It is weird the ways we are reminded of who we are. You can lose yourself for hours, days and then in a moment you know exactly who you are. That’s what a pot of stew can do to you. I cut the tomatoes, paprika, onions, habanero peppers and put them in the oven. My home was soon filled with the scent of the past and present. The meat boiled in curry and thyme, the aroma filling my soul and heart. Mixed and blended, the stew bubbled away on the stove. In the morning, there were containers to fill, containers to freeze, red stains to be wiped away and windows to be opened. You can’t get too far away from yourself if you can cook a pot of stew. The familiarity gives a certain kind of security, security in an identity often questioned by others. No, I don’t know if I am more black or white, more African or more European, more religious or more spiritual, more this or more that. I only know how I feel when I cook a pot of stew. That my ancestors, white and black, are nodding their heads with contentment, smiling at me, paprika and habanero, yes, that’s what I am.