We’re one of those families. We love bread. I mean we love it. For a few years before the pandemic, my husband baked four beautiful loaves every week. Gosh, you should see the smile on my face as I write that sentence. As everyone and …
You know my thoughts on markets. I’ve been lucky to visit some excellent ones here and there. The Old Biscuit Mill is far and away one of the best. See for yourself. Delicious food, check. Live music, check. A DJ, check. Heavenly aromas, check. A …
While I was at the loveliest birthday dinner with our brand-new friends we had met just four days earlier, I was asked what it felt like to call America home. Behind the question was the horrible legacy of slavery and the possibility of rootlessness. “Do you feel connected to Africa?”
I answered, “Of course.”
Home is the most complicated and yet simplest thing.
A couple of days after that birthday dinner, I visited the haunting District Six Museum. This space tells the story of a once-vibrant community that was destroyed under Apartheid and left thousands displaced and forcibly removed.
In explaining the area’s significance, the museum describes “home” for those who lived there:
District Six before its destruction under Apartheid, was a community representative of diversity on a number of levels – language, religion, economic class, geographical area of origin – and became a living example of how diversity could be a strengthening characteristic of a community and need not be feared. It was a vibrant community of freed slaves, merchants, artisans, labourers and immigrants, with close links to the city and the port. It represented the polar opposite of what the Apartheid government, inaugurated by the National Party coming into power in 1948, needed people to believe and internalise.
District Six thus became one of the main urban targets for destruction in the city of Cape Town.
On 11 February 1966 it was declared a white area under the Group Areas Act of 1950, and by 1982, the life of the community was over. More than 60,000 people were forcibly removed to barren outlying areas aptly known as the Cape Flats, and their houses in District Six were flattened by bulldozers.”
I recently had the incredibly good fortune to visit South Africa for a project and I was showered with love letters. At every turn, there was beauty, and I took it all in. I learned, stretched, explored, and rested. And I joyfully tasted.
“To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this small patch of earth offered a taste of freedom. NELSON MANDELA This Black Garden Epistle comes to …
We definitely did it good! I’ll start at the end and then make our way back. My mom pulled out one of my favorite plates, plump strawberries framing the center, ready to full of the season’s delights. She created Thanksgiving 2.0 and it was delicious. Especially the cornbread, and the okra, and the beans, greens, tomatoes, and chitlins. And the coleslaw and the bright carrot soufflé.
We took our Atlanta culinary adventure seriously (and joyfully, if that makes sense).
We started at a family favorite, pulling up slowly so that I could catch a glimpse of the pit. This shack-like pit had my mind buzzing and eager for the smoky bits.
And then away from barbecue and then a meander to a place filled with so many memories that a tear always forms when I walk into the place. The VARSITY… . We bundled our beloved chili dogs, fries, rings, and pies and composed a mix from the day’s exploration. We foragers pulled out all of the stops and every box for the mashup of all mashups.
Is it me or did the end of 2022 come and go with a quickness? One moment I was back in my hometown with family I hadn’t seen in years and in a flash, I was feasting with my small family in Chicago. So in …
December had me inside, making slow food like stews and yeasty dishes. It also had me looking, sampling, and exploring the great indoors. Indoors as in markets and food halls, those places where you can travel all around the world under one roof. Over two …
A dozen years ago, I went to an art show that changed my life.
A new friend, who had patiently washed sushi rice 5-10 times to my precise specifications (a story for another day), invited me to join her and two of her friends to see the photographs of Vivian Maier. There was quite a buzz around Maier at that time with the kind of backstory that sells papers and piques interest. Born in New York City in the 20s to a French mother and Austrian father, she had hopped back and forth between the States and France until age 25. Before her main profession, she had worked in a NYC sweatshop. She then moved to Chicagoland where she was a nanny for the next 40 years.
1963. Chicago, IL
She would often go downtown alone (and sometimes with her charges in tow) and take arresting photos of Chicago’s inhabitants such as workers under the L, children playing or more likely working, families passing storefronts, and spectacles.
Chicago, 1954
And in her hometown of New York.
Back to that exhibition, Finding Vivian Maier: Chicago Street Photographer, 2011. Shortly before Maier passed away, a trove of photographs and numerous negatives were found. Most of her negatives had never been developed. She had spent her last years destitute and unable to pay her rent and storage. As a result, the bulk of her work was snapped up for a song. Images were shared online, and not surprisingly, the public was eager for more. And from that, a lovely show at the Chicago Cultural Center captivated countless visitors and art lovers. Looking at each image with my old and two strangers was the gel for two friendships that are now incredibly deep twelve years later. Here’s to new paths!
Intentional. To kick off the new year, my friends at PostScript asked me to be their guest writer for their lovely blog, In the Loop. This month’s theme is coffee but I was encouraged to write about anything so I did both. If you’re interested …