Punxsutawney Phil predicted an early spring. I’ve never trusted Phil. That darn groundhog’s got a 30% accuracy record. Yet, this time, bingo! The weather was comfortable as we slipped into March.
I began this post during a late March snow. I looked out my window and saw cardinals frolicking in snow weighted branches. Cardinals are the ruby red messengers of optimism. I hadn’t been aware of my critical need for their beauty. I had been listening to Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” over and over to calm the part of me that’s frightened by the news.
The birds came in groups of three or four and seemed to enjoy a game of hopping in and out of the snow. Watching them, I was reminded that beauty and play are essential for my survival as I struggle to experience the benevolent heart that exists within these United States.
That’s a strange phrase, isn’t it? “These United States.” I remember my elders using that term as I grew up. When they referred to this country they would say “these United States.” My. So many seem to struggle with the middle word. United.
Things will right themselves. There is this thing called karma, you see. It’s a natural law. It’s how things work. Nothing remains dark forever. Hatred and malevolence have always been banished by Light. Fascists have always met with inauspicious ends. But in the meantime…
I need to bathe in the beauty of things.
One of Webster’s online definitions for beauty is: the quality or group of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or the mind…Perfect.
Across the street, the college green blossoms and withers through movements of the seasons and is visually poetic. Beautiful. Yet. I have yearned to nestle into the comfort and beauty of the body, something I have not really done since my Guillain Barre diagnosis (an auto immune disease affecting the muscles and nerves) and it’s severe complications in 2012. After being in a wheelchair for about two years, I wondered “what’s the use?” and gave away my expensive suits and dress clothes to a women’s organization.
I have never disengaged from old wisdom that emphasizes the importance of inner beauty — a kind spirit, a quiet heart, and gentleness. I quote words from Hindu and Christian saints about the importance of spiritual beauty. And still, I want more ruby red color, more hair color, and beautiful clothing. Shouldn’t my body reflect my inner joy?
I have two friends who are models, and through them, I am learning more about physical beauty. It’s not shallow. There is a powerful relationship between one’s appearance and the ability to love oneself and others. I’ve even started watching the haute couture runway shows on YouTube. I don’t need to wear Givenchy. I need to allow my own brilliance in the colors I use and the clothes I wear.I bought a wig. I put on make-up. I got a couple of new pieces of clothing. Yes. I embraced my twenty-somethingness. In the middle of all the political and social drama, the fricking snow, and that poor man upstairs who died in apartment 309, four cardinals frolicking in the snow on the branches outside my window reminded me that beauty is one of nature’s most healing qualities. So, I donned the wig, painted my lips red, and darkened my eyebrows. And had a friend take a picture. I preened in the mirror.
The lipstick that has been in my purse for at least five years ─ pre Covid lockdown ─ is cardinal red. I’ve always loved cardinal red lipstick. From the time I found a tube in my mother’s purse, I knew it was for me.
However, rules around the use of make-up were complicated. My mother’s relationship to using face powder, lipstick, and rouge was a paradox. Churcfh ideology said girls wearing make-up were whores. I have listened to ideas like: Women who wear makeup are sinful or shallow ─ parents, church doctrine, activist and socially conscious friends. No more.
Sojourner Truth said: Life is a hard battle anyway. If we laugh and sing a little as we fight the good fight of freedom, it makes it all go easier. I will not allow my life’s light to be determined by the darkness around me.
Amen.
Just Pass the Grits. Okay?
It happened last week. A neighbor uttered two words that don’t go together: “cauliflower grits.”
Nooo. Cauliflower is not grits and never will be.
I understand concerns about diet and health. Lord knows it’s been a daily struggle for me, especially since living with complications from Guillain-Barre Syndrome. Sixteen months in a wheelchair can pack on pounds.
Still.
I’m a gal with strong southern roots. I would not trade a bowl of stewed tomatoes and grits, cheese grits or grits with liver and gravy for cauliflower “grits.”
As my nieces would say, “That’s just wrong.”
For anyone without southern roots, I can forgive the confusion. My neighbor is a woman of solid culinary tastes. She eats at fancy Italian restaurants and thrills over Vietnamese cuisine. She is also a cauliflower devotee.
“You will love it,” she gushes.
No. I will not love it because I have never loved cauliflower, a vegetable that I choose to call white broccoli. Seriously, I’d walk barefoot over hot rocks before subbing cauliflower for grits.
I don’t just cook for nourishment. I cook for joy, otherwise what’s the point? Love of food and the kitchen makes me happy.
My mother died this month. When I was asked to write some words for her obituary, I wrote about her love for God and how she instilled that love in each of her children. But really, I could have written about her prowess as a home chef with exemplary imagination and culinary skill. Everything we learned about food came from her southern roots: her kitchen, our grandmothers’ kitchens, and our aunts’ kitchens. Food and kitchens make me happy.
There were childhood breakfasts with bowls of hot grits, fried chicken livers and onions, and hot biscuits. If for no other reason than the legacy of southern cooking, I take full affront to the idea of replacing grits, rice or potatoes with a ground-up vegetable.
This morning, I sautéed onions, kale (in homage to the green veggie craze), garlic, and mock sausage. I mixed all the veggies into a creamy pot of grits and added cheese. As I watched it all come together with a kind of brown gravy tint, I felt sorry for folks who will never enjoy the warm belly comfort of real grits or rice.
“Cauliflower tastes just like rice” says my neighbor.
No. It doesn’t taste just like rice.
There are real reasons that some folks are choosing cauliflower instead of starchy grains. Recently, concerns have been expressed about rice. Where is it grown? Does the soil have arsenic? Is it from the southern United States or Vietnam? White rice is high on the glycemic index and can contribute to blood sugar level spikes. I acknowledge these concerns, but a good rice pudding or cream of potato soup ain’t the same with cauliflower.
Just sayin’.
When I was a child, foods like grits, kale, and collards were standard southern fare. However things have changed, and with change I find myself in a world where organic collards, once almost free for the picking, are three dollars a bunch and grits are nouvelle cuisine. With change comes a cultural temptation to make things “better,” healthier, to explore new tastes.
“Have you tried the cauliflower pizza crust?”
No. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
The more my friend yammered on about cauliflower rice, the stronger was my pull for a dish of rice covered with a rich chicken stew. So, I followed the urge and─
“Cauliflower would have been good in that stew!”
Sheesh.
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Posted in Creative Non-Fiction, Essay, Family memories, Food, Humor, Memoir, Writing. Loving.
Tagged Commentary, Creative Non-Fiction, essay, food and humor, food and memory, Humor, Life Stories, memoir, Opinions, Reflections