Black baked apologia aka grief casseroles

I’d like to debunk this often repeated assumption that casseroles are the invention of anyone other than Black folk. Or maybe the world I meant to use is unravel, as in uncoupling this idea that throwing an assemblage of well-seasoned things into a vessel—topped with cheese—to later emerge as something greater than the sum of all its parts could not possibly be something we came up with.

Am I cooking with gas now? 

When the idea of this digital (newsletter) magazine came to me at the very beginning of this year, the planning of the themes to demarcate the bounds of what I’d discuss as paired with grief took me on an adventure itself. Other than the running list of ideas I already had related to Black grief that I’d pitched to editors to either no response or a lack of enthusiasm, I knew that food had to be a topic I focused on early on. The connections between Black grief and food have birthed moving rituals we cling to in times of sadness. And I’ve built my freelance writing career writing about our food from a historical perspective—but casseroles is one of those subjects that tends to steer towards a white perspective. 

Doing a preliminary Google search on casseroles validates this. Some of the results I saw over and over again were the Midwestern hotdish and endless theories on how those in the Midwest created this concept of a baked hodgepodge of stuff to eat off for days on end or to easily prepare for someone who has been initiated to a fresh period of mourning. Someone grieving who needs one less thing on their list of considerations than coming up with dinner ideas. Enter the easy as hell casserole that can be plunked down near your front door, a post-it note slicked on the aluminum foil with cooking directions. 

Legend has it that the word casserole itself derived from the French word for saucepan. Further online sleuthing suggest that the concept of baking things in earthenware is something that has happened for centuries but modern circumstances, notably during the Great Depression, necessitated a dish that wouldn’t take hours to make or bake. And it was affordable during a time when most families had meager means of providing for themselves. 

The casserole as a cultural concept is built around ease and convenience. It’s not intended to be a dish that requires a lot of skill in the kitchen or particular expertise. The main rule is this: making something taste good that will taste even better when baked. You can mix and match proteins, your choice of starch, vegetables and of course, dairy. There’s always cheese or cream in a casserole, always. Though some Black folk might argue me down about casseroles being nasty, unnecessary or not something we eat at all, in taking a cursory glance at some foods we reach for when grieving, there are some…commonalities. 

Pasta bakes—including rice bakes—are inherently casseroles. They fit the definition of being a sum of parts, baked in the oven and always topped with cheese. Broccoli rice and cheese, affectionately shortened to broccoli rice, is truly the leading lady in this category. Black baked spaghetti, saucy and topped with mozzarella or Colby Jack, is another Southern favorite that is undoubtedly a casserole. Sweet potato souffle, sweet potato pone, chicken tetrazzini, even macaroni & cheese—all casseroles. 

And though these dishes are borne of ease and convenience, when it comes from the hearts of other Black people, it’s never quite looked at as thoughtlessness. Because even if it didn’t involve your neighbor, dear friend or family member laboring over a stove for hours, the intent is still made known. They used their energy and their time to communicate provision—it hearkens back to the very Black practice of asking someone if they’ve eaten as a question of care, something you fully intend to act on if the answer is no. Is it too hopeful for me to see casseroles, and the baked dishes we’ve always eaten, as being knotted together with the complexities of Black grief? 

Grief is a certain chaos. All of a sudden our lives are disrupted with this sobering reality—that there was something, someone or someplace that has exited our lives and a void remains in that absence. Our identities are now in flux, too, because of course, having a gaping hole in your life forces introspection and internal shifts. To me, grief casseroles, especially those of which Black people pass along when someone we know has experienced a loss, is a culinary tribute to the messiness grief entails. A tangible metaphor if you will.

Here, there is a mixture of things thrown together in hope that the result makes sense and tastes good. That casserole dish is not only the food’s vessel for surviving high heat and the process of transformation that the scientific process of baking is, but of someone doing something when it is not clear what else can be done. The hopelessness, the lack of words, the uncertainty of what can actually comfort instead of offend. And how that swirl of emotions and thoughts can prompt spirited action.

Just like grief can take us on a journey we most likely don’t want to take, making a casserole for someone grieving is much like trusting the process. And hoping, your kindness, your ingenuity and your showing up yields something nourishing. Next time grief knocks on your door and any kind of baked dish lands on your doorstep, consider what the message is supposed to be instead of scowling. Maybe what is inside that dish is indeed disgusting. But comfort, no matter what form, is a sign.

An attempt to say, “I see you. I know your pain. I hope this will help you forget it about for a minute as you eat.”

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