Cooking (Non)Traditions

I was taught the 5 senses in the kitchen. Before I knew the difference between teaspoons or or tablespoons and how different cumin tasted to curry, I knew the sounds of sizzling, of tapping wood spoon on metal pot, of watching liquid reduce to sauces, of feel and tap for tenderness, to taste this and sip on that - to ask, what does it need? More salt? More pepper? Did we forget to add something? Of allowing my eyes to be my measurement, a pinch and 1/2 teaspoon by sight, a whisper in my left ear when it's "enough". I've smelt the caramelizing of sweet onions and the acidic fragrance of garlic wafting and coating the pan, the hearty aroma of the bay leaf as it releases the "umph" in the stock or stew.

It's in this way that I've received a sort of inheritance, although not in the way that I would've wanted. In my imagination, there's a cookbook, informal, more of a set of recipe cards or sheets of notebook paper with scribbles on them, loose leaf in a binder, covered in stains of spilled gravy or vanilla extract, handwriting from a grandparent or aunt, or that one cousin who had that restaurant and catering business and it would be these recipes that I would look to and emulate or treasure and find a way to share them and pass them down. In my imagination, I've stood with all the women in my family, shucking peas or stripping greens, and swapping long held secrets, both of the food and of life - getting an education that no money could buy. I feel like somehow this could've been my life, feel like it's baked into my DNA, even though it was more of a fantasy... like creative non-fiction. In my imagination, I went South every summer to play in my grandmother's vegetable garden and learn my family's personal great migration story, and the one dish that is cooked during every gathering and holiday that reminded them of home. And I would be the keeper of these recipes and traditions, not just because the food was delicious, but because I would know that this is what my people ate, this is what kept them alive, hopeful, showed love and care, gave them an outlet for their tenderness and emotions, gave them joyous memory in the midst of sorrow, rooted them, showed them to never forget who they really are.

So, it's no wonder that during one Christmas break, back in that weird transition into adulthood and wanting to make my own traditions, that I asked my mother if we could make black-eyed peas with greens and cornbread. I had read about this dish, that it was a sign of blessing and is often paired with greens a symbol of good luck and fortune, and that black-eye peas are tied to African cultural traditions, even though it's complicated. I was like, who doesn't want (or need) more blessing and prosperity? Sign me up!

Now, before this moment we had made different components of this dish, but never altogether as one cohesive unit. I'd learned from my mother how to wash and cut collards for Thanksgiving and Christmas. And my mom had her own famous (at least to me) pot of beans - made with navy, Great Northern, kidney, or pinto beans - simmered on the back of the stove with ham hocks or smoked turkey necks and served with Jiffy cornbread. So when I asked for this new experience, the creating perhaps of a new tradition, she, ever the encourager, quickly agreed and I eagerly went to the grocery store and picked up the ingredients.

To make something like black-eyed peas and greens requires two precious commodities - time and patience. It takes time to properly clean greens, to sift through black-eyed peas, discarding rocks and debris, cleaning and allowing beans the necessary time to soak, giving the ham hock time to sit and release it's flavor before including everything else. It's a rhythm of patience that is often in short supply for me, but making this dish reminds me that the originators of it managed to do it with a whole lot less of time, safety, energy, autonomy. I'm reminded to be humble, that waiting is a luxury.

My mother rarely made straight collard greens, preferring to mix in mustard, turnip, kale or whatever might be on sale (#bars). But even then there was a method - you can do all three or a mix of collard and mustard or collard and kale, be careful with collard and turnip because it can be too bitter. Look for greens that are bright in color, stiff not wilted, no brown edges, spots, or yellowing. Do NOT use spinach. And always get at least 1 more bunch than you think you'll need - greens always cook down (to nothin...lol). The meat you can buy, but it's better if it's from something you already have on hand - the leftover turkey from Thanksgiving, the hambone from Christmas. For the peas, nothing too particular, no specific variety or label - they were going to soften all the same.

What I first remember about making the dish was my mother's hands. Her slender fingers as she grasped the greens, tugging them firmly from the stems. She didn't like the stems at all really, but I always managed to sneak a little in there - for bite. I remember she would always start off with a knife, to cut through and remove the leaves, but quickly abandon it in favor of ripping it herself. Her fingers and wrists moved in tension, gather, sweep, grab, toss into the awaiting bowl, her breathing steady, every now and again a hum escaping her lips. She wasn't sitting on the couch in her two bedroom apartment in the city. She was back in the kitchen of her youth, muscle and emotional memory coalescing at the same time. I often wondered what sounds she heard back then, what direction was given by my grandmother, if she even wanted to be there or did her mind wander then, to playing outside or all the homework she had to do. She'd notice me staring at her, "these ain't gonna clean themselves...." and I'd turn to my own bowl of greens to prep.

You want to start the water boiling and get the meat on before working on the greens - as the meat needs at least an hour to simmer, until it's fork tender and falling off the bone - or in some cases, the bone disappearing into the broth.

Once ready, you can either add in the peas and allow them to cook for a time (anywhere from 20mins-1hr) and then add in the greens or you can add them both at the same time and allow them to cook down together. And, if you're feeling extra fancy and maybe want to add more flavor, before you boil the meat, fry some bacon and in that grease add onion, bell pepper, celery, garlic and maybe some thyme or oregano. Once everything is in the pot, allow it to simmer and soften. And if you want a kick - throw in some smoked paprika and/or cayenne pepper.

When the beans are about 20-30 mins away from completion, that's a good time to make the cornbread, that way it can still be warm when the beans are finished. However you make it is good - everyone has their way and their favorite, do you. Once the beans are done, taste for salt and heat level. When you smell the melding of ham or turkey with the earthiness of the peas and greens and the hint of sweetness from the baking of the cornbread... that's a heavenly moment. :cue angels singing:

I would love to say that my mother and I made this dish every year from that point onward, but we didn't. I'd love to say that what we used was some generational recipe that's been passed down through the hands of my ancestors to me - it wasn't. But what it was was a connection, a tradition, a memory that I have of my mom and an experience that spans centuries and continents and somehow that brings me peace. I recently made this again in October, around the cold start of the fall season. I wanted something warm and nostalgic, something that acknowledged the transition. The summer was busy and I needed a reminder to slow down, to have patience, to extend grace. I'm glad I didn't wait until New Year's to cook it, even though that's tradition. It symbolizes prosperity, blessings, new beginnings -and whenever I feel I need a shift, a moment of clarity, I know what to do. I get to soaking the beans, to washing and separating the leaves, to setting up the big pot with ham hocks and water (or stock). I start in the morning, knowing this is a several hour affair. I make myself some tea and get to making the thing - so I can bring my soul and body back into present and alignment. I thank those who came before me, I thank my Mom, I allow my senses to take over, I allow myself to rest.