The West Indian Day parade rules every Labor Day in our part of Brooklyn.  It’s the American version of Carnival.  No where else will you see Chuck Schumer plodding down Eastern Parkway followed by a tractor trailer loaded with twenty 56-inch speakers, a brass band, a DJ, and 15 half-naked women rapturously grinding like bikinied peacocks in the headdresses of a golden Aztec god.  These women always make me ashamed of my own stomach muscles.

This parade is stupendous in part because politicians seeking reelection are seemingly required to be there.  Who knew the descendents of Carribian slaves carried so much clout.  Hillary Clinton was a staple for her years up here.  This year, Governor Andrew Cuomo was the most shocking manifestation of a Ken doll that I’ve ever seen.  He gave a kid in front of me the point-wink-thumbs-up triple play.

Shannon is a parade person.  We’ve decided that such a category of person exists, that she is one, and that I am not.  I come for the costumes, to be reminded of countries I had forgotten existed, and to see so many people so happy.

And the food.  This is a food blog.

Curried goat, ox, fish.  Fried breadfruit and rice & peas.  Ackee fish and fish cakes and oxtail.  Grilled corn with its silk singed black and covered in butter, salt, and chili.  Sorrel sugar drink that tastes like root beer.  Collards and fried shrimp.  Young men trolling the crowds and hawking little six-ounce bottles of booze juice in all the shades of a pack of Lifesavers. Continue reading →