The Language Of Food

In Harlem, food was never just food.

Mac and cheese meant people were coming over. Fried chicken meant somebody was celebrating something. Collard greens simmering on the stove meant patience, time, and family.

And somewhere in the background, music was always playing.

Maybe it was Maze and Frankie Beverly coming through the living room speakers. Maybe Anita Baker. Maybe old-school R&B mixed with somebody arguing over a card game at the kitchen table. Maybe the older crowd wanted soul music while the younger cousins kept trying to sneak rap onto the stereo.

But the music mattered just as much as the food did.

The food and the music worked together.

That was the atmosphere.

When I think about comfort food growing up, the first dishes that come to mind are mac and cheese, fried chicken, and collard greens.

Not because they were technically perfect.

Honestly, I cook better versions now because I’ve got training and technique. I understand flavor differently after years in professional kitchens and Michelin-recognized restaurants.

But technique isn’t what made those meals matter.

The people did.

The food changed depending on whose house we were at. In Far Rockaway, it might’ve been Grandma cooking. Sometimes Aunt Joeie. Sometimes Niecie. On rare occasions, if she wasn’t working, Aunt Cilla.

Truthfully, I would give up every one of those dishes right now just to sit in those kitchens again with the people who made them for me.

Nobody called it hospitality back then.

It was just what you did.

You fed people.

The kitchens were loud. Grease popping. Pots moving. Steam covering the windows. Adults talking over each other while kids ran through the apartment trying to sneak food before everything was done.

The gatherings carried noise — good and bad.

Laughter. Stress. Celebration. Family drama. Love.

And right in the center of all of it was food.

That’s why I think food shows up for every major moment in our lives.

Celebrations.

Mourning.

Birthdays.

Funerals.

Cookouts.

Baby showers.

Holidays.

Welcome homes.

Goodbyes.

Food becomes part of the emotional language.

Not just because people are emotional — but because people are hungry.

And groups of hungry people usually aren’t much fun.

But it’s deeper than that too.

In our culture, food creates participation. Somebody cooks. Somebody cleans. Somebody buys drinks. Somebody brings dessert. Somebody serves plates. Everybody contributes something.

Then everybody eats together.

That’s community.

Honestly, sometimes the thought of a good meal is enough to bring around family members you haven’t seen in months. The same cousin who never answers the phone suddenly shows up once they hear there’s baked mac and cheese and fried chicken in the kitchen.

The food becomes more than food at that point.

It becomes the invitation.

That’s especially true in Harlem culture and Black culture in general because so much of our history was built around making something meaningful out of limited resources. Dishes like collard greens, fried chicken, and baked macaroni carried through migration, family traditions, church gatherings, and neighborhood celebrations because they fed both the body and the spirit.

Even the cooking techniques carried meaning.

Frying chicken in cast iron wasn’t just about flavor. It was about feeding a lot of people well. Greens simmering low and slow wasn’t just technique — it was patience, labor, and time being poured into a pot.

That’s why comfort food can never fully be separated from memory.

People think they miss the dish.

Most of the time, they miss the feeling around the dish.

The music.

The noise.

The folding chairs.

The laughter from another room.

The smell hitting the hallway before you even reached the apartment door.

That’s what comfort really tastes like.

At Harlem & Thyme, that’s something I carry into every event I create.

Not just flavor.

Connection.

Because I don’t believe food is supposed to only impress people.

I think food is supposed to pull people closer together.

A great meal should make people stay at the table longer. Talk louder. Laugh harder. Call family members they haven’t spoken to in a while. Feel present.

That’s what the best gatherings always did for me.

The food fed people.

But the experience fed community.

## Tonight’s Playlist

- Before I Let Go — Maze & Frankie Beverly

- Sweet Love — Anita Baker

- Fortunate — Maxwell

- Ms. Jackson — Outkast

- Can I Live — Jay-Z