Ramp Eatin'

When April arrives I think of ramps, the infamous small onion of Appalachian cooking and lore. That's not because I care much about eating them, but because I have friends in West Viginia that get into a frenzy to see the first green shoots pop from the ground. Jerri related how she and her siblings would go into the woods with a frying pan. While pulling 'em, they'd build a campfire and share a lunch of scrambled eggs and ramps.  A few years back she related how she and her mother "put up" eighty quarts of ramps "over the weekend." (That is southern cook talk for "canned.") Or, maybe she said eighty-five quarts. Regardless, that's how the story went. Over the past several years I've related the conversation to other Appalachian friends, who too, like ramps, especially in season. They all exclaim, "Eighty quarts! Did you say eighty quarts? What in the world will they do with such a "mess" of ramps.

From year to year I make a few phone calls friends whose culinary dreams include the gathering of ramps. A few years ago, I called Amy Michels who said I needed to drop everything and "come up" to her house because  ramp season had nigh ended on Three Top Mountain. In no time at all I convinced my friend, David Weatherly, of Roy's Folks (FOX WGHP...go to their site and check out Roy's Folks) to go with me in search of the ramps we "city slickers" had heard so much about.

We set out on the three hour trip and watched Amy gather ramps and talk about their fresh and natural goodness. David and I were knowledgable about the existence of the plant and how it enhanced the flavor of eggs and 'taters. I was skeptical about eating them, because Ray Hicks once said they were so strong that if one person ate 'em everybody in the room needed to eat 'em. 

While we video-taped beside a pretty little fast water mountain stream, Amy also spotted beautiful baby branch lettuce. It looked like really expensive lettuce that can be purchased at the gourmet food store. Picking one tiny leaf at the time was time-consuming, but along with the ramps we went from plant to plant pulling enough leaves to make a salad for four people. After that, David and I followed Amy home and she prepared a wonderful meal of home-grown 'taters with ramps, scrambled eggs, and a wilted salad. It didn't taste too strong to me and I never smelled anything on my breath or anyone's elses. But again, that might be the lessoned learned. Everyone in the room ate ramps.

That's how the mystique of the elusive ramp was for ever blown. But only one thing remains. What in the world do you do with eighty quarts? The only answer Amy conjured was perhaps they sold 'em to a local restaurant. She said, "Ramps seem to be a curiosity amongst tourist. Someone told me that a restaurant in Jefferson had pickled ramps on their menu. I think I'd be afraid to taste that."

And so would I.

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