I grew up in Trinidad, West Indies, and my mother cooked callaloo almost every Sunday: an Afro-Caribbean dish made with dasheen bush (the leaves from the taro root), okra, and pumpkin. The soupy sauce is spooned over rice, macaroni pie, or potato salad, with a green salad, and my mom would make baked chicken doused in barbecue sauce along with the carbs. In the U.S. I make it with collard greens, frozen chopped okra, and butternut squash. It’s one of the few dishes my American-born son cherishes—and I cherish it too, though not just for the taste. The tradition of callaloo on Sunday is unshakeable for many Trinidadians, no matter what good or bad things are happening outside their doors. Enslaved Africans brought the foundation of the recipe to the colonies, and its various forms are a mark of cultural identity in other Caribbean islands. For me, it’s become a symbol of a certain kind of daily perseverance and continuity of life. 

Mayor DeBlasio announced that schools would be closed on Sunday, March 15. The following Monday morning at 8 a.m., I woke my tired son up to take a taxi to the Park Slope Food Co-op, where a line snaked up the block. I needed the ingredients for callaloo: the freshest collard greens, a bag of frozen okra, and a beautiful, firm butternut squash. The sauce would last the week, fueling us while I continued my work for Red Hook Initiative, a youth-centered nonprofit, from home—strategizing coronavirus messaging, helping to get the word out about sources of food and medical support in a neighborhood already cut off from the services many people take for granted. 

When I was around my son’s age, an extremist group in Trinidad took over the government and shot then-Prime Minister A.N.R. Robinson. The whole country had a curfew and we were prohibited from going outside to play. I remember the fear in my mother’s eyes, a fear I only saw repeated the afternoon she furiously searched for tape to tape down the windows when a hurricane warning surged through. Disaster planning all meshed into one all encompassing feeling and vision. Fear and tape. During the coup, every sound was maybe a gunshot, and my cousin was all too excited to confirm it so. Yet there was still callaloo on Sundays. 

In our Brooklyn neighborhood, gunshots are replaced by sirens—but the same visions of death come in the aftermath of the sounds. I try to keep a positive disposition to protect us from the fear of not knowing, my own way of applying tape all around our home. I spoon callaloo over rice, to keep us healthy. I freeze a lot of it in case I get sick. I want to always have some on hand, a key part of our disaster preparedness plan: the dish that stores memories of ancestral survival, Sundays past, and the comfort my mother gave us through food.