Soup Joumou
“Two months after his defeat of Napoleon Bonaparte’s colonial forces, Jean-Jacques Dessalines proclaims the independence of Saint-Domingue, renaming it Ayiti after its original Arawak name.” ( Palmieri 2015). To celebrate their freedom on January 1st, 1804, the newly freed slaves did what they could not do before.. eat soup. During the revolutionary war, soup was off limits to all slaves , although, the women were doing all of the cooking. Fast forward to 213 years later, in a traditional Haitian home we welcome the new year by making, serving and sharing what we now call soup Joumou (squash soup). Soup Joumou is not only finger licking delicious, but no matter the situation my family is facing I have grown to realize that we never allow our circumstances to withhold us from bringing this soup to life every single year.
As a child, I watched as my mother stayed up late every year to prepare the ingredients for the soup Joumou. As for my father, he stays up as well, but, to watch television. He claims that cooking is not his “thing”, but he loves to eat. Prior to cooking, my older sister Shana and I pick out the three pots for the soups: one for our house, the other for guest, or anyone who may want some and the third pot is for my mothers church that distributes it to people who doesn’t have the opportunity to make their own. If my mother had a big enough pot, we probably would not need three different ones.
At last we begin the process. Although, I just have one job in the making of the soup, I always feel included though getting to enjoy the company of my family in the process. I watch my mother gather all of her spices onto the wooden cutting board as if she was born to do this. She places the main ingredient which is butternut squash to the side to be pureed in the morning. I watched as the four yellow squash rocked back and forth on the countertop. One by one she chops the Pwawo (green onions) and place it in the pillon (crushing bowl) as she’s singing one her favorite church song “si w wè map viv jodia se gras Bondyè ki sou wen” teasing and encouraging Shana and I to join in. We always do “ se pa anyen m fè pou sa se rete m rete m wè m konsa, kitte m louré e” using the crushing bowl as a drum, making our own beat as if we wrote the song. She adds cloves, maggi and salt into the crushing bowl. And I await until she passes the bowl to me, so I can crush the spices in to a fine combination. Being the person that I am, I always complain about my wrist hurting, when my mother tells me not to stop until its completely smashed. With her countless hours of practice, her trained hands begin to subconsciously take over my only job, but I say nothing, for she is the expert and I enjoy observing her. Shana, on the other hand has a bigger and better job than I. She is in charge of peeling potatoes, carrots and plantains. You’re probably wondering how that is a better job, well every little girl wants to be like their older sister, in my case I want to hold a knife and peel and slice as she does. “Cherie vini m pale w” my mother calls for my father into the kitchen with a smile on her face. Although we haven’t gotten far into to the cooking, she already has something for him to taste. Shana and I suspect that she just wants him near her. He hurries into the kitchen tip-toing in his white socks because he moved too fast and forgot his slippers, as always. The tasting has begin and he knows this is his time to shine. My mother treats him as if he’s a tasting expert, no one other than my fathers opinion matters when it comes to her cooking. Whatever he may have tasted had to be good, he kissed her forehead and headed back to his section of the house.
Mother seasons and prepares the beef to be cooked for a couple of hours as we all head to bed at around 2:30AM. It is still a mystery as to what time my mother wakes up in the morning because Shana and I are always awaken by the aroma of the soup and laughs of family already showing up. Soup Joumou day is an unofficial “family day” everyone shares and exchange soup as if they’re all different but in reality its all the same ingredients.
At around noon, Shana gets up first, only because she’s older and has much more energy in the morning than I. As for me, I chill in bed listening to the well wishes for the new year going on in the kitchen and trying to guess who’s voice is who. I am always right because it is always the same four family members from my mothers side that actually comes over this early on new years. I don’t rush into the kitchen I know the soups are not going anywhere, lord knows we have enough for a whole month. After I gain my morning energy I get up and do my morning rituals, brushing and bathing quickly. Then, I proceed to the living room where I know everyone is by now because they have all already had their portions of soup. “Survey says!” Steve Harvey’s loud voice screamed from of the television so I know my father is home watching his favorite show. Everyone is on or near the long creamed circled couch, my father of course is centered to the television, my aunt Myrlande is next to him and their both lost into Family Feud. My two cousins Mimi and Pat are playing on their Gameboy right next to my mother who is combing her mothers wig in her lap. My grandmother, Manman Mèn sits on the carpet comfortably, she says it makes her back pain go away. She doesn’t eat her own cooking so she comes over to be fed by her children. I bend over to kiss Manman Mèn on the cheek first and wish her a happy new year because she is closest to me from the circle. Also, I know if I don’t m ap gen madichon which is a “curse” for children who don’t respect the elderly. Anyone who is older than me is considered an elderly so I had to kiss everyone in the room, nothing I am not used to. I hurried with the kisses, by now, the smell of the soup is so close that it makes my stomach feel completely empty and my mouth water. I head to the dining room first, where Shana is stuffing her face with most likely her second bowl of the famous Joumou. I check to see how many bowls and pots of soup we received. I can honestly say this day is sort of like Christmas morning, but, with soup. We had four bowls and one pot of soup. I know the pot is from my grandmother because she makes one for each of her daughters, luckily she only has two. I head to the kitchen and reach into the top left cabinet to get my yellow plastic Pokémon bowl and matching cup. The huge silver pot glistering with bright yellow soup juice dripping from the side is just starring at me. I get too excited and forget that the pot is still hot and reached for the lid, but the heat quickly rushes my fingers away. “Can you help me Shana” I yell, “ pick it up with the rag” she yells back, already knowing what I need help with. I do as she says and lift the lid with the blue rag that was hanging off of the oven handle. The blistering heat slapped me in the face and I was not bothered. I scooped my first scoop that included a huge piece of boiled potatoes, spaghetti noodle, a tender piece of beef and two sliced carrot. I repeated the process about five more times until my Pokémon bowl was overflowing. The dining table seemed to be miles away, although it is only around the corner. I completed my mission and reached the table ready to stuff my face just to realize that I forgot to get a spoon. My mother passes by and asked me if I were eating with my fingers today with a laugh. Too hungry to respond, I just laughed back. It dawn on me the second she reached the kitchen that I had not placed the lid back on the pot. I ran behind her as if my life depended on it, she is always telling me not to leave her food uncovered so that bugs dont fly in. Before she could say anything I apologized grabbed a spoon and disappeared back in front of my bowl. Waited 365 days for this very moment, my first spoon. It felt as if I moving in slow motion but at the same time I was already half way through my first bowl. I always leave my meat for last because it absorbs most of the squash juice, it taste way better in my opinion. I thought about getting a second bowl but I know that I would enjoy it more if I saved it for later. But I ignore my conscience and got another bowl anyways. What if I don’t make it until later, I think to myself. I have to live in the moment, soup wins. I finish my second bowl and it felt like my first. For the rest of the day my family and I watch television and chitchat together, mostly Family Feud because my dad hogs the remote. It takes about three days for all the soup to be gone. The best part is that we don’t get tired of it, the longer its been the better it taste.
I can say that I am proud of my ancestors not only for winning the war and becoming the first black freed nation but also for starting a tradition that will never die. I can not wait to have my own children and share this tradition with them in hopes they continue it as well.
