When I left oceanside Montego Bay to attend cooking school in the hills of New York’s Hudson Valley, making a warming batch of my grandmother’s stew peas always soothed my homesick heart. And whenever I returned to visit, Grandma invariably welcomed me with a pot bubbling with rich coconut milk; perfumed with fresh thyme, scallions, a fiery Scotch bonnet chile, and allspice berries (known as pimento in the Caribbean); and brimming with red peas, salted pig tails, and the simple dumplings known as spinners.
hese days, I am again living on the island, and the homey dish is still woven into our routine: After making a batch, Grandma always packs extra in a food storage container for my lunch—a sweet, silent signal that I was on her mind as she cooked.
Stewing It Over
To many Jamaicans, stew peas is a poem written just for them, a story that speaks of childhoods spent cooking at their grandma’s side, and a lesson that teaches proper seasoning of food and the soul. So as I took on
