Saturday after Saturday my finger knuckles were assaulted by the God awful kitchen grater that I used to start the coconut milk process. Oh how I do not miss those days. Now that I think about it, those old fashioned graters were sharp enough to be surgical tools, lol. In our home, It was a Saturday night ritual to dice, grate or strain that coconut to make coconut milk for rice and peas or sweet potato pudding , or whatever other island dish my mother decided to make for Sunday dinner. I had to sit there half sleep waiting for my mother to roll the next order off her tongue. I can't remember if that was before or after she fried my hair with the pressing comb. Sounds awful, I know. Many things happened in the kitchen back in the day. The kitchen was like the mecca of the home. Those Saturdays were long days filled with cooking and cleaning. I had two working parents who left home at the crack of dawn, on lonely Brooklyn streets, and returned home at dusk for decades, just to make it in America. Winter nights were short, dark and dangerous on those pre-gentrified Brooklyn blocks . The weekend was the time when we caught up on laundry, housekeeping, and cooking. I think this is the reason, I do whatever I feel like when I feel like as a way of rebelling against the strict order of a West Indian mother. Don't tell her I said so, lol. All I know is that God answered my prayers when my mother lost interest in grating and juicing coconuts for her rice and peas. When she discovered coconut creme, the coconut creme served the same purpose and tasted just as great! My finger knuckles are still rejoicing every time I behold a box of coconut creme. I am thankful that she taught me the source of such scrumptious food recipes. However, I personally, have no more desire to grate anybody's coconut. I can get the same rich taste of coconut milk in my rice and peas or potato pudding with manufactured coconut creme. As we get older and time marches on, we move further and further away from our traditions. Instead of the grater and the strainer, we use the blender and the food processor. As times advance, we improvise and look for shortcuts to the same destination. The most important thing is that we always remember from whence we have come. Being the history guru that I am, when my children ask me a question about culture or cultural foods, I try to do due diligence by giving them a strong background history report of the situation. Immigration and migration move us away from our roots but we remain connected in certain ways. I encourage you all to use meal time as a way to give your children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews a new chapter in the family history books. Oral story telling has always been a valid way of keeping historical records in African communities. Spending time to prepare meals and having fellowship during meals help to strengthen family bonds and foster a sense of belonging. Create a recipe box with some cultural recipes and jot down a family memory that matches each one. You may know all there is to know about your family history and you want the people coming behind you, who may some day live on distant shores, to know the same important facts about your cultural history. Over time and distance, stories can change or be altered. However, if they are written down or told often enough, the authenticity remains. I am happy with my coconut creme but even more happy to know that I can make some coconut milk the old fashioned way.
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