The Feast Of Black Burden

Besides just walking around Bilbao for its history and culture scene, I had a practical reason for the tour. I was actually running low on food that I had carried with me to Spain. The previous 2 days were marked by cooking some skimpy Black Eyed Peas with a local pumpkin and Black Pepper into a soup just to get by. I was therefore more than delighted when the first person we asked if there were any organic or agro ecological stores in town suggested that we check in the old part of the city. The second person we enquired from was a fishmonger and he knew exactly where one of the stores was. We therefore headed towards the direction of that store.

My guide pointed to the various African shops we passed by. I went into a few of them to find out whether they carried any organic or agro ecological products. Sadly, I found none. Even if there were so some products that were sustainably grown, they were not clearly marked. So I just had to leave empty handed. I was now facing the challenges I theorize about in real life. Why is it that African stores did not carry healthier options products yet Africa is the continent with the oldest history of both agriculture as well as the longest history of what I call Just Food ( the idea being that you can’t have food justice without food that is free from injustices in the whole food chain). It is not a simple or minor issue. The lack of healthier products has serious health disparities implications both abroad and at home.

That issue weighed heavily on me as we continued with our walk towards preliminary destination. We were quiet for a while and I took the time to savor the historical buildings, the cobblestones sidewalks probably centuries old and the changing smells as we passed various spots like the coffee shops.

We finally made it to our highly anticipated Viva la Vida store. It was so small that I couldn’t hide my disappointment. Yet it had a cozy feeling that took me back to my childhood. A polite young lady was seated behind the cash register and stood up as soon as we entered. I was delighted to learn that she could speak some English. I was equally energized to see Arborio rice, my favorite of all time. I even bought a few other types of rice just to explore their flavors with my family upon returning to the U.S. Arborio rice once inspired one of my favorite essays titled Abaai and the Thieving Birds. The essay often comes to mind occasionally whenever I see Arborio rice. Besides, the Italian rice was part of an era of a futuristic movement in Italy during the reign of Bonito Mussolini. Mussolini was part of a food campaign that promoted the local rice instead of foreign grains such as imported wheat. The title of my essay started with the word Abbai, a term of endearment amongst male age mates amongst the rice-growing community in Central Kenya. Those memories primed me for a pleasant shopping experience.

Since I knew that it would be a while before I could make it to the kitchen to cook, I decided to buy some dry apricots for a snack. My guide looked attentively as the 4 types were weighed and the prices entered on the cash register. I picked a few other items to go with the rice in anticipation of my first full meal that was essentially going to be my First Full Supper after a few days of barely getting by. I couldn’t wait to taste something familiar and therefore reached into the beautiful brown waxed bag and picked two dried apricots, then extended the gaping bag to my host.

She turned it down on account that it was too expensive. She claimed that it was both a form of disrespect to me and a waste of my money for her to eat such expensive organic food on that day only and then revert back to chemical foods which she has been eating all along. While I turn down unjust food, she turned . I always turn down unjust food but had never had anyone turn down just food when freely offered. There are some that distrust its benefits and all but that was not the case. It did come as a surprise and raised a few questions in my mind.

It’s tough for me to eat by myself and it is culturally inappropriate. I would get the urge to extend the bag of apricots to my guide every time I reach for some more as a natural instinct. I actually asked twice just to confirmed that my guide had not received the agro ecological holy ghost. She was not budging. I grabbed the reusable shopping bag with my groceries and hung it across my right shoulder. I could feel it bulging on my back, especially from almost ten pounds of rice. It became more clearer how the bifurcation of our food by the introduction of fiat or unjust food has deeply affected how we think about ourselves and how we relate with each other relative to our food system.

That was tough but I understood why the proverbial garden of Eden could only be inhabited by those who eat just food. Fortunately for us, there is redemption and grace for a smaller price by simply eating right. The Garden of Eden had no second chances. That is not the case with our food or better yet our political system.

In activist, academic and intellectual circles, the main focus is most commonly the matters of inequalities and access to healthy, nutritious and culturally appropriate foods. I have honestly been suspicious of that simple position and have raised my objection publicly. My position is that the issue of food injustice is seriously under estimated and poorly studied. Here is my first anecdotal evidence that someone can have access to the food and yet opt to turn it down. The reason that could contribute to a person being so removed from just food and therefore to be so comfortable with what poisons them and their posterity is a topic that deserves the utmost attention as a matter of urgency.

To be clear, it was painful for me to be making this observation in Spain and a few minutes away from the statues of the 4 Segueras, statues that commemorate the enslaved African women, who worked on the dock pulling iron-loaded ship through the estuary for off loading with their bare hands. How can African women be pulling the modern ships full of poison that will undermine their own health and that of their posterity? Just like the era of 1850 when there were free and enslaved humans, today those same segregation between political and racial groups are being perpetrated most subtly through food.

The matter gained greater urgency when I remember that in the same country, Hannibal Macca, the African military genius had managed to occupy Spain in 220 B.C during the Punic Wars against Rome. To this day, the town of Cartagena carries the name of Carthage to mark that historical event. History records the battle of Cannes in Italy as one of the biggest defeat in history. Hannibal managed to kill between 50,000 to 60,000 Roman soldiers in one afternoon. Rome had a total of 80,000 soldiers in total. By comparison, it is more soldiers killed than all the American soldiers who died in the Vietnam war between America and Vietnam in a war that lasted almost 23 years. In America standards, the most significant battle in its history is the Battle of Gettysburg where fifteen thousand soldiers died in three days of fierce fighting. I am not a big fan of war, though I study it in all its dimensions. If Hannibal is the greatest military general of all times, I am willing and ready to learn from him in the hope of stemming the slaughters of people across the world in numbers that exponentially bigger than those killed in the Battle of Cannea. That vital task calls for a strategy on the level of Hannibal.

I wondered if I should name the loss I experienced in the same country where Hannibal left an indelible mark in military history. The Feast of Black Burden maybe? I chose the word Black burden as Black is a word with double meaning. The term is used in business to denote a profitable status and also in families to denote a wayward sibling, as in the business is in black and the black sheep of the family.

However you eat, we will be all be Black, but we get to choose which one. The type of Black we choose to be will far reaching consequences for thousands of years to come. Remember that Hannibal and Carthage finally lost the three Punic Wars, leading to the complete razing down of Carthage by Romans. Africa and many indigenous communities paid a heavy price at the hands of Roman Empire that dominated a significant part of the globe to this day. Eat like a military genius and vote with your stomach at every single meal, whether free, grown or purchased. In short, I stay away from any feast of black burden it surely can’t be for nothing that my ancestors were treated as beasts of burden.

A Rope of Blackness

As I travel, securing just food becomes more critical and urgent affair. My visit to Bilbao and more specifically my walk through the new part of the city, I was struck by the Monument of the Sacred Heart. That monument is like a big narrow stone with a statue of the image believed to be that of Jesus Christ that stretches up to 131 feet from the ground.

I intentionally used the word believed because no one know how Jesus looked like and it is not even universally agreed whether he existed or not. Everyone is welcome to believe whatever they choose, but one thing that we can all agree upon is that his depictions throughout history has not been consistent over time. In short, the image of Jesus has changed over time to depict his political status of a particular period. The image we currently associate with Jesus is the interpretation of Michelangelo following the acceptance of Christianity as a state religion in Rome.

I looked at the statue from a far in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it’s dominance of the skyline, but even more importantly about the psychological impact of looking at a figure that 131 feet up in the air when so much of the history of the figure is questionable. There is the genocide conducted by men under his burner as the attempted to convert indigenous people into supposedly better people. Millions were killed, turned into slaves, converted into a new religion or permanently injured.

As I looked up at the towering figure with three fingers as though in the process of imitating a pistol, I thought about the dark cloud that followed the expedition of C. Columbus over the global food system. While I suspected that the three fingers mostly likely had to do with the idea of trinity, I opted for a different interpretation. I noted the trail of tears caused by what is known as the Columbus Exchange. Again, the writers of history decided on the interpretation of history. The truth of the matter is our global food system in tainted by that dark history that ties an ever increasing number of people to the curse of that expedition. While many look to the sky for assistance, I eat defensively as act of uncivil disobedience.

As I recovered from my dream-like trance, I realized that we had been walking for a while. I looked back and could vaguely see the chicks of the colossus, I swallowed a load of saliva in my mouth. I could feel my Adam’s Apple dislocate and retract swiftly. As I processed the fact that my body part was associated Adam, I smiled. It was a reminder how Adam, Columbus and Michelangelo had influenced our food. Whatever I might say about Columbus and Eve, Adam and Adam’s Apple seem most practical and useful as a metaphor. Every time we swallow unjust food, we are essentially committing the same error that Adam made by using someone else as an excuse of eating unjust food.

Being A Witness Of The Absent

The first place I went to upon arrival in Madrid was the Thyssen Museum, literally 20 minutes walk from where I was staying. Thanks to Alajendro Osses for listing the museum as one of the recommended places to visit. I can’t even remember any of the other spots on the list of recommendations. I quickly grabbed something to eat from my packed food and headed out.

I was especially interested in the exhibition that was ongoing looking at colonialism through art. My relationship with museums has been an ongoing struggle for more than a decade. It a complex relationship that cannot be easily defined. One one hand I am deeply bothered by the depiction of the racist history museums have managed to preserve for our consumption today but on the same breath, I am keenly aware of the potential that museums have for helping address those historical injustices to so obvious. It is on such hopeful account that I have continually engaged the North Carolina Museum of History and North Carolina Museum of Art in various engagements.

The North Carolina Museum of Art placed a video of one of my dinners where I talked about the connection between food and art. That short video clip played continuously on the floor of the museum for years. The same museum further invited me to write the interpretation of piece by Christian Mayrs, entitled Kitchen Ball at White Sulphur, Virginia 1838. The piece of art was significant on two accounts. It was the first major piece of work that depicted enslaved African in any celebration scene besides just toiling for their enslavers. To make things even better, I was being paid the average of $1 or $2 per word. But the part is I was able to come up with a food story.

I spent a good part of three hours going through the exhibition on Colonial Art. The theme and the message were loud and clear: art in major museums are an integral part of the colonial project both during the legal period and the de facto period.

One of the pieces I was familiar with but had never seen before was Family Group In A Landscape, Frans Hals 1645-1648. You can see the African boy almost being absent. I was glad to salute him and be a witness. So on my way back to the house, amid a heavy heart, I took a picture of myself with an expensive building as the landscape. But It wasn’t for me but for all those names and absent Africans whose labor created some of the landscape and buildings we enjoy today.

As I walked home with a conflicted heart, I couldn’t help but imagine the enslaved African young man as a symbol of the modern day stomach. Just like the way the young man on the photo disguises the greatest injustice to any group of people, our stomachs are becoming the silent scene of genocide as more and more people consume unjust food just like the wealthy family from Netherlands down pay the injustice that is smack in their face. Many descendants of the enslavement and colonization across the globe are continuing this unequal relationship by consuming food that relegates them to the landscape. Sadly, on that note, the modern landscape is colorblind, though it affects the indigenous communities and people of color the most. Thayũ

Linguistic Culinaria

Sodupe is a small town of less than 3000 people but very old history. The town is so old that its language almost died and it is now coming back with force. That means that the language is being taught in schools for the first time in a long time. The amazing dynamism of language in town is that there is a host of new immigrants to Sodupe from a host of countries such as Ukraine most recently, Kenyans, Nigerians, Moroccans, Pakistanis and Nigerians. The Nigerians and Pakistanis have already opened food businesses importing food from their home countries.

The population of Basques population is declining and the local government is offering generous incentives for families to have children. The Basque region is hunting for numbers in its population in order to have enough people to qualify for self rule.

It will be interesting to see the culture of the town changing in real time but also observing how that change is being largely influenced by global events happening thousands of miles away from the sleepy hamlet largely due to problems related to the empire building that started almost 600 years ago. While the Spaniards explored distant lands, disrupting those communities and enslaving many as free Labor, some of those communities are proving to be a lifeline in their very reverse migration. I wonder how it will all play out as the future town, and the country at large, becomes darker in hue but also in culture.

I thought about rapid change at a local tiny vegetable shop that was probably the forerunner of the modern day supermarket when the attendant pointed out that they preferred that I don’t touch the vegetables. The protocol is that I should have pointed out what I wanted and the attendant picks it for me, weigh it and pack it for me. The supermarket just across the street has already moved to the free style shopping where everyone can pick their vegetables.

The changes in linguistic landscape also marks an even greater change in culinary landscape. It would be an interesting discipline combining linguistics and culinary and how they influence each other. My hosts speak 5 languages in a house of 3. Here is one city in need of a food literacy campaign to move consciously towards a future that is convoluted in serious ways. It’s an issue that they will need to address sooner than later. But one thing is for sure, they will have to face and balance diverse interests.

Tea Dialects

Gathǐngǐra Fortune Flavors

On this day of 16th of September exactly 112 years ago, one of the greatest pirates for the last millennium was born. Robert Fortune was a Scottish botanist, thief and spy responsible of the most lucrative espionage that would lead to the creation of the first multinational company known as the British East Indian Company. The ideal was diabolical as it was sinister. The British, the most powerful empire at the time, wanted to get control of a drink owned by the Chinese by growing it in land owned by Indians. As an after thought, that dodgy experiment would fundamentally change my village indigenous brew by casting it into oblivion. The British East Indian Company was the tool to achieve that goal and the main man for the job was Robert Fortune.

The story behind the struggle for the control of tea is one that affects almost all of us in one way or another as it led to creation of the modern global system with all the inherent injustices and instability. That instability started by intentionally addicting the Chinese to opium an a massive scale. That addiction to drugs of one kind or another followed the trail of tea as it was spread across the world by the British. I have come to name the tea trail as the Tragic Tea Trail of Torture.

For a start, China and India were colonized and turned into clients of the British empire. The submission of the Chinese came after two wars known as the Boxer rebellion. Two major treaties, starting with the 1842 Treaty of Nanking were signed between China and the Western allies. After each defeat, the Chinese were forced to open more of their country to the western countries, especially the British, French and the Dutch as well as allow the sale of opium in China. The British also curved Hong Kong from China until 1999.

As tea transitioned from the control of the Chinese to the British, it found its way to all the regions under the control of the British. My village of Gathǐngǐra happened to be one of the many places that would pay a heavy price tea wars between Britain and China. The British introduced tea in my village in early 1940s and 50s and the village has never been the same again.

Before the village was invaded by the blood-soaked leaf the local would delight their morning with root that looks like Tumeric known as Kǐgwa Kǐa Arǐithi. We are challenging the tea stranglehold on tastebuds by reimagining how the old brew can be part of the future of my village and beyond. I grew the first batch and found a tea enthusiast who pay a hefty price for the tea. That is the fortune that we celebrate today. That tea which was less than a kilo cost the equivalent of hundreds of kilos of the colonial & invasive tea.

Even before I made the recipe that best exemplifies the current state of our farm and all the multiplicity of eclectic indigenous as well as exotic ingredients that have been obtained without stealing or spying but through exchange and gratitude, I had to start with naming my creation. I named my new drink Fortune Shepherd as a hint of our estimation of our mission. We are truly fortunate to be growing things like Black pepper corns along with all the ingredients on the recipe except cardamom. consider A recipe is loading. We are shepherds of flavors, both local and international. Interestingly, the key ingredients known as Kǐgwa Kǐa Arǐithi literally means the sugarcane of the shepherds. I could think of no better name for the recipe. Names are powerful and have energy. Welcome to the flavors that the above energy has inspired.

I offer the recipe from a place of abundance for that is our traditional and standard. We are a wealthy people with a giving heart just like our ancestors. Robert Fortune and his thieving ways was followed by many failures. The tea that he grew in India was not popular in the market and that costed Robert Fortune’s benefactors dearly. The biggest price however was paid by the Chinese, the Indians and indigenous people whose food ways was swallowed by the vampire ways of an empire called greed. Luckily my village is ready for a rescue mission.

Fortune Sheperd

Chef Kabui

1 Teaspoon of Grated Kǐgwa Kǐa Arǐithi

1/2 Teaspoon of grated Ginger

1 teaspoon of minced fresh Spearmint

2 teaspoons of chopped Lemongrass

5 crashed ripe Loquats

2 fresh minced Guava leaves

4 crushed Black Pepper corns

3/4 cup of fresh Sugar Cane juice

A pinch of Cardamom powder.

4 cups of Hot water

Makes 5 to 6 servings

Afro-Memphis Lentils Soup

1 lbs French Lentils & Beluga Lentils

3 Tbsp of grated Fennel Of Florence

1/2 lbs Portobello Mushrooms

1/2 cup of grated Parsnip

1/2 cup of grated Fennel of Florence

1.5 cups of Red Onions

1.5 cups of chopped fresh Tomatoes

1 Tsp of chopped Fresh Basil

3/4 tbs of crushed Black Pepper corn

1 tbs Ground Cumin

1/2 cup olive oil

2 Tsp salt

1 lbs Jasmine rice

5 cups of chopped Kale

1 cup of grated Purple Sweet Potatoes

1 cup of the stalks of the Curley leaf Kale

1 lbs Daikon Radish

1 lbs Tomatoes

Process. 

Soak 1 lb of equal mix of French and Beluga lentils in cold water for at least 4 hours. Drain the soaking water and add fresh water until all the lentils are under water, bring to a boil and turn the heat to medium for the next 30 to 35 minutes. You will know they are done by testing for softness. Please note that these two types of lentils stay more firm even when fully cooked compared to other lentils. 

In a separate pot add the ingredients except the mushrooms and the tomatoes. Add add one tablespoon of salt and turn the heat on medium. Keep stirring for about four minutes.

Add the tomatoes and stir periodically for about three minutes

Add the mushrooms, Cumin, Crushed BlackPepper cone, chopped Basil, and Powdered Clove and stir for two minutes

Add the lentils and stir for about two minutes

Add 6 to 8 cups of water and all the Kale, bring to a boil again

Add  the rice and cook for about four to five minutes

Garnish the soup with grated Nutmeg or finely chopped Parsley

Add the olive oil right before serving

Serves 10 servings

Death Before Death

Born to Live

I recently received this photo from Nancy Goodrich Davis, one of the two mothers in have in Memphis. My children almost fainted from laughing at their father at 22 years. But my mind was in a totally different place. I was especially struck by the level of confidence I can clearly detect. Part of the confidence is from the level of comfort I have always had the fortune of having at every point of my life.

The Davis family were truly warm and I felt at home. I would share some of my holidays away from home at their house and enjoy the White experience. I would the spend the rest of my holiday with my African American family of the Warrens. Annie Felix was the eldest daughter of Warrens and she demonstrated the most amazing patience with me in ways I cannot express.

The Davis family moved to Texas before I graduated and we lost touch. But we stayed in each other’s hearts. While riding in a cab two years ago, being always social, she learned that the Uber driver was a graduate of my Alma Mater. She responded that she used to know a Kenyan student attending the college. The driver replied that the only Kenyan he remembers was me. Her heart skipped a beat and inquired if he knew my where about. All he could remember is that I became a chef in New York somewhere. Mama Nancy googled my name and my website popped up. I received a message from Kenya and immediately called her. We were gladly connected again and I visited the family the following year. It was a joyous reunion. The only sad part is that while the house May way bigger than their first house, it was exponentially quieter. There were no Japanese students visiting or their children with whom we had bonded like brothers. But I didn’t have any hair either. Yet the hearts we just as warmer if not more warmer.

I was so happy to prepare them a meal as a token of appreciation for the many meals they prepared for me. They would always question me to make I wasn’t having any kind of challenge in my stay in Memphis as well as school.

Having a White family that I was very close at a young age was extremely helpful as I articulated my way around the issues of race. I was a radical student and deeply concerned about the plight of African Americans and by extension Africans. My experience with the Davis family taught me that not all White people were racist. I developed a balanced approach to navigating a mostly White-dominated power environment with fear or any feelings of being lesser than any White person. That small fact has fostered positive collaboration between a good number of Whites without losing myself. I learned that I can be myself and still achieve and perform what I desire to do.

One example was a conversation I had with my children about how I want to be buried when I die. I gave them the option of burying me in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. No money collected upon my death, no journey to mortuary to pump me with chemicals to enhance my handsome face and no preaching at my my funeral. I also insisted that it should be strictly a family affair. I love all my friends and give them my time while I am alive. I will not need anything when I die. No flowers and no tears. I have lived my life and had plenty of fun. I have eaten some of the best food I could find. I have given freely of my talents and my apologies. I would hate anyone to shed a tear. I am not that poor that I can’t have a family that can bury me on a budget they can afford. Sending my children money as a form of prayer is dishonest to me. If I take them on vacation and the like, why can’t I afford a few thousand to cremate my body or bury it naturally. The resources that my community has should be invested in things that improve the community such as food systems, food literacy, parks and libraries. I reminded them in my culture , there is no death, we used the word rest or sleep instead of death. The only tragedy that warrants mourning is the passing away of a father without having directed his family on how to handle his estate. Otherwise resting, especially when you have left your family in a healthy state is a joyous affair. The missionaries totally confused our community.

My children laughed and asked me where I got those crazy ideas from. I replied that I spend a lot of time learning and having made so many mistakes, I do my best not to repeat them. It’s dishonest for them to ask others whom I don’t even talk to to mourn my death. What is there to mourn about a life lived to the fullest in spite of very humble beginnings and many challenges. Yet having mothers across continents makes me appreciate my children beyond any measure. If they had any doubts l asked them to look at that smile on the photo. I could write a book about all the things that were happening at that time. I had been in the U.S for about three years and I was already an American citizen with a scholarship.

I then showed them the picture of the screen of Mama Nancy of his son and I on her Apple Watch. Everyone wants to be known, but it’s far much to serve and loved. That is what I call Life Worship. They we die nowadays shows that many still live under the shadows of colonialism where we exist solely for the benefit of others. In other words some have been dead long before the funeral and they end up being buried by the dead.

Indigenous Gastronomy for a Buck

I recently passed through JF Kennedy Airport in New York. This was the l same place I landed when I first came to America at the tender age of 20 years. I had left Gathíngíra, my ancestral village and the alma mata of my indigenous gastronomy the previous day aboard a Pan Am flight. Coincidentally, the connecting flight in Frankfurt was delayed, I therefore missed my connecting flight from New York to Memphis. The airline booked us into a Holiday Inn Hotel about 15 minutes away from the airport. A free shuttle from the hotel picked us up for free. 

That ride to the Holiday Inn hotel was my first ride on the American road. As a student, my experience was tampered with by concerns about the cost of everything. I had money for only one year but yet I was enrolled at a 4!year program. After all, Central Bank of Kenya only allowed the dollar equivalent of Ksh 5,000 in allowance which came to $312 at that time. I will not even bother you with the revelation of the current dollar value of that allowance as it might spoil your appetite.

Back to the road and shuttle experience. I remember the grin on my face as I fumbled with my heavy suitcase, loaded with everything I thought I would need. As I got to the exit door, I asked the driver how much I needed to pay. The nice muddled aged African American lady fondly replied “ It’s free honey”. Those words were truly honey to me. So I saluted the beautiful lady and hurried out of the shuttle. 

As I landed and rushed to catch up with the rest of the passengers who were just alighted from the shuttle, a bulky middle aged Caucasian male headed towards me even before I could catch up. The main entrance to the lobby of the hotel was only about 15 meters away. The gentleman had a broad smile and warmly welcomed me to Holiday Inn. The black suit and white shirt made me think that this gentleman was an employee of HI Hotel. So when he reached out for my bags, I didn’t even resist. I simply walked behind him as I observed everything going on around dusk in that hotel. 

My guide walked straight to the front desk and lined up. In a few minutes, he was in front of the hotel assistant. He advised me to produce the voucher and my passport. In less than 3 minutes, a key was handed to my chauffeur. He signaled for me to follow him to the elevator. In a few minutes the elevator was on the 4th floor and we alighted. We walked past to six doors to the left and he stopped. He stuck a plastic card on a slot on the door and the door opened into a cozy room that was dimly lit. He held the door open with one hand and pushed the luggage inside without stepping inside. I then followed suit as he held the door open. 

As I contemplated about the room, the atmosphere and the reality that I had finally arrived in the U.S, I forgot the awkward position I was in to be served by a Caucasian in simple manual tasks. My perception was that most Caucasians and Americans were quite well off.  So thinking that the assistance I was getting was just part of the hotel service, I thanked the gentleman, wished him a wonderful evening. I tried to push the door closed as I finished my last statement. 

I was surprised that the guy who was so nice for the few minutes we had been in contact all of a sudden changed his demeanor. He was now serious, bordering contemptuous look. He firmly reported that we worked for tips. What an anticlimax, had I known that, I could have carried my own bags. I reluctantly reached into my pocket and removed my wallet. I pulled out a crisp one dollar bill and extended my hand with the bill towards the chauffeur, who was still propping the door open. He looked at the dollar bill as I held it out to him as if he wasn’t sure if it was legal tender. He then looked me in the face with disdain and let go of his hand propping the door open. As the door closed slowly, he slightly leaned forward as if to interject his remark quickly before the door shut. “ I fucking don’t take one dollar or coins for my service. Keep it!”

I graciously took my dollar back and tucked it back into my wallet. That is a dollar I could use.I had probably had taken a grandmother from the village a whole day to earn that dollar that the gentleman was turning down. I actually remembered a grandmother who had donated some eggs to be auctioned at my fundraiser a mere two months prior. In some ways I felt as the turning down the dollar was a salute to all the men and women of my village for their sacrifice to send me to college. I turned around and looked at the beautiful room with a mirror to my left. I could see myself in a life size mirror with a suit and tie headed to college and yet I didn’t have a dollar to spare for a tip.

I remember my first experience of New York back on that fateful day of September in 1989. How I wish I had taken a picture of the hotel room. To avoid the same mistake, I took a picture of my legs with shorts and tennis shoes. As though the contrast wasn’t big enough, I am heading to Zurich for a brief tour meeting and a  residency at the HKW Museum in Berlin. If I could run into the same guy again today, I would love to invite him to dinner as a return on his investment of one dollar bill he contributed to my education and my dream to work in activism. I would hold the door open for him to enter and enjoy a serving of both food justice and service etiquette. His was a dollar that was sour like the grapes of wrath but has been washed into blackness, sustaina and important common sense. May he eat well wherever he is. 

So here I am in some tennis shoes and shorts going to speak at The Tongue and Throat Festival for a tip that is over two hundred dollars more than my first semester fees which I paid two days later. That amount was exactly half of the amount of money I had left after paying for my flight. My memory is how a young man from my village in a suit was so blessed by the snob from someone who didn’t understand how valuable that snob was to people miles away in the village but is tens of thousands more miles ahead in the people who will remember my words through their tongues, throats and memories. No wonder there are three parts to my cuisine: past present and future. That cuisine is my suit now, I don’t need to wear expensive and foreign European suits and ties, my tongue, heart and mind are my garments that I flaunt. It’s the garments I dress those whom I have the pleasure to commune with. Every time a soul hears, chews and swallows the wisdom from Gathíngíra, my ancestral village, they uplift that village and give it another lease of life.  I also dress those souls with a three piece suit of indigenous gastronomy for a buck.