Spring

As traditionally seasonal delicacies like asparagus, strawberries, and peaches have become everyday food, the idea that they are a treat has somehow stuck—but with none of the flavor or meaning. Year-round asparagus has become a stand-in for a kind of perfunctory idea of good eating—the Whole Foods near us recently installed a permanent granite waterfall shrine to asparagus in their entrance—yet is a shadow of its tasty springtime self. When you put just-picked asparagus on a hot grill, they are so juicy they actually jump as they start to cook.

This dish is all about timing: poach the eggs first and keep them in a warm spot.

On the first day of the year that is warm enough to open the windows, we all instantly crave spring foods. While the asparagus, peas, and strawberries we hunger for lag many weeks behind, the early tonics of spring—spring onions, green garlic, and ramps—step in to give us the jolt we need to wake up from winter.

Silvia and I have made this often over the years, the first time in my (illegal) home kitchen for an Easter catering gig when we made the entire meal twice, timing it so that the second roast was perfectly blistered and crispy when we arrived back home with a car full of dirty pots and pans to have dinner with our own families. It goes well with wilted spring scallions, roast potatoes (basted in the drippings), lightly dressed spicy arugula, and beans in all forms. One favorite bean dish for this ham is from Amanda Hesser’s The Cook and the Gardener: flavorful white beans simmered with hearty herbs and crème fraîche until slightly thickened.

We rely on this little carrot salad over and over to add color, sweetness, and crunch to many meals. It’s even prettier topped with fresh raspberries. (See photo)

Try this variation of the familiar Greek egg-lemon soup in the springtime when the first tender shoots of asparagus hit the markets.

The glistening vegetables in bright shades of green and orange in this garlicky dish are a reminder that summer’s just ahead. Frozen shelled edamame (fresh soybeans) are available in natural food stores and many supermarkets. We like to keep a bag on hand to add to soups, stews, and sautés.

This sandwich came about in our favorite way: by visiting the greenmarket, picking up the cheese, and then meandering through the farmers’ stands to see what fresh offerings might be paired with it. It was June; we came away with beautiful asparagus, red onions, basil, and a rustic bread—all the fixins for an open-faced sandwich on the grill. (If you don’t have an outdoor grill, you can use a grill pan.) Thinking back to the days when cooks in diners put hubcaps atop burgers as they cooked, to steam them a bit, we recommend either closing the grill or inverting a metal bowl over the sandwich to keep the heat in and help melt the cheese. By the way, if you can’t find or do not care for Vacherin, substitute any good melting cheese.

At ’wichcraft, we make our own peanut butter and we make our own jelly, usually strawberry, Concord grape, and for a brief time in the spring, rhubarb. We feel that even the humble peanut butter and jelly sandwich deserves the finest ingredients. Here’s one of our top secrets: We doctor up standard peanut butter by adding real butter, which mellows the flavor, adds richness, and makes the texture more velvety. Is it excessive or—as some have suggested—even evil to add butter to peanut butter? Well, we think of it as substituting one fat for another, modest as long as you spread the same amount on your sandwich.

Hey, Dad! Remember those surprise outings Team McKenna took to Knott’s Berry Farm in the early 1980s? When we piled into the station wagon for a two-hour voyage with one seatbelt stretched over three kids? The trips that got you significantly more amped than they did anyone else? I do. Will you admit now that the real reason for those trips was that you were in thrall to the Knott’s Berry Farm restaurant’s strawberry-rhubarb pie? Twenty years later I’ve finally come around, and I now understand the overwhelming allure of this delicious pairing. This one’s for you, Dad.

My sister Sarah, the planet’s most outrageously particular eater, once told me: “I would rather starve than eat something that isn’t a symphony in my mouth.” As I would gladly eat a toupee if my blood sugar sank low enough, people like Sarah are like Martians to me. This cake is the perfect bridge between you and the Sarahs in your life. When I finally had the chance to offer her a slice, she took a bite, shut her eyes, raised a finger like a conductor’s baton, and began humming Beethoven’s Fifth. No joke. I’ve really become partial to the strawberry filling, but on occasion, at Sarah’s request, I substitute both blackberries and blueberries. Stay creative.

Rich, flaky shortcake is a perfect showcase for luscious strawberries.

Sure you can spoon this sauce over ice cream, but you can also make it to serve with waffles or pancakes. Or even as a dip for toasted Brioche (page 194).

This brightly flavored jelly would make a delicious layer in a birthday cake. Pour it into the cake pan you’re using for the cake and let it set.

This compote is a perfect balance of opposite flavors: sweet, soft strawberries and bitter, astringent rhubarb. It fills the mochi on page 23, but it would also be very nice with Fromage Blanc Panna Cotta (page 37), mixed into thick plain yogurt, or as a bed for Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 220) and fresh berries.

There were always barrels of pickles at the flea markets my parents took me to when I was growing up. My dad loved half-sours; my mom loved sweet pickles; I loved both. Mom would cut both kinds in half and stick them together, so I’ d get two flavors in every bite. This is my homage to those days, made with one of my favorite ingredients.

This simple preparation replaces the bitterness of raw rhubarb with the musty richness of port while maintaining a special crispness in flavor. You could put this out with cheese. Or pair it with Pink Peppercorn Meringues (page 38), fresh berries, ice cream, and whipped cream for a deconstructed vacherin.