I'd promised the girls all break long that I would take them roller skating at the rink. Truth is, I love that place and it's not a big deal to go unless I am tired and frankly, a holiday break where I am alone with these two cherubs for the entire time is pretty damn tiring, no matter how cute and sweet they are, so heck yeah, I was tired. Most graciously, my good friend agreed to go with her brood and we wrangled our teams to make it to a 1 o'clock session. I'd left a pot of black eyed peas to soak in cold water on the stove and cut the collard greens the way I like them (in strips and with the large vein at the middle of the leaf removed, too tough for me). I'd prepped just enough for me as no one in the house is going to go to town on them other than me, got everyone's gear in order, and locked us out.
We'd already let the new year's air into the house, saged ourselves and the house, thoroughly cleaned, and put away all of the Christmas. I know my good Catholics and other Western Christians wait until Three Kings Day or Epiphany, the day of the feast that celebrates God's manifestation in human form of his son Jesus Christ, on January 6th, but we ain't doing that. The falling needles and the wilting tree just weren't doing it anymore for me and I had to toss that tree out the window. I awaited Janus, Roman god of dates, doorways, transitions, time, passages, and endings, and new beginnings to greet me and lead us into the new year.
After a good skate, I raced home to get that food on the stove. Black eyed peas were drained and then put back in the pot with a ham hock and some seasoning, while the collard strips were put in a larger pot with some water, a little oil, seasoning, garlic, and a little onion. I know some folks like the hock in that too, but not this year. As everything began to heat up, that familiar fragrance began to rise. I loved that scent. I could hear the laughter of my grandmother and aunties in the kitchen. Or my sister and cousins and friends in her kitchen, the party hovering close to the doorway of the kitchen, and then finally settling right in the center. I vaguely recall our black neighbors coming through on New Year's to get some from my mother's stove or bringing their own to share. Everyone filled with hope and laughter. The year so new and full of promise.
I was always told that the black eyed peas and collards would mean good luck for me in the coming year but also learned from other Southern folks, that they also signified wealth. The black eyed pea journeyed to the Americas with the Africans during slavery and has been connected to my black people and Southern cuisine for centuries. While it hardly looks like a coin, like say, the lentil which is used in Italian good luck cooking, it is meant to signify the coins in the money equation. I always thought they looked like googly eyes or funny cartoon faces.
As with most if not all of traditional Southern cooking, this dish started in the kitchens where slaves and then domestic servants prepped food turning ordinary basics into delicious cuisine. Black eyed peas were a cheap crop that held up well in winter. Originally fed to farm animals, the black eyed pea became a staple for the Southern slaves who were often given cheap, scrap, and less desirable parts for their sustenance. When General Sherman's Union army raided the Confederate food stores, they turned their noses at the black eyed peas and the Confederate troops were able to survive the harsh winter. The peas became a symbol of luck and good fortune.
It is also said that in January, 1863, the newly freed slaves celebrating the Emancipation Proclamation ate black eyed peas, thus making the food a staple at any celebration of luck and prosperity for generations of Black Americans to follow. Adding the collard greens to signify wealth or paper money and a side of pork, a rich, fatty cut of meat, promised blessings to come. You had to eat them all together for the spell to work. These Southern recipes are steeped in both tradition and superstition and I always loved starting off the year with a little magic. There are plenty of Black folks who don't follow this tradition because of its connection to slavery and the images and metaphors of promises unkept from a cruel and blatantly racist, punishing system. I ain't mad at that.
But I personally feel nostalgia for my childhood spent in and out of the kitchen of my Grandma, behind the house, on the farm, out front on the porch, making promises and plans for a future just generations out of slavery. There was, for me, a real connection to my family tree and my ancestors, the pain and hope that coursed through their veins and now my mine, and blushed my cheeks when I was angry or excited or overjoyed. This was connection to them. To us. So I made them for just me after roller skating and gave the girls each one pea and one strip of the greens just to taste. The little bit of luck, the spells from before they knew themselves or me myself. Tradition and superstition. New beginnings.
(c) Copyright 2017. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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