Food x Therapy Blog
Queer immigrant relationships, told through food.
The event would always start with music.
I would hear the rustling sound of foil being unwrapped, Tupperware tops being opened, and ceramic lids being lifted from casserole dishes. This would be followed by the percussion of serving spoons, tongs, and ladles brandished against the dishes, altogether making a song heralding what’s to come.
We are about to eat.
I grew up with eating meat as a love language.
My childhood story books tell centuries-old tales of parents feeding meat to their kids as rewards for good grades, gestures of love, and bribes for tantrums.
Growing up, my Mom’s face would be glowing with pride putting meat on our plates, telling us this was a luxury item in her childhood.
It was a summer night. After a soul-sapping work meeting, me and a coworker walked our way through the thick evening air in search of food.
We passed a Trinidadian / Caribbean restaurant, a neighbourhood institution for over 30 years.
I’ve never set foot inside because I knew nothing of the cuisine and dreaded looking silly in the restaurant.