Small hands, smell like cabbage

(Jesus, I can't even remember what movie the above reference is from, but it has been in my brain for so very long.)

I desperately love cabbage. I think it has to do with my peasant roots, and the fact that those roots are Irish and Eastern European. Those people love the cabbage. I don't let myself buy it more than once or twice a month, as is not rare for Mike to come home from band practice to find a baking pan on top of the stove, cooled, flecks of salt scattered about it.

"Did you make cabbage?" he'll ask, advancing into the room slowly.

I nod.

"Did you put some of it away?"

I shake my head.

"So you ate it all, again?" Nod. "A whole head of cabbage?" Nod on my part, sigh on his.

In fact, I will have eaten it standing at the stove, the heat from the oven drifting up (leftover oven heat is a crucial part of my apartment warming strategy), pulling off each leaf with my fingers and salting it individually.

It is so. damn. good. Quarter it, salt the hell out of it, throw it in the oven, and you've got a brown-on-the-outside creamy-on-the-inside flavor sensation.

And today, today! Today of all days, the world is loving cabbage along with me. Both Food52 and The Yellow House posted odes to the stuff, though they're sexing it up way more than I usually do. As much as you can sex up one of the most musical fruits, anyway.

It's chilly out, and about to get chillier here in San Francisco, so now is a better time than any other. Get your cabbage on.