a girl and her greens, part two.

As Lindsay put it last week, “a potential Sunday tradition” has, for me, turned into an absolute Sunday tradition. There is something special about Sundays that make you want to make traditions anyways. A week had passed, a great weekend was coming to an end, and again I woke up (late, as one should if possible) to head to the market on Divisadero. I left the house with my roommate, who had accompanied me last week and was equally excited to partake in the new program. We made a day of it; sandwiches from Arguello for breakfast (okay, lunch) and no plans for the rest of the day.

The market was aglow with shoppers and wanderers; children and dogs. We ran into friends on their way to brunch – how very Sunday of them too – and stopped for coffee. I paid a visit to my mustard man of last week to share the story of my soup, and though I intended to befriend a new farmer – the deal was done – this guy was good at what he did. He flashed his bright kale varieties and won me over once again. Like I mentioned, I’m a sucker for tradition. Though I had technically cooked with kale before, I had never turned those esculent leaves into tasty chips myself – and I swear it’s been on my to-do list since all this hype.

I sent off a text to my best friend living in Vancouver, the patron lady saint of all things vegetable, and with a one sentence reply had my recipe. She said no more and no less than exactly what I needed to know.

I prepared them as directed; tearing the krinkly leaves off their stem – rinsing them – and tossing with olive oil, a tiny splash of red wine vinegar and salt and pepper. Heating the oven at 300 degrees, I monitored them like an overprotective mother – checking about every 3 minutes (as instructed).

A recipe that took 1 minute to find, 5 to prepare, and 17 in total to cook – produced something that lasted maybe 30 seconds. The entire bowl was devoured by my friends immediately, over wine and post-weekend gossip at the table.

I was 2 for 2 at the Divisadero Market. The mustard soup was now a pleasant memory and the kale chips a very fun addition to the end of a weekend. The delicate little fringes of green curled to excite our taste buds and I lamented their quick disappearance. But there was always next Sunday and much more to try, I thought. A tradition had begun, and in its own way had brought me closer to my friends – for joining me at the market, for sharing recipes, and for sharing food – and closer to my neighborhood. Good things should be repeated with joy, and repeated with others. That’s the key to tradition.