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Pumpkin Soup and the Nouveau Haitian

pumpki soup ingredientsHere we go again, scratching our heads, and wandering how much pepper to add to the broth. Should we puree the pumpkin? Should we leave a few lumps in for texture? Do we use beef, goat, turkey, or pork? Do they even put pork in pumpkin soup? And what about those uppity Clerveaux cousins from Terre Haute who will spend January First with us? They’re vegetarians. No. Vegans! Great. There goes the main course.

As for the Canarsie Fugee-wannabe cousins, what should we do? They won’t even glance at the golden freedom inside their Sunday-Guest bowls. They’ll probably bring pizza and bottles of twist-top wine. I have to give them credit, though. Those Canarsie cousins did come up with a popular hit; didn’t make a dime, but their faces wallpaper the Internet–even today.

Over in Ukraine, down in Argentina, Johannesburg: people, grown people, can’t stop singing my cousins’ song. They say President Obama himself was caught doing the dance. So, what chance does my pumpkin soup have against that? Even as I write this, the song is playing in my own head like a virus that won’t be contained. Admit it. You’ve done the moves yourself. Schoolchildren in Port-au-Prince are singing and dancing as we speak: ‘I’m sexy & gluten free.”

Enough!

Is this the end? After two hundred and 10 years of constant struggle to help us remember valuable morsels of the culture we’re not supposed to forget (or sell to the highest bidder), this is how we behave at table?

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERASome might say: Relax, it’s just dinner, people! It’s just one meal. But you see, Pumpkin Soup is more like fireworks on July 4th; it’s the chocolate heart on Valentine’s Day; it’s  the turkey on your Thanksgiving table; the decorated tree for Christmas; it’s the ring at a wedding, the corpse at a funeral, the smoke at the Vatican announcing they’ve found a new Pope at long last; it’s Inauguration Day; it’s green on Saint Patrick’s Day; it’s the Superbowl, the World Series, and the World Cup all rolled into one. Haitian Pumpkin Soup on January First is the Big Bang of Haitian cuisine.

We’re not asking our nouveaux Haitians born in the Diaspora to take up machetes and run toward the unknown. We’re not telling them to hunt for wild fowl in Prospect Park. It is not our intention to distract anyone from their long but noble sword fight with NinjaX; we don’t want them to get ‘apprehended’ for one little indiscretion on Grand Theft Auto. The last thing we want is to cause our beloved to lose a precious life in their video games.

It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been outside the mother country, our nouveaux children must know who they really are. We can’t be the only ones carrying memories. All of us need to do our part. When one of us forgets, the rest has already forgotten. What would happen if for Halloween Americans decided to carve turkeys (instead of pumpkin) and scatter them around the yard?

Boo!

SAM_0252Let’s focus on our own cultural legacy.  As New Year’s Day 2014 advances towards us like a comet, unless we figure this soup thing out now, I see quiche on the table. Boo!

Yes, you just had the same thought. Wonderful. We’re kindred spirits. Or something. So, let’s discuss the solution:

Uppity cousins aside. Done.

The first step to concocting your best pumpkin soup is self-emancipation from the rumor that you can’t do it. There are a thousand ways to make pumpkin soup, but some people will tell you their way is the bestest. Next time someone disparages your attempt, invite that person to try to come near your grandmother’s macaroni au gratin with a ten-foot maswife pole. See how long it takes before they put down their diamond-studded spatula to give respect where it is due.

Every hero has his own super power; but, you don’t need one to make your ancestor’s favorite food. Pumpkin soup is the legacy of all Haitian people. A little help never hurts, but no one will make a better tureen of pumpkin soup than YOU. And, yes, it will taste different than everyone else’s. This is what makes it special.

recettes simples de cuisine haitienneThere is no denying that the original (and ultimate cookbook) is a living document lodged in your grandmother’s heart. If you are fortunate enough to be able to access that resource, congratulations! If you need a different source of information, open the pages of the invaluable Recettes Simples de Cuisine Haitienne–if you possess one. If not, there’s always The Art and Soul of Haitian Cooking. It’s a hard book to find, but it’s out there. The Haitian Institute in Washington, DC published the book in 2001,  before being Haitian became a clever selling point.

Pumpkin soup Recipe from THE ART and SOUL of HAITIAN COOKING, published in 2001 by The Haitian Institute--a non-profit organization established in 1987 to promote Haitian Culture and society at home and abroad.

Pumpkin soup recipe from THE ART and SOUL of HAITIAN COOKING, was published in 2001 by The Haitian Institute–a non-profit organization established in 1987 to promote Haitian Culture and society at home and abroad.

The Art and Soul of Haitian Cooking is rich with recipes, proverbs, and masterful works of art. This beautiful book is a valuable resource for every Haitian-cuisine lover. In it we find recipes for all the food which our grand- and great-grand parents prepared. Of course, they did not need cookbooks.

So, the next time you want to make pumpkin soup, Diri djondjon, Trip (Gras Double), Herring and sauce over boiled plantains, open the Art and Soul.

Christmas 2013 may have ended, but the future is not yet here. Nouveaux Haitians, their children’s children will need to know the only ingredients that can make them feel whole. The Art and Soul of Haitian Cooking will help them learn the gastronomic aspect of our culture. Bon Appetit. And for those who remember the cryptic message contained in just two letters: “Aa,” bravo.

If you almost forgot, “Aa” was the message sent to the Palais of Sans Souci on the occasion of a very important–decisive–dinner. Grand a petit!

 

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WALLS: A Thanksgiving Tale

SAM_0191It’s you. You’re the one. You are the miracle a stranger’s been praying for. He doesn’t know you. You don’t know him. But he is there on a sidewalk somewhere, praying that you would give him a chance–a second chance. After all, it’s Thanksgiving. You have food on your table. Lots of it. By morning, the cranberry sauce no one even touched will be in a trash bag. The pasta salad won’t keep. As for the turkey, you’ll have wings and thighs coming out of your ears by Black Friday. Still, the stranger prays for the miracle. You are the miracle, but you don’t believe this. You barely have enough to take care of your own household. You’re  not the one.

Yes, you are.

 

DOOR

(The stranger is not mentally ill–not yet. Circumstances dumped him–front line–in a battle so fierce he can’t possibly win alone. The enemy is strong, and charges–armed to the teeth, speaking seven different tongues, confusing him, and shattering the last remnants of his will power. The stranger’s downward spiral began long before he was even born. It was foretold in those esoteric pamphlets he never had time to read anyhow).

 

First it was the job that went away. Then it was the wife. She took the kids. Of course, she took the kids. Someone said children have a better future with their mothers. Your part in making the babies doesn’t count anymore. You don’t count anymore. Your feelings… what feelings? You’re not supposed to have those.

The only thing that counts is the child support you must pay. But the job that was lost is still lost. Now, you spend every waking hour looking for anything to do—anything at all.  You’d walk from fifty miles for a dollar, maybe two. Twenty!

DOORsYou want only to feel useful again. You need to care for your children again. The fast food joint’s manager said you were overqualified. And weird. You knock on doors, offering to cut unruly grass. You walk Pitt bulls and poodles. Anything for a dollar. Maybe 10!

The babysitters you and the ex used to hire charged between 10 and 12 dollars an hour. You could do that; you would charge much less. Ah but who would trust you to watch children now? You can barely watch yourself.

Home repair is something you’d never been good at, but this time you have to tell yourself otherwise. You have convince prospective clients.

You’ll learn on the job. No big jobs yet: mounting doors, fixing locks, cleaning gutters. Claiming to be able to patch someone’s roof would be wrong. Not yet. A roof is a necessity, not a luxury item. Roofs keep rain, sleet, and hail from slamming like bullets on your face and shoulders. Roofs keep the sky off your back. And you want the sky off your back–the big, infinite, indifferent, devil-may-care sky.

Bridge over placid lakePlumbing. . .not yet either. You wouldn’t pretend to be able to fix leaking pipes. But you can patch a little water damage on the ceiling. Hang some drywall. Drill a couple of two-by-fours down and build a wall where one hadn’t been before. You’d always been a master at building walls. Walls like the one the wife put between you and the kids. Walls like the one keeping you apart from the job you held twenty years. 20 years of loyalty that meant nothing to the boss who had security escort you out. Those you past–friends, colleagues: no one said a word. No one wished you luck. You became the stranger you had always been.

You learn loyalty is worth less than that 99 cent mystery-meat patty a kid slaps between two slices of bread. No lettuce. No cheese. No pickles. No frills. Your life is like that cheap burger now: Months slapped between years. No extras. Just tasteless time. No hope. No frills.

Yes, sir, I can build walls.

How many walls do you need?  How high do you want them? How solid. Do you want a door? Doors are good. Doors are useful. Doors make it seem that the separation is not complete. Doors let you feel like a living ghost that can leave things behind and return when it pleases you.

If only there were a door between now and rest of your life. You could peer through. You could see where things would be different. You could hold on. You might be able to see past the long, gray, hungry, cold, endless days that turn into a coal-cold endless nights. Without a roof to protect you.

You’re hired. I’ve been looking for a good honest worker to build a wall for me. Come back in a week or so. Thanksgiving is big around our house. All the family shows up. The big dinner, you know. The warm fire. We might even put up the tree; string some lights; hang a few ornaments. Bring Christmas early. Why not?

gate before the white houseSo, you see, this week is not good for me at all. Let’s shoot for next weekend. You could start to build the wall then. I need it done before Christmas. Guests are coming. And that big room upstairs can easily be made into two bedrooms. All we need is a wall. I’d build it myself, but the wife needs my attention. And the kids…well you know how that is. Do you have children? No. . .You don’t look like the type. Well, let me tell you: you’re lucky. A bachelor. I remember those days myself. Great times, right.

Well, I better get inside. You must have plans for tonight yourself. It’s Thanksgiving. Everybody’s got at least one plan, right. Stay warm.

You do the same. If you need someone to clean the house tomorrow after the party. I can do that, too.

Warm House

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A Haitian-American Planted in Two Worlds ~ Written by Brenda Fadeyibi

brenda 2When I was younger, I went through a phase where I would proudly declare that I was “American.” My father would pin me with his steely eyes and say, “You’re Haitian-American”; those two words have haunted me ever since.

For the past twenty-eight years, I have attempted to meld the two cultures in a way that is authentic. What exactly does it mean to be Haitian-American? In my mind, someone who goes by the label should have a firm grasp of both cultures; however, this was not the case for me.

I grew up in a culturally diverse area north of Manhattan where a large percentage of Haitians resided. I attended a large church where services were held in French and Kreyòl. My parents kept the radio on two stations: Family Radio and the local Haitian station. My father was determined that we become well-versed in every detail of Haitian history. I recall evenings when he would park himself in front of my friends’ houses as he finished lengthy lectures on history and politics . . .

Despite all this, I still struggled to master Kreyòl with a fluent tongue. Instead, I spoke with a hesitant and clumsy one, throwing in phrases of English where my grasp of my parents’ native tongue fell short.

From a very young age, I was thrust in the middle of two worlds. I learned quickly that I was the English ambassador for my non-fluent-English speaking parents. They would look to my siblings and me to translate important documents, or make their needs known to the moun blan. At the same time, I was ordered to speak Kreyòl when I met any church elders or distant relatives. When I uttered the obligatory “Kijan ou ye,” I was immediately ridiculed. I did not speak the language like a native.

Somehow, I existed with my dual roles. Many of my friends were also Haitian-American and we exchanged Kreyòl phrases like we used to pass sexy urban paperbacks in high school. This was also when I learned how to talk about people, in front of their face. Being bi-lingual had its benefits.

Although I suffered mild derision from native Haitians, it was nothing compared to what I experienced as a young adult. I could take their gentle ribbing or calling me “Blan” whenever I ventured to hold a conversation in Kreyòl. In turn, I would poke fun at their heavy accents or mispronunciation of English words. Rather, it was the natives who verbally stripped me of my heritage that really upset me.

I worked in a large inner city hospital where I had the opportunity to evaluate an elderly Haitian woman who only spoke Kreyòl and understood French. I was able to hold a conversation with her in Kreyòl; other than a few verbal stumbles on my part, we understood each other fine.

Another member of the hospital staff, who was also Haitian, heard that I was conducting the evaluation and doubted my authenticity. After leaving the patient’s room, she feigned a conversation with me about the patient’s status. Little did I know she was silently judging every word that left my mouth. At the end of our conversation she declared, “I give you a C. You speak Kreyòl like my daughters.”

That was the last time I spoke with her in our shared tongue.

I had another patient who was Haitian and, of course, there were no translators present. The woman was overjoyed to encounter someone who could speak her native language. When I looked in her eyes, I saw only gratitude, not judgment. Once again, I was the ambassador.

As soon as the hospital staff heard that I could speak Kreyòl, I became a translator. Suddenly, it did not matter how well I spoke he language, it was just important that I could. It was one of the few times I didn’t feel inadequate as a Haitian-American and it made me realize that despite all of my shortcomings, there was a place for me.

I do not know what a Haitian-American is supposed to look like. Am I an American who can trace her roots back to Haiti? Or am I a Haitian girl living in America? Maybe this is it. Maybe it is a woman who has her feet firmly planted in two worlds. Somewhat imperfectly, but in some twisted way, it works.

Brenda Prince Fadeyibi, Occupational Therapist and aspiring author.

“Haitian-American: Planted in Two Worlds” was written by Brenda Prince Fadeyibi.

She is a New York City based Occupational Therapist by day and aspiring author by night. She also maintains a personal blog: cakeandeggs.com, where she chronicles everything from daily life experiences to reviews of her favorite books. You can also follow her on twitter @cakeandeggs.

 

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SHOW UP & Support Alice Backer’s New Radio Show

alice backerLawyer by training, Alice Backer (@kiskeacity on Twitter) is a social media professional. In the cacophony of corporate media, international agency and NGO actors who monopolize the news cycle on Haiti, HAITIANS NEED TO HEAR ONE ANOTHER AND THEMSELVES. To that end, she offers on her personal blog kiskeacity. com (2005-present) a daily roundup of Haitian blogs entitled Kiskeacity daily. She is the founder of the site Haitianbloggers.com. Together, the daily roundup and the aggregator as relayed on Twitter and Facebook, constitute tools of empowerment and amplification of Haitian voices. (2010-present) She is the former Francophonia Editor covering French-speaking blogs of Africa and the Caribbean at Global Voices Online (2005-2006) where she later co-founded and managed (2006-2007) the Lingua community which today translates Global Voices content in over 20 languages. Alice holds a B.A. from Barnard College of Columbia University and a J.D. from New York University School of Law. She was an associate at the midtown NYC firm of LeBoeuf Lamb before transitioning to social and citizen media, her true passion. She has been interviewed on Al Jazeera, Télévision Suisse Romande, and the Voice of America on her citizen media campaigns in Africa, the USA and Haiti.
Our guest this week is Val Jeanty

Forrest Muhammad's photo.

 

Today at 9:00pm
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