Moderation: A Moderate Reflection on Callaloo / Callaloo as Food and Text
One of the later markers of the ethnic transformation occurring in my county was the expansion of the exotic food aisles in the supermarkets—most tellingly at the "nice Shoprite" up the hill in West Orange. The Brick Church Shoprite, four lights up the street from my mother's house, had its ear to the ground, as far as the Caribbean influence is concerned, much earlier, but, due to a myriad of symptoms of urban decline becoming increasingly synonymous with the city of East Orange, that Shoprite was to be avoided. Most of the renovation at the West Orange Shoprite happened while I was away at school, where I first met the Callaloo these words are printed on. For most of that time, I did not know or care to know the word's history. I merely enjoyed its aural texture— "callaloo," a sound, for me, fugitive from meaning, a key to some chest I was not aware even existed. But one evening while in the "nice Shoprite," out on a peanut sauce run for my mother, I walked down the newly-furbished "ethnic" food aisle—now stocked with many more chic offerings than the GOYA seasonings and "oriental flavored" noodles my sister and I lived off as children—I saw a green can with the same word on its label as the one printed on the spines of the thick white journals stacked in the upper left corner of my bookshelf. Before touching the can's ribs, reading the label, or realizing I had no idea how to cook the contents, I had two cans of callaloo flanking the peanut sauce and I was off to the express checkout line.
Driving home, I knew, for some reason, the leaves would be delicious. The whole experience reminded me of my first encounter with cheesecake—how after hearing so much about it and then driving with my father all the way to Brooklyn for the cake (not far, but to a child . . .) I knew it would be heaven on a fork. I was right about the dessert and I believed, based on my experience with Callaloo the journal, I would, again, be right once I got home, did whatever one does to make callaloo edible, and ate it. As I remember it, the pot which I had decided to use, while planning on the short ride down 280, was already on the stove when I got home—as though (no) I had willed it (I was once a staunch believer in willing things to happen). I opened one can and, for fear of mis-seasoning the leaves and overpowering the unique callaloo flavor which awaited me (at this time, I could only confidently season spinach and collards), I added the contents to the pot with a cursory pinch of salt and simmered away.
While I waited, both my mother and step-father came down to the kitchen only to decline offers to taste the finished product (the fools!). Neither diminished my enthusiasm. After five or so minutes, I cut the fire and ladled out half a bowl's worth of the dish and proceeded to smell and then delicately chewed a bite. Nothing. No magic or quasi-sankofa [End Page 225] experience. My response was that of my grandmother's after having an old Italian woman explain broccoli rapini to her in a supermarket: "oh, it's just a green." I took another bite to be sure—alas, just a green.
As a punishment for disillusioning myself, one which I masked as a desire not to waste, I ate the rest of the bowl along with a few more ladles. I cleaned out the pot—the water spiraling down the drain looking no different than if I had cooked (sigh) spinach—and went upstairs to lay down, mentally exhausted from the ordeal.
About two hours later, I found myself in the bathroom—my bowels thrashing...
