For this Fourth of July celebration, I made three new friends…a couple and their dog. Our mutual friend had extended the invitation because the couple were relocating to NC at the beginning of August. Since I’m from NC, I gave them the inside scoop even though it had been decades since I lived in the Tar Heel state.
As fate would have it, I arrived before my other friends had, despite the fact that I’d left home later than I’d intended. Nonetheless, I whipped out a bottle of pre-made watermelon/cucumber margarita and became instant friends. Once the drinks were poured, one of the party hosts escorted me to the fabulous backyard.
I made a beeline to the hibachi grill.
I told them that my family has had a hibachi grill since before I was born and that they still use it. I texted one of my sisters a picture of their hibachi grill and asked if she could text a picture of our family grill. I was not prepared for what I saw.
Battle-worn, our family hibachi has given a lifetime of delicious barbecue.
A year or two older than me, our hibachi showed its age far worse than me. For some reason, all those cracks reminded me of how my body was riddled with injuries and inflammation. My sister told me that our parents will replace that grill with one of the newer models.
Can’t overstate how refreshing this pool was.
We experienced typical triple-digit heat, which made the coolness of the pool that much more inviting. What amazed me was that our hosts were so good at drinking while lounging in the pool, they spilt nary a drop of their microbrew in the pool.
They were so enthusiastic about their microbrew that I had a taste. All I can say is that if Pale Ale actually tasted that delicious mass-produced, then I would be a beer drinker. I told them that they’d have to share some bottles with my parents when they visited, in exchange for Mom’s tomato-based home-brew recipe.
I know I shouldn’t volunteer her services, but by the time the visit takes place, perhaps she’ll have consulted other family members about the recipe. I’m not actually sure if she’s ever made it herself. The last time I tasted it, I was around eight years old. I’d be interested in persevering that and our moonshine recipe as well.
This year, I had the pleasure to resume my volunteer duties with the George Washington Carver Museum for their Juneteenth celebration. Although I didn’t reprise my historical character interpretation as Freewoman Mattie Gilmore, I was so happy to be in the mix for the morning shift. Afterwards, I attended one of the genealogical workshops.
A poster-sized pedigree chart was prominently displayed as soon as I walked into the Genealogical Center.
I didn’t fill out my A4-sized genealogy chart, not for my mother’s side of the family at least because so many of my relatives have researched that side of the family. As a matter of fact, I’d like to interview one of my cousins, an ancestor hunter, to learn how she uncovered so much family history and apply that knowledge to my father’s side of the family.
Up until recently, 1865 seemed like such a long time ago.
Two years ago I realized that I was merely the third generation of freeborn Black. The dominant narrative had convinced me that slavery was so long time ago that it had no relevance to what’s going on today. Yet, the struggle for freedom continues as recent political events have proven that one’s rights can be stripped at any time.
Since neither side of my family is from Texas, I was more interested in a general search.
Simultaneously, there appeared to be a lot of information available and very little instruction about how to access it. The journey to uncover one’s ancestors seemed very daunting to begin.
Plus there’s the emotional work of viewing records like these.
Back when Black people were considered property, enslavers kept an inventory of their human assets. As a matter of fact, due to political negotiations, Blacks were only considered three-fifths of a person, not as an acknowledgement of our inherent humanity, but so enslavers could have more representation in Congress based on population. The legacy of Black people only being valued when we serve another’s purpose continues today.
There was a delay telling Texas slaves they were free and a longer delay in federal recognition of Juneteenth.
Whether an event “has been a long time coming,” or “has happened too fast” is a matter of perspective. For former slaves, many generations had suffered the egregious institution while former enslavers thought emancipation “all at once” didn’t adequately prepare free people to learn how to be citizens–as if a continuation of slavery machinations would ever prepare an individual for full autonomy.
A mere three months after the preliminary emancipation, it was business as usual in the Texas slave trade.
This advertisement is a reminder that slaves weren’t just valued for the forced, uncompensated labor they performed, but their bodies as well. Although this advertisement talked about Blacks who were living at the time, deceased Blacks were often sold as cadavers for medical schools.
I love the optimistic phrase “Forever Free.”
One thing I’ve learned is that freedom is only “forever” as long as you’re willing to actively remain free. Those with far more resources always want to subjugate the masses for their own power and profit.
Our genealogy presenter stated that to understand slavery, one must understand The Middle Passage.
The Middle Passage consisted of ships that brought Africans across the Atlantic Ocean to be sold to enslavers who wouldn’t dare pick their own cotton and other harvests. The Amendments shown were ratified to abolish slavery, grant citizenship and equal protection under the law, and give the right to vote–to all men. Depending on one’s demographic, your freedom may not be expanded with the addition of a new amendment.
Finding Black ancestors in 1870 poses special challenges.
The same person may have multiple spellings of their name for a variety of reasons. Primarily, enslaved people weren’t legally allowed to be literate, so they couldn’t double check the spelling of their own name. They may have changed their surname to distance themselves from slavery. Marital conventions may have changed a woman’s surname.
Our presenter recommended this Juneteenth summary video.
I sent the link to several family members and friends to help spread the knowledge. After all, this was one of the newest federal holidays. Many people claimed that they hadn’t heard of it before then.
Before these books are banned from the library, I plan to read them.
How ironic that slaves were unable to attend school and now there’s a movement to do away with books.
No presentation is complete without a resource section.
At some point, I’m going to do a deep dive about the traditional way to celebrate Juneteenth since I didn’t grow up observing it.
Real support goes beyond performative actions.
One of the ways to support the Black community, is by supporting Black-owned businesses. Conversely, Black-owned businesses need to help be a solution within Black communities. They don’t have to solve everything, but at least something.
J. Mill was still on stage when I finished the genealogy workshop.
No matter how good this group was, they performed on an outside stage during triple-digit temperatures. One of the few times I broke out in a sweat at a concert where I remained seated.
Next up were African drummers.
By some African drum magic, the woman who led this group enticed many of us in the audience to get up in that heat and do some simple steps. No one tried to hurt themselves. The symbolic dance signified looking for a partner, then planting the seeds, providing water/nurture, then harvesting the crop/reaping the benefits.
I arrived at my second volunteer gig pre-sweaty.
I felt dressed down compared to some of the other members, especially members of the board. Fortunately, other volunteers were similarly dressed as me. We were all sweaty regardless.
Anatomically inspired jewelry meets snark.
One of our raffle prizes was a piece of jewelry from this artist. I never learned which piece, but the raffle was a success. I was amazed the ease at which I upsold the $20 for 30 raffle tickets offer. Granted this was a fundraising event, but the downside was I had to count out 30 frigging raffle tickets!
I discovered another use for the decorative film ribbon.
All I can say is too bad I hadn’t thought of this sooner. Despite the late addition to my updo, I inspired two other women to add film ribbon to their hair.
I’d spent the longest day out in about, volunteering for two worthy causes. Since both events provided food, all I needed to do once I came home was take a long overdue shower and relax.
I didn’t intend to have an Easter Eve celebration.
After all, I’m a very secular, nonchurch-going Christian. Nonetheless, by a confluence of events, I ended up scheduling a fabulous, life-affirming day before the celebrated Resurrection Day.
In passing, I mentioned my plan to a friend to order bras online. She immediately pounced on the idea, sharing that her bras had also become very shabby during the plague. Not due to ‘Rona directly, but bra-shopping had been a low priority during the pandemic.
She knew the brick and mortar places where we needed to go. Fortunately, our schedules were free the upcoming Saturday morning.
Normally, I have an early afternoon dance rehearsal, but I’d already cancelled that in order to work a paid volunteer gig with a local festival. That gig paid more than my work compensation rate. l also wanted to network. I got more than I bargained for because of that schedule change.
My friend and I had a luxurious amount of time to catch up with one another as she drove us southward to an outlet strip mall. Again, we got lucky. The first underwear place where we shopped fulfilled our needs, so we crossed off all the other places on her list except the shoe store. Even then, she knew exactly what she wanted.
Just in time for civilized people to have an afternoon margarita, we hit a TexMex restaurant and ordered the special. As far as I could tell, it was a standard marg with the addition of a basil leaf, cut strawberries and garnished with a peep. My friend’s peep, fell into the glass, faced down. I laughed, telling her that she was drinking a crime scene. At least when my peep fell in, it was floating on its back as if enjoying the day.
After my shopping and brunch excursion, all I wanted to do was take a nap. I’d awaken a little earlier than usual to bake, do laundry and clean up before going out. It had caught up with me. Once I came home, I saw that my CPA had messaged me several times. I played phone tag with her for a bit before connecting and answering her questions.
My eyes were closed for about 15 minutes when I heard my phone buzz with incoming texts. Thinking my CPA had more questions, I checked. Turns out, the festival volunteer coordinator had inquired whether I could arrive about four hours earlier.
As soon as I walked into the office, the volunteer coordinator asked if I was security.
Of all the questions, I’d never been asked that one when volunteering for a festival. Apparently some groupies had been entering the building, trying to see the band. What she needed me to do was stand outside on the corner and make sure that groupies couldn’t enter the green room from the street.
Inwardly, I laughed. Of all things…getting paid to stand on the corner! Not nearly as much for people in that profession, but far more than someone just hanging out. One of the best things about standing outside on a beautiful day was seeing random people.
Such as the Easter Bunny.
The head of security had also responded to the text to arrive earlier. He was character: a rancher who broke in horses by day, working security at various festivals around the state at night. For this particular event, since he was caught off guard with the early call, he showered in the horse stable.
We swapped stories as we worked our part of the perimeter. After a few hours, he allowed me to eat first. The festival had sprung for pita sandwiches. I ate outside in the courtyard by myself on one side of the building. Normally, I eat while watching TV. People watching was just as entertaining as I imagined what each cluster of people did for the festival.
As the sun went down, the event came to life. I reposted to the exit to make sure that no one left with an alcoholic drink once they finished looking at the 8 or 10 different artist installations. I also directed incoming people to the entrance to have their bags checked by the real security folks. Confusing enough, the exit was all lit up as if it were the entrance.
Within an hour of showtime, one of festival guys asked if I was security. Throughout the day, various people had asked me that. By this time, I was ready. “No,” I said, “I’m just a bossy Black woman who volunteered for this festival.” The guy flashed a nervous grin like, oh no, you just mentioned race. In the meantime, the head of security exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were Black!” He said to me. “Did you know?” He looked at the festival guy, who remained speechless.
Teresa the incog-negro strikes again!
The real security team got into position for the band.
I’d never heard of “Princess Goes to the Butterfly Museum,” but I knew of the front man, who also plays the title character in the Netflix series, “Dexter.”
The crowd was just as entertaining as the band.
At one point, the band played a song similar to a U2 song and some drunk guys started singing the chorus to “All I Want Is You.” Another drunk guy screamed, “Kill someone!”
I’m happy to report that, as far as I know, no one died as a result of that event.
The irony of my π Day observation is that I never observed it when I was a Math teacher. As a matter of fact, if it hadn’t landed on a Monday this year, my current grocery shopping day, I may not have bothered with it at all.
Yet since we’ve passed the 2-year mark for this roller coaster pandemic, I bought a celebratory, individual-sized spinach and cheese quiche. My quiches taste better, but this was pretty good in a pinch.
In my younger days, I would’ve opted for a sweet pie, but now that I’m convinced that too much sugar makes my left knee hurt, I opted for a pain-free celebration. (Hey, some people can tell the weather with their knee. Mine lets me know when I’ve consumed too much sugar!)
Another reason I like this observation is that π is the most famous irrational number. “Irrational” being the M.O. of the US dominant narrative for the past couple of years. In a way, being sequestered has been nice because I don’t have to surround myself by irrational people in real life. We are comfortably separated by distance and social media.
As a matter of fact, I messaged people as a reminder to eat a sweet or savory pie in observance. Not a soul complained about how much they hated math because everyone found a type of pie that they liked without too much grief.
As a counterpoint to my belief that my country currently runs on irrationality, the US Senate UNANIMOUSLY voted to end Daylight Savings on March 15th. Could that have been the result of too much π the day before? I’m mostly sure that had nothing to do with it.
More than likely, they were all blurry-eyed from springing forward an hour on the 13th. Either way, it’s refreshing Congress can actually get some shit done. One Republican even made a big deal about how “the science” backs up the decision to end Daylight Savings.
I just thought, “Oh, you son of bitch, a vast universe of logical decisions await when you choose to embrace “the science.”
Nonetheless, I’m not going to be teased into a false sense of optimism that this occurrence has ushered in a new era of logical reasoning and innovative science. At least I enjoyed my pie.
Never have I been able to combine a pseudo-holiday like Valentine’s Day with something far more serious and precious such as voting.
As a matter of fact, I’m not worried about whether I’d ever fall in love again. At the rate this country is going, I’m increasingly concerned if the last time I vote will be the last time I’m able. Actually, voting early elevated the holiday for me. I thought the only thing I would do was my usual grocery shopping on a Monday.
The second best thing I did was to text this picture and a message to friends, reminding them that early voting had begun. I even sent that text to various family for whom early voting on Valentine’s Day wasn’t a thing. It’s the spirit of the situation. I have the greatest love of exercising my voting rights and doing my civic duty.
Starting every day with a glass of water Walking at least 10 minutes daily
Adding a vegetable to a meal Journaling daily for five minutes
Taking one meeting a day standing up Reading one chapter of a book daily
Long ago, I gave not one damn about making resolutions, but when I opened my work email and saw a suggested list where I’m already doing every single thing they suggest everyone to do, I felt weirdly proud of myself. Hey, it’s the start of year three of the pandemic, so every little celebration counts. At least I recognize that if any middle-aged person isn’t already doing the six suggestions above, then there’s far more pressing problems that some measly resolutions.
The only things that I resolve to do for this year are to continue doing what best serves me and to stop, or at least minimize the things that don’t. That mindset has served me very well over the years, which explains why those six suggestions aren’t new to me.
I can’t say that I love or hate to cook. I love eating a variety of foods. I search for the most interesting dishes, depending on which ingredients I have on hand, what genre I’m in the mood for, and in general, however the stars have aligned.
Since Saturday was the start of the new year, I indulged in a touch of superstition by preparing an auspicious meal: Hopping John, Sautéed Spinach, and Cornbread. As far as I know, the greens and cornbread represent money because they’re green and gold. I think the meat in the Hopping John show prosperity since, traditionally, only people with money could afford meat. Beans are meant to bring good luck. Honestly, I think that good luck bit is just to make people feel better because although luck is dubious, flatulence is nearly guaranteed.
My temperament and schedule aren’t such that I’d cook all three in one go. As a matter of fact, since I also believe in leftovers, it suited me just fine to cook one of these recipes throughout the week, culminating in having all three by Saturday.
My grocery shopping day is Monday, unless there’s a holiday.
So Tuesday, I prepared Hopping John, a spicy bean dish, flavored with bacon, onions and chicken broth. The recipe also called for corn, but I was not in the mood for that. Plus, I bought spicy chicken bone broth for the occasion.
Usually when I make a bean and rice dish, I’m reminded of my Peace Corps days. Yet, I never had Hoppin’ John in Tanzania. I hardly ever eat pinto beans at any other time of year. Flavored with pepper bacon and spicy chicken bone broth, this seemingly simple dish was elevated. All the other ingredients add texture and subtle flavor. Since this was the most complex of all the dishes I made, it marinated wonderfully every day up to New Year’s Day.
For lunch on New Year’s Eve, I sautéed spinach in olive oil, fresh garlic and a little salt.
Once the spinach was bright green, I turned off the heat and sprinkled parmesan on it. This wasn’t the way I grew up eating spinach, but since I already had bacon in the beans, I didn’t want to double pork the overall meal I’d have for New Year’s Day.
On New Years Day, I baked corn bread.
I’ve been baking on Saturdays for nearly two years. I like baking a quiche, biscuits, muffins, breads, breakfast casseroles/ bundts, so I can warm them up during the week for breakfast. Once I read how much sugar and shit was in cereal and other processed breakfast foods, I started making my own on a weekly basis.
Just like the other two dishes, I tried a new recipe for the cornbread as well. For this culinary experience, I used a combination of coconut flour and corn meal. I took it upon myself to add a can of hot green chilis. I wish I would have taken the same initiative to add sharp cheddar to the mix. Nowadays, my palate associates cornbread with being moist, a little sweet, some spiciness and the cheese adds to the flavor. So, I’ll just have to make this recipe again in 2022 to test out my theory.
My family originally planned to have our Zoom call at 11 AM, then 3 PM.
None of that worked out, but the later time worked in my favor. I didn’t have to rush through my dinner. For the first time, I had all three cooking efforts together. They tasted delicious together regardless of whether the meal brings me luck.
I can’t say that the Christmas spirit had me in its hold, but since I only wear these leggings in December, I’d worn them around the apartment.
For the last dance rehearsal of 2021, I brought the festive look.
Since “free” is my price, I attended a Christmas/smooth jazz concert the following evening.
Although this clarinetist/saxophonist played wonderfully, what I loved the most was how she managed both the band and tech crew and never missed a beat. LITERALLY.
She was on point, coming in at the right time when her mic died.
Signaling to the band when there was a change in music she wanted. Issuing commands to the tech crew when the spotlight wasn’t in the right spot, when the mic didn’t work, or when the sound was off.
All the while, she entertained both the live and virtual audiences.
One thing I hadn’t expected were the libations.
That punch tasted more like an action verb than a noun. Instead of the usual hors d’oeuvres, the event served actual dinner. I’d met a friend for happy hour at a restaurant before meeting another friend for this event. So, I only took a few sips of punch, but on my way out, I asked for some mac and cheese to go. The museum curator, gave me three pieces of fried chicken along with a grandma’s serving of mac and cheese. Not that I complained.
Saturday morning, I attended a holiday brunch thrown by the leasing office.
The type of event my roommate likes to call “free with rent.” So, of course I went to eat and drink a bit of the money I pay for the honor of living in the complex. Since the day turned out chilly, as it should, given it was mid-December, I wore my Santa/Rudolf winter pajama pants.
I wasn’t expecting much. They advertised “mimosas and waffles,” which turned out to be an excellent menu. I made my own mimosa, but they had a woman, who I’d never seen before, operating the waffle iron. She knew exactly what she was doing. Those waffles were crispy on the outside and pleasingly fluffy on the inside. I brought one home to pair with that nicely fried chicken breast I’d brought home from the jazz concert. Hmm, chicken and waffles on a Sunday afternoon. Heaven!
How often are leftovers from two different meals just come together to form one of my favorite meals? I love edible synchronicity.
My Christmas Eve baking consisted of a Breakfast Bundt. Although this was my the first time making it, there’s no way that buttery flaky biscuit dough, pepper bacon, cheddar cheese, cream cheese, red onions and eggs could go wrong!
Looked even better flipped onto a plate.
On Christmas morning, I made a Lemon Jello Cake.
Last month, while interviewing Cousin Universe for Strange Family Folklore podcast, we reminisced about our grandmother’s cakes. So, I made this cake to remember Mama Bea.
After all these years, I never knew how easy Lemon Jello Cake was to make, essentially mixing the cake batter in one bowl and the two-ingredient icing in a measuring cup.
Granted, I used to make more involved desserts such as cheesecakes.
The one thing the instructions called for that I don’t remember Mama Bea doing was poking holes into the cake as soon as it’s out of the oven.
With the juice and zest from two lemons, together with two cups of powdered sugar, the icing was complete.
Either I didn’t make enough glaze or the holes were too deep because those holes remained mostly unfilled after glazing.
No matter, it still tasted delicious. Next time, I’m skipping the hole-poking step.
Even though I started my day around 7:30 AM, I still ran a little late for the family Christmas Zoom call.
I was still eating breakfast when the call was scheduled to begin at 10 AM. One of my sisters had originally sent the meeting ID without the passcode. So, that bought me some time to eat. I still had my camera off when I finally joined the meeting. Instead of Mom complaining about that, the sister who thinks she’s my mom complained.
I made up for lost camera time when I grabbed the one Christmas box I’d received. (My Christmas box from my other sister will probably arrive in January. It’ll be my Three Kings Day gifts.) My sister taped that as if it were full of Ft. Knox gold. Once I finally opened it, the first thing I pulled out was a gift card, which I announced I’d put it away like Mama Bea would by tucking it in my bra.
Then, I pulled out a book. Even you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, I could tell the genre was Afrofuturistic. The niece who’d placed it in the box said that she remembered me saying I liked that genre. She’d read it for a college class.
Next, I pulled out the curveball gift. For some inexplicable reason, my nieces and nephew love shower products that essentially prolong or complicate showering. There were two powdery things that one’s supposed to put near the shower that will infuse the steam with scent. Then there was a bar of soap, which I may save my legs with to test it out. So far, all any of that did was powder the inside of the box, causing me to wipe down the table and everything inside the box.
Then, I pulled out one of my long-time stocking stuffer favorites: wool socks. Fortunately they weren’t covered in that shower product dust.
Finally, my sister’s and brother-in-law’s favorite Christmas gift–peanut brittle. But not just any peanut brittle. They’re very brand loyal. I’ll admit it. It is the best I’ve ever had as well. I just never buy it for myself. Even the Austin-based gift boxes I’d bought them had local peanut brittle. They said it was good, but not as good as their favorite Christmas peanut brittle.
I thought taking the group picture after we’d opened our gift boxes would bring a sense of closure and we’d end the call. Yet, Mom and my sister who thinks she’s my mom both found around a half hour more of things to talk about.
After all was said and done, all I really wanted to do for the rest of the day was chill out.
Half the reason I attended this event was to dress up for it.
Given the lack of motivation I had to put a costume together for Halloween, I redoubled my costume effort for this holiday party. At least I had a theme, a place to go, and I already knew enough people to feel comfortable if I didn’t really want to be sociable.
I didn’t have to worry about that, though.
The crowd was small enough not to overwhelm, but big enough to be interesting. Since we were all creatives at varying points in our career, there was no shortage of wonderful conversations. I circulated around the room, even striking up a conversation with two other women after I asked them to pose with me because I liked their attire.
One Christmas miracle: I won a raffle prize!
I’d laughed at myself while writing my name on the slip of paper. After all, I infamously didn’t win one of the 14 raffle prizes when there were 15 of us at a workshop years ago. The joke was on me at this event. As soon as they handed me the prize, I started thinking of which costume my golden purse would accompany.
I knew ‘Rona had destroyed a little part of my soul when I wasn’t in the mood to dress up for Halloween, my favorite holiday as an adult. Granted, I had no place where I wanted to celebrate Halloween, but that never stopped me every other year. Last year, I dressed up twice for Halloween celebrations and never left my apartment. This year, I couldn’t even think of a single thing to dress up as. Unofficially, I went as “Apathy.”
I’d cancelled Thanksgiving plans since I didn’t know my COVID status until Saturday morning following the holiday, but I still had a relaxing, joyful time with a coconut vegetable curry dinner, then a gathering with a dear friend and her extended family after I found that I was COVID-negative.
Even so, Christmas wasn’t on my radar until Mom sent me a family group picture somewhere around DC, posed in front of giant Christmas tree. That picture zapped me out of my Rip Van Winkle time warp. Yes, the holidays still continue even if I’m not in the mood for them.
For years, Thanksgiving signaled the start of hand-making Christmas cards. That time came and went. I barely threw together a Christmas kickoff for myself on December 1st when I sipped eggnog and watched “Jingle Jangle.”
A few days later, I made four Christmas cards and ordered Austin-themed gift baskets for my family. I thoughtfully researched the contents of the basket, so that everything in them would be appreciated by someone in the household. For example, there were a few baskets that had coffee, but my parents don’t drink it, so their basket doesn’t have any. On the other hand, my two nieces and occasionally their mother drink coffee, so theirs could have it.
Yet, for some time now, my life has been one of mere homeostasis with punctuations of some different shit that, by default become the highlights of the week. It’s survival mode, straight through the holidays. Funny how so entrenched in the sameness of my schedule that Christmas caught me off guard. At least I caught it in time to be a part of it.
