1Dish4TheRoad
"1 Dish 4 The Road".. Fusing food writing with whatever else I find on the road – fiction, history, poetry, humour, diversity, family stories & London.

Jerk Stories: Salt and Spices, Smoke and Wood

 

Jamaica; 10 million years ago

 

Wood and water, water and wood.

Rain falls. Seeds sow.


Wood and water, water and wood.

Tendrils sprawl. Currents flow. 


Wood and water, water and wood.

Rivers roar. Branches grow.


Wood and water, water and wood.

Trees soar. Clouds roll.


Wood and water, water and wood.

Rain falls. Seeds sow.

 

…and now the forest is born. Roots digging deep over limestone karst. Burrowing. Delving. Trees holding firm against frenetic storms. They bow, they sway. Yet steadfast they remain.

In swamp stillness, drizzle hangs in the air like a levitating sea. The mist settles on heart-shaped leaves and over great pools of water; ripples glisten in the morning light. On a floating log, a dragonfly settles, antennae twitching, wings still. All around, towering trunks plunge into the murky depths, where behemoth fish weave between swaying ferns, a shifting kaleidoscope of green.

The trees thirst: mighty giants that glug and grow, racing to the heavens with canopies that unfurl to salute prehistoric skies, capturing cosmic rays from distant suns, chemistry bubbling away in chloroplast cauldrons. Light turns to matter.

And now the forest is ready. Sustainer of life. Provider of food. Guardian, protector. But first it waits: waits for the first canoe, the first fire, the first smoke. This place, this land, this Xaymaca – the land of wood and water.

 

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A Warm Embrace at HALWA POORI HOUSE

Halwa poori plate of three dishes: halwa, poori, and aloo ki tarakari

I peer up at the news. I don’t understand what’s being said, but I find myself transfixed anyway.

Urdu flows along the bottom of the screen, the white script drifting over a ribbon of azure, like passing clouds on a sunny day. I wish I could read it, then I’d know what the item is about.

At the centre of the screen, a man talks intently to the camera; he looks very serious. For some reason, they have projected his image onto each corner of the picture: a multi-headed hydra in beard, suit and glasses. My eyes struggle to settle, flitting incessantly from head to head.

A waiter beside me is also gazing up at the five-headed man. He occasionally nods, sometimes strokes his chin, and every so often frowns. Either way he is resting on every word.

My curiosity eventually gets the better of me. I reach for my phone, and search up Pakistani ARY News. A series of English headlines flash over my screen:

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‘A Tale of Two Fish Balls’ – Trini Saltfish Fritters & Grandma’s Gefilte

A plate of Trinidadian fish fritters, alongside Jewish gefilte fish.

Brixton has an energy, a palpable energy, that I love. From the stalls that line Electric Avenue and Atlantic Road, to the shop frontages that spill out onto the streets, there’s often a buzz as the traders go about their business, hollering out the specials, or just casually chit-chatting under the tarpaulin.

This neighbourhood may be attracting the unsavoury attention of developers and landlords, who prefer to see it in terms of profit and turnover, rather than communities and livelihoods. But for now, the markets keep on going, nourishing and sustaining the various communities that call Brixton home: West African, Caribbean, Latin American, and many others besides.

And then there are the outsiders like me, who come for a few hours at a time. Like I am today – making the most of a glorious summer’s day, and a momentary lull in the global pandemic.

So after months where home has been both a haven and a fortress, I’m venturing out of my hibernation, stretching out stiff limbs, breathing in air that seems unusually fresh, and reconnecting with the outside world.

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Dhal Puri Roti – A History in Three Vignettes

Roti Joupa Trinidadian takeaway frontage in Clapham, London

 

Barhara, Bihar, India – 1867

At the end of the village, just past the sweeping steps of the ghat, flows the Ganges. The holy Ganges. The purifying Ganges. The mother Ganga. Ever changing. Ever the same. Shimmering watery portal between heaven and earth.

Nearby, its waters are replenished by the mighty Ghaghara, whose own origins lie high up on the Tibetan plateau. On monsoon days such as this, the river runs perilously high.

The villagers look on, surveying the surge with a wary vigilance, monitoring its ceaseless flow, anxiously rolling and twisting prayer beads between their restless fingers.

They place their faith and hope in the twin guardians of the riverbank: one of the earth, the other of the heavens.

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Eggy Dates at NANDINE – From Kurdistan to Camberwell

Eggy dates at Nandine in Camberwell is the perfect breakfast to showcase Kurdish cuisine

I was born by the mountains. I was born in the mist. Who knows exactly how or when I came to be. All I know is that it was long ago. And that time is best measured in generations and not in years.

I was born from people’s lips, as they gathered around the fireside, my words spilling out in the same breath as their old stories and tales. Words that mingle as they drift over the flames, forming and reforming. And in this way, I am forever being renewed.

And so it is. Generation to generation. From village to village. I am cast through space and time like pollen sailing in the wind.

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