My earliest memories are in the kitchen. Our kitchen was a magical place. The warm, comforting aroma of spices and the melodies of the legendary Bob Marley both meandered through the island breeze and enveloped my soul. Ordinary days of watching my mother dance and cook while using her wooden spoon to stir pots and sing have become extraordinary memories. My mother LOVED to cook. Every bit of her love of cooking and her love of feeding people could be tasted in each bite. You can feel her Rasta Mama’s vibrations. When relatives visited, our kitchen was the center of food, impromptu dance parties, and meaningful life lessons imparted through stories of our history. My place was always next to my grandmother where, if I earned it, by helping her chop or fetch ingredients, I would be rewarded with getting little bites of her yummy creations before everyone else. At her side, I learned the recipes she learned from her grandmother. I will pass them on to my children and I’m honored to share them with you.