The Eating Chambers on Much More than Fish and Grits

What is going on, my Eaters?

Recently, my wife reminded me that we had two fish in the freezer that I had forgotten about. And she was right.

On our last trip home, we stopped at King’s Seafood in Port Orange, Florida, one of our favorite fish markets anytime we are in town. They had one of my favorite fish: hogfish, also known as hog snapper. We bought two whole fish and brought them back with us.

These are not fish we can readily get in Atlanta, so I knew I was putting them away for a special occasion.

Well, we came home, and life started lifing. Months passed, and those fish stayed tucked away until Gwen reminded me they were there.

This past Sunday, we were supposed to have a business dinner at the house. With those fish in mind, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to share them.

When people come to eat with us, especially for the first time, I like to give them a piece of us. A piece of our experience. A piece of where we come from.

So I said, “You know what? These are hog snappers from Florida. We have not had fish in a while, and it has been a long time since we had fish and grits.”

Fish and grits is something I grew up eating. So that was the plan.

The guests ended up canceling, but by then we were already resolved. We were still having fish.

So Sunday night came, and I began preparing the meal. As I started cooking, something happened that I was not expecting.

This meal started taking me somewhere.

It took me back to a place where cooking was not attached to a client, a dollar amount, a menu, or an event.

It was just cooking.

So much of cooking now is tied to work, service, production, or getting food on the table for the kids. But every now and then, cooking returns to its foundation because you want to cook something good for the people you love.

That is what this meal became for me.

As I started making the grits, I could hear my father’s voice saying, “Don’t leave the grits, Andrew.”

And if you know grits, you know exactly what he meant.

These were not quick grits. They were grits from Riverview Farms that had to be watched. You have to manage the fire, keep stirring, and pay attention, because grits will scorch quickly if you neglect them.

So as I stood there, I remembered what my father taught me about treating the food and bringing it where I wanted it to be for me and my family.

Then came the fish.

In Jamaica, we have a dish called escovitch fish. It is fried fish, often red snapper or kingfish, topped with spicy pickled vegetables and served with starch, or sometimes no starch at all.

Now, I wanted the spicy vegetables. Let me be clear about that.

But my family does not always want them, so I decided to omit them and make a sauce instead. Now we were going to have fish and grits.

As I handled those hog snappers, I could hear my mother’s voice reminding me to make sure the grease was hot enough.

As a child, she taught me that if your grease is not hot enough, your fish will stick to the bottom of the pan. A message later reinforced in culinary school. If that happens, you have wasted money and ruined the experience. When fish sticks, it is almost impossible to keep it from tearing apart. It is one of those lessons from home that has grounded me for as long as I can remember.

As I seasoned the fish, I could hear my father too, reminding me to season it well. Not just on the outside, but inside the cavity, inside the belly, into the slits cut along the fish, and even into the head.

The fish needed to be seasoned in a way that could hold up to its size and the pan frying it was about to undergo.

As I watched the fish cook, I remembered my sister asking my mom or dad to make sure the fins and tails were fried crispy because she liked to eat them like potato chips. My wife and kids enjoy them the same way today.

At this point, the meal was no longer just fish and grits. It was memory. It was childhood. It was home.

When the food was ready, Gwen portioned out plates for the kids. In that moment, I saw my mother years earlier, dishing out plates for her family. Now my wife was doing it for ours.

As we sat around the table, we cautioned the kids to be careful eating the fish because of all the fine bones. There is an art to it, and your life depends on it. My mom gave me the same lesson and joked that we were not Jamaican if we could not eat fish with bones.

We watched my son try to mimic his grandmother, chewing those bones and leaving very little behind. My mother was a magician that way. When she was done with a whole fish, there would be nothing left but a neat little pile of bone dust in the corner of her plate.

That meal reminded me where my foundation in cooking was built.

People ask me all the time where I learned to cook, and the honest answer is home. I learned beside my mother and father, through frying fish, making grits, steaming rice, seasoning, marinating, watching, listening, and waiting.

It reminded me that cooking should never be reduced to a transaction. It can carry you back to where you came from. It can help you remember the people who shaped you. It reminds you to enjoy the people sitting in front of you. Lastly, cooking reconnects you with why you started cooking in the first place.

For me, cooking has always been about bringing people together, teaching people, showing people, sharing with people, and creating moments they will remember long after the meal is over.

So, my Eaters, let this be a reminder.

Take a moment this week and remember.

Remember the beginning. Remember why it started. Remember who taught you. Remember who you do it for.

And rest in that.

Whatever your thing is, let it put a smile on your face again.

My Eaters, thank you so much. I look forward to being with you again next week.