In southeastern South Dakota, March is the time for local foodies to test their mettle.

If we planned it right, we’ve still got decent stores of winter squashes, probably some wrinkled but edible potatoes, an onion or two, canned goods a-plenty, dried beans, freezer stocks of assorted meats for the omnivores, and a few packages of last season’s frozen vegetables.

We’re starting to get a little rain now, and the mountains of white stuff are slowly diminishing. Our blood is up (a little) with the above-freezing temperatures, and suddenly all that good food we put by doesn’t look as appetizing as it did in the dark of winter—we want something green to eat.

But aside from pawing through the drifts like the deer, there’s little palatable local greenery available except what we’ve just seeded under cover or indoors, or what we’re growing on our windowsills.

A few bare patches of grass are exposed, but there’s not so much as a succulent dandelion for the non-ruminants—the nettles and dock—the earliest spring tonics, won’t be up for another month. New resolves are formed about getting the greenhouse or cold frame or high tunnel set up this year—this year for sure!

At this point, the bags and boxes of Earthbound Farms spinach and salad mix on the grocery store shelves start to look a little more tempting. Surely no one can blame us for wanting a taste of sunny California when our own earth is bound in snow?

I am making my own high tunnel resolutions for early greens next spring, and I’m kicking myself for not having reconstructed the old greenhouse, lying in pieces on an implement trailer since it was purchased, dissembled, and moved from its previous location three years ago. This year for sure!

But I did at least do a little planning last fall for this barren time of year: I moved about two dozen of my smaller winter leeks from my farm to the home garden, and I planted them in a raised bed close to the house’s foundation.

It’s only been within that last couple of days that their frazzled tops have been released from the two feet or more of snow that’s encased them since Christmas, and they are flaccid, sad-looking things on first glance. I didn’t even know if I could get them out of the ground, never mind what their deeply-buried stalks would look like.

But the shovel went deep into the soil, and beneath the drooping, browned tops was something very edible indeed.

Is it cheating to call leeks planted last spring and transplanted last fall the first fruits of this spring? Maybe. But it’s a locavore treasure nonetheless.

Admittedly, a few leeks are not a spring feast in themselves—but their lively flavor will make more palatable the transition period between the end of winter and the first local greens of spring. I’m thinking a little potato-leek soup!