Collard greens, fat back = holiday dinner

I’m a pretty good facsimile, but I’m not an actual Southerner.

No, I was raised here by northern parents, packed into the station wagon at age 5 and settled in Virginia where I set my roots. I was used to eating things like hard rolls – tall, airy affairs with poppy seeds on top – or bagels, lox and cream cheese with a slice of onion for breakfast. Or corned beef and cabbage, which I truly hated.

I never even heard of collards until our neighbor, named Virginia, named them as part of a holiday dinner. She called them greens. Greens? I thought of the colors in my crayon box and wondered, like a quiet kid will do. The term “fat back” gave me more to ponder.

Today, I’d be content if Thanksgiving dinner was nothing but a big bowl of collards, seasoned with fatback and sprinkled with vinegar. Here's how. Squarely in my camp of “facsimile” Southerners is Barbara Stalvey, who lives with her husband in Kitty Hawk, N.C. (where some of my roots have spread).

A mutual friend of ours, Barbara Sellew, forwarded Barb’s Thanksgiving collard story. It’s a great little testament to family, food and trust. Read on:

“Being raised in the North, our traditional Thanksgiving dinner did not include collard greens. But here in the South, the native southerners wouldn't think of a Thanksgiving dinner without them.

The part of making collards for this holiday that I enjoyed was going to the field across the bridge, and getting "fresh collard greens". I drove up in the very muddy field driveway and parked, got out and looked around and there was not a soul manning the sale of the crop.

There was a very old, rugged table, a sign that said $1.50 and an old fishing tackle box that had a note taped to it that said place your money in here, and a few machetes on the table to cut the very large heads of collards. I put my money in the box, and noticed that there must have been at least $25 in dollar bills and change in the tackle box.

I went down the patch, picked out two beautiful collard heads, cut them with the machete and headed back toward the table. A man that had pulled up in a truck came over to get the machete and he looked at me with mud all over my shoes and his, and he said, "Man, what we will do to feed our families!"

I just said, "Ya, Have a nice Thanksgiving," and kept walking to my car, and looking around, as I was in awe that, in this day in age, the farmer still believed in the honor system.

Those collards tasted so good this year!”

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