The Teas We Were Raised On: A Rooted History of Black Herbalism in the Kitchen

You don’t have to reach far back—or imagine too hard—to understand Black herbalism. Most of us have already lived inside it. It looked like a kitchen with scuffed counters and a familiar hum. A single pot that worked harder than any other object in the house. Roots laid out to dry along a windowsill, or tucked into paper bags in a cabinet. And always, someone older—steady, certain—handing you a cup and saying, “Drink this. You’ll be alright.”

That wasn’t folklore. That was practice. That was care passed hand to hand.

How the Teas Were Prepared

These remedies almost always began as teas, but not the fragile kind we think of today. They were not lightly steeped or delicately scented. These were infusions and decoctions—strong, intentional, built for extraction. Water was asked to work. Time was essential.

A pot would sit on the stove or over an open flame, sometimes for hours. The water slowly deepened in color as bark, roots, and dense plant matter released what they held. You can still hear it if you slow yourself down enough: the dull tap of a metal spoon against the pot, the soft scrape as it’s nudged closer to heat, the low murmur of simmering water doing its job.

Roots like sassafras, sarsaparilla, mayapple, and ginger were boiled low and slow. The air grew thick with steam—sharp and sweet all at once—settling into the walls, the skin, the clothes. That smell lingered long after the pot was lifted from the burner. Leaves, needles, or more delicate plants were added later, when the heat had done its deeper work. Sometimes the tea was strained. Sometimes it wasn’t. It was poured into jars, cups, or reused bottles, taken warm or reheated, sipped throughout the day as needed.

How Often They Were Used

The pot didn’t sit on the stove constantly—but it was never far away. A pour in the morning. A reheat later. Finished by night. And sometimes, started all over again the next day. This was not occasional medicine; it was part of the daily rhythm.

These teas existed in response to real conditions. Poor ventilation. Damp floors. Homes that trapped heat and moisture. Too many people sharing too little space. Food that had to stretch. Labor that didn’t stop just because someone felt off. Something was always settling somewhere in the body—congestion, inflammation, fatigue, grief—and the tea was already there, waiting.

This wasn’t about trends or wellness culture. It was about staying upright. Staying functional. Staying alive. The knowledge lived in repetition, in observation, in knowing what the body needed before it fully spoke. These teas were not extraordinary—they were necessary. And for many of us, they remain a quiet inheritance, still working in the background, whether we name it or not.