I have so many things I would love to discuss and blog about, the re-election of our President for his second term, hurricane Sandy and the randomly titled winter storm Athena that tag teamed and people's elbowed the east coast, the excitement I have for the new year, even the astronomically chauvinistic ideals of the tea party and their minions.
All of these things I could discuss. But someone tried to question the temperature of the oil I was frying my chicken and I was so ridiculously offended.
SON.
Now, I no longer live by myself and I have a little sister so, sharing space is somewhat mandatory, but there are certain things I just can not handle.
A few weeks ago, I had time on my hands (a rarity) and decided to cook. My immediate family is average size. Four people. However, the number of Aunties, Uncles, cousins, play cousins, etc is huge and our house is the gathering place for all things things family, so when we cook it's for a huge number of people. Every time. My grandfather owned a restaurant that my mother worked in as a chef growing up, so...cooking for a large number of people is permanently ingrained in her spirit. She can't help herself. And apparently, neither can I.
Mixed greens, fried chicken, cheddar bay biscuits, Cesar salad, and key lime pie. Naturally my sister wanted to help, so I obliged. Corn, rice, and raspberry sorbet. My baby is growing up.
My mama came home. Walked in the house and marveled at all of the lovely aromas mingling with each other in the air. She went back to her room for a while and then...she reappeared...in the kitchen.
If I am nothing else, I am fiercely independent. Not to my detriment, because I am no fool. Batman had Robin, Superman had Lois Lane, everyone needs a hand every now and then. But super heroes don't cook.
Keep up out my kitchen.
I don't know what it is about women in the kitchen, but if you ever want to royally piss a woman off, give her your opinion on how she's making her food, without her request.
My mama was nowhere near the stove or oven. She complimented the assortment of seasonings I had on the counter and how good each one would taste on each dish I was creating. She opened the fridge and took a gander at how pretty and delicious my pie looked. But just before she turned to walk away, she said the grease for my chicken was too high and I...I just don't know what came over me.
I shunned her from the kitchen for the rest of the night. We don't have doors to our kitchen, but I built one in my head and slammed it as she walked away.
I'll admit, by the time my mama walked into the kitchen I was on the 12th of 15 wings and perhaps my grease was a little high. But no one asked her!
My mother is an excellent cook. I was a very happy overweight little girl until my weight shifted in high school. But I'm doing things for myself now and I just don't have the patience or time to deal with two chefs in one kitchen trying to do the same thing.
All in all, don't ever, never, ever, ever come in my kitchen with your point of view or opinion unless it's requested because at the end of the day your opinion is not welcome. Even at the beginning of the day, your unrequested opinion is not welcome.
Keep up out my kitchen...please.
dig and be dug...
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
A Giant amongst Men
Yesterday, November 11, 2012 around 2PM, I learned something new. Something I vaguely remembering hearing about as a child, but was intangible in my adult life.
Yesterday I found out that people die.
It may sound strange because we're all taught and told that death is, ironically, a part of life. We see people die in movies and even cartoons all the time. But the road runner still gets chased by the coyote everyday and Denzel accepted an Academy award after his death a few years ago. But apparently, real death doesn't work like that.
Yesterday I found out real death is silent and painful and nightmarish if you live through it.
For almost 20 years of my life, I ignored it. Almost didn't believe it was real. I guess I thought it was a figment of my imagination. But it isn't.
My grandfather, Charles Thomas Hall, Sr. passed away when I was 5 years old. I remember the day he left and I vividly remember his funeral. What I was wearing, how my hair was, where I sat, who I sat next to, my older cousin telling me that boys were physically unable to cry and not being able to utter a word even though I knew she was wrong.
After that day, death, to me, no longer existed.
I assume this is in part because to ease the pain of losing someone who was the light of my life, my family explained to me that he was still somehow there. Just not physically. He sat on the fluffiest clouds and watched over me as I played and studied and cried and laughed and grew. But when there were no clouds in the sky, I wondered where he went. When there was a blizzard or a storm, I wondered if he was comfortable.
Sure other people passed after my grandfather, but no one as close as to me as he was. Going to see him yesterday was the most strange feeling I've ever experienced in my life. I remember the day my grandfather left. I know how he left. I know that prostate cancer wreaked havoc on his body.
But for some reason walking up to the KW section of the Veteran's Cemetery to grave 1116, I was hoping he wasn't there. I walked up to him and stood there bent over in tears, completely in shock by what I saw.
A headstone...with his name on it. And to make matters worse, below his name was his birth date with a dash separating that date from another date signifying the end of his...
After I caught my breath, I sat there and tried to talk to him, read to him, sing him happy birthday and ask him how he was doing, but nothing came out. I just kept picturing the man that carried me on his shoulders and sang me funny songs as dust in a box six feet below me and I couldn't believe it was real. I hadn't visited him, in that place since I was about 12.
After all of this time, death was staring in my face, with it's deafening silence and faceless glare and I never expected it.
How...Why would I expect to see my Pop-pop standing there in his whiskey colored bomber jacket, arms open wide, aviator lenses raised on his cheeks because of his smile, saying "I've missed you Muskrat" with that Mississippi drawl that had notes of Brooklyn all under it that made his speech so memorable?!
He died. On June 12, 1993 that voice was silenced. Those arms bent with his hands over one another. Those aviator frames revealed eyes that would be shut for the rest of eternity. That smile lay straight. Reality slapped me in my face and knocked the wind out of my lungs and I never saw it coming.
Yesterday I learned that people die. But only if you don't do what God sent them here to show you.
Physically, Charles Thomas Hall. Sr. lived from November 11, 1935 until June 12, 1993.
However, the man who is responsible for my humility and my defiance, my dreams and my hustle, my disdain for mediocrity and complacency and my compassion for those who help themselves turned 77 years old yesterday.
A giant amongst men.
Your dreams are my dreams and therefore we still have work to do. Plans to execute.
And if I hope for nothing else, I hope that I'm making you proud.
dig and be dug...
Yesterday I found out that people die.
It may sound strange because we're all taught and told that death is, ironically, a part of life. We see people die in movies and even cartoons all the time. But the road runner still gets chased by the coyote everyday and Denzel accepted an Academy award after his death a few years ago. But apparently, real death doesn't work like that.
Yesterday I found out real death is silent and painful and nightmarish if you live through it.
For almost 20 years of my life, I ignored it. Almost didn't believe it was real. I guess I thought it was a figment of my imagination. But it isn't.
My grandfather, Charles Thomas Hall, Sr. passed away when I was 5 years old. I remember the day he left and I vividly remember his funeral. What I was wearing, how my hair was, where I sat, who I sat next to, my older cousin telling me that boys were physically unable to cry and not being able to utter a word even though I knew she was wrong.
After that day, death, to me, no longer existed.
I assume this is in part because to ease the pain of losing someone who was the light of my life, my family explained to me that he was still somehow there. Just not physically. He sat on the fluffiest clouds and watched over me as I played and studied and cried and laughed and grew. But when there were no clouds in the sky, I wondered where he went. When there was a blizzard or a storm, I wondered if he was comfortable.
Sure other people passed after my grandfather, but no one as close as to me as he was. Going to see him yesterday was the most strange feeling I've ever experienced in my life. I remember the day my grandfather left. I know how he left. I know that prostate cancer wreaked havoc on his body.
But for some reason walking up to the KW section of the Veteran's Cemetery to grave 1116, I was hoping he wasn't there. I walked up to him and stood there bent over in tears, completely in shock by what I saw.
A headstone...with his name on it. And to make matters worse, below his name was his birth date with a dash separating that date from another date signifying the end of his...
After I caught my breath, I sat there and tried to talk to him, read to him, sing him happy birthday and ask him how he was doing, but nothing came out. I just kept picturing the man that carried me on his shoulders and sang me funny songs as dust in a box six feet below me and I couldn't believe it was real. I hadn't visited him, in that place since I was about 12.
After all of this time, death was staring in my face, with it's deafening silence and faceless glare and I never expected it.
How...Why would I expect to see my Pop-pop standing there in his whiskey colored bomber jacket, arms open wide, aviator lenses raised on his cheeks because of his smile, saying "I've missed you Muskrat" with that Mississippi drawl that had notes of Brooklyn all under it that made his speech so memorable?!
He died. On June 12, 1993 that voice was silenced. Those arms bent with his hands over one another. Those aviator frames revealed eyes that would be shut for the rest of eternity. That smile lay straight. Reality slapped me in my face and knocked the wind out of my lungs and I never saw it coming.
Yesterday I learned that people die. But only if you don't do what God sent them here to show you.
Physically, Charles Thomas Hall. Sr. lived from November 11, 1935 until June 12, 1993.
However, the man who is responsible for my humility and my defiance, my dreams and my hustle, my disdain for mediocrity and complacency and my compassion for those who help themselves turned 77 years old yesterday.
A giant amongst men.
Your dreams are my dreams and therefore we still have work to do. Plans to execute.
And if I hope for nothing else, I hope that I'm making you proud.
dig and be dug...
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