I’ve up and gone to the Heavyside Layer
For me, before there was Hamilton, there was Urinetown: The Musical. Before Urinetown: The Musical, there was 1776, and before 1776, there was CATS.
The much-maligned musical that at one point was the longest-running musical on Broadway was my favorite musical as a child. I wore the PBS video tape out when it came out in 1998 and for years Andrew Lloyd Weber’s lyrics were embedded in my mind. I am part of a community that could be activated just by hearing the opening notes of “The Overture”. IYKYK.
I remember being astonished when I learned it was adapted from T.S. Eliot’s “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats” because how did the same man who wrote “The Wasteland” with all its depth and beauty write a book of poems about…cats? I decided Cats was deeper than it appeared because for me it was. I think CATS introduced me to or helped me process my existential feelings as a preteen. The plot, as it were, focuses on a community of cats who are trying to win favor to get selected to go the Heavyside Layer. The audience meets various community members including a community member who is on the outs. And all of this takes place at a Jellicle Ball that can only happen during a Jellicle moon.
Oh and everyone is dressed up as literal cats.
I was fortunate to see a production in San Francisco in 2022 and was delighted to find two friends willing to ascend to the Heavyside Layer. The production was really fun and it felt like watching a childhood dream come to life.
I had to stop myself from singing and act like I had some sense, but it was really hard.
I should note, that I didn’t watch the 2019 CATS movie that earned us a global pandemic because it didn’t look good and I didn’t want to. I am all the better for it.
When I first heard about CATS: “The Jellicle Ball” on Instagram I was simply gagged. It simultaneously made no sense and all the sense in the world. I already wanted to check out the Harlem Renaissance exhibition at The Met so I bought a ticket to the ball and bought a flight.
I braved a beautiful, thunderous summer storm to get to the PAC NYC and walked into a lobby buzzing with excited nerds ready for what I’d learn was the second preview night.
The Perelman Performing Arts Center, PAC NYC, is located near the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. I hadn’t been to that part of NYC since 2014 and was taken aback by how an area that has been transformed from a site of horror and terror to a multiuse space with a mall, The Oculus (because capitalism, duh!), Liberty Park, and the PAC NYC. The venue is absolutely gorgeous.
After getting a quick bite at the restaurant on site, I strolled to my seat and was gagged by seeing Honey Balenciaga, who we’d learn was a guest judge. You know when you meet a famous person and you’re not sure whether to acknowledge who they are or be cool? I did neither. I just kind of stopped walking and squeaked “Are you?”.
Once the show finally started my mouth was open nearly the entire time. This reimaging of CATS takes place in the Harlem ballroom scene and all of the characters are humans (no cat costumes necessary) who are competing in different ballroom competitions.
If you’re not familiar with ballroom culture, please watch the documentary Paris is Burning. I watched this documentary in college and it opened my eyes to a dancing style that I was unfamiliar with as being Black and Brown. I got really into watching ballroom performances after watching the series Pose which documents a family and community in the '80s and '90s, and through the MAX series, Legendary (HBO Max still owes me several seasons!) which has different Houses competing for prize money and trophies. From that series, I searched for information about the West Coast ballroom scene and am always looking for balls to attend and support.
I say all that to encourage you to learn more about ballroom AND to say that I was primed to love this production for so many reasons.
CATS: “The Jellicle Ball” enriches its source material by centering Black and Brown and queer and trans folks and allowing the original songs to be used to serve a plot. It was such a delightful experience to hear familiar music in a new context (they keep most of the songs save two). Sometimes the songs are augmented by ballroom beats courtesy of the in-play DJ, but they will be recognized by any lovers of the original.
It’s hard to spoil a 42-year-old production, but I don’t want to say too much because going into an experience and being awed is such a rare thing nowadays.
Everything about this production made me grateful and proud:
The casting? Excellent.
The vocals? Strong!
The dancing? Electric.
The costuming? Fabulous.
The centering and celebrating of queer and trans icons and history? Thoughtful, necessary, and artful.
“The greatest magicians have something to learn” from the entire production team who made this work possible.
Whether you hate CATS, love CATS, or are ambivalent about CATS you should see this production if you can. It’s recently been extended through August 11th and I hope they will be extended through the fall so I can ascend to the Heavyside Layer again.
RECOMMENDATIONS:
Metropolis, a restaurant by Marcus Samuelsson is a restaurant integrated into PAC NYC. If you imbibe, I’d recommend getting a drink there before the show. You can take it to go as well. I wish I had eaten before I arrived at PAC NYC.
When selecting tickets, the cabaret tables will have you eye level to the catwalk and the cast will interact with you. I really liked my seat selection of Runway: BB. It was an investment in my experience and worth EVERY penny.
I’m newly obsessed with the podcast The Wrong Cat Died. During the show's run, the host is interviewing cast members and it’s been a delight to relive the show through their conversations. Maybe save the more recent episodes if you’re planning on seeing the show live.
A Review of Little Rot
Phew.
Akwaeke Emezi (they/them) is an artist whose work I firmly believe makes the world a better place. My entry point to their work was The Death of Vivek Oji that absolutely blew me away and enriched me.
I also loved Dear Senthuran: A Black Spirit Memoir which reads like both a memoir and an elevated, artistic self-help book. I felt edified by it and bought m own copy so I could revisit it and engage with it underlining and highlighting thoughts to ponder and return to.
I was gagged by You Made a Fool of Death With Your Beauty and relished the mess and messy journey of a grieving woman bold enough to go after what she desired even if it was, and it was, hella chaotic.
I was so excited to get an ARC (Advanced Reader Copy) (thanks Riverhead!) of their latest novel Little Rot and to dive in. No idea of the plot, just vibes and an abiding admiration for this free ass spirit artist having a human experience.
Little Rot is a story that requires the reader to look at the barely hidden depravity, some real and some as defined by a repressive culture, that makes up our society and culture, or specifically this fictional city in Nigeria. The plot takes place over a weekend just after a couple, Aima (who is PRESSED to get married after having moved to Nigeria from the States) and Kalu have split after many years. Kalu visits a sex party hosted by his (morally corrupt, trifling, international man of mystery) best friend since grade school Ahmed and what he sees there compels him to make a decision that diminishes him. Ola and Souraya are two sex workers who wind up in the midst of this mess and the reader is also dragged down into the mud with these characters navigating a nightmarish reality where money and might make right and compassion results in punishment.
I didn’t enjoy this book.
As I mentioned, I went into this story with no clue. I sincerely wish I had had a content warning about sexual violence in the book as it was too much.
I left the novel feeling dirty and questioning why I felt compelled to finish it. I don’t believe that characters in a novel need to bestow moral lessons or even that everything I read needs a happy ending, but this felt like being shown the ugliness of the world for the sake of it and the plot, thin as it was, didn’t justify the actions. I might have appreciated the story more if Ola and/or Souraya were the protagonists, but that’s not the book we have. I didn’t think the story had anything interesting to say about people repressing their sexuality or religious hypocrites or gender roles or sex or so many topics that a skilled writer like Emezi is capable of in artful ways and that’s a shame.
There are beautiful sentences, because if there’s one thing Akwaeke is going to do it’s write a beautiful, descriptive sentence, but the pervasiveness ugliness of this story is what has stayed with me about this novel.
«Not with a bang with a whimper»
I’m not a big New Year girlie.
I find it to be an overrated holiday that inevitably leads to disappointment-the expectations are too high and so are the costs. One exception was a New Year Eve wedding I attended nearly a decade ago that remains undefeated in terms of joy and the other was when my friends and I were in Paris and rushed to see the Eiffel Tower, expecting fireworks or razzmatazz, and being greeted with mere lights. Fun Fact: If you’re looking for NYE fireworks in Paris, gotta go to L’Arc de Triomphe. Fireworks at the Tour Eiffel? Bastille Day.
I prefer to spend the holiday at home, eating a good meal, doing a tarot pull, being moody and reflective, and going to sleep. Sometimes waiting to greet the new year, sometimes, simply going to sleep when I want.
This year, the anxiety of a domestic election year mixed with a seemingly deteriorating global order were enough to make me want to head nod the new year and not expect too much.
2024 started not with a bang, but a whimper.😔 With me testing positive for COVID-19 for the first time all ephing pandemic. I’ve been dodging this shit like Lil Kim, but alas.
Lil Kim.
Despite doing my part to be vaccinated and boosted for the gawds and continuing masking AND the U.S. being in the second largest surge since the pandemic began, I can’t help but feel bad for myself and ashamed. Days of looking up at my ceiling and feeling sorry for myself resulted in reminding myself that diseases aren’t punishments, bodies are vulnerable and fallible, and realizing there’s still a few things I need to unpack and unlearn about health, illness, and the like.
I’m blessed in a lot of ways:
1) This illness happened while I was off work and not before my holiday trip.
2) My spouse and I have an apartment that allowed me to quarantine at home. I’m so grateful this was a logistical nuisance instead of a real challenge.
3) I had insurance (necessary to say the way the U.S. handles insurance is a moral, logical, and economic failing) and was able to get medicine to help shorten my symptoms.
So what do you do when the year doesn’t start the way you plan?
I gave into my boredom and succumbed to my humanness and just chilled the eph out. I remembered that adult coloring book phase I had along with the rest of the world, started and finished a great book (review coming), and watched a lovely movie. I didn’t do any of my normal rituals, except my Black eyed peas and greens, because duh, and that has to be okay.
Despite it’s start, which technically started the last day of 2023, I’m choosing to be grateful for the slow start to the year and reminding myself that the Gregorian calendar don’t run shit around here. Each day is an opportunity to choose and change or reflect and remain. #bars.
What’s the best meal you’ve ever had?
A serendipitous restaurant encounter in São Paulo.
“Cooking is an [integral] part of the tradition, its art, its culture, but above all, prayer.”
I work at a West Coast nonprofit, that is to say a place where we’re encouraged to bring our full selves to work and connect on a deeper level beyond just due dates and deliverables. To that end, we often start our meetings with check-in questions and one of my favorite ones is “Tell us about the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”
My go-to answers have been:
1) The lamb ragu my friend Davide’s mom made in 2010. I was studying abroad and had the opportunity to visit him, an exchange student at my university and his family welcomed me into their home and gifted me with the best pasta I have had until this day.
2) Also in Italy, an excerpt from a travel email I sent to a group of loved ones at the time. “After some of the best gelato I've ever had, and walking and seeing beauty all the afternoon, we returned to San Felice where we prepared for dinner with Davide's friends. I had the pleasure of meeting some of the nicest people ever. There was a language barrier and confidence barrier at first (several of them spoke English ,but were shy),but after the food started arriving (and kept coming) and after I kept trying a mixture of both languages the ice was broken and the night flowed with laughter, food, drink and laughter. I can't remember the last time I ate so much (oh wait Christmas) at one point, I was offered more meat and just couldn't possibly manage it and one of the guys says, relatively loudly, "Oh, so you don't like Italian food?" the whole table begins making disapproving noises and laughing. That neverending meal stays in my mind like the sharpness of the grappa Davide’s friends made me try.
That was before my most recent trip to Brasil (Brazil). At some point I’ll write a post about Rio, but I’ve got to start with this meal in São Paulo-a best meal I’ve had.
I am fortunate to work at an organization that prioritizes rest and after producing a conference for teen poets and artists in late July, we had two weeks off to rejuvenate. My husband, who was also mostly able to take off from work, was eager to join and so we went to Brasil. After a long flight from LA (where I first stopped to see Arsenal v. Barcelona, duh) to Lima to São Paulo to Rio to Iguacu Falls back to São Paulo. More on that in a different post. Peut-être…
When we arrived in São Paulo, I was a little sad.
It was the tail end of our vacation and I was regretting having not maximized my beach time in Rio as much as I could have, was a little grumpy by the chaos of the airport we had flown into, and honestly probably just tired. Nevertheless, there was a massive city to explore. After a welcome to our hotel with beijinhos (a cocont version of brigadeiros (chocolate fudge balls) and a decent night’s sleep, we set off to explore some of São Paulo.
We visited the famed Batman Alley (which did not live up to the hype to me) and wandered in and out of art galleries, a tradition we’ve made part of travels in hopes of finding beautiful, meaningful pieces from local artists. After yet another gallery that didn’t resonate with me, I noticed a beautiful pink and orange building I’d come to know was Altar Cozinha Ancestral - São Paulo a restaurant created to honor the orishas. A feeling of serendipity flooded me and I said little prayer of gratitude. In Rio, on my Little Africa tour my tour guide homie, Eddie pointed out a restaurant and cultural space, Casa Omolokum, that was only open Fridays through Sundays. I already have it bookmarked for my next trip to Rio. Inshallah.
The atmosphere of the place is so joyful and affirming and I can’t help but think it’s because the owner, Carmem Virginia, is living her truth and faith in honor of her and all orishas.
When I approached the restaurant I wasn’t sure what it was and I wasn’t quick enough with Google Translate (a godsend on this trip!), so the lovely greeter found someone who could speak one of the languages I speak. I quickly learned that this was a special, sacred place.
Altar Cozinha Ancestral in Sao Paulo is the second location for Chef Carmem Virginia Barbosa dos Santos whose original restaurant is nearly a decade old in Recife. It’s a labor of love and homage to the roots of Afro-Brazilian and Northeastern Brazilian cuisine and also to orishas. Altar Cozinha Ancestral has been recognized with the El Espíritu de América Latina award by The World 50 Best, but the most important endorsement to me was the feeling of joy and recognition I felt when I visited.
We started with the acarajé.
Acarajé reminded me of hushpuppies. I don’t need to have a cultural reference for the food I eat when travelling, but it’s always nice to be reminded of my place in a Diaspora of survivors, dreamers, and creators. They are essentially black eyed pea fritters with a direct line to West Africa with a delicious paste and little shrimp on top. In addition to being delicious, Acarajé represent economic freedom and opportunity as they were sold by enslaved Afro Brazilian women to “earn” their freedom and then by formerly enslaved Afro Brazilian women in Bahia state, a region in northern Brazil with the country’s biggest black population.
Abundance from the sea
Moqueca de frutos do mar de Dona Lô (Camarão, Polvo, Lula, Mexilhões, marisco e sururu) (right) This dish reminded me of paella and was super flavorful. The rice was almost risotto where paella is a little drier.
Peixe a Inajá – Peixe em espelhado de moqueca de camarões, capitão, arroz de coco, com queijo coalho e banana da terra. (left and bottom center) I thought the rice (bottom center) we ordered was coconut and plantain rice, instead of a savory bite, I was greeted with a sweetness I wasn’t expecting. It’s sweetness offset the savory flavors of the sauce the fish was in and was perfect. Practically diving.
Both dishes were amazing, but we easily could have split them. I wish we had had room for dessert, but alas.
Our waiter was lovely and was able to communicate with me in French. They also had an English menu that you could use to point to, if needed, but their menu in Portuguese is beautiful-kudos to the designer!
If I’m blessed to return to Brasil, and I sincerely hope I am, I will definitely return to this edifying space.
Muito obrigada, Carmem Virginia.
Altar Cozinha Ancestral was recently featured in Vogue, so you don’t have to take my word for it (if you’re someone who needs the co-sign of Vogue).
The Wonder of You (Part 2) London’s Calling
Are you a Gooner or someone who got way too into Ted Lasoo visiting North London hoping to see a match? Check out tips from my rececent-ish trip.
I went to Emirates (Arsenal’s home, built by Arsène Wenger himself) in May, but am writing this in August about a week before the 2023-24 Premier League season kicks (LOL) off.
If you’re a Gooner or a bandwagon fan (get in before it’s too late), here are some suggestions about where to go:
WATCH:
Fever Pitch. The 1997 one with Colin Firth.
Rye Lane. A new favorite rom com that came out in 2023. It takes place in Peckham (my favorite part of London!) and is just lovely.
BONUS: After you watch Rye Lane, see the mandem at Prince of Peckham for some of the best vibes, drinks, and food you’ll have while in London. I first visited in 2019 with a colleague and felt like I was a party in college or in Oakland-so it definitely passed the vibe check. I still dream about the jerk chicken sandwich I had from White Men Can’t Jerk after…more than a few Dark and Stormzys from our last visit and will always make it a point to swing through when I’m in London.
STAY
The Standard Hotel. You can’t beat the vibes (immaculate and mod…immodculate?) or the location (Saint Pancras/King’s Cross). If you happen to be travelling in from Paris, the Eurostar stops right there. It’s a really convenient tube stop for getting to Emirates-2 stops and you get off at Holloway Road*
*Per Google Maps: HOLLOWAY ROAD STATION: During Emirates Stadium events, Holloway Road will be closed for two hours before the start of the event and will open 15 minutes after the start of the event. During return traffic the station will be closed 15 minutes before the end of the event and will be kept closed for 90 minutes after the event. These adjustments may be subject to alteration/." - tfl.gov.uk, Effective from 5/9/2023, 3:30 AM to 7/5/2024, 12:29 AM
EAT/DRINK:
Taking in the atmosphere before you even arrive at Emirates is a must. The people watching is chef’s kiss.
It’s the epitome of what you think of as a real sports bar. It was filled to the door and patio with proper Gooners. We stayed for exactly for one pint before our informal crawl continued.
This wine bar is so cool. I decided we had to go after seeing a guy in a beautiful teal Highbury Library cap at the Tollington and was greeted by a wine bar you’d want to be your local spot. If you’re more of a natural wine girl than beer, you’ll love this spot. I would love to spend more time there the next time I’m in London.
I’m not going to hold you. I felt seen in the worst way at the Compton Arms. A bunch of twenty and thirtysomething hipsters sipping wine or spritzers-this restaurant would not be out of place in San Francisco. This setting would work for a lovely brunch on a non-match day or for a heartier, more epicurean meal before heading to the match.
DO: Catch a match at The Emirates. Obviously.
Do not play yourself. Tickets to Arsenal matches can only be bought through the club or from a registered Arsenal member. I was fortunate to get my ticket through a connection Mark, the Bay Area Gooners organizer made to a Gooner in London who couldn’t use his tickets. I had to register for an Arsenal membership (digital) to be able to access the tickets. For the 23-24 season, the team has switched to Digital only tickets. Definitely refer to the website to learn more about ticketing policies and how to protect yourself against scammers.
Arrive early to walk around the stadium before the religious masses ascend. As of August 2, you can witness Arsene Wenger’s statue. The game day atmosphere was positively buzzing. The first time I visited Emirates in 2019, I did the tour with a few other people and it was a quiet, composed, almost solemn. It kind of felt like the culimation of a religious experience, on May 28th the vibes were like Mardi Gras and it was absolutely lit.
BONUS:
If you are one of the many Americans went got into the beautiful game because of Ted Lasso, welcome. I enjoyed season 1 and it came at a time when I, and many others, needed light and good fun. If you are a Ted Lasso fan, you might as well take a trip to visit Richmond and experience the quaint cuteness of the area.
The Wonder of You: A love story (Part 1)
A short reflection on Arsenal’s 2022-23 season and the importance of community.
When I talk about my love for Arsenal Football Club, a Premier League soccer team based in and ruling North London, I feel silly, but I don’t know of a better word.
I was introduced to this team in college circa 2006 by a boy and it stuck because of the composition of the team-a lot of French players led by a composed, professorial manager named Arsène Wenger (I have a painting of him in my bedroom). The once and eternal star of our team, Thierry Henry, sealed the deal for me and then it was a done deal. I missed the Invincible season (where the lads were undefeated for 38 matches straight-a feat that has yet to be surpassed 💅) However, like with all relationships, there’s been ebbs and flows. I moved from the East Coast where “early” matches still started at a respectable time to the West Coast where I’ve seen 4 am too many times for a rational person who isn’t waking up early to start a job to feed their loved ones or save a life. It was all worth it.
I reconnected with the team after watching the documentary Arsenal: All or Nothing (streaming on Amazon Prime). It follows the team throughout the 2021-22 season which had highs of hope and lows of reality and they got me again.
I decided to watch matches live with Bay Area Gooners and was rewarded with so much joy and connection. I was reminded of the importance of intention in building community and what can grow when you commit. For me, that looked like a community that came together to donate money to the nonprofit I work at on the strength of our connection and shared love. I immersed myself in the foolishness of modern fandom, listening to infinite hours of podcasts dedicated to recapping the matches (that I had just watched), learning about tactics and strategies, and generally falling deeper and deeper.
I love this goofy team and community so much that I even wrote a poem:
The Wonder of You
I love you, like a new world created through chants
and revelations that can only happen in a new language.
Love your harmony, discipline, and doing things our way.
I love you in years of no trophies, but with glimpses of beauty.
Love you through decent start times on one coast
And through hella early mornings on the other.
I love you with the roar of millions.
But also, the love of a fan tuned into one tv at the end of the bar.
Love you delusionally. Tribally.
Love you for reminding me what it’s like to love mortals who sometimes transcend, but also fail and fight.
I love you for irrational joy and illogical tears.
Love you like a pilgrimage and conversations throughout the years.
That’s the wonder of you.
At the end of the 2021-22 season, all we wanted to do was qualify for the Champions League (4th place out of the 20 Premier League teams). However, through the brilliance of our coach and young players, and sometimes luck, we spent 248 days at the top of the league. By late December, the improbable seemed possible and I booked tickets to London for the last match of the season wanting to be in town for the glorious end of a magical season.
“When you start supporting a football club, you don’t support it because of the trophies, or a player, or history, you support it because you found yourself.”
In Pleasant Company
January marked 8 years since I moved to the Bay, specifically San Francisco, CA. Although 8 years is not that long, it’s significant to me because that makes San Francisco the place I’ve lived in the longest.
When I moved here in 2015, I had a lot of questions about what the hell I was doing, but since then, I’ve explored the natural beauty of San Francisco and Northern California, made a career in the Bay Area’s nonprofit sector, made deep friends, and become more myself.
In August 2022, a dear friend asked if I wanted to experience “The Late Mary Ellen Pleasant’s Napa: A Tour, A Toast!” hosted by artist Cheryl Derricotte and curators Ashara Ekundayo and Lucia Olubunmi R. Momoh in conjunction with Collective Arising: The Insistence of Black Bay Area Artists
Mary Ellen Pleasant. Mary Ellen Pleasant.
I first learned about her through a Drunk History episode about San Francisco in 2013-years before I ever thought about moving out here.
Image of Lisa Bonet dressed in 1800s clothing, proud and defiant.
At a time when being Black was made difficult, she asserted herself as a Black woman and is now known as the Mother of the California Civil Rights Movement.
Experiencing Mary Ellen Pleasant in community with those artist-leaders and celebrants in August was deeply moving and one of the best moments I’ve had in the Bay Area.
Her legacy exists in Napa and a small park in San Francisco, but surely also in the Black women who continue to come to the city for whatever their reasons must be, no? And surely the Black women who are rooted here because of their families no matter where they might live now?
“I want to find and share those stories because increasingly I feel like the last Black woman in San Francisco. ”
Even before the pandemic, I had dear friends decamp for Oakland and as friends continue to move into different phases of life, different locales call that better suit them and their goals and aspirations. I want to document what it feels like to be a Black woman in Mary Ellen Pleasant’s city right now, what opportunities it affords, how we’re working to make it better in our own ways, what our hopes are for the future, and more.
If you’re interested in being In Pleasant Company and featured, please fill out this form. I’m hoping to connect with a range of Black women in San Francisco and amplify our stories.
Read More About Mary Ellen Pleasant
A Girl Full of Smartness by Edward White
Exploring Mary Ellen Pleasant Memorial Park, the smallest public park in San Francisco by Brock Keeling
Golden Chains: The Hidden History of Slavery in California project: Explore Mary Ellen Pleasant by ACLU of Northern California
Overlooked No More: The Many Chapters of Mary Ellen Pleasant by Veronica Chambers
Mary Ellen Pleasant by the National Park Service
Mary Ellen Pleasant by FoundSF
SF’s First Black Businesswoman Deserves More Than a Ghost Tour
More than King Cake
Originally written in 2020. Edited in 2021.
The last big social joys of my life pre-quarantine and COVID-19 centered around King Cake.
By the end of 2019, I didn’t feel like celebrating anything, but our cultural calendar didn’t care about my depression. Thanksgiving and Christmas demanded to be celebrated and so I did, outwardly at least.
When the calendar switched from 2019 to 2020, I felt a burst of hope, or at least determination, and decided my new big celebration would be Mardi Gras or at least Dimanche Gras. I ordered 3 King Cakes to be flown halfway across the country 3 weeks early, sent out invitations to my friends, and waited.
I follow
news, but if 2016 had taught me anything it was that I couldn’t let every bad thing in the world get me down. Life had to be lived. I say that to say, I’m sure the national newspaper I subscribe to had mentioned It by late February, if not earlier, but it wasn’t top of mind for me and certainly not a factor in my celebration. As if to foreshadow the troubles that were to come, nothing went right with my King Cake deliveries.
They were set to arrive on a Saturday, but wouldn’t arrive until Monday. For my purposes, the only thing worse than not having any King Cake was having three King Cakes the very day after I needed them. So, I went to a house goods store, bought several boxes of Mam Papaul's King Cake Mix, and got to baking. Still determined to share the wonder of Mardi Gras with my friends in the Bay Area.
Why were these damn King Cakes so important to me?
I’m a Southerner in exile or something like that.
I’m a Black woman in my mid 30s who has lived in San Francisco, California for the past 5 years, but my roots, my heritage is the American South, specifically Southwest Louisiana. I only spent 2 years in my birthplace of Lafayette, but carried the Frenchiness with me to the several states my family moved to and into middle school, high school, and college French classes. Eventually, it got easier to just tell people I was from Texas. I didn’t feel like I could start to claim Louisiana until Beyonce’s 2016 Lemonade visual album. From that moment on, being and identifying as a Black, Southern woman was an invitation I sopped up. Fast forward to 2020 and after a hard 2019, I craved the sweetness of King Cake and company. I really just wanted to share happiness and a bit of my history with my friends.
Mam Papaul's King Cake Mix served me well and allowed me to share an aspect of my life and identity with friends in San Francisco. When my King Cakes finally arrived from New Orleans on that Monday, I made my husband bring it to his big law firm and saved the rest for a weekend in Tahoe with our crew of friends. We ate that King Cake for breakfast, snacks, and dessert before it finally gave up the ghost or we quit. I got to see the joy when a friend, whose job required him to vigorously track the impending crisis, found the baby, his genuine sadness when he lost it, and the glee when he retrieved it from an untimely and unlucky near demise in the garbage disposal.
What a trip.
By the time we started our drive from Tahoe, it was evident that the disease that was happening somewhere else in the world was something we’d have to be increasingly concerned about.
Over the course of a week and a half, my life in San Francisco went from normal to very much not. The rest of the United States would follow more or less. The energy in stores became increasingly frenetic and scary and the food I wanted most, that I was confident I could make, was red beans and rice. I had a mess of “andouille” (well, as close to andouille as one can find out in San Francisco) and a burning desire for the comfort of a big bowl or several of red beans and rice. If that’s not cultural imprinting, I don’t know what is.
Into my cart went lentils (who doesn’t love daal?) and other shelf-stable stuff to last until it had to, but no red beans. At that time and still, I’m one of the lucky ones. My family and loved ones are safe and well and have their physical needs met, but they’re far from me. It gave me comfort to know that the beans I craved were likely on the quarantine menu for my parents, extended family, and play cousins throughout Louisiana and the rest of the Gulf. I eventually broke down and ordered some online.
Now, miraculously, it’s 2021 and I’m thankful to have survived nearly a year of All of This and made it to another Mardi Gras. It’ll look different of course both in my home and in New Orleans, but I’m excited to share the joy and tradition of King Cakes with my friends again.
2023 Bookish Goals
1) Read Less. Write more.
a) Specifically read 30 books. If I can complete 30 books that resonate with me and write and pitch more that will be a win. 50 has always been an arbitrary number.
2) Incorporate “Buddy Reads” into my book diet. This is a way to go deeper in my friendships and read stuff that might not have been on my radar. I’m prioritizing my friends who don’t live close to me (and won’t move to be closer to me…) but also doing one with a local friend.
3) Query my children’s book. It’s written. I wrote it in Fall 2021 and it’s just been sitting in my Google docs. Dusty. Gotta shoot my shot.
3 is quite enough.
Reading about The Beautiful Game Pt. 1
To watch, or not to watch The 2022 World Cup. THAT is that is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler to ignore the monthlong competition born of corrupt, inhumane circumstances that brought about this unnatural (a World Cup in November?!) event or watch and feel icky…
Am I doing too much? Probably, but football or soccer tends to bring that out in me. My first taste of soccer was when I “played” on a team as a kid. I was bad, as most kids are at sports that require strategy and skill, more concerned with picking grass and daydreaming.
It wasn’t until I got to college at the University of Oklahoma of all places and became friends with the international students and students from different backgrounds that I began learning about the rich history of this sport.
J/k, I fell in love with this handsome man and his beautiful game, and the team, Arsenal FC, “by far, the greatest team, the world has ever seen.” When he decamped for Barcelona (2007 :( ) I decided I had two teams and never looked back. COYG and Visca Barça!
I can mark pivotal moments in my life based on big things that happened during World Cup years:
2006. Germany. This World Cup marked the first time I ever cursed in front of my religious, Southern parents. In my defense, I had never seen anything as wild as a grown man HEADBUTTING another grown man. What would compel a grown man to react in that way?
“As they left the penalty area, Materazzi claims Zidane said: “If you want my shirt, you can have it after the game.” But Materazzi already had a Zidane jersey...“[He] replied that [he’d] rather have [Zizou’s] sister,” Materazzi revealed. He thought nothing of it. To him it was the kind of trash-talk you heard in the schoolyard or, in an Italian context, at the oratory. A throwaway line. But it hit a nerve with Zidane. ”
You had to be there.
2010. South Africa. The universe descended on South Africa and had a chance to revel in the new “Rainbow Nation”. The world, nay, the galaxy was introduced to vuvuzelas and the game was never the same. This 99% Invisible episode talks about the vuvuzela and it place in South Africa’s football culture.
2014. Brazil. This was the summer I bonded with my now spouse by watching all of the U.S. Men’s National Team (USMNT) matches in Washington, D.C. one of the best U.S. cities to participate in soccer culture. I also had the best colleagues who let me scam my way into co-writing an essay about higher education attainment globally. The semi-final was hilarious (to me) because Germany beat the brakes off Brazil (long recognized as a football powerhouse) 7-1. Hate to see it.
This World Cup faced a lot of deserved criticism for the way that it harmed Brazilians and didn’t garner the economic successes that municipalities always promise cities, states, and nations that host huge sporting matches. This article from the World Economic Forum disputes the wisdom of ever ever ever hosting an Olympics or World Cup. The tl;dr: “Don’t do it. Reconsider, read some literature on the subject.
2018. Russia. Senegal, my African équipe of chose stole hearts because of how dapper their coach Aliou Cissé was and is and the excellent quality of play from the best African team.
France, my adopted team, won its second star. The young king Kylian Mbappe dazzled the world and proclaimed he had next and now. Black Twitter called Les Bleus an African team and the French scoffed. Look, Black Panther had come out earlier that year Annnnnnd France’s team was hella Black. would have thought that I had personally won with how I celebrated.
Which brings us to 2022. Qatar. I’ll get to that mess in Part 2.
In the meantime, these are three of my favorite books on soccer.
1) Soccernomics: Why European Men and American Women Win and Billionaire Owners are Destined to Lose x Stefan Szymanski is such a nerdy, fun book that answers questions that casual observers and new fans might have and that longtime watchers have always pondered. I read the first iteration in 2009 and the 2022 version updates some of their previous predictions and touches on the mess world football finds itself in now. It’s a must-read and also a great gift.
2) Soccer in Sun and Shadow x Eduardo Galeano. The prose in this is so, so lovely. Galeano elevates the sport through his prose and the literary lens he turns on it and the characters. He really shows the depth of the beautiful game and why it entrances billions of people around the globe week in and week out and especially every 4 years during the World Cup. Analysis of this new era of the game and especially this World Cup are diminished because he’s no longer here.
3) Fever Pitch x Nick Hornby. Essential reading for Arsenal fans or Gooners. It’s a book that makes me feel less absurd for waking up at 4:00 am to watch 11 young adults run back and forth for 90 minutes and provides a glimpse of English soccer right before the new era of global football.
