I learned this lesson from my grandmothers, more or less unconsciously. That shared, joyous laughter, at my grandmother and her ways, ways that we both found exasperating and loved at the same time, is my last memory of Stan. And then he asked me, “What’s your grandmother doing?” I said, “She’s peeling and deveining shrimp.” He looked at me, and I looked back at him, and we both burst out laughing. He was totally lucid, in good spirits, and was smiling and joking with me as usual. I just smiled, and went to the back room, where Stan’s hospital bed had been set up. I said, “Grandma, what are you doing?” She snapped at me, in a way that didn’t hurt my feelings at all, “I’m peeling and deveining shrimp!” I said, “Yes, but…why?” She said, “Well, people still have to eat lunch!” When I walked in the house that afternoon, my grandmother was at the kitchen table, peeling and deveining shrimp. I came over to the house to see him, for what I thought might be - and was - the last time I saw him. When Stan was dying, he came home from the hospital for his last few days. And I think of him, and of my grandmother, and how much they loved each other, whenever I do one very specific kitchen task. I think of him every time I make, or have, red beans and rice, just like he used to make, from his native New Orleans. I think of him every time I fry myself an egg in butter, like he used to make for me. But those aren’t the things I think of most. When I think of him, I think of the many ways he showed me that he loved me - his great pride in my accomplishments, how he found me my first car, how he would wear my college and law school sweatshirts everywhere, just for an opportunity to brag about me. Her third husband, Stan, was another grandfather to me. (I sometimes wonder what their subsequent spouses thought of their relationship, knowing my grandmother, their opinions would not have mattered to her at all.) They didn’t see each other that often - they got divorced for a reason - but Grandma would sometimes drop food over at his house, just to make sure he was eating right. She and my grandfather - her first husband - got divorced when my mother was little, but they remained best friends until my grandfather died, and talked on the phone almost every day. My Grandma - my mother’s mom - had three husbands, all of whom she loved dearly. And maybe this is one reason why: they always both found a way to show us - and each other - their love in other ways. Granny and Papa were never particularly affectionate with one another, or with us, their grandchildren, even though none of us have ever doubted how much they loved us. My cousin laughed, and said, “No, that was Papa’s favorite cake.”Īll that time, Granny had really been making the cake for Papa. Once, in my early twenties - when Papa was gone, and Granny was fading - I said something to one of my older cousins about that coconut cake, and how it was Granny’s favorite cake. She made it for every event, every birthday, every holiday, and though I don’t even really like coconut cake, I always ate it. But the thing I remember more than any other that Granny made was her coconut cake.
There were always cookies in the cookie jar, popsicles in the freezer, and often gumbo on the stove. And we all spent a lot of time in Granny’s kitchen. We all played in the backyard, fighting and making up and having constant adventures every day. We all crowded into the living room, where Granny’s stories were always on the television, and Papa always rocked in his rocking chair and pretended he wasn’t paying attention to them. Granny and Papa - my father’s parents - had what I now realize was a pretty small house, when you consider they had eight children and seventeen grandchildren.
#JASMINE GUILLORY HOW TO#
Cooking someone’s favorite dish for them, cooking your own favorite dish to share with them, making sure someone is well nourished and well taken care of - those are some of the many ways my grandparents taught me how to show love. And, I’ve realized, they do so because my family - especially the elders in my family - modeled this to me throughout my life. Well, apparently not, but my characters all do. At first I didn’t really understand it: I write romance novels, of course there’s a lot of food in my books! Doesn’t everyone show love through food? That comment - one I’ve consistently gotten on all of my books since my first book, The Wedding Date - is one that’s always bemused me, especially at the beginning. In this essay from the new collection Black Love Matters: Real Talk on Romance, Being Seen, and Happily Ever Afters, romance author Jasmine Guillory reflects on how she was taught to show love through food.
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