When I got the call that my friend’s little brother had passed—unexpected, gut-wrenching, no time to prepare—I didn’t know what to say. My words felt too small, too hollow to hold the weight of her pain. And yet, as I sat there, thinking about how I could show up for her, how I could hold her in some way even if I couldn’t fix it—I found myself drifting back.
Back to my grandmother’s kitchen.
She never needed a reason to cook, but when life did hand us a reason—whether it was joy or devastation—she showed up with food. That was her altar. That was her offering. Whether someone was having a baby, or laying a loved one to rest, she would move like spirit had whispered to her what to do. Pots would rattle, cornbread would rise, and greens would simmer so long you could taste the wisdom in each leaf.
We didn’t just cook. We gathered. Shoulder to shoulder, hips bumping as we reached for seasoning. Everybody with their own task. Chopping, stirring, tasting, laughing through tears. Sometimes no words were spoken, just the rhythm of grief or joy braided into the smell of candied yams or smothered chicken.
We didn’t just feed people—we nourished them. And in doing so, we healed ourselves.
Soul food ain’t just about what's on the plate. It’s about who stirred the pot, what intention was whispered while it simmered, and the ancestral hands guiding us as we recreate the meals they once made in kitchens filled with both struggle and strength.
People try to reduce soul food to fried chicken and collard greens, like it’s just comfort food. But what they don’t understand is—it’s ritual. It’s medicine. It’s a love letter written in gravy and steam, passed down through generations.
So today, as I think about how to show up for my friend in her deepest heartbreak, I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to gather the women. We gon’ tie our scarves, roll up our sleeves, and get to work. Not because food makes pain go away, but because it reminds you that you’re not alone in it. Because grief doesn’t like silence—it likes company.
And when we show up with warm plates and full hearts, what we’re really saying is:
We see you. We honor your pain. And we’re holding you up the way our grandmothers held us.
Because soul food heals. Not just the body—but the parts of the soul that words can’t reach.