My father was always proud of his humble beginnings. He crafted our childhood with vivid stories of our relatives residing in the cool mountains of Mt Industry, St Catherine, and the surrounding villages. Despite the challenging roads, weekends were devoted to traversing those mountains, visiting our grandmother, her sisters, and his sister — the lone keeper of the family flame in Jamaica, as others ventured to the motherland and the grand USA.
Despite the hustle of my own busy life, I continued the tradition, echoing my father's generous spirit by extending help to those in need. My favourite cousin, a constant companion through ups and downs, mirrored the essence of familial bonds. We would engage in a cycle of employment, disagreement, and reconciliation, a testament to the resilience of true family connections.
Recently, two cherished cousins faced health challenges. One sought medical attention in the US due to the shortcomings of healthcare in Jamaica. Now that she's back, I felt compelled to bridge the gap and visit them. I'm averse to the Jamaican tradition of appearing only at funerals, preferring to connect with loved ones while they're still here.
Driving with extreme caution on the deteriorating roads, which I bluntly labelled as donkey tracks, reignited frustration. I couldn't help but express my disappointment in the residents who continue to support politicians failing to uplift the area.
However, as I immersed myself in the stories of our youthful escapades with my country folks, anger transformed into joy. A visit to my grandmother's modest cottage, where she raised seven children, triggered a flood of nostalgic memories. The communal living, trips to the river for refreshing baths, and treks to the family plantation for seasonal fruits unfolded before me.
Recollections of mouthwatering meals prepared over a wood fire lingered — corn pork, soft yam, green bananas, pear, fried plantain, and dumplings, each dish infused with a unique wood-fire charm. The reminiscence of those moments sparked a desire to learn the ancestral art of curing corn pork over an open flame — a skill I regretfully overlooked in my busy past.
As time moves forward, I'm determined to collect these recipes from those who still practice the tradition. Their stories and culinary secrets are threads connecting me to the rich tapestry of my roots, inspiring me to preserve and celebrate the living heritage of my family's humble beginnings.
The old house is still standing tho the paint is all done but the memories are still so fresh |
The biggest jackfruit..all organic..part of the bounty I received..and a tradition among country folk to fill your car trunk with fruits of their labour. |
Shame on these non-performing MPs. The donkey track they call road |
Writer, Lois Grant
Lois Grant |
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