COOKING BY THE SEAT OF MY PANTS :D
Author
Claudine Johnson Eaddy
Autumn's Catering & Cafe
Intrinsic Chef :D / Lover of all things food :D
 Spoons. Yep. Spoons. My family has a long-standing obsession with spoons. Wooden, metal, plastic, it doesn’t matter. It’s the preferred eating utensil in my house, and we have an extraordinary amount and variety of them. When I was growing up, my mom had particular spoons for different dishes. I grew up knowing which spoon to grab for rice, which one for meat, and which one for discipline, ha! And I knew not to bring the wrong one, lol. My girls often reminisce about the “discipline” spoon. A thin wooden spoon that one could wield when necessary, though it rarely resulted in a smack or two to the palm for whatever the infraction was. But it could instill fear pretty quickly. For years, they believed it was always the same spoon. But these cheaply made spoons never lasted long, often cracking, splitting, and getting stuck in a drawer. I found a piece of one of those spoons broken off in my kitchen drawer recently. When I pulled the stubborn piece out, both girls burst out laughing and yelled, “THE SPOON!!” For them, it wasn’t a memory of discipline, but instead of their grandma, who would send them for the spoon, holding it all while lecturing them. That was my mom’s thing. She would talk, tapping the spoon on her palm while telling the reasons that were wrong, dangerous, etc. EVERY TIME. They continued to chat and giggle about different times at grandmas, and the things they got in trouble for. When my mom died, I decided to keep only a few of her kitchen things. So now, my best friend has THE spoon. This particular spoon is a stainless steel perforated spoon that was used to dish out rice dishes, which were always plentiful. This past Christmas, I brought over a pot of West Indian rice and peas to her house, and I naturally grabbed that spoon to use. In that moment, I realized it was the exact combination of pot and spoon that I had grown up with into my adult life. The memories that came flooding back brought me to my mother’s house, and me being a child again. All from merely holding a spoon. The gatherings, holidays, and dinners that surrounded us with love and warmth. Such an intense feeling brought me to tears. To have someone in your life that loves you so much and makes you feel safe is reassuring. Sharing that person with family and even friends is a fulfilling life experience. I am grateful to have had someone teach me the joy of cooking, how a meal can brighten a day, and how giving can mean so much. We don’t have to work hard at creating memories; they’re just a part of us. We create moments of love merely by being ourselves. 
1 Comment
As a little girl, I use to love to watch my grandmother cook. She would say “Clogs,” (my family’s nickname for me) “come watch me as I make this.” I would drag over my little plastic stool, hop up and being careful not to get too close to the fire, watched her wide-eyed, put a little of this, a dash of that, and stir it all together. She would turn to me and say, “You got that?” to which each time, I nodded my head, yes. Nope, I didn’t “got” it… but every time I watched, nodded, and soaked it all in. My mother also cooked the same way. Growing up with West Indian parents and grandparents, they never measured, never weighed, and if they didn’t have an ingredient they needed, they pulled out some other staple ingredient from the cupboard, and used that instead. And it was amazing just about every time. Oh, there were missteps and mistakes, but they would say, “oops, this needs more … or, this has too much … ” and make adjustments to fix it. Done, simple. (again, for me not so simple) My mom, while cooking, would tell me stories of when she first married my dad, the bad meals she made, since as she said, she wasn’t a good cook. He would say it was enjoyable, even if it was burnt, for fear of going hungry. Ha! Hey, throw something else in, that will make it even better! She had a hefty cookbook collection including crazy old-school gems like Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook, the Betty Crocker Microwave Cooking, and the age old Joy of Cooking. These books merely became “reference”, as my mom used to say that she liked the pictures. Lol. She would say “I can make that better than that.” And do the opposite than what the recipe called for. Still throwing in a pinch of ... or a sprinkle of ... Hmmm... As I grew older, I began to cook in the same way. Without even realizing, I was throwing a handful of this, a dash of that, and hey! it was done. Make a few adjustments, and might I say, it was pretty daggone delicious. I had apparently picked up their intrinsic way of cooking. It became my comfort zone, my happy place, this kind of cooking. I eventually went to culinary school, and learned the science behind cooking, but it was hard for me to switch to measuring out ingredients. Even after obtaining my degree and working in various restaurants and catering facilities, I found myself returning to a handful and dash, rather than a cup and a teaspoon, as I cooked. Really, we all have it in us, once we learn to trust our instincts, and not be afraid to make mistakes. Go on, try that spice you didn’t know what to do with. I mean, hey, everything goes with chicken, right? |
