I wrote this piece last year for my Communications in Food Studies final. This class was special, and comforted me during a time where I struggled to make sense of my life and the world around me. Southern Sorcery is the product of reflective nights in my dorm, eyes oscillating between my computer screen and my view of the city skyline. I often had a hot mug of toddy keeping me company for inspiration’s sake, but also when I missed home despite it only being 15 miles away. I hope you enjoy reading!
Cheers,
Sasha
My birthday weekend starts with an impromptu trip to my grandparents house. I assume it would be a drop and run, meaning we say hello, pick up my birthday card, then head home. As I get out of the car, the crisp fall air croons — a reminder that the hustle and bustle of Manhattan isn’t surrounding me. My mid September stress can melt away.
I walk into my father’s childhood home, and the smell of lemon juice and alcohol greets me before my grandma can wrap her arms around me. Pearly D is a small old lady with milk chocolate skin and cornrows, donning her classic gold hoop earrings and matching cross necklace. I tower over her as we embrace. I beeline for the kitchen and do not bother removing my shoes — a sacrilege in most Black households. My grandfather, a burly old man who is soft around the edges with age, makes the cheap steak knife in his hand look like a pen. The only thing bigger than his hands is his smile when I see him.
After he pulls me in for a hug, I realize the Southern sorcery I walk in on. Pop Pop Leon never uses the kitchen, at most he’ll open the fridge for a drink. My grandmother’s mahogany dining table is usually adorned with floral placemats and at least one bunch of bananas. Now it was littered with mason jars and old Hawaiian punch jugs, all containing various amounts of unlabeled amber liquid.
This is my first time watching Pop Pop make our family delicacy, his toddy. I know it’s a rather humble task, but seeing the bright green bag of ShopRite lemons and comically large bottle of Kirkland honey displayed before me brought the vision in my head to life. These essential items are paired with some upgrades from my parents — like the industrial lemon squeezer from my mom and the large mason jars from my dad. The tall metal juicer stands proudly on the table amongst the sea of scattered plastic cups and bottles. Its weighty black handle sticks out like a sore thumb, but the dinky plastic cup that lies beneath the mechanism is right at home, collecting every drop.
With little hesitation, I pick up a steak knife half the price of the NYC transit fare and start cutting lemons. I slice then I squeeze, surprised that the lemon juice does in fact fit into Pop Pop’s plastic cup. The lemon juice looks content there, ready to complete the family ritual. My dad — a taller, lighter, and leaner version of Pop Pop, follows suit, and uses his long arms to pass mason jars across the table. A gift to Pop Pop from my dad, the mason jars are the most uniform part of this operation. While the juicer makes its presence known, the mason jars seamlessly integrate themselves into the spread. The jars are the Hawaiian punch jugs’ accomplice, ensuring the toddy is safe and secure once the ceremony is complete.
Pop Pop, my dad, and I found our rhythm. Dancing between juicing lemons, mixing mason jars, and tasting — we all know our part in the routine. Pop Pop completes the final steps, rocking the jar gently, side to side, like it’s his sixth grandchild. He continues this motion for a minute or so, until something divine tells him to stop. I avidly await for Pop Pop to open the jar so we can taste the trilogy. Toddy is always made to taste, and like snowflakes — no jar is ever alike. I request mine with extra honey, so I don’t have to add sugar when I make my tea. My dad’s is always stronger than mine, but somehow equally as smooth and sweet. We taste at least three batches of toddy, all with different ratios of honey, lemon, and the clearest alcohol we have on hand. “This one needs more oomph,” “this one could use more honey,” “this one could use more lemon,” were phrases thrown around the kitchen.
We taste until there is silence. There is no such thing as a perfect toddy, but the ones that are made just right make time slow down. Not in a way that makes minutes feel like hours, but in a way that makes the ills of day-to-day life melt away. This amber elixir is the solution to most things in my household, so getting my own jar of toddy marks my entry into adulthood. Just before my sophomore year of college, my grandfather gifts me the handcrafted concoction. I carefully label my jar “SASHA’S. DO NOT TOUCH,” and tuck it away in the back of my fridge — only unveiling it when I’m gravely ill. The jar of Southern sorcery is my little secret. Pop Pop’s toddy becomes the centerpiece of my red Frigidaire mini fridge my junior year. No longer worrying about pesky roommates and the legal drinking age, a mug of hot toddy was my remedy for everything from migraines to a sore throat.
I ask Pop Pop where he learned to create such a powerful remedy. “I learned it from a lady,” he told me in his rumbling Southern accent. I raise my eyes quizzically, “A lady?” I prod him on. Before she passed, she gave him the recipe and taught him how to make toddy. “Are you talking about Helen?” Grandma Pearl chimes in, her accent softer than Pop Pop’s but not lacking its twang. “I took her to the hair salon and we watched Jerry Springer together.” My grandma goes on about how reality TV is her guilty pleasure, and I can’t help but wonder if Helen and Pearly ever enjoyed a glass of toddy together. I can picture them now — freshly pinned curls and all, keeling over laughing at Jerry Springer with warm mugs in hand.
There’s one thing that you’ll always find in my fridge. Once I push past the jar of homemade pickles and the assortment of leftovers, I reach around my empty Brita and half gallon of Lactaid milk to find a large mason jar with brownish-gold liquid. Somehow it’s always three-quarters of the way full and a little sticky when I reach for it. The jar chills my hand as soon as I wrap my fingers around it. If I’m not rushing, I take a second and rock my jar — just like Pop Pop does. I quickly grab the nearest dish towel to warm my hands, secure my grip, and avoid more tacky residue on my fingers as I wrench the jar open. The mason jar lid pops, and the smell of the DuBose holy trinity fills the air.
Like my grandma’s kitchen table, my small black countertop is crowded and cluttered with all the fixings. My red kettle butts up against my dark purple mug, which is armed with a Lipton black tea bag. It’s always a Lipton tea bag. My best tea is unfit for this ritual. My mug clinks against my heart shaped shot glass, the only thing I have to measure my toddy. I fill the glass, being careful it does not overflow. I’ve suffered the consequences of a hefty pour more times than I can count.
The kettle clicks. The gooseneck almost kisses the edge of my mug as I tenderly fill the glass, watching the steam from the water fill the air. I wait for the tea to steep before I make some magic. Once the tea is ready, I add the toddy in one swift sploosh. The mug warms my hands, still chilled from the fridge. I bring the mug close to my nose, inhale the trinity, and take a sip. Warmth flows through my body, and time slows.
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