Vicarious Memories

        I never actually witnessed my grandmother cooking. From a young age, I was only able to witness her as ill as she struggled with Alzheimer’s disease for many years before her passing. This did not stop me from imagining what it was like to watch my grandmother making American Chop Suey, a traditional home-cooked meal. Certainly, I find myself in my father’s shoes when picturing what it would be like to salivate at the smell of fresh tomatoes and chopped garlic. Much too often, I wait impatiently for this large pot of ingredients to suddenly form into the warm, hearty pasta dish that I’ve grown to adore. This dish has been a staple within my own family, and within my father’s family growing up. Although it is difficult to grow up viewing a family member as unwell, it is easy to recognize the heart and soul they used to have. I never truly witnessed my grandmother do anything but struggle to muster up my name and who I was in relation to her. There was something comforting about the sound of her voice and the feeling of her touch that made me know what it would be like to be gazing into her joyful eyes across the dinner table. The image I picture through the stories my father tells me about my grandmother preparing this dish makes me recognize a feeling of togetherness within my own family.

        My father grew up in a family of eight, and everyone seemingly kept to themselves. While my father and his siblings went to work, school, or just to play outside, my grandmother planned dinner. This planning entailed, buying a surplus of cheap, yet fresh, ingredients, cleaning, and serving, and then finding a place to store leftovers. From my father’s eyes, I can imagine the anticipation of waiting for the nightly family meal. The smell of sweetness and tang from cigars while the New York Giants or the New York Yankees was rolling on television. Hanging black bottomed feet off the edge off the couch and itching yesterdays bug bites. The hunger of a day’s work or play. The salivation that comes with the thought of chewing anything that will fulfill an empty stomach. An all too familiar feeling of what it’s like to wait for your last meal of the day. It was like watching a mad scientist discovering a new treatment for cancer in their lab. Pots and pans banging together, the sound of sizzling, mushing, and steam. The smell of each individual ingredient hitting the humid air as it was added to the pot. The feeling of eagerness as you finally hear the heavenly words. “Come and get it.” Growing so attached to those words that you eventually take them as your own. The accustomed nightly dinner routine has so much more value when you watch someone fail to recognize that there even was one. Nightly dinner was a way to pull everyone back together for a few moments just to appreciate each other’s company. That tradition feeling of sitting around the dinner table with your siblings and parents is what the importance of home is.

        My grandmother was rarely employed and spent a majority of her life fulfilling motherly duties for her time. Cleaning, kissing boo-boos, and telling the occasional knock-knock joke to lighten the mood. Most importantly, making dinner was something that was particularly special to her. My father recalls, “She would caramelize onions and tomatoes and put the meat in afterward. She usually used beef and tomato paste and then add in regular tomato sauce after.” I imagine the process was grueling and long, but the end product was something that you couldn’t forget. It was a moment where the chaos of living in a family of eight finally silenced for a few minutes to enjoy hearty food and each other’s company. My father recollects, “It was a meal that I looked forward to because it fed a lot of people and was wholesome. This meal made us enjoy a half an hour together and appreciate what we had. The dish made you so full that you’d have to take a late afternoon nap afterward.” Dinner was a bonding experience, as much as anything else was. It brought everyone together to share something so timeless and special once a day. The harmony shared over a steaming plate of food is especially important in how we carry our traditions and values with us.

        Much different from my father’s upbringing, I grew up as an only child in a house of three. Between my mother, Katharine, my father Reginald, and I, life was mostly centered around my growth and supporting one another. I followed most of the only child stereotype. Aspects of life demanded exclusive attention, and being spoiled was a frequent occurrence, but this was an experience that made me recognize the effort it takes to raise a family. An instance when I realized this, was during one of the hotter days in August a few summers ago. One of those days where the air is as thick as water so your clothes stick to your body and you feel like you might suffocate. All anyone wanted to do on this day was stay still. For most, that meant watching television for a majority of the day. For others, it meant napping or staring at a wall for extended periods of time. For me, on this particular day, it included installing braces onto my pearly whites and then sleeping the rest of the day away to avoid pain. If you’ve never had braces, you probably don’t realize what a manacle bastard they are, but these metal contraptions felt like you’d been clocked in the mouth repeatedly. I spent most of that hot August day complaining to my very sweaty father, sipping yogurts cups, and sleeping. Coddling was an understatement when it came to how my parents raised me. It’s very easy to acknowledge all the time and effort they put in to make our family as wholesome as possible.

        There’s nothing like the feeling of sinking into a broken-in couch. Our couch was this 80’s style, brown, worn couch that could make you sleep for days. Napping like this was my specialty and I often found myself more awake than I was necessarily in deep sleep. I specifically remember the smell of sauteed tomatoes waking me up. There’s something about the smell of tomatoes swirling around in a saucepan that just makes your tongue tingle. I knew that my father was making American Chop Suey that night because it would not only satisfy my hungry belly, but it was also something that I could easily consume. Mixed-matched boxes of pasta, ripe red tomatoes, store-bought sauce, and spicy chilis made this dish easily edible and something I would enjoy immensely. I would enjoy this dish, braces or not, but something about my father throwing an hour or two away to make it for me was something special. It brought me so much joy just being able to witness my father making it. From afar you could easily see the glimmer of nostalgia and the pleasure of creating something that shaped his childhood. Although the recipe had been altered and the outcome was likely different the outcome was still so satisfying. My father beamed,  “I use ground turkey, chilies, and classic Italian sauce with fresh tomatoes. I’ve made the recipe my own. It’s different than other chop suey dishes because a lot of people make the dish watery like my mother’s recipe, but I try to make it so it’s thicker like a stew and each bite makes you feel heavy and full.” This dish washed worries from your belly and instead fill you with wholesome, warm love. It was a dish that connected me to my family and was something that always cheered me up in times of distress. My father remembers, “Whenever you would come home late from dance or school and you’re tired, you would always request it. It’s a quick wholesome meal that can easily fill you up and put you to sleep. It’s something that connects you with your family.” This was truer than anything else. This was a meal that not only satisfied my aching belly but also satisfied my need for love and affection. Having this meal made for me showed me that my father cared for me and brought our relationship closer every time he made the dish.

        My family followed a traditional route for most of my childhood and drew a lot of other customs from my father’s childhood. Early Sunday family dinners, a staple meal at least once a week, and recipes that burnt a hole in your taste buds. These traditions never resonated with me until I had to endure watching my grandmother forget every habit that she instilled in her family. Bouncing from nursing home to nursing home for most of my youth, it was difficult to understand why she couldn’t remember my name or who I was in relation to her. I have distinct memories of seeing her frequently and encountering the same conversations about how beautiful I was, but being unsure who I was. Like any quality grandmother, she would always offer me food or something wholesome to keep me happy. I’ve always desired nothing more than to ask for her to cook for me, but it was something that she never had the ability to do as I grew up. By vicariously living through these moments of my grandmother in good health through my father’s memories of her and by listening to the snippets of her life that flashed through her mind during our visits, I can imagine that she was a dedicated mother. From my father’s perspective, “she was such a strong woman. She always had dinner ready at the same time every day. She always fed us well and made sure we were well kept. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish all that I’ve done without the traditions she pushed. When I make her recipes it reminds me of the values she set forward in my family and the values that I want to set forward on my own.”

        You can learn so much through the people around you. I have so many memories of what it was like to watch my father make me dinner after dinner throughout the years, but it was more special to listen and visualize what it was like to experience the same thing from his perspective as a child. Much like stories, recipes and food can be passed from person to person and create such an important connection between people. I never got the privilege of witnessing my grandmother cook anything, let alone witness her cohesively remember who I was. Nevertheless, I could easily realize what a special and strong woman she was, but those memories of her cooking can only hold a place in my imagination. It makes me form a strong appreciation for her. I am lucky that I get to enjoy wholesome meals and traditions so often because she instilled them in her family values so long ago. I can look forward to coming home and enjoying a large pot of American Chop Suey with my family because she took the time and effort to expose my father to that generosity so early in life. Sharing this meal commemorates her, and forces me to recognize this feeling of togetherness within my own family every time we join together to eat it. It is an inexpensive, easy, and certainly hearty meal, but it is something that I cannot get enough of. It sits with you for hours and encourages your stomach to yearn for it later. As I reflect on these small moments, my stomach pines over this meal and my heart craves the sound of my father’s voice and my mind wishes I could hear how beautiful I am from my grandmother once more. It makes me smile and it makes me feel like home even when I’m miles away from it. That is what togetherness is to me, and what this meal encompasses.