By Hannah Howard

It is officially spring, yet I watched a swirl of flurries flutter out my window just last night. And so it’s not quite spring. But today I take a sunshiny walk through the West Village; the light is kind and warm on my face. And after my walk, I crave a big bowl full of fresh leaves. So maybe it is spring, after all.

“It is certain that fine women eat / A crazy salad with their meat” – W.B. Yeats (from Cooking with the Muse)

And so I must be fine. (Actually, the poem, in which Yeats is supposed to be advising his daughter, is more complicated than that. But this crazy salad is literally a salad, so I know I’m fine.)

I think we are salad cynics because of the staggering quantity of bad salads. Waterlogged icebergs and paper-y romaine, the acerbity of hold-the-dressing starkness or the gooey excessiveness of too much dressing.

I had a salad reawakening at one of my first restaurant jobs nearly a decade ago. At the first blossoming of spring, we received bundles of lettuces from one of our farmers. They were dirt-flecked and gorgeous, the leaves releasing delicate, complex flavors with each crunchy bite. A gift from the just-thawing earth. Butter lettuce as tender as its namesake. Mizuna as juicy and grassy as spring itself. Mustard greens more satisfyingly spicy than mustard from a jar. Peppery watercress. Nutty mâche.

A squeeze of fresh lemon juice, a grind of black pepper and a drizzle of serious extra-virgin olive oil made the leaves into a coherent salad. A lovely dish. Simple. And symphonic.

And so for lunch post-walk today, Shaved Asparagus and Mad-for-Greens Salad with Orange Blossom Vinaigrette from Cooking with the Muse. I ordered orange blossom water from Kalustyan’s (it’s listed among the Sources in the back of the book), and it arrived just yesterday on my doorstep. The little vial of citrusy petal water contains the essence of all the fountains of Marrakesh. The dressing tastes bright yet gentle. Perfect.

I buy myself an indulgent amount of green, leafy beauties: baby arugula, sorrel, pea shoots. I shave my asparagus and let the translucent ribbons marinate. I sprinkle some pistachios on top, which add depth and crunch. And because Yeats mentioned meat and I am hungry, I add a few salty slices of prosciutto to my bowl.

Still, I wear my winter coat. But I can feel spring spring in my bones, and in this simple, luxurious bowl of goodness.