so the bone side is down and place over indirect heat. Cover with the grill lid and continue to cook until the internal temperature of the chicken is 160°F, or the breast meat springs back when pressed with a finger. This will take 10 to 15 minutes, depending on thickness. Let the chicken rest for 5 minutes. Serve with a squeeze of lime juice and the reserved curry sauce. Make It a Meal: This recipe goes great with Cauliflower Rice and Sautéed Kale with Almonds, or grilled peppers, onions, and pineapple (see Perfect Grilled Vegetables). ✪Baked Coconut-Curry chicken If you don’t have a grill, you can bake the chicken in the oven. Turn the oven to Broil (or 500°F), and place the raw chicken in a baking dish. Sear the chicken in the oven for 5 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 350°F. Brush the chicken with the curry sauce and finish cooking in the oven for 10 to 15 minutes (depending on thickness), until the internal temperature reaches 160°F.

The Larchmont Spring Festival was, as you might expect, an annual affair. There was cotton candy and sno-cones, there were hot dogs and burgers, and the scent of burning onions blended beautifully with Los Angeles’s signature perfume: sunscreen and money.

HOBAMISO Miso on a magnolia leaf Serves 2-4 Preparation time: 15 mins Cooking time: 10 mins 100g (3½ oz) shinshu (light brown) miso 35g (1¼ oz) sugar 8g (¼ oz) mature ginger, coarsely grated and then drained of liquid by squeezing through muslin (cheesecloth) 1 tbsp vegetable oil 80g (2¾ oz) spring onions (scallions), thinly sliced 2 hoba leaves (newly fallen leaves that are at least 25cm/10 in in length), or parchment paper cooked rice, to serve 1 Prepare a shichirin (a small tabletop grill) and get the charcoal red hot. If you don’t have a shichirin or hoba leaves, you can also make this dish on the stove in a roasting tin lined with parchment paper. 2 In a bowl, combine the miso, sugar, ginger, and vegetable oil to form a paste. Stir in the spring onions. 3 Rinse the hoba leaves in water and drain, but don’t wipe them dry. Place the leaves on the grill, over the very hot charcoal, and spread the miso mixture over the centre of the leaf, making sure not to cover more than about a third of the leaf’s surface. 4 Allow to simmer for 2 minutes, cooking until the spring onion becomes tender and the miso caramelised. When it is ready, the leaf will release a slightly smoky, autumnal aroma. 5 Serve with a bowl of rice. Nobuko says this also goes very well with a crisp sake.

Spring had come to the market as well. Everywhere there were young green things, the tips of asparagus, young leeks no bigger than scallions. There was crisp arugula, curled and tangled, and fresh green peas, plump in their pods. I had no idea what I wanted to make for dinner. This didn't pose a problem; on the contrary, it was an opportunity, a mini adventure. The season's new ingredients brought new ideas. The first baby tomatoes were coming in from Sicily. I bought a box of small red globes still on the vine and a red onion in my favorite childhood shade of royal purple. Maybe I would make a salsa for the dorade I'd picked up at the fishmonger. I imagined a bright confetti, the tomatoes mixed with freshly chopped coriander, maybe a sunny mango.

Back in the ’70s, the only way I encountered cauliflower was boiled to hell and drenched with a butter or cheese sauce. Worse, to me as a kid, raw cauliflower looked kind of like brains. After those early cauliflower traumas, I wasn’t in a hurry to give it a second chance. But proper cooking techniques can elevate this seemingly mundane vegetable to the culinary heights it deserves. Cauliflower is insanely delicious when it is roasted so its edges go all crispy and caramelized and it tastes mysteriously rich and complex. I’m keeping it simple and mostly unadorned here, but I love that cauliflower is a great canvas on which you can improvise with all sorts of flavors: I often add a bit of anchovies or raisins or grated lemon zest. Serves 4 Scant ½ cup extra virgin olive oil 4 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled 4 spring onions or large scallions, trimmed and chopped 1 medium head cauliflower or Romanesco (about 2 pounds), cored and broken into florets ½ teaspoon fine sea salt Freshly ground black pepper 6 bay leaves, preferably fresh 1 cup white wine 1 lemon A small handful of fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves, torn Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Add the garlic and cook just until it starts to color, a minute or so, then add the spring onions and cook until you can smell the aromatics, another minute or so. Add the cauliflower and season with the salt and pepper to taste. Then let the cauliflower just sit, without stirring, for 5 minutes. You want to get some great, deep color on it, and that’s how you do it—no stirring. After 5 minutes, check the underside of a cauliflower piece. Nice and browned? Great.

Yin-yang fried rice was a feast for the eyes and the senses. Swirls of cream contrasted with an orange tomato sauce to form the iconic pattern. Underneath the sauces lay a bed of yang chow fried rice containing a bounty of minced jewels: barbecued pork, Chinese sausage, peas, carrots, spring onions, and wisps of egg. Slices of white onions and pork emerged from the tomato sauce while shrimp and sweet green peas decorated the cream.