The food we call soul food is slave food. We were forced to eat

Host: The evening settled over Harlem like a deep, humming song — part sorrow, part survival. Smoke drifted up from the corner barbecue joint, weaving through the neon light and street chatter, carrying the scent of collard greens, fried catfish, and memory. A slow saxophone played somewhere nearby, spilling its notes into the warm air like something trying to remember where it came from.

Inside “Mama Rue’s Kitchen,” the light was dim, golden, almost sacred. On the wall hung portraits of jazz legends, abolitionists, and grandmothers whose hands had shaped the story of a people through fire and flavor. Above the counter, written in looping white paint, was a quote that made the whole room still for a moment:

“The food we call soul food is slave food. We were forced to eat it.”
— Eric Adams

Jeeny read it aloud softly, her voice echoing over the clatter of dishes and the hiss of a nearby skillet.

Jack looked up from his plate — fried okra, yams, black-eyed peas — the food heavy and fragrant with history. He stared at the words for a long moment before speaking.

Jack: “That’s... brutal. True, maybe, but brutal.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually is. It doesn’t ask for seasoning.”

Host: Her words came quiet, but they hung in the air like incense — slow, rising, unignorable. Jack leaned back, the light catching his grey eyes, a flicker of reflection in their steel.

Jack: “You know, I grew up thinking this was comfort food. Something to be proud of. You smell a kitchen like this, and it feels like home.”

Jeeny: “It is home. But that doesn’t mean it started that way.”

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do — stop eating it? Pretend it’s not ours?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’re supposed to remember. That’s the difference between glorifying and honoring.”

Host: Outside, the rain began — light at first, then steady. The neon reflection of the restaurant sign shimmered in the puddles like an echo of the past refusing to fade.

Jeeny picked up a piece of cornbread, turning it gently in her hands, as if handling something fragile.

Jeeny: “When they say ‘soul food,’ they’re talking about the transformation of pain into flavor. Those dishes came from desperation — the scraps, the leftovers, the parts no one wanted. But they turned them into sustenance. Into culture. Into survival.”

Jack: “Yeah, but survival shouldn’t be romanticized. That’s what Adams is saying. We were forced to eat it — forced to make beauty out of punishment.”

Jeeny: “And yet we did. Isn’t that the miracle? That something born in chains became a celebration?”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the tragedy — that we still celebrate it without remembering the chains.”

Host: The rain hit harder now, tapping against the windows like a heartbeat. The restaurant was nearly empty except for an old man at the counter humming a gospel tune under his breath. His voice was worn but steady — like history refusing to go quiet.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why food holds memory better than people do? Why one bite can take you back generations?”

Jack: “Because taste doesn’t lie. It carries the truth on its tongue. You can rewrite history, but you can’t rewrite flavor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every spice, every fatback, every sweet potato — it’s a story of resilience. The tragedy isn’t the food. It’s forgetting where it came from.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, not from tears but from conviction — the kind that comes from carrying the weight of history in your bloodstream.

Jack: “So what, we keep cooking it but talk about what it means?”

Jeeny: “We keep cooking it because of what it means. It’s proof we made something out of nothing. But we say their names while we stir the pot. We remember the hands that picked the crops before they fed the children.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his fork. He looked at the plate again — the collard greens, soft and glistening, the texture rough but tender, like a grandmother’s voice.

Jack: “You ever think about how the word ‘soul’ was added later? Like a disguise. ‘Slave food’ was too raw, too real. So we softened it. We dressed it up to make it palatable — even to ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it was reclamation. ‘Soul food’ is what happens when you give yourself back the power to define. When you say, You used it to break me, but I used it to live.”

Jack: “You talk like pain is seasoning.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. It’s what gives life its taste.”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly, as thunder grumbled low and far away. Jeeny sipped her sweet tea. Jack stared out the window, where the world blurred in motion — a mix of rain, light, and reflection.

Jack: “You know, my grandmother used to fry everything. Said it made the hard parts go down easier. I never realized it wasn’t just cooking. It was her way of fighting despair — one meal at a time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They were alchemists. They turned oppression into nourishment. That’s what this is — edible memory.”

Jack: “But doesn’t it hurt to know that what comforts us came from someone’s suffering?”

Jeeny: “It should. That’s how you honor it. By not looking away.”

Host: Silence filled the small room. Even the kitchen seemed to pause, the oil in the pan settling for a heartbeat. Then, the old man at the counter began to hum again — low, slow, a tune that might have been a hymn or a blues song or both.

Jack: “You ever think maybe this quote isn’t just about food?”

Jeeny: “It’s never just about food.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe it’s about how we inherit trauma without realizing it. How we turn survival into celebration, because that’s the only way it doesn’t destroy us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But survival deserves to be celebrated. Not because it’s pretty, but because it’s proof.”

Host: Jeeny stood and walked toward the wall where the quote was painted. She traced her fingers along the words, her touch slow, reverent.

Jeeny: “We were forced to eat it,” she whispered. “But now, we choose to. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “You think that choice redeems it?”

Jeeny: “No. But it transforms it. Redemption isn’t forgetting what happened. It’s cooking it differently.”

Host: Jack rose from his chair, joined her by the wall. The smell of the kitchen — smoke, spice, oil, time — wrapped around them. For a long moment, they stood there, two modern souls facing the weight of inherited memory.

Jack: “You always manage to find beauty in pain.”

Jeeny: “And you always remind me not to let the beauty erase the pain.”

Host: They smiled — softly, knowingly — the way two halves of a truth smile when they finally meet.

Outside, the rain began to ease. The city exhaled. Somewhere down the block, a young boy laughed as he ran through a puddle, the sound echoing against brick and sky.

Jack and Jeeny stepped out of the restaurant, the door closing gently behind them.

Jack: “You hungry for dessert?”

Jeeny: “Only if it comes with history.”

Jack: “Then I guess everything does.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the glow of “Mama Rue’s” flickering against the wet pavement — a beacon of survival, a cathedral of flavor and truth.

Because food, like faith and memory, carries more than taste — it carries testimony.

And under that Harlem sky, still heavy with rain and redemption, one truth lingered like the smell of frying onions in the night air:

What began in chains became a language of freedom.
We were forced to eat it — but we turned it into soul.