In My Grandmother's Kitchen

One of my favorite places, growing up, was my grandmother’s kitchen. I watched as she lovingly and painstakingly prepared meals for our family.

My grandmother did not mince words. She spoke her truth unapologetically. And yet, we always knew she loved us unconditionally. We saw it in the way she made special accommodations for our individual quirks when preparing our meals — one child didn’t eat this, another wanted extra of that. She knew us all and made provisions for every one of us.

She took care of us without question or complaint, except to remind us that we were “a generation of vipers” when we got sassy or disobedient. I often fell into the category of sassy.

Without a formal education, she spoke words of wisdom in her rich Jamaican dialect. If we were sassy, we inherited it honestly — from her. She could outwit and out-sass any one of us.

These are not recipes, but lessons learned as she grated coconuts, chopped vegetables, and kneaded dough for her delectable delights.

To my grandmother, with all my love.