It’s springtime in North Carolina. After the longest winter in my recollection (it snowed here twice! Highly unusual) the first few weeks of March have finally brought weather in the 60’s and some delicate, delicious sunshine. Almost immediately the still, grey landscape has responded; deep crimson has surged into the bare fingers of the red maples, like blood into limbs, ditches are full of hours-old daffodils, and whole back yards are blushing light blue. Before all of this though, I knew spring was here.

I knew because the first day it was warm enough, I went outside barefoot and smelled garlic between my toes.  Wild garlic, Allium vineale, with its hollow tubular leaves, is often the only thing green standing sentry in my yard during winter, but somehow, even before most plants know what’s coming, it turns a brighter shade of green, stands up a little straighter. For me, this has always been a sure sign of imminent spring, a cause for celebration. Native to Europe, wild garlic grows rampant in most parts of North America and is generally considered an invasive weed. If eaten by cows or goats, it can impart its distinctive taste, more onion than garlic, to their milk. If a patch releases pollen from its conical bud, it has been known to flavor nearby grain stores.  Regardless, this pungent member of the lily family was prized by Native Americans and European settlers alike as a tonic for the blood after a sparse, flavorless winter.  I quite agree, and yesterday I went out to pull some bunches from the wet ground.  After a few muddy minutes in the kitchen sink I was left with more pristine white garlic then I could think of uses for, some as big as scallions, others as thin as hairs.

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