The last few weeks of winter can feel like a real slog. We’ve powered through the darkest days, but the mornings are still frosty, the wind still bites, and I’m still pulling on what feels like seventeen layers before I dare step outside. My phone is full of pictures of friends – or even “internet friends” – swanning about in European sunshine, a frosty frosé in one tanned hand and a juice-dripping peach in the other. Meanwhile, here I am in my thermal socks, trying not to drip tea down my jumper.
Don’t get me wrong – I do love the comforts of winter. A hearty Sunday roast with all the trimmings, eaten by the glow of a crackling fire, is one of life’s simple pleasures. There’s satisfaction in slow-braised lamb shanks that taste even better the next day. But every now and then, I crave a sun-ripened tomato that has never known the clammy chill of cold storage.
Intellectually, I know the logic of eating seasonally. It makes sense in every way – better flavour, more nutrition, lower environmental impact. I also know that modern supermarket systems have trained us to expect strawberries in July and asparagus in January. It’s not that I’m immune to temptation; I’ve been known to grab a punnet of blueberries in mid-winter just because they were on special. But when you actually taste a supermarket tomato in August? Let’s just say it’s a pale imitation of its summer cousin – watery, woolly, and just a little bit sad.
Recently though, there was a shift. On my market wanderings – I’m there several times a week as part of my tours – I started noticing the first shy hints of spring produce. It’s subtle, like the first birdsong at dawn, but it’s there. Bundles of asparagus from the warmer northern parts of the state have started appearing, their tips tight and green, promising quick suppers with hollandaise or parmesan shavings.
I even spotted cherries, though I suspect they’re imports. The stone fruit that’s popped up lately certainly is – peaches and nectarines – and while I’m all for indulgence, I draw the line at paying five times the summer price just to cover the airfare from the USA. There’s something in me that resists the idea of my peach racking up more frequent flyer points than I have.
Still, the market is brightening. Beetroot bunches with lush green tops are back, their earthy sweetness begging to be roasted. Avocados are appearing beyond the standard Hass; the creamy Reed for me is perfect for slicing onto toast or tucking into a salad. Beans are having a moment too: speckled borlotti for slow braises, long snake beans for quick wok tosses, and those wide, flat green beans that hold up beautifully in a longer cook.
A few stalls are offering tropical fruits – passionfruit with wrinkled skins and perfumed pulp, even starfruit, mangosteen and lychee. These are the mood-lifters, the bright notes that remind you that summer is coming, even if it feels like it’s taking its sweet time. For now, I’m living in that in-between space: still making hearty slow-cooked dinners, but slipping in splashes of brightness where I can. A shaved asparagus salad alongside roast chicken. Roasted beetroot tossed with feta and walnuts. Bitter salad greens with segments of citrus and avocado.
Spring doesn’t arrive all at once – it sidles in, basket in hand, offering you a few green spears of asparagus, a handful of fresh beans, a whiff of mango. You just have to be paying attention at the markets to catch it. And when you do, it’s a promise worth savouring – a reminder that the layers will soon be fewer, the tomatoes sweeter, and those peaches? Well, they’ll be ours again soon enough.
Here are a few recipes to help you see the brighter days ahead:
We live in a small apartment with a very small kitchen, so I run a tight ship. Anything that earns space in there has to punch above its weight. Products have to prove themselves. If they don’t earn their keep, they’re out.
This is a hug in the shape of a loaf tin, reassuring in only the way an old-school reliable pantry cake can be. I say pantry cake because mostly I have all the ingredients in the pantry, even if that is a set of drawers in my small, city apartment.
Last weekend I gathered a handful of friends at someone’s house and we cooked together. Not a dinner party where one person does the work and everyone else arrives with a bottle. Not a formal class in a commercial kitchen. Just a group of curious eaters in a real home…