Back in Trinidad, as a young girl, Saturdays with my dad unfolded in a way so familiar that I never questioned it — I simply moved within it.

We would set out early, driving into the nearest town, Couva, where he went to take care of his errands, the journey unfolding along one long road that required no navigation, no expertise — only forward motion.

I remember the sequence of what we passed more than the distance itself.

The sugar cane fields came first — tall and swaying, their green blades catching the morning light as we drove by.

Then the line of palm trees at the cross — a familiar marker that told me how far along we were without anyone having to say a word.

Right there at the cross stood the oyster vendor, selling oysters with sauce — a small roadside ritual that felt as much a part of the day as the errands themselves.

Further along, Chin’s Supermarket came into view, followed some distance away by the convent — the high school I would attend several years later, though at the time it was simply another building along the road, holding no meaning yet.

All of it existed as quiet visual markers of the drive — not destinations in themselves, but part of the unfolding of the morning.

Somewhere along that stretch of errands, there was always one stop that felt different to me.

The Chinese mart.

Sometimes we ate right there in the establishment itself. There was only one table and a single bench for the entire place — nothing elaborate, nothing designed for comfort — just functional seating tucked into the corner of a busy shop.

My father would place the market items beside us, packed into the woven market bags my mother had sent him with earlier that morning.

I remember sitting across from him, my legs barely reaching the floor, my attention pulled upward toward the high counter. I would strain to peek over it, trying to see what sat behind the glass food cabinet — trays of prepared dishes glistening under the light.

I didn’t yet know the names of everything I was looking at, but I remember the variety.

Hops bread filled with cheese.
Channa.
Stewed chicken.
Chow mein — a simple vegetable stir-fry.
And sometimes — stewed or curried gizzards.

There were always options.

But my father gravitated toward the gizzards.

He would sit across from me, tearing into the hops bread, chewing slowly, contentedly — those chewy gizzards tucked inside, seasoned and sauced, his clear favorite.

At the time, I didn’t think of it as influence or inheritance.

I simply ate what he shared.

From him, I learned to love gizzards — and they have remained a favorite of mine since childhood, most likely rooted in those quiet Saturday stops and the food we shared there.

He would follow his sandwich with a bottle of seamoss.

I usually leaned toward the peanut punch. I loved milk. I loved peanut butter. So that drink — thick, nutty, sweet — felt like heaven to me.

We ate without ceremony, without lingering conversation — just the comfortable silence of shared presence.

And when we were done — bellies filled, paper wrappings crumpled and tossed into the garbage — we gathered the market bags and headed off to the next stop on his list.

And then, on our way back home, we would sometimes stop again at the cross. The oyster vendor would still be there. He served the oysters in a small drinking glass, coated in that ketchup-based oyster sauce — sharp, tangy, unmistakable.

I would always help Daddy finish his, standing beside him, sharing from that same little glass, the road stretching quietly behind us.

It was all so ordinary then.

Errands. Food. A bench. A drink. A long road.

But memory has a way of returning to the smallest scenes and illuminating their weight.

These days with my dad were deeply memorable, and I miss his presence in my life dearly.

February 7 made it 34 years since he passed.

And somehow — without planning it, without even realizing the date at the time — I found myself making this curry gizzard on that very day.

It wasn’t until a few days later, as I sat down to write this post, that the memory surfaced fully.

What felt like an ordinary cooking decision revealed itself as something else entirely — an unconscious act of remembrance that only made sense in reflection.

And so, standing in my kitchen today, cleaning and seasoning gizzards, it doesn’t feel like novelty.

It feels like continuation.

Like returning to something familiar… something handed down not through instruction, but through presence.

The Present-Day Return

I already have a stewed gizzard recipe on the blog, so the natural progression was always to develop a curry gizzard version.

I hadn’t planned to do so now — but this winter has been brutal.

The kind of cold that presses you toward foods that restore rather than simply satisfy.

For the past two months, I’ve leaned heavily into nutrient-dense meals:

Vitamin D supplements, canned salmon with tomatoes and paratha, hot cocoa tea, steamed mackerel (recipe coming soon), sardine choka, canned sardines with tomatoes, curry canned sardine with potatoes, masala chai, liver with onions, hot fish broth, chicken soup, pan coconut bread with fry saltfish(sauteed buljol), butter or cheese, banana bread or muffins with all those leftover bananas, lemon blueberry cake, and homemade baking-pan bread.

Gizzards — deeply nourishing and iron-rich — fit naturally into that winter rotation.

If you’re feeling run down or depleted, this dish may be exactly what your body is asking for.

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Ingredients You Will Need

Chicken Gizzards — Hearty, iron-rich protein that becomes tender when slow-cooked.
Green Seasoning — Herbal backbone of Caribbean flavor.
Curry Powder — Signature warm spice blend.
Turmeric Powder — Adds earthy depth and golden color.
Onion — Builds sweetness in the curry base.
Plum Tomato — Balances spices with acidity.
Garlic — Deepens savory notes.
Hot Pepper — Adds heat to taste.
Poran (Geera Seeds) — Nutty toasted spice enhancer.
Thyme — Earthy herbal layer.
Scallion or Culantro — Fresh aromatic finish.
Roasted Ground Cumin — Warm finishing spice.
Olive Oil — For blooming spices.
Salt & Black Pepper — Foundational seasoning.
Water — For simmering.
Lime / Lemon / Vinegar — For cleaning gizzards.

How to Clean / Prep the Gizzards

Remove the yellow skin from the surface of the gizzards. Cut into ½–1 inch pieces. Soak 15 minutes in water with lime, lemon, or vinegar juice. Rinse thoroughly with clean water and drain well before seasoning.

Flavor Profile

Rich, earthy, and warmly spiced with deep curry undertones and tender, slow-simmered texture.

Health & Nutrition

Gizzards are rich in iron, zinc, B12, and protein — making them deeply restorative, especially in colder months when the body craves nutrient density.

Serving Suggestions

Perfect alongside or tucked into:

• Store-bought sandwich bread
• Hops bread
• Homemade bread
• Sada roti
• Dosti roti
• Paratha roti (Buss-Up-Shut)
• Dhalpuri roti
• Aloo roti or aloo puri (fried version)
• Fry Bake
• Dhal and rice
• Stewed red beans and rice
• Cassava oil down
• Breadfruit oil down
• Boiled ground provisions
• Pita bread

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Storage & Reheating

Refrigerate:
Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 4 days. Flavors continue to deepen overnight, making leftovers even more flavorful.

Freeze:
Freeze in freezer-safe containers or portioned bags for up to 3 months. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator before reheating for best texture.

Reheat:

Microwave — Heat covered in intervals, stirring between each round to ensure even reheating and prevent drying.

Stovetop — Place in a saucepan with a small splash of water. Cover and warm over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally until heated through.

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Frequently Asked Questions — Curry Gizzard

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