On: Growing Up
“Grandma can’t cook anymore,” decided the family. It started with the fire.
The family adores Grandma’s yams: a thick layer of baby food smooth yams topped with a thicker layer of marshmallow. More marshmallow is eaten than yam. The family called the yams sweet potatoes.
Four years ago, Grandma forgot the yams in the oven. An anxious aunt asked. The oven was opened. Torn through were decades of grease, the pan pulled out. The marshmallow was brimstone and spit fire.
Two years ago was the cleaning incident. Grandma prepared her turkey; four hours it sat. The intestines marinated the garbage can as the family sat on familiar fabric. They drank coffee from an unwashed coffee pot.
A raspy call slipped through broken and missing teeth: “The turkey is done!” The pan was filled with thin fat and thick blood. Grandpa began to cut. The family squealed. The meat was still glossy. Slices fell and splashed into the juices. The family cried.
“The next generation should cook,” decided the family: one cousin, a sister, and me. I was the only one with cooking experience.
I got a job at Ali Baba’s. “Work inside and outside,” said the owner. On the inside, I was to cut persian cucumbers. I cut my hand. The cut hasn’t healed yet. I couldn’t cry.
I tried to boil water. I fell asleep. Whistling became screaming. I woke up. The kettle was black and shot dry steam.
Whenever I would make food for my family they would complain about how it was too hot. I never learned. “It’s more spice than food,” they said. I called it fine.
Grandma would supervise Thanksgiving. Her son told her to not talk about politics. His son was too volatile. “The Bible says to pray for the peace of Israel,” said Grandma.
“I’m not a provocateur,” said I.
I laughed when my family tripped on cracks. Today I trip on the same cracks. I too drink from unwashed coffee pots.
“Growing up, I expected to become grander; to leave everyone I looked down on behind,” said the family, my grandmother, and I.
