When I cook, I see my father’s hands

A personal essay,
When I cook, I see my father’s hands.

When I cook, I see my father’s hands.  

I was never a fan of cooking. One would often hear me say, ‘oh that’s not my ministry’ or ‘the spirit of cooking isn’t within me.’ Well, that’s because my father cooked for me. It wasn’t until after my father’s passing last autumn that I learned he taught my mother how to cook, which would explain why he would talk so badly about how she cooked rice. He thought it was too gummy. I guess he thought it was a reflection of him. Who knows?   

I remember hearing the famous story of when my parents first started dating; he came to see her at her mother’s house and brought food he made. And while headed out the door, my Uncle Noddy grabbed a plate and immediately ran back into the house to tell his sister, ‘You better keep this one. This food is the bomb.’ Whenever anyone shared this story, my dad always wore a smug smirk that clearly said ‘damn right!’

To this day, I don’t know what he made, and I’m pretty sure no one else does either. But what this tells me is that my father was a cook with a deep appreciation for food and how it is used to express love when words fail us.   

My father, Sidney Ray Fuller, was born in Mobile, AL, and like me, was one of many. Granted, he had more siblings than I do, twice as many; there are only six of us. But hey, it isn’t a competition. Many years before his family joined the Great Migration from Alabama to Detroit, MI, when he was still small, he learned firsthand how food was used to express love. He shared this memory from childhood with me, and it’s still one of my favorite stories.

“One morning, I was with Mama, and all my brothers and sisters had gone off to school and whatnot. I wasn't in school yet. Since breakfast was not too long ago and my siblings were gone, mama made me an extra sausage, that's how I knew, that she loved me most by making me an extra sausage. Mind you, we had two Siamese cats. 

While I was sitting on the couch with my extra sausage, they started to nuzzle me, but I knew they were after my sausage. And once they saw I wasn't letting go of it, they stepped it up. One would paw at me to distract me, and the other would try to snatch the sausage. But I wasn't going to let it go without a fight. Because my mama loved me most for making the sausage. The cats were too strong and clever and were becoming impatient. Soon, they just attacked me, scratching my face, and I put both of my hands up to defend myself. And in doing so, I dropped it. Mama came in to see what the commotion was about and said, 'Did you let those cats punk you out of your sausage' And, all I could do was cry.”

Both my father and I erupted into robust laughter that turned into wheezing. I still don’t know if it really happened. I asked around, and none of my aunts or uncles knew what I was talking about. But I do know this: my grandmother loved him most since she made him an extra sausage. 

Throughout my life, that was one of the ways he expressed his love for my siblings and me: through cooking, making cakes, pies, cobblers, and the like. Even when I moved out into my own house, he would still call regularly, asking, ‘You are eating over there, ain’t cha?’ He knew I couldn’t be bothered with cooking and eating when I was in the creative zone. Or he would call to say, ‘I’m throwing on a pot of beans and greens.’ I still find cooking to be a hassle, but before he died, I promised him that I would eat. That I would be okay and cook more. That he didn’t have to worry about his baby girl starving. Especially with me being an artist.

I’m like my father in many ways, especially when it comes to the kitchen. We can’t have anyone else in the room. When there’s a cake baking, only light steps are permitted. No going up or downstairs. No closing of doors. And don’t breathe too loudly by the stove or you just dropped our cake.

We have a proper sweet tooth, which led me to suggest our monthly baking days at my house. We would take turns on who got to pick the dessert we were to make. During this time, I learned that his favorite dessert was blackberry slang. I told him that it wasn’t real, and he swore it was. I couldn’t find a recipe to save my days. He later told me it was stewed blackberries with dumplings.

I was in total awe once we sat down on the porch. The way we smiled mischievously while eating this secret dessert filled my heart with such joy. I love that as I continue to grow older, I’m learning more about what he likes and more. It brings tears to my eyes knowing that we won’t be able to enjoy his blackberry slang together again, but I’m thankful for the memory and cherish it deeply.

Now that I’m taking care of myself and two large dogs who are very much still puppies, there’s a bit more wear and tear visible on my hands. Yet, I look at them tenderly and lovingly because they resemble yours more and more each day, especially with his wedding band on my thumb. While you were in the hospital, I kept bragging to anyone who would listen, mainly my mom and aunts, that I have nice hands and nail beds because they resembled yours. I realized that I was always watching your hands, and if you weren’t watching Star Trek, Star Gate Atlantis, or the game, you were cooking. But there I was, always watching, from how you sat and tore the collard greens from their stems to how you prepared meat and vegetables and stirred the pot. I stayed watching.

Even though it isn’t in my ministry, I know every recipe, taking note of each and every smell. From knowing how much water to add, the consistency of the sauces from when you made me stir the pot while you stepped out, to let me know that I’m on the right track. From time to time, I compare notes with my brother Jason on the sweet potato pie and black-eyed peas recipes. 

And when New Year’s came around, I realized that I wouldn’t have the luck from your black-eyed peas to lead me into the new year. It was up to me to create my own luck with my black-eyed peas. After many hours of soaking and cooking, they didn’t look like yours, and I knew they didn’t have to. The base flavor profile was yours, and the rest was mine. As I move forward in life, with many more New Years to come, I know that you’ll continue to serve as the base of my good luck. And I think mom also felt the same since she made a pot of black-eyed peas for me to bring in the new year. Hers didn’t exactly look or taste like yours either, but you were present in hers as well.

Who would have thought that making cabbage was the final puzzle piece to have me realize that I have your hands, my father’s hands? The same dish that I miraculously burned when I first moved out. A dish that made you sigh and ask, ‘but how did you manage to burn cabbage?’ Don’t worry dad, now that I see your hands in mine, I won’t let the cabbage burn.

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