In the woods, over the weekend, we found morels. I had never even seen a morel growing, before, so it was exciting. It seems I have a good eye for them, helped by the sniffer-dog Frenchman, who wistfully looks for chanterelles wherever he goes. The broad leaves above are ramps. I was in heaven.
Steve kindly let us bring some morels back when we drove home on Sunday. And we had three dozen eggs, too, leaving two dozen behind in Stockport fridge. Vince had only had a $20 bill, and the farmer's wife, who came to the back door wiping her hands on her apron, had no change. The farm-fresh eggs from hens we could hear clucking were $3 a dozen. Apart from clucking hens we arrived just in time to see two young brown piglets being rounded up for castration. Then we heard them. Poor things.
It was a beautiful small farm, and Uncle Russ, the farmer, allowed me to pick handfuls of common milkweed shoots in its pasture. He was amused but interested when I said they were a good vegetable. In his proper vegetable garden he had rows of gorgeous purple asparagus tips just showing.
My job today will be cleaning and preparing the milkweed, blanching some for freezing, pickling some, and figuring out a little wild foods menu for two vegetarians, tomorrow. I certainly have good ingredients.
Eggs, morels, some ramp greens?
An eight-egg omelette, of course. The Frenchman hummed as he ate.