The Last Supper

I wrote this little ditty for a contest on OWN television.  It's a true story of my love affair with food.  At first I didn't want to share but decided that sharing my loves and passions with other people could be an inspiration.  Hope you enjoy!

P.S.  My son came up with a new recipe idea.  I've been meaning to post it but the plate is empty before I can take pics.  Look for it and other exciting videos soon!

The Last Supper

The last thing I did for my grandmother when she was living was cook her supper.  At the time I wasn’t a very good cook, but for me, it was one of the few ways I could show an old lady who didn’t do public displays of affection my love.  We had chopped beef steaks with gravy.   She didn’t jump for joy or sing my praises; she just filled her belly and said, “That wasn’t bad.”  Good I thought;  that’s the least I could do for the lady who helped take care of me and made the best eggs and grits in the world.  Fast forward 15 years and I am blogging about food, teaching cooking classes, and even gathering information and recipes to write a book on food; finally making the connection that using my creative energy to manipulate fruits, veggies, herbs, and spices is an important part my life.

I started out as a dancer but remember saying as a child that if I didn’t have to go to college I would cook.  Unfortunately in the 70’s, the only women of color I saw who cooked worked in the cafeterias at school.  There was no Food TV, no Cooking Channel.   The only person I did see on television was Cajun cook Justin Wilson on PBS.  I didn’t see any major cooking role models therefore I went to college and danced.   That was the only other thing I enjoyed in life and between watching Debbie Allen on Fame and Soul Train, I knew I could do it.  I was a dancing machine and after undergrad went into Dance/Movement Therapy for graduate school.  While in school, I got lost in cooking stores loving on the pots, pans, and egg timers.  I picked my dad’s brain for his Jambalaya recipe, and made the tofu recipes I saw on the back of it's packaging.  My graduate studies in dance didn’t feel like my main love anymore.  I felt like I was in a marriage not totally in love and passionate about my significant other; feeling too ashamed to admit that I was seeing someone else and didn’t feel the marriage arrangement was the right fit in the first place.  “I must go on!” I said; I had to finish what I started, so I danced until my heart felt whispers became little rocks thrown at the windows of my glass house.  My sudden illness before graduation; pebble one.    The awesome job opportunity I accepted that helped me to realize I wasn’t cut out to be a Dance Therapist; pebble two.  My journal entries that stated “I HATE THIS!”, meaning my life; pebble three.  My only reprieve;  my high rise apartment overlooking Lake Michigan that I was able to get because of my job, and a new network I discovered called Food TV.   Watching cooking shows and trying new recipes became my comfort, my refuge.  Whereas dance gave me the self-esteem I needed as a teenager to keep me from totally losing my mind; cooking gave me a sense of comfort, of true creativity, and joy.  The same comfort, creativity, and joy I shared with my grandmother a few years earlier.  Though it wasn’t her last supper, it was my last gesture of love to someone who didn’t always know how to give a hug and my re-introduction to a lover that tickled my tasetbuds and warmed my soul.