After Momma Simmons passed away we moved to Family Hill, and right away it became obvious that it was now MY job to feed the Simmons men! Bluesy tried to give me a pig’s head so that I could make head cheese and looked broken-hearted when I refused his offering. I evidently disappointed quite a few people by my lack of head-cheese-making skills, food for the Simmons men was never going to be the same without Momma.
Momma cooked traditional West Indian food, and although I had learned how to cook local food I had neither the time nor the inclination to slave over a stove the entire morning. I had a restaurant to run, and during the winter months it kept me fully occupied. I ensured that Mac, Nolly and Bluesy were fed lunch but Momma was sorely missed! There was no more Fungi (I never did learn how to make that), neither coconut bakes or fruit cake made with black wine but I did the best I could.
On Sundays I made an effort to please Bluesy and tried to make him an extra special West Indian lunch. I learned how to prepare the ground provisions he loved to have along with his stew beef, pork or chicken and he seemed to enjoy his food. He certainly never complained, at least not until one particular Sunday!
I had invited my mother and father for Sunday lunch and prepared something I knew would please my father, Rock Cornish game hens. I had bought the imported hens from C.K.Greaves in Kingstown as a special treat, they were expensive but I knew they would be good. I made a wild rice stuffing and roasted the birds, basting them with an orange/cranberry glaze. I made string beans and honeyed carrots to go with them, and Sunday lunch was served.
The roasted hens were arranged on a platter, which I placed in the middle of the table with the gravy and vegetables. My father said grace, then the food was passed around. I split one hen in half for Vanessa and Rachel, then handed the platter to Bluesy. To my surprise he turned his head away and hastily passed the birds to Nolly. Mac, seeing that Bluesy hadn’t taken a hen, forked one off the platter and reached across to put it on his father’s plate.
To the amazement of all, Bluesy swatted Mac’s hand away and the bird went flying across the room! In an agonized voice my father-in-law cried, “Aw Jaysus Christ, how you could eat bird so small!!”
Bluesy had obviously never seen a Cornish hen, and from his reaction to them I assumed he was never going to eat one. Being the Matriarch of Family Hill was uphill work but I was learning! I never offered my father-in law a Cornish hen again.