Recently, I was fortunate enough to be back in Istanbul after a twenty-five year absence. Some things had changed but, for the most part, it was as stunning as it had ever been. In addition to blue glass amulets to replace my original one broken …
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 …
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.”
“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 …
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.
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.
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 …
Like most people, the fairy tales read to me were the mostly sweet versions. Sure, women were hexed by nefarious enemies, harassed by wicked step-relatives, or resigned to a permanent dormant state with the bite of a crimson apple. Overall, though, they ended with our …
Many moons ago, I spent a few glorious weeks in Spain and I tasted everything I could imagine. I mean everything. I could write a book on the dishes and drinks I enjoyed, each day brought one revelation after another.
When I think of that first trip, I remember countless moments and foods. A favorite combination of red pepper, onion, and tomato has become a tried-and-true addition to most dishes, Spanish or not.
Like most versions, my paella always begins with that mix. Saffron, of course, gives the characteristic color and inimitable flavor. The trinity provides the backbone. Oh, what a backbone!
For more than twenty years, we’ve celebrated Christmas Eve by celebrating with Seven Fishes, an assortment of fish dishes sometimes in the double-digits. This year, all seven dishes were snug in a golden bed of bomba rice. Please tell me what you think.
“There’s beauty in the day. There’s beauty in the night.” ~ Claudette Dudley Living a life of wonder seems to be a good bet: an interesting corner, path, neighborhood, town, or city— wonder leads to wandering that often leads to something quite magical. Here’s to …
