Tag: food (page 1 of 1)

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December 5, 2021 / 0 Comments

Unbreakable

“We’re loud!”

I don’t remember if it was Anna or Melle who remarked on our booming voices and boisterous laughter last night, but the statement was true. We sat around an oval-shaped table eating lumpia and pancit and garlic rice and Menudo and donuts at Robinson Space in the middle of the Historic Filipinotown neighborhood of Los Angeles. The room was decorated for Christmas and revolution, and we were having a grand old time.

These old friends hadn’t been together in this configuration since before the early days of the pandemic. It had been two years without our usual round of March birthday brunches and drinks. Two years without quick get-togethers or whatever we used to do when a plan could come together without worrying about our mortal safety and that of those we love just by breathing the same air with people we like for a while.

And yet there we were, drinking white claws and seltzer water and making small talk with new acquaintances.

It was a family dinner. It was a celebration. It was recognition of the work one of us had been doing during these desperate times. While most of us had been in our own homes protecting our butts, Melle had been in the streets of our city making sure our neighbors didn’t go hungry. Her organization, Polo’s Pantry, was in its infancy when the needs of those she intended to serve increased exponentially. At the same time, many of the government services they may have depended on became unavailable.

Melle and the community coalitions she is a part of sprung into action to meet those needs. They did so from nearly the moment stay-at-home orders began at the time when we didn’t fully understand the risks, the safety protocols, or how long we’d be living this way.

“I say ‘I love you’ through food,” she said as she spoke to the attendees last night. Food is a love language. It had brought all of us together on a Saturday night to laugh, cry, learn, and share.

To get loud.

Be loud.

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April 1, 2019 / 0 Comments

The Cooking Gene

It took me six weeks to complete Michael W. Twitty’s part autobiography, part narrative history, part cookbook. It’s only 400 pages long. My slow burn through rate is not a reflection on the writing which is often beautiful and lyrical and always well-crafted and considered. No, my pace is a common occurrence when faced with the grim reality of slavery as a lived experience. If I’m not taking it in small bites, I’m avoiding it entirely. Black grief isn’t for me, which is why I haven’t seen 12 Years A Slave or Hotel Rwanda or made my way to the end of Fruitvale Station.

I made it through The Cooking Gene, though, with my heart bruised but intact. Twitty makes plain what it must have been like for his specific ancestors and thus, the kin of many of us for whom enslavement was our forced entry into these United States. In the lived experience, we can feel in our bones the back-breaking work of picking cotton under the crack of the whip. We must consider the soul-crushing work of toiling in hot kitchens for our enslavers (who might also rape us on a whim and treat the children from the villainous union as property). In the papers from the time, we might understand the cruelty of the middle passage, the diet built on malnourishment (which plagues the genetic makeup of black folks to this day), the crimes of family separation. In the sober hunt for and re-telling of our shared history, we might stew in anger at the willful ignorance of those who would like to pretend slavery was something other than it is, and who endeavor to revisit those sins on people living today.

In the food, we might find where hope was found and resiliency fortified. In the food, we might find where the roots of true American cuisine began. In the food, we might see even more nuanced ways in which wealth, power, and culture were taken from black bodies, black hands, black ingenuity. In the food, we might find threads of our family trees back to Louisiana or Virginia or the Carolinas.

I don’t know my own history beyond a few generations on my mother’s side, but through The Cooking Gene, I can imagine my people were first brought to this country in the rice growing lands. Perhaps my love of the food comes to me from my ancestors, deep in my bones, in my DNA. What might I learn if I go wherever that thread takes me? What parts of Africa and Europe might I land?

Tiffany is cooking a true Southern meal today of smothered chicken, collards, and mac & cheese (macaroni pie, in the old words). If I get my gumption up, I might whip up a batch of biscuits to sop up the gravy and potlikker. It smells like kitchens of my youth in our house today. Like my grandma’s and great grandma’s homes in the summertime. It probably smells like the kitchens of their youth. And the kitchens our enslaved kin toiled in as well.

They only rarely would’ve been able to make such a meal for their families, producing it instead on the regular for Sunday dinners for the white people who had bought their bodies and claimed to own them.

It took me six weeks to finish The Cooking Gene. To move any faster would’ve felt like disrespect to the memory of the spirits Twitty stirs. To go more quickly would have removed the emotional release valve I require to process America’s terrible history.

In retrospect, a month and a half is a short time with Twitty’s tales. They will stay with me for much longer.

Recommended.

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June 10, 2018 / 0 Comments

My Heart is Full


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“I am tired. I am strong. I am human. I will listen. I can think. I will love.”

— Norah Jones

The lyric I almost pulled from Norah Jones’ latest asks, “are we broken?” That’s a question that has camped in my brain far too frequently this past week. In America, we’re taking our own lives with increasing frequency the CDC reports. At the same time as that news was breaking, the lives of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain were ending. They join other prominent names of the last year or so that have killed themselves.

The language of suicide is blunt. I want euphemisms, but there are none that don’t mask the harshness of the act. Like many others, Bourdain’s death has thrown me for a loop and, like many others, this is not the first time suicide has come through the door with its terrible chaos. Every time it hits close, I cycle through anger and empathy and wondering why. The answer to that one is simple though even if it isn’t satisfying: they were hurting.

This time, I’ve tried to be different. I read and remembered. Serendipity was having a breakfast planned at Petit Trois Le Valley early Saturday morning where I had the best-scrambled eggs I’ve ever eaten and hugged my friends. I visited with my barber and listened to her talk about her impending nuptials while she cut my hair, a reminder that life keeps moving. Her excitement and anxiety showed me that hope and possibility still live here. I went in a darkened theatre and watched eight women fill the screen with charm and an unusual lack of bombast and enjoyed the pleasant romp.

Today’s meditation, The Joy Lens, suggests taking unadorned appreciation for the things you and others enjoy. The sexual. The sensual. The delicious. The physical. The experiential. The simple. The complex. The Joy Lens would have us not lose sight of those things even when things are hard.

Even when we’re sad. Even when what’s happened fails to make sense.

I’ve tried to do that this weekend. To fill my heart with joy to take up the space that has emptied as it cries out for losses felt deeply.

Are we broken? Maybe. But we’re also beautiful. And still here.

And I’m grateful.

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March 31, 2018 / 0 Comments

The Lonely Little Wonton


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The lonely Little Wonton sat on his bed of seaweed, crying. Lost in the land of Burgers and Fries, the lonely Little Wonton no longer believed he was perfect. His mother, the Perceptive Potsticker, had told him that Little Wontons were beautiful packages of goodness. They were sealed and golden brown and held a surprise inside. “What could be better than that,” she wondered aloud.

Apparently, the convenient packaging of a fast food meal, if you were to believe the Little Wonton’s friend, the Burger. “You may be golden brown, wonton, old pal, but you don’t come in a bun, you don’t come with any sauces, you can’t just add cheese if necessary.” The Little Wonton tried to speak up to explain that he did, indeed, have hot mustard and soy in his backpack, but the Burger was on a roll.

“And who are you supposed to hang out with? Do you even know? Everyone knows that a Burger hangs out with Fries. That’s what we do. We go together like Peas and Carrots. Why anyone would actually want to see Peas and Carrots together, I don’t know, it’s just something that people say.”

The Little Wonton wanted to explain that in the old country he often hung out on a bed of Greens and that Rice was everyone’s friend, but as he started to speak, Fries showed up. “Why are you hanging out with this guy for,” Fries asked.

“Oh, we’re not hanging, really. Wonton’s a good kid. He just needs to be taught the ways of the world. He thinks he’s perfect.” Fries and Burger looked at the Little Wonton and laughed in unison.

“Perfect,” Fries said in disbelief. “Perfect is being deep fried in oil, being able to come in several sizes. Sometimes I’m seasoned, sometimes I’m curly, and I always come with something in a bun, like my pal, Burger. Do they call you a happy meal, my little yellow friend? I think not.”

“I’m golden brown,” said the little Wonton, “thank you very much, and I, too, am deep fried in oil. In the old country, I’m the perfect addition to any meal. Sometimes, when I’m around, they call it ‘Special.’ In the old country, we don’t need to call any particular meal happy because we know that all meals are happy. In the old country…”

“If you like the old country so much, why don’t you go back there, Mr. Perfect,” Fries said. Burger tried to stifle a laugh but couldn’t. The two shook their heads at Wonton and walked away arm in arm. Such a combo, those two.

So the lonely Little Wonton sat on his bed of seaweed, crying. Why had they come here to this land of Burgers and Fries? His father, the Steaming Hot and Sour Soup, had told them this was the land of opportunity and freedom. Seemed to the Little Wonton that this was a land where you weren’t so perfect unless you were just like everyone else.

“Excuse me.”

The Little Wonton looked up to find a spongy piece of bread in front of him.

“Excuse me, My name’s Injera, and I couldn’t help but see that you needed a hug.”

The lonely Little Wonton wiped the tears away and scooted over so that Injera could share the seaweed. “I’m sorry if you’re offended by that but that’s just what I do. My job is to hug other foods. I feel like I have to say that. Since I’ve been here, I’ve found that not everyone likes to be hugged. It’s weird.”

“Yes,” the Little Wonton said, “Everyone likes to be wrapped in their own paper. There are even plates cut into squares so that nobody touches anybody else. No mingling allowed.”

“Well, that’s just silly. Where I come from, we like to have everything mixed together. Sometimes, I hug Egg, Lentil, and Chicken all at the same time. Sometimes I might hug Lettuce and Beans at the same time. We have a grand ol’ time together. It adds flavor to our lives,” Injera said.

“Really?” asked the Little Wonton.

“Really,” said Injera.

The two smiled and hugged.

And the Little Wonton wasn’t so lonely anymore.

Originally published December 10, 2002

 

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March 11, 2018 / 0 Comments

Lucid

“It was all something or nothing to me.”

— Jordan Rakei

Meditation: Hard on Yourself, 11 minutes

I’ve been ruminating on my failures. I have writing unfinished and text messages unanswered. There was the moment I put my foot in my mouth in a meeting and the back-to-back days of lunch consisting of fries smothered in cheese and meat. I’ve spent too much time on my devices idling and not enough time learning and reading.

This is only a partial list.

Today’s meditation is about getting past those uncomfortable and seductive thoughts—The Little Hater as Jay Smooth coined—and finding space for a full view of you. Be kind and compassionate to yourself. Express gratitude for your strengths and weaknesses. Recognize that those around you also make mistakes. We are fallible.

In Chris Rock’s Netflix comedy special, he says the most important lesson he can give to his children is this:

“Nobody outside this house gives a fuck about you.”

That recognition of our relative lack of importance except for those who know and love us always brings me comfort and clarity. I can see what matters.

What mattered this week?

  • Last weekend’s full plate of birthday festivities for two people I am honored to call friends
  • A life-affirming live performance from Jordan Rakei at the El Rey on a school night (here’s his KCRW set)
  • Handling dinner more times than usual
  • Learning how to bake with yeast

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  • Every time I listened more than I talked
  • Every time I told someone something they needed to hear even if they didn’t want to hear it
  • Every time I thought of someone else’s comfort before my own and acted with that intention

I have found a good routine with yoga most mornings to start my day, but daily meditation has been an unintended casualty. The challenge is making time for honoring both the body and the mind. When I do that with consistency, the little hater’s voice is rarely louder than a whisper. When one or the other is out of practice, he starts to shout.

Hush now.

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January 1, 2018 / 1 Comment

Holidays 2017, Explained (Part Two)

“What’d you do with all my blues, girl?” —Otis Junior & Dr. Dundiff, The 1

Part one here.

We arrived in New Orleans on Christmas Day, after a two-hour layover in Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport. My mother-in-law joined us for the journey. She doesn’t like air travel but seemed to have few challenges on this trip.

The single best thing I did for myself in 2017 beyond writing a regular series of posts expressing gratitude is to acquire TSA pre-check. If you’ve got 85 dollars and aren’t wanted by The Man, it pays for itself in your first eligible flight. Keep your shoes on! Take the short line! Reclaim your time!

The entire family stayed at the Roosevelt New Orleans. It’s also where Tiffany and I stayed during our wedding week. They do it up in the lobby for the holidays. It’s become a favorite Instagram destination in the city. Great for pictures. Terrible to navigate if you’re a guest trying to get to an elevator or the gym.

We had lunch at the Legacy Oyster Counter + Tap Room. The staff was hilarious. The food was better than expected. The drinks were strong.

Christmas Dinner was at Domenica. We discussed the complications of eating at restaurants where the owner/creator has been exposed as a sexual harasser but the Christmas meal was delicious, and our bill was half what we expected. Lagniappe.


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On the second day, we visited Cochon Butcher, probably my favorite place to eat in NOLA. It’s still great. We walked but seriously considered registering for the city’s bike-share program. We walked back to the hotel via Lee Circle and marveled at the statue that’s no longer on its perch. We talked with a man who was homeless and spending his day in the Circle. He gave us a lot to think about regarding the cost of removing the Confederate monuments, the people who clamored to bring them down (and who didn’t), and what he would have rathered them spend the money on (i.e., helping people like him who by necessity consider these public spaces home).

“That statue never did anything to me, but the city still makes money off of plantation tours every day.”


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The best gumbo I’ve ever had was at Coquette. Loa still makes an incredible drink. Killer PoBoys was disappointing. So was Cafe Beignet. Cafe du Monde never does.

We made it to Snug Harber Jazz Bistro to see Delfeayo Marsalis and the Uptown Jazz Orchestra. My dad sat in on the second set. Someone at our table who shall remain nameless had eyes for Terrance “Hollywood” Taplin. The band has an album called Make America Great Again. It’s their first.

Delfeayo explained,

“I think some of us may have different definitions of what ‘Make America Great Again’ means. I imagine America was greatest in 1492, the day before Columbus showed up!”

I love New Orleans.

The best meal of the week was at Peche. Go there. Order all the snacks. Don’t be scared of the whole fish.

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Melle suggested we visit the #StudioBE exhibit. She’s a real one for that. It was the experience of the trip that will most stick with me.


"Nobody's free until everybody's free." - Fannie Lou Hamer"Nobody's free until everybody's free." - Fannie Lou Hamer

“Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.” – Fannie Lou Hamer

On our last day in the city, we hit up the Southern Food and Beverage Museum. We also had brunch at Atchafalaya. My mom has fond memories of this place from our wedding week. My dad and sister don’t seem to remember it at all. I imagine my family will debate these conflicting recollections to our graves. I had a Po’Boy here that more than made up for my previous disappointment.

I still didn’t get to Domilise’s. Or Parkway. More reasons to return.

Shout-out to Lyft drivers in the Crescent City. Y’all all drive great cars, have the best conversations, and were delightful. Five Stars.

On the plane ride back, I watched Bright. It’s not good. In fact, it’s ridiculous, has an inconsistent tone, and never explains anything satisfactorily. But, I found it watchable. I am a sucker, though, for an LA cop story even if it involves fairies, elves, and orcs.

I watched the pilot of Ozark which was good but also seems very much like someone at Netflix said, “we need our own Breaking Bad,” and this is what they got. I’m not sure yet if the quality of that first episode will get me past how derivative it feels to consume more.

I’m home now, and I’m still dreaming about N’awlins.