Fry aloo is my love language; Trini food, home-cooked over a gas stove. Fry bake, fry shark, accra, coo-coo, stew chicken and black eyed peas. Sometimes an electric stove can cook up my love too, but when there is fire, my true passion infuses the pot.
When I love, I would wake up early and grind channa with coriander to roll falafels by hand. I would wipe down the counter clean. Knead, rest and beleh sada roti on it. I would grate, soak and strain coconuts for the milk in a callaloo. I would boil macaroni, while I turn the lentils, and still keep my mind on how long again the chicken in the sink must marinate in green seasoning. I would coordinate all that with the sugar, as it rapidly foams and darkens in the iron pot. When I love, there is Sunday lunch on Friday night.
When I have a father-in-law to love, I would send oil down and pig tail for him. I would send banana bread, stuffed with pineapple and walnuts for the wife. I would make their son proud to buss style, that he eating so good. Is not fat he fat, is happy he ass happy. I would have my in-laws over for pelau and coleslaw on the weekend. Bake ham with clove at Christmas time. Get them tipsy on Ponche de Creme and send them home with fruit sponge and black cake.
When I have children to love, I would pack their lunch kits with green and pink cheese paste between sliced white Kiss bread cut into triangles. At the first sight of rain I would bubble a corn soup with eddoes, dasheen and green fig. My children would know burgers I made from scratch, with minced meat and shadon beni, not cardboard ting in soggy bread bought from a yellow clown. My babies would drink soursop punch, lime juice and sorrel. They would eat dhal and rice and bhaji from my hand.
The last time I loved, I fed him crab and dumpling in the middle of the week. Roasted a whole snapper with ginger and pumpkin on the weekend. He had eggs deviled and sprinkled with chive for breakfast, or sometimes had them cracked and dropped into a skillet of tomato choka and broiled over top in the oven. I made him into a peppermouth. Put pineapple chow in a vegetable stir fry. I showed him how to roast baigan, stuffing it with garlic, so he could love me in my language too. He made me red curry when I was sick, and hot milk tea when I was cold. He cleaned the shrimp, back and belly, washed the wares and blended the sea moss gel with mango and condensed milk. I set the table, and he took the empty plates away.
When I love again there will be fried ochroes and talkarie. Maybe geera pork and fresh hops too. I’ve never made pepper roti, but this would be new love so I’ll try something different. Doubles with thin bara and runny channa, only made slightly yellow with turmeric. Plantain boiled, fried and mashed. Cassava with hot butter.
When I love again I might not cook too much too soon, though. I’d take my time. Work up to the pigeon peas, starting off with maybe just a spaghetti pie. Perhaps fried rice with green pepper and carrots.
When I love again, I will love the best way I know how — With Trinbagonian food, served under soca. A plate with rice piled high, yellow zabouca and orange pepper sauce on the side. And this time when I love, I will share it from my brown fingers, only to a mouth and belly that are truly ready to eat something this hot, and rich, dripping in golden sauce.
