Neckbones, Cornbread, Potato Salad, and Corn

Welcome to the Pot Y’ALL: A Spiritual Serving of Neckbones, Cornbread, Potato Salad, and Corn

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Come on in. Don’t just stand at the door sniffin’ the air like you ain’t been fed since yesterday. Pull up a chair, and let me fix you a plate. But before we dig in, let me tell you: this ain’t no fast food gospel. This is soul food salvation, simmered in Sunday prayers and seasoned with the tears of grandmamas who knew how to make a way out of no way.

Now, don’t come up in here asking for baked spaghetti. We ain’t got none. And no, we don’t do quinoa or avocado toast in this kitchen. We got rice, baby. Rice to go with them neckbones. The kind of rice that sticks to your ribs and reminds you where you came from. This is the kind of meal that hugs you from the inside out.

Let’s talk about these neckbones. They ain’t pretty. Ain’t nothing flashy about ‘em. But if you know, you know. You gotta simmer them slow, give them love, patience, and respect. That’s how life works too. Sometimes you feel like the world only sees your bones not your flavor. But the Creator, oh the Creator, knows how to let you marinate until everything in you is tender and ready to nourish.

And here comes the cornbread, golden and faithful, just like that one auntie who never missed a church service and always had peppermint in her purse. Cornbread is comfort. Cornbread is humility in loaf form. It don’t compete with nobody. It just completes the meal. One soul food proverb says, "Cornbread don’t need caviar to be royalty." Sometimes, just being who you are is more than enough. Keep your edges golden, your middle soft, and you’ll bless everybody at the table.

Now, potato salad now that’s where the wisdom lives. Not everyone can make it right. Don’t bring no runny, sweet mess up in here and call it potato salad. That’s how church splits happen. Real potato salad is a lesson in balance. You need just the right blend of mustard, mayo, eggs, relish, and a whisper of seasoned salt. Not too loud, not too quiet. That salad reminds us that harmony doesn’t mean sameness. In the Creator’s kitchen, everybody got a purpose, and every flavor matters.

Now that corn on the cob that’s joy on a stick. Golden like sunshine, sweet like a grandmother’s kiss on your forehead. Corn reminds us not to forget the sweetness of life. Even when the neckbones are tough and the potato salad needs prayer, corn pops in to say, "Life still got flavor, baby. Don’t you forget it."

Let me hit you with a soul food parable:

The Parable of the Forgotten Biscuit

There once was a man who always came to the cookout but never brought nothing. He talked loud, laughed loud, and always asked for seconds before the first round was done. One day, the old matriarch handed him an empty plate and said, “Today, you fix your own.” The man looked around confused, saying, “But I don’t cook.” She smiled and said, “Exactly. Maybe it’s time you learn to feed somebody else like you’ve been fed.”

Moral? Don’t just eat at the table. Serve at it. Because soul food don’t mean much unless it feeds the soul of others too.

And here’s a good ol' soul food proverb: "You can’t fry chicken with cold grease, and you can’t love people with a cold heart." So warm up. Let that heat of compassion get you right before you try to season somebody else’s life.

Another one for the road: "If you don’t stir the pot, don’t be surprised when it burns." Relationships, like stews, need attention. Don’t neglect the folks you love and expect things to stay tasty. Check in. Stir the pot.

Now, I say all this with laughter, but let me slide some truth in your biscuit. Don’t use your words like knives. Don't cut folks with your tongue. Words got weight, and once they’re out, you can’t put ‘em back in the pot. Speak with grace, season with kindness, and don’t let anger turn your mouth into a blowtorch. Remember what the Good Book says, "A soft answer turneth away wrath." That’s just like gravy calming down the fire of hot sauce.

So welcome to the pot, y’all. Fix yourself a plate. Bring your pain, your joy, your struggle, and your story. We got room at the table. And remember: in this kitchen, the food feeds the body, but the love feeds the soul.

Amen and pass the rice.

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