Our family of four is back in a familiar hardwood forest, adrift in a sea of ramps. While we expected early season conditions, we have found the patch in peak form, with dense clumps of enormous, glossy leaves. Eliana, who has recently acquired a taste for this exquisitely wild Allium, carefully picks a selection of leaves for her basket. Little Noemi – now a hiker in her own right – holds a pungent ramp specimen to her nose, a curious look on her face.

I’ve been spending quite a bit of time staring at the forest floor recently. My futile and often maddening pursuit of morels continues, as I find myself gazing relentlessly at the parched ground and praying for a spring miracle.

Let’s face it – this was one of the colder, snowier northeastern winters in recent memory. As much as I relish slapping on my cross-country skis and getting chased by my yelping dog through the winter woods, there comes a time when even the hardiest soul is ready for the dawn of spring. In one of my favorite childhood rituals, my father would take me into the woods each March as the ground began to thaw to search for signs of spring. From the sound of peepers peeping to the heady smell of maple sap boiling, today the sensory memories of early spring hit me with a heavy dose of nostalgia.