Is there a vegetable more despised, condemned for its lack of subtlety, its imposing perfume? Brussels sprouts are like cilantro. People don’t have mixed feelings about them. They either love them or hate them.

Though smaller than their cousin the head cabbage, brussels sprouts pose an equal threat of overwhelming with their off-putting flavor and slimy texture. Pile on a host of indignities from being picked too large (they should be no larger than a small plum), stored too long (get them on the trunk, at the farmers’ market) and cooked to death, and you get a vegetable that’s never chosen, begrudgingly accepted, and no one’s favorite. For some, the only positive thing about it is that it’s over in one hold-your-nose bite. Cabbage, however, can go on forever!

Descended from the cruciferae family, brussels sprouts closely resemble their similarly forthright siblings: cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli and mustard. Cabbage is native to the Mediterranean region where it has been cultivated for more than 2,500 years. When brussels sprouts were first cultivated is up for debate—pick a date between the 5th and 17th centuries—but they grew abundantly in and around Brussels when they became popular in Europe. French settlers brought them to New Orleans in the 19th century. Today, all but two percent of the crop is grown on the mild California coast.

Cruciferae (meaning “cross-bearing”) are distinguished by the four petals of their flowers, which are reminiscent of a cross. In the case of brussels sprouts, they are immature buds that cling to a large stalk sporting a floppy crown of foliage, a sort of architectural whimsy à la Whoville. However weird and wonderful a vision they are, nothing changes the fact that brussels sprouts require a deft hand to temper their serious and sturdy nature and stop us—intrepid and reasonable diners in every other way—from recoiling in their presence. It all comes down to proper cooking.

The direct flavor and texture of brussels sprouts shine with a little coaxing and a minimum of cooking. The key is to keep water out of the equation. Sear, braise and roast them. Cut them to enhance unexpected nuances (sweetness) and textures (crispness). When halved or thinly sliced they absorb the sauces and dressings in which they are bathed. Or preserve the integrity of the sprout as a whole by removing the core by making a v-shaped cut. Grab both sides of the half and, with your thumbs on opposite sides of the core cut, bend the sprout to spread its leaves slightly and create more area for the flavorings to cling.

When I first cozied up to brussels sprouts, I roasted them—halved, tossed with olive oil and kosher salt, face down on a hot pan in a 450-degree oven for about 45 minutes. Now I like them braised, glazed, creamed and hashed. I partner them with bacon, cream, chanterelles and mustard. Sometimes I peel each tightly curled leaf from its compact globe. A quick sauté of the leaves in brown butter bullies the sprout into becoming a kinder, gentler version of itself.

Any of these preparations would win you over to my team.

From time immemorial, lamb has symbolized the season of rebirth. Mostly associated with iconic and religious rituals, especially at Easter, “spring” lamb represents the expiatory sacrificial lamb for some, the most delectable of seasonal treats for others.

The reasons for lamb’s seasonality are straightforward: Ovulation in ewes is naturally prompted by the shortening days of autumn, so the birth of lambs, whose gestation period is five months, coincides with the first fresh grass of spring. The term “lamb” actually describes the meat of the animal from the time it is weaned, at four months, to one year old. A bit of simple arithmetic raises this question: Why is there a tradition of eating “spring” lamb at Easter?

Terminology is the problem here. Centuries ago, “new season” or “spring” lamb were born from Dorset Horn ewes. An old English breed that naturally lambs in autumn, Dorset ewes yield newborns that will mature in time to claim a place at…er, on the Easter table. These days, however, Susie Wilson of SuDan Farm explained to me, a spring lamb refers to an animal raised on grass and butchered at the right weight rather than a certain time of year. The “younger is better” maxim does not hold true for lamb.

Oregon’s climate offers the same unique advantages for producing fauna that it does for flora. The winning combination of an extended grass-growing season and access to sheep with longer breeding cycles—like Dorset Horn ewes—means fresh lamb is available 52 weeks of the year. Farmers and ranchers can tinker with a flock by putting a “teaser” ram among the ewes, allowing them to lamb twice a year, usually around March and again in September.

Perhaps the real question is whether the lamb is truly “spring” lamb or merely all-season.

We’re unlikely to take into account our carnivorous leanings when we talk about eating seasonally. As wild creatures, animals have seasonal cycles of breeding, roaming, grazing, and birthing that dictate when they are harvestable. Because technology and the global market have interfered with these natural rhythms, like almost everything we eat today, meat is available year round. Still, lamb is perhaps the only widely farmed animal whose consumption retains a seasonal element.

But there are factors other than season that enhance the quality of a leg of lamb, such as breed and native habitat. Meat can be one of the great expressions of a spirit of place, an edible calling card from the animal’s hometown.

An animal from the Connemara region of Ireland or certain parts of France will grow fat munching on salty marsh grass and herbs. Lamb from Provence might taste herbaceous, redolent of rosemary, thyme, and wild fennel, while Colorado lamb is perfumed with clover and balsam. Sonoma County lamb is reputed to have a faint hint of wild garlic.

Genuine spring lamb is born, not killed, in the spring. Born in February or March, these animals are weaned four months later, at which point they graze and fatten exclusively on summer grass. Their meat becomes rich and sweet, and takes on a dark hue and a pronounced marbling of creamy-colored fat that matches beautifully with the earthy, forthright flavors of root vegetables and orchard fruit.

The lamb born in autumn is the one who will join the pastel-stained eggs and hollow chocolate bunnies. When you eat it, you will be communing with both seasons, something to keep in mind when you next celebrate spring.

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