A Fisherman’s Feast
On the Island of Jamaica, a man with or without a wife and kids was either a fisherman or a farmer. In this case, my father was both a fisherman and a farmer which means he was home for a maximum of one week every four months. Creating a bond with his family was indeed a difficult task due to his absence. However, a link other than DNA was formed in the event of my father’s first feast for his family.
It was a warm and windy Sunday evening which means that the traditional Sunday Dinner is to take place at precisely 5:30 pm. My father was sitting under the mango tree surrounded by the heaps of fallen leaves, insects, chickens and the two family dogs Sasha-kay and Bling-Bling can be seen chasing each other closeby. His hands, feet, and face covered in shiny material which can be described as fish scales. He firmly grabbed the fish’s midsection in the palm with his left hand whilst scraping back and forth on the body of the fish in an activity known as scaling the fish.
He barely acknowledged my presence and didn’t glance away from the fish. He appeared vicious,a stoic expression played across his face as he carves the aquatic creature’s guts out. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, seeing my Father doing an activity that was domestic to my young mind.
I walked up to him, my tanned legs with Blues Clues sandals on my feet, then crouched in front of the bowl that the fishes laid. My chocolate brown eyes danced over the contents in the bowl, intrigued in many ways that they could become a meal for the family.
“Daddy, how comes yuh a scale di fish dem?” Daddy, why are you scaling the fishes? I asked.
He placed the fish with the already prepped fishes and mumbled, “Mi aguh mek something yuh neva eat before.” He replied. I’m going to create something you’ve never tried before.
I stared at him puzzled because I have tried fish before so there was nothing special or surprising to me about that. I shrugged it off and continued to watch him prepare the fish in a trance-like state. “ Today yuh aguh help mi cook steamed fish okay.” He announced Today you’re going to help me cook steamed fish.
This was the first time I have ever seen my father making preparations for cooking. I jumped up and dashed off to the pipe at the bottom of the black jumbo container to wash my hands. Upon my return, my father rinsed the fish, limed the insides and went on to placing black pepper and salt on a plate. I went back to my position as before and joined my father in coating the fish guts and body with the concoction.
He guided my short skinny fingers in the way of properly seasoning the fish, even though I had no interest in the way a fish such be seasoned I decided to stay on this rare occasion of spending time with my father. There were scales on his face that was once apart of the creature I had in the palm of my hands. I gently placed the fish down in the silver container that is off to the side with other already prepared fishes. Noticing this I started to pick away at the contents on his face.
“Daddy yuh have fish scale paa yuh face enuh.” I said Daddy there’s fish scales on your face” He looked up at me and slowly removed my hands from his face. “ If none neva deh paa mi face then mi wouldn’t a duh dis right don’t it? Plus, mi wi clean it off lata Keba, just help me finish di seasoning a di fish dem suh wi caah start cook before mommy come back home.” He stated If there were no fish scales on my face then that would mean that I’m doing this wrong. I’ll clean it later, please help me finish seasoning the fish before your mother gets back. He leaned forward and placed a light kiss onto my forehead as if to seal a promise.
“Okay but yuh haffi teach mi how fi cook di fish and can wi ave dumplings wid it?” Okay but you’re going to have to teach me how to cook and can we have dumplings with it. He said as he ruffled my hair and I smiled widely at his actions and watched him expertly finish the task at hand. “Deh nuh muss! Mi wi teach yuh how fi mek dem too.” most definitely! I’ll teach you how to make those as well. We then cleaned up the workstation and moved everything into the kitchen.
I stood on a stool over the gas stove placed at the far end of the kitchen and watch my father prepare the ingredients for his infamous Steamed Fish. He first placed a few cups of water into the pot and then added the fish into it. He let that simmer for a few minutes before he added the assortments of vegetables into the pot. Carrot, thyme, scallion, red, yellow and green sweet peppers, okra and Irish potatoes were displayed on the cutting board, ready to be chopped and added to the tasteless pot of steamed fish.
I watched as my father chopped and diced the colorful rainbow-like assortments of vegetables and natural seasoning expertly. I was then left to add the ingredients one by one into the pot so that it can finally come to life. The scents emitting out of the pot danced around the kitchen in blissful sequences that at that moment I’ve never smelled before. I watched in absolute amazement as my father moved around the kitchen with the same fluidity as species that danced in the air.
As the pot is nearing the end of its journey in becoming the savory dish known as Jamaican Steamed Fish. My father then added the Grace chicken noodle soup mix into the pot which is essential in almost every Caribbean household. Lastly to complete the dish Jamaican excelsior water crackers are added to create a crisp side to the dish.
My father stepped out of the kitchen, leaving me to watch the pot until he returns. I watched with my mouth watering and eyes trained on the steam escaping the enclosures that are the pot cover. On my tippy toes and I lifted the steaming pot cover off using a cloth so that I don’t get burned. I neglected to think about the hot water rolling off the pot cover that made contact with my sandal encased feet causing me to scream and drop the cover on top of my foot. At that very moment, my mother barged into the kitchen to a scene horrifying scene. My mother dashed to my side and cradled me in her warm arms as a sign of protection. “pickney! weh yuh a duh inna di kitchen?” Child! why are you in the kitchen? she said hushing me as my face turned bright red and bloodshot red eyes stared up at her and said “ mi..did..a watch ..di pot..fi daddy but… mi did too hungry fi wait …and open di pot fi taste it.” I was watching the pot for daddy but I got hungry and open the pot to taste the fish. I sniffled out. My father ran into the kitchen seconds later to see the same horrifying scene that my mother encountered earlier and also came to my side but instead, brought me over to the sink and placed my scolding red feet under cool running water. He kept on whispering “why yuh guh open di pot before di food done cook? Yuh shoulda wait pon mi fi come back and give yuh some”. Why did you open the pot when you could’ve asked me to get you some when I came back. I wrapped my arms around my father’s neck as if I am hanging on for dear life as he mends to my wounds.
I finally calmed down and turned to my father while placed on his lap. I smiled up at him and kissed his cheek. My mother was cleaning up the kitchen while mumbling “dis a why mi don’t let di pickney dem come inna in di kitchen while mi a cook.” This is why I don’t allow the kids to come into the kitchen when I’m cooking. My dad and I shared a glance at each other and then at mother when my father whispered, “don’t listen to her you’re a big girl now and you can handle being in the kitchen”. Uncomfortably I shifted and intertwined my fingers and mumbled under my breath “but I got burned because I couldn’t wait.” He rubbed his fingers on my back in a circular motion as a sign of comfort. My parents both assured me that getting hurt in the kitchen is apart of the learning experience when cooking.
Afterward, the rest of the evening my parents worked in harmony to create the classic Sunday Dinner which was then consumed by neighborhood kids, my older brother, myself and my parents. I was able to witness my father cook for the first time and was able to bond with him through food.
Self-Reflection Essay
A narrative essay is telling a story from the author’s point of view. The bases of the essay are to provide a clear setting, plot, characters, and relatability. When I was drafting what I wanted to include in my essay I first began identifying which food-centered moment I want to involve and if I had enough of the story to target all the bases. I knew I wanted to write about something that happened years ago and not a recent event, this is because with time the event becomes a lot more significant. Identifying the thesis of my paper was a challenging task because I knew what my story was about, but I was having a difficult time formulating my claim. However, in using the course learning outcomes I was able to finish and submit my essay. To begin the narrative essay, I was presented with various readings of that genre as a guide of how a narrative essay was supposed to look like. I was able to analyze which of the narrative essay writing bases was present in each literature. The use of character and settings of the text I was able to identify the purpose and stance the authors wanted to convey to their readers. In doing so I was able to analyze and explore the genre of narrative essay. In analyzing other author’s literature, I was able to create a draft that pertained to the key points presented in the texts.
My draft consisted of characters such as myself, my father and my mother. I then jot down my target audience and the motivation I had for writing about that specific moment in time. Also, I included the types of emotions I wanted my readers to feel which was sympathy and relatability. I didn’t do a great job at executing the emotional aspects of my writing because I only recalled what occurred instead of using diction that could cause a spark for my readers. What was drafted wasn’t exactly what was included in my writing. The use of collaborative editing helped to structure my writing and keep focused on the story I want to tell. Peer Editing when creating literature helps the author figure out mistakes that they missed, and it also serves as a preview to how the readers might react when it is complete. In the editing of my writing attention was drawn to my lack of proper grammar and the flow within the essay. able to go over all the things I needed help with and discussed with my peers on how I could improve and, in some ways, changed. Throughout these strategies, I was able to produce a narrative essay that told a story true to me and my characters. Narrative writing connects the reader and the author in a personal way in that it creates a link through the author’s memory and their emotions. The author can tell their stories without creating a character that has the background they want. In my writing, I was able to analyze narrative writings which I then used to model my own writing. I was able to create drafts to get my writing to address the narrative bases. Lastly, I was able to utilize my peers who helped to correct some of my mistakes and make suggestions in better my writing.
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