Our columnist's long-delayed experience with ramps
by Jack Neely
Since last week's column about ramps catching on more in Northern cities than in Southern Appalachian cities, I've heard an embarrassment of evidence. The New York Times ran an article by prominent journalist R.W. Apple, Jr., called "Ah, the Sweet Smell of Spring." He referenced still another ramp festival, in Richwood, W. Va., which is apparently even older than Cosby's.
Apple also mentioned that you can get fresh ramps delivered to your door off websites. They go for $10 or $11 a pound, within ramp season, which is rapidly drawing to a close. The best-known ramp supplier appears to be www.rampfarm.com, in West Virginia. They not only sell fresh ramps (their season's already over), but also dehydrated and pickled ramps year round.
Coincidentally, the same issue of the Times carried an article about eel cuisine. One of the eely dishes they happened to mention was one currently featured at the Ritz-Carlton's renowned French restaurant, Atelier: "Baby Eels With Rhubarb and Ramps."
Also,the AP ran a story on its national wire entitled "Appalachia's Once-Lowly Ramp Now Popular." They say the Japanese are getting involved with ramp cuisine and mentioned a recipe called "One-Hour Calamari in Umido with Ramp Bruschetta."
Obviously, the ramp has gotten away from Knoxville before we ever had a hold of it. Though it may be the largest city in America's Ramp Belt, it's hard to find a ramp in Knoxville at any price. Just like some of the region's best mandolinists and moonshine in the past, ramps have headed for the big city without slowing down here.
The most plausible explanation of the phenomenon came from a friend who grew up in small-town West Virginia. In her youth, she says, untutored country people ate ramps, and often reeked of them. The people in towns, even the smallest towns, didn't, and generally smelled better. It was by cuisine and stench that they told each other apart. She has lived in Knoxville for years, untempted by Cosby's festival.
Big-city people have no such cultural references, and have heard of ramps only through the New York Times and "The Splendid Table." That's why they're willing to order ramp specials at Atelier.
I did get to the Cosby Ramp Festival on Sunday. It was easy to find and well organized. The site is gorgeous: From this hillside the mountains appear in rows like stormy waves. On a hill of mown grass it seemed something like a family reunion or an elementary-school carnival. There was an amusement area for the kids, with the usual rental attractions, like an inflatable Titanic slide, and booths where obsessive hucksters were selling vitamins to "repair DNA damage."
There were two things I'd been told to expect when I went to the ramp festival, things I would notice even before I got out of the car. One was bluegrass music. The other was a distinctive aroma.
I missed them both. Maybe my olfactory neurons have calluses from the minced and sautéed garlic and onions that I put in nearly everything I cook at home. But I didn't notice any particular smell at all.
As I stood in line for the "Ramp Plate," I did hear some music. It wasn't bluegrass. "Whatever Lola wants," came the sultry voice echoing through these sunny green hills. "Lola gets."
I figured what Lola really wanted all these years was some ramps. The two stages featured karaoke when I was there, mostly oldies from the '50s. People in these hills used to be famous for playing their own instruments. Sunday they seemed to prefer karaoke.
It turns out that the "Ramp Plate" was mainly scrambled eggs with some chopped ramps in them. New York may have hundreds of recipes for ramps, Cosby seems content with the one. I was told it was the only way they prepared ramps at the ramp festival.
Having already had scrambled eggs for breakfast that morning, I ordered a bowl of pinto beans and some cornbread. My comment that the "Ramp Plate" didn't seem to have much in the way of rampsa on it fell on deaf ears: it was, I admit, an unfestive remark not in keeping with the spirit of the day. When I asked for some actual ramps on the side, I was directed to another, shorter line, where they did sell some raw. They looked a lot like scallions, but with a little bigger bulb. They were uncooked and unwashed, with soil still clinging to them, but I figured that might be the only way I was going to get to try any ramps at the ramp festival, so I grabbed a handful.
I sat down in the grass, rinsed them off with a little Coke, wiped them off with a napkin, and bit into one. It was surprisingly sweet. It was generally better than the onion grass that grows in my lawn.
Lacking a knife, I bit them into manageable chunks and mixed them into my beans. It wasn't the extreme flavor I'd assumed it was all these years, but a pleasant, fairly subtle thing. No wonder they serve them at Atelier.
I asked a farmer there if these ramps were particularly unusual. He said no, it was a typical crop. But they're not very strong, I said. He said no, they're not very strong. I felt like the dupe in an old shaggy-dog story.
As we finished up our meal on the grass while listening to an Elvis impersonator, my daughter, who is 12, remarked, "This is weird." For her, it's a common sentiment that suits a wide variety of occasions. I know better than she does that life is short. I was wishing for something a little bit weirder.
March 8, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 19
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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