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Okay, so I have taken on the daunting task of preparing my
mother’s birthday dinner. I, the unworthy American, dare to dazzle a squadron
of Jamaican cooks who can jerk chicken blindfolded and transform white rice
into a cauldron of coconut-perfumed ecstasy. What’s on the menu—jerk and
barbecue chicken, smoked ham in maple sugar and ginger glaze, rice and red peas
with coconut milk, Iceberg salad, and a faux-sangria. I’m cheating on the rice.
My neighbor, Claudette, is making the rice as I’m just not mature enough to
pressure cook dry kidney beans, but I am doing everything else. “No curry goat,”
my mother exclaimed from her kitchen-pulpit upon hearing about the surprise
dinner. Um, please pray for me. Lol This is my last moment of calmness before
judgment.
