Before migrating to New York City, I lived in Bloomfield, New Jersey for twenty-five years. I remember the year my family and I moved into the house where I would spend, up to this point, most of my life. It was 1988 and Bloomfield was predominantly a white town. My younger brother and I were the only black kids at our elementary school and my family was the only black family in, what felt like, the whole town. We all hit a racial discrimination hotspot in some shape or form — like the pejorative stares and whispers of derogatory remarks darted at me throughout my elementary school tenure. But we persevered and the mid 1990’s began to usher in diversity of race. Family and Sunday dinners brought us through.

There is a calmness and serenity about Sundays. I can’t quite put my finger on it but for as long as I can recall, I awaken every Sunday morning with this tranquility permeating through my body. Is it because it is the Lord’s Day and the Earth recognizes this phenomenon? I don’t dwell on that introspection. There is also a sense of community, a familial bond that I witness generate among people. Don’t believe me? I refer you to the Commodores’ lyrics “easy like Sunday morning”. Every Sunday, after church service, my Mother and my mother’s mother were always the first people at the house — a little after 12:30 PM but hardly ever beyond 1:45 PM. My Father’s mother arrived in succession. In my family, these three women were the Sunday dinner chefs and my Mother — the head chef. I came home soon after to find my Mother and two Grandmothers already removed of church garments and in their floral-pattern housecoats cooking the day’s meal each at their mock stations following the head chef’s instructions. They always paced at a frantic rate, to and fro, as if the whole dinner plan was in disarray, but that was never the case. That is just how they maneuvered. I always made sure to greet every person in the room with a — “bon swa” (a Haitian youth wouldn’t dare enter an area of adults without greeting the adults even if they have just seen each other). Finally, the rest of the family members began to trickle-in.

We seldom used the front door to enter my house. We almost exclusively used the back entrance. I’m convinced the combination of access directly to the kitchen and to the cars conveniently parked in the backyard played a large part in this commitment. Even with all the madness of cooking that went on, the kitchen was a pleasing sample of back home. Upon entrance, you were instantly struck with a deluge of midday natural light that sprayed the whole room through the two open windows carved into the left wall. The shadows of the coconut-decorated white window treatments danced on the center of the white tiled kitchen floor as the soft breeze provided the choreography. A white poly-cotton decorative covering — reminiscent of a fruit bowl filled with a repetitive pattern of coconuts, grapes, apples and oranges intended to match the prancing window treatments — was spread atop the glass table that stood along the beige wall between the two windows. Every week a divergent aroma of authentic spices and ingredients that deliciously filled the air caused a momentary transplant to the extraordinary Caribbean country. One Sunday it was djon djon boiling in a pot of water on the over-used stove — that faced the room while stationed on the back center beige wall — minutes before the rice was poured in to coalesce with it; griot — frying on another burner — announced with each crackle and pop that the meat was near completion. Another Sunday it was legim and sos pwa; and another it was pikliz and kabrit; and on and on each week the scent of a distinct mouth-watering dish permeated the room. It was always at that point I grew impatient that dinner was not yet complete. I walked to the kitchen, from my bedroom, with a sly grin on my face — because I was privy to the verbal lashing that deservedly came my way. I then asked my Mother, “Is dinner finished yet?” — I will leave, to your imagination, what came next.

All my adult family members — which included two aunts and an uncle on my Mother’s side, two uncles by marriage, and my father — loved to congregate in the kitchen while the chefs were preparing dinner. I presume it never bothered them because they never complained, plus I am sure they welcomed the distraction. And a distraction these family members were! Four separate conversations took place, each an octave higher than the next as if it was a competition to see which person can speak the loudest. I remember always having to increase the volume on my television in a failed attempt to drown the noise out. Then they all burst into laughter, in concert, as if they were all laughing at the same joke. Finally my Mother bellowed, “vin manjé!”. We all went to eat.