Iron Chef: Dia de Los Muertos

Whenever people talk about their grandparents I get kind of jealous. The thing is...I never really knew mine. My maternal grandfather died before I was born. My maternal grandmother died when I was seven. My paternal grandfather died when I was thirteen. And my only surviving grandparent is somebody I'm still not sure I want to know. There are issues dealing with my father's childhood and the way she treats my sister. But this isn't about her.

fried seitan, greens, macaroni and cheeze

This is about Grandmommy Peoples and Granddaddy Henry. My mom tells the story of how I first met my grandmother when we were coming back into the states from England. I had an accent then, so my grandmother found me to be quite hilarious. The classic story I've heard again and again is how I looked at her and said "Can I have a biscuit?" Her response was, "Baby, breakfast has been over for a few hours."

There are two memories that I have of my grandmother. The first one happened when I was about five. My sister was still a baby and I was so used to imaginary friends that I loved having other people around. Sometimes I'd ask my mom to play with me, but she thought it was funny to make my Barbies curse and fight each other. This annoyed me. Yes, even as a five year old. When my grandmother came to visit for a week I asked her to play tea party with me. And she did. We sat at the top of the stairs drinking imaginary tea. And I don't know how I knew it, but I felt how happy it made her to be sitting there with me.

The next memory I have is seeing her in the hospital. We moved to Abilene, TX when I was seven because my mom knew her mother was sick. And I remember waiting and watching her die of cancer. It was the first funeral I attended where I had actually seen and talked to the person. It was my first realization of what death truly meant. I have vivid memories of sobbing uncontrollably on the way to the cemetary. So much so that my father and uncle were brought to tears.

kale with sauteed onions and red bell pepper

My granddaddy is a man I didn't know too well. I know that I met him on that same trip back into the country. My dad never really told me stories so I don't know much of who he was. There's this picture that sits in my parents living room of my granddaddy in uniform saluting. I like to think of him like that. What I do remember is that not one birthday or Christmas went by without a card from him. I vaguely remember talking to him on the phone a few times when I was younger. He died of complications from gangrene after undergoing multiple amputations. I don't think my dad has ever gotten over his death.

Both of my grandparents had these long, drawn out deaths. I don't wish it on anybody. When I go, I don't want it to be a slow burn. I want it to be quick and quiet. I suppose I'm digressing. This was a hard entry to write. I cried even as I was thinking about what to make. And I cried again as I conjured up these memories to type them here. The loss never goes away. It gets easier to deal with, but it doesn't cease to exist.

macaroni and cheeze

Today is about remembering who these people were. They were magnificent people and lover's of soul food. Now, soul food can be whatever you want it to be. For me, it's traditionally Black southern cuisine. I think soul food, as a general rule, must start from nothing. Soul food is about barely scraping by and turning your food into a healing salve. Old spirituals, oral traditions and soul food is what gave hope to my ancestors. So I dedicate this to them. And most of all to my grandmother and grandfather. I hope you're both tearing it up in the next plane of existence.