This week The Scene begins a new series. ‘Tastes Like Home’ by Cynthia Nelson explores our relationship with food. It will discuss the different types of food and the best ways of preparing them, the rituals; the traditions. Readers can log on to the blog www. tastesofguyana.blogspot.com where tips and advice can be shared much like a large dining table at which Guyanese at home and abroad can gather for a taste of home. A former Guyana Broad- casting Corporation staffer, Cynthia Nelson teaches in the Associate Degree Programme in Mass Communication at the Barbados Commun-ity College and also writes a weekly food column for Easy Magazine in the Sunday Sun Nation newspaper.
Dear All,
‘Twas the season; my bags were packed and I was heading home to Guyana for Christmas, my first in eight years. I armed myself with a list, not of Christmas gifts, but of the food and dishes I wanted to eat to re-awaken memories and reconnect with my homeland.
For a foodie or food-enthusiast such as myself, going home for Christmas was for me a journey of food appreciation and re-discovery. I wanted to absorb everything in sight. I wanted to go to the source – the markets, to see, smell and taste what freshness is like. I wanted to visit the eating places I remembered such as Coal Pot, Salt and Pepper and Arapaima, now called Main Street Qik Serve; and good Chinese food.
One Sunday morning I went shopping with my brother Eon, to Bourda Market. He took me to the stall he buys from regularly. Back in the day, I remember always asking the price of things before I made my purchase but now as I found myself caught up in the glory of the abundance price seemed to be less of a factor. Issued with a list from my mother and sister, I filled the shopping bags forgetting about poundage, bundles or units; I even wanted to get things that were not on the list. I found myself caressing the bunch of red-head eschallots inhaling the gentle onion flavour; stroking the length of the fine, green bora; rubbing the white-skinned eggplant and fighting the urge to grab the sweet-fig banana and eat it. I did not want to leave the market. It was an ironic moment for me because before moving abroad, I never liked going to the market and now here I was standing, reluctant to leave.
In making my food-wish list, there were some things I had not remembered to put down and duck curry was one of them. So the week following my jaunt to Bourda Market, my sister Pat and I set out for Mon Repos Market on the East Coast to get some fresh duck that would have just been killed, plucked and roasted until almost black. As I got out of the car, my nose tingled with the deep, delicious, smoky scent of roasted poultry; it’s a scent that I associate with rural Guyana – it conjured images of clay and mud firesides with roaring fires, large blacked pots boiling and sada roti cooking. I breathed in deeply. Men were busy plucking chickens and ducks, while others were roasting the birds over the open flames of a make-shift grill – the sizzle and crackle adding to the liveliness of the atmosphere. We stopped at the first stall, bought a couple of ducks and waited patiently as the butcher gutted and chopped them up. It’s we eat with our eyes, while my tummy was not yet filled with the duck curry, my heart was filled just standing there taking in the sight, sounds and smells of home.
Next came “the night of 3 cook-ups”, at least that’s what I am calling it. Apart from Old Year’s night, every Christmas Eve night, my mother makes cook-up rice with the works: tripe, beef, pig-tail, sometimes adding chicken. My brother and sister continue the tradition in their respective homes. Now, in order to remain in good favour with my brother and sister, I am not going to discuss which one was better. By mid-afternoon, my brother had finished cooking and so his was the first I ate – all beef with red beans along with some steamed okras. It was delicious. In the evening about 8, I ate my mother’s cook-up; man dah woman should market de ting and teach a class on how to cook cook-up rice, de ting taste wicked – black eye peas with the works. I was a little worried because my sister was coming over later and bringing some of her cook-up for me and I was full, full, full. However, as the evening wore on I found I had room for a little more, so about midnight, I ate some of my sister’s food: pigeon peas with chicken and salt meat – another winner. My mother has taught her children well and she has not lost her touch.
I’d forgotten about the constant feeding that takes place when you go home. You could just finish eating a plate of food, just finish swallowing the last mouthful and someone asks, “You want some more? Are you sure? Eat nuh! You know you don’t get dis kind ah food steady! Look, we gat
