The Cooking Gene: A Journey Through African American Culinary History in the Old South

As Twitty wakes in the morning, he puts on what he describes as his “transformative historical drag” (1). He dons the clothing of his enslaved ancestors and begins cutting wood for cooking. Twitty cooks at Southern plantation museums, and he feels it is important to inhabit those historical roots. “The Whistling Walk” is the path between the kitchen and the main house where enslaved workers were required to whistle to prove that they were not eating the food they were carrying. While he works, Twitty thinks about the songs that enslaved peoples sang while they worked. One was “Many Thousands Gone,” Which refers to leaving behind the auction block and mourns those who were sold. Twitty changes some of the words to “Many Thousands Gone” to reflect a new kind of leaving: the departure from whistling walks.

The food born from Southern plantations—soul food—is as controversial as its origin story. Some reject African American heritage cooking as being unhealthy, while others reject it for being stereotypical, and still others capitalize on it as a marker of American traditionalism. Twitty makes a case for soul food as the future of American cuisine while recognizing that the rediscovery of the cuisine may be traumatic for some. As Twitty begins to research Southern culinary history, he feels disconnected from the stories. He wants to find his own culinary identity.

Enslaved Black cooks were often described as having a genetic predisposition for cooking. This idea is racist. The modern era—one that is obsessed with seeking out ancestry and genetic heritage—perpetuates this same idea with little pushback. Twitty hopes to connect with his ancestors in a way that acknowledges their pain and honors their lives. He learns a new culinary language, one that involves unique measurements and antique cooking equipment. Because Twitty works in a field dominated by white men and women, he feels a need to distinguish himself, to study, and to bring to the forefront the forgotten stories and heroes of Black culinary history.

As a boy, Twitty cried when watching films such as The Wiz and Roots: The Next Generation, bemoaning the color of his skin. He did not enjoy the food his mother cooked, meals steeped in Black history. Twitty was born in 1977 in Washington, DC. His family had been scattered across the globe; some family members, such as Twitty’s grandfather, answered the pull toward the South, while others ran from it. Another grandfather worked in the railroads and with railway unions in Africa, and Twitty’s mother attended high school in Kenya. The family’s time in Africa left a lasting impression. The dining room was decorated with items from there, and They listened to the music of African performers such as Hugh Masekela and Miriam Makeba. Although Twitty’s family lived in Washington, DC, his mother was shocked to find that the city had similarities with the Old South.

The kitchen was Twitty’s nursery. As a very young child, he was picky about what he ate, except for the yeasted rolls and potato bread his grandmother made, which he greedily gobbled up. These were intended to be shared, and when neighbors stopped by the house to pick them up, young Twitty cried to see his beloved food given to others. As Twitty grew older, he avoided foods that he associated with slavery. He did not yet understand that dishes such as chitlins were a part of “the cuisine of want” (34). Okra, pig’s feet, black-eyed peas, and other Southern dishes did not align with the perfect images of Eurocentric and commodified foods appearing on television and showing up in school. The culture around him had influenced his taste buds, and he felt disconnected from soul food.

That was not the case as Twitty grew up in his grandmother’s kitchen, where she began to teach him how to cook when he was seven. He learned how to cut biscuits, prepare greens, and peel sweet potatoes. Cooking food helped him to appreciate it. He prepared his Grammy’s lemonade recipe and learned a slave song about the beverage, which had been passed down through his family. It was this song that caused Twitty to begin to ask questions about what it meant to be enslaved. Watching his mother and grandmother cook helped Twitty see the connections among generations. It also helped him feel connected to these maternal figures. The kitchen was a site of joy, tradition, and serious talks. It was there that Twitty told his mother and aunt he was gay.

When Twitty was a young boy, his father dug into the earth and pulled out a piece of red Virginian clay, which he handed to Twitty, instructing him to eat it. The moment was symbolic—a lasting reminder that Virginia was now a part of Twitty. Prince Edward County held a church homecoming every August, during which Northern migrants reunited with Southern family and friends. Homecoming feasts were robust. At these feasts, Twitty’s father fanned food to keep flies away—a job Twitty’s great-great-grandfather had had while enslaved in Virginia in the 1840s.

Twitty’s family connected the young boy to his heritage. During a visit to Colonial Williamsburg with his father in the 1980s, young Twitty became enamored with the kitchen, and the experience inspired him to attempt many culinary experiments. On another trip with his father, this time to North Carolina, Twitty learned a hard lesson about segregation. Twitty needed to pee, so his father pulled over and handed him a jar. he explained that when he was a boy, he was not allowed to use the bathrooms in North and South Carolina. Further lessons about racism ensued, as when Twitty visited a library with his uncle to learn about an ancestor and was made to feel as though history belonged to some and not to others. He also visited graveyards where his family members were buried in unmarked graves. He felt as though the country had erased not only the contributions of his family but also its very existence from Alabama.