I was born in Jamaica, specifically St Andrew’s. My mother and I moved to the United States when I was about 8 months old. My family decided it was not very easy, so we moved back to Jamaica when I was 2. I went back and forth from Jamaica to America until I was 6 years old. I thought I was prepared for everything: the cold, the new accents, the fast pace of life. What I didn’t expect was how much I would miss the food. It hits me in small moments. Walking through the grocery store and not smelling the familiar scent of ripe mangoes. Opening my fridge and realizing there's no leftover curry goat or a bottle of sorrel waiting for me. Even rice and peas, something so simple, never tastes the same here.Back home, food wasn’t just food it was comfort, family, Sunday gatherings, and laughter echoing from the kitchen. It was my grandmother stirring her pot of oxtail, slow and steady, the whole house filled with that rich, savory aroma. It was patties from the corner shop after school, or hot fried plantains with breakfast. It was ackee and saltfish on a quiet Saturday morning, the national dish that felt like a hug. Here, I try to recreate it. I go to West Indian markets across town, hunt down scotch bonnet peppers, and argue with myself over the price of yams. Sometimes I get it right. Other times, not quite. But even then, just the act of cooking reminds me of who I am and where I come from. Missing the food isn’t just about missing a taste, it’s about missing a part of me. But every time I cook, I bring home a little closer.

 

Relationship:  Im/migrant who arrived as a child Im/migrant who arrived as a child