By Lindsey Liles

Food is a universal language that everyone speaks. Food is the “sorry,” “thank you,” and “I hope you feel better soon”. It is a staple in every kitchen. It’s the aroma of fried eggs, maple, cinnamon, and vanilla mixed with sizzling sausage in the morning. Cayenne pepper, lemon pepper, Morton salt, and black pepper laid out on the counter are what put you to sleep after a long day. Saying that you love food is insufficient to convey its importance. As you are what you eat, it’s what binds you to your identity and culture. It’s the expression of who you are.

My grandmother was the chef in the household when I was just a young child trailing behind her. It would be an understatement to say that I looked up to her, yet I will never be able to find the words to fully express my gratitude. She gave me a lot of the knowledge I now possess: including a variety of life lessons, useful skills, street smarts, and academic prowess. She used the stove as her canvas, the food as her paint, the cutlery as her brush, and the seasonings as the finishing touches while preparing meals. When I observed her combining ingredients, it seemed as though she did not require the cookbook that was in front of her — A recipe book, which was handed down to her by her mother, and is now being handed down to me.

 I used to help her in the kitchen, pretending to be the world’s greatest sous chef. I was shaping the soft, malleable dough into circular biscuits. As I mixed the deep-brown batter, I saw how the disparate mixture of ingredients joined together. I was using a fork to test whether the baked goods were finally ready to be taken out from the oven. It was my grandmother that showed me that if the dough sticks to the fork, the dough is not done.  Years of this process led me to believe that it would never end. I soon learned the opposite. These dishes — the German chocolate cakes, banana bread, collard greens, pear preserves, baked macaroni and cheese, and fried okra — would meet their demise.

The kitchen would no longer be a vibrant scene with the cheerful duo enjoying their creations. Instead, it would take on a dismal appearance, as if no one dared to enter. Instead of the spices that, when stacked, could reach the heavens, orange bottles that reminded you to take two a day stood there. My culture died because of a brain aneurysm, which developed into other illnesses as the years passed. A few months ago, “goodbye” was said using food. It marked the end of a queen’s reign in the kitchen.

Would this imply that I would lose the connection to my family that I had before? Who was I now that the kitchen wasn’t being used to its full potential? It caused existential dread, the fear that I would cease to exist if Sunday dinner didn’t include collard greens, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and candied yams. However, you could counter that you can be who you are regardless of what you eat. I disagree, though. The adage “you are what you eat” does not imply that if you eat chicken, you are a chicken. It is a saying that implies that what you eat has unfathomable connections to your existence. Food is what shows how much I care for my family, the many cultures I grew up with, and my willingness to try, and try again. 

This setback didn’t deter me because I wouldn’t be the same if I let the traditions disappear. My mother took over as the household’s primary cook, and I once more assisted someone in the kitchen. I also worked on my projects; as an intermediate cook, I frequently failed. However, these failures evolved into grandiose recipes that I could keep repeating. I eventually found that lost piece of myself again, and I once more became myself.

Food has the power to make you feel better. It also has the power to unite people in ways that words alone cannot. The love language of food is maintained by your family meals, soup kitchens, food drives, retro diners, and family-run eateries. A language that everyone can speak, one that is not restricted to certain areas of the globe.

Wherever I go, food will always be present. I won’t always be able to eat my mother’s cooking; instead, I’ll have to make do with the cafeteria food at my university. Even yet, I might recognize a piece of my family there when I smell cinnamon or see someone turning meat on the barbecue. These seemingly insignificant things serve to remind me that I am never really alone. The memories will follow me wherever I go, thanks to the love of food.

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Lindsey Liles is a high school senior with a penchant for storytelling and a passion for community-building. With a desire to uplift those who feel unheard, Lindsey is set on creating a legacy through their writing that outlasts themselves.