Lunchtime on a rainy Tuesday. In the fridge is a bunch of kale from the farm share share I'm sharing with pals. (Yes, I meant to write "the farm share share I'm sharing.") Kale. I've never cooked kale. I've seen it mostly as garnish, and occasionally in Polish soup.
I pull out a large non-stick fry pan (the good 'ole standby) and dollop some olive oil, turn the heat up to medium. I slice one onion into thin slivers; I think it's that sort-of sweet Georgia kind. Throw onion shards into the oil, let it soften. I chop the washed Kale rather indiscriminately. I admire its hardy nature, its cheerful frilled edges. Into the pan goes the kale, droplets of water beading in its deep green crevices. And then, a stroke of genius. Or hunger. Or both. I chop a fresh tomato, a hothouse variety but locally grown. Outside on the deck is a pot of sad herbs in bad soil. Still, there are a few basil leaves and rosemary twigs available for seasoning. In they go to, with the tomato, the kale, the onions, the olive oil. I settle a big glass lid on the pan and let it all just simmer together comfortably for a while. The tomato releases red into the onions. The kale, still hardy and firm, relaxes somewhat. I dish it out, add a pinch of sea salt (oh so much better than the table-top stand by variety) and voila! A bowl of kale goodness. Satisfying to chew, the flavors melding together, comforting and delicious. A happy sigh of a nutritious and tasty lunch.