One of my earliest memories in the kitchen was helping my mother prepare callaloo for Sunday lunch. My role was often the same: picking the callaloo bush. This was a process where you had to peel the “skin”, an thin outer layer, off the stalks of the dasheen bush. I remember it used to stain my fingertips a deep reddish, brown color and it used to itch a lot. My mother would give me a lime to rub on my fingers to prevent the staining and itching.
Nowadays I don’t pick callaloo bush anymore. I have since come to learn that the outer layer of the dasheen bush stalks contain a lot of nutrients. People say you must clean the bush else it would scratch your tongue. However after cooking callaloo countless times, I can report that this has never been my experience.
Sometimes my mother would put me on coconut duty. I was always excited for this task because it meant “stealing” a few pieces of coconut to snack on when she wasn’t looking.
As I stood in the new EatAhFood kitchen studio preparing this callaloo, I reflected on the history of this dish within the context of my own personal culinary journey. And although I’m fighting tooth and nail to not be known as “the man who make callaloo in Mark Wiens’ video“, I can’t deny that callaloo is central to who I am as a cook. I pushback on that recognition because I am consistently doing much more as a food blogger/content creator. And a part of me wants my body of work to be acknowledged on its own merits. Just like our local cuisine and culture, I think we should have a full appreciation for our own without the need for outside validation.
As a child I thought callaloo was the most elaborate dish. I could only remember a few key ingredients. The dasheen bush, of course. Coconut, ochro and pumpkin. But it always seemed like a lot more ingredients went into the dish. It always seemed like it required a lot of technical knowhow to create it.
To pick the dasheen bush you had to firstly remove the leaf from the stalk. My mother showed me how to do it the “proper” way. Turn the bush over on the underside, hold the stem at the top where it connects to the leaf. Snap the stem to break it partially off the leaf. Doing this reveals the “skin”. Then pull it from the base towards the tip of the leaf. This technique removes the film from the underside of the leaf. With the skin revealed you then pull it right down to the end of the stalk. Then break off a one inch piece of the stalk in the opposite direction. This reveals the skin on the other side of the stalk. Pull it down to the base of the stalk to remove. With the skin removed, break the stalk of the dasheen bush into smaller pieces.
This might sound like a very involved and tedious process but my mother made it look easy. I am certain that it took a while for me to get it right but I honestly can’t remember my early days of picking bush and no doubt, fumbling with it, not getting it right. All I can remember is the itching that came from touching the bush with my bare hands and how it stained my fingertips.
I would also watch my mother go outside to burst the dry coconut open on the ground. The trick was hitting it hard enough against the concrete so it would crack but not split open entirely. Then she would quickly catch the coconut water in a jug when it cracked. I never asked her but just assumed that catching the water ensured that sure the most flavor was extracted.
The flesh of the coconut is removed with a butter knife. Never try separating the flesh from the shell with a sharp or pointed knife, I learned this the hard way. The pieces of coconut are grated on the fine side of the box grater then the grated coconut is mixed with the coconut water and warm water and squeezed through a strainer or a cheese cloth to extract the coconut milk.
All these steps very involved steps in making callaloo made me think that I would never try to make it myself. However, my mother must be an excellent teacher. Because the first time I ventured to make callaloo for myself I couldn’t believe how “simple” it was! I was in my mid twenties at that point, still nowhere close to the cook I am now in terms of experience. But throwing those ingredients into a pot and watching it come together really blew my mind. Could this really be the same process my mother and grandmothers went through? Is it THIS simple?
Well, no. Even though muscle memory kicked in and I was peeling the bush like a pro. Even though I used fresh coconut milk and not powdered milk. And without a written recipe I knew how much pumpkin and ochro to use in relation to the size of the bundle of callaloo bush. It’s only in hindsight that I come to a an important realization.
It really was all those years of being shown what to do. All those years of asking questions, making observations. Smelling the callaloo, tasting it along the various stages of the cooking process. All of that history and tradition came back to me and guided me through this first callaloo. The proof was in the taste. And truth be told, my first callaloo came out pretty decent. Decent enough that my family “allowed” me to make callaloo for them for several years after that, the ultimate stamp of approval.
Fast forward some twenty years or so and many callaloos later, I’m at a place where I’m very comfortable making callaloo. I know the process like the back of my hand. As I was making the callaloo for this blog post, my partner walked in and commented on “how good it was smelling!”.
Something about her comment takes me back to my childhood. I’m standing in the kitchen telling my mother or grandmother how good the food is smelling, in awe of their skills to be able to bring so many moving parts together into one harmonious, absolutely delicious dish. Back in the present moment and thinking about my own cooking, I play it down and brush it off as no big deal.
There’s something profound happening where I can easily talk about my reverence for my mother and grandmothers. But when it comes to talking about myself or even acknowledging that I am carrying all their lessons with me. I shut down. I’m quick to downplay the role that I play now as a cook, nourishing a family. If I allow myself to step out of my comfort zone and toot my own horn a bit I can admit that I make an exceptional callaloo!
I imagine the only thing better than eating my own callaloo is having someone else make exactly as I do. That way I could be surprised and in awe by how amazing it tastes. Food tastes better when someone else makes it for you. That’s just a universal fact.
I am aware that I am guided by all the observations and lessons I’ve had over the years. From me asking my grandmother “how yuh does know when the callaloo finish” and she replying “when the ochro seeds turn pink” to watching Chef Khalid Mohammed on a YouTube video talking about doing a chiffonade so the ingredients cook better/faster. All of these precious nuggets of information comprise our culinary tradition.
The decision to make callaloo for Mark Wiens was deliberate. Not only is this a part of my own personal culinary journey but it is also a huge part of our culinary traditions as a nation. So as much as I fear I might be pigeonholing myself. I cannot deny that callaloo has played a central role in shaping who I am today. As a home cook or a food blogger/content creator, this is dish is an authentic representation of who I am.
In addition, Sunday lunch might well be a dying tradition here in Trinidad & Tobago. I shudder to think of what it might or might not be at the time my son is old enough to make callaloo for himself. So this role as custodian of callaloo is one I shall take very seriously.
I need to make a more concerted effort to accept my role in carrying on these traditions.
