A Menu for Change
I had big travel plans for 2020. From a family vacation on the beach in Florida to the long-anticipated and sure-to-be-fabulous wedding of a dear friend and his adorable fiancée in New York and several other trips, I was ready.
And then Covid-19 happened, and we weren’t going anywhere.
As the dates got closer, we canceled trip after trip. We managed remote learning and had take-out date nights at home. My kids chatted online with teachers and friends. We followed the rules, and I’m so grateful for those who kept us safe. I understand that my disappointment pales in comparison to the losses and horror of the global pandemic, there’s no question.
I do have a Plan B: This summer – and possibly beyond – our explorations will start in the kitchen.
Instead of heading to Florida where I grew up, I will roll dolmades and bake spanakopita. I will text my friend Deb for the umpteenth time for her Avgolemono soup recipe. I'll make a tray of sticky-sweet baklava. We will talk about how immigrants came from the Greek Islands all the way to Tarpon Springs and brought their culture and the sponge diving industry, making the area unique and special. And better.
Instead of going to New York, my boys and I will make black and white cookies. We will read our favorite book about New York, a gift from the groom-to-be, and debate the merits of New York vs Chicago-style pizza (spoiler alert: I’m biased). We’ll look at pictures of the Statue of Liberty and investigate what she stands for: A symbol of welcome and the promise of peace and prosperity inherent in the American dream.
In Chicago spring comes late, but with a vengeance. And just as we were considering the end of our hibernation, encouraged by the timely lifting of Covid-19 imposed stay-at-home orders, the country was on the brink of yet another sea change. The murders of Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor and George Floyd shocked us, and Chicago and New York and Minneapolis were on fire, literally and figuratively. Like many white people, I asked myself questions that felt uncomfortable, scary, unexplored. I felt ignorant and sheltered. I faced my privilege and vowed to do better. As I usually do, I turned to cooking as a way of understanding the world and other voices. I noticed that even though my cookbook shelf was full, it was dominated by white authors and western-European cuisine. As someone who embraces new food, new experiences, I was embarrassed by the glaring omissions of the culinary foundations of American cooking on the shelf. Time for more change.
I made room for a few more cookbooks. My latest additions are: The Taste of Country Cooking by Edna Lewis and Benjamina Ebuehi’s The New Way to Cake. And coming soon, Toni Tipton-Martin’s contemporary classic, Jubilee: Recipes from Two Centuries of African American Cooking. These are just the tip of the iceberg, I know, but it’s a start. I can’t wait to explore and learn and share these flavors with my family.
I will make dishes I know and love like collard greens and grits, and try new recipes like Dr. Pepper cake. When my heirloom tomatoes come in, I’ll fry some green ones and talk about foods of the deep south. We will have gumbo and beignets and talk about how the civil rights movement leaders found nourishment and brotherhood in restaurants curated by black women, from New York to New Orleans. We will discuss how lunch counters in Atlanta were the cradle of the movement, and work to understand what it means to be white and black and brown in America, then and now and in the future. History lessons told through food; conversations to move us forward.
Many of those conversations will probably happen at the dinner table.
I grew up learning important lessons over meals with my family. Dinner time was when we came together to talk about our lives and the world. Even though my kids are young, we will tell them the truth about America. Their school is dedicated to having open and frank conversations about equity and race. They read books with their teachers and classmates about being an upstander, not a bystander. They are genuinely loving and kind, and we are proud of their honesty and sincerity. They make us want to do better, to keep improving, to keep talking. I believe this generation will do more than we did, and that gives me hope.
Food is political, a universal language. The people who cook it and what they cook are the history of the world, a map of how cultures meet and blend to become something new and different. Understanding and respecting traditions and flavors and giving credit to those who led the way helps us appreciate our roots and the cultural gumbo that makes us human.
Even though we plan to stay home this summer, I hope we will journey a long way, together.
Please support your local bookstore! Here are a few of my favorites:
This essay originally appeared in Fete Lifestyle Magazine, June 2020