Maybe it's all that going back to school in my formative years, but as the nights cool and the leaves turn and fall, autumn has never felt like an end of anything.
Until now.
This month, as always, has been filled with the usual transitions and milestones. But not all of them have been welcome or joyful, and the cool, clear air has brought with it a sharp, bittersweet reminder that I am no longer approaching the autumn of my life, but am deep in the middle of it.
Earlier this month, my husband and I marked our twenty-fifth anniversary and the beginning of our fourth year in Virginia. After a more than two year search, our parish here has welcomed a new rector who is filling us with fresh hope.
But in August we got the news we've dreaded for more than twenty of those years, that my younger brother Sidney had come to the end of his battle with cancer and would not be with us much longer. He died earlier this month, on the same day we'd gotten home from saying goodbye to a cherished friend and mentor who is also approaching the end of a long and rich life.
All this is playing out on the unsettling background of an especially contentious election season.
Honestly, I'm still numb.
We've met it by going through the usual motions of autumn: fall leaves on the mantel, the dining room table, and in wreaths on the doors; pumpkins on the front stoop; a jug of cider in the refrigerator; and new bottles of whiskey in the bar cupboard.
And as always I cook, turning my kitchen into a factory for comfort: roasting chickens and pecans; slow-simmering pot roasts and pots of bean soup, chili, and chicken dumplings; baking apple tarts and golden cheese straws shaped like fall leaves.
And then there are those other leaves that mark autumn on Southern tables more surely than the ones that change color, drop, and wither outdoors: fall collards, kale, and turnip greens.
Mary Randolph, one of the first writing cooks to record Virginia cookery, seems to have thought of those last as seasonal in spring, but for my grandmother and many other Southerners, they're enjoyed throughout spring and summer. Like collards, however, they're at their best in the fall.
Last week, while preparing for a talk about Mrs. Randolph, I came across, and got reacquainted with, her lovely recipe for them:
Turnip Tops
Are the shoots, which grow (in the spring,) from the old turnip roots. Put them into cold water an hour before they are dressed; the more water they are boiled in the better they will look; if boiled in a small quantity of water, they will taste bitter; when the water boils, put in a small handful of salt, and then your vegetables; they are still better boiled with bacon in the Virginia style; if fresh and young they will be done in about twenty minutes; drain them on the back of a sieve, and put them under the bacon. — Mary Randolph, The Virginia House-wife, 1824
Suddenly missing my brother and grandmother so much that it ached, there was nothing to be done but go out for a couple of bundles of nice, fresh "turnip tops" and head for the kitchen.
Turnip Greens with Bacon
This is my grandmother's way, but as you see is not much different from Mrs. Randolph's. When my brothers and I were growing up, we topped our greens with a smear of yellow mustard. None of us remembers where we picked that up, but half a century later, it still tastes like home.
Serves about 6
2 large bunches turnip greens (around 1 pound each)
Salt
3 extra-thick slices bacon, cut crosswise in half
Whole black pepper in a mill (optional, for serving)
Prepared mustard (optional, for serving, we used the yellow variety with turmeric)
Pepper vinegar or hot sauce (optional, for serving)
1. Wash out and half fill the sink with cold water. Untie the bundles of greens and put each leaf separately into the water. Swish them around to loosen any grit that may be clinging to them. Let them soak for at least twenty minutes; especially if they're not as fresh as you'd like, Mrs. Randolph's hour will be better.
2. Put at least 3 quarts of water in a heavy-bottomed 6-quart pot set over high heat, cover, and bring it to a boil. Meanwhile, lift the greens one at a time from the water, strip the leaf off its thick main stem, and put it in a large bowl. Discard the stems.
3. When the greens are ready and the water is boiling, stir in a small handful of salt (about 2 tablespoons if you really have to measure it), then add the greens a handful at a time, pressing each addition down with a spoon until it's submerged. When they're all in the pot, cover until it's boiling again, then uncover, adjust the heat so that it maintains a lively but not hard boil, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the greens are tender but still a vibrant green, anywhere from 8-to-20 minutes, depending on the greens. When they're ready, drain them thoroughly.
4. Wipe out the pot and return it to medium-low heat. Add the bacon and cook, turning often, until it's golden and its fat is rendered. Remove and drain it on absorbent paper. Add the greens back to the pot, raise the heat to medium high, and cook, stirring and tossing almost constantly (I use tongs), until they are heated through. Turn them out into a serving bowl, if you like garnish with the bacon, and serve at once, offering any, all, or none of the suggested condiments.