The Scent of Spring

For all the benefits of rural life in mid-Michigan, it comes with a requirement: patience and, at times, a few well-timed diversions. I’m not someone who dislikes cold weather; in fact, I appreciate all four seasons and the distinct rhythm each one brings. But if I’m honest, winter’s final stretch is the hardest. Not the beginning. Not even the middle. It’s the drawn-out ending – the part that lingers longer than expected – that can feel relentless. Around here, winter isn’t over until it’s truly over, and that can stretch well into the first week May.

March and April are what we call “mud” season. The ground remains frozen, so when it rains, the water has nowhere to go. It sits, and depending on the temperature, turns everything muddy and uninviting. This year, April has arrived gently, and mud season has been manageable. Now begins the quiet anticipation, the search for signs that the landscape is waking up. We are on the search for delicate tree buds waiting to emerge, for the pond frogs to peep incessantly, and daffodils to push through the soil. The lake, once sealed under ice, has finally opened, and with any luck, we won’t see that frozen surface again until late November.

The changing seasons shape more than the landscape, they guide my kitchen. I try to cook in step with what’s available, using ingredients that are available at this time of year. This past winter, green cabbage had become a real favorite. Sautéed with Szechuan peppercorns and dried chilis, then finished with a splash of tamari or soy, it’s simple and unexpectedly vibrant.

Root vegetables like kohlrabi, beets, turnips, and sweet potatoes continue to anchor meals in these colder months, offering both versatility and comfort. Braised meats, flavorful stews and hearty soups and potages all reign at the table. Soon enough, asparagus, artichokes, and, hopefully, foraged ramps will take their place. Each season brings its own inspiration, pushing me to think and cook differently and pay closer attention to what is appropriate to prepare.

Growing up on the East Coast, the arrival of spring felt unmistakable. Easter marked a turning point in the year, a signal that winter had loosened its grip. Trees softened with pale yellow-green leaves that, from a distance, blurred into something almost impressionistic. Crocuses, daffodils, and tulips added color to each passing day. But what I remember most is the scent of a fresh, earthy smell rising from the soil. The moment it appeared in the cool air, I knew the shift had happened. Winter had passed. The ground was waking, ready to grow again.

So for now, I wait for that signal – the scent of soil carried on the breeze. A small but certain sign that the season is changing, and something new is about to begin.

Travel has become one of our ways to bridge that in-between time. January took us to Salt Lake City to celebrate a friend’s birthday with a spa day, a memorable dinner, and time spent laughing, shopping, getting matching tattoos, and enjoying a change of scenery. Later in the month, I slipped away to West Palm Beach with a longtime friend, where I also had the chance to reconnect with a mentor who continues to influence both my career and perspective. Those relationships remain deeply important – steady sources of insight and growth.

In February, we headed to Boise to spend time with our grandkids while their parents took a well-deserved trip. Any time with those kids feels like a gift. Whether we travel to them or they come to us, those moments are the ones we prioritize most.

Then, at the end of March, an impromptu trip to New York City found its way onto the calendar. It had been two years since our last visit, and returning felt both familiar and energizing. New York City will always feel like home. We spent the day with our daughter and friends and capped it off with a Broadway performance of Death of a Salesman, starring Nathan Lane and Laurie Metcalf. The performances were remarkable, powerful, precise, and deeply moving.

Next up is another trip to Boise, this time to celebrate our granddaughter’s fifth birthday. As grandparents, we make a deliberate effort to be present – to show up, stay engaged, and mark the moments that matter. It’s a role I don’t take lightly. Being a grandparent is a privilege, and one I never expected in quite this way. Still, it’s one of the greatest gifts I’ve been given. Above it all, I know I’m the lucky one.

Food, Glorious Food!

Spring is finally winning out over the long winter season here at the lake. We took a brisk walk in the woods and noticed tiny leaves starting to pop and ferns beginning to uncoil their fiddleheads along our path. A walk in the woods is always a great chance for us to catch up on our day and talk about whatever’s on our minds.

One topic up for discussion was the theme for this blog post. Writing has always been something I enjoy—hence the blog—but finding that spark of inspiration can sometimes be a challenge. So, as we walked, Marc and I did a little brainstorming. I posed the question: “Why is food so important to me? Why does it occupy my mind so much?”

Quite simply: Why is it my passion?

I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t one moment but a lifetime of touchpoints and influences that sparked my culinary curiosity. One of those memories was the anticipation of Sunday afternoon dinners that my mom would carefully prepare and serve as one of the most important meals of the week. We’d eat mid-afternoon, usually between 1 and 3 p.m., that was our tradition—and my mom would pour all her energy into that one meal so we could sit around the table and enjoy it as a family.

I looked forward to it every week. Grocery shopping with my mom often gave me a preview of what was to come. Because I was with her, I got the insider scoop—and sometimes I even influenced the menu entirely. Being involved meant everything. I’d help in the kitchen on Sunday mornings, and one of the first meals I learned to cook was roast chicken. To this day, I still love making that dish, now elevated with skills I’ve gained from a lifetime of cooking—and from my time at The French Culinary Institute.

So many other memories—especially the repeated exposure to non-traditional American food—have shaped my palate. Around Easter, for example, my mom would always celebrate with Polish food, sourced from local Polish markets.

The coat of arms of the Republic of Poland

Pierogies, kielbasa, sauerkraut, babka, stuffed cabbage rolls, and poppy seed cake—all prepared by babushka-wearing women from the old country. The hearty simplicity of Polish food was pure comfort growing up, and I’ve missed it so much.

I love the snap of garlicky kielbasa—still warm—layered on rye bread with spicy brown mustard. It’s a simple sandwich. The craving hit hard recently, and I found myself on a mission to track down authentic Polish food and I discovered Polana. Today, my order arrived: pierogi, kielbasa, and real Polish rye bread. With all that nostalgia in the air, lunch was everything I hoped for—and more.

Market Days

Far from the jolt of NYC’s rapid pace, we’ve embraced the slowness of rural living and the quiet solitude of winter at the lake. The flurries and wisps of snow circle in the wind, creating swirling patterns like broad brushstrokes on a frozen canvas. The soaring pines are laden with branches cradling white parcels from the latest storm, while the ground is covered in a plush carpet of freshly fallen snow. When the sun decides to appear, the sky unveils a deep yet soft blue, cutting against the landscape of bare trees and clouds that look like meringue fluff.

Living in mid-Michigan has been a wonderful experience for us. Now, in our sixth year here, we’ve reflected on how our lives have changed, our perspectives refocused, and our routines evolved.

When we lived in Brooklyn, I had the luxury of deciding what to prepare for dinner on a whim. I could simply walk to the grocer, butcher, or specialty market after work. Now, planning meals requires more thought, along with a well-stocked pantry, refrigerator, and freezer. Since our nearest major supermarket is 40 minutes away, we carefully plan those excursions, bundling them with a myriad of other errands.

Vintage ShopRite logo used 1951 - 1975

I’ve held on to a nostalgic set of memories when it comes to supermarkets. As a child, I loved tagging along with my mom on trips to ShopRite in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. With a family of six, grocery shopping was a weekly event—usually on a Friday evening after my mom's work day or as a Saturday morning outing. That ShopRite will always hold a special place in my heart and sadly the location has been redeveloped. Those trips were more than a means to an end; they were treasured one-on-one moments with my mom, weekly adventures filled with anticipation, and an introduction to the necessity of meal planning.

The possibilities for good food felt endless as we pushed our cart through the produce, bakery, and meat departments. My mom would always opt for seasonal ingredients and ask my opinion on what to make for the family. I felt grown-up and important, actively contributing to the weekly menu at Chez Ramos.

Each turn of the aisle was intentional. I don’t remember my mom ever keeping a list—unlike me these days! It was all in her head. She’d say, “Let’s not forget to get some good canned tomatoes for Sunday's sauce, and be sure to check the meat counter for Italian braciole!” My mom never rushed through the store, and that’s why I still take my time when I shop. I am eager to be inspired by the ingredients, to make the best choices, and—most importantly—not to forget anything essential. There’s no quick trip back once we’re home.

On the occasions when I shop alone, I’m never in a rush. I have my detailed list, and a feeling of calm blankets my thoughts and the sense of endless opportunities await me at the turn of every aisle. I imagine my mom tagging along in spirit, nudging me not to forget the good canned tomatoes, just as she did all those years ago—when a trip to the supermarket felt like an adventure filled with anticipation and the promise of delicious meals to come.