Ramps

Ah, ramps. You were once such wild onions. In our youth we picked you on springtime hikes, having found you growing wantonly by the side of the trail, all covered in dew and dirt as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Now you're all grown up and settled down, sold in neat little bunches at the Union Square Greenmarket, hardly a speck on you. You're bourgeois, ramps.

We're going to cook you with scrambled eggs, as we always have. First, we trim off your scraggly ends.

Then we give you a nice chop.

We use the stem and leaves altogether.

Next, we will saut� you in a bit of butter. We'll use the high fat European kind, because we are a bit bourgeois ourselves these days.

Once you've wilted, we are going to pour in eggs we've whisked together with a bit of milk, salt and pepper, and some cheese we had lying around.

A few minutes later, we're eating a nice light dinner of ramps and eggs with a glass of Gewurtztraminer. For wild onions, you sure have become just perfectly civilized.