Collards and Kale

My daughter mornings into the kitchen. Stands in light stratum from the back door window. When she turns, I see she is wearing a shirt inscripted with one word. Kale. I can’t escape the laughter, as I look down and point at my shirt which reads Collards. We are in the midst of a t-shirt battle, a vegetable stand-off, before the coffee is ground and rivers our lips. Hers, a gift from the boutique grocery store where she works. Mine, a token from my sweet sister; a faded green material with block letters. Hers a Kelly and script. My vegetable, a piece of my childhood. My Southerness. Steeped and sizzled in fat back and served on New Year’s Day, plated at Granny’s with homemade chow-chow, and a staple during hard times. Briny and robust. Her leaves have quercetin and kaempferol and half of the vitamin alphabet. All hail kale. Raw kale, kale pesto, kale wraps, kale chips, kale sips, and even kale dips. She is the cook in this multigenerational home. A healthy cook. Kale is revered. Has its own refrigerator drawer, a dog-eared cookbook.  Fat-back does not dare cross the threshold of this home. Does not putty the eaves and nooks with sass and Southern splatters. Collards are scarce, too. No collard wrap, spread, not on salad or bread. Collard must be content to have my memories, my faded green t-shirt. ​

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