About Us

Grandma's Soul Food Kitchen

When I started creating this website, I envisioned that some people would ask two questions. Why am I publishing more recipes and better yet, why do we need to purchase recipes when there are so many out there. The answer to the first question, why are we publishing our recipes goes back to the history of the Bratcher family. I was influenced by their way of life, their loves, hates, and their entire struggle throughout their age. Through all of this, it seemed to always surround the heart of my grandmother’s kitchen. Those unforgettable smells of the day will always stay with me forever. As early as I can remember, sitting in the kitchen with my grandmother, smelling all those wonderful things she made, she would tell me of our family history and how we became the Bratcher clan. For this first question, I want to share with you this story and then, hopefully, you will understand why I had to create this website. So let us begin. . . My grandmother, Lilly Dairy-Bratcher was born into slavery in the year 1886. Although I never saw pictures of her when she was young, I was told by my older aunts that she was a beautiful woman. Striking in statue, clear fair skin and hair as soft as cotton. She was born a slave. She often told me how as a little girl, she would pick cotton in the master’s field and what hard work it was. She often said that no matter what, stay in school so that I would never have to do hard labor. Her mother, my great grandmother, was a slave until the emancipation. She was born from a white polish slave master and a black woman. My grandfather, George Washington Bratcher, was the son of a black slave and a Sue Indian on the Bratcher plantation in Dallas, Texas. To try to describe him in words would never do him justice or even come close to describing how much a mans-man he was. I remember him as being tall and thin stature. He had wavy black hair and deep redress carnal color skin. He looked like a giant to me as a child and even though I was just still very young, he became my role model of what a man should be. Oh, how I loved that man. My grandfather could be the most tender, loving man in the world until you made him mad. Then, watch out, once the Indian blood was aroused, you had better be a safe distance away, for his anger was uncontrollable and often times unforgiving to those around him. This was the beginning of twelve brothers and sisters born to the union of Lilly and George Bratcher. My mother, Thelma Marcella Bratcher-Rogers was the twelfth and last child born to this holy union. My grandfather and grandmother moved from Texas to Oklahoma to Chicago before my mother was born. They settled in a little farm community call Morgan Park, located on the far south side of Chicago, Illinois, on 115th Street. Morgan Park had been named after a black horse theft that was the first settler, making the land a refuge from the authorities and the fast-paced outside world. At that time of my childhood, Morgan Park was nothing but prairie. A few houses, separated by miles and miles of farmland, tall wheat and corn stalks that covered the ground for as far as you could see. Civilization had not yet invaded my little community of Morgan Park. It was a sanctuary to me and for those that lived there. We called the streets, roads, and everyone knew everyone by name. The night was always quiet with the sounds of crickets and you could always hear the distance murmurs of train whistles a mile or so away. You did not meet any strangers in Morgan Park during those times. Whether it was the corner grocery store, owned by Mr. Boston, or the neighborhood gas station, owned by Mr. Green. Everyone was family and everyone looked out for one another. My grandfather built his home, brick-by-brick. He owned and farmed a four-block radius of land and sold it off acre-by-acre to white developers promising him a huffy sum. To the family’s sorrow, we only realized that after he had sold it, they had robbed him of its fair market value. Subsequently we never saw a good return from the huge housing development that grew up around us. I was partially raised by my grandmother and grandfather on this farm. It was an innocent time, where you could leave your door wide open and no one would enter. Where children could play anywhere without fear of gangs. Where no matter where you played, a neighbor would watch over you just as if they were part of their own family. Moreover, the days were long, peaceful, and gave you a sense of being. As I look back on it now, I begin to realize increasingly that it was the best  and most peaceful time of my life . Coming up as a child, I remember waking up to my grandmother’s movement in the kitchen, making that first meal of the day for any of my aunts, uncles or cousins that happens to be visiting at the time. And believe you me, there was always someone visiting at grandma and papa’s house. Always cousins scurrying around, always noise and always family gossip being discussed. My grandmother's first meal, which was breakfast, consisted of homemade biscuits, a slab of bacon (there was no such thing as packaged bacon in those days), farm-grown eggs from our chicken coup (which more often than not, I had to gather every morning), grits, and sliced potatoes with onions. Everything was topped off with freshly ground coffee (grounded by hand), milk, and hand squeezed orange juice.  Boy, my grandma sure knew how to make breakfast a special treat. As young as I was, I was always fascinated with the mechanics of how grandma accomplished this feat, so as little as I was, I would sit in the kitchen in the corner and watch her go from corner to stove and back again. I would ask a thousand questions. What are you doing that for? How do you make that? What is that you are putting in there? How long do you cook that? All these questions that I would ask would drive any other adult crazy, but not my Grandma, she had the patience of a saint. She always took the time to explain everything she did and even on special occasion, when I became older, would let me assist her in this morning ritual. My mother, bless her heart, was the same. Even though I was the eldest of her three daughters, I was the one who would always ask my mother questions regarding her cooking, which as you can figure out, was passed down from my grandmother. I continued this fascination of asking questions about cooking to not only my grandmother, but my mother and aunts as well. Subsequently, over the years, I have acquired many original receipts that my family has passed down from their generation to mine. My grandmother and grandfather, mother, aunts and uncles are all gone now, but, I still have their receipts to pass down to not only my family, but to your as well. These recipes are very dear to me and my family. They are unique and because they are unique, you get a recipe that no one else has and no one else can match the flavor of their excellence. The second question is: Why these recipes? There are many recipes posted on the internet today. I certainty will not deny that. However, there are, to my knowledge, few cookbooks or websites that are totally dedicated to the  “Black” generation of cooking. Most cookbooks have small sections on what they call “Southern” cooking, but few offer the insight or completeness of what true “Black” heritage cooking is about.  This heritage came from the early fight of civil rights, kicked off by identifying us as “Negroes”. At that time, to call one of us “Black” was an insult and sparked violence and degradation. You sure better be ready to fight if someone called you “Black” in those days. This continued until the leadership of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. They brought pride back to the “Black” community. They gave the word “Black” a different meaning. It was not an insult, but a label that identified a people of pride and potential. “Power to the People” and “Black is Beautiful” were the new phrases of the day. So to answer this question, why another recipe, it says it all in the title. “Grandma's Soul Food Kitchen”. Not Negro, not African-American, not Soul Cooking, and not southern cooking, but “Black” cooking. “Black” represents my family’s heritage of both Indian, polish, and African. This website will guide you through our oldest and most delicious recipes. It comes from generations of cooks who through hardships, depression, death, and living, have passed their legacy down to me and therefore I pass it down to you. I hope you enjoy this website and that you appreciate where it comes from. The Bratcher Generation