It happens to me this time every year. Pallid and cranky from winter’s last low blow, just as I’m realizing that I never want to see another parsnip, turnip or brussels sprout again, there’s a breath of spring—a warm, partly sunny weekend. And it feels, all of a sudden, as if we’ll be into wild ramps, asparagus and fresh, local strawberries in just a matter of weeks. Of course, such thoughts are wildly optimistic. So I’ve found a few good ways to tide things over.

On recent Saturday mornings, I’ve made a beeline for the farmers’ market (on the north side of Front Street East) in the building across from St. Lawrence Market. What’s brought me there is the discovery of Lillian Creighton’s fresh Ontario rhubarb, greenhouse grown and every bit as good as what you’ll find in July. I plan to get serious and bake some of it into a pie in the next few weeks, but, in the meantime, I just stew it down, chop it up with some sugar and a splash of white wine or prosecco, and serve it hot over ice cream. The Creightons' stand is called Marvin Gardens; walk to the back of the hall, to the stand next to the guys selling apples—do check out Ruth Klahsen’s fantastic Monforte Dairy cheeses while you’re in the area—and look for the long, red stems. You can’t miss them.

I start to think about spring ham this time of year, too. And I’ve never had better than the custom-smoked St. Canut Farms hams that Cumbrae’s recently got in. We’ve raved about St. Canut Farms’ ten-week-old milk-fed piglet before, and with good reason: if you grew up, as I did, eating industrially raised, hormone-laced, fat-and-flavour-robbed supermarket swine (and even, I suppose, if you didn’t), the first bite of this stuff is almost epiphanic. But it seems the high-end chefs who are buying St. Canut’s pork, want only the choice cuts, not the hams. And Stephen Alexander at Cumbrae’s is all too happy to take them. Alexander has a guy in Cayuga who brines then smokes the hams over hardwood (real hardwood, as opposed to sawdust). The resulting three- to four-pound pieces ($13 per pound) are incredibly tender and coursed with buttery, smoky fat. I can hardly imagine a better Easter dinner.

Well, with the exception of the Easter Bunny, perhaps. I blame Michael Pollan, the scary-sharp journalist-philosopher behind The Omnivore’s Dilemma (Penguin, 2005), for encouraging me to take up hunting. After reading his book (and the essays published in the New York Times Magazine that preceded it, about raising a steer for beef and going on a wild boar hunt in California), I’ve come to believe there’s no more ethical way to eat meat than by dispatching it—humanely—yourself. So I’ll soon be off on a weekend of rabbit hunting in Prince Edward County.

Before going, I’ve been considering various recipes. Toronto Life contributor Rob Mifsud, who, with his wife, Rachel, runs a truly brilliant food blog called Hungry in Hogtown, recently chronicled his attempt at making El Bulli’s deep-fried rabbit ears with aromatic herbs. “The reaction has been... intense,” Rob told me.“I’ve had people wish death upon me in creative ways, and I’ve been called a Nazi, too.” Mind you, his post has also drawn some considerable praise, including this from Michael Ruhlman, who is pretty much a god to chefs who care about meat. Either way, Rob says, “People really love their bunnies.”

I love them, too, especially with apricot and ginger chutney; I’ve already bought a terrine. Maybe I’ll offer Rob the ears.