Blogging While Black: Yeah, It’s a Thing.

michaelwtwitty:

From my friend, Rabbi Ruth Adar…an essay of support and solidarity. B’shalom!

Originally posted on Coffee Shop Rabbi:

 :לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל-דַּם רֵעֶךָ

Do not stand upon the blood of your neighbor. – Lev. 19:16

Yesterday, I posted a link to a blog post by Michael W. Twitty from Afroculinaria.com. He titled it #Ferguson: My Thoughts on an American Flashpoint, and it is a moving piece. It began with an image someone sent via Twitter to him: a racist manipulation of the image of Michael Brown’s dead body lying on the pavement.

I’ve received a share of hate messages via social media. They were nasty bits of Jew-hatred, woman-hatred, or fat-hatred, and occasionally a rancid mix of the three. But none were as violent, as personal, as those sent to my friend. I deleted them and blocked the source, if I could. Then I tried to push the image, or the words out of my head: easier said than done.

But Michael Twitty took this ugly, hateful, personal image and…

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#Ferguson : My Thoughts on an American Flashpoint

“…It was the corroboration of their worth and their power that they wanted, and not the corpse, still less the staining blood.”  James Baldwin, “To Be Baptized,” from No Name in the Street, 1972

I have been asked by many people to take a close look at the Michael Brown shooting case in Ferguson, Missouri and offer my opinion.  I felt it best to take a step back and really absorb all the circulating currents of opinion and matters of fact before I made any personal pronouncements.  This is my best attempt to answer that call, hopefully soberly, responsibly and with as much restraint as I can muster in the face of this deeply American tragedy.  This is inherently a blog about food and food culture, but anyone who regularly reads this blog understands that it also is a blog about social and cultural justice.  It is clear to anyone who knows the African American experience and tradition—to speak on it demands the celebration of the best of our cultural and historical legacy, scholarly excellence, and absolute commitment to social and cultural responsibility. This is a raw piece—it’s not meant to be perfect—far from it.  It’s just how I feel.  My condolences to the Brown family.  There is profanity in this blog post. 

I received a nasty tweet last night; a tweet with a food theme in fact.  Michael Brown’s bleeding corpse with pictures of food transposed around it—fried chicken, bananas, watermelon, with Kool-Aid to wash it down.  My chest hurt and then I stared into space and before I knew it, I vomited.  It was not nausea—it was anger mixed with revulsion and memories from lives only my cells know.

 

I want you to understand something—I’ve been on multiple plantations and urban sites dealing with slavery. I’ve felt the Ancestors in the fields. I’ve seen the auction block and the whipping post and the hanging tree.  I embrace it, I own it, and I live it through food so I can say “Never Again,” with confidence.  I do the work that I do to educate people about the genesis of America’s original sin—I consider myself steeled. This however, was different—this was personal; that body could have been me.

Swirling around us are accusations, whispers and rumors about a “gentle giant,” named Michael Brown.  Michael Brown cannot be defined by the politics of respectability or the politics of backlash.  He cannot be dismissed with smirks and allegations he was just a “thug.”  Michel Brown is dead.  He was on his knees, with his hands up in a gesture of surrender and he was shot six times and then left in the street, his blood merging with asphalt, his life draining out with his future, the dreams of his parents and the hope of his ancestors.  That’s what surrounded him—not racialized food icons.

This is evil.  This is evidence that some people have no heart. We have to be better, we have to have light. We have to be the love G-d expects of us.

This is evil. This is evidence that some people have no heart. We have to be better, we have to have light. We have to be the love G-d expects of us.

I cannot convey to you how debasing it is to be expected, by convention of racialized submissive behavior to offer conciliatory pardons and excuses for Michael Brown’s less savory choices and behavior (or those of disaffected youth looting in his community for that matter).  What is clear is that he will not be tried by me or anyone else for alleged misdeeds prior to his death.  What is further clear is that he was not worthy of death for the activities behind said allegations nor for walking in the street.  The same country where some white folk are celebrating their “right,” to bear firearms in Targets and Starbucks and pointing rifles at Federal agents (a la Cliven Bundy) without reproach, dares lecture Black America about the legalized lynchings of its sons for petty theft or perceived slights against police and governmental authority.  The same country where people are thrilled by movies about white collar crime on Wall Street and the theft of millions on the same, has robbed people of their savings is the same country where “stop and frisk” jukes the stats uptown while the real crooks downtown go wild and unrestrained after their rape of the American dream.

But I digress.  Michael Brown is not alone—Eric Garner, Amadou Diallo, Sean Bell, so many others—all of these humans–as Rep. Steven King of Iowa unfortunately put it—“of a single continental origin,” were my brothers.  In the spirit of the Torah, “my brother’s blood cries out from the earth.” I’m here to tell you what their blood is saying to me…

A Declaration of War

Several weeks ago Rep. Mo Brooks of Alabama, the very state that held my maternal ancestors in slavery and from which my grandparents left under the duress of legalized terrorism and inequality (and swore to never return), declared that there was a “war on whites.” This tremendously irresponsible and inflammatory statement was followed up by typical platitudes: “It doesn’t make any difference what your skin pigmentation is,” Brooks said. “In America this is the land of opportunity. You can excel provided you’re willing to study hard, work hard, take advantage of the opportunities that are presented in our country. And there are plenty of people who have been able to establish that this race issue should be way behind us.”  Mo Brooks, I’ll put my Alabama Confederate ancestor against yours and ask the question, “Is the race issue behind us?”  I’m the good black, so that means I’m okay right? Rep. Brooks, perhaps if you wanted a repeat of Red Summer, baby I think you got it.

Few in the national media connected the dots between the heated, racialized rhetoric of what civil rights activist Rev. William Barber of North Carolina has called , “the third Reconstruction,” with the recent spate of confrontations between police and African American men, women and children.  My maternal grandfather of blessed memory, not the most militant man in the world, recalled to me how he often witnessed the police come and brag about “how many niggers they killed,” in the streets of his neighborhood in Birmingham.  “They harassed us in blue by day and in white by night.”

What this post is not—is an indictment of all law enforcement—of any ethnicity.  That’s as ridiculous as indicting every Black male as a criminal.  I don’t think that most people feel that way, we well understand the social contract.  They want to be able to trust law enforcement, they want to be able to support and depend on them.  We have witnessed the militarization of law enforcement in convergence with a reverse, alleged declaration of war on whites.  What’s wrong with this picture?  And, why is the 24 hour news cycle media not calling this for what it is—a recipe for social dissolution built on 7 years of sustained, celebrated, financially rewarded hate speech churned out against you-know-who and all those that look like you-know-who.

We are paying a horrible consequence for silencing the leader of the Free World on matters of racial justice with deep importance to the world, our country and our people.  We have turned the other cheek in such a way as to invite shots rather than slaps.  When POTUS said that cops acted “stupidly” in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when Dr. Henry Louis Gates Jr. was arrested for resisting arrest on the steps of his own home, he was right; so right that it was a moment more thrilling to me than his oath of office.  Hope! Change! Vindication!

And then he had to back up off of that power.  At the mercy of his party, backlash politics and law enforcement lobbying, he had to retract his gut reaction and put a beer in the hand of a man who humiliated the world’s foremost scholar of African American history and culture.  (You should at this point re-read Mo Brooks’ statement about how to succeed in America–hint–double standard…) Glenn Beck famously said of the incident; “(here is) a guy (President Obama) who has a deep-seated hatred for white people or the white culture. I don’t know what it is…” Dr. Gates said, “I’m sorry,” the President said, “I’m sorry,” Glenn Beck just got another million for offering up more red meat.  From that moment on, I knew the stage was set for a long season of disappointment and dishonest dialogue about healing America’s oldest wound.  If there is one thing I know to be true—it is this—and I have lived my life with blunt honesty about this—Black people do not benefit from lying to white people about how they really feel about injustice.  We missed an incredible opportunity at the beginning of the Obama presidency to confront head on overreach by law enforcement vis-a-vis people of color!!! You can count the minutes from that incident to the afternoon of August 9th on Canfield Ave. in Ferguson, Missouri.  

B(l)ack to the future.

Rep. Brooks declares that there is a “war on whites” and remains uncensored for his inflammatory rhetoric, and yet there seems to be a pursuit of an offensive war on people of color in the streets of America—women dragged naked from their apartments, women beaten to a pulp on the LA freeway, men cornered like hunted lions in Staten Island, young men shot dead for perceived slights against what some like Glenn Beck, believe to be the last bastion of white power.  Geopolitics and the global economy are not on the side of white America, neither are demographics or the unifying principles of language, faith, social issues politics or aesthetics.  I’m not telling you anything you don’t know or feel—this is what he really means by the “war on whites,” the eclipse of white heterosexual cis-male hegemony in the face of a New American Order where obfuscation of competing narratives is obsolete and we are more multigrain than white bread.

“Give Me your tired rhetoric, your poor attempts at pacification, your yearning to yell logical fallacies…”

Give it to me.  Or what did the uncouth Ferguson cop say on CNN to the African American protesters, “Bring it you f—g animals!” Tell me all about “absentee fathers” Joseph Epstein—because you’re an expert on Black people if I ever saw one (shandeh!).  Please say, “What you (people) need to do…” (Thanks for the paternalism) and “What you need to tell your people is to stop…….”  Tell me all about how Black men are far more likely to commit this crime or that crime…and hold a mirror to my face about Black on Black crime vs. white on Black crime.  Tell me about myths of low IQ’s, poor academic performance, a failed attempt at instilling pride through Black history and Afrocentric culture; please tell me everything about what you might feel to be the “real” root cause.  Rap music, the “n” word, drugs, liquor—give me your tired rhetoric, your poor attempts at pacification, your yearning to yell logical fallacies. You might well be Black, or white, or brown or “yellow” but it is all nonsense and distraction because let’s put it in terms you can understand, Michael Brown is dead and he could be any of us –even me.

The Good Black

If you really believe in “the good Black,” let me offer you a cautionary personal tale.  A few years ago, a friend of mine was taking to me to synagogue on the commemoration of Tisha B’Av.  He’s white, I am obviously of a certain “continental origin” and a car almost hit us on the passenger side of the vehicle.  I was the passenger; the person in the car was driving erratically.  I said nothing—but I grimaced and frowned. My friend got agitated, but did not drive in an aggressive fashion.

The unmarked car suddenly put on a siren and we the driver began to glare at me—through me—with a look of absolute disdain.  He was ready for reprisal. We were pulled over—not on the side of the road, but into a parking lot.  He got out of the car, pulled his gun and told my white friend, “TELL YOUR PASSENGER TO PUT HIS F—G HANDS UP ON THE DASHBOARD AND NOT TO MOVE THEM! YEAH MOTH–KER YOU’RE SO G–DAMNED BAD! WHAT’S THAT MOTH—KER, A GUN?”

It was my prayerbook.  It had G-d’s name on it, beautiful gold Hebrew letters gleaming at me on a sunless day.  In kippa, dress clothes and non-leather shoes, headed to synagogue, I had a gun at my head by a police officer calling for backup…which curiously never came.  He never asked my friend to put his hands up.  Said friend got out of the car, handed over his ID.  I was far from trembling, afraid or submissive when he returned—gun drawn—to my side of the vehicle—I was Nat Turner mad.  He patted me down and even threw my kippa on the ground.  No reason, no cause.  He loudly pronounced my name over the radio, confident he was going to turn a glare—a reckless eyeballing– into an arrest.

Surprise!  No moving violations on the part of my friend, the driver, no weapons on me, no rap sheet, nothing.  Jack shit.  The policeman got nervous.  I was not a good catch.  He softened his approach with awkward verbal retreats until the tense conversation ended in “Have a nice day.”  No apologies, no attempt at breaking down his wall.

I was not appeased.  But I was too scared to say anything or file a complaint.  I knew the man’s name for all of seven days.  Then I forgot it.  I had heard stories about the Blue line.  I didn’t want any further harassment; I put it away—I didn’t speak about it—until now.

I do the work that I do because I am well aware of the power food can have in telling human stories and reaching people with uncomfortable or powerful truths they might otherwise not be amenable to.  I have a multicultural faith, a multicultural family, a multicultural life, and I come from a multicultural blood line. I will not allow this or any other flashpoint to tear my family apart–so we will come together for the good.  I feel I have a mission in this world, much like Michael Brown might well have felt as he contemplated who he would be once he graduated technical college.  I use food and this history behind the food to tell us how we got here and to encourage us to never find our way back to the places that derailed the dream we as the American people offer so proudly to the world.

Afraid in My Own Skin

Michael Brown, I am so heartbroken because I know how some of these idiotic people see you.  I’m Michael too.  I’ve been big, fat, scary, black and worthless too.  I know that you were not, and I am not–really big fat, scary, black and worthless—but the social media commentary—scary, fat, big black guy…keeps coming up and it outrages me that we feel like big game in the eyes of people who hide behind screen names and Twitter handles.  (Too bad the fact you will always see me with a book in my hand makes me scarier than if I had a football.)

I am afraid that had that cop been turned up one more notch I would not be writing this—I’d have been big fat, scary, Black, worthless and dead.  Oh, and by the way, this is one of six negative encounters with law enforcement I have had where I was in no way held in the commission of a crime, arrested, or held until being tried for a crime.  I was the passenger with a white friend, and it was alleged I was a drug dealer because we were at a gas station, “a little bit too long.”  I was on a bus and every Black male was asked to present his ID and had his bag searched.  I have been stopped for walking while Black and pressed up against a wall.

Wanna know the worst part?  When the people passing you on the sidewalk look at you with a presumptive glance that they believe you wouldn’t have gotten in trouble if you hadn’t done something wrong.  You are guilty until proven innocent, and even then you ain’t so damn innocent.  You are the good black, the good boy, and by god you might just get your reward in heaven if you just suppress your jungle anger and just suck it up and forget that this moment has a dark past and that 2014 and 1619 have just been linked together in an ignoble chain.  This is the moment Mama and Daddy gave you “the talk” about; and nothing prepared you for that look you get from the onlookers as you, the consummate “Other,” get a hand in the crack of your ass.

Beyond Race, Toward Hope

I hate the word “race,” it is inept and woefully inadequate.   Its usage—and I freely admit having to rely on it here at times—is completely out of pace with science, our collective ethical spirit, and intellectual truth.  Ethnicity—a far better term in my opinion speaking to a deeper lexicon means that we have our self-described niches based on ancestry.   Ethnicities have their histories, patterns of experience and cultural cues.  We have been here before, and we will continue to be here as the African American people until we break the wheel—by voting, by lobbying, by economic boycotts and by learning the law as good if not better than those that are tasked with enforcing it.  With our books, with our ballots, with our boycotts, we can cut the hanging tree down and use its wood to make a coffin for “racial” injustice.

I am trying to be hopeful. I see Americans of all colors putting their hands up saying “Don’t shoot.”  Solidarity is spreading from rally to rally; there are new kids on the block—and they don’t want the bitter fruit of the past. The old canards that this is a race war a la Mo Brooks have no truth here—we are embracing anyone who will embrace us, loving anyone who will love us, respecting anyone who will respect us, and we want desperately to believe that we—in our protest, in our pursuit of justice through the courts of law, in our demands for information—are the epitome of what it means to be American.

To my foodie friends: throw your hands up!  Listen, we do ourselves no favors when we pretend that food is a respite from the matters of the day.  Where do we go when we want to feel better and hash out our grievances and vent?  We go to the table.  Given that I am often the only Black guy, or one of five Black people period at many food events, I want you to know what this harassment means when you see me/us encounter it.  I want you to step out of the fantasy that food is freedom from socio-cultural politics and just remember to be aware of the cues and clues that injustice and inequality are ever close and we must all be vigilant.

But I ask, as James Baldwin once asked, “How much time do you want, for your progress?”

Please don’t shoot!

Please!

Please!!

PLEASE!!!

 

 

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When the News Hits Home: Ebola in Sierra Leone, A Love Letter to My Ancestral Country

ALMOST a year ago I learned my maternal line was a 100% match for the Mende people of Sierra Leone, West Africa.  I was on the grounds of North Carolina’s largest historical plantation, when Gina Paige, head of African Ancestry revealed my results in the shadow of the four remaining slave cabins on the property.  For me it was a watershed moment. I was in a sacred place, reclaiming part of the African in my African-American.  If I am honest, I was also reclaiming part of the American as well.  As an African American until you know something of those initial moments of your ancestor’s arrival and what life looked like for them, it is hard to have the same feeling towards your American-ness that someone of another background has looking at Ellis or Angel Island, the borderlands of the Southwest or the Gulf Coast.

In my mind’s eye I could now imagine this young woman disembarking from a canoe to Bance/Bunce Island in the 1760’s, then coming by canoe to a ship that would take her over two months journey to permanent and irrevocable exile.  She landed in Charleston, South Carolina, the Holy City of Southern colonial commerce and trade; the site of Sullivan’s Island, where one quarter of all enslaved Africans brought to North America landed.  That’s about the same as the number of European immigrants who came through Ellis Island.  To this day it is known as the Ellis Island of Black America.  If the Civil War had not been fought there, the site of Fort Moultrie, named after the Revolutionary War hero, we may not know the spot where she, my direct paternal ancestor, and so many other fathers and mothers of Black America first set foot and began the long journey toward today.

From the moment I got my results, African Americans who had already had their results, but not revealed them to me, began to divulge new forms of kinship.  Dontavius Williams of Historic Brattonsville, my friend and colleague said, “Hey, my family is from Sierra Leone too!”  Nikki Miller-Ka, spoke to my other roots saying, “We are also Akan from Ghana!”  From that moment on, a new kind of family emerged based on a sense that we were more than just Black, more than just “African.”  I met more and more African Americans who were Mende, Temne, Limba, and other ethnic groups from Sierra Leone.  Sierra Leone—a small country the size of South Carolina, who through the forced exportation of rice growers and craftsmen swelled the Southern Lowcountry in the mid-18th century—Sierra Leone—the home of the ancestors of Lou Gossett Jr., Whoopi Goldberg, Maya Angelou, Martin Luther King, Janet Jackson and family, Spike Lee, Michael K. Williams, Regina Taylor, India Arie, Questlove, Isaiah Washington,  Anna Marie Horsford, and many others.  Oprah Winfrey’s roots go back to the Kpelle people in next door Liberia, also an unfortunate center for this current health disaster.

Whenever I meet people from Sierra Leone they have NEVER addressed me as anything but a kinsman.  At the reception for Many Rivers to Cross, I met a woman from England of Sierra Leonian background, who introduced me to her husband, also from Sierra Leone, as, first and foremost, a “Sierra Leonian.”  There is such a pride in the fact that so many connections have been made between Sierra Leone and the United States, Brazil, Jamaica and other parts of the New World, that it is second nature for the people of Sierra Leone to boast that their blood flowed in Cinque/Singbeh Pieh, one of the leaders of the Amistad revolt, in Martin Luther King, Jr., and in Marcus Garvey, the father of modern Pan-Africanism, the idea that we are one family—all of us parts of the African family, scattered but searching for soul solidarity.   No encounter with a Sierra Leonian has not led to someone saying, “When you go, here is my information…” this feeling of being part of a family that was always a part of me and that I never knew I had is exhilarating and makes the world seem smaller and more loving.

So let’s skip to today.  Ebola.  One of the world’s most mysterious and deadly viruses, reared its ugly head in Liberia, Guinea and Sierra Leone.  Unlike previous Ebola outbreaks that have occurred in relatively isolated areas, this outbreak was in the crowded cities and densely populated villages of Africa’s Rice Coast.  My people are dying.  My people are dying.  That’s all I can think as I see the news every night.  Over 700 dead.  In Sierra Leone that’s over 200 people who have died there alone, with over 500 infected.  As I write this, homes are being checked door to door for people who are possibly infected.

If you think this has nothing to do with our mission here at Afroculinaria, you’d be wrong.  The cause of this outbreak is likely bushmeat infected with the virus.  Bushmeat means wild game—usually small mammals like cutting-grass cane rats, monkeys, and bats.  Undercooked bat, may—nothing is official yet—be the cause of the current horrific outbreak. I don’t know how this helps other than just knowing how real and how scary things like this can be, but at least I know about the tradition and how the parts and pieces fit.  This epidemic is an opportunity for education and greater emphasis on public health awareness.

A lot of people think of Africa has plagued, benighted, scary, violent, and even sinister.  These conclusions are rooted in the evils of the recent past when corruption among indigenous powers and invaders from the East and West raped the Mother Continent for all she had.  Some of you may know Kanye West’s song about Diamonds from Sierra Leone or Blood Diamond or the Lord of War…all of which reference the Civil War and blood diamond conflicts and strife that plagued the nation not so very long ago.  Africa was not the starving continent we see on late night TV until colonialism came—colonialism robbed Africa of so much—but first and foremost—it handicapped her ability to raise food for herself and sustain self-sufficient economies.  It is no accident that the rubber, minerals, oil, and the like that fueled the 20th century Industrial Revolution owed much to African slave labor under colonial administrative practices.

I admit that I have already winced at the reports about West Africa coming out of the news.  Please hold media accountable  during human crises like these where they spotlight fears of “witchcraft,” and focus on eating monkeys and apes and string together exotic and stereotypical views of the “Dark Continent.”  To be sure elements of the surreal and sad saturate Africa, but they are not its totality.  When you are talking about these people folks, you are talking about my family.  I am a proud descendant of the Mende people and others—so when you talk about my family, HAVE SOME RESPECT.

I want you to think about that when you see reports on the current outbreak.  These proud people are being hit once again, by one of Nature’s more evil whimsies.  The situation is compounded by the fact that after the severe damage done by the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and the imposition of centuries of white supremacy came the blow of figuring out nationhood and re-organizing power.  Sierra Leone and Liberia have a special added layer of complication in that liberated enslaved people or Creoles/Krios have had a strange and sometimes destructive relationship with indigenous communities.  Through all these curses of the past, we work towards our humanity, our common goal to make the dreams of Martin and Marcus, the New World sons of Sierra Leone, come alive.

I am in pain right now, because I love Sierra Leone already, even though I have not yet set eyes on her.  She is my mother, she is the place that was the rootstock of both my African origins and my American journey.  I sit here, with nothing more than I can do than to raise awareness and let you know that she, along with Liberia and Guinea, and any other places affected matter.  They count, not just because of their role in history or the powerful legacies that they have left here, but because these are places where so many good people are struggling to just exist.   As we begin to get calls for aid, assistance, prayers, and the like, I urge you to support these nations in any way you can.  My mother’s blood calls out from the ground.  I am here Mother; I am answering You.  You gave us life, so we will do what we must to preserve Yours.

May the hands of the medical responders be blessed, and may the hands, hearts and minds of the doctors be blessed as they struggle to get this scourge under control.  May The True Judge see fit to hault this evil in its tracks and give all of these nations and their people a brighter future and tenfold blessings for their pain.  Tonight I fix my mind on the Motherland and tonight I say, Ashe/Amen.

 

 

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Twenty One Soul Food “Life Hacks”

Twenty-One Soul Food Life Hacks

IMG_3339

I am officially joining the Life/Food Hack movement.  Some of these may not seem so “hackish,” but if you guys want more hacks—I promise the next bunch will be more hackish.  Hacks usually use common objects and familiar things in uncommon and unfamiliar ways.  They are ways to solve basic dilemmas and problems or make life better—even if you couldn’t put your finger on things that needed a change or improvement.  Enjoy.  IF YOU HAVE your own “Soul Food Hacks,” let me know or respond to this post with your own, and I will try the best ten and document them here on Afroculinaria.

  1. Learn to cut a watermelon the new way—click here
  2. Make your own secret soul food spice. Tips—buy in bulk. Want lower sodium—adjust accordingly and use a salt substitute for part of it.  Call it your “house seasoning” like….ahem….you know….and put it on the kitchen table with pepper to replace iodized salt.
  3. Gullah remedy for rice that has a burnt smell—put a silver spoon in it. (You can thank Sallie Ann Robinson, the Gullah Diva for that J
  4. Twitty method for making good fried fish—a thick piece of potato frying with the fish in each batch takes the burned or dark taste off of it.
  5. Need a use for late okra….cut the caps off the end and presto—you have a free Halloween costume.
  6. Want pepper sauce without the vinegar?  Use rum or vodka instead of vinegar.  Vinegar actually softens the bite.  Alcohol makes it takes hotter.
  7. Vegan? Want that smoked meat taste?  Use a few drops of liquid smoke—carefully.
  8. Too much turkey?  Cut off and roast the breast.  Take the rest—thighs, legs, wings—soak them in a gallon of water with 1 cup of kosher or sea salt, and half a cup of black pepper, sugar, red pepper and poultry seasoning.   Take them out and pat dry.  Smoke or slow grill it over hickory chips.  Freeze after it has come to temperature.  Voila! You’ve got smoked turkey for your greens, beans, soups and stews.
  9. How to perfect “Gramma/Grammy/Nana/M’Dear/’s”  recipe.  Record her on your cell phone without her knowing LOL.  Offer to measure ingredients as she dumps them in and make notes.  If possible, taste the recipe as its made.  Ask a lot of questions and record it.  Make note of any special brands, sources of the food, etc.
  10. Create your own heritage garden: my Mother loved Kentucky wonders and Cherokee purple tomatoes.  Find out what your family’s favorite crops were, make notes, and ask HOW they were cultivated.  When you make your family garden scrapbook, include favorite recipes..make digital and hard copies and pass them around at the next family reunion.
  11. Save the extra potliker—freeze it in ice cube trays and put them in sealable freezer bags. This is the mother stock for our sauces.  Makes a great broth for sipping when you are sick.
  12. Us e the parboiling water as a base for your bbq mop.

    Potlikker

    Potlikker

  13. Give your kids a downhome connection—next time you visit “Down South/The Country/Down Home” take them to the farmers markets, neighbors, specialty stores—buy bbq sauces, jams, jellies, mixes, etc. that speak to your family’s likes and tastes—later on when they go to school, get married or have other life events—you can make a similar basket.  In order to pass traditions on—we have to make time for them.
  14. Fried chicken and waffles?—Slice up cold fried chicken into thin little bits and add to your favorite waffle batter.  Enjoy with cream gravy—THE ONLY RIGHT WAY TO DO CHICKEN AND WAFFLES SINCE THEY WERE INVENTED ON SOUTHERN PLANTATIONS BY OUR ANCESTORS!!! Thank you…

    Fried Chicken from Georgia made on the Open Hearth

    Fried Chicken from Georgia made on the Open Hearth

  15. Don’t wait on ceremony, affix jars to a wooden board affixed to a wall.  Place them on a wall facing a sunny window and grow your favorite herbs and small pepper plants—make sure they are spaced well and use a little fertilizer and moisture control mixed soil in each jar.  Growing your food can’t wait.  Cinder blocks, old tires—all that stuff makes great, cheap and reliable quick garden container space.
  16. Want to get your kid interested in a subject they don’t like?  Food preparation and getting food to the table—gardening, shopping, fishing, sharing– takes a number of different skills.  When you have the time—use these moments to go over math, reading and language skills.  Social skills are enhanced when we learn how to interact in regular and consistent ways.  Financial and economic principles and history and social science and learning about other cultures can also be enhanced and developed when we cook at home or have eating experiences outside the house.
  17. Don’t waste sweet potato, black eyed and other cowpea leaves,  and the like—they are edible—healthy, nutritious greens—pick them randomly and add to spinach, collards, etc. or just grab a bunch and saute them on their own!
  18. Do not let all that wonderful watermelon rind go to waste—start pickling now!
  19. Peach fuzz make you itch—give them a quick bath in boiling hot water—the fuzz will come right off before you peel  them!
  20. Want a nice coating on your fried chicken—use pancake mix or cornstarch instead of just plain flour.
  21. Use vanilla sugar in your candied yams, peach cobbler, apple crisp, berries and dumplings and the like.  Get a huge sealable dry jar, stick those precious barely crushed vanilla pods in there—and you can even add a stick or two of cinnamon…people will go nuts

 

WANT  MORE?  Write in and let me know!

 

Posted in African American Food History, African Food Culture, Diaspora Food Culture, Events and Appearances, Food Philosophy at Afroculinaria, Recipes | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Food On a Maryland Plantation: Frederick Douglass Speaks

 

 

Wye House Plantation, the Great House Farm spoken of by Frederick Douglass, Talbot County, Maryland, Eastern Shore

Wye House Plantation, the Great House Farm spoken of by Frederick Douglass, Talbot County, Maryland, Eastern Shore

 

From The Life and Times of Frederick Douglass, 1889

On his Birth and his Grandmother’s Gifts:

 Few at that time knew anything of the months of the year or of the days of the month. They measured the ages of their children by spring-time, winter-time, harvest-time, planting-time, and the like. Masters allowed no questions concerning their ages to be put to them by slaves. Such questions were regarded by the masters as evidence of an impudent curiosity. From certain events, however, the dates of which I have since learned, I suppose myself to have been born in February, 1817.

Herring, Pork and Corn

Herring, Pork and Corn

        My first experience of life, as I now remember it, and I remember it but hazily, began in the family of my grandmother and grandfather, Betsey and Isaac Bailey. They were considered old settlers in the neighborhood, and from certain circumstances I infer that my grandmother, especially, was held in high esteem, far higher than was the lot of most colored persons in that region. She was a good nurse, and a capital hand at making nets used for catching shad and herring, and was, withal, somewhat famous as a fisherwoman. I have known her to be in the water waist deep, for hours, seine-hauling. She was a gardener as well as a fisherwoman, and remarkable for her success in keeping her seedling sweet potatoes through the months of winter, and easily got the reputation of being born to “good luck.” In planting-time Grandmother Betsey was sent for in all directions, simply to place the seedling potatoes in the hills or drills; for superstition had it that her touch was needed to make them grow. This reputation was full of advantage to her and her grandchildren, for a good crop, after her planting for the neighbors, brought her a share of the harvest…. LIVING thus with my grandmother, whose kindness and love stood in place of my mother’s, it was some time before I knew myself to be a slave. I knew many other things before I knew that. Her little cabin had to me the attractions of a palace. Its fence-railed floor–which was equally floor and bedstead–up stairs, and its clay floor down stairs, its dirt and straw chimney, and windowless sides, and that most curious piece of workmanship, the ladder stairway, and the hole so strangely dug in front of the fire-place, beneath which grandmamma placed her sweet potatoes, to keep them from frost in winter, were full of interest to my childish observation. 

Maryland Heirloom Sweet Potatoes

Maryland Heirloom Sweet Potatoes

Notes:  Shad and herring, were two anadromous fish that migrated between salt and fresh water.  Spawning time in the spring was of major importance for enslaved communities in the Chesapeake and Tidewater as much of their protein came from various species of herring and shad.  Almost everything was grown in hills, and sweet potatoes–often white or yellow–were a key starch in the diet of enslaved Marylanders after corn.

On Being Separated from his Grandmother:

At last, while standing there, one of the children, who had been in the kitchen, ran up to me in a sort of roguish glee, exclaiming, “Fed, Fed, grandmamma gone!” I could not believe it. Yet, fearing the worst, I ran into the kitchen to see for myself, and lo! she was indeed gone, and was now far away, and “clean” out of sight. I need not tell all that happened now. Almost heart-broken at the discovery, I fell upon the ground and wept a boy’s bitter tears, refusing to be comforted. My brother gave me peaches and pears to quiet me, but I promptly threw them on the ground. I had never been deceived before and something of resentment mingled with my grief at parting with my grandmother.

Fighting Old Nep and a Mother’s Love:

Want of food was my chief trouble during my first summer here. Captain Anthony, instead of allowing a given quantity of food to each slave, committed the allowance for all to Aunt Katy, to be divided by her, after cooking, amongst us. The allowance consisted of coarse corn-meal, not very abundant, and which, by passing through Aunt Katy’s hands, became more slender still for some of us. I have often been so pinched with hunger as to dispute with old “Nep,” the dog, for the crumbs which fell from the kitchen table. Many times have I followed, with eager step, the waiting-girl when she shook the table-cloth, to get the crumbs and small bones flung out for the dogs and cats. It was a great thing to have the privilege of dipping a piece of bread into the water in which meat had been boiled, and the skin taken from the rusty bacon was a positive luxury. With this description of the domestic arrangements of my new home, I may here recount a circumstance which is deeply impressed on my memory, as affording a bright gleam of a slave-mother’s love, and the earnestness of a mother’s care. I had offended Aunt Katy. I do not remember in what way, for my offences were numerous in that quarter, greatly depending upon her moods as to their heinousness, and she had adopted her usual mode of punishing me: namely, making me go all day without food. For the first hour or two after dinner time, I succeeded pretty well in keeping up my spirits; but as the day wore away, I found it quite impossible to do so any longer. Sundown came, but no bread; and in its stead came the threat from Aunt Katy, with a scowl well-suited to its terrible import, that she would starve the life out of me. Brandishing her knife, she chopped off the heavy slices of bread for the other children, and put the loaf away, muttering all the while her savage designs upon myself. Against this disappointment, for I was expecting that her heart would relent at last, I made an extra effort to maintain my dignity, but when I saw the other children around me with satisfied faces, I could stand it no longer. I went out behind the kitchen wall and cried like a fine fellow. When wearied with this, I returned to the kitchen, sat by the fire and brooded over my hard lot. I was too hungry to sleep. While I sat in the corner, I caught sight of an ear of Indian corn upon an upper shelf. I watched my chance and got it; and shelling off a few grains, I put it back again. These grains I quickly put into the hot ashes to roast. I did this at the risk of getting a brutal thumping, for Aunt Katy could beat as well as starve me. My corn was not long in roasting, and I eagerly pulled it from the ashes, and placed it upon a stool in a clever little pile. I began to help myself, when who but my own dear mother should come in. The scene which followed is beyond my power to describe. The friendless and hungry boy, in his extremest need, found himself in the strong, protecting arms of his mother. I have before spoken of my mother’s dignified and impressive manner. I shall never forget the indescribable expression of her countenance when I told her that Aunt Katy had said she would starve the life out of me. There was deep and tender pity in her glance at me, and, at the same moment, a fiery indignation at Aunt Katy, and while she took the corn from me, and gave in its stead a large ginger-cake, she read Aunt Katy a lecture which was never forgotten. That night I learned as I had never learned before, that I was not only a child, but somebody’s child. I was grander upon my mother’s knee than a king upon his throne. But my triumph was short. I dropped off to sleep, and waked in the morning to find my mother gone and myself at the mercy again of the virago in my master’s kitchen, whose fiery wrath was my constant dread.

        My mother had walked twelve miles to see me, and had the same distance to travel over again before the morning sunrise. I do not remember ever seeing her again.

The Largest Plantation in Maryland

 IT was generally supposed that slavery in the State of Maryland existed in its mildest form, and that it was totally divested of those harsh and terrible peculiarities which characterized the slave system in the Southern and South-Western States of the American Union. The ground of this opinion was the contiguity of the free States, and the influence of their moral, religious, and humane sentiments. Public opinion was, indeed, a measurable restraint upon the cruelty and barbarity of masters, overseers, and slave-drivers, whenever and wherever it could reach them; but there were certain secluded and out-of-the-way places, even in the state of Maryland, fifty years ago, seldom visited by a single ray of healthy public sentiment, where slavery, wrapt in its own congenial darkness, could and did develop all its malign and shocking characteristics, where it could be indecent without shame, cruel without shuddering, and murderous without apprehension or fear of exposure or punishment. Just such a secluded, dark, and out-of-the-way place was the home plantation of Colonel Edward Lloyd, in Talbot county, eastern shore of Maryland.

The Big House

Tobacco Topping: Until he was about 10 years old tobacco along with corn and wheat was the staple crop on the Lloyd Plantation.

Tobacco Topping: Until he was about 10 years old tobacco along with corn and wheat was the staple crop on the Lloyd Plantation.

Old master’s house, a long brick building, plain but substantial, was centrally located, and was an independent establishment. Besides these houses there were barns, stables, store-houses, tobacco-houses, blacksmith shops, wheelwright shops, cooper shops; but above all there stood the grandest building my young eyes had ever beheld, called by every one on the plantation the great house. This was occupied by Col. Lloyd and his family. It was surrounded by numerous and variously-shaped out-buildings. There were kitchens, wash-houses, dairies, summer-houses, green-houses, hen-houses, turkey-houses, pigeon-houses, and arbors of many sizes and devices, all neatly painted or whitewashed, interspersed with grand old trees, ornamental and primitive, which afforded delightful shade in summer and imparted to the scene a high degree of stately beauty. The greathouse itself was a large white wooden building with wings on three sides of it. In front, extending the entire length of the building and supported by a long range of columns, was a broad portico, which gave to the Colonel’s home an air of great dignity and grandeur. It was a treat to my young and gradually opening mind to behold this elaborate exhibition of wealth, power and beauty.

        The carriage entrance to the house was by a large gate, more than a quarter of a mile distant. The intermediate space was a beautiful lawn, very neatly kept and tended. It was dotted thickly over with trees and flowers. The road or lane from the gate to the great house was richly paved with white pebbles from the beach and in its course formed a complete circle around the lawn. Outside this select enclosure were parks, as about the residences of the English nobility, where rabbits, deer, and other wild game might be seen peering and playing about, with “none to molest them or make them afraid.” 

Slave Food:

It was the boast of slaveholders that their slaves enjoyed more of the physical comforts of life than the peasantry of any country in the world. My experience contradicts this. The men and the women slaves on Col. Lloyd’s farm received as their monthly allowance of food, eight pounds of pickled pork, or its equivalent in fish. The pork was often tainted, and the fish were of the poorest quality. With their pork or fish, they had given them one bushel of Indian meal, unbolted, of which quite fifteen per cent. was more fit for pigs than for men. With this one pint of salt was given, and this was the entire monthly allowance of a full-grown slave, working constantly in the open field from morning till night every day in the month except Sunday. There is no kind of work which really requires a better supply of food to prevent physical exhaustion than the field work of a slave. …As a general rule the slaves did not come to their quarters to take their meals, but took their ash-cake (called thus because baked in the ashes) and piece of pork, or their salt herrings, where they were at work.

The Big House Luxuries:

 THE close-fisted stinginess that fed the poor slave on coarse corn-meal and tainted meat, that clothed him in crashy tow-linen and hurried him on to toil through the field in all weathers, with wind and rain beating through his tattered garments, and that scarcely gave even the young slave-mother time to nurse her infant in the fence-corner, wholly vanished on approaching the sacred precincts of the “Great House” itself. There the scriptural phrase descriptive of the wealthy found exact illustration. The highly-favored inmates of this mansion were literally arrayed in “purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day.” The table of this house groaned under the blood-bought luxuries gathered with pains-taking care at home and abroad. Fields, forests, rivers, and seas were made tributary. Immense wealth and its lavish expenditures filled the Great House with all that could please the eye or tempt the taste. Fish, flesh, and fowl were here in profusion. Chickens of all breeds; ducks of all kinds, wild and tame, the common and the huge Muscovite; Guinea fowls, turkeys, geese and pea-fowls; all were fat and fattening for the destined vortex. Here the graceful swan, the mongrel, the black-necked wild goose, partridges, quails, pheasants, pigeons and choice waterfowl, with all their strange varieties, were caught in this huge net. Beef, veal, mutton, and venison, of the most select kinds and quality, rolled in bounteous profusion to this grand consumer. The teeming riches of the Chesapeake Bay, its rock perch, drums, crocus, trout, oysters, crabs, and terrapin were drawn hither to adorn the glittering table. The dairy, too, the finest then on the eastern shore of Maryland, supplied by cattle of the best English stock, imported for the express purpose, poured its rich donations of fragrant cheese, golden butter, and delicious cream to heighten the attractions of the gorgeous, unending round of feasting. Nor were the fruits of the earth overlooked. The fertile garden, many acres in size, constituting a separate establishment distinct from the common farm, with its scientific gardener direct from Scotland, a Mr. McDermott, and four men under his direction, was not behind, either in the abundance or in the delicacy of its contributions. The tender asparagus, the crispy celery, and the delicate cauliflower, egg plants, beets, lettuce, parsnips, peas, and French beans, early and late; radishes, cantaloupes, melons of all kinds; and the fruits of all climes and of every description, from the hardy apples of the north to the lemon and orange of the south, culminated at this point. Here were gathered figs, raisins, almonds, and grapes from Spain, wines and brandies from France, teas of various flavor from China, and rich, aromatic coffee from Java, all conspiring to swell the tide of high life, where pride and indolence lounged in magnificence and satiety.

Notes: Here Douglass refers to rockfish or striped bass, Black and red drum, Atlantic croaker, and sea trout or weakfish, Eastern oyster, blue crabs, and diamondback terrapin.

        Behind the tall-backed and elaborately wrought chairs stood the servants, fifteen in number, carefully selected. not only with a view to their capacity and adeptness, but with especial regard to their personal appearance, their graceful agility, and pleasing address. Some of these servants, armed with fans, wafted reviving breezes to the over-heated brows of the alabaster ladies, whilst otherswatched with eager eye and fawn-like step, anticipating and supplying wants before they were sufficiently formed to be announced by word or sign.

        These servants constituted a sort of black aristocracy. They resembled the field hands in nothing except their color, and in this they held the advantage of a velvet-like glossiness, rich and beautiful. The hair, too, showed the same advantage. The delicately-formed colored maid rustled in the scarcely-worn silk of her young mistress, while the servant men were equally well attired from the overflowing wardrobe of their young masters, so that in dress, as well as in form and feature, in manner and speech, in tastes and habits, the distance between these favored few and the sorrow and hunger-smitten multitudes of the quarter and the field was immense.

        In the stables and carriage-houses were to be found the same evidences of pride and luxurious extravagance. Here were three splendid coaches, soft within and lustrous without. Here, too, were gigs, phaetons, barouches, sulkeys, and sleighs. Here were saddles and harnesses, beautifully wrought and richly mounted. Not less than thirty-five horses of the best approved blood, both for speed and beauty, were kept only for pleasure. The care of these horses constituted the entire occupation of two men, one or the other of them being always in the stable to answer any call which might be made from the Great House. Over the way from the stable was a house built expressly for the hounds, a pack of twenty-five or thirty, the fare for which would have made glad the hearts of a dozen slaves. Horses and hounds, however, were not the only consumers of the slave’s toil. The hospitality practiced at the Lloyd’s would have astonished and charmed many a health-seeking divine or merchant from the north. Viewed from his table, and not from the field, Colonel Lloyd was, indeed, a model of generous hospitality. His house was literally a hotel for weeks, during the summer months. At these times, especially, the air was freighted with the rich fumes of baking, boiling, roasting, and broiling. It was something to me that I could share these odors with the winds, even if the meats themselves were under a more stringent monopoly. In master Daniel I had a friend at court, who would sometimes give me a cake, and who kept me well informed as to their guests and their entertainments. Viewed from Col. Lloyd’s table, who could have said that his slaves were not well clad and well cared for? Who would have said they did not glory in being the slaves of such a master? Who but a fanatic could have seen any cause for sympathy for either master or slave? Alas, this immense wealth, this gilded splendor, this profusion of luxury, this exemption from toil. this life of ease, this sea of plenty were not the pearly gates they seemed to a world of happiness and sweet content to be. The poor slave, on his hard pine plank, scantily covered with his thin blanket, slept more soundly than the feverish voluptuary who reclined upon his downy pillow. Food to the indolent is poison, not sustenance. Lurking beneath the rich and tempting viands were invisible spirits of evil, which filled the self-deluded gormandizer with aches and pains, passions uncontrollable, fierce tempers, dyspepsia, rheumatism, lumbago, and gout, and of these the Lloyds had a full share.

Notes:  18th and 19th century Maryland gardens included cabbage, potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, cucumbers, okra, tomatoes, squash, green corn, spinach, turnips and turnip greens, coleworts (collards), salsify, hot peppers, onions, and herbs sage, rosemary, mint, thyme, parsley and marjoram.  Douglass interestingly enough does not include many of the vegetables that would have been cultivated or eaten by enslaved people–like hot peppers, field peas, cymling squash and the like.  He instead focuses on those foods his white readers would have identified as of a higher “class.”  The orchard had apples, peaches and pears–all of which were made into various ciders and liquors, and the orangery or green house housed oranges, other citrus and pineapples.  Enslaved people supplemented their diet with hunting, fishing, and gathering–raccoon, opossum, rabbit, squirrel, hickory and walnuts, persimmons, blackberries, huckleberries and any number of catfish, perch or sunfish, wild shellfish or birds were critical additions to the table.  Guinea fowl-present on the plantation landscape were from West Africa.

Tobacco Field, Southern Maryland

Tobacco Field, Southern Maryland

Cymlings and Fish Peppers

Cymlings and Fish Peppers

 

Posted in African American Food History, Food and Slavery, Food People and Food Places, Food Philosophy at Afroculinaria, Scholars, Elders and Wise Folk, The Cooking Gene | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

OKRACAST: The Resurrection of the Fish Pepper | Southern Foodways Alliance

http://www.southernfoodways.org/okracast-the-resurrection-of-the-fish-pepper/

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Special thanks to the Southern Foodways Alliance by way of Tina Antolini for a great interview with myself, William Woys Weaver, Denzel Mitchell and Spike Gjerde on the fish pepper and bringing it back to life in the Chesapeake region. Chesapeake foodways are the oldest Southern cross-cultural cooking traditions,  starting with Jamestown.  I will soon be posting a piece on Frederick Douglass and the Great House Farm at Wye House plantation, to add some further context to this pepper. Its origins in slavery in the tobacco and grain plantations and ports of Maryland is key to the fish pepper’s story.  For now, enjoy this oral history by the wonderful Tina Antolini. 

Posted in African American Food History, Diaspora Food Culture, Food and Slavery, Food People and Food Places, Food Philosophy at Afroculinaria, Heirloom Gardening/Heritage Breeds and Wildcrafting, Pop Culture and Pop Food, Publications, Scholars, Elders and Wise Folk, The Cooking Gene | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Culinary Historian Michael Twitty On The Politics & Power Of Food » Arts & Life » OPB

http://www.opb.org/artsandlife/article/culinary-historian-michael-twitty-politics-power-food/

Posted in African American Food History, Diaspora Food Culture, Events and Appearances, Food and Slavery, Heirloom Gardening/Heritage Breeds and Wildcrafting, Pop Culture and Pop Food, Scholars, Elders and Wise Folk, The Cooking Gene | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment