My father always loved coming to Atlanta.
Of course, he loved visiting my children and me, but he also got along beautifully with my husband. There was something easy about those visits. He would settle in, eat, talk, laugh, rest, and enjoy himself.
But one day, Daddy said something that made me stop.
“Do you know I love your food?”
I laughed.
“Daddy, just tell me. What is it?”
He looked at me and said, almost as if he had been thinking about it for a while.
“There is something about your food.”
I smiled.
“Well, you can tell me what it is.”
Then he added, almost casually:
“You cook better than your younger sister.”
“I know,” I said.
We both laughed.
But then his tone changed.
“You know I have blood pressure issues, right? And diabetes?”
“Yes, Daddy. I know.”
He explained that his conditions had generally been controlled. My mother is a nurse, and she was very good about keeping an eye on him. He kept records of his blood pressure readings, and he paid attention to his health.
“But something is different when I’m here,” he said.
“Different how?”
“My blood pressure.”
I looked at him.
He told me that back home, his readings could fluctuate. But when he came to Atlanta, he noticed something unusual.
“They’re just stable.”
I assumed it was because he was resting.
“Daddy, maybe you’re just on holiday. You’re relaxed. You’re not doing as much.”
He shook his head.
“No. I rest at home too.”
He reminded me that there were days when he didn’t even pick up his phone. There were days he stayed home, took his morning moringa, went for long walks with my mother, worked in the garden, or simply rested.
He was not unfamiliar with taking care of himself.
“I chew garlic,” he told me.
I laughed.
“Daddy, you shouldn’t be chewing garlic and onions like that.”
But he continued.
“I take aloe vera. I walk. If I eat something heavy, maybe fufu, I make sure the next meal is lighter. I try to balance things.”
Then he came back to the same question.
“There is something about your food.”
Now he had my attention.
He told me that sometimes after eating what I prepared, he would go to his room and ask my mother to check his blood pressure.
Normal.
The next day?
Normal.
And the next?
Still normal.
He had his log.
There wasn’t an abnormal reading among them.
“Daddy, I honestly don’t know,” I told him.
But now I was curious.
So I started thinking about what I actually put into my food.
I knew I didn’t cook heavily with salt.
I washed and prepared my fish and other foods carefully. I used vinegar when appropriate. I experimented constantly.
Then I thought about my seasonings.
Turmeric.
Garlic.
Ginger.
Onions.
Green bell pepper.
Sometimes a little Slap Ya Mama.
I started looking at my own kitchen differently.
I had been so focused on making food that tasted good that I hadn’t stopped to think about how much I had changed the way I cooked.
I loved experimenting.
You could never look at one of my dishes and easily decide whether I was cooking like an African, a Caribbean woman, an islander, an American, or someone influenced by Britain.
I put my travels into my food.
I put my experiences into my food.
I put everybody’s kitchen into my kitchen.
And somehow, my father had noticed.
I began researching the ingredients I used.
Could it be the garlic?
Could it be the ginger?
Could it be the turmeric?
Could it be the onions?
Could it be the combination?
Or could it simply have been that he was eating differently, resting differently, walking more, and enjoying himself while visiting?
I still don’t know.
And I don’t want to pretend that I do.
What I know is what was in my kitchen.
And Daddy was convinced that something about the food was making a difference for him.
Before he returned to Africa, he gave my mother instructions.
“You must get turmeric.”
He wanted the root if they could find it, not just the powder.
“And don’t forget the garlic and ginger.”
My mother remembered.
Even when we went shopping for relatives and picking up little things to take home, she made sure we stopped at the African market.
“We need the turmeric, garlic, and ginger,” she reminded me.
And eventually, word came back to me.
Daddy was still doing well.
Until the ingredients ran out.
Then, somehow, they would make their way back onto the shopping list.
That made me smile.
Because the whole thing had started with one sentence:
“There is something about your food.”
But there was something else I hadn’t realized.
I had started cooking that way long before Daddy ever said anything.
I was trying to take better care of myself.
I was thinking about my health and the kind of nourishment I wanted to give my body. I was learning to appreciate food not simply for how full it could make me, but for what I was putting into my body.
I thought I was simply changing my own habits.
I didn’t realize my father would one day sit at my table and notice.
I didn’t realize he would taste something different.
And I certainly didn’t expect him to go home asking my mother to make sure they had the same ingredients in their kitchen.
Sometimes we don’t recognize the things we are creating while we are creating them.
Sometimes what begins as a personal change quietly touches someone we love.
And sometimes, the person who notices the change isn’t us.
It’s Daddy.
I still can’t tell you exactly what was responsible for those normal readings.
Maybe it was the food.
Maybe it was the combination of many things.
Maybe it was the rest, the walking, his medication, his routine, or simply being away from the stresses of home.
I won’t turn my father’s experience into a medical prescription.
But I will keep the memory.
Because somewhere between the turmeric, garlic, ginger, onions, peppers, laughter, and my father’s teasing, I discovered something beautiful:
My father knew something about my cooking before I did.
And maybe that’s one of the quiet gifts of family.
Sometimes they sit at your table and tell you something about yourself that you had never thought to notice.
By Joan A.Roberts
Website: http://www.divineaccolades.com/wordpress
