When I was a child, my father would host lymes on our rooftop every couple Friday nights. The vibe of these kickbacks was, by definition, low key, our house in Montego Bay filled with pulsating reggae music and the raucous laughter of my dad’s friends. But the food was a real production. There’d be a man frying festival, the aroma of sweetened cornmeal dough wafting through the air. Another would be seasoning pan chicken, and someone would be stationed up on the roof grilling foil-wrapped fish.
Maybe because it was my job to shuttle the fish parcels from the kitchen up to the grill, I considered this the standout dish of the night: whole snapper rubbed with a fragrant spice paste; stuffed with chopped, highly seasoned callaloo and okra; and sealed in a foil pouch. I’d weave myself and the fish packets through throngs of adults, who were busy balancing conversation with rum and Styrofoam
