Courtbouillon de Grâce (Stew of Grace)

Courtbouillon de Grâce (Stew of Grace)

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Welcome to the pot, y’all! We back in the kitchen again. Yes, it's hot feels like the inside of a crawfish boil—but don’t panic. Tee-Tee's nephew from down the bayou said he fixin’ the A/C unit right now. He said noon, so you know that mean sometime after the roosters nap. In the meantime, go wash ya hands, pull up a chair, and help set the table. We about to cook up somethin’ sacred. This ain’t no boxed meal or drive-thru faith this is a courtbouillon de grâce, baby. A soul stew with a roux thick enough to make you rethink every shortcut you ever took.

We got pain, laughter, stories, and a pinch of sarcasm in the pot today. Now listen here life is a courtbouillon, hot and heavy, full of mystery meats, unexpected flavor, and them bones you gotta spit out. It ain’t always pretty, but Lord, when it’s right? You taste heaven with your eyes closed. My grandmère Celestine, may her rolling pin rest in peace, used to say, “Life don’t give you no pre-measured packets. You gotta taste and adjust, bébé. Taste and adjust.” She didn’t just cook meals she cooked medicine. And if you lucky enough to sit in her kitchen, you better be ready to learn somethin’. She’d stir that cast iron pot with one hand and point at your heart with the other. “You been prayin’ for blessings, huh? But you ain’t even cleaned your pot out from the last mess you made. How grace gon’ settle in filth?” Let me tell you, Celestine’s kitchen was hotter than most pulpits and twice as honest. She could stir truth into a red gravy so deep you’d weep before the first bite. I remember once she burned a whole courtbouillon while talkin’ mess about Sister Geraldine’s mini skirts. Smoke rolled through the kitchen like judgment day. She looked at me and said, “See, child? That’s what happen when you focused on someone else’s seasoning. You let your own blessings burn.” Then God as my witness she made me eat it. Said, “Consequences got flavor too.” And don’t act brand new, now.

Some of y’all been out here eatin’ burnt blessings and callin’ it destiny, too prideful to admit you left the pot unattended. That’s alright. Even scorched pots can be cleaned. But you gotta own the burn. You ever seen a roux in its first few minutes? Look like a disaster. Smells suspicious. And if you got no patience, you’ll think it’s ruined. But no, bébé. That’s just the beginning.

You gotta stir through the fear. Stir through the loneliness. Stir through that bitterness you been saving since 1999. Don’t lift the lid too soon either. Some of y’all pray and then peek every five minutes, wondering if the breakthrough done. Let it simmer, cher. Let it bubble in silence. The good stuff happens when you stop hovering. Celestine told me, “Every time you lift that lid, you settin’ grace back twenty minutes. Trust the process. Trust the pot.” Now let me give y’all a little folklore, ‘cause what’s a good stew without a bayou legend? They say deep in the marshes, past where the Spanish moss whisper secrets, swims a spirit-fish named Le Poisson Miséricorde the Mercy Fish. Ain’t no one ever caught it, but the elders swear it shows up when your heart’s been wrung out, humbled, and hung up to dry in truth. But if your hands dirty with pride or your soul marinated in grudges, that fish’ll vanish before your line even hits the water. It don’t swim with the phony. Mercy has standards.

Like Celestine said, “Don’t come to God’s table with a full mouth and a closed heart.” And Lord, the way folks jump pots these days. One minute they stirrin’ their own calling, next minute they runnin’ off ‘cause Sister So-and-So’s stew look shinier. Baby, stay in your pot! Your blessing is cookin’. Don’t go lettin’ jealousy mess with your taste buds. What’s seasoned for someone else might poison your purpose. And while we talkin’ ‘bout taste some of y’all been addin’ things to your life that don’t belong: a whole cup of envy, a tablespoon of insecurity, three teaspoons of gossip.

Then wonderin’ why your peace taste off. Stop actin’ like Emeril with a blindfold. Ain’t no spiritual breakthrough comin’ from a mess you refused to clean up. Let the Creator be the Chef. Trust His recipe. Let Him season you with patience, love, correction, and grace. Some ingredients don’t taste good raw, but give it time. Give it heat. Give it faith. It’ll break down and blend like it’s always belonged. Celestine always said, “Even pain gotta cook before it make sense.” And Lord knows she was right. You gotta let the sorrow reduce.

Let the laughter rise like steam. Let forgiveness soften the bones. Let your old self dissolve into something tender. And don’t forget to laugh in the kitchen. Don’t forget to dance when the pot starts to bubble just right.

Don’t forget that joy is seasoning, too. Some of y’all out here cookin’ with only struggle and wondering why nobody wanna sit at your table. Add some laughter, cher. Add a lil’ foolishness. Add a second helping of humility. ‘Cause if there’s one thing Celestine taught me, it’s that grace don’t just feed it gathers. It don’t just bless it brings people close. So welcome again to the pot, y’all. Let the sweat drip. Let the spirit stir. Let the ghosts of your mistakes lift like smoke from the pot.

And don’t be afraid of a lil’ burn sometimes that’s where the flavor come from. You in the courtbouillon of the Creator now. Let it cook.