01/15/2020
The scent of homemade breakfast on Sunday mornings still lingers in my mind from when I was a kid. The fluffy cloud-like pancakes, the crispy yet soft bacon, and the bright yellow eggs bring back some of the greatest memories of my life. They bring back those oh so tender memories of home.
I remember the first time I saw my grandmother cooking. I had run in and out of the kitchen thousands of times, never paying attention to what was going on and just solely focused on playing or whatever I was into as a kid. I could not have been any older than six or seven when I just stopped for a moment and looked at what she was doing. As I remember, she was making Succotash. It’s this mixture of beans and other vegetables in a tomato-based broth that was everything. Mostly, it’s a side dish, but when my Nanny made it and added sausage, it was a dish that would fill you up in an instant. I remember asking her what it was and her simply replying, “FOOD.” When I was growing up, after we got a reply from an elder, we just accepted it and left it alone regardless of any other questions we might have had.
So, since I knew there wasn’t much I could ask without getting popped in the mouth for asking too many questions, I just watched. I watched how even with a simple dish like Succotash, she would put her heart and soul into every step of its creation. I watched her delicately slice and dice each vegetable. I watched her brown them in as much butter as possible before she added in the vegetable and tomato stock she’d made ahead of time. I watched how she gently stirred her creation, adding a dash of whatever seasoning and a pinch of whichever spice. Ever so often she would taste just a tiny bit to see if it met her standards. And every time it was never quite right. I would sit anxiously at the dinner table and stalk her every move. Then finally, I knew it was ready when after that final taste she would calmly let out an “Mhmm” with her eyes closed.
Every time I would hear her make that sound, I would get the biggest smile in the world on my face. That’s because I knew it was time to eat, and if Nanny made it then it was about to light up your spirit. Nanny was always a great cook. From peach cobbler to her famous baked Macaroni & Cheese, she was a Top Chef in her own right. But, the main thing I remember about Nanny is the portions. It could just be me she was cooking for at the moment, but she would cook as if the entire city was coming over for dinner. “You never know who’s going to come over and you never know who’s gonna be hungry,” she would always say. That was how her heart worked. Every single dish she made with love to be shared with any and everyone who wanted it.
That’s definitely where my passion for cooking came from. I know for a fact that’s where her eldest son’s passion, my Uncle Leonard, came from. From him, through her, I learned to make the most incredible, flavorful, and heart-warming dishes. I learned the ins and outs of the kitchen. I learned about every tool or utensil that helps you turn the most basic of ingredients into an incredible meal. Being who I am, naturally, I looked up every book about cooking, every article, and watched Food Network or other cooking segments as long as my eyes could stay open. And that is who I became. Whether I’m adding as much butter as I can to everything like Paula Deen or I’m trying to spice everything up like Emeril Lagasse, cooking became a passion. A passion I let slip away from me because I let myself get too busy, or I worked too long, or I focused on the wrong things and just said fuck it, let’s just get take-out.
For a long time, I looked at cooking as a wasteful process that consumed too much time. Picking up take-out was just easier for the crazy, busy, and hectic life I decided to build for myself. Since my Nanny’s death 6 months ago, it hadn’t occurred to me until recently that cooking was something she gave to me.
Now, I’m seeing that cooking is just one of the ways I can hold on to her. When I cook now, I can hear her humming some old Gospel song, and sense her watching over me to make sure I don’t burn the macaroni. It’s one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me, and I know she’s smiling down on me just for saying that. It’s more than just cooking and eating, it’s remembering.
— M.