Although I always say that these readings really resonate with me, I don’t even know how to emphasize the ways that this reading stuck with me. As a baby, my mom brought me up smelling the different spices we had around the house. Now, ironically enough, my mom isn’t usually the one doing the cooking in the family, it’s always been my dad (with me by his side as soon as I could safely and effectively use a knife). But both of my parents have always emphasized the importance of cooking, and of cooking well; it’s a staple of self-sufficiency, of health, and it cares for you, body, mind, and spirit. Sometimes when I was little and even to this day, my parents will cook something and jokingly ask me what they put in it, and I can almost always pick out every spice, every seasoning, and tell them to add a little more salt. Before I knew how to cook from those fancy recipes online, my father taught me vibration cooking. I remember, when I was no more than 14, making a soup; beef, carrots, the usual, and flinging open the spice drawer, smelling my favorites and throwing in what felt right. My parents remember that soup to this day it was so good. Yesterday, I made one of the few things that my mom cooks, because when she cooks, it’s always West Indian food because she knows how to cook her childhood meals best. She makes curried goat when I come home, and last year taught me how to make my favorite okra and rice. This break, I came home and made my mom’s classic okra and rice but with my spin on it, adding tomatoes and onions, chicken broth and thyme, among other things. There was something special about her face when I gave it to her. “You made it different. What did you put?” First skeptical, I was toying with a classic after all, her face beamed with pride as she reached for seconds. Watching her eat the second plate quietly was somehow one of the most profound moments of pride for me. She handed down something to me, something that she grew up with, something very small, and I honored it and made it my own. She didn’t have to say she liked it, or even smile (which is a rare occurrence for her and her family), just the quiet enjoyment of the second plate told me I did something right. When I sent her a picture of the curried goat recipe in Verta Mae’s book, she asked me if I had tried it out. I joked with her that I didn’t have the money for goat or the big old crockpot, but knowing she trusted me with the more complex family favorite at all meant a lot. When I cook now, I cook everything, things I’ve learned from friends, online, maybe even late night stress baking. But when I cook my mom’s recipes, I remember all of the memories that came with her food, like Verta Mae does. It helps me disconnect and get into the flow of something, to feed and nourish myself, and in a much smaller way, I feel that I’m honoring my parents and the people who raised them, too. Recipes can feel like home. When I warm up my okra and rice I made last night writing this, I feel like my mom is there too, and she’d want me to do my best–only after I’ve had something to eat at mandatory family dinner.
