Feast or

We leaned into cabbage that winter, a new head of it 
in the farm box each week.

You like coleslaw, I told my husband, because he made 
an excellent one. And that became a side dish.  

I chopped my share into oatmeal. Heaved handfuls 
in soup with red beans, carrots, celery.

My husband tossed it in stir fry, teriyaki sauce smothering 
its cruciferous smell.

I slipped it into the pot with fifty-cent ramen, a cheap 
substitute for Bok choy.

The soups of my youth, thick in barley and bones, didn't 
taste frugal served at home. Scarcity,

a state of mind. I pealed green leaves like dollar bills 
when jobs, like chickens flew  

the coop. I pictured our ancestors, making heads stretch 
the winter in hot water and elbow grease.

Freelancers, we dug in. Pitched cabbage like Mad Men 
pitching ads against famine.