The Story of a Professional Pickler

 (originally published in OutWord Magazine September 9, 2021)

​When I slice into an onion, I think about my ancestors who smelled that familiar pungent aroma, touched the same papery exterior, perhaps admired the symmetrical layers, and felt the first sting overwhelm the eyes. The experience of food connects us through time. For my family in particular, food entrepreneurship runs deep. My Great-Grandfather had a legendary confectionary business in Athens that exclusively provided sweets to the King of Greece. My Greek grandparents ran a thriving family restaurant in upstate NY for their entire working life; my “Papou” was the chef and “Yiayia” managed the front of the house.
 
I loved summer vacations at my grandparents’ as a little kid. They lived above the restaurant and when we visited, we would stay up there too. I’d slide down the grandiose banister in the entryway, made of thick polished wood, and land on the carpeted floor next to the hostess station. Like most kids, I liked feeling useful, part of the team. I tried to help my Yiayia fold cloth napkins into perfect swans, but it was beyond my ability and patience, so we settled on a more simple fan shape. I’d help the waitstaff set tables and arrange the chairs in the dining room so everything looked perfectly symmetrical before the rush and bustle of the busy evening ahead. I found the ceiling fans mesmerizing and made a game where I would lay on the floor staring at them, isolate one of the blades, and see how long my eyes could stick with it as it spun around and around. I remember my Papou’s hands clearly, his thick strong fingers that were so critical to his livelihood and our family’s success. And I especially loved that he had an endless supply of rice pudding.
 
On the Polish side of my family, my grandmother was an admired cafeteria chef who could make dishes taste delicious despite a meager budget and less-than-quality ingredients. She taught me about bacon and buttered egg noodles, both of which became childhood culinary obsessions, to my mother’s chagrin. Her sister, my Great Aunt Mary, was like another grandmother to me and taught me how to cook important staples, like pancakes. Aunt Mary would always have a giant jar of her pickled red onions in the fridge and she seemed to put them on every meal. She would say her good health was due to her long brisk walks and her special red onions. While I can’t attest to the health claims, I can confirm her onions were so delicious, they became the inspiration for Boone’s.
 
My beloved grandparents and Aunt Mary have been gone for years, but when I’m making pickled red onions, I bring them into the kitchen with me. As I work, I often wonder what they would say to me today, what would they think of me? I was the little girl they loved and showered with attention. None of them knew me as Christopher, as “he.” Even as a child, I would change myself for them. When we visited Yiayia and Papou, my basic t-shirts, pants with grass stains, and sneakers were replaced with patterned dresses and girly shoes. My 80s bowl cut got barrettes. I liked dressing this way for them because it was my ticket to their praise, approvals, and warm attention. My grandmother was tickled pink to see me, around age 12, in her old Carmen Miranda outfit on Halloween. It’s one of those childhood photos many of us trans people have, where we can see past the smile, to the uncomfortable conflict of gender in the eyes and awkward stance.
 
They could not have imagined in their wildest dreams that I would become the person I am today. I wonder, as I’m working in the kitchen, would they still love and embrace me? Would they be proud of me and my carrying on the food tradition? And if so, would they be proud despite me being trans or because I am trans?
 
Had they lived through my gender transition, I may have been rejected by my grandparents and Aunt Mary. They were all traditional and religious. I’m not the only queer person who has reflected on the limitations that passed relatives may have put on their love; living with the painful possibility that a beloved grandparent would not love me today, as I am, if they were here. 
 
It is perhaps the greatest solace of their death that we will never have that conflict. I will always be their darling granddaughter and niece, and somehow that helps me embrace that awkward little kid in the dresses and the Carmen Miranda costume just a bit more.