Cooking with Seawater

An Excerpt

photo taken by me in Saint Lucia July 2012

Caribbean mothers are daughters the sea has always loved and never quite held. These are women whose ancestors litter floor and whose little feet have traced countless paths along salted sands of beaches, but have never quite stayed. They are women who are trapped away from home’s seawater and freedom but remember the sensation of toes curled in damp sand and straighten their spine. The sea misses them, caressing their little feet, and would love to hold them as women. I’m sure sometimes the sea fantasizes. I know I fantasize about how toes feel in warm Caribbean water. I can lay on the beat-up black couch in the living room and fantasize about seawater mist on face. I’ve had practice from our summer visits to Coney Island.

We would ride the Q train to the last stop. The seats are never pristine. We wait eagerly for a seat to open up when I was still big enough to sit on her lap. We wait eagerly for two seats when my weight is too much for her thighs but not her soul. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a book for me. I eventually start carrying my own. Transitioning from cramped train car to beach is almost indiscernible. Bodies are packed just as tightly on the boardwalk. Brown skin, Black skin, White skin, shades of lattes, damp skin. Sweaty bodies and moist toes. We dig our toes into the sand.

“Is it the same?”

I stare at the sadness seeping into her eyes or maybe it’s just memories of the past. She struggles to find the right words.

“It’s never the same. It’s half as sweet. Half as homey. Half the ocean.”

“How can it be half the ocean?”

“I would love to see the sand and my toes through the water. I would love to feel—see coconut trees. Have a pot dark and burnt bubbling over five feet away boiling with pig meat and dumplings fueled by old cracking leaves and expert hands. I want you to know how the ocean smells surrounded by trees, not skyscrapers.”

         We dig our toes into the sand. I practice smelling the difference like I know any better. I practiced fantasizing. I still do.

My fantasies are often interrupted by the scent of heavily seasoned meats permeating the air. It has the heavy thickness of hard work, onions, and no more empty bellies to it. If she stepped away for too long I would step carefully into the kitchen. There is an art to stealing meat. Lift pot lid off. Be quick with spoon or fork, spoons are preferred (that way you get some sauce). Do NOT slam lid. Slowly lower or slide the lid depending on the pot. Devour chicken quickly so you are not caught. Hide spoon or fork to be recovered and washed at a later date. If you are caught FREEZE. Be prepared to be called a “thieving cat” and scolded. Perhaps lose TV privileges. “Patience is a trait all good women have.” Pretend to feel sorry. “If you practice stealing at home. You will steal outside the home.” Actually feel ashamed. If you avoid these parts go back to lying on the couch and inhaling thick scent of seasoning and no more empty bellies. Inhale deeply and fill your stomach. Then smile. Go back to fantasizing.

        These memories are only eclipsed by memories of eating with hands. I liked the way she would allow me to eat with my hands. It is easier to taste the soul of the earth when hands are dug deep into plate of provisions like yam and cassava and salt fish and memories of a place that she called home. Slender fingers bend and scoop sometimes mashing rough provision into a saucy mush. Dasheen, sauce, and salt fish mashed into paste is easy to scoop with fingers. No messes, I’ve watched her do it a thousand times. It is no disservice to meal or to self to bring head closer to plate, tip it slightly, and relax fingers. It is never okay to throw sauce away. I learned to mop floors by mopping hard dough bread across surface of plate. There is no sweeter silence than the silence of fingers mopping sauce off plates.

---

9/11/2016 was the date I started writing the novel from which this is an excerpt. Last I checked the word count stands at 44210 words. Although I haven’t finished it, I have the feeling that I’ll circle back and revamp it (god willing). I’m a stronger writer now and can’t wait to give it a facelift. There are some things in the novel that I need to revamp, but; I read the last paragraph here and was blown away. It’s nice to revisit old works that have this effect.

*I’ve finally set up a “buy me a coffee” page so if you’re not quite ready to become a paid subscriber but want to spare a little coin you can do so here!*

TELL ME:
Have you ever had food cooked next to the open water? Is there a meal that you liked cooking with your family growing up or now? What was your favorite line here? What is your favorite food-related memory?

Read some of my other pieces here:

1. How To Pray With Your Lover's Body
2. The Angry Black Woman Deserves to Rage
3. Smiling With No Teeth
4. Humbleness Is A Luxury I Can't Afford
5. Black Business: Blackness, Rejection, and How Wealth & Whiteness Works Against You Because It Worked For You


For all of you who have already subscribed thanks so much!! For those of you who haven’t subscribed yet, it’s never too late to join my smart and funny subscribers (nickname sadly still pending)!

As usual tune in next Tuesday for my next newsletter.