Melba Wilson - Melba’s American Comfort: 100 Recipes from My Heart to Your Kitchen

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Copyright 2016 by Melba Wilson

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First Atria Books hardcover edition April 2016

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Interior design by Jason Snyder

Photography by Melissa Hom

Jacket Design by Laura Palese

Jacket Photographs by Melissa Hom

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-1-4767-9528-7

ISBN 978-1-4767-9531-7 (ebook)

My Dear Salif, like this book, you too are my first, my one, my only. You inspire me to work hard, laugh heartily, and love harder all while savoring lifes moments. Thank you for loving me in spite of and regardless. This one, my first, is for you!

Love, Mom

I was born, bred, and buttered in Harlem, and I spent my summer vacations with my grandparents in the Carolinasa welcome, relaxing getaway from New York City life.

I honed my people and entrepreneurial skills at the Ophelia DeVore School of Charm in midtown Manhattan and working at the world famous Sylvias Soul Food Restaurant in Harlem before opening my own, but I actually learned to cook in my grandmothers kitchen. Grandma Amelia (or Mea, as we called her) mixed love with every ingredient that went into her down-home country comfort cookingand she made some of the best food Ive ever tasted!

Like most Americans, Im something of a hybridformed both by my familys Southern heritage and by our equally strong connection to the uniquely rich culture, music, and art of Harlem, where I still live today.

My grandma Mea was my favorite girl. She was much more than just a grandmother to me. She was my best friend, my confidante, my advisor, and my rock. She taught me the importance of family, loyalty, honesty, and love. Whenever I talk about good times growing up, shes one of the first people who come to mind. Grandma Mea had nine children, fourteen grandchildren, nineteen great-grandchildren, and a lot of wisdom. I still find myself quoting her favorite isms, including, So good it makes me wanna slap my momma, Dont let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, and Only a hit dog howls. One that I, luckily, havent found to be true (at least for me) is, Those people from up North, theyll offer you a drink, but dont ask them for no food.

As a young girl, whenever I was in South Carolina, I could usually be found in Meas kitchen, noseying up to see what she was doing and how much of this or that ingredient she was putting in, and marveling at how she always managed to get things right. Back in Harlem, I also spent a lot of time watching my mom, Tina Wilson, cook at our home on 138th Street off Lenox Avenue.

Back then, us kids werent allowed to cook. Cooking was strictly the job of the woman of the house, the highly prestigious domain of the queen. My mother was definitely the queen of our castle, which meant that I spent my first ten years watching, learning, and taking mental notes.

Although I wasnt allowed to join in, I was allowed to lick the cake bowls. And lick them I did! Any time my mother or grandmother baked a cake, they would first make a five-inch sample. I think they did that because they knew their baking was so good that us kids would never have the patience to wait until dinnertime for a slice. The sample sufficed to hold us over while protecting the full-size cake from being eaten and our hands from getting popped for trying to eat it!

I devoured, I soooo devoured, the extra batter left in the bowls and the tasting samples; but I also yearned to bake my own cakes. My first real baking experience came when I was about twelve or thirteen, and, boy, was I excited! My uncle LeRoy Dorsey, who sang in a gospel group called the Sensational Starlights of CT, loooovvvved cake almost as much as I did. But Uncle Roy was diabetic and wasnt supposed to have sweets. So I came up with a spice cake recipe that he could safely enjoy. It had cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and nutmeg for flavor. I also used applesauce for sweetness and to keep it nice and moist. It was the first cake I was ever allowed to bake, and I baked it with pride and joy for Uncle Roy every time the Starlights sang in New York.

Both my parents came from large families. Mom was the youngest of eleven childrensix girls and five boysand grew up in Andrews, South Carolina, wearing hand-me-downs, already handed down five times before they got to her. Her family was poor, but I guess they didnt really know it because they had each other and never went hungry.

We werent rich either, and we didnt have an excess of material items, but we had a great family. We were rich in spirit, and visited each other every weekend. When youre a kid, thats what truly matters, and I still depend on family as my foundation.

My fathers family, from Hemingway, about twenty-five miles north of Andrews, was the opposite of my moms. He was one of nine kids, his father owned a thriving grocery store and gas station, and my father opened his own businessa barber shopwhen he was in his twenties. Theirs was the first household in town to have a television.

I was also blessed to have a stepfather, Louis Wilson, who raised me from the age of two as if I were his own flesh and blood. Some of my fondest memories are of the times I spent baking cakes in my Easy-Bake oven with his nieces, my cousins Tessey and Jen. His parents, Grandma Easter and Grandpa Babe Wilson, were also huge inspirations in my life.

Other than a lot of kids, one thing all three families had in common was that food was king. Every celebration, every special occasion started with a prayer and ended with a home-cooked meal. Preparing and sharing food was one way to spread the love. There was an element of pitching in, but there was also pride and underlying competitiveness. All those home cooks set the bar high. You just wouldnt show up at a church or community function with anything but your Sunday best. When all the food was laid out, the same questions always hovered in the air: Who made the best potato salad? The best macaroni and cheese? Or, more important, the best pie?