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Like a good Sunday brunch, which includes complimentary foods from appetizers to entrees to desserts, the stories are colorful, homey, easily digested and filling for mind, body and spirit. |
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Soul Food is a collection of loosely connected, life-affirming stories celebrating the tenacity of the human spirit in seeking and finding clarity, contentment and resilience in a complicated world. The stories span chronological, emotional and thematic arcs dotted with humor and moments of self-reflection. Some were inspired by real historical incidents that have been fictionalized. Others are pure fiction.
You can read the stories in any order, as each stands on its own, or follow them from first to last to discover connections between the characters, their struggles and their relationships with each other. For example:
These diverse, and sometimes quirky, characters must navigate the ups and downs of their lives by meeting a challenge, making a change, consciously choosing not to change, or finding acceptance and peace if change is not possible. The discussion questions at the end of the book are designed to help you, your friends or your book club think about and discuss the connections and relationships between the characters, as well as their journeys to self-awareness. This section also contains a glossary of some cultural terms that may be unfamiliar to you. Like a good Sunday brunch, which includes complimentary foods from appetizers to entrees to desserts, the stories are colorful, homey, easily digested and filling for mind, body and spirit. Enjoy Soul Food-and come back for seconds! |
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Available in paperback and eBook formats
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Praise for Soul Food
Quirky characters, surprising plots and complex history come together in this inspiring collection of stories. Soul Food is written with heart, thought and wit that will make you think, laugh and learn; a delightful read. — Nancy Slonim Aronie, author of Writing from the Heart and Memoir as Medicine
Soul Food is a delightful collection of stories, chock full of humor, each one infused with a salient essence of truth. Each offering feeds the soul and nourishes the spirit. Pair with tea, espresso or a fine wine. — Phyllis A. Blackstone, educator, storyteller and author of My Storied Life
Reading Soul Food by Beth Gibbs was like sharing a delicious meal with old friends. Each story is a delectable dish, served up by appealing, clever characters—people I felt I knew or wished I knew. A variety of timely topics are part of the friendly dinner conversation. Beth’s clear, concise writing style makes each story a pleasure to read. While each story stands on its own, I particularly enjoyed the way threads and characters of one story found their way into other stories, much like the flavors and spices of a good meal are picked up throughout several dishes. I finished the collection feeling content and satisfied, as though I’d eaten an enjoyable meal. — Carla Dean, President, Journey Writers, Inc.
An Excerpt
Here’s an edited sample of ‘Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner’
Every family has its share of dysfunctional members but sometimes we are the dysfunctional ones and don’t realize it.
I am not a happy camper.
This is the first time I'll be alone with my family for a holiday since Clay and I got married.
“Here you go, hon,” Clay says. “Pick you up at six. Okay? Then we'll go home and lick each other's wounds.” His eyebrows draw together and wriggle up and down—the “lust look.” It never works. He looks too much like the Qantas Airlines koala bear.
Clay gives me a wink. I close the door and watch him drive off.
Growing up in a small New England factory town has its charms: friendly neighbors; a slow, leisurely pace; and no need to lock doors. It also has its demons, and I am about to have Thanksgiving dinner with several of them.
I wander into the dining room to check on the table. Handmade place cards grace each setting. All our names are there—except for two. Dad died ten years ago and Tamisha, my eight-year-old niece, died of a rare blood disease a year later.
Tony, my pseudo-intellectual, Peter Pan brother, married and divorced three times, is always peddling schemes that depend on money, time, and effort from everyone but him. When they fail to materialize, it’s anybody’s fault but his.
Junior, Tony's fourteen-year-old son, is on his right. Thandy, a musician is Junior and Tamisha’s mom. Tamisha's death put her over the edge. She’s in a psychiatric hospital. Three months after Tamisha’s funeral, the police found her wandering stark naked down Main Street, playing “God Bless the Child” on her saxophone and proclaiming the second coming of Billie Holiday.
Adrienne, my younger sister lives her life as an empty journal waiting for an entry. The man she married wrote his life story all over her. How my sister managed to give birth to a steady flame of sanity like Sydney is beyond me.
On Mom's right is an extra setting with no place card. Huh?
Back in the kitchen, Mom samples the greens, smacks her lips, and looks at us with a twinkle in her eyes and says, “Guess who's coming to dinner?”
Intruder alert! Thanksgiving dinners at our house are traditionally limited to spouses and children. Spouses, not being blood relatives, are tolerated as social necessities; dates, lovers and friends are actively discouraged or received with frosty politeness. Who could have wormed their way into Mom’s good graces?
Merle Fontaine of the Philadelphia Fontaines is Mom's first cousin. Merle doesn't walk into a room; she sweeps in. With a swift motion of one manicured hand, her mink coat leaves her shoulders, traces a graceful arc through the air and lands on the stool next to Adrienne. Her hair, is swept up into a classic ponytail and the sparkle of her expensive jewelry pales before the twenty-four-carat joy in her eyes.
A few minutes later, dinner is ready. Merle’s face is animated. Her hands fly through the air, and she tosses her words in our direction.
“Now, darlings,” she says, “tell me what you've been up to. I'm dying to hear!”
By the time Merle asks me about my life, the usual family drama is nonexistent—no interruptions or unsolicited advice. No bickering. How is this happening? Why is it happening? And most of all, why can't it happen when it’s just us?
With my mouth full of stuffing and gravy, I suddenly know. Merle isn't trying to fix our problems or change us. She is simply giving each of us her full attention instead of telling us what we “should” do. Mom doesn’t do that, I don’t think Adrienne and Tony are capable of doing that, and as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t do that either! I put my fork down and sit stock still as the hard truth hits full force. I’ve got as many “oughts,” “shoulds,” and critiques as Mom does! The only difference is, she says hers out loud. Mine are silent and just as deadly. Oh, my God. I’m one of the demons I’ve been complaining about!
I wonder what would happen if I listen, really listen to Mom's stories of stoic perseverance; to Adrienne's “poor me” stories or if I listen to Tony and hear his pain? Maybe nothing, maybe everything, but it might be worth a try.
I feel a rush of love for my slightly dysfunctional, but very normal, family. It fills me up and tunes me in, at least for this moment. I give thanks for the insight. It seems an appropriate thing to do on this day.
An hour later, amid hugs and goodbyes, Merle heads off to Cape Cod, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and seeds for healthy new growth in the bonds between my family and me.
At 6:00 sharp, Clay arrives to rescue me, except I no longer feel the need to be rescued. He notices the smile on my face as we walk to the car.
"What's up, cupcake?"
I tuck my arm through his as we walk.
“Clay,” I say, hugging my new feelings close to my heart, “guess who came to
dinner?”
Food for Thought
How and when during dinner does Virgie gain clarity on her role in the family?
What role does Merle plays in Virgie’s change of heart?
Does this story say anything to you about relationships in your family or social groups?
Every family has its share of dysfunctional members but sometimes we are the dysfunctional ones and don’t realize it.
I am not a happy camper.
This is the first time I'll be alone with my family for a holiday since Clay and I got married.
“Here you go, hon,” Clay says. “Pick you up at six. Okay? Then we'll go home and lick each other's wounds.” His eyebrows draw together and wriggle up and down—the “lust look.” It never works. He looks too much like the Qantas Airlines koala bear.
Clay gives me a wink. I close the door and watch him drive off.
Growing up in a small New England factory town has its charms: friendly neighbors; a slow, leisurely pace; and no need to lock doors. It also has its demons, and I am about to have Thanksgiving dinner with several of them.
I wander into the dining room to check on the table. Handmade place cards grace each setting. All our names are there—except for two. Dad died ten years ago and Tamisha, my eight-year-old niece, died of a rare blood disease a year later.
Tony, my pseudo-intellectual, Peter Pan brother, married and divorced three times, is always peddling schemes that depend on money, time, and effort from everyone but him. When they fail to materialize, it’s anybody’s fault but his.
Junior, Tony's fourteen-year-old son, is on his right. Thandy, a musician is Junior and Tamisha’s mom. Tamisha's death put her over the edge. She’s in a psychiatric hospital. Three months after Tamisha’s funeral, the police found her wandering stark naked down Main Street, playing “God Bless the Child” on her saxophone and proclaiming the second coming of Billie Holiday.
Adrienne, my younger sister lives her life as an empty journal waiting for an entry. The man she married wrote his life story all over her. How my sister managed to give birth to a steady flame of sanity like Sydney is beyond me.
On Mom's right is an extra setting with no place card. Huh?
Back in the kitchen, Mom samples the greens, smacks her lips, and looks at us with a twinkle in her eyes and says, “Guess who's coming to dinner?”
Intruder alert! Thanksgiving dinners at our house are traditionally limited to spouses and children. Spouses, not being blood relatives, are tolerated as social necessities; dates, lovers and friends are actively discouraged or received with frosty politeness. Who could have wormed their way into Mom’s good graces?
Merle Fontaine of the Philadelphia Fontaines is Mom's first cousin. Merle doesn't walk into a room; she sweeps in. With a swift motion of one manicured hand, her mink coat leaves her shoulders, traces a graceful arc through the air and lands on the stool next to Adrienne. Her hair, is swept up into a classic ponytail and the sparkle of her expensive jewelry pales before the twenty-four-carat joy in her eyes.
A few minutes later, dinner is ready. Merle’s face is animated. Her hands fly through the air, and she tosses her words in our direction.
“Now, darlings,” she says, “tell me what you've been up to. I'm dying to hear!”
By the time Merle asks me about my life, the usual family drama is nonexistent—no interruptions or unsolicited advice. No bickering. How is this happening? Why is it happening? And most of all, why can't it happen when it’s just us?
With my mouth full of stuffing and gravy, I suddenly know. Merle isn't trying to fix our problems or change us. She is simply giving each of us her full attention instead of telling us what we “should” do. Mom doesn’t do that, I don’t think Adrienne and Tony are capable of doing that, and as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t do that either! I put my fork down and sit stock still as the hard truth hits full force. I’ve got as many “oughts,” “shoulds,” and critiques as Mom does! The only difference is, she says hers out loud. Mine are silent and just as deadly. Oh, my God. I’m one of the demons I’ve been complaining about!
I wonder what would happen if I listen, really listen to Mom's stories of stoic perseverance; to Adrienne's “poor me” stories or if I listen to Tony and hear his pain? Maybe nothing, maybe everything, but it might be worth a try.
I feel a rush of love for my slightly dysfunctional, but very normal, family. It fills me up and tunes me in, at least for this moment. I give thanks for the insight. It seems an appropriate thing to do on this day.
An hour later, amid hugs and goodbyes, Merle heads off to Cape Cod, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and seeds for healthy new growth in the bonds between my family and me.
At 6:00 sharp, Clay arrives to rescue me, except I no longer feel the need to be rescued. He notices the smile on my face as we walk to the car.
"What's up, cupcake?"
I tuck my arm through his as we walk.
“Clay,” I say, hugging my new feelings close to my heart, “guess who came to
dinner?”
Food for Thought
How and when during dinner does Virgie gain clarity on her role in the family?
What role does Merle plays in Virgie’s change of heart?
Does this story say anything to you about relationships in your family or social groups?
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Copyright © 2025 Beth Gibbs