In a Waldorf kindergarten the teacher often regales the children with tales of Old Man Winter fighting to hold on to the cold weather while gentle Lady Spring sneaks sunny days and flowers into the picture. Well, this year’s battle is taking on epic proportions as crotchety Mr. Winter adamantly refuses to let anything above freezing fall from the sky, despite Ms. Spring’s tasteful floral decorating efforts. Uncharacteristically late snow—the second bout this year—is wreaking havoc on gardens and fruit trees. Indeed, as I regard the Italian plum tree in the front yard, with branches in full bloom under wet snow, I can’t help but wonder if it will set fruit.
Riots in other countries over the cost of food seem distant, even if they resonate with students of French history (“Qu’ils mangent de brioche !” intones Marie Antoinette). But I wonder how many are considering what might happen to an apple crop that has sustained the double-whammy of snow during blossom time and yet another huge die-off in beehives around the state.
This is the time of year when a girl’s fancy normally turns to love and picking posies. This girl looks forward to the spoils of spring: I crave a plate with a piece of tender salmon, sweet new potatoes and pencil-thin asparagus. But the salmon season has been sharply curtailed (and farther south it has been cancelled altogether) due to decimated Coho runs. Asparagus has yet to appear at the farmer’s market, though the first spears of rhubarb made Darling Husband’s mouth water when I asked him if I should make a crumble with it. The potatoes are starting to appear, knobbly russets that yield their skin to scrubbing.
So when the butcher from Vashon Island said he had beef, I took home a bundle of round steak, to go with russet potato fritters and yet more greens. A tiny bit of fresh kale from the garden serves as a garnish, but only after I dust the snow off its leaves. Spring may need to take off her ladylike gloves to get the old man to finally leave town. He’s just not welcome here anymore.
