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Late January means just one thing in New York City: The farmers’ markets are awash in color! From white to gray to tan and beige and even brown, the season’s best produce is a delight for both palate and palette. These are the months we New York foodies dream of, a nonstop riot of cabbages and cauliflower, potatoes and sweet potatoes, turnips and onions, and, of course, well-aged apples, frost-softened and pockmarked. Can you believe we’ll be feasting on nothing but this cornucopia until late April or even early May? Lucky us!

Still, amid this otherworldly abundance, I now and then crave a splurge. As you already know, {{first_name|dear reader}}, my sense of a splurge is somewhat different. I don’t need Champagne if I’ve got a good Crémant du Jura, I’d rather slurp gobs of salmon roe than bumps of beluga, and I’m happier smoking an affordable tri-tip than searing slices of A5 Wagyu. I like the good things in life, but I also like the pretty good things in life, especially if I can afford to have them all the time.

And my favorite splurge, the one I consider the most luxurious of all, is deceptively humble: fresh herbs.

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Little leaves, big flavor: That’s how I think of herbs, though I’m sure there’s a more formal botanical definition. I want them on everything, in everything — and I want them available to me at all times, for whatever purposes I cook up.

I like them all. I’m a fan of parsley, both Italian and underrated curly. I adore everything in the mint family, from thyme, sage, rosemary, and basil (holy or un-) to lavender and lemon balm, which has not only taken over one of the planters in my yard but now sprouts through every crack in the concrete. Shiso or perilla, red or green, I’m there. And cilantro! In high school, I took a trip with my dad to San Diego, where we ate at a restaurant that was actually called Cilantro’s — possibly my first real Mexican food — and I fell in love with the namesake herb. (Are you a genetically deficient hater? You have my pity.) In Vietnam, I tasted rau răm (a.k.a. laksa leaf) and sawtooth leaf (a.k.a. culantro), and at a market in Udon Thani, Thailand, my friend chef Num fed me little leaves whose names I never learned but whose flavors — by turns bitter, sour, fragrant, peppery — are burned into my memory.

It’s not enough, though, just to like all the herbs. No, I want to be able to use them at will, and in great quantities.

The former is the biggest challenge, since I live in New York, where the Paul Simon collection is about what you can expect from most markets. To go beyond, you must seek diligently. The Japanese bodegas that are popping up tend to have overpriced packs of shiso leaves, while my neighborhood Ctown tends to stock sawtooth leaf for its Caribbean customers. A Vietnamese-inflected shop on Grand Street between Bowery and Christie usually sells not only rau răm but often ngò ôm, or paddy herb. Bangkok Central Market will have holy basil and makrut lime leaves — usually.

Still: Where do I find fish mint? Who’s got the freshest curry leaves? Or borage? Or fairywand?

This is frustrating! I want these herbs to be ubiquitous, delivered by corporate food distribution trucks, in overpriced organic varieties for Union Market and conventional bundles at the Mr. Fruit chain. In summer, I grow as many as my street-side garden will allow. (If you pop by, you’re welcome to clip yourself extras.) At the same time, the rarity of these herbs is what makes them special — if they were everyday ingredients, they would not be luxuries.

But they’re not only rare — they’re ephemeral. Apart from hardy parsley and thyme, few of these herbs will last a week in your fridge, no matter how you pack them. I usually wrap them in paper towels inside a plastic bag, but that doesn’t always help. Cilantro especially likes to turn itself into a puddle before I get a chance to use it all.

Which is dumb, because my approach to herbs — the approach that treats them as the luxury ingredient they are — is to use waaaaay too much of them. Seriously. Whenever I see recipes that ask for a mere tablespoon’s sprinkling of minced chives or a delicate chiffonade of basil leaves, I scoff. Who treats these miraculous sheafs of flavor with such trepidation? Who, faced with an overgrowth of fragrant leaves, decides to use just one or two of them? Western chefs, I guess? But not, say, Vietnamese cooks, who set out copious platters of greens, both lettuces and herbs, alongside all manner of dishes. (I still dream of this one back-alley bò kho, or beef stew, topped with a fistful of green.) To them, it’s normal; to me, a luxury.

And so when I do have herbs, I use them in great quantities. A Thai curry garlanded with basil, a chicken tagine whose olives are outgreened by parsley. I cram them in the cavities of the branzino and sea bream I’m about to broil, and I blend them into pestos no Genoese nonna would countenance. Culinarily speaking, I make it rain.

Perhaps my favorite is the tomato salad I set out at barbecues. It is not complicated: Thinly slice one large red onion (or several shallots) and put it in a large serving bowl with one or two grated cloves of garlic and a big pinch of salt. Then cut up three or four pounds of the best in-season tomatoes you can find: beefsteaks, heirlooms, Sun Golds — whatever. Sprinkle on more salt (preferably Maldon), a few tablespoons of sherry vinegar, and a lot of high-quality olive oil, at least a quarter-cup, even half a cup. (Crumble and add feta if you feel like it.) Now for the herbs: Whatever you’ve got, use them all! Basil, obviously, but mint, parsley, lemon balm, laksa, and shiso, too. Just chop them up and dump them on, till the tomatoes are nearly invisible under this verdant toupee. This — this is it. It’s a dish whose ingredients, both rare and quotidian, come together to express their transient perfection, an almost accidental confluence that we humans somehow have the good fortune to witness. It is profligate and indulgent, and right now, here at the ass end of January, it feels as fantastical as faster-than-light travel or universal health care. But unlike either of those, my tomato salad will become a reality if I simply wait and survive another six months (or, ahem, move elsewhere). Then, for a season and a half or so, I will have the opportunity to feel rich — we all will! — and without the mortal guilt of actual wealth. There is no greater luxury than a clean conscience. 🪨🪨🪨

IDK, I figured some of you might find this useful.