It was the scent that woke me. The fragrance of freshly picked peppers, seasonings, and ornamentals filled my senses. It was the smell of home. Food was the one thing that brought my family together. My mother worked often and didn't always have the energy to play with us, and everyone within the house had their own lives. But mealtime was the one time the whole family came together.

My parents and much of my family are immigrants who moved here for a better life. Growing up, I didn't understand what that meant, but I knew we were different. Our lives were different, our clothes were different, and our food was different. When I had a bad day, I would go home, and there would be a pot of stew on the stove and rice in the rice cooker. My family doesn't have a structured mealtime. We eat when we want, listening to our bodies rather than a clock. Food has always brought me closer to my African identity as it was the thing everyone in my family could relate to. We would argue about who makes the best Peanut Butter stew or Pepper Soup. Wherever there was a good moment with my culture, food was there. Sitting on the floors with my cousins and I would all eat from the same bowl with our hands. Those were the moments I look back on.

I went to a school that served free school lunches to children, so I never had the experience of bringing food to school. But there were these pockets of moments when the topic of family dinners and food was brought up. All the kids around me would pop up and talk about the spaghetti they had or the burgers. I didn't want to shy away from talking about my family, so I piped up as well, "I had fried plantains and fufu with soup." Everyone around me was confused, and maybe I should've lied and said spaghetti too, no one would've batted an eye. In an attempt to use this as a learning experience, my teacher pulled up images of African food to show the class. I could hear the low sounds of disgust and snickering from the children around me. I sunk into my seat trying to make myself smaller. They didn’t get to see my mother spending hours preparing fufu. She would wash, cut, and boil the plantains, and sometimes cassava too. Then she would beat them with a mortar and pestle until it reached a dough-like substance. She worked hard to get the perfect texture, all by herself. She did all of this because she wanted us to eat our cultural food. They never got the chance to experience that. they never got the chance to taste my mother's pepper soup. The delicious broth made with onions, habanero peppers, mushrooms, seasonings, chicken, okra, fish, crab, and dried meat. It was the perfect stew that warmed us up on even the coldest of days. Instead of enjoying the food, they pointed and laughed at the meals that brought me home.

That day I put my love away, hiding it, and now finding a new part of my culture to restrict myself from.