self-discovery dans la cuisine

The first sign of the growing distance between me and my upbringing became obvious when, one day, sitting down to a saliva-worthy home-cooked meal, I found myself longing for just a little bit of imported cheese and crusty bread.
The plate held fried chicken, collards, peas—the kind of foods that usually produce an immediate feeling of comfort. But they didn’t.
I think it all began with several months spent living in Europe—and ended with me, hundreds of breathtaking photos later, feeling that I had outgrown the South of my childhood. It made me into a wannabe expatriate, with a body right here in Alabama and a mind halfway across the world. It’s hard to appreciate our verdant landscape when imagining the café-dotted streets of France or the beaches of the Mediterranean. It’s even tougher to treasure that Southern twang when all you want to do is keep up your Spanish. My recent marriage, however, made it evident that I would be here a while.
Prodding at some collard greens with a fork, I was struck by the fact that I could either continue on this gloomy path to certain cultural-identity crisis or reconcile myself with who and where I am. Maybe this very vegetable I was maiming with my flatware was a chance to redeem myself. If collards couldn’t be incorporated into my global worldview, then did I really have a hope as a Southerner?
At that moment, my quest for self-discovery began in an unlikely place—the kitchen.
Reactions varied: if you want to get a Southerner impassioned, ask him or her about the “correct” way to cook collard greens. When I described my venture to my grandma, she just laughed and shook her head. But in the end, it was just me, my identity, and that quintessential leafy green.
Before I knew it, I was chopping, baking and sautéing. An invitation to prepare dinner for my mother resulted in collard and ham croquetas. The crunchy exterior revealed a warm, creamy interior, just like you would get in a tapas bar in Spain, with a little pop of slightly bitter greens. Then the cuisine moved north with a collard quiche, a simple and homey version of the French pie. I was working my way across the globe. The rigorous washing of the thick leaves became a routine, and their almost rubbery texture a familiar feel under my fingers. I continued to push collards to the limits, incorporating them into dishes they never dreamed of in their quiet vegetable life.
Cooked and pureed, collards transformed into a bright, creamy pesto. I headed east on the culinary map, wrapping and frying them into collard won tons. Perhaps the most surprising success was the collard green ice cream, a velvety vanilla-based semifreddo featuring sweet and salty almonds and, of course, caramelized collards. Good? Let’s just say this time grandma’s mouth was too full of greens to do any laughing.
After a whirlwind of collard creations, I decided to get back to basics with the last leafy bunch in my fridge. After a couple hours of simmering, I settled onto the couch with a bowl of slow-cooked collards. I realized that everything I love about the South was contained in this steaming mess o’ greens—the simplicity, the straightforwardness of the flavor; the comfort and warmth that flooded my mouth and throat after every spoonful. I may go far and wide, fall in love with faraway cuisines, people, and places—but it’s a relief to know that all it will take to remind me of my roots is a simple, stewed vegetable.