I strip kale off the stalk by hand — and keep the stalks

From autumn onwards curly kale is everywhere, in bunches and in big bags: dark green, tough, rustling like paper when I tip it into a bowl. At first I chopped it stalks and all, and then the soup was full of hard green sticks that nobody wanted to chew. The leaf softens in a couple of minutes; the stalk stays woody for much longer. Cooking them together means either chewy stalks or leaves cooked to grey mush.

Now I strip the leaves off by hand. I hold the bottom of the stalk in one hand, wrap the fingers of the other round it where the leaf begins and pull firmly upwards. The leaf comes away in a ruffled ribbon and I'm left holding a bare stalk. Five seconds a leaf, and it's rather satisfying, like pulling petals off a flower. With the big flat leaves of cavolo nero it works the same way, or I run a knife along either side of the rib.

But I don't throw the stalks away. That was the second thing I learned. They just need more time. I line them up on the board, slice them thinly across, like spring onions, and they go into the pan a few minutes before the leaves, or into a soup together with the onions at the very start. Cooked that way they turn tender and sweet, a little like broccoli stem, and nobody notices they were ever tough.

Washing comes next, and kale needs a proper wash. Soil and grit hide in the curls, and sometimes a tiny slug or an insect. I fill a big bowl with cold water, plunge the torn leaves in, swish them about and lift them out, leaving the grit at the bottom. If the water looks dirty, I do it again. Then I shake them well or pat them dry in a clean tea towel. Wet kale steams in the pan instead of frying, and it spits when it hits hot oil.

My usual way is the simplest. A wide pan, a tablespoon of oil, a sliced clove of garlic and the sliced stalks first, two or three minutes until they start to soften. Then the leaves, torn into pieces, with a pinch of salt. I turn them over with tongs; they collapse quickly and darken to a deep glossy green. Two or three minutes more, a squeeze of lemon or a few chilli flakes, and it's done. It goes next to sausages, a piece of fish, a fried egg, or stirred into pasta.

One bunch usually gives me a side for supper and a handful of greens for tomorrow's soup. For soup, the leaves go in for the last five minutes, so they keep their colour.

Raw kale keeps well. I don't wash it before storing, because damp leaves rot faster. Instead I wrap it loosely in a dry tea towel inside a bag and keep it in the salad drawer of the fridge, where it stays perky for several days, even when the salad leaves at the shop look a bit sorry for themselves. Once a leaf goes yellow or slimy, it goes in the compost.

Cooked kale I treat like any other cooked vegetable: if there's some left in the pan, I let it cool, put it in a covered tub in the fridge within two hours, and eat it within two days, reheated once until steaming hot, or cold in a salad.

Garlic kale with sliced stalks. Serves 2–3 as a side. About 10 minutes. You need 1 bunch of curly kale or cavolo nero (about 250 g), 1 tbsp olive oil, 1 garlic clove, salt, a squeeze of lemon or a pinch of chilli flakes. Strip the leaves from the stalks; slice the stalks thinly. Wash the leaves in a bowl of cold water, lift out and dry well. Heat the oil, fry the garlic and stalks for 2–3 minutes. Add the torn leaves and salt, turn with tongs for 2–3 minutes until wilted and glossy. Finish with lemon or chilli. Chill leftovers within 2 hours; eat within 2 days.