Food Memoir

Endless Kitchen

I stumble up the steps, arms full of luggage. Reaching the top of the flight, a faint sizzling noise continues just beyond the door. As the door glides open, I see my grandparents, a flurry of Spanish exchanged between my father and them, telling of our journey from our house, and all the other happenings and occurrences that had taken place since the last two weeks we had seen them.

My grandfather continues to stir-fry a bundle of assorted greens, tossing in more salt, oil, and spices; a misty haze of steam hovering around the kitchen, under the bright lights, illuminating every ingredient and food in a warm orange-yellow glow.

Along the array of the cooktop, lazy susan, counters, and many drawers, food sits” chicken, beef, rice, carrots, plantains, beans, wilted greens, and more ingredients which seemed to continue indefinitely, arranged more or less in order of their preparation.

Thud.

Chop.

Thud.

From the kitchen emerges a cacophony of sounds. Sometimes, it's the rhythmic chopping of vegetables to be sauteed, boiled, or made into stock. Other times it's the sounds of my grandfather’s cleaver forcefully separating apart pieces of meat. Or it's the sound of the refrigerator thudding shut, the oven creaking open, pans clattering against one another, and every once in a while, the rolling boil of some pot’s mysterious contents, or the crackling of raw meat in a piping hot pan.

As the sounds of the kitchen die out one after one, plates of food would pile up high on the dining room table. It could be crunchy, meaty chicken wings, or the crisp shell surrounding the moist interior of a freshly fried plantain chip. It could be different every time, but what never changed was the taste.

My grandfather could have made any dish, and it would have tasted miles different from its counterparts. His chicken wings were uniquely salty, tender, covered in soft spice-covered skin, or his savory and textured fried rice that was unrepeatable by anyone else besides him. It was his special techniques and care he put into cooking, his intuition of knowing when to add a pinch of this, or when to balance out that, that gave him his magic, and made every meal of his special.

As I now look back, whenever I have tried to replicate his chicken wing and his fried rice, or even a bowl of steamed greens, they ever come out the same; however the more I attempt, the more memories come back -- memories of times when we would all meet for one holiday or another, and share a meal together. Now when my dad makes Arroz con Pollo or roasted pork shoulder for a holiday or a gathering with friends, people always comment on the food, even asking for the recipes. Although I may never be able to come close to his cooking, I hope to eventually create my own memories of foods for people to remember, and continue to pass along my memories of him, keeping that moment of him chopping in that bright smoke-filled kitchen alive.