Got a good chuckle out of this article. Most families in America have their own set of traditions for the major holidays. Whether it’s Beer and Brats at Uncle Joe’s for the 4th, or Aunt Rosie’s homemade rolls and Sweet Potatoes for Thanksgiving. Been in a few family crisis over the years in the leftover line, as to over who gets the last spoonful of Aunt Weezie’s greens, or the last slice of Uncle Ron’s Cajun Fried Turkey! This is the salt of some folks not speaking to each other for months! Been a running battle in my family between several folks over who made off with Aunt Claudia’s roll recipe when she passed some years back – seems she passed without leaving clear title to the recipe…
Or didn’t want to be the subject of “Aunt Claudia always loved you more than me” discussions for the next century among her nieces.
As family’s grow and spread and new members join through marriage – traditions often change, or are modified to take in the good things from our spouses and significant other’s families in one of those mutual exchanges.
I was told the substance in the glass casserole dish in front of me was potato salad – but I wasn’t buying it.
Why was it white?
Why was it smooth?
And where was the red stuff that goes on top?
It was 1998, and I was having my first Thanksgiving dinner with white people.
Now on the one hand going to his parents house for the holiday was a very good thing. I was in an interracial relationship and we had progressed to the point in which he felt comfortable doing so. But on other hand, I was a bit troubled when I walked through the door and didn’t smell greens cooking. Were we too early? Were they in the fridge?
As I was being introduced, I took a nice deep breath and…nope. Not a whiff of collards, or turnips or even the Tito Jackson of greens—mustard. For a moment I thought I had wandered into an episode of the Twilight Zone or maybe my mother had hired a witch doctor to put a hex on me because she was mad I wasn’t coming home.
I mean, it was Thanksgiving.
It was a real eye-opening experience for me in that up to this point, I thought we had pretty much navigated across the sea of cultural differences between us. I taught him how to play spades, he taught me gin rummy, it was all good. But now there was this string bean casserole with dried up onions on my plate and a dish of naked potato salad in my face and I was beginning to think we wouldn’t make it.
It’s Thanksgiving. Why isn’t there any paprika on the potato salad? How come there isn’t any hot sauce out on the table? How come there’s nothing to put hot sauce on?
I was willing to do anything for love. But I wasn’t ready to do that.
Give up greens, and dressing and sweet potato pie.
I wasn’t ready to give up Thanksgiving.
I grew up in a household that if a particular aunt or uncle didn’t make their signature dish for the Thanksgiving festivities, the rest of us spent the rest of the day trying to figure out who they were mad at. We didn’t cook food just to eat. We cooked food to show love. It takes a lot of effort to make a dish of potato salad large enough to feed all of the mouths that would come together. It takes a lot of patience to pick all of those greens from the stem. And whoever volunteered to clean and cook a pot of “chitlins” had the biggest heart of all.
Had the kindest soul.
That’s what soul food is about. My family didn’t have a whole lot to give, but what we had plenty of was love and we poured that love, our soul into the food.
But the problem with the phrase “soul food” is that it insinuates no other kind of food has that soul, that care.
I knew it was good, but I wasn’t sure if it was made with the kind of love I had seen my family put into their food. How could I? My sphere was not very large, my worldview limited.
But as I’ve grown and had the chance to travel and become a citizen of the world, I realize that there’s a whole lot of people who are not black putting their whole heart and soul into their cooking. And it is good and it is delicious and it is full with a lot of love.
Looking back, that Thanksgiving Day was one of the most pivotal moments in my life. I had worked so hard to get into college and earn a scholarship, and yet I really didn’t know anything about people outside of my own experiences. Sure, I took classes and learned about people who weren’t black. I had been roommates with and worked with people who weren’t black. I was even dating someone who wasn’t black. But it wasn’t until I left my comfort zone and broke bread in someone else’s that I realized I was book smart, street wise but a little worldly dumb. And when I began to meet black people who didn’t cook soul food and whites that did… well, let’s just say some of the best lessons in life are not taught in school.
The potato salad – while still naked in my eyes – was pretty good. So was the pumpkin pie.
I’m not going to pretend as if I didn’t miss a lot of the smells and tastes of the Thanksgivings I was accustomed to. But I will say that if it wasn’t for that day, I might not be the adventurous eater that I am now. More importantly, it would have taken me a lot longer to understand the difference between accepting our differences and celebrating them.
And for that, I am forever thankful.