Foraging is a rather romanticized hobby and/or task. On the one hand, there is a fair bit of luck involved, I think, with whether you can find things to forage that are at all desirable or useful. 

On the other hand, it’s not all nature walks and healthy snacking. There’s a fair bit of getting your hands dirty and hoping what you are digging up is worth the effort. 

Then, of course, the race is on to use what you’ve collected before it goes bad. Chicken of the woods is a good example because typically it will get hard and woody if left even a few days too long. I’ve often thought about how many things are around us that could be eaten or broken down for some application or another; however, my knowledge of foraging is rudimentary at best. Perhaps that is why I consider luck to be such a part of it. 

If there were ever an easy item to forage, I would categorize wild leeks or ramps as one. In our area, they grow like weeds all along the road and throughout the farm and the surrounding area. What I like about them is that they are basically their own red flag, hailing your attention and standing out among the otherwise drab browns and tans of the sleepy spring forest floor. They grow not unlike the leaves of a morning glory, with wide, bright green shoots tapering down to a small white oniony head below. 

Can the leaves be eaten? I’m not sure myself, but without consulting the Google, I would wager a tentative yes. But what I’m after when I dig any up is those little white pearls. They work as small candied onions, sometimes a tad more bitter than a cultivated sweet onion, but very open to interpretation via home chef or professional. 

Not too long ago, one of my customers at the butcher shop brought me a jar of pickled onions. They were ramps, soaked in a kind of vinegary base that included Worcestershire sauce and a few other deep flavors I couldn’t ascertain. It was an aggressive taste, but good nonetheless. Now, whether we save a few ramps for pickling purposes or just fry them up fresh, I thought it criminal to have them so close as my own backyard and not be so bothered as to dig a few up. 

I was running around doing chores with the boys, and we ended up in the sand pit digging and playing and discussing the finer points of establishing a foundation before building a structure in the sandpit. It was at this point, as the excavation was being explained to me, that I suggested we go excavate some food. Both boys quickly agreed, as this was a practical excuse to exercise their digging prowess as well as maintain my involvement and encouragement in such activities. 

We soon crossed the yard to a small patch of ramps, growing near our chickens in the loose forest-composted biomass. The youngest decided he would supervise since he had left his boots behind, which was somehow now relevant as opposed to when we were bootless in the sand. The oldest brandished his small spade and began to hack through the weeds to access his quarry. See, they are so easy to pick out that the boys knew what to look for even without being told.

My oldest valiantly attacked the ground around the ramps in an attempt to unearth them but needed my help to extricate them intact, as we neared a mass of small roots that had entangled themselves betwixt four or five ramps. 

In a show of victory, both boys held their dinner spoils proudly for me to take a harvest picture. Maybe soon, they’ll be big enough for me to take them out for spring turkey? Hmm… turkey and onions… Soup? I’m sure there’s something there. But that’s for another column.

The way out here we dig for fun and we dig for food, and as long as I can keep my boys doing things like that instead of being glued to a TV, then life is good.