Narrative: Kittitian Cookup

 Kittitian Cookup: A Taste of Home 

By Raven Richards

        In a small village in St. Kitts, where the sea breeze mixed with the scent of fresh-cut grass, 

there lived an old woman named Mrs. Morton. Everyone in the village knew Mrs. Morton for her 

famous goatwater. A hearty stew that had a way of bringing people together. It was not just food; 

it was comfort, tradition and a little bit of magic all in one pot.  

        One Saturday morning, a young boy named Jahmiel from the nearby village Cayon, 

wandered up to Mrs. Morton’s home. He had always been curious about the secret behind her 

goatwater. He had seen how people from all walks of life would line up at the village market just 

for a bowl. How it brought warmth and joy no matter the weather! 

        “Mrs. Morton,” Jahmiel said, standing a bit shyly at her doorstep, “yuh cud teach mi how 

to mek goatwater?” Mrs. Morton, with her eyes full of kindness, chuckled softly. “Jahmiel, meking 

goatwater ain jus about throwing tings in a pot. Its about teking yuh time, about love and care... 

just like how we does care for each other here on de island.” 

        She invited him into her Kitchen, where a large pot was already simmering away. The 

aroma filled the small room, rich and warm, pulling Jahmiel in deeper. Mrs. Morton pulled out a 

tray of fresh goat meat, seasoned with thyme, garlic and hot peppers. “Dis is de soul of goatwater.” 

she said, dropping the meat into the pot. 

        As the meat browned and the kitchen filled with even more mouth-watering smells, Mrs. 

Morton explained each step patiently. “yuh see, ain jus about cooking; Its about lettin de flavors 

come togeda in dey own time, jus like how we community does come togeda.” 

        They added onions, herbs and a handful of spices, all blending into a rich, bubbling stew. 

Hours passed, but Jahmiel did not mind. He was learning something far more important than just 

a recipe. Mrs. Mabel’s goatwater was not about quick fixes. It was about tradition, about slowing 

down, about taking the time to make something special. 

        When the stew was nearly ready, Mrs. Morton added soft dumplings. “Dis is de last touch,” 

she said stirring the pot with care. “Goatwater is for sharing. Jus like how we share de likkle we 

have with each other.” 

        That afternoon, Jahmiel stood proudly beside Mrs. Morton at her village shop, ladling out 

bowls of goatwater to eager faces. He saw how each person, whether old or young, rich or 

struggling, left with a smile on their faces after tasting the warmth of the stew.  

        In that moment, Jahmiel understood what Mrs. Morton had been trying to teach him all 

along. The secret to her goatwater was not just in the ingredients. It was in the love and care poured 

into every pot. It was the way the dish brought people together reminding them of the strength and 

warmth of their island home. 

        From that day forward, Jahmiel carried Mrs. Morton’s recipe in his heart, knowing that 

someday, he too would pass it on, just as she had shared it with him.