The Caribbean American's Food Guide: Talking Shit

Art by: Anissa Hanley

Let the Currants Roll...

Everything in life has balance, and the art of talking shit is not lost on me. The most memorable meals of my life came from stuffing my face while three to four trusted homies laugh over the demise of our mutual nemesis. My scalp tingles in relief when the table is in agreement. Who are we as a society without mutual disdain? I want to bite into a jerk wing and feel the vindication coat my fingerprints. I wish to sip on sorrel and we watch the collapse of our foe’s empire. This treacherous joy floats like pollen. From churches, where aunties conceal their emotions under their wide brims until the spirit catches; to the work place where common allies commune in the storage closet, we all engage in the forbidden, even if its forms morph in different environments.

For this graph assume that “x” is shit, and “y” is time. Placement on the plane is measured by varying levels of impact. What is reflected as more or less shit "x," can be reflected by mouthfeel; like grains left on the tongue or how strong the food's scents permeate through linens and furniture. Foods located on the "more shit" scale often (but not always), include meals that have multi-step processes that allows the creator to release scorn. Foods located on "less shit" often (but not always) takes less time to prepare or is easily accessible at a Caribbean market. More or less time "y" can be reflected in heft, feelings of fullness, or denseness of the given food. A bulla cake is denser than sardines and crackers, but it has similar accessibility at a Caribbean market. Therefore, you would see bulla cake located at around the same amount of shit, but on completely separate quadrants of time.

Less Shit, More Time

Doubles

Doubles is a recreational shit talking snack. When the shit is too grand but there’s nothing to discuss. Only good things happen when Caribbean homies eat doubles. Feel the way the chana rests on the soft bara. When the fixings overflow and the tamarind tangs down their fingers, Caribbean parents gain respect their children’s opinions. When the culantro ignites the taste-buds and the herbaceous aftertaste floods your tongue, your Caribbean parents stop calling their children lazy for not being a doctor at the grown ass age of 12. When the chana break through the bara’s spine, Jamaican uncles stop trying to sell horny goat weed at the family reunion. The Caribbean homie eats doubles when hell’s flames are rising, but the fire is familiar. The air quality is bad, but the sun is shining. The electric company posted a notice on the door, but they’re out of town. Rent is due; but isn’t it always? When you and the homie commune for doubles, ask “How bitter is the mauby today?”

Bulla Cake

I’m sorry you were bamboozled by your Caribbean grandmother. She claimed she was about to fall out, alas it’s the same information for the last few weeks. Sister Beverly can’t stay on key to save her life. Brother Clyde's eyes are wandering away from his wife, again. And of course, for the sixth week in a row, the church board is discussing a ban on pencil skirts because it "tempts the saints," but let's be honest, pencil skirts are not going to make a difference. We all know they're low-key sex offenders to begin with. It’s all the same, but at least you have this pillow-soft treat seasoned with molasses, ginger and nutmeg as a consolation prize.

Beef Patties

This is a time to rejoice. The enemies have fallen! Beef patties are what happens when you prevail and you need to stretch your championship run into tiny celebrations. Whether it’s that trifling man with three secret families who finally got exposed, or that multi-generational rodent family who made a home under your neighbor’s sink that finally got eradicated; there’s a reason to celebrate! Buju Banton’s “Champion” blares through the speakers. Your homie wines as flour flurries near the pastry bench. Rolled out gold dough pressed into handheld portions. Presented to you, a gift for your loyalty. A tower of summer sunset hued crusts straight from the oven.

More Shit, More Time

Ever saw somebody so mad their rage turns into patience? Sorry to say, but your homie was recently stalked by a family member. An auntie saw your homie comforting a crying friend in the mall. Head buried into their shoulders. But what does being a good friend cause them? Scandal. Stain on their name from a baseless rumor! Fondling on the street? With a mysterious stranger?
In a mini skirt?! When you walk in, you’ll notice that that your homie set up the table, marinated fish and waited for yeast to rise. Never underestimate the wrath of a yeast summoner. Fried fish and fried dumplings means revenge. It means that there might a body to eradicate. Break through the thin crispy layer of the fried dumpling like fruit. What evil ploy disguised as kindness can the both of you conjure? Introduce the pepper sauce to the snapper skin, feel the heat gyrate on the shit coming out your mouth. Roti filled with unseasoned chana? Empty beef patties? Mauby in an iced tea container?

Fry fish and dumpling is the meal that turns partners in crime to shit talking evil geniuses. If you step inside of the house and see a Caribbean last supper platter, you shut up and take out the diabolical schematics.

Fried Fish & Dumpling

Coconut tart is way too organized for anyone with only a tiny amount of shit to spread. This is middle class ass snack is the type of dessert your Caribbean homie prepares when they got beef with a real estate agent. They got their home appraised and it came back a drastically low value. Between the coconut smashing and the nutmeg grating your homie realized that banks hate happy pictures of Black families on the wall. Between coconut scoops they shuffle through their limited playlist of white friends they would trust to be the face of the appraisal process all over again. Coconut tart is the treat your Caribbean homie makes so they can pray between recipe steps. Each segment, a threat under their hand. A smashed coconut collapses against the hardest surface they could find. The scooped meat, grounded, white flesh transforms into the brain of their enemies. Seasoned heavy with nutmeg, mace and cinnamon. Dough rolled out, stuffed and sealed. You’re the witness of rage today, and it’s presented as a delightful case of flaky sweet rage. There’s plenty of spice hidden in silence.

Coconut Tart

Black Cake

Homie made this cake because they want you to feel their pain. There are not many baked goods that’s encouraged to be 98% alcohol. So, if you see an empty bottle of Wray & Nephew but no evidence that they drank a whole bottle of Wray & Nephew (looks into camera) your homie is the problem. I’d hate for you to find out this way but they’re toxic. Your homie’s partner caught them cheating, and it was embarrassing. They caught the in one of those explicit positions that requires an extensive history in the gym before you attempt. They’re the one at fault, but they will talk shit about their partner anyway.

It will take at least four hours and you will have no space to talk. You might catch a split second for a quick nod, and if you’re lucky, an “uh huh.” One day a friend of mine gave me a slice of black cake and I couldn’t walk straight for five minutes. And if you’re asking, yes, he did announce his divorce the next day. So please know the darker the Black cake the more egregious the action. You’re not going to work tomorrow. You’re a freelance therapist now.

Less Shit, Less Time

Currant Roll

You pull up and there’s currant roll on the table, this session should’ve been a phone call. That is a quality baked good you usually give as a parting gift. Quality currant roll is a flaky joy. Each bite leaves a trail of porcelain tinted pastry, leaving a path for you to realize, that you probably came here for no reason. The spice is “interesting” at most to keep your fingers from dawdling, but the cardamom and cinnamon will be the only form of elation you gather from this interaction. The day’s zest might’ve been best as a text, but do not be of dismay. Currant roll is evidence of development. Layers of currant, swaddled in dough is a showcase of trust that something will arrive soon.

Sardines & Water Crackers

Homie served sardines and crackers because they ain’t have enough time or energy to make something elaborate. They probably just got home from their job as a nursing home attendant. They barely got energy to rant about their annoying ass coworker,
Abigail; the lone white nurse who adopted a Black kid to feel connected to the political climate. Nobody hears the end of the pseudo-ally ship. Your homie can’t even slather the fish with buffalo sauce without feeling the slow clawing motion of Abigail's fingers getting her hands caught in kinks. Their complaints smother the sardine’s skin and pools into the oil at the bottom of the bowl. “No, you cannot touch my hair to see what products would work for your child.” “Please stop calling the resident 'chocolate sunshine.' Yes their kids think you're weird.” “You keep box braiding that white resident's hair, it's going to fall out.” The crackles from the water crackers cannot be differentiated from their joints. The crisp of the diced onions provides a sharp sweet sensation between the flesh. “Father God.” The gossip is familiar, and it is sandwiched between the groan and crunch.

Tea & Shirley Cookies

Tea and Shirley cookies is something you get because the host don’t got time to prepare a meal because they’re too worked up and ready to rant. And they will go on and on for 20-30 minutes then it will all stop. Which in retrospect is no time at all. It will feel long though because the spice isn’t even anything surprising. They’re just spewing things because their kids got them tight.
The grievance depends on the tea you’re offered.

If they give you red clover tea: This is a rant about how their children refuse to give them grand-kids. (Yes, of course they recognize the economy and environment does not make bearing children look attractive.)

If they give you coco-tea: Their child doesn’t want to be a lawyer. (They’re convinced that if they complain enough about how because they traveled three hours each day to school in the most uncomfortable shoes when they were 12, it would persuade this autonomous adult to do exactly what they say.)

If they give you bush tea: “These children are ungrateful.” Now listen, those kids probably did something this time. Problem is, if you get bush tea, you’re getting their villain origin story. It will start from the moment breath hit their lungs as a baby until this very moment of betrayal. (This won’t be the first time they told you their villain origin story. You can basically recite it by now.)

More Shit, Less Time

Pholourie

You walk in the house and you hear "Steeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuups. Dat man doh have common sense.” Your Caribbean homie says as they pull out a fluffy tower of freshly fried pholourie. You’re in for a detailed monologue about their conspiracy theory uncle. “ He say 'Period mean the uterus poison.' Me give him one good cut-eye. 'Yuh chupidee?'" So they have no time for your interjections. Allow your eyes to follow the split pea obelisk. Let the light redolence of roasted jeera cover the ignorance of man. The tamarind pepper chutney and mango scotch bonnet converge with the sounds coming from your homie’s soap box.

Split the fried dough. “Yuh go inside ah woman, yuh nah understand how woman work." I tell him, no you can’t use apple cider vinegar that would burn!" Watch pholourie and friend release pockets of steam. Slowly place one hand over your mouth to show investment and with your other hand to marry the ball with the sweet n’ sour delight. Let the heat and sweet frolic between your teeth. “Yuh see why his fourth wife left him? Nobody wants—" Pholourie is what you get when they only need support from your face. You have no time to interject. If it’s too hot, play it off with a gasp for dramatic effect, it supports the homie and cools the inside of your mouth.

Sweet Potato Pudding

Your Caribbean homie got beef with a property manager. They’re attempting to lure a revolution out of their neighbors with the sultry scent of coconut, cinnamon and yams. A leak unfurled near the closet and it has been there for at least two weeks. The superintendent refuses to answer their phone therefore the hood must be summoned. The sweet scent of nutmeg and vanilla essence invites the aunties from down the hall. The brown glaze atop of the pudding resemble supple tinted glass. When your homie cuts a slice the thick scent of star anise and molasses sail upward. Your fork meets the grain and another leak travels unfurls above your head. A drip pounces onto your forehead like a baptism. It’s hard to focus on the bliss when there’s a hungry mob of residents. Grab your pitch fork, snitch to the press and let’s get that moldy corner fixed.

Saltfish Cake & Breadfruit

You’re the esteemed guest after a family debacle. You’ve prepared your stomach, you’re salivating, and you smell the scotch bonnet before you reach the doorway. Your Caribbean homie opens the door, and the kitchen’s perfume permeates through the home. The sweet, delicate scent coming from the fried breadfruit, the salt and savory from the codfish cake mingles in the air and—you’re not alone.

Truthfully saltfish cake and fried breadfruit is a sleep over snack. The truth is, your homie doesn’t have that much time; so, their cousin stayed behind after the family function to supplement the tea in-case your they forgot something. They’re both tired so they are providing a multi-view presentation to give you as much information as their batteries deplete. Be a captivating audience. Grab a saltfish cake, indulge slowly and listen intently. The play by play of the aunties’ corner merges with the heat from the pepper rising into your nostrils. Bite into the Maldon salted breadfruit. Your cousin is cheating on his partner and brought them to the function? The modest crunch follows pillow fruit flesh. Mild and sweet. It calms the peppery flare of your homie’s uncles’ sixth marriage. You finally found the perfect snacking rate for the salty sweet combo. The cakes clear through at an exorbitant rate and you’re still trying to figure out who brought the disgusting potato salad. Lo’ your hosts are knocked out on the floor, and all you have are half-finished tales and leftovers for the morning.

There's Enough Snapper for One More

"Offering love and support is free."

Well, so is being a hater. And you, fellow hater, who shields themselves behind a sheer curtain of vaingloriousness, you must understand that shit must come out; whether it is through your ass or your mouth. This goes out to the Caribbean homies, and friends who got shit talking Caribbean homies. For the spicy homies, this goes out to you. This is dedicated to the ones that won’t allow the dung to leave their mandibles before the food come out. The loyal ones that got your back and speak love into you when there’s no shit left to spill; may we meet again to talk smack at the golden table when our time here has come to an end.