Pickled ramps?

Several years ago, John Sayles made a great film, called "MATEWAN," about the labor struggles of West Virginia coal miners trying to achieve fair working conditions shortly after World War I.   There's a nice moment in the film when some of the local people, who are descended from the early settlers, introduce some Italian immigrants to "ramps," which one Italian lady promptly labels "garlic."  Well, ramps aren't garlic—they are actually a wild leek—but they can and do offer an interesting taste not dissimilar when properly prepared.  They grow wild in the forests of Appalachia and are usually ready to harvest in mid-April through late May.   From what I understand, they've actually become something of a recognized delicacy in fancy New York restaurants.  Anyway,  what strikes me every time I watch "MATEWAN," during that moment when the ramps are introduced, is how swiftly Italian immigrants seemed to make use of what existed here naturally. I know my great-grandparents dug native plants to augment their larder, although I can't say for sure if ramps were among those plants. However, I do know their son, my grandfather, John Oliverio, loved ramps. In fact, when my mother was young, my grandfather transplanted ramps from the wild to his yard so that he could harvest them more conveniently.

Last night, I took my mother-in-law for a ride in the country to my own personal ramp patch to dig up a few.  I tend never to hit the patch very hard—usually only taking about three dozen plants—which hardly makes a dent in the crop.  We brought the ramps home and washed them, cut away the bulbs from the leaves (which we froze to use in months to come as an additional seasoning for pesto).  Then we prepared a simple pickling solution—equal parts vinegar and sugar which we heated up (but didn't boil).  Then we mixed the ramp bulbs with the solution in a small jar and placed it in the refrigerator (no need to dip in boiling water) in anticipation of enjoying them in a few weeks.  This is my first attempt at pickling ramps (usually we fry them up with eggs and potatoes and peppers ), but given my love for pickled eggplant I thought this might be worth a try, if for no other reason than it gives me the chance to tap into a little bit of the culinary pragmatism of my ancestors.  What's more, of late, I'm getting more and more interested in breaking away from the mass-produced.  I much prefer tramping through the woods, digging up native edible plants than sitting around the house.  And once prepared it seems like nothing tastes better than food you've either grown or procured from the wild.

I don't think I'm alone in this desire to have something more, well, authentic, I guess is the word I'm looking for.  Several folks I know in the area who are of Italian descent are building outdoor ovens in which to bake bread—much like their parents or grandparents did.  I'm hoping to do the same thing.  It might not be convenient, but I know for a fact it will taste better.

Back to ramps.  I know that here in West Virginia there's a ramp festival down in the charming little town of Helvetia—usually around the last weekend in April (I'm too lazy to check at the moment!)—it's nothing fancy but it is good fun, and more importantly the event still maintains an authentic country vibe.

I'll let you know how the pickled ramps taste!

-Bob

Comments

[joe]

I've never heard of those Bob but they sound great. I'm with you on heading out and finding local, wild plants. We've done wild asparagus, dandelions and of course mushrooms. As you said, it's a lot better than sitting around the house.