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My Soul To His Spirit - Edited by Melda Beaty
by Imani Powell When daddy would catch me looking on, knowing that I was anxious to find out what delicacy matched the enticing aroma that hailed from his kitchen, he'd lift my little body up over the large metal crock pot so that I could see the tiger prawns swimming in seas of red rice, spicy sausage, and red peppers staring back up at me. My daddy loves to eat and even more he loves to feed people-and especially me. I am his baby, his youngest child-his skinniest child, who shares his appetite for food. He still teases me about the way I could down two huge plates even faster than my older brother. I was his "little skinny bones with big feet." He always joked about where all my food went: "straight to your feet!" he would say. What can I say? When daddy's cooking, there is always room. Daddy has a "foodie" worldview. For him, cities are marked not by famous landmarks and monuments, but by their delicatessens, restaurants and bakeries. On occasion, he'd pack the family in a car and drive us up to the coast of New England on a clam-chowder mission. We would stop along the coast in every state to sample the fresh fish and explore new delights like clams on a half-shell, clam strips with the belly and then without. As we dipped the crustaceans in tartar sauce or braved raw oysters, we were exploring the world through our palates. New York City, where we lived was always an adventure. From the Italian ices from Corona's famous Lemon-Ice King to Middle Eastern Shwarma, dirty franks from Grey's Papaya Palace and Korean barbeque, I was being cultured. I learned of Moroccan Couscous, Dominican breakfasts of mashed green plantains and fried cheese and even of the joy of White Castle hamburgers. He tried to expose us to as many different foods as possible, so that we would never be afraid to try new things, and would more importantly gain insight into the customs of other people. Dad believes that food is a common bond between people. He was preparing us to break bread with the world. Dad is a welder with the union. He always made a decent living and provided for his family. He would work hard all day, leaving the house every morning at about 5:00 a.m. to return around 3:00 p.m. in oil-stained denim, a dirty Carthart jacket, construction boots, and a welder's cap tipped to the side. Accompanying his occasional third-degree burns and dirty fingernails was a box of Italian pastry from Biagio's, the bakery near his union hall. This was love. As tired as the man may have been, he worked to provide for us and lived to make us smile. A cannoli for Mom and me- that was our favorite. My brother, Daoud, got an éclair and Zawadi, my sister, a cream puff. We all learned to appreciate small gifts. After the mortgage was paid, the car insurance was put aside; the long ride home from work on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway was endured. The schoolwork was finished, the house was clean, his burns were salved, we soothed the tediousness of the day with a simple gift-with the sweetness of chocolate, the tartness of tamarind-and there was no doubt in your mind that you were loved. It was a wonderful thing! Through simple gifts, I was nurtured and cared for-I was shown that I was worthy and important. I learned that I deserved the sweetness and beauty that life has to offer and that we all do, and because I understand that, because I was shown that, I am able to share beauty and sweetness with the world-with both loved ones and strangers. I know how easy it is to make someone smile-to make someone feel important. It doesn't take a whole lot of money, effort or thought, just a little love, a Hershey's kiss, a Knish or some curry!
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