THE CHRONICLES OF SPICE

BY OSWALD DWYER
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A VERY EXCELLENT STORY ABOUT THE ADVENTURE OF LEARNING HOW TO COOK, AND THE COMPELLING REASONS WHY ONE WOULD WANT TO MANUFACTURE AND MARKET SPICES TO BE USED FOR DRY RUBS AND ALL PURPOSE SEASONINGS FOR FRIENDS AND NOW, THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

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EARLY MUSINGS AND WHATNOT

For many years, I have always wanted to own and operate my own restaurant/bar in our little Midwest town of Topeka Kansas. Early on, I realized that I could cook. How did I become aware of this unlikely skill? Well I will tell you. Being the eldest of five siblings in my childhood home in the Caribbean island of Jamaica, the task of cooking for my brothers and sisters always seemed to be my special lot in life. Sure, my sisters cooked some, but the bulk of the kitchen chores fell to me what with both my mother and father working all day. So I did the cooking. Not sure how my brothers and sisters liked my cooking, but they did not seem to exhibit any difficulties associated with food poisoning, nor the urge to disappear to the neighbor’s house at dinner time. My early cooking education and experience came from the soul of my mother. She continues to be one of the greatest cooks that I have the fortune to be associated with. She cooked everything with patience and love, and was genuinely delighted when she was complimented on her skills. I think she is still better than I am.

My cooking education was not limited to feeding my brothers and sisters. Mysteriously, somehow whenever a bunch of the neighborhood kids ventured to the river or the woods (some would say “the bush”) I always seemed to be the one cooking for a horde of hungry energetic kids. Looking back, I am not sure how this came to be. All I know is that I was the one that freaking started the wood fire and made sure some of us brought “provisions” from our parents’ home. No matter what we (I) cooked, we did so in only two homemade pots. Woe to the street urchin(s) who forgot to bring salt and most important, the totally necessary hot pepper. Fish and other salt water and fresh water denizens, beef, and lamb, and pork, and goat, and fowl along with rice, and greens and all the wonderful species of yams and beans and spices (when we had them) all were cooked at some point in my two little pots. My friends, after playing heated games of soccer, or a day of swimming in the river seemed to inhale everything that was cooked. Soon, they began to find ways to take some home to their families. It was then that I realized that more often than not, our little group started bringing more heretofore unavailable spices for cooking in the bush. It seems that dad wanted more curry on his fish and, big brother wanted his vegetable soup hotter and laced with more spice.

MY EDUCATION CONTINUES

In the mid sixties, I moved from Kingston to Clarendon to live with my paternal grandmother (Miss. V) and to attend school. If you asked my mother and father at the time, they would tell you that all I did in school was to play any and every sport available. The fact that I got great grades confused them to no end. My grandmother gave me up though. Although she too could not explain the good grades, she certainly was aware that I was never home and that I kept strange friends who would frequently show up at the house asking where I was. It would go something like this, “Miss. V, a whe Junior de?” “Boy, go comb fe you hair. When me see you madda a church me a go tell her sey you come a me yard lookin dreadful.” “Thank you Miss. V, Rasta dread mon. Tell Junior me we check fe him anada time, blessings.” My grandmother would relate such visits with a heavy dose of chagrin while warning me not to hang out with the Rasta brethren. Little did she know that my Rasta brothers and sisters taught me some of life’s long lasting wisdom that I still adhere to up to this day. Besides, they taught me how to cook healthy.

While my grandmother did not approve of my behavior (on many levels) she may have been the single most influential person in my culinary education. While I also learned to cook from my aunts and my mother, my grandmother taught me much about how to make the things I cooked tasty. We lived in the country, and my grandma cooked on an open coal and wood fire. While everyone was still asleep, I would wake up early with Miss. V and helped her prepare breakfast, lunch and dinner for seven people. Lunch, not so much since us kids were in school over the lunch hour.

I watched as she went to her gardens and harvested sage, thyme, garlic, onions, peppers, annatto, scallions and various leaves that only her and her family knew how to use them to lively up our everyday fare. To my recollection, I would eat whatever she cooked, except foods that included corn (don’t ask me why, I just don’t like the stuff). Sunday meals were especially varied and tasty and, some how my Rasta brethren would always find their way to my grandmothers house just about dinner time. Although she thought they would all go to hell, she made sure to feed every last person in the house. Turns out grandmother’s bark was worst than her bite.

Many an evening after Sunday dinner, if one walked by Miss. V’s house one could hear the sweet soulful emerging new sounds of reggae music. Early stalwarts such as the Heptones, the Claredonians, the Maytals, the Melodians, Big Youth, the Beverly Allstars, Jimmy Cliff, Derrick Morgan and Lee “Scratch” Perry would soothe your soul with raw emotion and heartfelt harmony. Little children running everywhere, chasing each other in reckless abandon, parents keeping ear and an eye out for a discordant note in the joyful sounds of laughter and song. While in the back yard wise young men are playing dominoes with ever increasing animation and conviction that could only come from friendship and level vibes. Rasta was there too, and although Miss. V thought they were going to hell, they wouldn’t go this Sunday cause she had just fed them and all was well this day. This was the foundation of my early love for cooking, seeing people smile and hearing the laughter of children while friends and their friends enjoy soulful food in joyful celebration of what is good and pleasing.

COMING TO AMERICA (where have I heard that before?)

The far reaching effects of the musical event Woodstock, with performances by Ritchie Havens (opening act) the Who, Janis Joplin, the Band, Santana, Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix, among others (closing act) was just being felt when I found myself living in a neighborhood in Queens New York that was almost as varied as that iconic musical happening. Jamaicans and other west Indians, Jews, Puerto Ricans, Greeks, Hungarians, East Indians, Blacks and Asians were all part of my new universe. They brought their culture and they brought their foods.  

What circumstances would work to foster relationships with people from this great diaspora of ours? Some would say that music could be one such impetus, others would find the same in politics, the workplace, learning institutions and certainly business. For me it was sports; specifically soccer. In my Queens neighborhood everyone from everywhere played soccer (football to the snobs, thank you). There were soccer fields everywhere and one could find a game anywhere in the spring, summer and fall. Nothing brings people as quickly together as the notion of “teammate.” Even kids from other teams seem to have an affinity and respect for each other, and would gather together after a day of fierce competition. Didn’t matter where you were from or what language one spoke. Lets just get together for a bit and let our people cook for you. I was one of those “our people”, and while I was tired after playing ball, I would not have it any other way.

It was not uncommon to see people from many different countries gathered at some neighborhood soccer field, cooking and sharing their various culinary delights from far-flung regions of the world. There would be fast friendships, good food and yes, music from everywhere to soothe the soul. Not unlike my grandmother’s home. While I did not attend an “official” cooking school, it is my belief that my early exposure to cooking at an early age, learning from various taste veterans and the many tips and experimentation with spices and foods from other parts of the world, have served me well over the years.