It’s the Saturday before the election and the anxiety finally hit me. I’d been ignoring it. I did what I could in my little corner of the country. I donated to campaigns and I taught my voting age students digital media literacy and the importance of reading news from multiple sources. I’ve done my best to protect myself from the rampant misogynoir proliferating about the internet. I voted up and down the ballot.
But today the anxiety hit me in the form of a raging headache and a clawing stomach. Visceral fear. Remembered shock and disappointment from 2016. Not knowing which American flag and red baseball cap meant the owner thought I was less than a full human being, less than a full American. I hear the lyrics “smiling faces tell lies” from a song I listened to on my daddy’s lap on our back patio on long-ago Saturdays in a small California town that’s seen flower flags and cross burnings.
I wasn’t sure what to do with my day, but I knew the grading I was supposed to be doing wasn’t going to happen. I also knew I needed to eat something, but what on earth was I going to feed the tangled knot of my insides?
Then it came to me: Kamala Harris’s collard greens. I couldn’t do anything more to change the outcome of the election, but I could bring a small but tangible piece of her into my kitchen, into my home. So I searched for that viral TikTok video of her sharing how she makes her collard greens, got out my shopping list, and made some last-minute additions.
Bacon. Garlic. “Get all that fat going.” I grew up using ham hocks and neck bones, but in coastal California, it is easier to find bacon, so I’m willing to try her substitution.
As the bacon renders, my apartment begins to smell like garlic salt, the kind from a big box store, because I could have sworn I had garlic in the house, but chronic illness brain fog is real, and so is my lack of fresh garlic. We make do.
Chili peppers—definitely something my mom left out of her collard greens, but she was feeding three kids and probably didn’t think we could handle the heat. Of course, she put potatoes in hers, likely because her lily white British mother taught her to add potatoes to any leafy greens. I used a red jalapeño so I could see the spice coming. Now the bacon fat and chili aroma takes over the smell of garlic, and I wonder what else it will hide. I look into the pot and my eyes sting.
The chicken bone broth came next. Because my body has decided to give me excruciating pain whenever I eat solid foods, I had to go on a liquid diet for nearly a week. The urgent care doctor said it would help reset my guts. I had an endoscopy lined up anyway, so I figured why not. I queried my local mom group for bone broth suggestions and was overwhelmed by all the responses.
Every once in a while, I’m reminded that people do care about their neighbors.
I had to try the pot liquor after it had spent some time becoming one flesh with the rest of the fixings. I could happily drink that for the next few days. Savory, smoky, just the right amount of heat from the jalapeños.
Next came water. The tap water here tells a too-American story. You can drink it, but it doesn’t taste very good. At least we can drink it. I added too much. Next time, I’ll add the greens after the chicken broth and let them cook down a bit, and only then pour in just enough water to cover them.
Finally, the greens. Wash away the dirt and other reminders that they came from the land, with all the mess and life and death that comes with it. When I was a kid, my mother cut her finger down to the bone while chopping collard greens. I wanted to go with her to the hospital but had to stay home. My eldest brother took her. As a mom now, I understand I would have been more of a hindrance than a help at the ER, but at the time, all I knew was the uncertainty. It was the first time I can remember fearing for someone else and having nothing to do but wait.
Waiting. A couple hours, a couple days. Interminable.
I take the stalk out by hand and roll each stack of split leaves tightly before cutting them into little sushi slices, fingers tucked out of the way. The specter of anxiety, of harm, haunting my favorite leafy green. Unlike the greens I make on my own, inspired by my mom’s and some internet searches, I can’t put the election in a pressure cooker to speed up the wait time. So I make these the slow way.
Thirty minutes before the two-hour wait was finally over, I checked them. They were nearly soft enough, the just-right texture my mouth knows. The collards still savored of bitterness, though.
Vinegar and hot sauce add acidity and tang. They brighten and clarify. Remove bitterness. So do these greens when I finally sit down at the table and let myself enjoy them.
I can’t help but want to make changes to the recipe, braiding in the parts I love best about how I grew up eating them, but they really were delicious.
Four containers are stacked in my fridge, one to keep, three to give away. These greens gave me a few hours of embodied connection, of mostly better memories, of staying in the present moment with each new step of the recipe…and I hope I can share some of that space with you.
