The Upper Valley Co-op

[ed] This article by Charmaine Kinton was originally published in the Summer, 2011 newsletter.

Legend has it that the Midwestern Menomini Indians called leeks pikwute sikakushia - "the skunk." They referred to the rich woodlands at the southern end of Lake Michigan, a popular leek foraging ground, as shikako, "the skunk place." Now a large city has replaced the woodland leek colonies, and it smells much worse than the leeks. It's still called "the skunk place" - shekako, or as we now say, Chicago.

There are few food plants more seductive than a wild leek. Satiny leaves of verdant green, silky alabaster bulbs like elongated pearls, all permeated by the primitive, wild scent that is neither onion nor garlic but somewhere unique and between, potent and irresistible as the tree of life, stimulating the mind to gratifying visions of dishes fit for the gods.

Wild leeks, also known as ramps or ramsons, are one of our first botanical harbingers of spring, and only a northerner can truly understand the yearning for that first sight of green washing lushly across the bare grayish-tan hillsides. It's more than just psychological food for the soul. A true spring tonic, wild leeks are an intoxicating elixir of vitamins, minerals and bio-flavonoids after a long northern winter.

I'm an experienced leek hunter, and I know these members of the Lily family in ways that few people do. I know how to find them by their inconspicuous dry flower umbels, long after their leaves fade into the forest floor. I know that not every plant blossoms; that they don't blossom every year, depending on conditions; that seeds can lie dormant for at least a year and a half; that they reproduce more by bulb division than by seed, meaning that most leeks are actually clones. I know that in the fall the bulbs are a lot larger, harder and tougher than they are in spring, but just as flavorful. And I know how the outer layers of those bulbs, feeding the new growth, disintegrate and slough off by spring; this is what we rub off when we clean the bulbs down to their small, tender, delectable core. I have a few captive leeks in my refrigerator right now; this is the second time I have wintered some over in the fridge, playing the voyeur, covertly observing their behavior - a sneak peek into the private life of leeks.

Unfortunately the human craving for their wild, fresh, clean garlicky taste has put leeks on the "species of special concern" list in three states (Maine, Rhode Island and Tennessee) and on the endangered species list in Quebec where they are protected from all but limited individual harvesting and may not be served in restaurants; poachers hunt them and carry them across the border into Ontario to sell. Annual east coast festivals in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina encourage over-harvesting. But the story of how wild leeks achieved endangered status is much more complex than simple over-harvesting.