A Taste of Home by Noel John
I came into knowing MOTHER, through Mama, at nine years old. At that age, I spent most of my free time outside (how they claim the kids don’t do these days), pickin’ honey suckle and exploring the endless wonders in the bounds of our backyard. Even back then, it was hard to ignore the oppressive blanket of that good 'ole South Carolina summer heat and humidity. It was inescapable to say the least.
I loved being outside, but around that time I began experiencing this unreachable itching underneath my skin. Summer after summer, what started as an annoying pin prick on my back here and there, gradually transformed into a monstrous burning ripping through my skin.
Mama, since she worked in the school system, usually had a few weeks off in the summer with us kids; and on one particular villainously hot day, Mama introduced me to an answer I did not yet know I was looking for.
“Aha! Another one for the collection!”
I had just un earthed my newest dinosaur fossil discovery (read: possum skull). I did my lil’ happy dance, and blew the dirt off my prized fossil.
“I can bring this one to school for science class.”
I eyed the fossil closely. Lookin’ for what? No clue, but that’s what they always did in the movies. I carefully placed it in my playtime pack before I resumed diggin’ in the soft dirt.
“I bet I can find one more before I have to go in.”
I moved with laser focus as small beads of sweat began rolling down my face. I felt a prick on my forehead and quickly swiped at it with my shoulder, not to be deterred. Some time later, not sure how much exactly because back then, time didn’t exist when the sun was perched and I got to roam free, the itch returned with more persistence and some reinforcements. I gave an irritated rub with the back of my soiled hand, then another with inside of my shirt. For a moment it stopped, and I smirked smugly at myself like I’d done somethin.
Shoulda known better.
Before I knew it, a slew of skin pricks peppered their way around my face, across my scalp, down my neck, hollerin’ to be dealt with!
“Aaaargh! Thats it!”
I jumped to my feet, ready to tussle.
Eruption of pricks on my belly! SCRATCH!
Pulsing burn in the smack center of my back! SWAT!
Fire at the root of my freshly braided hair! THWACK, THWACK, THWACK!
I was throwin’ out combinations Muhammad Ali couldn’t touch.
In the short distance to the house I heard Mama’s voice cut through the noise of my scuffle.
“Ash, what are you doing? Stop all that and come inside to eat!” She looked out at me in amusement.
Time to eat! Magic words to my ears. I gathered up my play pack in one hand, leaving the other to continue on the good fight, not yet willing to accept defeat.
“You must have ants in your pants, with all that dancing you’re doing”, Mama teased.
“Maaaa, it itches so bad!” I whined in youngest daughter.
“You’re itchy again huh? Hmm, I know what you need. Go wash up so I can take care of all that.” She motioned at me as I scratched.
As soon as I crossed the threshold of the porch door, I immediately felt the warmth emanating through the house. I kicked my shoes off by the door, and ran upstairs with a quickness. I washed up in record time, making sure to do the job well enough to be allowed in the kitchen. Mama wasn’t playin’ that.
When I whisked back downstairs, the kitchen was buzzing, pots sizzling, steaming, bubbling, and Mama was singing softly as she stirred. Ooooh yeah! I knew I was in for a treat when Mama got the kitchen jumpin’ like that! I reported for duty at the stove, beaming up at her, ready to try whatever she’d give me.
Mama could feel the impatience rolling off me, but she was never one to be rushed. She took her time, before finally opening one of the pots. It was one of those pots passed on through the family that carried just a hint of the flavors and seasonin’ of meals past. Through the steam, I saw sliced ridges of green mixed with onions and garlic, shreds of chicken, and the redness of the tomatoes bringing it all together in a beautiful stew. I asked the inevitable.
“Can I have some?”
“Ha, you don’t even know what it is.” She sang to me light heartedly. Mama had this way of speaking that always sounded like a song.
“Hand me that.” She pointed at a waiting bowl next to me with her wooden spoon.
With a practiced and purposeful hand, she poured a heaping helping of mystery stew over a bed of white rice. I was entranced.
“Take this and go sit down”, she said as fixed herself a bowl with just as much intention and care.
“What is it?” I was beyond ready to eat whatever it was that was invading my senses.
Mama made her way to the table and sat next to me, before sharing.
“Mmmm”, she considered. “It’s a taste of home.”
Home. Her home. Home of my ‘cestors. Suriname, South America. A country of diverse cultures: Afro-Surinamese, Indian, Maroon, Chinese, Javanese; that overflows with trees of guava, pineapple, banana, and mango; and roots of cassava, peppers, cucumber, and so on and so on. That’s what I grew up hearing.
Ohhh, the stories I clung to from Mama and her sisters regaling their childhood in Suriname during their weekly long distance phone calls. It always sounded something like:
“Anke! Remember when Mama made that pomme for your birthday dinner, and Gerda ate a biiiiig piece before dinner. Boyyyy, Mama was so upset, so upset! She chased Gerda around that house with her slipper! We hebben een week lang niets gehoord! Oi, Mama deed daarna een nummer op haar…”
The stories would carry on, deep guffaws echoing through the house, tears of laughter streaming down Mama’s cheeks, and her switching back and forth between speaking English and Surinamese Creole, also known as Taki Taki.
Sitting antsy in my seat, Mama led us in saying grace. I took a moment to breathe in the earthy aroma with the sweet undertones, all melded together and wafting to my nose in waves.
“Oh my gosh! Ma this smells so good!” I dove in on a mission!
The first bite was…different. I had never tasted anything like it before and my tongue was confused, but not totally offended. It was pungent, and a surprising bitterness jumped out at me. I couldn’t keep from scrunching up my face to show I wasn’t feeling Mama’s antics. The look on her face told me she knew what I had gotten myself into.
“In my country, we call it sopropo. Here, they call it bitter melon. What do you think, do you like it?” She asked the question even though she knew good n’ well…
“I dunno know yet.”
I started to feel the familiar prickle of heat creep up back of my neck and collar bone.
The itch was activated by the heat of the kitchen.
“Your oma used to make sopropo a lot at home. It was one of my favorite dishes. It will help with all of that itching under your skin, cleans your blood. I get the pricklies too, you know. So do your tantes. Eat some more. You’ll get used to the taste.”
I took a hard swallow.
“Eventually.”
I was a skeptic but no punk, so I took another small bite and let it sit and savor on my tongue, allowing myself to get used to the new flavor profile. Bitterness, pungency, and sweetness in every single chew.
We sat in a comfortable silence, enjoying the meal.
“I think I might like it?”
“Aha! Oh you do huh?”
“Well, eventually.” I repeated her words and shrugged. “But it’s not horrible!”
“Not horrible??” She sucked her teeth in that West Indian way. “Girl, you can keep that, I’ll eat my bitter melon in peace.” She feigned offense, but the grin on her lips and the side look she gave me let me know was tickled.
A few more moments of quiet passed between us.
“Ma?”
“Mmmhmm?”
“You should make sopropo more often.”
Mama looked at me with pride in her eyes.
“You know what? I think I will.”
With that, we started a little tradition. When it was just the two of us at home, Mama would take the chance to introduce me to a new Suriname dish. Salted codfish with cassava, stewed cucumber, ginger chicken, or so. I always ate my small plate alongside her, happy for the closeness that made me feel a part of her home, too.
Over time, I began to watch her cook the sopropo, not knowing I was preparing myself to recreate it in adulthood. I’d watch her ritual of washing the “cucumber with warts” (what I jokingliy called it), soaking it in vinegar and salt to help release some of that bite that I grew to love, slicing it up just right, and cooking it down to perfection. Not enough to make it mushy, but so it still had just the slightest bit of crunch to it.
That was the summer I came into knowing MOTHER, and it is the foundation of our continued connection. Every ingredient, dish, and remedy, holds as a story or sense memory serving as an unbreakable thread to our history.
Today when I open my kitchen cabinets, I allow myself to be transported back to South Carolina, back to Suriname, back to Guyana, and every other home of my lineage I cannot yet name, but lives on in me.
It all started with just a taste of Home.
<aside> 🌼
hey yall, thank you so much for reading Taste of Home. i hope it connected with you in some way. you can check out my other work on my website: https://bit.ly/noeljohn-queerates
if you want to reach out [email protected]
and i always welcome offerings of whimsy and care if you feel called to share 💫 CashApp & Venmo: $Castickid
</aside>
Iyanu (Animated tv Show on HBO Max but can be found on external sites ;-)
Prev Page: kay’s juneteenth musings
Next Page: Riz’s Reflections — Adaptation As Care