Late in the morning I take my knife to the field, 
cut the cabbages free from their umbilical roots,  
strip off the outer leaves, the ones gone yellow, 
the ones turned to filigree by loopers and aphids.

I’m not thinking yet of kimchi or kraut, of slaw 
or a braise, leaves rolled and tucked around lentils
and rice, shredded into the minestrone, of wedges
bathed in olive oil and roasted savory sweet,  

but of the weighing and the washing, the packing 
and the loading, the drive across town to the 
food pantry. I lift the bushel onto the scale and 
record the number on the sheet on my clipboard.

Later, the woman at the pantry shakes her head. 
No one wants those, she says. No one cooks.
She is not wrong. At a popular local eatery the 
kitchen is three microwaves and no cookware. 

I unload the cabbages anyway, lay each one 
fresh and clean on the length of the counter, 
Give them my number, I tell her, writing it
down. I can teach anyone to cook a cabbage.