Like Cinders, I'm stuck in the kitchen this week.
Whilst I eat kale from time to time in an effort to stave off the ghoul of incipient cancerous tumours, I certainly don't love kale (I eat seasonally so am quite grateful that it will be out of season in another month) but it is Scottish and was traditional cattle feed, so I thought it was about time I claimed my long lost relative, after all this is the year of the Homecoming.
Relative? Well yes, if our DNA is 50 percent cabbage
then kale must surely be my great great grandaddy.
"There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kailyard"
Wondering what tails of the kale yard Grandfather Green may have whispered to me?
Well, draw closer.
In Scottish Gaelic, curly leafed cal, is quite the storyteller,
an hablador from the North, who managed to beguile
great writers with a wispy flickering fondle of his unfurling
In case you were wondering, The Kaleyard School of writers were a late 19th century group of authors such as J.M. Barrie and Ian Maclaren, who viewed rural life through rose tinted spectacles.
Rumbledethumps anyone? Ooh you know you want to.
It's Gordon Brown's ( our previous dour Scottish Prime Minister who preached prudence whilst turning a blind eye to the bankers who drove us all off a cliff) favourite food but don't let that put you off.
Thankfully, it was also tradition here to accompany kale dishes with French Bordeaux, I'll toast to that.