The Curiosity of Dessert

Once upon a short while ago, we were in “strange and confusing times”.  A combination of words that soon began to grate like the exuberant whir of grinding gears when you downshift incorrectly.  It was the bell that elicited the Pavlovian response of quickened pulse and tightened grip.

They say that it is customary to do a good stretch before a strenuous workout…

Had I only known we were working our way up to the final days of May and a rather not-so-peachy start to the month of June.  

Words that have always been those words had evolved into new words. And those new words were being received in unaccustomed ways.  Black. Racism. Lives. Privilege. Matter.

All of a sudden, we were collectively thrown back into the conversation of race relations.  An uncomfortable conversation conducted through all sorts of media.  Words like Racism.  Privilege.  Black.  The belief that Black Lives [should] Matter.  The simple idea of a black square. I saw these new Pavlovian bells ringing in ways so visceral and raw.  The divisive rhetoric swirling through, accenting the importance of these conversations and demonstrations.

A cringey feeling that jerks you to the core as the gears shrill their rasp.

Seeing how the word Racism got under one faceless avatar’s skin.  Hearing the story of a Privileged pre-teen expressing how the word Black – when describing someone’s race – makes her uncomfortable. The All Lives Matter and Blue Lives Matter supporters who think it’s a pissing contest in the Everybody-Gets-A-Trophy-No-Child-Left-Behind Olympics®.  The misunderstanding that Privilege has anything to do with the commas and zeros in a bank account.

Calm the f#ck down!

Even that became triggering — in addition to the word triggering itself.

Since you can’t survive on a diet of vitriolic bread alone, I took a moment to connect with one of my goodest Judies for a kiki.  Old words received in new ways. 

We talk about food, which is among our most frequent topics.  Often we talk on the phone – being separated 600 miles – drooling as we each take turns listing ingredients.  So this conversation was nothing out of the ordinary, as we’ve had many over these *squiggle that number out* years of soul-bonding Judyship.  Non-sequiturs are also commonplace if not de rigeur.  Words.  And the way my brain functions, my middle name is NonSequitur.  June NonSequiturleigh Peaches.

“Ooh! I’ve got an idea for Mexican brownies!”

It was all in a moment I felt stunned when I was sternly told that I couldn’t say that.  The sting in finding myself corrected by a friend for a racist comment.  Then of hope for the good that an exponential cycle of accountability buddying can do.  Then a pity that we’re in a time when once innocent words – like the idea of a baked sweet imparted with souvenirs of foreign trips and cultures –  could evoke such negative connotations.  Ending with a feeling of pride in having a goodest Judy who doesn’t hesitate to put a bitch on notice!

“Let’s try this again.  Now close your eyes and picture this: Your Tastebuds.  Now.  A regular ass brownie. You know: cocoa powder, flour, tons of butter!” I continue as I hear her now vocalizing her pleasure in the list of ingredients in mmms and other such ululations that aren’t usually spelled out in mixed company.  “But taking the flavor profile and giving it a Mexican sun kiss.  You know: cayenne – because chocolate and spice just go! Maybe some cumin to brighten it up, and that is basically a Mexican caraway seed.  Think a molé, maybe?  [A random list of secret flavors.  Yep, I can redact documents too.]  Sweet meets kinda savory meets kinda heat meets sweet.  But this is a whole conversation…”

It is a whole so many conversations…

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Last week I had planned on launching my new series of videos.  But conversations were being had.  It’s irrelevant that I had no desire to Pagliacci-it-up and provide a respite from these trying and unprecedented times.  Because conversations were finally being had.  The emotions overwhelming, visceral, and immediate.  No video this week either.  Conversations are continuously being had.  But words are still broken.

In a Helvetica 12-point sentence about race, the word black should never be a Garamond 3-point whisper.  This underlines the need for signs reminding us that Black Lives Matter.  Of the picture of a gay black man’s experiences of racism within the LGBTQIA+ community, the gaslight of “racial preference” should’t be the spot under which you hum a troubadour’s ballad.  This punctuates the importance of why black and brown needed to be new colors on the rainbow flag (while also highlighting the notion that thoughts and prayers truly are empty gestures).  To a quietly held sign gently reminding that Black Lives in fact do should and will continue to Matter, the response of discordant bombast should not come from a bullhorn in caps lock.

Black does not equal Thug.  White supremacist does not ever equal Very fine people.

Did you know that in 1781 Elizabeth Freeman, known as Mum Bett, successfully sued the state of Massachusetts for her freedom as their state constitution ratified the ideal that all men are born free and equal.  Yet, here we stand in 2020 still a country that Declared a suggestion of certain self-serving truths hypocritically backed by a constitution of No.Alien.Able lies that is constantly adulterated to squeeze out a little more Privilege Concentrate when the juice starts tasting too diluted.

So, not until we are seated at that table. Not until we can garden our own mortgaged properties without the police driving by slowly to investigate.  Not until we can walk our own blocks without seeing you clutch your handbag and hastily cross the street.  Not until we can fit a description where my green zip-up doesn’t get mistaken for a blue hoodie.  Not until I can be in my own house and not be mistaken for ‘the help’.  Not until my heart doesn’t race whenever I see a car with a ski rack in the far off of my rear view mirror.  Not until I can reach for my ID without being shot.  Not until you don’t follow me around your store calling it customer service and knowing that it is something else.  Not until I can sit at a table net to my own empty bowl and not have you assume that it’s the ‘pick-up table’ because you were above sitting in front of your own dirty dish.  Not until I can sleep peacefully in my own house without you shooting  and thinking I’m sleeping in yours.  Not until I can watch birds in area with leash regulations.  Not until I can go for a jog in my neighborhood.  Not until I can swim in my pool without having to produce paperwork.  Not until I don’t have to always keep my finger near a video record button.  Not until you can state my name above a whisper.  Not until I can breathe.  Not until we are all seated at the table enjoying a communion seasoned with all of our respective cultures and perspectives.  Black Lives Matter will always stand as reminder to what we seem to have “forgotten”. 

That’s all for today.  A soft opening. No recipe.  No photo. No video. Just words. New words. Broken words. The table is busy being reset.  They’re bringing the extender leaves out of the attic (because you know it’s going to be a lot of us).  And all those extra plates didn’t get shipped in time either.

But at least there’s the promise of dessert, because what else would you expect from a food blog?  Conversations are being had.  How we can be better.  How we can spice that gooey brownie with its bouffant of booze infused whipped cream.  Because what else would you expect from a food blog.