I grew up in Jamaica surrounded by flavors that didn’t ask permission. I migrated to the US, built a career, became a mother, and somewhere in the middle of it all I lost my kitchen. Here’s how I found my way back
Food wasn’t just food where I came from.
It was how we communicated love. How we celebrated. How we grieved. How we showed up for each other without needing to say a word.
Then I migrated to the United States. I went to school, then school again, two masters degrees because I refused to stop. Built a career. Became a mother twice. And somewhere in the middle of all of it; the degrees, the hustle, the bills, the kids, I looked up and realized I had drifted far from the kitchen that raised me.
America does that. It replaces slow with fast. Homemade with convenient.
But the flavors never left me. They were always there, in the way I still reach for scotch bonnet peppers at the grocery store. In the Grace jerk marinade that never leaves my refrigerator door.
On the hardest days I make oxtail. Low and slow. All day. It takes patience and it rewards you completely.
Does anyone else cook the food of their childhood to stay connected to who they are?