I pulled my tall chair up to the kitchen sink and turned on a long podcast episode, knowing I’d be there for a while. Usually, I’d go for a show about politics or history, but with the weight of what was happening outside, I wanted lighter material. It had only been a few weeks since I’d first heard of the coronavirus. Already, this mysterious entity had shut down cities, flooded hospitals, shuttered restaurants, and taken lives. So, I selected a podcast about animals, to learn what goes on in meerkat families.

I never enjoyed cooking, but growing up, I couldn’t avoid it. I spent countless hours with my grandparents in their North Carolina kitchen. We made biscuits from scratch, they taught me which seasonings taste good with what, and fixed everything from fried fish to smothered pork chops. My granddaddy taught me how to make boiled apples, the best grits ever, and his specialty, salmon cakes. When it came to collard greens and cabbage, my granddaddy’s were always the best.

We had a big kitchen with floral curtains hung over the sink window. Next to the sink, we had a huge mason jar full of coins. We were supposed to dig out a quarter before church on Sundays to give in the offering plate. There were two stools in the kitchen, one for each of my grandparents. They bought them long before I was born, but their quality craftsmanship belied their age. With thick, sturdy wooden legs and black leather padded tops, I used to think those stools were so tall, just like my grandparents: strong, capable, safe.

Whenever my grandparents came into the house lugging a giant bucket, my siblings, cousins, and I immediately knew what time it was. Time to get out a low chair, put on some music or a good movie, and spend the next few hours shucking peas, snapping green beans, or cutting broccoli. Sometimes, the full bucket meant doing the job I dreaded most—cleaning greens.

As a kid, I had no choice but to help out in the kitchen and learn to cook. But as an adult, I decided that life wasn’t for me. Hours spent bent over a hot stove, fussing over ingredients while inevitably sweating out my fresh silk presses, never seemed to offer enough payoff. No, I was the “dress-for-dinner, meal-out-with-friends, painstakingly deliberate over the wine list” type of girl.

But after years of barely cooking, the COVID-19 pandemic hit. Suddenly, every restaurant was closed. Businesses scrambled to find ways to reopen. A trip to Trader Joe’s now meant waiting in a socially distanced line wrapped around the building, since only forty people could be in the store at once. Then, I was faced with an impending layoff once it became clear that the company I’d worked for wouldn’t be able to navigate the unexpected waters. I had just subscribed to a biweekly produce box that provided fresh fruit and vegetables from local Black farmers. Picking it up had become a highly anticipated outing.

When I returned home with my first produce box, I set it down in the kitchen and opened it to take inventory. I reminisced about lively evenings dining out. Without thinking, I realized I had pulled out the collards first. I figured I’d go ahead and make them. As meerkat dramas played softly in my ears, I begrudgingly cleaned my collard greens. I got lost in the rhythm: scrub the leaves from top to bottom, remove the thickest parts of the stems, cut them down, and double- and triple-check each inch for grit. As the rhythm returned, so did the memories.

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A few weeks before the pandemic, I landed in Banjul, Gambia, the third stop on a three-country tour. Just days before, I sipped countless dawa libations in Nairobi and chased thieboudienne in Dakar. The entire trip had been a time to reconnect with myself. Although I was traveling with someone, I found myself in an introspective state for much of the journey, exploring what I truly wanted next in life. The people we met on that trip were folks I connected with on a deeper level and still keep in touch with today.

My friend picked me up upon arrival in Banjul. Once I’d checked into my hotel, he ushered me to one of his favorite restaurants, where I had a dish of sumptuous greens. An immediate realization arose—they tasted like home. They tasted like Sunday dinner after church. I could almost see my family sitting around the table, with my grandparents at either end. In Banjul, the term for collard greens is relish. At a local restaurant, we were served a plate of greens alongside a soft mound of fufu. With each bite, I caught the subtle differences. The greens in Banjul were spicier because their kick came from what I later learned was a chilli pepper called Gambia pepper. The Southern greens of my childhood are smokier, their flavor deepened by long simmers with pork or turkey. Regardless of the distinctions, a powerful connection between West Africa and the American South existed in that bowl.

The flavors of that meal in Banjul stayed with me as I returned to my kitchen weeks later. With the world outside in turmoil, I instinctively reached for the greens in my produce box, seeking the same comfort I found in that bowl of relish. With nothing but time during the pandemic to slow down, eating greens became more than just sustenance. It became a way to reconnect with myself. As I prepared the greens, I couldn’t help but think of my ancestors and how they, too, found comfort and connection in soul-soothing recipes. The ritual of preparing greens became a way for me to honor that history and reconnect with my roots.

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When I think of greens, I immediately see one of my grandparents at the sink, settling into the greens-cleaning posture. One of them would season the pot with salty pork and spices, while the other meticulously washed and massaged the dirt from the greens, preparing them for submersion into a savory stock. Although one person can certainly prep and cook greens from start to finish, in our home, it was often a family affair. 

I thought of my great-grandparents who were forced to sharecrop, and how they, like me, found comfort and nourishment in stewed greens. My grandparents and their siblings often shared stories about their parents and grandparents, and what always came through was the love, often expressed through food and time spent around a meal, many times with a pot of greens at the center. Those greens helped fill their bellies when little else could, and brought a sense of dignity to the hardest days.

I thought of my ancestors held in bondage in the Americas. They found space to cook recipes for greens, modifying them to include the ingredients available to them. Some were able to grow greens in small plots and use them to provide additional nourishment for their families. I thought of the culinary prowess embedded in their minds, hearts, and hands, and how I have those recipes now because someone—many someones—lovingly passed them down. In the nearly 300 years that my family has been in North Carolina, greens have been a common thread, partly because they’ve always grown in abundance here. Greens were not just a staple in our kitchen; they are woven into the fabric of Black life in the United States, a symbol of resilience, sustenance, and love passed down through generations.

I remembered the stories I was taught—the deep-rooted history of our connection to collard greens as African Americans. They were present the night before people marched during the Civil Rights Movement, and in Black churches across the country as communities gathered to lament the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Greens were there throughout my entire childhood: at weddings, funerals, church, and family dinners. Collards were there on joyful occasions and sorrowful ones.

With these thoughts and emotions swirling in my mind, I looked into the sink where the water shimmered around the vibrant greens, suddenly sacred and alive. These weren’t just greens, they were a staple in moments of liberation, the essence of prosperity, the echoes of history, and the pulse of ancestral wisdom. The act of cleaning and stewing greens became my rite of passage, a ritual into adulthood woven with both learning and unlearning. 

In their stovetop simmer, the greens seemed to whisper stories long told, extolling the intricate bond between them and Blackness. I offered a silent thanks, not only for the message they carried, but for the centuries of Black lives they had and continue to nourish and bind together. In moments when I feel adrift, they anchor me, reconnecting me with my roots and my ancestors, gently guiding me back home. That evening, I ate the greens with a big piece of cornbread. I thought of what my grandmother would say at that moment: “Thank the Lord and bless the cook—I finished the job I undertook!”

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