Suddenly, without any real notice, spring happened over the weekend.

The daffodils, shyly hiding their bonneted heads all through February, are in full glory. The spiky clumps of florescent-yellow forsythia grow larger each day. Soon, it will be time to get out the trusty $50 lawn mover I bought three years ago. We are already doing industrious things. Kelly finished painting the living room - twilight-colored walls, and two shades of pale, pale gray for the trim and the fireplace. I baked banana bread and made broccoli soup. One of our dogs spent the weekend sunning herself in the backyard sunshine. Kelly said she thought she was on spring break.

In climes way, way to the north of here, an early sign of winter’s end is the sugaring season, the late winter weeks when the temperatures are above freezing during the day and below freezing at night, creating the prime pressure for sap to flow out of a tapped maple tree. I remember going to a sugaring of some sort when I was a very little girl living in upstate New York. Honestly, at the time, I think what impressed me more was the ice-cutting construction, a chilly Lego-block building built with giant ice cubes, sawdust and mean-looking metal tongs.

But I can’t feign the same hardiness of New Englanders. In North Carolina, at least in my parts, it’s been above freezing here at night, well, probably most of February. I can, however, enjoy the maple syrup and be happy that winter is surely and steadily warming up to spring.

I’ve had maple syrup on the brain for much of the winter, since Kelly’s mom handed us a big jug of the caramel-colored liquid gold for Christmas. As soon as we got home, I quickly stashed the little plastic jug in the back of the fridge, adjusting the milk and the Brita water filter pitcher just so, all the better to hide it. Real maple syrup is a luxury in North Carolina - our trees, mainly pine, some magnolia, are more likely give us cones, and in the magnolia’s case, brown, waxy leaves the size of pontoons. All through January and February and now March, I’ve eked out the jug’s contents onto squat bowls of oatmeal and dripped it gingerly onto waffles.

When I was in Florida, of all places, Lauren sent my maple syrup daydreams over the edge. She recently wrote about the terroir of maple syrup for her employer, the Burlington Free Press…fancy pants stuff, indeed, but it makes perfect sense. If wine and cheese are stamped with the unique taste of where they come from, why shouldn’t the sap that comes out of maple trees?

And that’s when I started thinking about dessert.

These simple custards are comforting and sophisticated, nursey food with a sly, long lick of maple. Maple appears twice in the recipe, so the flavor is reinforced, but it is so gentle that it doesn’t mind and even benefits from a little of the vanilla’s bullying. More maple sugar is even better sprinkled on top, a crunch and a dusting of winter’s end.

Maple Custard Cups, adapted from Gourmet, March 2006

2 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1 1/2 cups whole milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup dark amber or Grade B maple syrup
3 tablespoons granulated maple sugar (I found mine in the maple syrup/ sugar/baking section of my local Whole Foods; it’s also a heady condiment for that morning oatmeal)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350F.

Whisk together all ingredients in a large bowl until sugar is dissolved, then pour through a fine-mesh sieve into bowl or a measuring cup with a spout. Divide custard evenly among six ramekin cups, then transfer cups to baking pan. Boil enough water to cover the custards midway to three-quarters up the side of the ramekins. Pour boiling water into the pan, then cover loosely with foil (this is a hot water bath; it’s how you bake any custard). Bake until custards are just set and a knife inserted in center of one comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes.

Carefully transfer cups to a rack and cool to warm, about 30 minutes. If you are not going to eat them immediately, cover with plastic and refridgerate. They are best eaten the day you make them, sprinkled with more maple sugar.

Yield: six custards

I’ve been out of the office, in Florida, to be precise, the not-always-sunshiny-state. It was no vacation (someone had to find this), but it was inspiring and I’ve returned somewhat revived. St. Petersburg won’t go down in my little notebook as a culinary destination, but, to be fair, I didn’t have that much time to explore because of afore-alluded to work activities, nor much in the way of transportation. I hoofed it all over downtown, though, where I found clovey, citrusy Hefeweizen in the proper towering glasses, lime-marinated So-Cal carnitas, brandy-flamed saganaki, pastel-colored bungalows and fiery hibiscus and lush foliage. I drank my beer outside in the warm, breezy night and learned how to play the card game PIG. It felt like a North Carolina April, and has me very excited about spring, delicate lettuces, asparagus, being outdoors on a front porch with more beer and friends and probably some fireworks Kelly imported from south of the border.

The St. Pete black list was much longer, unfortunately. I won’t dwell on it - just take note a certain restaurant actually called Cha Cha Coconuts is on it.

But I’d still happily come back!

So I’m trying to eek out the tropical zen a little longer, despite U.S. Airways’ best efforts to disrupt it. My traveling wasn’t over, even when I got back after many delays and hurdles courtesy of the airline industry. Yesterday, my first day home, I stopped by Trader Joe’s on my way back from Raleigh (I had to make a morning trip there). Now, I’m not wild about product placement, but I like a good tip, and I have to tell you - this place is worth a detour.

Many of you living on the West coast probably already know about the joys of Trader Joe’s - mainly, cheapy cheap delicacies, especially a huge line of frozen food exotica - from wild blueberries to curries to Italian seafood stew - developed by the company in-house. I’m not a huge fan of frozen anything, except if I gather it myself, but I don’t have time to make tamales and chicken chile verde every week, and Trader Joe’s does. The stores are slowly making their way east, and this is North Carolina’s first branch, though it seems as if Charlotte is in for at least two soon.

I don’t if I’d been to Cary since high school, when my cross country team was stomped in a few races at a large park there. A location largely known for its concentration of rootless relocatees, beige-colored, over-sized homes, privileged schools, soccer parks and expensive cars, it’s not a city beloved by many North Carolinians. Sometimes, it gets called “Scary,” perhaps a little unfairly. I got a little lost there yesterday, but since I was still riding that zen wave, I didn’t mind. You all might want to print out better directions. Seriously, all of Cary looks the same.

But check out my loot:

My spoils include three bottles of wine, one white and two red, two kinds of salsa, four pounds of coffee, pistachio-encrusted dark choclate toffee, ginger-speckled shortbread, chicken and chile and cheese tamales, garlic naan, granola, sesame soba noodles, cinnamon chocolate cookies, Marcona almonds, and fresh gnocchi. Damn. It was ridiculously crowded, which made things all the more “quest-like.” I had to really push through the soccer moms to get those Marcona almonds. Cary, if you can provide me with $3.49 prosciutto, I can make time for more visits.

I have another field trip for you. This may come to a surprise to many of you in the Tar Heel State - it’s a sojourn rich in meat but, no, it’s not barbecue. If you live anywhere near Greensboro (as in 100 miles), please get in the car right now and take yourself to Giacomo’s, an Italian market and salumeria. There are two locations to serve you.

The marinated eggplant and red peppers (I believe vegetarian-friendly) are especially stunning, rich, lusty, with the heft of a buttery steak. Giacomo’s makes its own everything - salamis, pepperonis, dry hot sausages, sopressata, ravioli, sauces, rice balls, cold antipasti salads. There are cold bottles of espresso soda. There is a store brand of olive oil, in bottles big enough for wine. There are sfogliatelle, thick rippled pastries the shape and size of large clams, and filled with orange-flecked cream. There are amazing sandwiches, dripping with the marinated vegetables, the house-cured meats and fresh mozzarella on good, crusty buns. When I tried to sweet talk the one of the burly men behind the counter into opening a satellite location to the west, he told me with a deadly serious face that the food might not be as wonderful if they get any bigger. “The same four guys make everything,” he said. That’s an answer I can live with.

But don’t forget these guys came from Brooklyn.

Happy travels!