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The traditional foods of the African American South, the pig and the corn that allowed so many to survive enslavement and its aftermath in this country—continue to be celebrated in restaurants with white tablecloths and pitted Formica. They appear in classic soul food establishments and provide the ongoing themes upon which multiple improvisations are wrought by chefs, black and white. In private homes they’re served as grandma’s recipes at Sunday suppers and family reunions. The tastes of the African motherland and its diaspora have also come full circle with Ghanaian groundnut stew and Caribbean peas and rice becoming new culinary classics. African American food has grown to encompass a world of possibility and of taste. The United States’ increasing cultural diversity, along with the omnivorous curiosity of all Americans, means that we’re all tasting and sampling one another’s foods daily. A menu is as likely to include Brazilian-style collard greens served alongside Southern fried chicken with a salad of garden fresh heirloom tomatoes dressed with soy and sesame, a side of Cuban yuca con mojo, and a classic Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert.

Finally, we seem to be nearing the goal. Sure there’s room for improvement. Certainly there should be a greater television presence of African Americans that showcases our gastronomic diversity. Restaurant ownership remains a problem, especially during these harsh economic times. Certainly the scope of the black culinary repertoire should not be limited but rather should be acknowledged. Catering should be valued and recognized as a historic path to success, especially for women, and let’s finally get beyond the “soul food” label. We’ve journeyed far, and the rest is attainable in the bountiful world of American food. It is a simple request to be acknowledged for the integral part that we have played in the formation of the American culinary ethos, to sit down at the table of success with the members of the food community, and to begin to truly eat and live high on the hog. I, for one, am looking forward to it. My mouth is watering and I can hardly wait.

CODA: A FINAL DEFINITION

African Americans have a long love affair with food, one perhaps unequaled in the history of the country. For centuries we’ve brought the piquant tastes of Africa to the New World. With particular relish we eat (nyam) “grease” and “grit,” whether it’s a bologna sandwich and a peanut pattie tucked into the bib of overalls for a workman’s snack or a late-night supper of chitlins and champagne eaten off fine bone china. Some of us delight in a sip of white lightning from a mason jar in a juke joint, while others delicately lift little fingers and savor minted ice tea or a cool drink while fanning and watching the neighbors on the front porch. Good times or bad, food provides a time for communion and relaxation.

It’s so much a part of our lives that it seems at times as though a Supreme Being created us from a favorite recipe. There was a heaping cupful of cornmeal to signal our links with the Native Americans, a rounded tablespoon of biscuit dough for Southern gentility, a mess of greens and a dozen okra pods for our African roots, and a good measure of molasses to recall the tribulations of slavery. A seasoning piece of fatback signals our lasting love for the almighty pig, and a smoked turkey wing foretells our healthier future. A handful of hot chilies gives the mixture attitude and sass, while a hearty dose of bourbon mellows it out and a splash of corn liquor gives it kick. There are regional additions such as a bit of benne from South Carolina, a hint of praline from New Orleans, and a drop of at least twelve types of barbecue sauce. A fried porgy, a splash of homemade scuppernong wine, and a heaping portion of the secret ingredient called love fill the bowl to overflowing. When well mixed, it can be either baked, broiled, roasted, fried, sautéed, or barbecued. The result has yielded us in all hues of the rainbow from lightly toasted to deep well done.

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