Turkey Kielbasa and Baby Kale Strata

The week after the fundraiser, I don't cook. This is the one week a year I step away from the smoker and the stove and let Rosetta feed us both, which she does with the practical efficiency of a woman who has been waiting all year for the kitchen to be hers alone. She makes her things: grilled chicken breasts, steamed vegetables, a pasta salad with light dressing, meals that are nutritious and sensible and designed to undo whatever damage my BBQ-centric diet has done to my arteries over the previous fifty-one weeks.

I let her. Not because the food is bad — Rosetta's cooking is good, always good, just different from mine the way a hymn is different from a blues song — but because after the fundraiser I am empty. Not sad, exactly, though sadness is part of it. Empty the way a smoker is empty after a cook: used, spent, still warm, but with nothing left to give until someone loads it again. The fundraiser takes everything I have. Standing at that microphone, saying Denise's name, looking out at two hundred faces who came to eat BBQ and fight a disease that already won the only fight I cared about — it hollows me out. And the refilling takes time.

I walked my route this week with less bounce than usual, and Mrs. Watkins on Evelyn Avenue noticed and asked if I was okay. I said, "Yes ma'am, just a little tired." She said, "Earl, you look like a man who gave away too much of himself." I said, "That's the general idea, Mrs. Watkins." She patted my arm. Senator the poodle, for the first time in fifteen years, did not bark at me. I choose to believe this was an act of solidarity and not just a coincidence of canine distraction.

Tuesday evening Rosetta and I sat on the porch and she told me the fundraiser total after expenses: $7,400 net for sickle cell research. Last year was $6,800. We're growing. Every year, more people come, more money goes to the fight. Rosetta said, "Denise would be proud." I said, "Denise would say the ribs needed more rub." Rosetta laughed, which was the first time I'd laughed all week, and the sound of it — her laugh and mine, tangled together in the warm Memphis night — was better than any meal I've ever made.

Charlie called Wednesday from Nashville. She said the fundraiser was "incredible" and that she'd already talked to a colleague at Vanderbilt about sickle cell research funding opportunities. My baby girl, twenty-three, working the system for her dead sister. I didn't know what to say, so I said, "I'm proud of you, Charlie." She said, "I'm proud of you, Daddy." And we sat on the phone in silence for a full minute, not talking, just breathing, which is sometimes the most honest conversation two people can have.

Saturday I broke my no-cooking streak — couldn't help it, the kitchen was calling. I made a simple pot of greens. Collard greens, Mama's way: washed three times (because collards are sandy and one wash is optimism, two is hope, and three is certainty), stripped from the stem, rolled tight and sliced into ribbons, then simmered in a pot with a smoked turkey neck — Rosetta banned the ham hock in 2014 and the turkey neck is my compromise, and it's a good compromise because turkey neck has its own kind of smoky richness that the collards drink up like water.

You cook greens for two hours, minimum. Some people cook them longer. Some people cook them less. I cook them until they're dark and silky and the pot liquor at the bottom is a green-black broth that you could drink straight and probably should, because pot liquor contains all the vitamins and all the history and all the love that went into the cooking, concentrated into a liquid that tastes like the South itself.

I ate a bowl of greens on the porch with cornbread and hot sauce, and the emptiness from the fundraiser began to fill in, the way a hole fills with rain — not all at once, but steadily, gently, from above.

The collard greens that Saturday were mine and Mama’s, just for the porch, just for that particular emptiness. But the dish I keep coming back to when I want those same flavors — smoked turkey, dark leafy greens, something slow and warm that tells you the kitchen is yours again — is this strata. It is a different kind of comfort than a pot of greens, more structured, something you can set on a table and share, which matters when the refilling is going well enough that you want company around it.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 50 min | Total Time: 1 hr 10 min (plus 30 min rest) | Servings: 6

Ingredients

12 oz turkey kielbasa, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
4 cups baby kale, roughly chopped
6 cups day-old crusty bread, cut into 1-inch cubes (about half a loaf)
1 1/2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese, divided
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
6 large eggs
2 cups whole milk
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
1/2 tsp smoked paprika
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp kosher salt
1 tbsp olive oil

Instructions

Prep the baking dish. Grease a 9x13-inch baking dish with cooking spray or butter. Set aside.
Cook the kielbasa and vegetables. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add sliced kielbasa and cook 3–4 minutes until lightly browned. Add diced onion and cook another 4 minutes until softened. Stir in garlic and baby kale, cooking 2–3 minutes until the kale is wilted. Remove from heat.
Layer the strata. Spread half the bread cubes in the prepared baking dish. Top with half the kielbasa-kale mixture, then half the cheddar. Repeat with remaining bread, kielbasa mixture, and all but a small handful of the cheddar.
Make the custard. In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, Dijon mustard, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper until fully combined. Pour the custard evenly over the layered ingredients, pressing gently so the bread begins to absorb it.
Rest before baking. Let the assembled strata sit at room temperature for at least 30 minutes (or cover and refrigerate overnight). This allows the bread to fully absorb the custard.
Bake. Preheat oven to 350°F. Scatter the remaining cheddar over the top. Bake uncovered for 45–50 minutes, until the custard is set in the center and the top is golden brown. A knife inserted in the middle should come out clean.
Rest and serve. Let the strata sit 10 minutes before cutting. Serve warm, straight from the dish.

Nutrition (per serving)

Turkey Kielbasa and Baby Kale Strata — The Greens That Filled Me Back Up