Pig&Vine

WINE: Robert Sinskey Vin Gris 2012

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Seriously, more thinking than usual. And as I've just spent almost the entire weekend in bed, I've had a lot of uninterrupted thinking. This is not a good thing for me, and I have not entirely ruled out the possibility that the thinking laid me out in the first place. Circles, people, we're moving in circles.

So what's the big subject? Visioning my future. Have you ever done this? It's daunting. Though exciting at first. I wrote a 10-year vision, a lovely, romantic vision to be proud of. Then I realized, I might not want that vision. After all, if I did really, truly want that which I had written, I would have pursued it with great fervor and heart already. I might even be there by now. That I'm no longer even tangibly working for it (not really) tells me I don't want it (not really). Or have I fallen off the path? Have I gotten complacent, lazy, tired? This is what I've been thinking about for the last several days. I've also been trying to scale that vision down to a 3-year goal, which should be easier, but it's not. 

When you write a vision - if you've never participated in such an activity - you're supposed to start with a list of things you've accomplished and are proud of. This is clearly to boost your ego before delving into the depths of uncertainty and darkness. Not one of us knows where we're going. I believe this may be one reason I never gave visioning or long range planning too much time. Don't get me wrong, I'm a dreamer and future oriented person (intangible what if's are a specialty of mine). But goals are different. And yes, stating them means owning them.

Let's start here, because it's a recurring theme and an obvious obstacle: In 3-years, I will be 40. 

(The sound of pins dropping.)

OK, the second theme, which drives the first theme, is that I am a competitive person. And somewhere in my mind, I am not where I'm supposed to be at age 37, and I have no idea where I'm supposed to be at age 40, which means I'm probably not going to be there either. Which means I'm failing, or at least not winning. This is a crisis. It's mostly existential, but that doesn't make it weigh any less. Of course, my mother, while lying across my bed with me a couple nights ago, watching me pitifully licking my slightly fevered paws (there was fever) and listening as a good mother does, said to me, "everything is an existential crisis for you." This, actually, is soothing. It means this "problem" may not be any larger than any of the others. It might be smaller, much smaller. 

This is why it's smaller: 

A. Many, many, many people have turned 40 before me. It's what people do, if they have the chance.

B. I am a planner. My plan is and has always been to pursue the opportunities before me until they no longer serve me, and there have always, aways, always been opportunities. Can't put a name to it, can't assign a number, but it works for me. 

C. It's possible this problem isn't really a problem and I'm simply trying very hard to be unhappy, due to a temporary bout of insanity. I'm calling for an immediate cease and desist. 

D. I'm already on the rebound from C.

 

However, when one is in an extistential crisis, even a small one,  and particularly if it involves elements out of our control (see note above about age) then we need something excellent to drink through it. 

Robert Sinskey Vin Gris of Pinot Noir 2012

This wine has something of a cult following. Only very small quantities are made each vintage and the wine is allocated. I understand the state of Alabama gets only a few cases, a few bottles of which landed in my local wine store, The Wine Seller. Bravo. 

I used to sell Robert's wines in New York. This is a wine I could sell without ever sampling a bottle, but by sending out an email to twenty of my top buyers. I would write orders totalling a hundred cases in a single morning. It's the best kind of sale. I once took some of those buyers out to Napa and Sonoma for a long weekend and our visit to Robert's place was a favorite for us all. His wife and chef, Maria, made a wonderful lunch after our tour and tasting. 

Vin Gris is essentially another name for rosé wine. Made from 100% organically grown Pinot Noir grapes in Northern California, Robert Sinskey's Vin Gris is elegant yet easy, versatile yet distinguished, complex yet comforting. It's not cheap, but when you're contemplating your future, several years out, you need to take yourself seriously and drop a little more cash into the investment. $30 was never better spent. 

Read more about this wine from Robert Sinskey himself (especially the POV) here. He's a bit of a renegade with a great deal of conviction. Exactly what you need when you're trying to find home.

 

STORY: Date with the Eternal City

A friend recently said to me, "when you tell stories about your life in New York, it sounds like 'Sex and the City.'" I imagine a lot of single women living in New York can relate to that. Actually, my life more closely resembled "Girls," with the raw truths of unflattering realities, the permanent and enduring human condition, and the lack of expensive and material consumption. I was poor for most of those years, and my fashion statements fairly pedestrian.

Actually, it got me thinking about the role the physical city and what it tangibly or intangibly represented, and represents. In "Sex and the City," the place itself is a character that can not be written out of the script. The "and" is paramount.

In many ways, The City raised me. It's where I earned my street savvy, thick skin, and mild, sometimes useful, paranoia. New York helped me hone the skill of a well placed expletive and instilled a strong sense of direction. It was a lover, a good friend, a parent, a nemesis. New York taught me to be alone, and be alone well, to ask for more than what I needed, but also what I wanted, what I felt I'd earned.  She taught me how to make things happen and how to walk away. She broke my heart. She  awarded me with great success and amazing opportunities. I can not miss her, and long for her in the same sentence. I easily declare I'll never move back, but know instinctively that "never" is simply cant posturing, the very same heard from all those who've made the exodus to wider spaces. 

In Here is New York, E.B. White writes there are three New Yorks. There is New York for those born and raised on the island - a different breed altogether - then the New York of the commuter, who's borrowed streets and rented air serve an ephemeral purpose, and finally, there is New York for those who move to Manhattan with purpose, on purpose. These are the New Yorkers who give the city its hum and anxiety and nervous energy. These are the dreamers who are in search of something sacred and have much to prove. "The city of final destination, the city that is a goal," he writes. "It is this third city that accounts for New York's high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements."

I've just returned from a work trip to the city. My last visit was more than three years ago. There are bike lanes now, and possibly more traffic, though I suspect I'm simply conditioned to quieter streets. There's the High Line, and all of Brooklyn, it seems, has been gentrified and made expensive. New York is a loud place. Every restaurant, even half filled late in the afternoon, echoes with cackles and bold voices. It's exhausting. And yet comfortable, so easy to slip back into an old familiar role as the codependent inamorata. Or the determined conqueror, a life I like to think is behind me, though I would jump at the opportunity to stay a few months, in order to capture her in words, to be immersed in her again, this time with the wisdom collected while watching from a distance. 

I did eat well, marking some of my old haunts, like Bar Jamon on Irving Place and Cook Shop, where a former customer treated me like I'd never left the business, gifting wine and food I'd happily order (and pay for) again. 'Inoteca on Rivington sated the noodle craving after arriving too late to both Momofuku and Mission Chinese. It's not such a far jump from hand-made ramen to perfectly executed spaghetti pomodoro. I'm a noodle lover. I take all kinds. It shouldn't be such a treat to experience pasta al dente, but it is. Not one restaurant in my town can prepare a correct Italian noodle. 

Saturday was my date with Manhattan. With no work obligations, I was free to roam. It drizzled most of the day, not enough to really wet you, but sufficient to make you notice. Walking west from 7th Avenue and 16th Street, Union Square rose up in sound, the park crowded with Farmer's Market shoppers, and Broadway, where it narrows and runs south in front of Republic and Blue Water Grill, carried a parade of dancers, costumed and moving in sync or on skates to booming music from floats that rolled along between the packs of moving, celebratory revelers. 

Continuing the hike east, I crossed Cooper Square and turned north, avoiding St. Marks Place, still steeped in outsider bohemian, costumed free spirits, and trying to keep its reputation intact, giving the block a stale circus appeal. I stumbled into a cramped hallway of a shop selling only rubber stamps, somewhere between 1st and 2nd Avenues. Hundreds of wood mounted molds lined the shelves, and I settled on a small one depicting a naked woman jumping over a glass of red wine teetering on its edge. The shop's Irish proprietor explained it was an image from the 1920's, when bars applied such risqué illustrations to their menus. 

The walk progressed south across Houston and into the Lower Eastside, which, when I first arrived in 1999, was still ethnic and tenant occupied, absent of hipsters and Zagat rated restaurants. I took respite at  the Italian wine bar 'Inoteca, sister restaurant to 'Ino in the West Village, famous for the decadent truffled egg toast, a thick bread slice with a runny egg and generous drizzle of fragrant truffle oil. Two glasses of rosé, a chat with the bartender, and a brief recipe share with the chef (why the pomodoro was so good and perfectly spicy) had me fully embracing the day-off mentality. In all, I probably walked ten miles, occasionally wandering in and out of shops, or stopping for a sweet treat (passion fruit tartlet with meringue, and glitter) and coffee. I took in the energy, the pulse, and the endless air of possibility. There is nothing that can not be had in the Eternal City. 

My evening began with drinks at Cubby Hole, a favorite bar on the hidden corner of West 4th and West 12th, a nook in a nook that I can never find without first checking directions, despite the countless times I've been there. My niece, yes, my niece, and I toasted to old times and new lives. All is well in our worlds. When she left for a dinner meeting I found an education on brain function from a med student plowing through her third year of pediatric neurology. There is no shyness in demonstrating one's prowess or intelligence or ability in New York. 

The feet stayed strong as I walked another fifteen or twenty blocks north, where I found an open sushi restaurant. Here I sat, dining alone, feeling the dispassionate reach of a place that welcomed me, hardly noticed when I left, and opened itself without the slightest bat of an eye when I returned. New York is always open. As the inscription in White's book, given to me by a friend when I departed in 2007, reads, "New York an eternal fountain...always here for you."

 

 

WINE: Berger Zweigelt 2011

I used to see this wine stacked chest high, one case on another, in retail stores around New York, but I never bought one. With any professional pursuit, we spend most of our time dedicated to the pay check. My wine studies those days focused on the bottles I sold. Competitor's vinos were secondary and mostly relocated to the monetary self-interest category. If a particular Pinot Grigio adorned the shelves in every store I entered and was priced the same as my Grigio, I'd have to taste test, value compare, and figure out what my wine was missing. 

Fortunately the Berger wines recently arrived in Alabama, where I can enjoy them without diversion. The white wine, Grüner Veltliner, and the red, Zweigelt, are both good values and easy drinking wines. Don't let the liter size and bottle cap closure (no cork, no screw cap - pop this one like a brewski) turn you off. These are great every day dinner wines and good additions to the casual dinner party.

Berger Zweigelt 2011

Zweigelt (zvye-gelt) is a red wine grape native to Austria. It tends to produce softer, lighter reds, dry but not drying, which is to say it typically has soft tannins. Of course there are always exceptions and some bold and structured Zweigelts exist. This is not one of them. Berger is an easy wine that goes with easy cuisine. You could put a chill on it and I wouldn't hate you for it. That's how easy it is. Think bright red fruits, blacker than Beaujolais and darker than Pinot Noir, not complex or demanding but interesting enough to finish a bottle (with a friend, of course.) The packaging is typical of humble Austrian wines and the price weighs in around $15 a bottle in Florence.

The Grüner Veltliner is very tasty as well, light and refreshing in hot weather, and comes in a bright green liter bottle. Also $15-ish a bottle.

Despite the usual long list of To Do's this weekend, I'm trying very hard to do very little, including drinking a fancy wine. Sometimes even a thinker has to take a break.  Thank you, Berger.

 

STORY: The Art of Slow Eating

Lately, my life has been anything but slow. I started working full time in late January, and for the first month or more, I was able to keep this blog going with fairly regular posts. The job demand has since grown and my energies outside that frame have spread thin. Add in back to back weekends dedicated to the career (more coming in the next few weeks), an upswing in business from my Etsy shop, and big life decisions, like buying a house, has let this blog dwindle to a random spattering of posts. "I really don't understand why you can't do it all," my mother said, a distinct note of snark in her voice. She knows I'm sincereley trying to figure out how to do it all, because there's so little I'm easily willing to sacrifice.

One of the things I have sacrificed without much lament - and this may surprise you, disappoint you, or make you question my intentions for Pig&Vine in the first place - is cooking. Cooking takes time, especially the sort of dishes I like to eat and write about, dishes worthy of long, slow indulgence. Most weeknight evenings I find myself almost disinterested in food. I'm tired and feel pulled in too many directions to warrant spending an hour or more in the kitchen, and then another hour or more at the table. It was never the cooking I enjoyed so much as the eating, anyway. 

I'm not sure cutting back on meal time is such a bad thing. Great art requires diligent practice and tremendous patience. The great things are appreciated when you aren't at risk of taking them for granted. I haven't yet had the opportunity to miss long, slow meals, and isn't missing an important element in what often leads us to make the decisions we make? I miss my family, so I will visit them, or move closer. I miss swimming laps, so I will make time to get back to the pool. I miss quiet Saturday nights sipping wine and watching movies, so I will celebrate when the youngest child finally moves out. I miss my children, so I will invite them to move back home and stay forever. I miss eating real food, so I will spend the weekend slow cooking.

There is an art to slow eating, and I don't mean slow chewing, small bites and paced consumption that's supposedly better for your health. Not to brag, but I'm a naturally slow eater. Everyone says so. I'm talking about the slow eating that involves slow conversation, which is an art all itself.  I learned this art as a child around our dinning room table, where we took every evening meal. My father was the slowest eater you've ever laid eyes on, and it's safe to say, he set the pace. We ate in courses; iceberg lettuce with peeled tomato and blue cheese dressing; then the main meal of meat, rice or potato, and vegetable; and finally, dessert, which was usually two Oreo or Milano cookies, unless there was pound cake or cookies from Grandmother's kitchen. Dinner could easily last two hours and conversation was central. I enjoyed listening to my parents talk about adult things, often medical cases. Even if I couldn't understand the language or significance of what they were saying, I felt I was a part of the experience.

When I first moved to New York I became a waitress. It was not a glamorous job, though I managed to work in some of the city's most prominent and popular eateries, acquiring an expensive taste for high brow cuisine and an affinity for excellent wine. That led me to a career in selling wine, where an expense account and visiting winemakers and importers kept me well fed and well educated in the art of eating well.

For the past four years I've dedicated much of my time to preparing and eating with my family and friends. Through it I've become a much better cook and enjoyed many great conversatons and heard many great stories. 

This is my longish way of saying, I have not abandoned the art of slow eating, or slow cooking. I'm simply dedicating more time to speed workouts, if you will. I'm hurrying through bits of my life - I honestly don't know where April has gone - with the distinct impresson those less frequent slow parts will grow in value and meaning. 

 

STORY: Jiro Dreams of Sushi

"You must fall in love with your work." - Jiro Ono

Last night I watched  Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a documentary film by American director David Gelb, about 85 year old  sushi master, Jiro Ono, and his ten-seat restaurant, Sukiyabashi Jiro, in a Tokyo subway. Japan considers Ono a national treasure, and people travel to Tokyo specifically to visit Jiro's restuarant, where meals begin at $300 per person. He serves only sushi.

You don't have to be a sushi fanatic to appreciate this beautiful film. You don't even have to like sushi. Listening to Jiro explain his dedication and passion for his craft lies parallel to the great art masters Vermeer and Michelangelo, or the great composers Bach and Beethoven (who continued to write music even after losing his hearing).  In our modern world of fast technology and pursuit of money and things, we too often chase the immediate, the quickest route to the biggest payoff. But true art does not work that way. Writing does not work that way. Everything I have ever read about writing demands that you work every day, and with the sure knowledge you will likely never achieve greatness, much less perfection. Jiro remarks, even at his old age, having worked at his craft for 75 years, he has still not reached perfection.

Jiro serves only the best fish available. The film follows his 50 year old son and successor through the Tokyo fish market where he buys the menu's ingredients everyday at auction. Jiro laments the loss of certain species through the years due to over fishing. Sushi was once an expensive delicacy. Now we buy sushi at the supermarket,  nearly 10,000 miles from it's origin. Of course, I seriously doubt the tuna roll I buy from Publix was fished off the coast of Japan, but the particulars share a central thread in Jiro's argument.  

It's Jiro's unwavering commitment to doing the same thing everyday, to maintaining a severe adherence to using the best ingredients and delivering the most pristine experience he possibly can that impresses.

We can all gain inspiration from Jiro's self discipline and dedication to something ultimately larger than himself.

 

 

WINE: The New South

I used to sell a little wine to Noel Sherr when he worked at Chambers Street Wines, one of Manhattan's choice retailers, where the dedication to honest, natural, high acid wines, promises a great bottle of wine in every purchase. Actually, I think I first met Noel at a wine lunch sometimes around 2002, each of us working for a small importer when the two importers shared a very coveted German wine portfolio. In any case, Noel was always a pleasure to work with, always amiable, and easy going. 

Noel and I have both relocated to the South, and last fall he and his wife, Marie, opened a wine shop in Durham, North Carolina called Cave Taureau. Noel's extensive knowledge and excellent palate (and no doubt, his charm) are apparently turning some very open minded palates in the Raleigh-Durham area into true oenophiles, championing obscure grape varietals from out-of-the-way places, and wines that carry a passion and dedication to craft over the point-scored, mass-marketed trophy bottles many new drinkers cling to - a fault of marketing and lack of knowledge more than taste.

Eric Asimov wrote a great piece about Noel's shop in the New York Times this week. Check it out, and next time you're near Durham, say hey to my friend Noel for me (and get yourself an awesome bottle of wine).

Read the article: North Carolina's Vibrant Wine List

A nice shout out in the article to my friend André Tamers as well, whose wines, sadly, are not available in Alabama. 

 

 

 

WINE: Val de Mer Crémant de Bourgogne

French sparkling wine, because it's balls cold out again and it was snowing this morning when I left the house. Because I had to wear pajamas to bed last night, and because my body just wanted to keep sleeping when the alarm went off. And my skin itches. Because I'm behind on personal deadlines and my flip flops, which adorned my cold feet just ten days ago, sit lonely and naked in the bedroom corner. Because Spring has exercised her right to be tempramental all across the country, blanketing us with snow and grey - that right we so easily forget every year, conned by a few brief days of perfect weather, short sleeves and sandals, leaving us angry and cold and tired and itchy, even though it is completely out of our control. Because there exists so much to complain about right now - dry sparkling wine. But really because life is actually very good right, my complaints moot and ephemeral, and because my new haircut looks great.

A toast!

 

Patrick Piuze, Val de Mer Crémant de Bourgogne Non-Dosé

White, dry sparkling wine from Chablis, made in the traditional Champagne method by up and coming fame, Patrick Piuze. 

The wine is dry with ripe apple fruit and a soft feel on the palate, though the bubbles are very fine and acidity excellent. There's a toasty element from time spent on the lees, and a velvety quality both elegant and enticing. Non Dosé means no sugar has been added to the final wine, which, Piuze and other naturalists believe, produces a wine of pure quality and true terroir essence.

In traditional sparkling winemaking, dosage is the act of adding sugar - usually sugar syrup mixed with wine - to the bottle before corking. This is in part to replace lost wine after disgorgement and in part to soften the high acidity these wines produce naturally. A sweetened wine may still finish bone dry, the acidity is that high. 

For about $30 this little beauty can help you celebrate the goodness in life, too. (Or help you stay warm)

 

FOOD: Scrambled Eggs on Anchovy Toast a lá Morrison Wood

My father Harry Collins used to make this dish from a 1956 cookbook by Morrison Wood titled More Recipes with a Jug of Wine. Wood wrote a food column called "For Men Only!" for a Chicago newspaper, and this was his second of three cookbooks (the other two also involve a jug of wine). His anecdotes are what really bring you in. Humor and perspective make the recipes, otherwise uninteresting, suddenly interesting. I read somewhere once that all good food writers are funny. Something has to set the work apart. Narrative is essential. How else do seemingly mundane scrambled eggs earn a lettered status? 

Morrison's introduction to the "Eggs and Cheese" chapter of this tome reads:

"I always feel a little sorry for those unimaginative individuals who consume practically the same breakfasts year in and year out. Can you imagine eating boiled eggs, toast, and coffee 365 days a year? Well, I know a chap who has eaten that same breakfast, without variations, for twenty years!

Variety is the spice of breakfasts as well as life, and I don't know of any breakfast dish that can be as varied as scrambled eggs. Scrambling eggs with bacon bits is rather commonplace, but when you add fresh breadcrumbs mixed with fine herbes, you have something deliciously different, though quick and easy."

Dad didn't cook many dinners, but he cooked eggs nearly everyday. Breakfast, at least when I knew him (which is to say in his retired years) was a leisurely event. Eggs, toast, coffee, juice, and the paper, every day for an hour or more. When my mother isn't working, she does the same, taking an easy two hour repast. 

 

I've made this dish a hundred times for brunch with mimosas or white wine, and for breakfast with coffee. I've served it on toast points as an hors d'oeuvres with a Fino sherry. It's an easy make and always impresses.

Scrambled Eggs on Anchovy Toast

6 slices white bread (or bread of your choice) Butter Anchovy past 6 eggs 1/2 tsp salt 1/8 tsp freshly ground pepper 2 oz. dry sherry wine 2 oz. cream 1 oz. butter Grated Parmesan cheese From the book:

"Remove the crusts from the bread slices, and toast. Butter the toast, then spread the buttered slices with anchovy past, and keep warm. 

Break the eggs in to a bowl, add the salt, freshly ground pepper, dry sherry wine, and cream. Beat this thoroughly.

Melt 1 ounce of butter in a heavy skillet, and when the butter begins to brown, add the eggs. Scramble them until they are slightly on the underdone side, and then divide them over the slices of anchovy toast. Sprinkle the tops with the grated Parmesan cheese (about 3 tablespoons will do it) and put the egg-topped toast in a 450-degree oven for about 4 or 5 minutes, or until the cheese begins to melt. Serve immediately. A chilled dry white wine is a perfect accompaniment with this dish at luncheon."

WINE: Introducing The Vine (the Chablis column)

 

The Vine, Page 86

Sometimes life seems to simply drop things in our lap. A job offer from left field, a choice parking spot in heavy rain, a slap on the wrist, unwanted but necessary, all prove to be exactly  the thing you need. Sometimes life gives us what we ask for, maybe not in specifics, but maybe close enough to fulfill the dream. I've been wanting to write a column for some time now, even dubbed my last blog, AmyCCollins - a series of weekly essays on anything that interested me at the time -   The Column. Shortly after the launch of this blog, I asked the  editors of No'Ala, David and Allen, if I could work with them. Congratulations.  I now have a regular column in No'Ala Magazine called "The Vine." Come to think of it, I was asking the universe for a job, and maybe the wake-up call, too.

 

 Every other month you can find The Vine through a link from this blog (see tab above in the navigation bar) or go straight to the source online or in the printed magazine. Kind of a sister project of Pig&Vine, I hope The Vine will educate, amuse, and most importantly, turn you on to something delicious and vinous.

This issue of The Vine features Chablis: always chardonnay, though chardonnay is not always Chablis. 

I highlighted three cuvées in the article, but my favorite value is the Lavantureux Petit Chablis. 

Roland Lavantureax is imported by Kermit Lynch - one of my favorites - and one of my early loves discovered after moving to Alabama. The downside of selling wine for a distributor is you end up drinking mostly the wines you sell and often miss great bottles from other companies. Leaving the sales rep position has allowed me to more freely, and more objectively, explore the larger world of wine. Lavantureux founded his winery in 1978 and now farms 19 hectares with his two sons who also help make the wine and run the business. His Petit Chablis comes from an area just outside of Chablis, from 'lesser quality' vineyards, but can easily produce a great tasting wine and value. 

Clean and refreshing, no oak, honest and forward classic chardonnay flavor with balanced acidity and decent finish. Love it with cheese, light cream dishes, fish and chicken, or as an apertif. Around $24 a bottle.

FOOD: Collard Tops

Sometimes I have this fantasy where my biological father introduces himself with a check for $100, 000 and a letter that reads, Sorry I missed everything. Odd to weight the connection with finances, but money is something we all think about: am I making enough, how do I make more, how do I work less but maintain an income I'm comfortable with, how do I achieve stability, how do I strike it rich, win the lottery, open myself to receive some magical gift from the universe, some immaculate pecuniary conception?

Right? 

Of course that's just a fantasy I allow myself in brief daydreams of grandeurs and could-be's. Daydreams are where it all starts. Hard work follows, then the rewards. I've been rewarding myself a paycheck for forty hours a week, three weeks running now and the schedule is beginning to tax my personal blogging routine. That's not a complaint, nor an excuse for not getting this up and out "on time." It is a justification, however. Not to mention this daylight savings routine is bullshit. I get up before the sun now, and it's not so nice for my sleepy head. But who am I? I'm thrilled and lucky to be living this life and can honestly say, as I've said many times in the last four years, I am exactly where I'm supposed to be. I just may not be as on top of my blogging as I'd like. C'est la vie.

Technically not a collard top, but something else bolting in the garden, and also delicious.

In the South we eat collard greens on New Year's Day as a wish to the universe for money over the year to come. Spring is coming and my collards are bolting. The plants grow florets from the center stem that look like tiny broccoli (both in the brassica family) and which send a 'stop-growth' hormone out to the plant, telling it to quit growing, hot weather is coming. And they are totally edible, delicious even. 

 Collard tops remind me of broccoli rabe, which I can never find down here - broccolini, yes, but it's not the same. I love broccoli rabe sautéed in garlic and olive oil - there was a little Italian place in Woodside, Queens that used to deliver the vegetable to my apartment door, just down the road. It was so tender it practically melted in your mouth. I cook the collard tops the same way, and the subtle bitterness nearly melts with the sweetness of olive oil and pungent garlic. Chopping the tops from the plant also encourages the plant to keep growing, which means I have more greens to look forward to. 

So, if you can find some collard tops (maybe in your garden, or neighbor's garden) clip below the first or second leaves - the stem at the top will be so tender you can eat it raw - and sauté them in a couple tablespoons of olive oil and chopped garlic for just a few minutes. Toss with pasta or serve as a side dish and finish with fresh grated Parmesan or a dash of Balsamic. So good. And who knows, maybe you'll find an extra single wadded up in a sweatshirt pocket while doing laundry this weekend. 

Collard tops and Red Russian kale