Today, instead of a Self-care Sunday ritual, I want to give you some context about Recipes for Remembering. When I think about R4R, I keep coming back to three words: recipes, rituals, and memories. Each one is a thread in the fabric of my work.
šļøRecipes are the most familiar ā the dishes, drinks, and flavors that nourish us. Sometimes theyāre written down. Sometimes they live in the muscle memory of a hand that measures by ājust enough.ā
š½ļøSoul food is traditionally associated with the Black American South ā a cuisine born from creativity, resilience, and deep cultural roots. In Recipes for Remembering, that definition is expanded to include any food that feeds your spirit, comforts you, and calls you home.
Recipes for Remembering is not a food blog, and I am not here as a food content creator. What Iām offering is about memoryāhow flavors and rituals carry us forward. Itās an invitation to recall the traditions that still live in us, to honor the ones weāve remixed along the way, and to notice those that may have slipped from our minds, tables and cookbooks. Food is simply the tool.
šÆļøRituals can be formal or familiar. A prayer you whisper before your feet hit the floor. A bowl of black eyed peas and collard greens on New Yearās Day. How your mother's dresser is arranged. Itās the way we do a thing ā often at a certain time, in a certain way ā because it keeps us rooted.
šMemories are the heart of it all. The stories we tell over a pot of something simmering, a heated game of Uno, or at the repast. The smells that pull us back to a grandmotherās kitchen. The songs that turn cooking into a dance. Memories hold the people, places, and moments that shape who we are ā even when the recipe changes.
And for those new here, Iāll say it plain: I am a first-generation American of Caribbean Afro-Latina descent. My mother came from Panama, with roots in Jamaica and Barbados. My father was Black American, born in Washington, DC and shaped by the streets of Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights, Brooklyn. No, I donāt speak Spanish and no, I donāt have an accent ā unless you count my New York one.
I contain multitudes. I am a child of the Diaspora. I am Black with a capital B š¤.
In my kitchen and in these pages, those threads come together ā seasoned with history, love, and the belief that what we eat, how we gather, and what we remember tells the story of who we are.
- š¤ kimojo