Frying Up Memories: The Sizzle That Took Me Back Home
Today, as I stood over my fryer prepping a seafood boil, I didn’t expect to be hit with a wave of emotion so deep it nearly brought tears to my eyes. The moment that oil started popping and the scent of seafood filled the air, it was like someone opened a window to the past—and I was pulled straight through.
I wasn’t just cooking. I was traveling—back to those long summer days of childhood. Back when life was all about riding bikes through the neighborhood, chasing each other through sprinklers, racing the sun as it dipped behind rooftops. We didn’t have phones or apps to track time. We had streetlights. Mama had one rule: “Be home before those lights come on.” And that rule? It raised us. We learned to read the sky. The golden hour wasn’t just beautiful—it was a countdown.
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When I think of those evenings, I remember how our bodies would be tired, but our hearts were full. We'd come home smelling like sunshine, wind, and freedom. Mama would wrinkle her nose and go, “Whew! You smell like outside!” And she was always right. We did. But it was the smell of joy.
And then came the food.
Lord, that food… it was more than a meal. It was a celebration. It was her way of saying, “You’re safe now. You’re home.” Fried chicken wings that snapped with crispness when you bit into them. Fries dusted with seasoning that tasted like they were made just for you. The sound of that sizzling oil was like music—like Mama playing her favorite Sunday record. We’d sit around the table, sunburnt and happy, sharing stories with mouths full of food and hearts full of love.
So today, when I dropped my lobster tails and shrimp in the fryer, I thought to myself, “Why not go a little further?” I added chicken wings. I made fries. I recreated the plate of my childhood—not just for the taste, but for the feeling. Because sometimes, the food we cook is the bridge between who we were and who we’ve become.
Every crisp bite carried something deeper. A reminder of what it means to be cared for. Of family. Of laughter echoing through open windows. Of falling asleep on the couch with grease on your fingers and joy in your chest.
And that’s when it hit me—this ain’t just cooking. This is storytelling. This is healing. This is legacy.
See, food has a way of reaching places in us that words can’t always touch. It brings us back to moments we didn’t realize were sacred. It lets us relive the days when the world was simpler, the love was louder, and dinner was always hot.
So every time I fry something now, I’m not just feeding my body—I’m feeding my soul. I’m honoring the memories that shaped me, the woman who raised me, and the kid I used to be. And maybe, just maybe, I’m building memories for someone else too.
Cooking, to me, isn’t just about recipes. It’s about remembering. Reconnecting. Rebuilding. It’s the sizzle of yesterday and the flavor of tomorrow—all in one bite.
