My children are grown, with their own partners, their own lives. But every happy once in a while, we are together again on a Sunday morning. I make their favourite Jamaican breakfast: ackee and salt fish, boiled green banana, callaloo, fried plantain, Johnny Cakes, and hard-dough bread.
I soak the salt cod overnight and wake up early to flake it. While I prepare the fish and knead the dumplings—the way my grandmother did, smoothing the dough flat and rolling it into a small ball—I listen to my Sunday-morning playlist. It is made up mostly of songs in the southern gospel tradition—spiritual ballads like “Because He Lives” or the militaristic “There Is Power in the Blood.” Music derived from the centuries-old European hymnal, updated in expression, calming in its strict adherence to conventional rhythm and form.
