The steam is already coming off the blanching pot when I realize I haven't decided what I'm making. That's how Mondays go in May. I picked up the nettles from the woman at the far end of the market row, the one with the blue tarp and the hand-lettered sign that just says spring. She wrapped them in newspaper and said don't touch the tips until they're in the water.
Two minutes at a full boil, then a cold shock in the bowl, then wrung out like a damp cloth. The liquid that came out was dark green, almost mineral — the color of something from the bottom of a creek. What stayed in my hands felt like cooked spinach but denser, with an earthiness that wouldn't belong anywhere near a grocery store shelf.
I made pasta. Garlic in olive oil on the left side of the burner — the hot side — so I had to pull the pan back twice before it got away from me. Tore the nettles rough, let them fall in with a small hiss, added a ladle of starchy pasta water and let it reduce. The smell that came up was green and faintly wild, the kind that belongs to ditches and early mornings more than to any kitchen.