A couple of weekends ago, I visited the site of an Airstream trailer that Yoshi and I shared outside Stinson Beach, California. The trailer is long gone, but the spot is still the same: Overlooking the Pacific Ocean on a scraggly lawn at the end of a farm road. We spent many a night sitting on a homemade couch out under the stars, listening to a crusty Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain cassette, hanging out with farm people, and generally being our best wild selves. They were simpler times, so the wildness was simpler. One time, police showed up and asked Yoshi if he knew anything about the ritual animal sacrifices happening in the area. Naked toddlers often woke him up by tickling his eyelashes with wildflowers.
Look at our boy now! Gourmet Magazine. Articles about obscure vegetables. Lunches, brunches, interviews by the pool. What's next? Condos in Queens? Indo for weeks? Sold out seats to hear Yoshi Yamada speak?The article is vintage Yamada, reminding me of the many excellent, excellent letters and postcards that I've accumulated over the years:
I have not put ramps in my pipe, but I have smoked them and also roasted, sauteed, blanched, pickled, braised, and pureed them. I have eaten them raw and dirty, and I have cleaned so many in a row that I almost wished for winter again. This year I may take a few home to put under my pillow, just because … my precious.
Not sure that I've eaten a ramp, but I bet they'd be tasty with a ritually sacrificed animal. Mmmmmmm ritual sacrifice.