By January 2026. The garden is sleeping again, the way it sleeps every winter — not dead, just resting, gathering what it needs for the spring. The collard greens are out there, tough and sweet, doing their winter work. The empty beds are waiting. The watermelon seeds are in an envelope in the kitchen drawer, labeled in my handwriting, waiting for March. The garden is patient. I am learning from the garden.
Michael is three months old now. He is enormous. He has outgrown the newborn clothes and is well into the three-to-six-month sizes, and he eats with a ferocity that suggests he has been reading about the Henderson family's relationship with food and has decided to uphold the tradition. Kayla is back at work — she went back at eight weeks, which is too soon by my standards and standard by American standards and heartbreaking by any standards, but the bills don't care about maternity leave and Memorial Health needs its charge nurse and Kayla needs to be needed, which is something she gets from me.
Devon's mother, Mrs. Brooks, watches Michael during Kayla's day shifts. Mrs. Brooks is a good woman — quiet, reliable, the kind of grandmother who shows up with Tupperware and doesn't require conversation. I approve of her. I have told her this. I said, "Mrs. Brooks, you are doing an excellent job with our baby." She said, "Mrs. Henderson, he is a joy." I said, "Of course he is. He's a Henderson." She smiled. The smile said: he's a Brooks too. She's right. He's both. The baby belongs to everyone who loves him, and the loving is the only ownership that matters.
I have Michael every Saturday. The sacred Saturday. Kayla drops him off at eight and picks him up at noon. Four hours of grandmother time. We cook. He watches from the carrier. I narrate everything: "Michael, this is garlic. Smell that? That's the smell of a good kitchen. Michael, this is the cast iron skillet. Your great-great-grandmother Hattie Pearl seasoned this skillet with her own hands. Michael, this is butter. Don't tell the doctor about the butter." He gurgles. I interpret the gurgles as agreement.
Made winter greens soup tonight. The collards from the garden, simmered with smoked turkey (the diabetes compromise), onion, garlic, chicken broth. Simple. Warm. The food of January. The food of waiting for spring.
Now go on and feed somebody.
The collard greens are doing their slow winter work out in the garden, and I respect that patience — but a woman still needs something green on the plate while she waits. This roasted asparagus is what I make on the Saturdays when the soup pot is resting and Michael has gone back home to Kayla and the house is quiet and I want something warm and simple and a little bit special. The blue cheese is not the doctor’s idea, but neither is the butter, and some things are worth the accounting.
Blue Cheese Roasted Asparagus
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 1 lb fresh asparagus, woody ends trimmed
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
- 1/3 cup crumbled blue cheese
- 1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
Instructions
- Preheat the oven. Heat oven to 425°F. Line a large baking sheet with foil or parchment paper.
- Season the asparagus. Spread the trimmed asparagus in a single layer on the prepared baking sheet. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. Toss gently to coat evenly.
- Roast. Roast for 12–15 minutes, until the asparagus is tender and the tips are beginning to crisp and brown. Thinner spears will be done closer to 12 minutes; thicker spears may need the full 15.
- Add the blue cheese. Remove the pan from the oven and immediately scatter the crumbled blue cheese over the hot asparagus. The heat from the spears will soften the cheese just enough.
- Finish and serve. Squeeze lemon juice over the top and transfer to a serving platter. Serve warm.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 95 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 7g | Carbs: 5g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 340mg