I find woodruff by scent before I ever see it—walking the riparian edges, following that soft, sweet signal through the undergrowth. Its season is fleeting, but in that brief window it carries notes of vanilla, almond, even white chocolate. Not far from there, the wild fig trees offer something different. We take the smallest leaves, toast them over charcoal until just golden, then pull their oils—sometimes into an ice cream that tastes less like fig and more like a kind of feral coconut. It’s a tropical flavor hiding in the woods, and it disappears as quickly as it arrives.