History in the PotAuthor(s): Leigh DonaldsonSource: Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture, Vol. 13, No. 2 (Summer 2013), pp. 15-17Published by: University of California PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/gfc.2013.13.2.15 .

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celebrating family, friends, and traditions | leigh donaldson

History in the Pot

during the late 1960s, my mother and I were ‘‘buddies.’’

Back then, our northwest Detroit neighborhood was a place

where kids of all nationalities, religions, and colors studied,

played, and fought together in relative harmony. It seemed in

those days that open displays of kindness were not so easily

trumped by competition, greed, and prejudice. Maybe, it was

because we did not believe we had too much to worry about.

One of the ways my mother and I brought personal depth

into our lives was by frequenting the city’s public markets,

where meat butchers, vegetable grocers, and fish, seafood,

and cheese mongers sold products from Michigan, Ohio,

Canada, and as far away as European, Middle Eastern, Asian,

and South American farming regions. Our favorite excursion

was to the Eastern Market, established in 1891, where we

shopped elbow to elbow with Detroiters, suburbanites, tour-

ists, restaurateurs, and cooking enthusiasts.

My mother’s family was born on a small island in the

Bahamas, called Cat Island. Some have said that it was

named after the notorious British sea captain, Arthur Catt.

Others attribute its name to the hordes of wild cats that the

English encountered when they arrived there in the 1600s.

Having gained much of its original wealth from slave labor on

cotton plantations, it is still considered to be one of the most

untamed, yet fertile islands in the Caribbean, with its high

cliffs and forested foothills overlooking pink and white sand

beaches.

After the emancipation of slaves on Cat Island in 1834,

Bahamians used their seafaring skills, such as sponging and

shrimp harvesting, to great advantage, during the days of ship-

wrecks, gun-running and prohibition. Black Bahamian roots

go far back.

When I think of this place, I imagine my mother wearing

a bright straw hat and sundress, as she quietly walks over

fossilized coral reef and sand. Her shell necklace echoes the

frigate birds overhead, as she meanders past the ancient car-

casses of plantation manors. She pauses to take in the tur-

quoise Atlantic Ocean, then continues her trek to the

limestone caves, where all spirits reside.

Perhaps my mother was reminded of village markets

when she dragged me to the downtown city markets. For

example, in Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas, there were

markets and stalls where independent fishermen with small

wooden boats sold directly to the public, often scaling, gut-

ting, and cleaning the fish for customers on the spot. But it

was here, in Detroit’s markets, where I learned about human

character as I watched my mother stride proudly through

stalls of fish and vegetables, graciously calming the raucous,

harassed vendors, many of whom were second-generation

Greek, Polish, Jewish, Irish, and Italian immigrants. When

they saw her, they rushed to unveil the perfect pumpkin, the

freshest crab, the perkiest hot peppers.

She held each morsel close to her beautiful brown face,

lightly sniffed, and often returned it to the vendor with a sim-

ple ‘‘Not today.’’ I followed her from booth to booth, watching

her head held high in animated curiosity. My mother was at

home walking through these markets. ‘‘Have a nice day,

ma’am. Hope to see you again soon,’’ they politely called out

to her as we strolled away.

Part of my inner strength was mysteriously formed during

these outings with my mother. Many of the most important

lessons I learned from both of my parents were at the dinner

table. Early on, without seeming to be aware of it, my mother

and father taught me that black familial traditions and devo-

tion to one another could never be destroyed nor forgotten.

As in many other cultures, a very African, Caribbean, and

Hispanic tradition is to take whatever food is available and

make it better. There were few cookbooks around, perhaps

because recipes were traditionally memorized. Meals were

based on grains, beans, vegetables, and flesh from land and

sea. Today, this custom has been characterized as a regional,

sustainable, and healthful food system. But slaves had no

name for it. Working off excessive fat, salt, and sugar while

they labored was a forced way of life, not a marketing

concept.

After returning from the market, I helped unpack and

prepare the food for our meals. Before cooking, our inexpen-

sive cuts of meat were marinated with onions, peppers, citrus

fruits, or vinegar to tenderize them. While we sliced limes,

soaked red beans, salted conch fish, and shelled peas, my

mother talked about her childhood backyard in Miami,

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gastronomica: the journal of food and culture, vol.13, no.2, pp.15–17, issn 1529-3262. © 2013 by the regents of the university of california. all rights reserved. please direct all requests for permission to

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where lime, banana, avocado, and cherimoya trees grew

freely. Coconuts thumped to the ground from neighbors’

trees. Her parents grew tomatoes, string beans, okra, sweet

potatoes, and sweet corn, while several hens roosted about

and one especially ornery red-headed rooster raised a special

kind of hell. During sickness and pain, her father would

carefully select mint leaves and other herbs to be mixed with

hot water and honey for coughs and colds. The pulp of the

aloe plant was applied to cuts and bruises.

After meal preparations, my parents, two younger broth-

ers, and I would sit down to dinners of steamed codfish, fried

plantains, pigeon peas and rice, roasted okra, with desserts

such as coconut fritters doused with blueberry sauce. What

I realized later in life was that these meals were a testament to

their love for each other and for their children. Their shared

culinary past was one of many gifts to us.

At meals, my father talked about how he milked goats and

slaughtered chickens on his family farm in Edwards, Missis-

sippi. The son of an African-Scottish father and a African-

Cherokee mother, he reflected on how they lived off the

bounty of the land and how these experiences made eating

food a more fulfilling experience for him. From his descrip-

tions, I could picture the large, clapboard house, set on red

clay, nurtured by wild dandelions, wrenching a path around

the front porch, and almost hear the mooing of cows and the

crows cackling in the cornfields.

My paternal grandmother preserved practically every-

thing one could imagine in mason jars stored in her cellar.

I remember the varied colors of red peppers, yams, string

beans, corn, pears, apples, watermelon rinds, and even

pickled pig’s feet stacked neatly on shelves. My father told

us about waking up at the crack of dawn to feed the

chickens cracked corn and retrieve brown, yellow, and

even reddish colored eggs from the chicken coops for their

breakfast.

Years later, as an adult living in New York City, I was

walking along Second Avenue with no idea of what to do

about dinner that evening, as I was living on a starving writer’s

limited budget. By that time, ‘‘local’’ and ‘‘sustainable’’ had

become culinary buzzwords. Buying and eating food pro-

duced closer to home echoed the American farming tradi-

tion and was being actively supported by people who cared

about the provenance of their food. The concept of an

‘‘urban diet’’ had even inspired me to work in community

gardens, join a food co-op, and frequent greengrocer

markets.

When New York City was founded as New Amsterdam

in 1625, Governor Peter Stuyvesant decreed that markets

were to be established at the city’s expense. These outdoor

stands flourished along the East River shore, then called

the Strand. There, Native American harvesters and other

farmers arrived by boat, selling produce, meat, and other

goods.

This particular evening, I noticed a small fruit and vege-

table stand displaying ginger beer, cornmeal, cassava root,

and fresh plantains. I bought a bunch of plantains from the

proprietor, who turned out to be originally from Nassau. A

block closer to my apartment, I stopped at a small seafood

market owned by a Lebanese family and bought several

pounds of boned catfish.

Later, I called a few friends and invited them to my place

for dinner, then I prepared foo-foo with unpeeled plantains,

sea salt, and pepper. I fried the catfish coated with corn flour

in canola oil and sauteed a batch of fresh collard greens in

olive oil with garlic and onions and a pinch of salt with

ground pepper. I don’t recall my parents ever openly

reflecting on the harsh reality of how black slaves and

sharecroppers once had to literally ‘‘eat from the bottom

of the barrel.’’ Nor did they ever refer to what we ate as soul

food or to the downside of eating foods considered high in

fat and salt. Eating with my family was always more of

a creative adventure, a sharing of culture, history, and love,

as with so many other families. So, as I sat down to eat with

my diverse, cosmopolitan group of friends, I recalled one

of my mother’s favorite expressions: ‘‘There is history in

the pot.’’

Grandma Amanda’s Peanut Butter Cookies

Maybe because peanuts were so plentiful in Mississippi, my

maternal grandmother, Amanda D. (Donaldson) Ford, loved

to make peanut butter cookies. I think she ground the peanuts

down to a paste by hand. My mother improvised by using

crunchy jarred peanut butter and added whole peanuts on the

top of each cookie, as my dad still loves roasted peanuts

straight from the shell. He also remains a fan of George

Washington Carver (born in 1864), the African-American sci-

entist, botanist, educator, and inventor who promoted alter-

native crops to cotton such as peanuts, soybeans, and sweet

potatoes that he believed added nutrition to the diets of poor

farmers’ families.

1=2 cup softened butter1=2 cup chunky peanut butter1=2 cup sugar1=2 cup brown sugar

1 large egg, well beaten

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1 teaspoon vanilla extract

11=4 cups sifted all-purpose flour1=2 teaspoon baking powder3=4 teaspoon baking soda1=2 teaspoon salt

roasted peanuts (optional)

Cream butter and peanut butter together in large bowl.

Beat in sugars, then stir in egg and vanilla. Sift flour, baking

powder, baking soda, and salt into creamed mixture. Mix

completely. Separate dough into small balls. Flatten in criss-

cross fashion. Top with peanuts, if desired. Bake in 350-

degree oven on sheet for 8 to 12 minutes or until light brown.

Cool on racks. (Makes about 21=2 dozen.)

Fried Plantains

Plantains are considered a staple in any Caribbean-style meal.

The first tip is to choose your plantains carefully. The

browner ones tend to be sweeter and more tender. Unripe

plantains are tough.

Do not peel a plantain like a banana. It is better to cut off

the tips of both ends first, then make several lengthwise cuts,

being careful not to cut into the flesh of the fruit. Then slice

the plantain any way you like, about a half inch thick. Heat

a little oil of your choice in a large pan at a medium temper-

ature and gently add plantains. Cook until they have a brown

crust, turn over, and repeat process. Drain on paper towels.

Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.

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