As a full-time Black person, I have attended about 12
hundred dozen Blackpeoplegatherings in my lifetime. Crab boils. Welcome Home From The Clink parties. Fish fry-style wedding receptions. You’ll probably observe
many of the same elements at most of these Blackpeoplegatherings. Drank. Music (with a
high probability of the Electric Slide making an appearance). Bad ass kids. Overindulgence
and the Itis. Well seasoned food. The usual.
(Do White people get The Itis? Serious question.)
In these Blackpeoplegatherings, there is an unspoken hierarchy
of meal-making clearance that exists to ensure collective enjoyment and prevent
mass food poisoning. More importantly, where dish responsibility is concerned, this
hierarchy helps avoid culinary blunders and embarrassment. Meats > Macaroni
and Cheese > Greens> Other Sides > Dessert, etc.
In short: unless you want to be the person who fucks up
Granny PumPum’s 113th Great Day In The Morning Super Turnt Episcopalian
Celebration of Life dinner with a dry ass turkey, know your motherfucking role
in the kitchen.
Every relative isn’t allowed to up and decide that they’ll make
the primary meat of the meal. Twenty-nine-year-old Auntie Bop Bop, who survives
off of corn chips and purple Kool-Aid would never be allowed to walk through the
door with a turkey on Easter Sunday. Uncle Man-Man can’t declare that he’ll
make The Fried Chicken on Christmas night if nobody has ever tasted his
cooking. There are rules. You have to audition and shit. Anything else would be
uncivilized, and would only take place in a family where crack rocks mean “I
love you.”
At these Blackpeoplegatherings, food is often the purpose of the event. Sure, it’s nice to
catch up with your favorite Druncle and his
new dumpy White girlfriend. But over here in reality, getting down on that
corner piece of the macaroni and cheese is the real reason for the season. So
if you do Harlem Shake your ass out of bounds where food is concerned, you will
never ever ever ever live it down. Your Black family will NEVER let you forget
that one time you forgot to rinse the college greens before attempting Meemaw’s
recipe. Until the day you perish like Nicole
Scher$;ra!J678’s
singing career, you are the LaTivia LaTavia of holiday meals. You
can only bring liquor and napkins, ya bish.
Pro tip: If you’ve never made a certain dish before, holidays
are not the best time to experiment.
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Grandma: Miss Ruby, La Kingpin Panamenña |
About a decade ago, my family met up for Thanksgiving at my
grandma’s house. Now, my grandma is the kind of woman who doesn’t eat in
restaurants. She rarely eats other people’s cooking, and if she does, she never
forgets a culinary blunder. (“She’s nice, but she likes to use a lot of salt.
It was alright, I guess.”) Miss Ruby doesn't believe in buying cleaning products or salad dressing because she can make her own. Duh. She is a legendary cook and used to cater damn near
every Panamanian or Caribbean event in the 757. If she is involved, the
meal-making clearance hierarchy is as follows: She makes everything, including
the sorrel. Anyone else can bring dessert but it must be prepared outside of
her kitchen. And you can do dishes, if
she’s convinced that you know how to
wash dishes.
There is no “I’ll bring the ham” because No. You will bring
the Paul Mason and take the trash out. In this case: “you” means “the entire
family.” No exceptions.
So on this particular Thanksgiving, my sister and aunt
decided to bake a cake after dinner. A lemon joint. Somehow, they were able to
prepare it in Grandma’s kitchen, unmurdered. My uncle was sent to the store for
icing. Lemon icing. “Okay fine,” he said as he grabbed his keys and bounced.
We continued Blackiando and talking shit. I likely went back
for a third plate. My uncle eventually returned with two bags and set them down
on the counter. The cake had cooled and we were ready to apply the frosting and
get to work.
He presented his purchase to his wife, satisfied with
himself for his contribution. “Here, lemons and ice.”
You know that instant where the air is sucked out of a room,
all eyes meet, and everyone explodes
into laughter? Yeah. We howled and cried for a good 20 minutes, mainly because
my uncle didn’t find it funny at all and, well, Black relatives ain’t shit.
“Now, tell me what you thought we were going to do with these
lemons and this ice,” my sister asked, placing her hand on his shoulder. Everyone
paused to wait for his response, because Black relatives ain’t shit.
“I thought y’all were gonna make icing with the lemons.” More tears.
Now, that wasn’t even a meal-ruining blunder, but do you
think we’ve let him forget that he brought lemons and ice rather than lemon
icing? Of course not. A decade later, my Dad or someone will ask him, “So,
what’d you bring?” and the tears just come.
We’ll probably put “lemons and ice” on his headstone.
So, friends, as summer unfurls and the chicken-eating
gatherings approach, remember: know your motherfucking role in the kitchen.
Stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to. Don’t be the guy that ruins
Granny PumPum’s 113th super turnt birthday. Every auntie can’t be Deena
Jones with that crockpot. And that’s okay. For dignity’s sake, sometimes it’s
better to stay in your place, be the LaTavia, and bring the fucking ice cream.
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OK, I laughed out loud at this because this was my mother's kitchen. No one liked to cook for her critical behind. Not even my aunt that ran a restaurant in Jamaica. I know this home. I was the sous chef for many years. At some point, I hope this hand has been given to me through DNA and so far so good. Damn this healthy cooking to nether-regions of hell.
ReplyDeleteEvery woman who ever sent a man to the store for ingredients is nodding knowingly right now.
ReplyDeleteAww man. This is my family every holiday. We have one relative who is not allowed to cook and when she does, NOBODY eats her food.
ReplyDeleteLOL! Our family has always had a menu that everyone contributes to, BUT my grandma decides who brings what and what will even be on the menu. She calls around and tells everyone what they will bring. I am the official collard greens and cheesecake maker for the family gatherings. I had my collard greens audition two years ago and I am proud to say, they don't want anyone to make them but me. Yes I am bragging. This is an honor. lol.
ReplyDeleteHilarious and true.
ReplyDelete