Fiddlehead ferns are an unusual and succulent wild harvest. Fiddleheads are the unfurled shoots of the ostrich fern, unfurled being the key word here because as the shoots mature and furl, they become poisonous. So, as with many wildcrafted foods, timing is everything. 

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Sometimes, a dish will sit in your brain, ignored for years, until the perfect moment when it springs forth and manifests itself as an undeniable craving. This weekend, it was ajiaco that possessed me.

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This weekend, I will be attending a baby shower for a friend who already has one kid. There's much chatter in the friend circle about why she should need another shower if she already has all the stuff. So I've decided that it should be about her and not just the baby: her basket will be filled with pedicure gift cards, babysitting offers, pocket rockets of Jack Daniels, and season one of the Real Housewives. Because two is harder than one, and any free moment is a gift. This Fresh Forkin' Friday has me working out how I can possibly make an ugly, freaky, tricked-out belly cake, because we're way past pink-diapers-and-blue-bottles-are-cute cakes.

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One of the first vegetable bounties of the year can be yours for free, well, monetarily free at least. This bounty will, however, cost you a little time in the fresh air, maybe some dirt under your fingernails, and possibly a sweaty brow. I am writing, of course, about foraging, sometimes called wildcraft. Foraging is a great way to experience the wonderfully tasty weeds in your yard, local woods, and just about any field or ditch. 

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In our house, along with many households, we are saving pennies where we can. Our penny-pinching has not, however, lessened our commitment to local and organic food. I am a firm believer that the savvy consumer does not have to give up on the whole local movement to save money; just pick your battles.

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This Fresh Forkin' Friday has me feeling optimistic. Tulip leaves are poking up from the ground, patio chairs are out and full of eaters, and possibilities seem to be opening up on the food scene right now. Steph Hansen and I went to P&F yesterday and happened upon Joan Ida's new lunch menu. We tried a silky parsnip soup with duck confit, a nicely spiced steak salad, and a lovely hunk of sea bass with merguez sausage and kumquats. Best yet, the place was busy and there was a convivial buzz about the room.

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Late last summer, my gas grill finally died. It was, however, a slow and painful death for a trusty grill, but with gas knobs melting, hoses cracking, orifices clogging, and critical transplants unavailable . . . it was time. That old grill had been with me for nearly ten years and served me well, but I really had a yearning to go back to charcoal and hardwood grilling.

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I had been hearing for years that Wagner’s was for sale, that owners Jayne and Alan Wohl were looking to get out after some business and personal setbacks. I didn’t necessarily expect a successor to maintain the exceptional quality of the place’s burgers (admittedly, some days they were better than others), but when I saw that local themed-restaurant impresario Steve Schussler was buying the place, I lost all hope there was.

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I'm on my way, this Fresh Forkin' Friday morning, to buy my annual crate o' eggs from Costco. That's 96 eggs we'll be boiling and coloring this afternoon for Sunday's feast. It's true that we have approximately twenty people coming over for late lunch, and I'll hope that everyone takes a few home, but I'm sure we'll end up with a few dozen stuck in the fridge. Usually I try to make some hidden egg dishes throughout the week, but I've been assured that this year I won't have to. The fourteen-year-old has devised a plan that includes his buddies, the eggs, YouTube, and an homage to Cool Hand Luke. I'll post it if it's worth it.

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So, I took one for the team on Thursday morning. After my weekly radio gig on Cities97, I battled traffic, pedestrians, and wild animals to go drink beer with Summit Brewing brewmaster and founder Mark Stutrud. I was joined by Alvey from the Four Firkins and the folks from one of my favorite local food sites, HeavyTable.com . . . phew, workin’ in the coalmine. 

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Spring brunch rings of quiche for me. Quiche is a perfect blank canvas to which you can add your favorite colors of paint, in the form of ingredients. Crisped bacon, asparagus, artichokes, ramps, fresh herbs, or any combination you can think of. For Easter this weekend, I will be making quiche, not only because the three chefs that will be at my farm this weekend love it but also because it is so portable. 

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There was a point in my life when I had every intention of naming my first-born son Satchel Paige. The legend, lore, and magic surrounding baseball has been with me ever since I found an old copy of Bernard Malamud's The Natural in a used bookstore during high school. The Hollywood movie version still chokes me up, but truly, it's the dark side of legend that hooks me, Mr. Cobb. Only when I fell in love with a baseball fan did I learn to love the actual play: finding providence in a Texas-leaguer or a Baltimore chop, both marveling at and dreading a knuckle-baller on the mound, understanding the gamesmanship at stake with the delivery of a little chin music.

 

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I'm still giggling on this Fresh Forkin' Friday as I think about my little April Fool's Day joke. A friend and I were having dinner at Corner Table when our server, in a conspiratorial whisper, asked if we would be willing to help her play a joke on her boss, Scott Pampuch. Kitchen hi-jinx? Sh'yah. I told her to go get me a band-aid from the kitchen kit before the next course. I slipped it on my finger and worked it a little to make it look really worn. Our next course came, and it was a small sandwich, perfect. I slipped the band-aid beneath the lettuce, just poking out the side, and sent it back with our sneaky server. There was a good full minute of heavy silence in the kitchen before we heard the laughter. Apparently, Scott had gone ghostly white, turned to his pastry chef, who had done the lettuce that day, and with a time-halting voice asked "Have you at any time today had a band-aid on?" Properly freaked out, and most likely retracing every second of her life, she stood mute. Our server apparently let the torturous clock tick a few more seconds before calling the bluff. I was afraid Scott wasn't going to give me back my sandwich, but he was a good sport. Thank goodness because the deadly-fantastic pastrami sandwich, made with one of the most softly dense brioche buns I've ever experienced, would have been too high a price to pay for a laugh.

 

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Attention Restaurants: if you are going to sell dishes called French onion soup, French fries, or French dip, do ‘em correctly! I am really tired of ordering French onion soup and getting a watery beef broth with a couple of onion slices and a piece of toast with warm cheese atop. That is not French onion soup!

 

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