Fiddleheads in Maine.
The very best part of foraging is learning how to look closely. You cannot see something, and then you can. The rewards of attention are so high that to walk carelessly seems foolish.
I go out in the mornings and look at the fiddleheads in the back yard, stepping around the little ones stretching out of their brown protective paper. Unpeeling them in the kitchen reveals the young ferns that taste as green as they look.
A few weeks ago, I pan-fried a soft shell crab and plated it over crispy fiddleheads in a butter-wine pan sauce, happy to bring both of these fleeting harbingers of spring together, for a moment.