I open the ‘fridge and pull the pale green head out of the bottom drawer. It is still wrapped in the thin plastic bag I had put it in when I picked it from the dozens of others at the store. I strip it of this transparent skin and place it on my mother’s mother’s chopping board. It’s not her “original” chopping board, that one went to my aunt Jean, but even this “secondary” board is a piece of Grandma’s kitchen, and therefore means the world to me.
I was too young, when my grandma died, to have ever really cooked meals with her. And even if she had lived longer, I was more than likely too male. I was, nonetheless, still the only grandkid, even with my being one of the youngest, to ever be allowed in the kitchen while she cooked. She was always so particular about cooking. She rarely let anyone around while she worked, not even Grandpa, though I doubt that he much minded. Like I said, though, I was too young to have ever really helped in the kitchen, and being young I never really picked up many, if any, of her techniques, though through the years I’ve tried to recreate them somehow. My son is not yet two years old, but I talk to him about what I’m doing when I’m in the kitchen and he decided to wander in to watch. I’m 30-some-odd years old. I want to make sure he knows as much about me as possible.
I turn the water on cold in the sink and wait until it is icy before dunking the cool cabbage head beneath its steady flow. I let the water course over its waxy surface, rinsing away any grit that may be left behind, while pulling off the outer layer of its leaves. The green of the cabbage is enthralling. Especially this far along in the winter. The weather of late has taken a sharp snap to the colder. It is early January, and statistically, the average temperature should be starting to rise, even if ever so slowly. It makes me long for the spring’s return even more, this delicate pale green cabbage.
I turn off the spigot and roll the weight of the cabbage in my cold fingers, checking it for any stray grime that may still be clinging to its folds and ridges. It shines in the early afternoon light that streams into the kitchen. My son is napping or I would make it a point to show him the vividness of the green nestled in my hands. He would surely love it. And I would peel a sliver of leaf off and let him taste it.
I shake the head dry over the basin and then put it on the chopping board again and daub the extra wetness from it with a towel. I unsheathe the biggest of the knives from its block and cut the head into quarters. The crunch as it splits is heady. I core out the stem from each of the quarters and put them all into a pot that I’ve already filled with water. I turn the flame on the stove up to a medium height. In an hour or so the scent of the cabbage will soak the house with its heaviness. For now, though, I go to my son’s bedroom. I listen outside his door and can hear the barest of snuffling as he snores softly. I sit on the floor outside his room and talk silently to my grandma. I ask her what it is that he dreams about when he sleeps because he’s still too young to tell me yet.
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