A Frozen Bag of Collards Sent Me Crashing

 Joyce was an outstanding cook, a great southern cook.  One of her specialties was collard greens.  No one could cook collards like my Joyce.  

 

Cooking collards Joyce’s way took several days and was an intensive, hands-on process.  Joyce preferred cabbage collards from the eastern part of the state.  Back when I had a truck, we would drive to Johnston County and fill the back of the truck with cabbage collards.  In later years, I would have Lee Hinkle at Conrad and Hinkle order me two or three cases of collards.  But there was one fast rule; we could not get the collards until the first frost had come.  

 

It was usually late November or early December when the frost had come and we would cook collards.  She liked to have them done by Thanksgiving, but sometimes they were later.  We cooked them outdoors.  I sat up a long table where Joyce would carefully cut the collards and prepare them for the boiling water.  I had the outdoor gas cooker ready and we would boil a huge pot of water.  Before we added the collards, Joyce had a combination of side meat, fatback, ham hocks, salt, seasoning, and bacon grease that she would add.  Once all was just right, we would add the collards.

 

The timing was critical.  Cook them too long and they would be mushy.  Don’t cook them long enough and they would be tough.  Joyce didn’t need a timer, she could look at the collards and tell when it was time for them to come out of the water. 

Joyce’s collards were the best.  I know I’m biased, but they were the best.  

 

The last time we cooked collards, Bruce Hill had just come home from surgery at Baptist Hospital.  Bruce is from down east and we knew he would love collards.  Joyce took Bruce and Ginger a big pot of the fresh collards.  Bruce told Joyce those collards healed him!  

 

There was one freezer bag of collards left over from that last time we cooked them.  I had seen it in the freezer and thought I needed to use them before they would be in the freezer too long.  On Monday of this week, I did.

 

I thawed them out during the day and warmed them up on the stove.  I was looking forward to some delicious collards again, but had not stopped to think about the big picture.  

 

When I put the first bite of the collards in my mouth, it hit me.  Oh, they were delicious.  They were Joyce’s collards.  They had that unique taste and texture.  There was that certain way she cut them and seasoned them.  Hers were unique.  And that was the problem, they were Joyce’s collards . .Suddenly, I realized that I was eating the last food Joyce would ever prepare for me, and I lost it.  I had a meltdown.  

 

Joyce has been gone for 3 months now.  I thought I was doing better, but that frozen bag of collards sent me crashing down again.  

 

I know enough about grief to know that at three months I am just beginning to grieve.  It will still be painful after a year, after three years, after five years. 

 

Sometimes grief hits you when you don’t expect it.   That’s what happened to me when I tasted those delicious collards and I knew that only Joyce could have fixed them that well. 

 

But Joyce is not with me.  For a brief moment when I tasted them, Joyce was back.  I could feel her presence and her loving care.  But then she was gone, and she will never be back.  That painful reality hit me hard, very hard.  

 

Someone has said, “Grief is like the ocean; It comes in waves, ebbing and flowing.  Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming.  All we can do is learn to swim.”

 

I’m just beginning to learn how to swim.