I come from good stock. Good, rich, meaty and flavors stock. Like neck bones and cornbread on a Sunday afternoon. Like lemon pies and funeral repays food. Good and plenty. My history is a rich one. My black history and food go hand and hand.
Never has there been a time in my life that I wasn’t proud of who I was. I come from good stock. Bloodlines that cross from Arkansas to Mississippi all the way up to Detroit, Michigan. I indeed have a rich heritage. Black history is my history. It has been a light for my path. It gave me the wings to start this food journey. You see, food has been in my blood since I was a wee one- I fried my first egg at the age of 6. That first egg frying- in cast iron skillet I might add was my first exam in the culinary school of grandmother.
What I love about it most is the skill and resourcefulness I learned from my plum skinned great-grandmother and my toasted hazelnut hued grandmother. It was their skill, and craftiness in the kitchen that ultimately led me to where I am today as it stands with food. It was their work of love- feeding people in times of need, hunger and general well being that showed me that food was as a connector of people. In my family, when you come for a visit you’re fed upon arrival. You’ll hear this as soon as your foot crosses the front door’s threshold-“Can I fix you a plate?” It’s a greeting and mood checker and a love language all rolled into one. It became the way families spent time after church- The Sunday dinner is sacred space. Food, the connection that happens while enjoying it-was an act of resistance- the way Black college students in Greensboro, North Carolina stood up for themselves to be served at lunch counters. Food is ingrained in the history of Black people in America. It was our blood, sweat and tears that built this nation. Slaves and sharecroppers are what made those corn grits and pork fat back and collard greens staples on the American table. The ingenuity of taking what scraps you were given to provide for a family is how we got over.
