In Vermont, even the first week of June can be cool enough to have a fire in the wood stove, a perfect night for a soup and toast dinner.

The dark pink lentils in my pantry, labeled either as Red or Egyptian lentils in the market, don’t have a seed coat so they will disintegrate into a smooth puree as the soup cooks. Here’ s how I made it.

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I wanted to share this email from my friend Lynda Graham-Barber. Lynda lives in the Northeast Kingdom and is a writer, painter, designer, decorator, cook, and friend to all living things.

Dear Carol,

Yesterday was on one of late spring’s most halcyon, forget-me-not-blue-sky days along the Canadian border and so I set out in search of the elusive wild leek. I knew they were deep in the woods, off the old logging road, lined with foam flower, just east of the sagging barbed-wire property line.

I knew because Donald, a neighboring farmer, once told me that over seventy years ago he stuffed his pockets with leeks from this very patch before heading to school. There he shared them with two young women. By the end of the day the trio reeked of the pungent leek; their classmates gave them an understandably wide berth.

Aha, one-half hour into the woods I spotted a patch of the smooth, elongated leaves just beyond a colony of fading Clintonia. Then a bigger cluster, then to the right on a sloping hill towered over by maples and ashes an entire hillside. Everywhere I looked leeks.

Gently I nudged one from its rich, leaf-littered home and took a crispy bite. Savoring the pungent garlicky flavor I made my way slowly across the Village of Leek as a black-throated green warbler trilled from on high.

The leek soup I made was easy and fun. And, of course, I took over a big bowl, sprinkled with crispy bacon, to Donald, who was kind enough to share the location with me. His secret is safe.

Here’s how I made it: … read more