In “What Makes Gumbo...Gumbo?” Gravy producer Katie Carter King takes us all the way to Northern California to understand what folklorist John Lauden meant when he said, “Gumbo is not a word, it’s a syntax, a way of putting something together.”

Cooks and culinarians have long argued about gumbo. Is it Creole or Cajun in its roots and history? Is it a soup, a stew, or some mysterious third thing? But perhaps nothing gets Southerners more heated than conversations about how you make gumbo—from the ingredients to the recipe technique, the dish has long provoked spirited debates. But in the southeast corner of San Francisco, one man has become known as Mr. Gumbo, and he’s not looking to pick a fight, but rather start a conversation.

Mr. Gumbo—also known as chef Dontaye Ball—grew up making gumbo with his grandmother. But after she passed away and he took helm of the family’s gumbo tradition, Dontaye began to realize the limitations of a single pot of gumbo. The seafood-centric recipe he’d long made accidentally excluded many of his loved ones: vegans, vegetarians, folks with shellfish allergies. So, he decided to cook up something new, something a bit unorthodox. He created a gumbo bar, complete with all the delicious possibilities his friends and family could dream up, including both different soup bases and different accouterments. A recurring event sprung to life, quickly morphing from holiday party to block party to pop-up business.

Growing up, community was always at the forefront of Dontaye’s mind. His grandmother centered serving the community in her cooking. Dontaye was raised in the Bayview, a sunny, geographically isolated neighborhood that has been the last corner of the city to gentrify. Once home to Maltese farmers and Chinese shrimpers, the area became home to thousands of Black workers who migrated following the eruption of World War II. A tight-knit community formed, one that took care of its own. While Dontaye had never planned on opening a full restaurant, when a space became open on a prominent corner in his own neighborhood, he saw how much possibility gumbo could offer—and knew he couldn’t say no.

In this episode, Katie Carter King learns about Dontaye’s path to becoming a restaurateur and community leader. Additionally, geographer and UC Santa Cruz professor Lindsey Dillon helps situate the Gumbo Social story in the larger landscape of Bayview and San Francisco’s Black residents and culture.

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In “The Joyful Black History of the Sweet Potato,” Kayla Stewart reports for Gravy on sweet potatoes, which Southern-born Black Americans have baked, roasted, fried, distilled—and long revered. Stewart takes listeners across the United States to learn how African Americans are finding new, interesting ways to enjoy sweet potatoes.

Harvey and Donna Williams own and operate Delta Dirt Distillery in Helena, Arkansas. Both grew up in Arkansas, and Harvey was raised on a farm that has been in his family for generations. His father began growing sweet potatoes to make efficient use of his small acreage, and Williams grew to love the root for its nutritional value. At a conference, he met an entrepreneur distilling sweet potatoes and decided to try it himself. In 2021, Delta Dirt Distillery was born, earning a host of beverage awards. But for the Williams family, success is about more than medals. It’s about recognizing the history and pride associated with sweet potatoes–a history that’s likely made the product even more compelling to Black Americans in the area. 

Jeremy Peaches is an agriculture consultant who works at Lucille’s 1913, a non-profit organization operated by Houston chef Chris Williams that aims to combat food insecurity in vulnerable communities. While sweet potatoes are beloved for their sweet, earthy flavor, Peaches says they were also one of the first major sources of economic opportunity for Black American farmers, in part thanks to their resilience during the annual harvest.

Though sweet potatoes can be enjoyed raw, roasted, or distilled, there’s nothing quite like the sweet potato pie. To understand how these pies have been comforting Southerners around the holidays for centuries, Stewart steps into the kitchen with restaurateur and cookbook author Alexander Smalls, who explains the history of sweet potato pie and why Black Americans make such a strong claim to the dish. Finally, Joye B. Moore, owner of Joyebells Desserts and Countrysides, tells of the generational traditions that make her famous sweet potato pies so exceptional.

For this episode, Stewart interviews Harvey Williams, Jeremy Peaches, Alexander Smalls, and Joye B. Moore to learn how this root vegetable nourishes Black entrepreneurs, cooks, and communities—bodies and souls.

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In “Eating at the End of the World,” Gravy producer Katie Jane Fernelius takes a close look at the culture of disaster prep, especially how people eat when disaster strikes. As it turns out, how people provision for disaster can differ wildly from how they actually feed themselves, and each other, once a storm blows through.

After living without power for almost two weeks following Hurricane Ida, Fernelius fell down a rabbit hole of prepper content. She discovered cartons of shelf-stable water, large cans of peaches and green beans, wide varieties of dehydrated meals, and large “apocalypse buckets” full of everything a person might need following a disaster. In short, she discovered a booming industry.

So, she was curious: Who preps? For what? And why?

In this episode, Fernelius talks to cultural anthropologist Chad Huddleston, who studies the rise of prepper culture—and consumerism—following Hurricane Katrina. He talks about how the kinds of food that preppers keep in their pantries has shifted over time, and how “prepper” foods have never been so popular and available as they are today.

Fernelius also interviews a mutual aid organizer in New Orleans named Miriam Belblidia, who contrasts the utility of “prepping” against her actual experience of living in the aftermath of a hurricane. She says that when we think of prepping, we should be far more concerned with how we prepare community resources than how we prepare individual ones.

Special thanks to Chad Huddlestone, Miriam Beblidia, and all the people who organized mutual aid in New Orleans following Hurricane Ida. Thank you to Heather Cole for her fact-checking. Thank you to Clay Jones for his sound design and mixing.

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In “Where There's (Southern) Smoke, There's Help for Restaurant Workers,” Gravy producer Evan Stern introduces listeners to the Southern Smoke Foundation, a relief organization dedicated to providing a safety net for food and beverage workers.

As the pandemic reminded us, restaurants aren’t just places where people go to satisfy hunger. The best ones reflect, anchor, and at times help define the communities they serve. From diners and drive-thrus to chophouses, maintaining them is a group effort made possible by managers, line cooks, servers, and cleaning staff, whose duties are essential and frequently challenging. They also comprise one of the largest labor forces in the US.

Even so, these same workers often lack health coverage, live shift to shift, and don’t have the option to work remotely. In times of unforeseen hardship, they might find themselves forced to choose between paying for housing, groceries, and medical care. In the absence of governmental reform, the Southern Smoke Foundation is working to respond to and call attention to these needs.

Southern Smoke helps facilitate free mental health counseling and puts immediate cash in the hands of laborers in need. In this episode, we’ll learn of its history from Houston-based chef and founder Chris Shepherd, who was inspired to take action in 2015 upon learning his friend and sommelier had been diagnosed with MS. From there, we’ll learn about how forces like Hurricane Harvey and the 2020 pandemic reshaped the charity’s focus. Finally, Charles Parra tells how Southern Smoke stepped in when his bartending career was upended after a major accident.

This episode explores why efforts to make this industry more equitable are worth pursuing. As Shepherd asks, “We are there to serve and take care of people, but who takes care of us?”

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In the episode “Catch of the Day: Why Alabama Loves Red Snapper,” Gravy producer Irina Zhorov takes listeners to the fisherman’s paradise of the Gulf of Mexico, where you’ll find tuna, amberjacks, mahi mahi, swordfish, and more. There’s a commercial fishery worth nearly $1 billion annually and the Gulf has the highest level of spending by recreational anglers, which includes charter trips, in the whole country: more than $5 billion annually. One of the most important fish driving this plenty is red snapper.

Gulf red snapper are a bottom-dwelling fish that can live to be 50 years old. When they're older and bigger – they can weigh more than 50 pounds–they can live in the water column. But when they're smaller juveniles they prefer to hang out on reefs or other structures. They've been fished in the area since at least the 1800s. More recently, they've become an important cultural and economic staple in the Gulf, particularly around the Florida panhandle and in Alabama. Why is snapper so important for Alabamians specifically?

The Gulf floor off the coast of Alabama is flat and muddy for many miles out to sea. When anglers fished for snapper in the past, they'd have to find the rare reef or travel far into the Gulf to find the fish. In the 1950s, fishermen started dropping debris, like car hulls and military tanks, into the Gulf to build artificial reefs. In the 1980s, this practice was formalized by the state and federal governments, which established what is now the country's largest artificial reef zone. And the state did something else novel, too. In most places with artificial reef programs, the state or municipality handles the reef building and keeps reefs public. Alabama does this, too, but it also allows regular citizens to go out and drop materials for private artificial reefs. The result has been a massive build-up of reefs in the Gulf off the coast of Alabama. Snapper congregate at the reefs, so catching them is all but guaranteed. The result? A snapper fishing bonanza. 

For Gravy, Zhorov tags along with a family in town for a Gulf fishing trip, led by Brian Annan, a charter boat captain who's been building reefs for decades. He says without the reefs he wouldn't have a business. Scientists like Kesley Banks, Sean Powers, and Mark Albins say the reefs are also helping snapper population numbers recover – for years the fish was considered overfished and had unsustainable stock numbers. And for tourists who come to the Gulf to fish, the artificial reefs are just sources of a good time.

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Order a hot pastrami on rye at any delicatessen and you’ll taste the briny terroir of the Jewish Diaspora. Pastrami is an iconic cured meat that migrated with Eastern European Jews to America and became synonymous with the deli, a beloved third place for Jewish communities across the country. In Jackson, Mississippi, that place was the Olde Tyme Deli, which Judy and Irv Feldman owned and operated from 1961 until 2000. In this episode, we’ll trace the migration of pastrami to the Deep South, where Southern Jewish identity coalesced during another moment of reckoning—the civil rights movement.

Sarah Holtz reported and produced this episode. Sarah is an independent audio producer who documents cultural history in New Orleans, New York, and the Bay Area.

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In “America’s Lost Peanut and the Price of Bringing it Back,” Gravy producer Otis Gray takes listeners on a journey through the history and revival of the Carolina African Runner Peanut, an heirloom crop thought to be extinct until 2013. Today, a contingency of heirloom enthusiasts and chefs are trying to bring the historic peanut back into the spotlight through farm-to-table dining. The question is: if not everyone can sit at the table, are we doing it the right way?

In 2015, heirloom farmer and “flavor chaser” Nat Bradford was entrusted with a handful of the small, rust-colored African Runner Peanuts uncovered in a seed bank at North Carolina University—peanuts that trace their lineage back to the transatlantic slave trade. These peanuts, once a staple in Southern cuisine, were nearly lost to time, replaced by larger, more industrialized varieties like the Virginia peanut.

This Gravy episode delves into the complex history of this crop, uncovering how it was grown by enslaved Africans for sustenance, quietly thriving in clandestine gardens on plantations. Culinary historian Michael Twitty explains the peanut’s deep cultural and historical ties to the African diaspora and the way it shaped Southern foodways. As the peanut reemerges, it raises important questions: Who gets to grow, cook, and profit from these heirloom crops today?

While passionate about preserving the peanut, Bradford has found that reviving heirloom ingredients in today’s economy is costly. The African Runner Peanut, marketed primarily to high-end chefs, is expensive to grow and difficult to shell, limiting its accessibility. Chef Kevin Mitchell, a culinary instructor and historian, shares these concerns. While he uses heirloom crops like the African Runner Peanut to educate his students about food history, he also grapples with the reality that many of the people who helped shape this crop’s history are now economically excluded from its revival.

Through conversations with experts like Twitty, Mitchell, and culinary historian Tonya Hopkins, the episode explores the extractive nature of the modern food industry and how white chefs and high-end restaurants often overshadow Black culinary history. While the African Runner Peanut’s story is one of cultural and historical importance, it’s also a story of economic and racial disparity. How do we grapple with the broader implications of reviving lost crops and whether our methods are truly equitable?

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In “Apalachicola Oysters and the Battle for a Florida Bay,” Gravy producer Betsy Wallace takes listeners to Franklin County, Florida to find out if a new tourist development could be the biggest threat to a decades-long, $30 million investment in the Apalachicola Bay Oyster Fishery Restoration.

Franklin County is tucked into Florida’s Forgotten Coast, a stretch of the panhandle known for white sand beaches, off-shore fishing, and the iconic Apalachicola Bay oyster. It is distinctly Old Florida; there are family-owned seafood restaurants next to mom-and-pop bait shops. You won’t see a high-rise hotel until the next county over. When the black bears get hot in the sticky heat of July, they lumber across Highway 98 to swim with the jellyfish in the salty Gulf Coast water.

This area is home to one of the few remaining working shorelines in North Florida. For about a hundred years, up until a devastating fishery crash in 2013, the oyster industry powered Franklin County’s economy. At its peak in 2012, the industry brought in over $9 million and employed about 2,500 locals in the small Florida panhandle towns of Eastpoint, Apalachicola, Carrabelle, and Panacea. In 2013 the oyster industry crashed and took the local economy down with it.

Now, more than a decade later, join Wallace as she digs into the restoration of the Apalachicola Bay oyster reefs and a newly proposed (and highly divisive) large-scale tourist resort. Will the Forgotten Coast stay forgotten long enough for the seafood industry to recover and provide stable, well-paying jobs for the next generation? Or will tourism and real estate development finally take over, as it has up and down the Florida coast?

In this episode, Wallace talks to Josh Norman, who grew up in an oystering family and is a marine biologist turned VP of the locally owned Bayside Coffee; Charles Pennycutt, owner of Fisherman’s Choice Bait and Tackle; Paddy’s Raw Bar restaurateur Patrick Sparks; Florida State University scientist Dr. Sandra Brooke; and oyster farmer Xochitl Bevera.

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When we think of the industrialization of America and the rise of electricity, we’re printed to think about people in cities and factories, where machines and assembly lines abound. We think of Charlie Chaplin tangled up in conveyor belts and cogs in the movie Modern Times. We think of electric motors, coal mining, steam engines. But electricity transformed another area almost as much as it transformed the city or the factory… and that area is the house. And because of that there’s one really key demographic that’s impacted by electricity perhaps more than any other: women.

Electrification prompted a redefinition of house work and those who did it, according to scholar Rachele Dini. She wrote a book called “All-Electric Narratives,” which focuses on how advertising and literature represent electricity and electric appliances in the home. 

Rachele says that the change in expectations for women and housework can be charted through advertisements: for instance, General Electric sponsored “Gold Medallion” campaigns in women’s magazines that recognized homes with all-electric “automated” kitchens. These adverts always showed sparkling clean kitchens and promised less labor for the housewife… but, the truth is, in actuality, more women were doing more labor on average.

This is because there were fewer adults in each household to share responsibilities as nuclear families became the norm: husbands were now generally expected to go to work to support the household through their wages and women were generally expected to shop, cook, clean, and manage the household. What had once been the work of multiple adults, perhaps including extended family members or hired cooks or maids, now, in most middle- and working-class nuclear families, became the job of one woman: the so-called housewife.

In fact, a whole new discipline emerged during the period of industrialization: Home Economics. You’re probably most familiar with it as a middle school elective class where you learn how to care for an egg as a practice in parenting. But in the twentieth century, home economics was a serious science. 

“No one really appreciates what a degree in home economics is, until you look at a college notebook,” says Hal Wallace. They did “laboratory experiments on how foods for example, caramelize, when they're heated, or how the proteins might rearrange in an egg as it's been heated…. There is a lot of science involved, real science involved with this.”

At that time, home economists were concerned not just with how to teach others to cook, clean, and care for a household, but also with how to teach them to be smart consumers of new electric technologies, like electric stoves, toasters, and coffee-makers. 

The U.S. government hired home economists to promote the formation of rural electrification when they kicked off the “Rural Electric Circus.” They toured shows in rural communities across the South and Midwest where they taught audiences how to skillfully place lightbulbs, or launder shirts in a new dryer, or cook scrambled eggs on an electric stove. The shows were both educational and promotional: teaching new technologies and encouraging these residents to form electrical cooperatives to access them. 

Katie Jane Fernelius reported and produced this episode.

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In “Bala’s Bistro: Where Mali Meets Memphis,” Gravy producers Marie Cascione and Joshua Carlucci profile Malian chefs, cousins, and business partners Bala Tounkara and Mady Magassa. Their story takes us from West Africa to the casinos of Tunica, Mississippi, and finally to South Memphis, where their restaurant, Bala’s Bistro, has become an emblem of success and belonging for African immigrants in the South.

Today, 21% of Black Americans are either immigrants themselves or children of immigrants. The vast majority of Black immigrants in America live in the South, and Tennessee is one of the fastest growing states for this community.

Bala and Mady both immigrated to Memphis by way of New York City in the early 2000s. Looking for some semblance of community, they landed in Whitehaven, a Black neighborhood that, at the time, had only a small enclave of West Africans. They started cooking in restaurants with no initial plans beyond making money to make ends meet. Over the years spent around fire and knives, Bala and Mady decided to dive into a business venture of their own: making food from home, as they saw it. They opened Bala’s Bistro in 2019 to answer the question: Where’s all the African food in Memphis?

Though Bala and Mady are from Mali, they make and serve food from all over West Africa. Fufu, egusi, maafe, and saka saga—just to name a few—all make star-studded appearances in the glass display case from which Bala’s customers can pick and choose to make their plates. The case looks like a buffet for a reason: Bala and Mady want you to ask about the food.

Bala used to be self-conscious of what he ate back home, but today he embraces it and encourages others to give it a shot. When Memphians wonder about some of the soupy, bubbling concoctions, he explains and gives them samples. He’s big on education; he wants curious eaters to satisfy their wonder, but even more, he wants Memphis to know that the soul food they know and love, and the rich and spicy cuisine of West Africa, were cut from the same cloth.

In this episode, Cascione and Carlucci talk to Bala Tounkara and Mady Magassa all about their journey to Memphis and the story of their restaurants. Gravy listeners will also hear from guests, some who come to Bala’s for a taste of something new and leave with a sense of community. Having just opened a second restaurant—Mande Dibi—Bala and Mady double down on the idea they hatched long ago. The pair place their bets on African food finding a widely-adored home, just as they did, in Memphis. At the same time, their restaurants have become a place of refuge and community for all who come to eat at their table, whether from Memphis, Mali, or all that in between.

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In “Minnie Bell’s Feeds the Fillmore’s Soul,” Gravy producer Sarah Jessee takes listeners to the spring 2024 opening of Minnie Bell’s Soul Movement in San Francisco’s Fillmore District, where chef Fernay McPherson—and her food—have come home.

McPherson’s family came to the Fillmore from Texas in the 1960s, as part of the Second Great Migration that brought African Americans from the South to cities across the U.S. When those families migrated, their recipes did, too.

McPherson learned to cook from her great aunt and grandmother Minnie and Lillie Bell, the restaurant’s namesakes. In 2011, she joined La Cocina, a culinary incubator for women who want to open their own restaurants. Since then, fans of McPherson’s signature rosemary fried chicken and macaroni and cheese have followed her from her first food truck in 2013, to her pop-up in an East Bay food court, and now, to her new brick-and-mortar restaurant in the neighborhood she’s always called home.

Between 1935 and 1945, the Black population in San Francisco grew by 600%. The growth continued until urban renewal brought it to a halt, just as McPherson’s family was settling into the area. Beginning in the 1960s, the San Francisco Planning and Housing Association bulldozed entire sections of the Fillmore, taking parts of the neighborhood’s vibrant, close-knit community along with it.

In this episode, Jessee speaks to McPherson all about her culinary journey, family history, and how she learned to cook in a way that honors her roots. She also interviews Fernay’s father, Darnay McPherson, who tells how the Fillmore has changed over time, and how its Black culture has been erased. We also hear how friends and fans are welcoming her back home. With Minnie Bell’s return to the neighborhood, McPherson wants to see—finally—a long-promised renaissance in the Fillmore. And it’s already in motion: as of July 2024, Minnie Bell’s was added to the San Francisco Chronicle’s “Best of SF” list.

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