My memories of home

By: Editor
Website: http://www.all-homeinteriordesigns.com

It doesn’t matter what country you come from or what language you speak, home is something we can all understand, a place where you was born, or where you came to settle, a place in your heart, the home you leaf behind. When ever I hear a sound that brings back memory of my youth, of watching my mother in the kitchen, the smell of her cooking, and the sound of the sizzling oil, the color and texture of fried bake. For me, my memories of home are memories of wonderful foods. Food is something we can all understand, weather you are Italian who long for creamy mustard pasta, with parsley and cheese mushroom, or Jewish longing for potatoes pancakes, food is everyone’s first language.

In America, my adopted home away from home the flow of time has always seemed rush. I was born in Trinidad and Tobago into a traditional African family, one of my father’s 3rd children. My mom though me how to cook, pick fresh vegetables, select meats and fish, and how to cultivate a bond with food merchants, so we always get good quality food. For as food is not a thing, but a way in its preparation, it’s the essence of language and a connection to our culture, which it is a necessity. Food is also much more, it’s the celebrations of the sprit and means in which one can taste and consume the moment, and be connected to an ongoing tradition.

No one can understand a culture of a country by first experiencing it’s food. California is the organic food capital of America, where you can find fifty varieties of tomatoes, baby vegetables, and peppers in all the colors of the rainbow. I learn about cooking from my mother when I was a child, now that I have become very much apart of the American culture, I want to show similar interest and knowledge to her own traditions. Alone in one’s kitchen with cook books and machines, that chop and blend the art of making a meal in America, can often be a act of solitude, but back home, my family often feast base on recipes handed down through generations.

The Americans had have two hundred years of freedom and technology, and what have they produce, the Big Mac. As the wheel that spins, it goes and returns, the handmade ovens and the wooden doors, are made to last for centuries. The living fragrance of chili, mango, and jasmine, rushes the air within its unity. The color of things adapted there self’s to the seasons. It’s easy to forget one’s culture when living in that of another, so preserving my own tradition has been quite rewarding for me. I sincerely hope others can do the same.