My Grandmother - Original Writing

The short story “Everyday Use (For Your Grandmama)” by Alice Walker, analyzes the lives of a woman by the name of Dee or Wangeroo, as well as her mother and sister. Walker mainly focuses on Dee concerning her search for self-identity and connection to her African roots. Dee endeavors to trace her African roots by educating herself which she successfully achieves by moving away from her family. Dee feels that her family needs to reconstruct themselves as they have a history of oppression. She also feels that they are carrying on the legacy of oppression by staying at the house in which they reside and not educating themselves. One of the many themes portrayed in Walker’s story is education. She pinpoints the value of education and the

In Jessica Harris’s “The Culinary Season of my Childhood” she peels away at the layers of how food and a food based atmosphere affected her life in a positive way. Food to her represented an extension of culture along with gatherings of family which built the basis for her cultural identity throughout her life. Harris shares various anecdotes that exemplify how certain memories regarding food as well as the varied characteristics of her cultures’ cuisine left a lasting imprint on how she began to view food and continued to proceeding forward. she stats “My family, like many others long separated from the south, raised me in ways that continued their eating traditions, so now I can head south and sop biscuits in gravy, suck chewy bits of fat from a pigs foot spattered with hot sauce, and yes’m and no’m with the best of ‘em,.” (Pg. 109 Para). Similarly, since I am Jamaican, food remains something that holds high importance in my life due to how my family prepared, flavored, and built a food-based atmosphere. They extended the same traditions from their country of origin within the new society they were thrusted into. The impact of food and how it has factors to comfort, heal, and bring people together holds high relevance in how my self-identity was shaped regarding food.

Mary Fisher’s excerpts from The Gastronomical Me were delightfully filled with many sensory detailed sentences. She did a good job including the reader to properly imagine the story. She travels back into her childhood and recalls her first taste of strawberry flavored jam and makes connections between women in the past to present-day females. Change is inevitable but appreciating the past and the traditions that made about these changes can be respected. She gives a good argument on how cooking was a trait most women took seriously. But she also argues on how food can be viewed as something far more amazing and beautiful.

Recipes crafted throughout generations invoke feelings of pleasure when eaten occasionally. When enjoyed especially around the holidays, a simple dish is transformed into a manifestation of love. When eaten in celebration, it acts as a window into the unique expression of every family. The near obsession with the taste and quality of soul food can be justified by its high in fat content, but it is important not to forget how the psychology of growing up with this food remains with a child forever. It makes sense for it to also be known as “comfort food,” food that is typically unhealthy yet invokes feelings of innocence, childhood, and

“Where’s dad?” “Speak of the devil.” He walked in and popped a sweet and sour chicken in his mouth. “Sit and eat.” Mom firmly instructed. I took a seat as mom passed out food, loading up our plates as we discussed our day, just like we always have done ever since I can remember.

Many people have entered and left my life but the most memorable person in my life has been my grandmother, Emiliana Alcauter Resendiz. She lived with my family and me for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately she passed away when I was 10. To me she was a truly astonishing woman.

Every Sunday for as long as I can remember was always Sunday dinner at 1 o’clock at grandma’s house. Grandma Opal could out cook anyone, she had the best meals and desserts of anyone I knew. You could always smell something cooking from grandma’s kitchen as soon as you stepped outside your car. Yet, no matter how quick you were to sneak a cookie grandma would always be the first taste tester. Everything she cooked she tried to tell us kids that it was “blinky” and we shouldn’t eat it, but that was only her way of trying to trick us. Until Grandma Opal passed away at the age of 94 she was still cooking something delicious. During the summers I spent in Maysville I got to cook

Charity, who was stirring the pot of grits, teared up when she accidentally splattered a drop onto her hand. Thinking he had made her cry, Jeremiah said, “Aw, now, come on, Missy, don't go ta crying. I didn't mean to sound so gruff!”

Once leaving the room, the aroma of cooking meat hit him with a hard punch to the nose. He let it lead him to the kitchen where there was two plates ready for them already. There was ham, sausage, and other forms of meat he didn’t quite recognize. With a few pancakes of course.

The Log Cabin Café has a very dark, yet relaxing atmosphere with taxidermy animals mounted on the wall. The cabin itself is rustic, but tastefully restored, and was originally built in 1937. We chose the only table that had been cleared off in the dining room and seated ourselves. We assumed that a rush of late breakfast eaters and early bird lunches had occurred, and that the waitress had yet to get the chance to clear the dirty tables for

I lay awake yet inattentive before finally shoving the warmth from my body in an attempt to revive my senses. Stale but brisk air embraced me, leaving me unguarded from harsh discomfort. This, however, did awaken my mind and jumpstart my flesh. My stomach fought me. Nothing except for a few strips of microwave cooked bacon, a slice of turkey, and a scoop of mashed potatoes had entertained my digestive system the day before. Thanksgiving had normally been a time for a gargantuan feast but this year was different. Money was in short supply.

At approximately, seven years old I started to learn the art of cooking with--Love and Spirit--near the apron of my Great Aunt Cora Spellman. She helped to raise me into the man I am today—God & Goddess—Bless Her Soul—Now & Always! (My mother worked hard as “The Help” who cleaned White folk’s houses for income and often came home exhausted.) Great Aunt Cora cooked fresh greens and other vegetables, made great tasting and stomach filling homemade bread, rolls, cakes and pies. Furthermore, Great Aunt Cora was one of the 15 members in the Mount Zion Holiness Church Prayer Band of Powerful Faith Healers, Ministers, Preachers, Evangelists, Singers and Church Builders (only two men qualified to be members). She

Waking up to the sound of loud church bells and a breathtaking view that looked like a scene from The Sound of Music meant only one thing. Lunchtime. As I made my way to the kitchen, an array of smells climbed through my nose. Savory, fresh, sweet, rich – almost too fragrant for someone who just woke up five minutes ago. I sat my tired self in the dining room where rays of sun touched my face from the big window next to me. Lunch was served. Food that was once only comfort and pleasure in my mind, found a purpose to me. It was in Austria where I first realized that there was more to food than just eating it because it tasted so good.

Whether it was a cold winter night or a hot summer day, I was greeted with the lingering smell of a home-cooked meal from my grandmother’s neutral colored kitchen. I would always be sure to take my shoes off before crossing the decades old brown tile. Walking into the kitchen, I already know that the special of the day or rather the special of the years at my grandmother’s house was a boiled hot dog with a side of buttered egg noodles and a dill pickle quarter. As far as I can remember, my grandma would always fill my request to serve this meal, not only because it was a personal favorite of mine as a child, but because it was a simple yet pleasing meal. At the drop of a hat, grandma would rise from her pink Lazy Boy chair from the living room, and shuffle in her slippers to the kitchen when lunch time came around. The hot dog was a more than satisfactory meal as a child for me and the cravings for this entrée is instilled in me. As grandma would boil the link of meat while hovering over her stove, I, along with my cousin who was just as accustomed to this meal, would wait at the each end of her kitchen table. While grandma would rather make my cousin and me a healthier meal, she always chose to fill our requests to satisfy our hunger.

I woke up to the sun shining into my room, and knew then it was gonna be a good day. That day I had planned on going to see my great grandma that had been sick on and off, and this time they weren’t sure what they were gonna do. I learned to love someone as much as you can when you still have the chance to and it’s not too late,and that person is gone.