Waning Memories

When I dream of my youth, I return to a place where the days are not dictated by the tick of a clock, but rather the holler of chickens and the rise and fall of the sun in the sky. There are no strict schedules, just the daily duties that begin when the rooster crows and end when the sun is out of sight. In every direction, mountains project themselves out of the earth, overshadowing the valley below. A valley rich with fields of sugarcane and lush grass scattering the landscape and stretching themselves to the dense forest at the base of the hills, divided only by the poorly-kept network of dirt roads. This is home. A home where I do not reside but am deeply connected to. Home because the stress and bustle of life in New York seem to melt away, fading into the peripheries of my mind. Home because I am surrounded by the people I love most in the world. Home because I do not have to worry about being anyone for anybody. I can just be me. 

In the middle of this vast landscape lies a farmhouse, painted white with a red tin roof. It is the birthplace of many memories: eating oranges on the back veranda before breakfast, the occasional midnight braying of the donkey, the rain on the tin roof which ensured a good night's sleep. Right off the porch, the long dirt driveway, which transitions to paved concrete slabs leading to the garage, slopes gently downward until it reaches a large red gate painted to match the roof. Many warm days were spent cruising down the driveway on my little blue bike, first with training wheels, then without, relying on gravity to carry me until I learned to pedal on my own. Orange and mango trees towered over me, their branches reaching towards the sky in an effort to grab every ounce of sun, shielding me from its harsh rays. Morning, noon, and night I would be greeted by the aromas of my Nan’s cooking: the sweet smell of pumpkin and squash wafting from the oven as they baked, onions as they sweated in a pan amongst a medley of dark leafy greens and tomatoes from the garden out back, and saltfish from the local market. Nan moved fluidly around the kitchen, chopping, stirring and flipping all in tempo to music playing in the background. Without fail she would greet me with a smile, gesturing towards me with a wooden spoon, an invitation to sample whatever was stewing in the pots. For years the smells of the foods that our earth provided us provoked memories of the past—memories of our family gathered around the dining room table, laughing and joking, not a care in the world other than being present in the moment and enjoying the company of each other.

The farm continues to bear a mystifying aura. After so many years, I’d like to believe that I am familiar with its inner workings, yet it remains full of surprises—the marriage records of my great-grandparents tucked away in unassuming drawers, a go-kart my dad built when I was a baby that I find hidden away underneath the house, or simply the fruits and vegetables scattered across the kitchen counter whose location of origin is unknown. Some of the fruits I love, others I hate, and most I can’t name.

Most mystifying of all is how the farm never seems to change. Year after year, it stays frozen in time; the only thing aging is the people. The days still go the same, oranges on the back patio at sunrise, family breakfast shortly after followed by whatever farm duties need to be attended to. But rather than being awakened by the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen, it is now I who wake up early to fire up the old gas stove, which I’d spent countless hours of my youth watching, mesmerized as its blue flames licked the bottom of stockpots. Whenever she is feeling good enough to get out of bed, my Nan will come join me, lending oversight from her stool. She can no longer provide the same guidance as in my earlier years, my hand in hers, showing me what decades of practice had taught her. Even though her days of guiding my hands as they flip or stir whatever is in the pots and pans are behind us, even from her chair, she still wears the same white apron that I had become accustomed to in my youth. She will occasionally chime in to point out when I’m doing something wrong or to spark conversation about my life, telling me to study hard and that will make my dreams come true. Cooking with her is something that I have always loved to do, surrounded by the hardwood cabinets crafted by my grandad and the linoleum countertops,  whether it was making buns in preparation for Easter or fruit cake around Christmas time. Being by her side in the kitchen is among my fondest memories. First it was I who resided on that same stool, too small to see over the counter. It gave me a nice vantage point where I could observe her as she danced around the kitchen. As years passed, her battle with Parkinson's disease began to take some of the pep out of her step, and as I grew taller, she began to rely more and more on my “young hands” as a way to combat the tremors. Frequently reminding me of her own mortality, she would try and instill as much of her wisdom in me as possible. “Those who don’t hear must feel,” she told me after I burned my hand on a pot, which she had already told me was hot. Much of this I took at face value, but as I aged, I learned that her lessons and teaching reached far beyond the kitchen. Not only was she teaching me how to cook, more importantly she was trying to teach me how to live. Young and naive, I was yet to acquaint myself with the harshness of the world that existed outside of my Westchester bubble, and she took it upon herself to prepare me. 

Still that same young and naive kid, I'm yet to leave Westchester and stand before the wrath of this world in which we live, but when the time comes, I know I'll be accompanied by her voice in the back of my head, helping me navigate whatever the future has in store. Although I don’t have an innate passion for food, nor am I a culinary genius, cooking transports me back to my days in the kitchen, a mix of words and static blare from the radio and goats grazing in the pastures visible from the window. Because she is unable to write, I had Nan recite her most famous recipes, which I recorded and stored in the voice memos of my phone. Occasionally, when cooking one of them, I am sad to think that our days of making them together are over. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, maybe it isn't, but either way, it is what it is.