QUIT PLAYIN: Pot uh Greens

By Vincent L. Hall

Dr. Jeremiah A. Wright mused in a sermon once that when harvesting a field, one of the enslaved workers asked Massa what to do about ‘dem thick green plants over in the corner. The Massa replied, “Leave them for the coloreds!” And that’s where Collard Greens got their name.

I doubt very little of anything that Daddy J ever said, and his assertion on how collards got their name is believable to me. The truth is that The Coloreds love Collards, Turnips, Mustards, and getting comfortable with Kale.

Like everything else Massa threw away on the plantation, we as a people have learned to use it to create delightful delicacies. Field greens are just one such example.

My grandmother always told me that the pot liquor from her greens would get you healed. My grandfather just said that it “put lead in your pencil.” (You’ll figure it out.)

Both were right; sadly, there seems to be a shortage of greens and neither McDonald’s or Chick-fil-A are trying to fill that void.

Whenever I go to a city and don’t know my way around, I ask the concierge, a cab driver, or a culinary expert where I can get some greens.

Now, there is a two-fold rea- son for this. First, I know that my search should end in a Black neighborhood, and I am eager to visit their version of Martin Luther King Blvd.

But secondly, I need the tonic from ‘dem turnips to protect me on that plane ride back. You never know what kind of germs and viruses are loose in the cabin, and a good serving of greens boosts the immune system like no other antioxidant can. I don’t know if it will kill COVID or RSV, but I try to keep some pot liquor on my gastral tract.

Papa said greens would “keep you regular,” if nothing else.

The problem is that there are fewer and fewer Soul Food restaurants locally and nationally that cater to those of us who want the cafeteria experience. Most of us lived in Mama’s house, where we couldn’t eat anything but what she fixed.

So, when we grow up, we want a wide variety of choices.

And as much as I hate that we have fewer of these restaurants in our community, there is one truth that ails me more. Here it is; you can hardly find a young Black woman who can cook you a pot of greens anymore. That’s sexist, but tune in to the end and let me correct myself.

Long before Glory made greens, “sistas” used to battle it out for the title of best cook in the family or the neighborhood. Even after a long day’s work, these culinary geniuses would rush home and spend a couple of hours in the kitchen just throwing down.

Daddy, stepdaddy, or baby-daddy might talk a lot of trash, but Mama knew how to shut him up and put his ass to sleep. And our kids were much slimmer, less prone to diabetes, and enjoyed better overall health factors.

Now I realize that we live in a post-modern, sophisticated, Neo-Negro age where don’t no- body cook. I understand that the demands of our jobs stifle the penchant for “slaving” in the kitchen daily.

But our history of cooking is an institution, and once again, we are giving away the culture.

If you binge on shows, try Soul Train episodes one weekend. It should lead you to speculate as to how we have gotten so fat and unfit. The joke was, “All my girlfriend can make for dinner is reservations.” But as we get bigger and bigger and watch fast food kill our children, the joke has lost its luster and appeal.

We must get back to teaching young women and men how to cook. My daddy could mix some turnip and mustard greens that would make you just slap yo’ Mama and suffer the consequences.

My grandmother loved Daddy’s cooking. It wasn’t as good as hers, but she was proud of her student.

Home Economics classes must be revived and become staples for boys and girls. We all must know how to cook, sew buttons, and make a comfortable home. Fix a Pot Uh Greens in 2024. It’ll change your life!

Vincent L. Hall is an author, activist, award-winning columnist and a lifelong Drapetomaniac!