Of First Dishes
When people ask me what the first dish I ever learnt to cook was, they usually expect something deeply rooted in the food culture of Antigua and Barbuda… something like ducana and saltfish, or pepperpot. After all, I was born and raised here, and my mother was an excellent cook of traditional Antiguan dishes.
But strangely enough, the very first thing I ever cooked on my own wasn’t a local dish at all.
It was macaroni pie.
Even more surprising? I didn’t learn to make it at home in my mother’s kitchen. I learnt to bake it in home economics class when I was just ten or eleven years old.
I still remember that day. Small and curious, standing in the classroom kitchen, I tried hard to follow every step our teacher gave us. Boil the elbow macaroni. Grate the cheese. Whisk the eggs and milk. Mix it all together, season it gently, and bake until golden and bubbling.
It wasn’t something my family ever made at home, but I was proud, so proud of what came out of the oven that day.
And I owe that feeling to Mrs. Edwards, my Home Economics teacher. She didn’t just show me how to bake a dish; she gave me confidence. She saw something in me, encouraged me to try, and believed I could do it.
But she did something else too, something even more meaningful.
She gave my mother the confidence to let me try.
My mother’s kitchen was her domain, full of tradition and experience. Letting a child experiment in that space wasn’t something she was used to. But after I came home excited and eager to cook again, something shifted. Maybe it was the pride in my voice, or the quiet trust she had in Mrs. Edwards’ guidance. Whatever it was, she began to let me help more, to try more, and eventually, to create dishes of my own.
Since then, I’ve learnt to cook all the beloved traditional meals of my culture… fungi and pepperpot, steamed fish, stewed chicken, hearty soups (with everything but the kitchen sink in it), seasoned rice, and more. But that first macaroni pie will always hold a special place in my memory.
Not because it was the most delicious (though not bad for a ten- or eleven-year-old!), but because it marked the beginning of something: a love of cooking, a spark of confidence, and a shared moment between a daughter, a teacher, and a mother.
Of Second Chances
Now that I’m retired and living more slowly, I often find myself reflecting on small moments like those… little steppingstones that shaped the woman I became.
Retirement is a curious season. After decades of working, raising a child, and juggling life’s demands, I suddenly have space. And for a while (a short while), I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
I didn’t expect to rediscover myself in the quiet. But that’s exactly what began to happen and in so many ways, it’s like getting a second chance.
- A second chance at self-discovery.
- A second chance to fall in love again with the things that once lit me up.
- A second chance to listen to my own voice and realize I still have something to say.
This blog, in fact, is part of that second chance.
My daughter says I am a natural storyteller… much like my own mother, and in the quiet of this new season, I am finally ready to believe her.
Of Third Anniversaries
It’s been three years now since my mother passed away. Three years since I last heard her voice.
This third anniversary feels heavier than I expected. Not because the pain is sharper, but because her absence has settled into my life like a shadow that moves with me… constant, familiar.
And yet, even in her absence, she is still teaching me. Still guiding me.
She’s there in the confidence I carry now and in the freedom I feel to create, to fail, to begin again. Not unlike all those years ago in the kitchen, when she watched from a distance, slowly learning to let go, to trust, to give her daughter a chance to grow.
And So…
As I approach what would have been her 105th birthday, I will bake.
I will remember.
I will give thanks.
And I will write.
The Last Thing You Said To Me
You told me you were tired, your voice so soft, so low,
You longed for your mother and whispered that you’d go.
Now that you’ve found her, where gentle winds blow,
Please hug my grandma for me… and tell her I say, hello.
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