IN A BETTER world, winter would end shortly after New Year's. The rain would stop, the sun would emerge, birds would sing, the days would be long and warm, and we would all be happy. Instead we find ourselves in January, which leads only to February, then March – a long, hard slog indeed.

Still, one cannot help nosing about for signs of spring. Asparagus and strawberries ought to start appearing at farmers markets any time now. Meanwhile, in the garden, I have noticed an efflorescence of sorts – of mushrooms. For the first time in memory, their caps have popped up practically everywhere: around the rose bushes, under the blooming acacia tree, in the alyssum. And there appear to be several varieties, including the usual ones, which look like gigantic versions of the button mushrooms familiar to any supermarket shopper, along with more delicate-looking ones the color of brandy.

Mushrooms are less an indicator of spring, of course, than of rain – which one is sick of – and of death, since most mushrooms are toxic to some degree. At the same time, one has a soft spot for them; when they appear in force, after the first rains of autumn, they signal an exhilarating change of season and also start appearing, in what we hope are various nonlethal guises, on menus and in markets.

I must say I admired our heavy mushroom crop, which sprang up and thrived without any coaxing from me. That is, sadly, more than I can say for certain other of my attempts at small-scale urban agriculture. Nonetheless, we plucked them all and chucked them in the compost bin. Gathering them would have been too risky; it is possible to harvest wild mushrooms, but the harvesting must be done under expert guidance. There is no mushroom equivalent to Smoky the Bear, no beloved and credible figure to remind people of fungal dangers when they wander hungrily into the damp forests of winter, or even into their own gardens. But those dangers are present all the same.

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Bienvenue aux chiens: a good reason to love Le Zinc, the 24th Street bistro with the heavy Parisian atmospherics, is that dogs are welcome in the rear garden. So says the sidewalk placard out front, a reminder that civilized practices have not yet been entirely eliminated from American life, even if they have to be imported from elsewhere, even France. While Noe Valley is notable for its great supply of (occupied) baby strollers, there are lots of dogs too, accompanied by keepers who are bound to be pleased that they can now step in for a croque monsieur without having to leave their canine charges at home or lash them to a parking meter.