Miss Layla Puts It In The Pot

The story of a recipe...

From behind me, into my ear, her husky voice informs me, “You’re gonna need a big pot.” Before I can turn to look at her – snap! Her fingers wake me up out of a turbulent sleep and I shoot upright in my bed, clutching the sheets in my fist. I know her, this dream woman without a name who trails the scent of cherry wood smoke. An ancestor, a demon maybe? She knows I did a very bad thing. She’s the same obsidian skin presence who told me when James passed away, ten years ago.

Right after breakfast, I pull the pot down from the shelf. A few quarts of water, half a cup of Louisiana Hot Sauce, four cloves of minced garlic, and Mahalia Jackson playing in the background. The choir sings into the pot, and I recall water stinging my nose, looking out at the people in the pews through drops of water on my lashes, when Pastor Graham levered me up with his arm from the baptism tub when I was eleven. My new eyes still felt sinful somehow.

“Every time,” my mother announces, lips pouting, standing against the counter with her arms folded. “You do it every time.” 

What am I missing? Oh, I know this! I’m snapping my fingers trying to remember… 

“Sugar,” I say. 

“Brown Sugar, baby,” she says, her body rippling transparent now and, as she fades, I can see the glass jar of sugar behind her. Now, when I add the sugar, the room begins to fill with her sweetness. Those times she melted me, the proud and tender smile-frown on her face, when she called me “my baby,” whenever I asked for another helping. 

I drop in two smoked turkey legs because we stopped using turkey necks ages ago. Poor little cousin Mae almost choked on one of those tiny bones one Thanksgiving, and that was the end of that. We still talk about that day, all of us sitting there confused and humbled that the collards could do anything besides uplift and heal. Now what the hell would I do if Vicente caught a bone in his throat? I can’t even think that thought. I‘d caused him enough pain already. I won’t have it. 

“Oh here we go,” I say, turning my head, annoyed. Worrying thoughts in the kitchen always attract busybodies. Right on schedule, prim and proper Aunt Casey comes out of nowhere, her hands clasped in front of her chest, the way she does when she delivers bad news. 

“White wine vinegar?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Hun, you want to use plain white vinegar. Who told you white wine vinegar was acceptable? Who hurt you, honey? Tell me.”

“I happen to like white wine vinegar in my greens, Aunt Case.” She hates it when I call her that. Hates it more than when I remind her that she’s dead. “It gives it more depth.”

She mocks me, in her deepest frog voice: “Depth?” She snorts. “Oh she’s fancy and stuff now, huh? She said ‘it gives it more depth.’I didn’t know I was talking to Chef Layla. Never in all my years…”

“Well you never,” I say, “but I always and forever. Excuse me, I need to set the timer.”

And we both say, at the same time, “Two hours.” 

She nods, convinced I still have a teaspoon of sense left in my head, and begins to disappear. I resist the urge to touch her cheek, to say goodbye. Always gone too soon. Pieces of broken windshield glass at her feet sparkle in the sun, then evaporate into dancing motes of dust. The vinegar mixes with the sugar.

Now I wait. I sing and hum for a while, I stir and inhale the aroma. I wash and cut the greens into strips, clean the house a bit, read my book, stir a little more.  

The timer goes off, I drop the collards into the pot. I text Vicente: Can I stop by later? I’m making greens.

Barely a minute goes by before my phone buzzes. Those greens you made for the Halloween party? Come anytime. Let me know when.  

When I close my eyes, the image of Vicente’s pinched face when they put him on the stretcher, all of us in our gym shorts watching him roll away. I wrap my arms around my waist. 

I let the pot simmer for about an hour. They still need a little more pepper, but they’re almost there. I can wait. They have a lot of work to do.

Collard Greens Recipe

2 smoked turkey legs

¼ cup of brown sugar

2 quarts of water

¼ to ½ cup of white wine vinegar or white vinegar

½ cup Louisiana Hot Sauce

3-4 minced cloves of garlic

1 whole onion 

3-4 cubes of chicken bouillon

1 teaspoon of ground black pepper

Boil all these things in the water then simmer for two hours to make the Pot Liquor 

Remove the turkey legs and fork off some of the meat into the pot

Add 4-5 bunches of washed, chopped greens (remove the stems)

Simmer for another hour, add salt and pepper to your fancy