I didn’t start with ramps or spinach. I started with scallions and kale, tougher materials, more assertive flavors. I knew I wanted to steam the greens, open their pores to lemon juice’s sting tempered with olive oil’s embrace.

I made the first version of the dish for Passover at my mother’s cousin Abbie’s house, similar to a dish of reconnection I prepared last year. The greens stood up well on the buffet table, already room temperature, waiting patiently for the seder to finish and dinner to begin. It played its role, balancing brisket’s richness with bright acidity. I made it again a few weeks later for lunch with my mother’s two sisters, who had accepted my invitation to visit me from their homes in Florida and Pennsylvania. They battled storms with sheets of rain, lightning, and thunder to get to my house in New York. By the time they arrived, the rain had softened to a gentle patter. I set the table with my grandmother’s china, tenugui linens I bought in Tokyo, a new bowl from my favorite local potter.

I cooked a banquet of color and texture: local black barley with chickpeas and preserved lemon, roasted parsnips and carrots with za’atar over labne, store-bought pickled beets and pita, handmade muhammara crushed in my grandparents’ wooden chopping bowl. And the greens. The kale stems were woody this time, but the toughness didn’t detract from the quiet contentment of the meal. We lingered over chocolate babka and fresh mint tea, sharing family stories and reflections on our life transitions.

Being with my mother’s family, in all its warmth and love, requires a tender heart. My mother died when I was four and she was 32. A lifetime of processing that loss – the potential of her life and who she could have been, the slivers of what we remember that can’t be the full expression of who she was – still seem raw for all of us. But we rise to the occasion of being together as we are now, woody stems and tender leaves.

The Saturday after my aunts’ visit, the sun came out, storm clouds finally gone. At the farmers’ market, I picked up a bunch of scallions from Madura Farms to make the dish again. Hiding in the corner of their stall were ramps, their roots muddy, stems pink. I hadn’t seen them at the last market, and with their brief season, I might not see them again. I chose baby spinach this time instead of kale, each leaf asking for a light touch.

As gently as possible, I steamed the spinach leaves, pressed out the water they carried, and coated them with vinaigrette made from the ramps sliced raw and thin. I ate them in the sunshine of my porch, alone with my thoughts, a tender bite to please my tender heart.