Butter, Rice, and the Shoes by the Door

Butter, Rice, and the Shoes by the Door

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Welcome to the pot, y’all pull up a chair and hush that mouth unless it’s sayin’ grace or askin’ for seconds. It's early morning here in the 7th Ward of New Orleans, and baby, the kitchen is baptized in butter and heat. You can smell the cornbread talkin’ back from the oven, and that pot of rice on the stove is doin’ its slow dance with melted butter and a couple of eggs that just slid in like they owned the place. This ain't just breakfast this is tradition, salvation, and a little therapy all served hot with a side of “Don’t ask no questions 'til you’ve chewed.”

Now, let me tell you something about cornbread and buttermilk. My grandmother, may the heavens forever echo her hymn-humming soul, used to make us eat it like it was communion. And let me be real if I caught a whipping as a child, nine times outta ten it was because I tried to slide that bowl away when she turned her back. That thick, cold buttermilk with a chunk of cornbread sittin’ in it like it was royalty? Lawd, I couldn’t understand why we had to suffer like that. But now? I’d give my best pair of shoes just to sit at that table again, feeling the warm sting of a wooden spoon more outta love than punishment, and tasting poverty-seasoned grace in every bite.

You see, back in the day, that eggs, butter, and rice dish? That was a poor man’s saving grace. Didn’t take much to make, but it filled you up like you’d just come from a Baptist potluck. A little salt, a little stir, and that was love on a plate. It didn’t need to be fancy just needed to be made with care, and made by hands that knew struggle and sacrifice. When the lights was off and the rent man was knockin’, we’d still have that rice. And somehow, in between bites and laughter, God still fed our joy.

Our kitchen wasn’t just for cookin’. It was a sanctuary. The walls held secrets, the ceiling caught prayers, and the table? The table was the altar. And everybody had a role. Auntie was frying bacon like she was conducting a choir, Paw Paw  was blessing the food with his eyes closed tight (even though he always peeked), and me? I was the one getting fussed at for runnin’ through the house with my shoes on, trackin’ in outside foolishness.

That brings me to something deep. Your home is supposed to be your temple your sanctuary. A place where the madness of the world gets checked at the threshold. All that drama, that pettiness, that gossip and bitterness we drag around? We’re supposed to leave it outside. This is why the old folks, with all their wisdom wrapped in quiet actions, took off their shoes at the door. That wasn’t just cleanliness it was reverence. It was sacred. The Creator told Moses to take his shoes off, not ‘cause they were dirty, but because he was standin’ on holy ground. And I’ll be the first to confess: I’ve been guilty of walkin’ through my own holy space with muddy thoughts and dusty feelings.

So maybe, just maybe, when we step into our homes these temples of joy, love, and the smell of fried something we ought to pause, breathe, and slip them shoes off. Not just the leather and rubber, but the spiritual weight too. Kick off the resentment, slide out of the shame, leave the anxiety at the mat. Ain’t no need to bring the battlefield into the haven.

And in case you forgot, let me tell you a little parable my grandmother used to serve up right alongside her sweet tea:

"There once was a hen who laid golden eggs but folks were so busy chasin’ treasure out in the world, they didn’t even see her sittin’ in their own backyard. She clucked, she waited, she laid, but they kept lookin’ past her, thinkin’ riches was somewhere else. One day she flew off. Tired of bein’ overlooked. And they say they still lookin’ for her, blind to the blessings they already had."

You see what I’m sayin’? Sometimes, the miracle ain’t out there. It’s in the cornbread. In the scrape of the wooden spoon. In the way Grandma folded her apron or how Uncle popped you on the head with the newspaper just to say he loved you.

So don’t go lookin’ for sugar and miss the honey sittin’ right under your nose. And for heaven’s sake, don’t bring the devil’s dust into God’s kitchen. This house is holy.

Now go ahead and fix your plate. The rice is done, the eggs are fluffed, and that butter’s sittin’ on top like it got elected. Grab you some cornbread, pour you a glass of buttermilk if you brave, and remember around here, we don't just eat. We feed souls.

And take off them shoes.

 Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar