Ingredients:

• Red Potatoes

• Imitation Bacon 

• Cheese

• Chives

• Slap Your Mama Creole Seasonings

• Secret Family Ingredient

Step 1: Cut the Potatoes and Place in Boiling Water 

Cutting potatoes was your strong suit. Your mother put you in the kitchen at a young age based on the curvature of your waist and the length of your lashes. She’d say no man would want a woman who did not know the ways of a stove or how to properly utilize the depth of a frying pan. Red was a color that’d been banned in your house, but red potatoes worked best for this dish. Its tainted color became trapped in the beds of your nails as you ripped them from the earth because everything was better home grown. The notion clung to you like white on rice.

Booming laughter from the big-bellied uncles echoed from Grandma’s patio to the table on which sat the fruits of her labor. Around that table were women of different statures, colors, minds, and hair, a wayward derivative of the Gullah Geechee, preparing inimitable meals. Barbecue was only half of the cookout. Earthy aromas danced around you and your cousins as if a reminder to stay on the task at hand—your mothers have no time to waste. Successful barbecues could only be measured by how fast the food can be produced.

You extend your arms to reach the back of the cabinet now, searching for a pot that has lived more lives than you. A small smile threatens to slip out as you grab the pot’s rough handle. The memories of a short and tenacious woman begin to flood your mind. Madea’s kitchenware might’ve outlasted her, but her impressions on the worn down metal remained.

Before you were you, she was the master of culinary refinement, the epicenter of the Raynott dynasty. She never allowed anyone to intrude on her 4x4 foot kitchen: it was her serenity, her sacred grove. All spectators were required to remain at least ten feet from her atelier. You, however, pushed the boundaries of her limitations, often resulting in a firm swat from her wooden spoon. But you were one of the few who can recall her secretive ways of fulfilling one’s merriment and cravings, and with time and age, your presence became more prominent in her kitchen.

Herbs of all kinds hung above her head, spices filled her cabinets. Freshly picked greens, beans, and turnips filled dark garbage bags to the brim in her deep freezer. Your great-grandmother believed in abundance, a mirror to her own embodiment. She was a woman in every way but the mind, you think while setting the water to boil on medium.

Step 2: Season & Assemble Ingredients

Imitation bacon was not a stranger to your grandmother’s fridge, despite her love of authenticity. In fact, it was one of the things that suited her best as she was a fine deceiver. As the oldest of her siblings, she was the keeper of her brothers. She’d been a mother since she was born, cemented to her birthplace for all of her life. Anyone meeting her, however, would never know. With a thick Chicago accent and the complexion of chestnut wood, your grandmother taught you what it meant to be bigger than life, bigger than struggle.

Cooking was the only shared bond between you two. Cooking left room for mistakes for which you’ve otherwise never been granted. It was a space to breathe because, in all aspects but this one, she was snuffing the light out of you. She was your number one critic and could read you like a book she wrote herself. Your homespun coils that framed your being were nothing but a nappy mess in her mind. Despite her love for the naturelle, hypocrisy was her best trait. She wanted the chemicals to refine you since the day you were born, conformity being her artistry. But when it came to the old ways of her mother’s cooking, rawness was most encouraged.

Check your potatoes for softness—you do not want them to be undercooked. On days like this, imperfection was not tolerable. Smile with your teeth, pretend to enjoy the steaming heat of the spuds and the sticky Mississippi weather. Pronounce the p’s and r’s of the Slap Your Mama creole seasonings because your grandmother did not raise you to speak that way.

You were a little heavy on the herbs, but they added a gusto incomparable to hers. You grab an aluminum tray and work carefully not to spill anything. Next you pour the bacon, letting the irregular shapes fill in the gaps. You layer the cheese next, covering all the brown because she tends to scrutinize the darker complexions. Lastly, you pour a layer of her secret sauce atop it all, careful not to make it too thick for she will poke and prod until it is no more. 

Step 3: Cook at 375 degrees for 15-20 minutes

Cleanliness is key to a well-prepared meal. The structure and respect for order and process trickled through the generations. Everything had a place, position, and purpose. While the oven heats, you run the water at a piping hot temperature, one that would help to burn the stains left on the utensils. You wipe your cutting cabinet clean of all residue, making sure to scrub until all that’s left is reflections.

After the oven has had the time to prepare itself for the meal that it shall be given, you easily slide the tray inside. You begin to breathe, allowing your body to settle into its idle state again. The isolation creeps up on you, waking every nerve like a cool breeze in the summertime. Being too young for some cousins and too old for others proved to be a deciding factor of your social status at the family gatherings. You don’t know who you are in this family outside of this kitchen.

You watch closely at the way your mother’s smile reaches her eyes as your cousins crack another joke at her. The hue of your heart begins to match the bell peppers strung between them. Empty smiles and mindless questions about your academics flow around you as you struggle to answer them wholeheartedly.

You were never a worrisome child. You didn’t even cry as a baby. Your nose was always buried in a book, struggling to read words that were bigger than you. You excelled in all things institutional and sought knowledge even outside of those spaces. Your mother did not have to pay attention to the fifth child; you had yourself covered. You were trusted with the heat of a pot, the dangers of a knife. You are observant, you’ve got enough sense not to hurt yourself, not to engage in dangerous or peculiar behavior. You know of the ways to interact with the objects put in front of you in a productive way, but the anxieties broiling inside did not come from learning to dice tomatoes. They do not stem from knowing how to cut off fat from a chicken or knowing how to put together a makeshift quesadilla when money was low. They originated from the belief that your mother would show you care and attention if you were your cousin, your sister, or your brothers. If you had more awards or recognition. If you were skinnier, funnier, prettier, or tameable.

You twiddle your thumbs, unsure of when you should interject yourself into the conversation, if at all. Nails, hair, makeup, and respectability politics aren’t interesting to you, but you can pretend. A loud and familiar beep interrupts your thoughts. Time to eat.

__________

Jordan Brown is an emerging author who adores writing about finding the beauty in nature and the human condition. She aims to use her voice to break the stigma around certain social issues, such as the relationships black women have with their mental health.