Manje Lakay: Food from Home

 

December 31st, 2008

I am eight years old and am lying, half asleep, in my grandmother’s arms. The world around me feels fuzzy and soft as she gently shakes me awake.
“Wake up, Anthonyne”, she whispers in Creole, “The new year is coming; it’s almost time to eat”.

Despite the sleep that was setting in my eyes, I remember slowly peeling myself from my grandma’s arms for the promise of food. Even as a child, I hated missing meals. As I drifted towards the dining room, I could feel my senses slowly returning to me. I took a deep breath in and, instantly, my nose was filled with the scent of soup joumou. The aromas of fresh calabaza squash, fried beef, potatoes, clove, and parsley made my mouth water. I poked my head into the kitchen. I saw the familiar chestnut brown wood cabinets on my left-hand side, silver sink and faucet a little beyond that, and the white and pink tiled island table to my right. In the center of the kitchen, pushed up against the wall is our white stove. On it, I see two large pots boiling thickly. Now that the scent of soup had caused me to shake off any grogginess that I had previously felt, I awaited eagerly for the new year.

 

January 1st, 2009

As my grandmother serves me a bowl of soup, she tells me why we are participating in this tradition. “On January 1st, 1804, we took our independence from the French,” she started proudly “We were the first Black nation in the world to rise up and declare ourselves free from the tyranny of the white man. Before we were free, we were forced into slavery and were treated as less than animals. The white man forced us to work, clean, and cook extravagant meals for him, while we were left with less than scraps. It’s an old rumor that back then, this soup was a favorite delicacy of our oppressors, and we weren’t even allowed to taste it as we cooked. We drink this soup on the anniversary of our freedom as a sign of rebellion against oppression and tyranny everywhere.”

Although my grandmother had told me this story each year, it had always filled me with a sense of pride. I felt proud of my rich cultural background and the traditions that we maintain. Even in my youth, the stories of my ancestors made me want to form a deeper connection with them. What were they like? How did the hardships of their past impact how they viewed the world and other peoples? Would they approve of and be proud to see where I am today? I know that, in this life, my answers would never be answered, so I latched onto what I believe is the best way for me to display some sort of connection to my ancestors: through food.

Food and cooking are important to me because I believe that the foods and meals that we prepare for ourselves are indicative of who we are and what we value. Whether it be ramen noodles or the finest gourmet cuisine, the things we eat are infused with our personalities and cultural history. The herbs and spices that we use are all mediums to display the resources that are available to us and the way in which we view life. So, with this in mind, I made it my goal to become a proficient cook, with my meals seeped in and inspired by Haitian culture and flavors.

 

January, 2010

I stand in the kitchen with my mother, she is preparing mayi moulen ak sos pwa nwa. This meal, consisting of fine cornmeal and black bean sauce, has always been one of my favorites. As the scent of the black bean sauce begins to spread throughout my house, I watch my mother intently, wanting to observe and learn everything from her. My mother fills a separate pot with water, catches me staring, and invites me to help her prepare the cornmeal. I am taken back by her invitation; I’ve never been allowed on the stove before. I have always been scolded for trying to sneak and touch the various pots and pans on the stove. I couldn’t believe that I was finally being allowed to do this. My mother opens the spice cabinet, located directly above our stove, and looks at me expectantly.

“Go on,” she said excitedly, “start making the base for the cornmeal.”

With great hesitance, I began adding spices to the water. As I had no clue as to which herbs were supposed to be in mayi moulen, I haphazardly seasoned the water until I felt satisfied.

I remember hearing my mother snicker behind me as I poured a mountain of cayenne pepper and bouillon cubes into the now boiling pot. I looked at her with pleading eyes, but she stared back at me with a soft face.

“Just do what feels right. If you think that you are done, taste it” she coaxed. At that, I grabbed a spoon from the utensil drawer and did as she said. I immediately began coughing; it was disgusting. I had added too much cayenne and not enough of anything else.

“Next time, taste the water as you add things to it”, my mother laughed as she reopened the spice cabinet and began fixing my mistakes.
In the end, our meal was phenomenal. Although my seasoning skills were well below par, it was my first step towards my goal of being a proficient cook. By allowing me to make mistakes and take chances in the kitchen, my mother opened a world of wonder to me.

 

June, 2018

I have just graduated high school. At this time, I have learned how to cook a suite of what I consider to be my favorite Haitian foods. This includes soup joumou, turkey neck, mayi moulen, legume, akasan, diri djondjon, and griot, among other things. Each of these foods have an important cultural and personal connection to me. The flavors, spices, and the act of cooking traditional Haitian food brings me peace and a strong feeling of connectedness to my family and history.

My skills in the kitchen have progressed to the point where my mother allows me to cook Thanksgiving dinners for our immediate and extended family, while claiming that she has slaved over each and every dish. I don’t mind, the flavors of my cooking are distinct enough from my mothers and no one is fooled by her claims. As I passed them by, the elders in my family always gave me a knowing smile.

As I set out to begin the next chapter in my life I feel scared for what is to come, but I know that no matter what, I carry these recipes with me. In times of great struggle or loneliness, I know that I have these familiar flavors and food items to bring me a sense of home and comfort.

 

October, 2018

I am three months into my freshman year of college at ESF and the transition has been rough, to say the least. Besides the overwhelming feelings of homesickness, social isolation, and cultural shock from the move upstate, I haven’t cooked or had a home cooked meal in months. At this point in time, I had resigned myself to finding energy in a diet consisting of chips and any food that I found palatable and could fit into a hidden Tupperware container in my bookbag. For months, I tightroped between the lines of feeling satiated and in good spirits and depressed due to hunger and the lack of food made with a familiar love.

One day, after a particularly disappointing dinner via Sadler Hall, I found myself unable to resist buying groceries at the West Campus express convenience store and visiting the community kitchen in Centennial Hall. Although the convenience store lacked the groceries that I was accustomed to using at home, I decided that I’d be well off making a quick meal of diri kole with a premade barbeque chicken. Diri kole, Haiti’s version of red beans and rice, was a fairly simple staple meal that I had learned to perfect before leaving home. I remember thinking that no matter how much I hated my college experience, everything would be okay if I was able to cook and eat something familiar. Something within me knew that I would be fortified by feeling connected to my home and culture.

I remember walking into the kitchen in Centen and being taken aback by the scene set before me. The walls were splashed in bright yellow, bordering neon in terms of annoying luminescence. On the right side of the room was a small and old dining table, the color of ash wood, paired with four matching chairs. In the right corner of the left wall stood a large white top-freezer refrigerator. The white electric stove in the left corner of the room was covered in food and oil splatter. I didn’t let the ugliness of the room discourage me; I put on Haitian music and continued with the task at hand. I poured myself into the process of cooking and lost track of time. As the smell of my meal filled the room, I found that, for the first time in months, my feelings of anxiety and loneliness subsided. The ugliness of Centen’s kitchen faded away and was replaced with the chestnut brown wood cabinets, silver sink and faucet, and the white and pink tiled island table of my home. I allowed myself to fully enter the familiar mental space that cooking had put me in. Finally, my meal was complete.

When I finally placed the fork to my lips, I was more than surprised as to the way that my cooking made me feel. The diri was fluffy, spiced, and cooked to perfection. The chicken, although from frozen origins, tasted somewhat homemade due to the mix of vegetables that I added to it. For a fleeting moment, I could imagine the matriarchs of my family standing behind me with an approving look on their faces. Despite the hatred that I bore for my physical location, the mental space that preparing this meal placed me in caused me to feel at peace.

Looking back at this experience, I have made a major realization. I have realized that, sometimes, I will be forced to create the spaces that I desire to be in. As someone who comes from a culture with a small population in this region, the spaces that I crave are not always readily available to me. In upstate New York I have seen no Haitian restaurants, no Haitian churches, and no Haitian markets or specialty goods stores. In the city of Syracuse, I can count the number of people with the same cultural background as me on both of my hands. The creation and ability to navigate these types of spaces are important to me because they act as a source of personal comfort and joy. I also find the creation of space important because it allows me the opportunity to connect with and share my experiences with others who may resonate with them.

 

April, 2021

Easter Sunday. For my family, this day is typically associated with magical bunnies, long church services, dip dyed eggs, and bonding activities. As a result of COVID-19, this was my first Easter apart from my immediate family. As such, I felt that it was very important for me to create a meal that made me feel connected and close to them. After hours of contemplation, I decided to make diri djondjon, griot, salade russe, and fried plantains.

Diri djondjon is rice made with a dried black mushroom that is endemic to northern Haiti; djondjon mushrooms are considered a delicacy and infuse food with an earthy, savory taste. Throughout my childhood, I remember being excited to get fresh djondjon from my grandfather whenever he’d visit the U.S. from Haiti. Griot is braised and fried pork shoulder. I added griot, fried plantains, and salade russe (Oliver salad with beets) to the meal because they are my favorite side dishes.

When making this meal, I had my mother on the phone with me the entire time. I tried to convince her that she needed to stay on the line because I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to mess anything up. I knew that my mother saw through my excuses, as I have made more complicated meals in the past, but I was glad that she played along with my act. I allowed myself to let go of the sadness that I felt because of my inability to be with my family for this holiday, and to fully immerse myself into the act of cooking while being led by the sound of her voice.

When my food was finished, I didn’t even need to taste it to know that it was excellent. The djondjon had turned my rice into the perfect shade of black, the griot was tender and smelled of citrus and scotch bonnet peppers, the plantains were golden brown, and the salade russe looked perfectly pink. I remember thanking my mother for helping me throughout the cooking process and being shocked at what she said before she hung up.

“You know” she said “Next time you want to spend some time talking to me, you don’t have to make up excuses. You didn’t need any cooking directions, and we both know that you are too good to be getting tips from me anymore. I’m glad that we did this, though. I feel like I’m with you right now.”.
At this, I was at a loss for words. Although she was teasing me for pretending to need help, she had said something that made my heart beat out of my chest. “I feel like I’m with you right now.”. To know that my mother had also used this call as a means of feeling closer to me had made me very happy; we both had a moment of bonding despite being hundreds of miles away from one another.

That day, I imagined my mother as she made dinner for my sisters; she always played and dramatically sang old Haitian love songs when she was in a good mood. I hope that she envisioned me dancing around the chestnut wood kitchen cabinets with her, happy to be home.

 

December 31st, 2036.

It is just before midnight as I stand over a boiling pot of soup joumou. The aroma of the hearty soup is intoxicating, and I am sure that this batch of soup is the best that I have ever made. I take a ladle, dip it into the pot, and taste my efforts. A smile forms on my lips; this is my best batch. My smile widens as I imagine my grandmother standing just behind me with an approving look on her face. I imagine how proud she’d be if she could see me today. Cooking has remained as one of my greatest passions and I happily share my creations with the people that I love.

I exit the kitchen and enter my living room, where I find most of my family beginning to fall asleep.

“Wake up”, I gently whisper in Creole, “The new year is coming; it’s almost time to eat”.

Anthonyne Metelus is a graduating senior in the Conservation Biology program at ESF with minors in Forestry and Environmental Writing & Rhetoric. In her time at ESF Anthonyne has written articles for Syracuse University’s The Daily Orange. In her leisure time, Anthonyne enjoys cooking, reading, and crafting.