Lilies, for many, are a wonderful way to celebrate spring’s arrival. But I think they stink. Besides sparking memories of funeral homes, they drop that awful rusty pollen that cannot be brushed out of the first linen of the season. It may be their innocent and elegant pose that lands them starring roles in vernal wedding bouquets, but isn’t spring (and a wedding, for that matter) inspired by a stirring of the spirit? Isn’t the awakening of life and passion deserving of a stronger emblem? That’s why I’d like to predict that this year’s stylish bride will walk down the aisle clutching a stout, heady bunch of leeks.
Leeks have it all over their lily cousins, obviously because they aren’t just a pretty face; they’re edible. Yet they seem to get the short end of the stalk. Why do people so often pass over this noble vegetable while perusing the produce bins? Is it the intimidating shape, the fact that it looks like a scallion on Enzyte (the “once-a-day tablet for natural male enhancement”)? Is it the fear of possible intensity from such a big oniony thing? But now is the time to let the spirit of the season sway you from your normal path. Take a daring step toward this exciting and versatile vegetable. Come, let us honor the leek. Beloved by many ancient civilizations, the leek was favored for its hardy nature and medicinal properties. The Roman emperor Nero, wishing to deliver powerful and sonorous speeches, chewed leeks like cigars to improve his voice. The Egyptians made sure their loved ones were entombed with a supply of leeks for the afterlife. Even St. Patrick was said to have divinely changed marsh reeds into leeks in order to feed a starving elderly woman.
No one, however, has a stronger passion for leeks than the Welsh. In 640 A.D., the Saxons raided Wales. Fighting for their lives and their country, the Welsh wore leeks on their helmets to distinguish themselves from their foes. Henceforth, the leek became their national emblem. On St. David’s Day (March 1), which celebrates that victory, nary a Welshman is to be seen without a leek adorning his lapel. Needless to say, the Welsh have taken the standardization of leeks by the European Union as an insult. After the E.U.’s Welsh representative bristled over what he deemed as absurdities concerning diameter rules and other regulations, an opponent responded, “Isn’t it a shame that, with all the opportunities facing Wales at the moment … the only thing the honorable gentleman can rant about today is the sheathing, swelling, and length of his leek?”
Partly because it has been cultivated in the Old World for more than three thousand years, the leek has a much mightier following in European countries than in America. Yet many on our side of the Atlantic have a devotion for the wild leek, also known as the ramp, that approaches the Welsh’s leek fixation. Foraging for ramps, which can be found growing in clumps in sandy soil from Canada to the Carolinas and as far west as our own state, is an age-old tradition. Countless festivals and celebrations herald the leafy—and some say, stinky—plants as the first sign of spring in the Appalachians. The telltale way to identify a ramp is to gently crush one of its leaves. If an onion-garlic smell nearly knocks you over, bingo! The Native American Menomini tribe referred to an area where ramps grew profusely near southern Lake Michigan as CicagaWuni or shikako—“skunk place.” The white settlement that took over the area put up an equally stinky city called Chicago.
Any food that has a short growing season and is hard to find and relatively unknown among the general population will, at some point, find its way into a chef’s heart. Granted, ramps’ flavor alone makes them a worthy choice for many restaurant menus, but it seems that the status of this vegetable has abruptly shifted from hick to hip. It’s hard to bet on their availability, due to weather and the fortitude of gatherers, but check the menus at Heartland in St. Paul or Lucia’s in Minneapolis for the opportunity to savor expertly prepared ramps. If you are so inspired as to have a go at it yourself, search for ramps in the woods near streams in sandy soils, and on hillsides. Urbanites may prefer to do their foraging at Lakewinds or the Wedge Co-op. Look for ramps with a blush of crimson in between their small white tips and leafy greens. And don’t neglect that gorgeous aroma.
The flavor of leeks is much milder than that of ramps—lighter than an onion, yet with its own earthy zing. They’re available year-round at local markets, but since the city’s farmers’ markets open this month, why not hunt some down there? Look for firmness, with long white necks that flow into flat, tough, blade-like leaves. Also, dirt is good. Farmers who love their leeks will mound soil around them to protect their charming white flesh, so the dirtier ones have been loved more. Look for straight, even stalks—leeks with a bulbous bottom are closer to seed. Trim off any tough outer layers and trim the roots right were they meet the white. Cut the top blades no more than one inch above where the white transitions to green. To remove remaining dirt, soak leeks in water for a few minutes or halve them lengthwise and rinse under water.
While they are traditionally used in soups and stocks, leeks can certainly support a meal on their own. Slice them raw and add them to a salad, or chop and add to the pan of a roast. They live beautifully in any au gratin or risotto, or in creamed corn. Braised leeks make a wonderful foundation for grilled fish, while a simply halved leek, brushed with olive oil and grilled, will honor any plate. And for many, a potato-leek soup is their first step toward a life with leeks—but I’ve never heard of a case where it’s been the last.
Potato-Leek Soup
2 tablespoons butter
3 cloves garlic, chopped
2–3 large leeks, halved and sliced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon thyme
3 cups chicken stock
5 large russet potatoes, peeled, cut into chunks
1⁄2 cup cream
1⁄2 cup milk
Salt and pepper to taste
Melt butter over medium heat in a large stock pot. Trim root ends and top rough greens from leeks. Slice in half lengthwise and rinse under water to remove dirt. Slice each half from the root end in thin half-moons. Sauté chopped garlic in the butter first, then a few minutes later add leeks and thyme. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until leeks are softened and slightly translucent, about five minutes. Add chicken stock and potatoes and increase to high heat. Make sure stock covers potatoes; add more stock or water if necessary. Cook until potatoes are tender. Reduce heat to simmer and gently stir in cream and milk. For a silky soup, purée directly in pot with a hand blender (immersion blender). Properly feeds six people with a loaf of crusty bread.
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