Winter Greens & the Legacy of Love: A Montgomery Story

The frost makes them sweeter, you know.

My grandparents always said so. Mrs. Jane from Gibbons Farm just confirmed what I've known my whole life. But the story of how these particular collard greens made it to my kitchen—and eventually to your table—is about more than agriculture and temperature. It's about loss, community, and the way food connects us across generations.

For years—decades, really—I bought my collard greens from the same roadside stand: Farrior's Produce.

If you're from Montgomery, you know the one. That weathered wooden stand on the side of the road, always stocked with whatever was in season, always manned by Mr. and Mrs. Farrior with their warm smiles and careful hands.

But Mr. and Mrs. Farrior weren't just vendors to me. They were family.

They knew my grandparents. They watched my parents grow up in this community. They watched me grow up—from a little girl tagging along on grocery runs to a culinary school graduate coming home to start my own business.

Every week, it was the same ritual: I'd pull up to that stand, and Mrs. Farrior would already be picking through the greens, selecting the best bunches before I even asked. "These ones, baby," she'd say, handing them over with that knowing look that only comes from years of feeding people you love.

Mr. Farrior would pack them carefully, always adding an extra bunch or a few tomatoes "for good measure." They never let me leave without asking about my family, my business, my life.

That wasn't a transaction. That was love folded into every exchange.

When Mr. Farrior passed away, the stand felt different. Quieter. Mrs. Farrior kept it going, but you could see the weight of it—the loss, the loneliness, the exhaustion of running something that had always been a partnership.

A year later, Mrs. Farrior passed too.

And just like that, my source for collard greens—and so much more—was gone.

I grieved them the way you grieve family. Because that's what they were. They represented a kind of community care that's becoming rare: the people who grow and sell food not just as a business, but as a ministry. The ones who remember your name, your story, your grandmother's recipe.

Losing them felt like losing a piece of my own history.

For a while, I didn't know where to turn. I tried other stands, other farms, but nothing felt right. The greens were fine, but the connection was missing.

Then it hit me: I'd been standing in the solution every single week.

The Montgomery Curb Market—where I sell my gourmet-to-go meals, my soups, my herb blends—is full of farmers and vendors who carry the same spirit the Farriors did. People who care about the soil, the seasons, the community they feed.

I'd been so focused on being a vendor that I forgot I could also be a customer.

So I started asking around. Talking to my fellow vendors. Learning who grew what, who used sustainable practices, who understood that food is more than a commodity—it's a relationship.

That's how I met Mrs. Jane from Gibbons Farm.

Mrs. Jane grows her collards the old way. No shortcuts. Just good soil, careful tending, and an understanding of what the seasons require.

This past week, I stopped by her booth early—before the Saturday morning rush. She was arranging bunches of collards, their leaves deep green and sturdy, still cold from the morning harvest.

"These are the ones you want," she said, while her husband carefully selected several bunches for my order. "All that frost we've been having? Makes them extra sweet."

I smiled. My grandparents used to say the exact same thing.

They grew collards in their backyard—a small plot that fed half the neighborhood every winter. My grandmother would send me out to pick the leaves after a cold snap, explaining that the frost changed something in the plant. "It's like the cold wakes up the sugar," she'd say. "Makes them tender. Makes them sing."

I never knew if that was science or folklore, but I knew it was true. Those winter greens from my grandparents' garden were unlike anything else—earthy and sweet, with none of the bitterness you get in warmer months.

Standing there with Mrs. Jane, holding those frost-kissed greens, I felt my grandparents with me. I felt the Farriors with me. I felt the unbroken line of people who've grown, sold, and cooked this food with intention and love.

"I believe you," I told Mrs. Jane. And I meant it.

Back in my kitchen, I treated those greens the way they deserved.

First, I picked through every single leaf. Checked for any damaged spots, any lingering dirt, any imperfections. This isn't about perfection—it's about respect. These greens traveled from Gibbons Farm to the Curb Market to my hands. They deserve my full attention.

Then, the wash. I filled my sink with cold water and submerged the greens, swishing them gently until the water ran clear. There's something meditative about this process—the repetition, the care, the way the leaves squeak when they're truly clean.

Next, the seasoning. I use my house herb blend—a mix I've been perfecting since my Le Cordon Bleu days, inspired by my grandmother's intuitive cooking and refined by years of professional training. Rosemary, thyme, a touch of sage. And our signature smoked sea salt, the same one we sell at the market because it's that good. It adds a depth, a whisper of campfire and earth, that makes people ask, "What is that flavor?"

No meat. No animal products. These greens are completely vegan, because vegetables this good don't need anything to hide behind. They just need time, heat, and intention.

I let them braise low and slow—the way my grandmother taught me, the way the Farriors would have wanted. The kitchen filled with that unmistakable smell: earthy, savory, comforting. The smell of home.

When you order a pint of my Herb-Braised Winter Greens from the Curb Market, or when you book a private chef experience and I serve them at your table, you're not just eating vegetables.

You're tasting Montgomery.

You're tasting the frost that sweetened the leaves, the hands that harvested them, the care that Mrs. Jane put into growing them the right way.

You're tasting my grandparents' backyard garden and the Sunday dinners that fed our neighborhood.

You're tasting the Farriors' legacy—the love they poured into their roadside stand, the way they made every customer feel like family.

You're tasting my Le Cordon Bleu training and my Alabama roots, braided together in a pot of greens that somehow holds both fine dining technique and grandmother wisdom.

You're tasting loss and continuity. Grief and gratitude. The way community continues to feed itself, even when the faces change.

The Farriors would be proud.

My grandparents would be proud.

And I hope, when you take that first bite, you taste all the love that went into it.

Collard Greens (Vegan)
Available now at the Montgomery Curb Market

Or book a private chef experience featuring seasonal winter greens and other locally sourced dishes.

Also available: Our Smoked Sea Salt—the secret ingredient