By Siobhan Boon-Devlin
My grandma is a party animal.
At least once a month, she’ll throw a rager, only ending the next morning when the last of the hungover guests are shepherded out the door. Her parties are known as the place to be, a whirlwind of laughter, music and chaos. Even though my sisters and I were growing up 5000 kilometres away, we were always welcomed with open arms by everyone in attendance. The close community was very different from the metropolis of Brooklyn I was used to.
The kitchen boasts a lively karaoke scene, as ‘Let It Go’ is belted by grown men with their arms around each other like they’re young again. The children weave their way through legs, setting party poppers behind the feet of the inebriated and giggling at the snaps when they stumble backwards and get startled by the sharp snap! as the items are stepped on. At any given time, there are at least two Glaswegians engaged in a slurred conversation neither of them can comprehend, but they keep nodding along anyways. And on the main table, in the place of honor, is a massive bowl of coleslaw.
The coleslaw and her parties have always coexisted. Growing up, my Nona (Italian for grandmother, but we pronounce it Naw-nuh because my sisters and I couldn’t differentiate the accents) was never allowed to throw parties for her birthday or host any gatherings. She says the closest thing she got to experience were wakes, which, unsurprisingly, didn’t quite have the vibes she was going for. As she grew, she decided that she wanted to reclaim these events, and she threw her own 21st birthday party.
Around the same time, coleslaw was becoming popular in Scotland. She grew up in the Glasgow Gorbals and ate cheap, traditional foods like neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes) and cullen skink (fish stew). When she was introduced to this dish, it was considered exotic. She began making it at home because she found the store-bought to be too vinegary (her version substitutes lemon juice). Given the pure volume of guests, she always makes enough to feed a city, and it’s served in a salad bowl filled to the brim. Most of the time, only about a fourth of it gets eaten (often by a drunk friend of hers at no earlier than 2 in the morning). But no matter how much coleslaw is left in the end, she’s always guaranteed to make just as much next time, regardless of how hard the family teases.
It took me many years to learn how to navigate the world. New friends were few and far between. Seeing this woman, who I had been compared to all my life, experiencing such celebration and love gave me hope. Through trial and error and bearing through my awkward years, I was able to figure it out. My community grew and became as strong as hers is. They’re strange and intelligent and funny, and I love them all so much. At every gathering I hold, I make sure that there is a bowl of coleslaw on the table. As much as coleslaw is a dish, it’s also a recognition. A recognition that we can find our people.
And I have found mine.
At least once a month, she’ll throw a rager, only ending the next morning when the last of the hungover guests are shepherded out the door. Her parties are known as the place to be, a whirlwind of laughter, music and chaos. Even though my sisters and I were growing up 5000 kilometres away, we were always welcomed with open arms by everyone in attendance. The close community was very different from the metropolis of Brooklyn I was used to.
The kitchen boasts a lively karaoke scene, as ‘Let It Go’ is belted by grown men with their arms around each other like they’re young again. The children weave their way through legs, setting party poppers behind the feet of the inebriated and giggling at the snaps when they stumble backwards and get startled by the sharp snap! as the items are stepped on. At any given time, there are at least two Glaswegians engaged in a slurred conversation neither of them can comprehend, but they keep nodding along anyways. And on the main table, in the place of honor, is a massive bowl of coleslaw.
The coleslaw and her parties have always coexisted. Growing up, my Nona (Italian for grandmother, but we pronounce it Naw-nuh because my sisters and I couldn’t differentiate the accents) was never allowed to throw parties for her birthday or host any gatherings. She says the closest thing she got to experience were wakes, which, unsurprisingly, didn’t quite have the vibes she was going for. As she grew, she decided that she wanted to reclaim these events, and she threw her own 21st birthday party.
Around the same time, coleslaw was becoming popular in Scotland. She grew up in the Glasgow Gorbals and ate cheap, traditional foods like neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes) and cullen skink (fish stew). When she was introduced to this dish, it was considered exotic. She began making it at home because she found the store-bought to be too vinegary (her version substitutes lemon juice). Given the pure volume of guests, she always makes enough to feed a city, and it’s served in a salad bowl filled to the brim. Most of the time, only about a fourth of it gets eaten (often by a drunk friend of hers at no earlier than 2 in the morning). But no matter how much coleslaw is left in the end, she’s always guaranteed to make just as much next time, regardless of how hard the family teases.
It took me many years to learn how to navigate the world. New friends were few and far between. Seeing this woman, who I had been compared to all my life, experiencing such celebration and love gave me hope. Through trial and error and bearing through my awkward years, I was able to figure it out. My community grew and became as strong as hers is. They’re strange and intelligent and funny, and I love them all so much. At every gathering I hold, I make sure that there is a bowl of coleslaw on the table. As much as coleslaw is a dish, it’s also a recognition. A recognition that we can find our people.
And I have found mine.
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Ingredients:
Instructions
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Coleslaw ingredients laid out.
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