"It's what it is." I shrugged. "I grew up enjoying the little my parents provide and it was everything. Hearing it's a delicacy for tourists or even us locals. Then travelling here to the States makes things different."
I washed my hands and removed the jerk chicken from the oven.
"There are people who love and respect my culture, then there are others like our own Caribbean folks that think every Jamaican is hype. Just hearing my voice made me a target, so I hid my roots and practised speaking the best American English I could muster. I don't let people know that I can cook, but those that know, I beg them to keep it to themselves."
"You shouldn't let someone else opinion matter in what you love to do." He commented, and I shook my head again.
"I know, but I can't force people to want what I like or love."
"There you go again." He presses.
"Hunter," I sigh. "My ex grew tired of our kind of food and sought after the Americanized ones. Blake complains about every little thing that I do. The ginger in the drink is too strong. Why do I keep ordering Jamaican snacks? The curry is too spicy. Why can't I use less pepper? I'm using too many spices and herbs in my gravy. Why do I keep making his stake well done when he prefers it medium rare."
I laughed.
"Not only that. I went to a coworker's housewarming party and met another Caribbean woman. I was introduced as the Jamaican, and before I could hear what island she was from. I got an eye roll and then was insulted on the spot indirectly. If people out there are saying Jamaica is more than seven bags of chips, and it's the capital of the Caribbean.
How can I be blamed when I haven't opened my mouth? She called us hyped for the music, food, dance, and everything. Even about the men and I've only experienced one. She was telling me about all that she heard but had no proof or experience herself. I left the party because I was embarrassed for her, and she had to leave right after when my coworker kicked her out."
I got the knife to chop the meat into smaller pieces.
"I've learnt to keep things to myself and share very little. Not everyone deserves to know the little treasure I possess, and with very few people in my circle, I treat them how they treat me, and only an hand full gets the best."
"Aaron and Emryn?" He asked, and I nodded.
"And you too," I added, and he raised a brow.
"How?"
"You came so far to keep me company, so thank you." I put his chicken and a few festivals on a piece of foil. "Do you like ketchup?"
He hummed.
I added it over the meat and closed it up.
"What does that do?" He watches me.
"It tastes much better after it steams in there." I grinned, doing it to mine as well, but added more than enough ketchup.
"And for how long?"
"I have no clue." I shrugged, passing it to him, but the hot foil burned my hand. "Oww!"
"Careful." He warns.
"It's fine." I turned to have my hands washed.
Minutes later, as we ate our jerk chicken, I stared outside the window at the harsh weather and frowned.
I need to call Blake.
Picking up my phone, I put the food aside and called him.
I think he wasn't going to answer, but he did.
