Possession of this weed, sometimes called “skunk,” is restricted by Quebec law. “A person may have [stinkweed] in his or her possession outside its natural environment or may harvest it for the purposes of personal consumption in an annual quantity not exceeding 200 grams… provided that those activities do not take place in a park.” The law also prohibits the sale of skunk. “Failure to comply with these laws is punishable by a fine. However, the law does not always stop poachers, who find a ready market across the border in Ontario (especially in the Ottawa area), where [the stuff] may be legally harvested and sold.”
Those smoke-head Ottawans. Sounds like good stuff, huh? Are you holding? I am.
The above lesson in Canadian law comes compliments of Wikipedia. And they’re not talking about ganj. They’re talking ramps. Ramps are wild leeks, hand-picked from riverbanks, and their availability is fleeting, so hop to. They’ll fill your apartment with a curious chemical smell commonly thought to be unpleasant. I don’t find it so, but neither do I want to be filling elevators with it, so if you’re as concerned as I am about imposing your leek reek upon unsuspecting souls, I’d eat ‘em when you’re not gonna be breathing on the boss.
Like Miss Pleasure Pie herself, ramps are uncultivated, a tad funky, and the reason for assorted drunken hillbilly hoopty-do festivals throughout Appalachia each Spring.
Down there, they pickle ‘em, can ‘em, and cut ‘em up in they eggs. None of those plans speak to me, but yesterday I made Pasta with Ramps and Cured Pork, an astonishingly tasty recipe I snagged from Gothamist. Creamy without cream, garlicky without garlic. If I’d been served this at Babbo, I’d send my deepest curtsy to Mario. That’s how good this dish is.
A vegetarian version can be found at Epicurious, and other ramp recipes can be had here.
The urbanly elusive “Tennessee Truffles” can (at the moment) be found at FreshDirect and the Union Square Greenmarket, where their availability is tracked by the unassumingly bookmark-worthy Lucy’s Greenmarket Report. (I don’t know this Lucy, but she’s doing God’s work. And I do know God.)
Those smoke-head Ottawans. Sounds like good stuff, huh? Are you holding? I am.
The above lesson in Canadian law comes compliments of Wikipedia. And they’re not talking about ganj. They’re talking ramps. Ramps are wild leeks, hand-picked from riverbanks, and their availability is fleeting, so hop to. They’ll fill your apartment with a curious chemical smell commonly thought to be unpleasant. I don’t find it so, but neither do I want to be filling elevators with it, so if you’re as concerned as I am about imposing your leek reek upon unsuspecting souls, I’d eat ‘em when you’re not gonna be breathing on the boss.
Like Miss Pleasure Pie herself, ramps are uncultivated, a tad funky, and the reason for assorted drunken hillbilly hoopty-do festivals throughout Appalachia each Spring.
Down there, they pickle ‘em, can ‘em, and cut ‘em up in they eggs. None of those plans speak to me, but yesterday I made Pasta with Ramps and Cured Pork, an astonishingly tasty recipe I snagged from Gothamist. Creamy without cream, garlicky without garlic. If I’d been served this at Babbo, I’d send my deepest curtsy to Mario. That’s how good this dish is.
A vegetarian version can be found at Epicurious, and other ramp recipes can be had here.
The urbanly elusive “Tennessee Truffles” can (at the moment) be found at FreshDirect and the Union Square Greenmarket, where their availability is tracked by the unassumingly bookmark-worthy Lucy’s Greenmarket Report. (I don’t know this Lucy, but she’s doing God’s work. And I do know God.)
Now I’m off to try and find me some fiddleheads…
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