A Spoonful Of Home

Art by Aleks Carney

“Nicole, make sure you aren’t wearing a white shirt while eating that roti!” My mom exclaimed. 

This phrase was recited throughout my childhood—My mom was always scared that I would spill curry on my clothing, since curry is known to stain. Afterwards, she would do her shopping at the supermarket with me tagging alongside her; my mom would travel the couple blocks to the Caribbean shop to buy roti for us to eat with our curry chicken. This Caribbean cuisine brings me back to my childhood in Brooklyn whenever I bite into the spicy, lip-numbing dish.

I’m sitting in the back of my dad’s truck, my mom to his right. My feet are dangling off the seat as I’m dressed in brown boots with white fur on the insides, a knee-length skirt with white tights underneath, and whichever cheesy dress shirt my mom picked from The Children’s Place for me to wear. Two ponytails in my hair, looking down at my mom’s homemade cheesecake as we make the forty-five minute drive to Long Island. When I was younger, my dad’s side of the family would gather every year to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas with each other, creating some of my favorite memories from my childhood. I remember the exact layout of my aunt and uncle’s house,which had previously been my cousin and her husband’s house—it had been in my family for over sixty years before it was sold just recently.

Now, whenever I have a slice of my mom’s cheesecake, it transports me back to that rambunctious house, filled to the brim with all my extended family, the Christmas tree with the overly packed presents underneath it—one for each of my fifty-plus family members—bringing me back to when we used to celebrate the holidays together.

Lemonade is a beverage that played a significant role in my upbringing. At every family gathering, at the same Long Island house, my cousin made her not-so-famous homemade lemonade, known for being far too sweet. I haven’t had my cousin’s homemade lemonade in years. Yet, I still remember the ridiculous amount of sugar she put in it, and have witnessed her make it and dump a crazy amount of sugar in it, a memory that will forever be burned into my brain.

My mom’s homemade lemonade had just the right amount of sugar. It was just the right amount of sweet—a stark comparison to my cousin’s. I remember my mom making her famous homemade lemonade a lot when I was younger. She would always brag that it was the best anyone would ever taste because of the secret ingredient she only shared with me and will continue to share only with me.

It reminds me of when I was younger, during the uncomfortably hot New York City summers. I had a lemonade stand on the corner of my block, where I charged anyone who wanted my mom’s famous homemade lemonade $1 for a cup. I remember making over $100, sometimes even $200, because my friends and neighbors would come and buy from me. They would tell their friends, and their friends would tell their friends. It was the same every summer. 

Bakes were another prominent food in my childhood, particularly when I was younger, spending my summers in Saint Lucia with my uncle, aunt, cousin, and grandmother. Bakes bring me back to the excitement I felt when I landed in Saint Lucia for the summer to visit my mom’s side of the family, sitting on the patio in front of my grandmother’s house, talking and laughing with my relatives late into the warm nights while the cool island breeze rushed through my hair. Splashing around in the clear, blue Caribbean sea, watching the fish nipping at my toes. The rotten egg smell I would take in when approaching the volcano. My grandmother’s soft, sweet hugs—Her calling me “my girl.”

However, one memory sticks out: my grandmother made my cousin, my aunt, and I walk to what she swore was one of her favorite places that made bakes. It wasn’t that good, but we made the walk anyway. I remember walking through bushes so tall we had to push them out of our path. It was a new experience. I was only used to the hustle and bustle of the city, but at the end of the day, my grandmother got her bakes. I find it surprising that I still have that memory, specifically that shop. Whether eating or being around food, I am reminded of my family, showing the power of food and memories.

As I get older, and if I think about it too much, I get scared that I will forget many of my favorite memories from my childhood. So, I keep eating my favorite foods I grew up with, bringing back the memories I hold near and dear to my heart.