Meditations on Food: Seasoning Until Our Ancestors Can Taste It

Food is much more than fuel—it's a story, a memory, and a bridge between generations. Growing up in the South, between lower and middle class, I was surrounded by food that spoke volumes beyond the ingredients it was made from. I remember my grandmothers, both of whom lived through the Great Depression, cooking dishes that were deeply spiced and full of flavor. It wasn't fancy, but it was honest and delicious. It was food that turned simple ingredients into something extraordinary. I didn't realize at the time, but I was tasting the result of generations of resilience, ingenuity, and tradition.

When I later worked at an HBCU, I got an even closer look at how powerful food can be in connecting people to their heritage. In the office, whenever the women would start cooking, there was a phrase they often said: "Season it 'til your ancestors can taste it." It was a powerful reminder that food is never just about what's on the plate. It's about who we are, where we came from, and how we honor those who came before us.

That phrase, "Season it 'til your ancestors can taste it," carries such deep meaning. It's a nod to the generations before us who made something from nothing. For those who faced scarcity, seasoning was a way of transforming humble ingredients into something warm, comforting, and satisfying. It wasn't just about masking a lack of freshness or quality—it was about creating joy and connection in the face of hardship.

The idea of seasoning until your ancestors can taste it is more than a cooking tip. It's an act of honoring the ingenuity, culture, and resilience of those who came before us. It takes a simple dish—greens, beans, cornbread—and turns it into a link between the past and the present. It's an act of creativity that spans generations. When we cook this way, we aren't just making a meal; we are, in a way, inviting our ancestors to the table.

Many people today view the rich seasoning of Southern food as part of a divide between white and African American cultures. But for me, the divide is better understood as one between the historically poor and the historically rich. The soul food I tasted in rural communities in the South wasn't so different from the food I had at home. It didn't matter if it was cooked in a Black family's kitchen or a white family's kitchen—it was food built from necessity, spiced to bring out every bit of flavor, cooked with love and care.

Working in the HBCU office, that phrase—season it 'til your ancestors can taste it—made me think about my own grandmothers and the way they seasoned their food. It made me realize that the differences between "Southern cooking" and "soul food" are much smaller than they seem. These foods were born out of similar circumstances: limited resources, a desire for nourishment, and a need to bring comfort to the table. This kind of cooking—deeply flavored, resourceful, and comforting—connects people across racial lines, across time, and across space.

To me, this is the beauty of food. It's a way to hold on to the past while sharing something of ourselves in the present. It's an act of love, an act of resilience, an act of remembrance. When we season our food until our ancestors can taste it, we aren't just making dinner—we're honoring all those who made it possible for us to be here. We're honoring the creativity that made something wonderful out of scarcity. We're keeping those stories alive, one meal at a time.

So, next time you're cooking, consider adding a little extra spice. Season it until your ancestors can taste it—until they can taste the love, the memory, and the history in every bite. Because food is never just food—it's a way of staying connected to all those who came before us, and a way of passing those connections forward.