One cloudy summer evening in a quiet Memphis neighborhood, a miracle occurred.
The miracle worker, born and raised in Bells, was my grandmother, Nell Davis Skelton. She had curly, dyed brown hair that was often styled in a pouf reminiscent of a sixties beehive. The large, pitch-black sunglasses that she often wore made me think of a movie star, and she acted like one, too: confident, stylish, opinionated. There was always some new gossip to talk about with Grandmama, and she’d worry and judge and laugh about it in turn. She’d twist her ankle around and around as she talked to you, a sign of pent-up, nervous energy.
Cooking at home should never be stressful or frustrating. Whether you’re throwing together a simple lunch or making dinner for the neighborhood, it should be a pleasant, relaxing experience. You also don’t need to be a classically trained chef or have a kitchen stocked with exotic ingredients to whip up something delicious. Anyone can do this, and that’s what we’re going to show you.
Only sixty years ago, our town, like much of the south, was in the middle of its own pain. Jim Crow laws had allowed states and communities to practice legal segregation under the guise of “separate but equal.” While clearly separating “coloreds” from “whites”, the results of that separation were anything but equal. Many times, these laws would be enforced by racist vigilantes before they were ever enforced by local law enforcement. Law enforcement would take a protester to jail; a vigilante would degrade a protester through physical and emotional violence.
Food, and my relationship with it, is an important facet of not only my personal identity, but also of my culture, and the culture I grew up in. I believe food is spiritual and that the act of creating, serving, and eating a meal is an act of holy worship — a practice of religion. I myself am agnostic, but sometimes when I make a meal for my fiancé after a long day's work, or when I eat something special made just for me, I can see the existence of God.
Up until this year, thirty-five of my years as a student or a teacher have played out exactly like this: a beginning, a middle, and an end. There’s some comfort in that rhythm; the ebb and flow of certainty. August is always long, but the grass is still green and the days are still long. When the weather turns, I know Christmas isn’t far off. By February, though, fatigue has set in and we’re all (students and teachers) hanging by a thread. Then the days start to get longer, and you can hear the mowers humming outside the classroom — the familiar markers of the end of the year. We all start to relax a little.
