We’ve been ankle-deep in snow, ice, and slush for months. One of our water faucets has frozen four times since the start of December. We’ve put a space heater in our normally too-toasty basement office. The sidewalk out front has soaked up enough salt for a decade. And pot holes around the East Village are threatening to swallow entire cyclists. This winter is a test of individual will and of our collective better natures. It’s a dope-slap to anyone who’s ever moved back to New York from California because they “missed the seasons.” In short, spring cannot come a moment too soon this year. We’ve paid our dues, thank you very much, now scram. When the first spring produce shows up at the Greenmarket this year there will be a locavore boogie-down like we’ve rarely seen. Ramp season is going to be out of control, just wait.