I did not grow up in the kitchen. Oh no, ma’am. And when I did go in the kitchen, it was to be nosy, to listen to the grown folks talk. I didn’t watch Kool-Aid being made, and I was perfectly fine with that. But it wasn’t the tablespoons of salt that made a recipe. It was the sprinkle of affection, the dash of joy, the teaspoon of affirmation my mother never wrote down that made every recipe just right.
I Didn’t Learn Measurements. I Learned Moments.
The smell of coffee and conversations in the morning with my mom and dad filled the house with savory flavor. Wondering what would be on the agenda for the day. Music blasting through the speaker, some Sade, some Anita Baker, made the roux of the day feel rich in color. You just knew this was what the doctor called for.
Standing in the doorway.
I would stand in the kitchen and watch my mom and dad sing and dance with each other like life was simple. And I knew we were rich. So rich. The flavors just worked together. A pinch of two-step combined with conversation.
Realizing years later that those conversations were part of the recipe.
At 40, days away from 41, I realize these were the ingredients I didn’t know I needed. It filled you up in ways that gave you the “itis.” Even now, I am still full. Full of the rich roux of community that taught me I had everything I needed and more. Even the car ride conversations, those were seasoning too. Just enough to leave a lasting impression for decades.
I never missed the perfect mac and cheese recipe because I was getting all the wisdom that went into the mac and cheese.
The Ingredients That Never Made the Recipe Card
A Sprinkle of Affection
Every morning before leaving our house, my mom made a point to tell me she loved me. For ten years I heard “I love you.” Even on the last day when I was mad because I got in trouble the night before, she still said it. That was tough love at its finest. At the time I didn’t understand it, but I would hold on to that sprinkle of affection for the rest of my life.
Damn, tears rolled down my face when I think about it. That’s a love you can never get a recipe for. The kind of love where you always know you have somebody. Somebody who would stand in front of a car for you. That was a “heap” of love, somewhere between a dash and a sprinkle.
You can’t. There is no measuring cup for love. Love is wider than the sky and longer than the ocean. I remember hearing in church about agape love, unconditional love. That’s it. You can’t pour it into a pan or a cup, but you can flavor everything with it.
That’s where soul food comes from. Not confined just to a culture, but from love, joy, peace, and soul poured into every dish. And soul food is not confined to one race. It can be Indian food, Korean food, Thai food. It’s defined by intention, by spirit, by love.
A Dash of Joy
The holidays and family gatherings always brought tears, not from sadness, but from joy. I would laugh until I cried. Watching my uncles tell stories that made no sense but were hilarious. Watching my cousins turn every game into a competition nobody asked for.
That dash of joy is the black sticky goodness at the bottom of the pan. It makes everything better. Like Emeril said, “bam.” 💥 Joy was always in the recipe.
Joy is fresh cracked pepper straight from the mill. You don’t realize you needed it until it’s there.
A Teaspoon of Affirmation
"Pretty Girl,” I would hear my cousin saying this to his daughter every time he talks to her. That teaspoon of affirmation stays with me.
Standing in the mirror, “I’m fucking proud of you” looking back at me, that matters. Affirmation is the butter that melts everything together. It starts the flavor in the pot. It’s the black sticky shit at the bottom of the pot. It’s not optional. It’s necessary. Without it, the dish burns. The balance is off. The dish doesn’t get the attention that it needs. It’s like the famous quote from Friday. “Y'all never got two things that match.” You can’t have joy without affirmation. Words become nourishment. And when you don’t have it, something inside you stays under-seasoned.
A Pinch of Faith
Faith is the ingredient you can’t see but need for everything. Is it salt? Yes, ma’am. I remember Vacation Bible School as a child and how faith was described: you cannot see it, but you know it’s there. Just like salt, you notice when it’s missing.
A pinch of faith goes a long way. My faith is in everything I do. My mother instilled it in me from Sunday service to giving the gift of Jesus Christ. Faith is not a separate course. It is not optional. It is folded into everything.
A Spoonful of Hospitality
A few nights ago, I binge-watched The Bear, and this line stopped me:
“Taking care of people is like working at a hospital. Restaurants and hospitals use the same word: hospitality.” Both come from hospes, meaning host and guest. And honey, hospitality is a must in my recipe. Being Southern means hospitality is never optional. It’s sweet tea, it belongs at every table, every time.
Years ago, I worked for Marriott and learned L.E.A.R.N.; Listen, Empathize, Apologize, React, Notify. That stayed with me. It shaped how I show up in the world.
One more glass of tea.
Being a Southern girl is the epitome of hospitality. Frankie Beverly said it best, the Southern girl always knows how to make you feel at home. So yes… one more glass. One more squeeze of lemon. One more seat at the table.
A Handful of Resilience
Life will do what it does best; life. The question is what you do with it. Do you break, or do you gather yourself and stand again?
Resilience is the seasoning you don’t see, but it’s always there.
I used to avoid deviled eggs. Funny enough, it was always the smoked paprika I was missing. Now I understand that’s the ingredient that changes everything. Resilience doesn’t come easy. It is learned through loss, through failure, through getting back up anyway. It becomes who you are. And for many of us, especially Black folks, it is embedded. We learn how to survive and still show up for each other.
Even when the bills are due and your feet are hurting from working all week, you still host the family. You still make it happen. That’s resilience.
The Recipe Was Never Written
My mother never wrote anything down. Neither did my grandmother, at least not fully. And maybe that was intentional. Because the recipe was never meant to live on paper. It was meant to live in us. It lives in the stories we tell. In the phone calls we make. In the “remember when” conversations that turn conflict into connection again.
Legacy isn’t just what you leave behind. It’s what you keep alive through conversation.
The Recipes I’m Writing Now
So here I stand, pen to paper not just writing recipes but writing stories. Writing women. Writing memory.
The women who never wrote down the handful of resilience or the spoonful of joy but always said, “just add a cup of love.”
Because everything was made with love even when it was hard. We always made space for love. And maybe that’s the real recipe. The one I’m finally writing down.
My mother never handed me a recipe box filled with index cards. Instead, she gave me something harder to lose. She taught me that recipes aren’t only made with butter, flour, and sugar. Sometimes they’re made with patience. Sometimes with laughter. Sometimes with the way you make room for one more person at the table. Today, when I gather people, pour tea, or cook a meal, I realize I’m still following recipes my mother never wrote down.