We have lost a tradition in my family. We still eat dinners on Sundays, but, these days, all we are nourishing is our bodies. We used to nourish our souls, as well, as the whole family came together to share soul food.
My zealous grandmother was the central organizer. She told us that she was continuing a tradition started more than a hundred years before, when our ancestors shared a meal every Sunday that strengthened the bonds within the families they had and embraced others who had lost their families to the cruelty of slavery. Once a week, these people found fellowship and meaning in the company of others who understood their troubles and cared about their well being.
My grandmother, my mother, and my four aunts were strict about everyone in my family keeping the tradition. They allowed few excuses for missing Sundays. They made absent members the subject of dinner table discussions, debating whether an uncle was really too sick or a cousin really too busy to join the family for this important gathering.
Each member had very important responsibilities in making the Sunday dinner a success. The youngest girls prepared the corn. Aunt Joyce made her wonderful spicy sweet peach cobbler. Each cook had her own specialty, some critical ingredient or talent for preparation that made her dish unique. As time went on, some of them passed down their recipes or taught others their particular secrets.
During preparation, the women talked about their week and gave one another advice. The cousins listened to the adults talk and waited impatiently to lick the mixing bowls. The hum of conversation and activity was a comforting reminder that we were all part of a family.
The men stayed out of the kitchen, but they were important to the whole day, as well. While the women cooked, the men kept up an encouraging rumble from the living room, enthusiastically cheering on their favorite teams on television and energetic...