The Table We Carried with Us

I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s not about the food. Not really.

It’s the scent of fermenting cornmeal filling the kitchen, sharp and sour, cutting through whatever else might be going on. It’s the slow bubble of shito—this rich, spicy sauce—cooking low and steady, seeping into the walls and clinging to our clothes.

It’s the fish my mother bought in bulk, cleaned, cut, and frozen in the deep freezer, ready to be grilled fresh over charcoal for that perfect smoky finish. Even in the dead of a Westchester winter, we’d bundle up, fire up the grill, and our suburban neighbors would peek through their windows, wondering what on earth we were doing outside in that weather. Standing over a charcoal fire, sometimes even turning the fish with our bare hands, feeling the heat, knowing by touch when it was ready. But that was us.

When we finally sat down—around the kitchen counter, or the wobbly table in the corner—we ate with our hands. We tore pieces of kenkey, scooped up shito, picked at the fish. We laughed, argued, sat in silence. It wasn’t about presentation. It was about presence.

Auntie has lived! I know what it feels like to hold onto something with both hands because it’s all you’ve got.

Food isn’t just food. It’s memory. It’s resilience. It’s how you stay connected to yourself, to your people, to your history, even when everything around you feels like it’s pulling you apart. It’s how you build a bridge between where you’ve been and where you are now.

I’m not here to romanticize it. It wasn’t always perfect. The kenkey didn’t always ferment right. The shito sometimes burned. The fish had been frozen, not the fresh catch of the day we might have hoped for. The house was modest, the table barely big enough for all of us. But we did it anyway. Because it wasn’t about getting it right. It was about doing it together. About holding onto the pieces of ourselves that mattered.

Even now, when I think back to those meals, I don’t just taste the food. I hear the pressure cooker whistling, the crackle of fish on the charcoal grill, the laughter at the table, the silence that spoke volumes. I feel the weight of the winter air, the smell of smoke and spice clinging to my clothes. My mouth is salivating just thinking about it.

That was our table. The one we carried with us, no matter where we were.

What dish brings you home?

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