tomatoes.

In 1960, just before Thanksgiving, CBS aired a documentary on migrant farmworkers entitled Harvest of Shame. Through the voices of farmworkers, the film revealed the extreme poverty of those who labored to put food on America's tables and ultimately beckoned the nation to seek justice beyond charity. As we watched this film in class recently, sadness overwhelmed me. Considering the conditions that people endured in the past, but also, the conditions that persist in the present for farmworkers. (Cue the oft quoted Faulkner-ism around here: "The past is never dead, its not even past.")

After watching Harvest of Shame, we read Tomatoland by Barry Estabrook. Content wise, this is one of the most important books we've read for our foodways class. From a the perspective of a journalist and food activist, this book exposes the environmental and social abuses of the modern day slavery system of the Florida tomato industry. The book also highlights the tireless work of the Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW), which continues to fight for fair wages and labor practices. Just this week, the CIW started a campaign in North Carolina protesting Publix and Wendy's for their refusal to join other grocery stores and restaurants in supporting fair food practices for farmworkers. If you eat tomatoes, I encourage you to read Tomatoland and to explore the amazing organizing efforts of the CIW.

I can also recommend the recent documentary, Food Chains, which we also watched in class. A modern Harvest of Shame, this film allows the voices of farmworkers in Immokalee and other places to be heard as it highlights the work of the CIW.

I am incredibly thankful for the chance to celebrate a thanksgiving meal with my family soon and deeply grateful for all the hands involved in bringing the food we will eat to the table. As we sit down together, I hope we'll consider how we can support the livelihood and dignity of farmworkers.

quyanna, mukluk.

we named him mukluk huggins-white. our little eskimo dog.

born in the nearby village of teller, alaska, he was being given away on the nome listserv: nomeannounce. fawn jumped at the opportunity for a puppy. i fell in love the moment i saw him. he was born right around the time i moved to nome. he made me want to believe in reincarnation or fate or something like that.

his name meant seal skin boots and/or a baby seal. the name proved rather appropriate. as he grew longer and longer like an accordion....

he climbed mountains, crossed rivers, picked berries, marched in parades, danced along the tundra, skated across the frozen sea. he was nome-famous. young and old throughout the town knew him by name. the wiggly, cuddly bundle of joy that he was. who offered love indiscriminately.

when i moved to fairbanks to work at calypso farm, mukluk followed. living nearby in the woods with his foster parents, sveta and igor, frolicking in the forest with his companions, yenta and smule.

when i moved back to north carolina, mukluk came too. he settled in wilkesboro, adopted by the most loving grandparents he could have asked for. fully embraced by the huggins household, he continued to live with my parents when my living situations were not dog friendly. he was always in good hands. and continued to spread joy wherever he was.

mukluk became sick this summer with lymphoma. and this past week, he passed on. mama and daddy gave him the deepest compassion and kindness possible. those of us who knew him are all quite sad. but there is much to celebrate in the joyful moments he gave us.

daddy says grandma avie lee is taking care of him in heaven. brother says he's running around with magnolia, our childhood dog. i still hope he gets to be reincarnated as something awesome. and keeps spreading joy around.

we plan to keep part of his ashes in wilkesboro and bring part of them to nome when i go for fawn's wedding next summer. as both places were his home.

quyanna, mukluk. thank you. you were a damn good dog. often my salvation. whose love was just intensely concentrated in little body, in a few years.

cajun country.

this is just to say: what a delight it was to journey to lafayette, louisiana recently for black pot.

a rainy weekend of immersing in cajun dancing, listening to fabulous musicians, and sharing such moments with lovely souls. a reminder of how vital it is for my spirit to dance, to share in the communal joy of movement and music.

also sampled a bit of the local cuisine. gumbo. jambalaya. boudin.

the taste of the place made me hopeful for other chances to explore lafayette and its sense of rootedness in music, food, and tradition.

and with interesting timing, this episode of gravy was just produced that speaks to the history of acadian and cajun people and the places where food, music, language, and culture intersect.

singing streams.

the leaves are really just beginning to offer splashes of color. i wait patiently as seasons change slower than the rate i am accustomed to, appreciating glimpses of newly golden leaves along my daily routes. i wandered into carlyle wolfe's exhibit at southside gallery downtown recently. as i strolled amidst her thoughtful botanical drawings, i was reminded of the need to take a breath. to notice the miraculous details in the season we are in.

a singing stream along a walk with a dear friend

yes, the need to take a breath. 

life has been whirlwindy. bustling with activity, people, assignments... exciting decisions have been made by students and faculty at the university, advocating for the removal of the mississippi state flag from campus until it becomes a more inclusive symbol. 

i've also been exposed to some particularly amazing souls recently, a few of whom i'd like to share about... 

phila rawlings hach is from tennessee. she hosted a tv cooking show, operated an inn, cooked an epic meal for the united nations. she received the southern foodways alliance keeper of the flame award. here is a short film about her life, which i highly recommend. in it she reflects: 

"i have never, never, never asked for anything. but i've been at the right place at the right time. but what is time? its a multitude of moments, which is all we have, is the moment. i have let my moments empower my life... its not about me, its about those that have touched my life. who am i? i'm just a woman, a bold woman of conviction." 

here is another short film about a wise woman of gumption: joann clevenger. owner of upper line restaurant in new orleans, joann just received the southern foodways alliance lifetime achievement award. in the film she says: 

"i want to make people happy because i want to change the world. and i think a lot of people are idealistic about changing the world. but the reality is that we can only change that tiny little environment that is immediately around us. and we can do it... we only have a limited time in this world, its not a dress rehearsal and i want to be able to look at my life and say, 'what did i do of value for others?'"

also at the sfa symposium last weekend, i had the opportunity to hear kiese laymon speak. originally from jackson, mississippi, he is the john grisham writer in residence at the university this year. he has written essays and a novel,  long division, which we will be reading later this semester. he published a recent article in espn magazine about living in oxford. during his talk, kiese paid homage to his grandmother and southern hip-hop, noting the paradoxical stank and freshness of black southern life. with passion and eloquence, he honestly addresses race, region, and culture. i'm looking forward to ruminating on more of his words. 

one more speaker to note. i had the pleasure of attending a performance of e. patrick johnson a few days ago. he complied a set of oral histories of black gay men in the south entitled sweet tea (another book i'll read soon for class). this talk, however, showcased an upcoming book, honey pot, about black southern women who love women. his presentation was amazing. moving. inspiring. a testament to the power of story collecting. he is a person of incredible intelligence, compassion, and lyricism. read sweet tea. keep your eyes peeled for honey pot. 

and one more bit of inspiration. i was reminded of this wendell berry poem from kentucky chef edward lee: 

"it may be that when we no longer know what to do 

we have come to our real work, 

and that when we no longer know which way to go 

we have come to our real journey. 

the mind that is not baffled is not employed. 

the impeded stream is the one that sings." 

here's to autumn leaves. moments. gumption. honesty. stories. and singing streams. 

all join hands, circle to the south...

i seem to have inherited parts of both of my grandmothers. one loved to dance. the other loved to share food. it is the places where those two things coalesce that i feel rooted and alive. this past weekend, i snuck away to dare to be square, a dance weekend, that was held outside of nashville. oh, it was a delight to be around old time music and dance. i've missed that community in recent days. and we ate well too. many things coming from the farm where the dances were held, or just down the road - turnip greens, sweet potatoes, squash soup, autumn goodness...

it felt healing to take a breath. to reconnect heart and spirit and body. i've been doing a lot of thinking in school. a weekend of dancing let me use my brain in different ways. honestly, much of it felt like a dream. 

dare to be square offers workshops specifically for square dance callers. although i'm not yet a caller - perhaps aspiring - i went to workshops where methodology was discussed. beyond just enjoying dancing, there were opportunities to analyze how callers orchestrate fluid dancing with clear, well-timed directions. and this reminded me of being in school. at the moment, my reading isn't for mere pleasure, but with a constant analytical attitude - observing and critiquing how scholars frame their arguments and approach their subject matter. sometimes its an exhausting practice. but its valuable. and it forces me to be deeply present with whatever is before me. kind of like a square dance caller has to do. 

i picked this book up along the way (which i am mighty excited to read): hoedowns, reels, and frolics: roots and branches of southern appalachian dance by the wonderful square dance caller, phil jamison. i can recommend it wholeheartedly. 

as i return to the rhythms of routine, i am grateful for moments of dancing. for the reminder that dancing is a part of me. and i'll find it wherever i go. 

greens and bacon. bacon and greens.

in our foodways class this week, we read southern provisions, by david shields, which thoroughly discusses the agricultural and culinary history of lowcountry cuisine.

one of the gems within the book is a hymn of sorts, written by bakus t. huntington of tuscaloosa, alabama, somewhere around 1850 entitled "bacon and greens" (p. 149-150). 

the song was apparently more personally inspirational than i knew, as i found myself buying bacon at the farmer's market today with visions of pairing it with mustard greens and grits for supper. 

so, with apologies to non-meat eaters. and those who find corny rhymes annoying. here is huntington's hymn: 

"bacon and greens"

i have lived long enough to be rarely mistaken,

and born my full share of life's changeable scenes, 

but my woes have been solaced by good greens and bacon, 

and my joys have been doubled by bacon and greens. 

what a thrill of remembrance e'en now they awaken, 

of childhood's gay morning and youth's merry scenes, 

when one day, we had greens and a plate full of bacon, 

and the next, we had bacon and a plate full of greens. 

ah! well i remember when sad and forsaken, 

heart-wrung by the scorn of a miss in her teens, 

how i rushed from her sight to my loved greens and bacon, 

and forgot my despair over bacon and greens. 

when the banks refused specie and credit was shaken, 

i shared in the wreck and was ruined in means'

my friends all declared i had not saved my bacon, 

but they lied - for i still had my bacon and greens. 

oh! there is charm in this dish, rightly taken, 

that, from custards and jellies, and epicure weans: 

stick your fork in the fat - wrap your greens round the bacon, 

and you will vow there is nothing like bacon and greens. 

if some fairy a grant of three wishes would make one

so worthless as i, and so laden with sins, 

i'd wish all the greens in the world - then the bacon - 

and then wish a little more bacon and greens

post script: 

i return to confess that for once i'm mistaken, 

as much as I've known of this world and its scenes, 

there's one thing that's equal to both greens and bacon, 

and that is a dish of - good bacon and greens. 

                           ~

as fall greens arrive at our markets and in our gardens, i wish you the goodness of the greens you love most, prepared in the ways you love most. with bacon or otherwise. 

and speaking of greens, i am looking forward to diving into elizabeth engelhardt's a mess of greens, for next week, which explores food and gender. 

bon appétit,

persimmons falling from the sky.

i have found a secret persimmon spot. on a neighborhood corner. on my way to the wooded sanctuary at william faulkner's house. it has become a ritual, of sorts. to search for fallen fruit. and i'm becoming delightfully accustomed to the additional sweetness along my evening strolls. 

in their autumn deliciousness, persimmons offer lessons. yearly reminders of the bitter astringency of haste and the sweet reward of patience. gratefully and humbly, i accept their teachings. and re-teachings. as i fondly remember other persimmon trees i have stumbled across along the way. 

and here i am. in a new place of waiting: waiting to find my rhythm here. waiting to understand my purpose here. waiting to see where all of this leads. 

but there's something else the 'simmons are saying. about recognizing ripeness. celebrating it. enjoying it. sharing it. lest these glorious fruits spoil in their failure to be noticed. 

though i'm in a place of waiting, i'm also in a place that i waited to arrive at. a place that almost fell from the sky like a ripe persimmon. and its time to embrace this opportunity. to soak up all the goodness i can learn and experience while i am here. it has been easy to be distracted. to be overwhelmed by the scholarly tasks before me. to be melancholy as i miss other homes. to pass by those sweet persimmons right in front of me. but now feels like the time to intentionally be present. to enjoy this while it lasts. knowing this season, like all seasons, is impermanent and will change. 

my days have been spent reading and listening and writing and discussing. a whirlwind of ideas. a feast of concepts. life is constantly challenging and interesting. and i'm growing in ways i don't yet comprehend. and though i can't share everything, i'd like to share a few of the sweet fruits i've come across recently, so that you too might enjoy them if you choose to partake.

a few recommendations: 

• this ain't chicago by zandria robinson. it offers an important conversation about black southern identity, focusing on memphis specifically. 
• the work of theda perdue, who gave a talk on the historical connections between american indian identity and christianity. 
• white bread by aaron borrow-strain. i haven't read it yet, but heard the author speak as a part of the foodways graduate student conference. he encouraged a room full of food scholars to write less about food and more about the realities of injustice. 
• country soul by charles hughes. this is another "i haven't read the book yet but went to a lecture" recommendation. the author was a dynamic, passionate speaker. his book seems to be a critical, well-argued analysis of the collaborative and complex country-soul music scene of the 1960's-70's, centered around memphis, nashville, and muscle shoals. read it and do tell me about it. 

that's enough food for thought for now. wishing you the sweetest, ripest fruits in their own perfect timing. the patience to wait. the courage to embrace.