My mother was a culinary artist.
A local chef to the kids
Who lived on my street.
She decorated our kitchen table
With curry goat
Curry chicken
Rice and peas
Split pea soup
Stew oxtail
Saltfish and provision
Smoked herring.
My brother and I ate the finest West Indian dishes,
Laced with turmeric, curry and saffron;
Sprinkled with habanero and Adobo.

My mother was a master multitasker.
In between curry dashes and salt and pepper shakes
She juggled dreams, a career and two children.
My mother never had time to teach me
How to make food.
She only had time and patience to cook.
My West Indian-American Fusion dishes
Are first-generation practice runs.
I never got the recipe book.
Still, I practice my culture daily.
I substitute saltfish for canned tuna
To make fish cakes.
I steep hibiscus flowers to make sorrel.
My curry stained countertop doubles as a cutting board
For ginger root and carrots.
I wine around the kitchen on my two bare feet
While my taste buds sail away to a culture overseas.
You can find traces of my practice runs
On my curry-stained jeans,
Curry-stained nails,
Curry stained countertops
And my curry-stained refrigerator door.
The hue of my soul and culture
Is too bright
To ever bleach out.