“OH MY GOD, A MOREL!” I cried, after having given up the search and nearly abandoning the woods. Tom, a more seasoned mushroomer, hissed for me to, “Keep it down.” While it’s likely obvious, I have only been out looking for mushrooms, or mushrooming, once before (twice if you count our hike in Muir Woods outside San Francisco), and I’m not yet very well versed in the caginess of mushroom hunters. I will, however, not mention exactly where we went yesterday or reveal where our tip came from–even foragers-in-training have to protect the secrets of the woods.

After seeing morels for sale at the Midtown Farmers Market ($10/basket) and the Wedge Coop ($40/pound), I got an itch to go hunting for our own. It’s not that I didn’t want to spend the money: morels are expensive, but so is gas and fruitless hours spent wandering the woods. Yesterday’s adventure added up to two hours of driving time (there and back) and an additional two or more hours to find two ounces of mushrooms, which could have been had for a mere $5.

But all experiences should not be reduced to such crude economic calculations. An afternoon started with a good lunch of rye Real Bread, a package of Gardens of Eagan strawberries, hummus, and cheese followed by a ramble through the astonishingly green Minnesota woodlands cannot be so easily valued. For the most part we stuck to trails. Only two of our morels were found off the trail, while we spotted five (yes, that’s a total of seven) without leaving the trail at all.

All of our finds occurred after we’d completely given up (which we did four times) and insisted that the season was over, it was hopeless, and we might as well quit looking. Mushrooming is sort of like trying to remember something and focusing too hard, causing all memory to be blocked and much suffering from “It’s on the tip of my tongue” until several hours later, when you’ve completely forgotten about remembering and everyone else has gone home and the very thing comes to mind with ease.

Satisfied with our seven mushrooms in tow, and feeling a bit tired after a couple of hours staring intently to the left and right, we climbed into the car to head back to Minneapolis. Just as Tom, who offered to drive home, was pulling out of the parking area, a man walked by with what I insist was a football-sized morel in the crook of his arm. “OH MY GOD,” I yelled, out my open window. Tom, now thoroughly embarrassed, hushed me once more saying, “You can’t just yell ‘OH MY GOD’ at someone out the window!” and continued driving out of the lot. And so I have no picture, but perhaps that is best. We wouldn’t want to reveal too much.

As much as I love the fresh vegetables at the Midtown Farmers Market, the joy of shopping there comes from more than just the products you can buy. Today, that joy was most aptly expressed by the beautiful weather: after a season-opener featuring gale-force winds and a second week where we endured a frigid bike ride only to narrowly avoid being hailed on, the mild temperature and sunny blue sky were a welcome change. Although the farmers market folks are always friendly, something about the sun put everyone in the best of moods. Vegetables may be few this early in the season, but the vendors and patrons more than make up for it with an abundance of cheer. It’s the Minnesota way.

Lest you think all this talk about sun and comradeship is to cover for lackluster market offerings, feast your eyes on what the market can offer: lettuce, spinach, spring onions, amazing strawberries from Gardens of Eagan, a hearty and spice-scented Swedish rye from Real Bread. Not quite enough for a market feast yet, but, coupled with the friendly faces I’m sure to see, incentive enough to be back next week.

Ah, springtime. Its combination of tender green vegetables and temperatures often still cold enough to allow keeping the oven at 500ºF for a few hours make it almost the perfect time to cook pizza. Almost, were it not for the fact that tomatoes are still months away. But tomatoes – while crucial to many pies – do not necessarily a pizza make.

For example, there’s the asparagus pizza from Jim Lahey’s Co. (with detailed directions from Serious Eats). No tomatoes: just olive oil, shaved asparagus, parmesan and tomme de savoie cheese. The predominant flavor is that of the cheese – not quite as funky as it smells, rich and sharp. The asparagus, while not overpowering, is unmistakable as an accent at the end of each bite. And by shaving the asparagus thin using a vegetable peeler, you avoid a common pitfall of asparagus pizzas when the teeth do not bite cleanly through a spear and the asparagus and any number of pizza toppings come sliding toward your face. Shaved asparagus bites off clean.

And how could I let a springtime post go by without including ramps? I used the ramp pesto I made a few weeks ago in place of traditional pesto genovese in one of my all-time favorite (and tomato-less) pizza combinations: pesto with mozzarella and goat cheese. Although it gets mellowed a bit during its stay in the oven, the flavor of the ramp pesto is intense. The goat cheese provides relief with its creaminess. Whole ramps on pizza can behave the same way that asparagus does; grinding them into pesto prevents any undue topping slippage.

I’m not such a seasonal purist that I refuse to eat canned tomatoes; on the night I made these pies I made four others involving tomato sauce. But such tasty – and unique – vegetables that are available for such a short time in the spring really deserve to be highlighted on their own. There will be plenty of time for tomato celebration in August.

We’re not accustomed to visiting the May farmers market the morning after some (very slight) snowfall, but the morning’s bright blue skies  were enough to encourage us to hop on our bikes and head down to the Midtown Farmers Market. Though old man winter has stretched out one shivering, icy finger in a desperate attempt to hold on to the upper midwest, the smiling faces and ever-increasing produce of the market stand up in defiance, telling old man winter to get lost. Admittedly we were a little chilly from the ride in, but it was nothing hot coffee and even hotter tamales couldn’t set right.

The early spring market is an exercise in patience. The feeling of new vegetables right around the corner is palpable, yet week after week they only seem to trickle in: ramps the first week, lettuce this; can asparagus be that far off? In spite of the occasional disappointment when a sought after vegetable has not yet returned, there is a real excitement for each new arrival at the market. Like old friends returning after a long absence, each new vegetable is greeted with an enthusiastic embrace. By August, when we have ears of corn coming out our ears and enough tomatoes to fill every canning pot in the house, the abundance can be overwhelming. But for the moment, the slow appearance of one crop after the other allows for each vegetable to be given its due appreciation. And besides, after waiting all winter for the market to return, what’s a few more weeks waiting on asparagus and peas?

New this week was lettuce, from Gardens of Eagan. We also picked up a pint of their strawberries, which make a great garnish for oatmeal. And because I can’t resist, especially as we wait for a greener market stalls, I picked up a pound of ground mutton.

The hauls from these early markets are humble to be sure, but this shouldn’t be discouraging. It doubles our resolve to be at the market next weekend: after all, with new arrivals of our old friends each week, how could we even miss one of them?

“They just don’t make cocks like they used to.” So laments just about every modern recipe for coq au vin, the venerable French braise of rooster in wine. The story goes that the dish was developed as a way to use the meat of tough old roosters past their prime; only a long braise could break down the serious connective tissue developed from a lifetime of crowing at the dawn, strutting around the yard, getting in fights – in short, acting like a cock.

Nowadays, the poultry we eat goes from eggshell to belly in as little as six weeks; not enough time to develop muscles flavorful enough to stand up to hearty red wine sauce. Recipes attempt to compensate for modern chicken’s relative blandness with modifications: reducing the braising time, using select parts of the bird. But what if instead of changing the recipe to suit the bird, you found a better bird?

The original concept of coq au vin demands a bird that has lived a hard life, working strength and flavor into its muscles as it struggles every day for mere existence. You could ask your butcher or farmer to track down the oldest, meanest bird in the hen yard and deliver it to your table, but such animals are in short supply and someone might get hurt. Or, you could turn to wild birds – game – that live less sheltered lives than today’s chicken. What about, for example, pheasant, which I happen to have in great supply thanks to the generosity of our friends Johnny & Stacie?

The pheasant in question came into my possession deeply frozen. As I was waiting for it to thaw, I created my braising liquid: I combined the better part of a bottle of red wine (California petit sirah from a certain Trader of value-priced wines) with three cups of chicken broth and brought them to a boil, reducing the mixture to about four cups.

After my pheasant thawed I rinsed the bird, removing any errant feathers and being sure to preserve some of the blood for use as a thickener later. I then cut the bird into quarters. If your bird was shot, as mine was, this is a good time to gently massage the flesh, attempting to locate the small balls of lead that brought about the pheasant’s demise. Don’t worry if you can’t find them, though: what your fingers cannot find your teeth surely will!

With pheasant appropriately divided and seasoned with salt and pepper, I proceeded to render the fat out of some chopped bacon (saving the crispy bacon bits for later of course). I then browned the pheasant pieces in the fat and set them aside. Next in the pot went a handful each of chopped onion and celery, and when that was soft a tablespoon or two of chopped garlic, along with a tablespoon of tomato paste. At this point, quite a bit of dark brown sucs had developed, so I deglazed the pan with some of the braising liquid, scraping up every bit of browned deliciousness. I then returned the pheasant pieces to the pot (along with juices) and poured in the rest of the braising liquid. It all spent the next long while gently simmering, slightly covered, until the meat was tender.

It wouldn’t be coq au vin – well, faisan au vin – without pearl onions and mushrooms. Since braising these along with the bird would turn them into an unrecognizable mush, most recipes call for cooking them separately and mixing them in before serving the dish. While you could brown the mushrooms and onions in a pan, I prefer to roast them; maybe it gives them a deeper flavor, but it’s definitely a lot easier. Just toss cut up mushrooms and onions with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast at 500ºF until they are as brown as you like them.

With pheasant starting to separate from its bones and mushrooms and onions a deep golden brown, I stirred everything together (remember those bacon bits?). If your sauce is looking a bit thin, now’s the time to stir in blood (or cornstarch if you’re squeamish). Over olive oil mashed potatoes, it was a rich and satisfying meal; not least because of the deep flavor of meat that had lived a life before it found its way to my plate. Since I’ve never eaten it I can’t say if it’s any better or worse than a wizened old cock, but I’ll take it over a six week chick any time.