No Measuring Cups, No Problem: How I Learned How To Cook Spicy Jamaican Beef Patties While Roasting Family Members (Tribute recipe to my aunt)
- Sage Of Thyme
- May 25
- 2 min read
I first learned how to make Jamaican patties from my Aunt Delores. Actually, she was the one who taught me how to cook, period. Aunt Delores was patient, funny, and had a mouth like a sailor—you never knew if she was going to teach you how to season beef or cuss you out for leaving a single spoon in the sink (she always preached about keeping your kitchen clean).
I’ve been obsessed with food since I popped out of the womb, but Aunt Delores was the one who showed me how to cook for large groups. And let me tell you—she never, ever used measuring cups. Those were for amateurs, apparently. Her method? She’d throw in a pinch of this, a splash of that, taste it, nod like she was a master chef (because she was), and say in her Jamaican accent, “O yes chil’ this ting damn good!”
Jamaican patties were my kryptonite as a kid. If a family member made them, I’d hover like a seagull at a beach picnic, just waiting to swoop in and snatch more than my fair share. If I saw them in the store? Sold out, thanks to me. Even though, let’s be real, the store-purchased ones are more breadcrumbs than meat.
But once I learned how to make them myself—with Aunt Delores guiding me—oh, you couldn’t tell me nothin’. I had the power. I could eat them whenever I wanted, and my family started expecting me to bring them to every party, barbecue, or family gathering. At some point, I basically became the Jamaican Patty Guy.
Over the years, my patties evolved. They got better, looked prettier, and finally tasted exactly how I wanted them. This recipe? It’s the one I’m sticking with. It’s dedicated to my Aunt Delores—the woman who taught me that cooking isn’t about measurements; it’s about vibes, chaos, and a heavy dash of “don’t question me.”
Aunt Delores was a legend. She had more friends than anyone I’ve ever met, could talk for hours about absolutely nothing, and always had the latest scoop on everyone in the neighborhood and the family. She spoke her mind without hesitation, was a great story teller, and always had me in stitches. I loved when she came to visit—mostly because I got to help her cook, but also because I knew she’d probably roast someone in the family within five minutes of walking through the door.
I’ll never forget the time I asked her why she didn’t use measuring cups. She stuck out her chest like she was on a Panamanian postage stamp, raised her chin, and said, “I doesn’t measure shit! I am Panamanian that is what y’all Americans does do.”
So yeah—this one’s for Aunt Delores: the woman who taught me how to cook, how to season food without apology, and how to serve it up with a side of cussing yo ass out.
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