The Heart of the Matter

See, what's the matter is the heart of the matter
Where the unconscious refuses to access the subconscious, which cannot move into the conscious,
Which fuels a blissful stupidity which we commonly refer to as society.

The heart of the matter is not police brutality or racism, but it is the lack of self-love,
Which produces a mass of people with no identity
And without an identity there is no sense of belonging.

Therefore, I say to you that the root of the problem is not a broken justice system,
But systems unchallenged by just rationale;
Only equity can balance the scales of injustice.

The broken family resonating in communities creates matter that breaks the heart
And the teachers have been disempowered and directed to teach to a standard
And that standard socializes the youth in the same circle of ignorance.

You see, what's at the heart of the matter is selfishness, pride and insecurities
All of which we lock in a special place in our hearts to be circulated throughout our bodies
And via the circulatory system hate is recycled and passed on through conception and multiple births.

The eye can be deceived, but the heart sees truth without looking
And at the heart of the matter is the unconscious refusing to identify with privilege
The subconscious resting comfortably in its social category of being a first world nation.

The unconscious resting on a foundation of lies that builds monuments of wealth
While the subconscious is perched elegantly on the ledge watching death run through the valley
And the conscious is diminished because it neglects to be proactive, to be extraordinary, to arise.

So, in understanding the heart of the matter I can pledge to stand in a position that seeks wisdom,
Denies privilege, models positivity, understands oneness in humanity, and perpetuates an agape love.

                                                                                                                                 Photo by ROBERT COHEN/Ap

What should I be?

Should I be a Tupac Shakur flowing with lyrics to inspire my listeners and those that disagree with my image?
Should I be a Johann Sebastian Bach and enrich contemporary arts with my skills and creativity?
Should I be Langston Hughes and take part in this 21st century renaissance of enlightenment and self-discovery?
Should I be a Barack Obama and stand on the world stage and be judged for having my own opinions?
Should I be a Marcus Garvey and organize a back to Africa movement so we can learn the true roots of our vines?
Should I be a Mother Teresa and make it my life mission to care for the sick and poor?
Should I be a Maya Angelou and let my experiences fuel my written expressions?
Should I be a Common and rap about uncommon things, touch the common person and worry not about plaudits?
Should I be an Albert Einstein with a brilliance that inspires my students and a poetic science that revolutionizes life?
Should I be the oppressed who are submissive and heavily burdened with the weight of institutional power?
Should I be a leader who is submissive and heavily burdened with the weight of institutional privilege?
Should I be what people expect me to be?
Should I be more?
Should I be less?
Should I be who I am?

Be careful what you pray for

When I prayed to do something great I had no idea I would be pushed to be a leader.

When I prayed to be a vessel to impact society I had no idea I would leave my immediate vicinity and travel the world.

When I prayed for understanding I had no idea that life altering experiences would occur and I would not like them.

When I prayed for wisdom I had no idea that I had to clean out myself in order to take in newness.

When I prayed for financial shifting and increase I had no idea of the responsibility that came with it.

When I prayed for extrinsic things I had no idea the vanity of them had no bearings on the intrinsic pleasures of my heart.

When I prayed for mercy and hiding I had no idea that grace would give me more and remove the veil so I could see clearly.

When I prayed I knew I would be heard and my prayers answered, but the how was never up to me.

 

State of being

My fridge looks like I'm livin' in poverty.
My mental says the same thing.

Empty thoughts below the line of happiness.
Empty pockets, below zero bank account.

This house has lost its home like feeling.
This heart has lost its love and peace.

Stripped of fresh vegetation, the fridge is empty.
Stripped of wholesome meditation, the mind is gone.

Unhealthy is a state of being.
Unhealthy living leads to death.

Shall poverty thrive?
Shall I die?

25 ways to make eggs

1. I can have a fried egg on bread as I dash out for work.
2. A fancy frittata on the weekend when company comes.
3. An omelet of any kind, especially with cheese for my brother.
4. Scrambled eggs are quick and simple for the kids.
5. Sauteed garlic and asparagus with eggs for my fancy sister.
6. Sunny side up for my grandpa from Mississippi.
7. Poached eggs over a crab cake for my cousin from the East.
8. Over medium for my aunt in northern California.
9. Baked with vegetables when I want a light meal.
10. I can have eggs in a basket for a brunch special.
11. Eggs in a quiche to share at the potluck.
13. Egg salad for a nice picnic at the park.
14. Hard-boiled eggs in tuna salad, chicken salad or just plain salad.
15. Soft-boiled eggs eaten right out of their shell or spread across toast.
16. Deviled eggs for the family reunion in summertime.
17. Raw eggs for the extreme dieter.
18. Eggs wrapped in a burrito, or huevos rancheros.
19. Eggs in my stir fry from the Chinese food spot.
20. A fried egg over my hamburger from the burger joint.
21. A fried bologna sandwich with an egg fried hard for my distant cousins.
22. Scrambled eggs with grape jelly and a biscuit for my mother.
23. Eggs wrapped in paratha bread in the East.
24. Eggs wrapped around Pad Thai Haw Kai in Thailand.
25. Eggnog gives holiday cheer and good tidings at the end of every year.

I want that old thing back

I want that old school secret love when he writes letters and slides them in your locker.
I want that old school crush when he walked you to your class and ran late to his.
I want that old school stare from across the room because he cannot deny his affection.
I want that old school date night when he knocks on the door and asks are you ready.
I want that old school car door opening, front door holding, chivalrous brother.
I want that old school conversation when he said, "I like you!" and meant it.
I want that old thing back.

Better things to do

I have a work to do, but I'd much rather look out the window.
There is some research and arguments to be developed,
But I can't argue with the beauty of the night sky that claims my attention.
My alarm will go off for work in the morning and I should be prepared,
Yet I find more pleasure in writing this poem than drafting my lessons.
The textbooks in my bag are being neglected, maybe I should unzip them.
Or just unzip the wonders of my mind and the love I have for the pen.
And then let my heart guide me to true happiness.

Dear Future Husband

Dear Future Husband,

Build me a house on the water so I can watch the tide roll in and the sunset glisten across the blues. Build me a house on the water so the sound of crashing waves can soothe me every evening while I curl under you. Build me a house on the water so we can stroll along the beach and let our conversations multiply like the seashells. Build me a house on the water because I am madly in love with sea green and ocean indigo. Build me a house on the water so we can watch the sky turn red as the bright star bids us farewell each day.

Love, 

Charlie 

Shifting

I tried to walk and fell flat like a babe without balance.
Scales of blind justice gave me a shove in an unknown direction.

I was tangled in a triangular disaster.
Webs of misfortune because unfortunately my home was unpleasant.

But I was fortunate to have a hey sugar mixed with butter and milk.
Give me some sugar up on the rotund belly of grandpa I climbed.

Summer hugs and watermelon kisses on the front swing.
Swinging and singing in the summer rain.

Summers passed and storms did too.
I passed through the years with blurred vision from salty tears.

My eyes were a brick wall of my cold, stone heart.
Frozen in time, still in a surrogate love that belonged to others.

I did not know how to obtain happiness for myself.
No self-confidence or positive thoughts of a life that boxed me in.

A square, mundane lifestyle the same on every side.
Matching corners and perfect calculations of the same thing each time.

Glad was the day I found out lines no longer needed to be straight.
Everything ceased to exist and negativity perished in the sights of new hope.

Anger and repressed emotions died to self love and forgiveness.
Doubt and fears of failure and lack were driven out by faith.

All of the old vanished from memory and I could only see the present.



7/28/14

Poem cry

If my eyes could cry, a river would form in this desert.
It would flow over the dunes and down through Bedouin camps.

My footprints in the sand create a labyrinth of lost thoughts.
But if I could cry a river in this desert I would drift away.
Perhaps down to the mouth and out into the ocean.

Somehow I find myself standing in the wind as it whispers to me.
Deafened to discernment, it tells me no tales.
Blinded by the bold rays of sunshine, I cannot see.

Closed eyes lifted to the sky blue and no tears from my face.
If I could open my eyes and let them cry, a river would come gushing forth.
But I refuse to shed a tear, instead, I'll let this poem cry.

Lighten up

And God said, “Let there be light.”

Now I stand here enlightened by the daylight

That has grown dim into an evening,

But nevertheless shining brightly on my soul.

Overlooking a city of twinkling lights,

I reflect over the last seventeen hours of my life.  

The first sixteen hours I was ill and distressed

With body and mind congested with earthly matter.

The seventeenth hour has brought great joy.

Fresh brewed chamomile in hand and poetry on my mind,

I feel light on my feet.

While the tea warms my body, the quiet lightens the mood

And the poetic flow lifts my spirit to higher levels.

All sixteen hours are forgotten; just the here and now.

And I say, “Let there be light,” and so it is.

The water did come

I stood from a distance watching the water flow.

A beautiful turquoise, salted water that wrapped the edge of the land

Began to swell and lift the earth.

It raised the trees from the ground and they touched the clouds.

My eyes were filled with astonishment as I gazed from up high.

Unthreatened, I watched the water well and pass through the city.

When the turquoise blues rose to a level that approached my window,

I was afraid.

Fear gripped my belly as I hoisted my body from the seat to get a better view.

Yes, the water was coming for me.

I attempted to take refuge from the window,

But my feet were planted firm as an iron pillar.

Drenched in terror with heart racing, I heard a calm voice say,

“Don’t run.”

 

9/11/14 10:10pm EDT

9/12/14 6:10am GST +4

 

Reflections - 2

It is five o'clock in the morning and I am up watching the sunrise and ready to complete a week of work in this one day. Pareto's Principle says that I should be able to do it with no problem. Perhaps I am using it a little out of context, but surely I can complete 80% of the work I have left to do with 20% of the time and effort. In examining the situation, I should have started my graduate assignments, script, and work projects as of six days ago. In two days, today and tomorrow, I will finish seven days of work. That means using 20% of my work week to complete all of my tasks. Voila!

In all of my exhaustion after work, I came home each day and crashed on the couch. When I awoke there was not a bone in my body that wanted to do anything else. I stretched out my tasks for the week and wrote down every assignment I was to do on a certain day. None of it was executed with precision and I even turned in my first grad assignment late. That hurt my heart, but what could I say? I was on the telephone gabbing and having social hour with my roomy. Too many distractions.

Now the sun is rising some days later and I refuse to spend a sunny Saturday slumped over the computer and headed in to work for hours. My mind refuses to let me sleep and I am up on a Saturday morning, just before sunrise, doing laundry, a journal entry, reading textbooks, choosing a research topic, listening to online lectures, brewing Chinese black tea and lesson planning for my kids. Cheers to the Pareto Principle and diligence.

Charlie

Tsunami Haiku

Enormous wave
rising in the deep blue sea,
casting the land from the earth.

Rumbles from the core
send the raging water forth
and my world afloat.

Horrifying surf;
the overwhelming ocean
has come to claim war.

Above and up high,
unstoppable scorn was sent
from Neptune afar.

Slowly swelling up
a tsunami came to thrash
and wreck the city.


Exploding cosmos;
a tidal wave ascended
engulfing my dream.

Savory chocolate

"The soul of my truth, the heritage of my roots, the reason why I wanted to get that booth. Others noticed me but I bought the drinks, didn't want to be submerged in the ties, I won't cajole you with lies...you're my favorite flavor, you're the chocolate I savor but I'm reaching out when I'm supposed to be reaching within...blessed with favor.."

I can't be sure where your truth lies
Or if false reason and reality are bound with ties

My lens has a clear filter for discrimination
So, I was never in danger of any false persuasion 

And the truth of my roots lie deep in a tropical tree
Concealed in its pod ripening in blissful harmony 

I am not the essence, but cocoa in its organic state
Harvested with compassion and fulfilling the mandate

Nourishing the soul and stimulating the mind
Shattering the mold after I was designed

Not labels, no Coco Chanel, but cocoa butter that can heal

Intimate feelings of raw cocoa with sensual whip appeal

I am the superior chocolate that you savor

My thick richness will change your behavior 

Smooth, delectable, desirable and fine
I am the chocolatiers perfect design 

The complement to champagne or weekend libations
I am the calming fix to all your frustrations

You can drink my goodness, it does a body good
A swirl of my freshness refreshes for the misunderstood

Perhaps you can align with my cocoa pleasures
Maybe I can grant you access to my chocolate treasures

I am your strongest desire and perfect flavor
The best chocolate that you will always favor

Reflections - 1

Saturday, September 14, 2013

God is testing me. He's testing my faith, my patience, my leadership abilities, my talents, he's testing my wisdom and ability to walk in his Word. I'm a little nervous, but I'm ready. No more lying dormant or riding back seat. It's time to pull away from all things that are not propelling me forward. It's time to straighten out finances and pay back my debts. It's time to get away from the world into my secret closet, into the garden to walk with my Jesus. It's time because God has called me for a purpose driven life. He's closed doors that I didn't have the strength to leave. He has opened doors that I didn't have the courage to knock on. I'm ready. I'm willing. Here I am Lord!

Writing Tena-ciously

"I pour out my heart with a pen, I write out to tell within. I share my soul for likes now and again, the narcissism carried deep within. Can I be the author I claim or with a head tucked low clinging to shame, wondering why no one knows my pain...my God within is responsible for the victory that will be claimed. I've been writing all my life, New York Bestseller is my next biggest..."

New York Bestseller is my next biggest win
Because I'm going to pour out my heart with this pen
Yes, I will tell you everything within
Every shame, every hurt, every scar and past sin

You can know the pain pressing my heart like a ton
But undergird yourself before I say it and it's done
This story is fierce like the winds of Euroclydon
Scorching and harmful as the gases of the sun

But all hail conversion, our great savior of the day
Even the gases of the sun are useful millions of miles away
And blustery winds against the sails to a captain is okay
You see, energy is never created or destroyed, it converts when we pray

So, I'll let this ink bleed from the words of my heart
You can have the entire story all the way from the start
From project ghettos to stilettos a world apart
From generational curses to futuristic verses and art

I am the author that I honorably claim
The author who bears it all with no shame
I am the author critically acclaimed
Because I have victory in Jesus' name
Amen!


 

Give up the fight

"It's okay to not be tough.
It's okay to let your guard down and open your heart.
Life teaches us to be callus and argumentative, combative and dismayed."

I was starting this as a poem, like most of my other posts, but a journal entry is much more suitable following today's sermon. I also have not done a journal entry in my personal journal, so I'll go ahead and publicize this one.

"Be a Barnabas" was the title of the sermon. You must first understand the nature of Barnabas and who he was. He was a son of encouragement and a genuine encourager. He was full of love, sympathy and faith. How did he get like this? Barnabas grew up with encouraging parents who spoke life into him, who loved on him and showed him affection. As an educator I see the effects of parenting up close and personal. I can connect all behavior, academic achievement and personality traits back to a child's home life and know what's going on in that house without actually being there. No, I am not a psychologist (though I thought about child psychology in undergrad), merely observant of my surroundings and within my profession. And perhaps I am a bit sensitive to people's energy.

What I have come to know about people is they put out what they take in. Love begets love, hate begets hate and so on. So, in the above line "Life teaches us to be callus and argumentative, combative and dismayed," this is only true sometimes. In fact, it was purely a personal testimony. In the saddest of situations a mother does not hug her daughter ever and she chastises her son without giving him the balance of uplifting words. A father does not show his son affection or he never spends time with his daughter. Domestic abuse, drugs and alcohol plague our communities and fill our homes with depression. And this is the legacy we pass on, the generational curses of nothingness because there is a lack of love, sympathy and faith.

As cognizant adults we have choices. We can choose to be different, we can choose to be happy, and we can choose to stop fighting. God always gives us a door, a buoy, a way out of the chaos. Where there was peace and kindness missing in the home, he sends a Barnabas. A friend who believes in you, a significant who loves you, a mentor who gives you hope. Your Barnabas may come in many forms. Be ready to receive your encourager! Take in all the good energy, because as I said before, love begets love, peace begets peace, kindness begets kindness and so on. We put out what we take in. Choose what you take in. Change your friendship circles, your workplace, your hangouts, etc. Be careful what you allow in your life because you will become it.

Most importantly, be a lover! We have to learn how to love and let people love us. If you don't know how then start here:
-practice smiling and sharing hugs
-accept yourself for who you are
-learn how to forgive
-think positive thoughts about yourself and your life (I think, therefore I am)
-get in touch with your spirituality

This all begins with giving up the fight. Stop being hurt and depressed. Do not suppress old feelings, talk about them, it helps with healing. I don't have this to an exact science, as I am working on it daily, but I do have a Barnabus or two in my life to encourage me through it. They are my friends, Sorors, family members and acquaintances near and far. My circle blesses me and I am able to be a blessing, and "be a Barnabas."

Language

She told a story with no words.
Vast swaying motions fluttered about her face.
She spoke volumes without a sound.

She created a world with silent vibrations.
Emotions lived through actions.
She synchronized hearts with melodic motions.

She drew eminence with her hands.
Profound statements made without a voice.
She made language visual.

Remembering Dr. Maya Angelou

Dr. Maya Angelou was a treasured jewel and she will be missed. She used her words to invoke passion in us. Her accolades go above and beyond in literature, the arts and community involvement. But what I can take from this devastating loss is a lesson in dedicating myself to the pen and my passion since fifth grade. Writing my world and using my words to pursue change or uplift the community brings joy to my heart. I can speak loudly with written words and let them travel across the globe sharing my stories.

The Cage Bird VS. The Free Bird

"The cage bird knew that his door was open

Caged so long he became a morbid token

Of what you lose when you dare not try

When you are afraid that you too can fly

Caged so long he forgot his dreams 

For the cage bird is afraid of freedom

A free bird knows not of fearful skies

He spreads his wings and enjoys the ride

Love is taught between his eyes and his songs fill the world

But a cage bird is afraid to try

Sighs and cries at sunny skies

Love not drawn from inside so he lay in a cage of rage

The cage bird knows no wishful dreams

Timid approach to living things

He knows not why the free bird sings

He is afraid that he too can fly

The free bird shares and lives his dreams

Swarms the earth among living things

Rise to wake with the morning light and can't wait to fly in the sky

The cage bird knows no wishful dreams

Timid approach to living things

He knows not why the free bird sings

He is afraid that he too can fly"

-DeAndra Tanae, circa 2008  

Reflections

I did some self reflecting today. I flipped through my journal and read my thoughts from over the past year. The tables have turned quite drastically and much has transpired. It amazes me how the power of words can paint a picture so vivid and conjure intense emotions though they lay lifeless on the paper. I leaped right back into the moments I described just as if it happened an hour ago. My life is extremely colorful; I wouldn't trade this journey for anything. I will keep all my victories, laughter and wisdom. I will keep all of my heartache, tears and bruises. I embrace every peak and valley, and every ocean and small stream in its entirety.
Thankfully, I write these wonderful occurrences down in my sugar and spice notebook.  During my reflections today I stumbled across November 22, 2013, "No More Flowers." Yes, all of my journal entries have titles. This is the story of my life, why would they not? This particular entry was a poem. I have been intrigued with writing about nature for a while, but especially flowers, the sun and butterflies. Flowers can serve a great metaphorical and literal meaning in literature. I always use both when I write about this beautiful gift of God.

"What happens when the flowers stop?
When their warm embrace loosens and floats away.

No more daisies in the spring or black-eyed Susans bunched around,
And no more sunflowers in the summer.

No more roses in red, white, pink, yellow, or soft autumn orange.
Nothing but the thorns left that pricked my heart.

I cry and melt away as far as I can from the pain
Because there are no more blooming bouquets to brighten my day."

Clearly, this was a valley moment. Even though the flowers stopped for a season, I was able to move on. The tides in the ocean have changed and the sun has risen in a new hour. I decided to buy some fresh, new flowers today and all is well with my soul!

Writer's block

Why'd I stop writing you ask.

You see, I had a severe case of writer's block.
An astronomical something that made my creativity devoid.
It wedged itself in the middle of my flow,
Clogging and slowing the natural occurrences of my metaphoric melodies.
It bluntly halted my hyperbolic references to simple sentences.

You see, I had a severe case of writer's block.
It formed icicles where rhymes spouted freely
And a mass glacier over my zeal for words.
Repetitive thoughts not worth writing down
And a redundant life that brought forth no fruit.

You see, I had a sever case of writer's block.

I let go of my therapeutic remedy.

Out of the mind and onto paper where concepts become concrete;

Emotions released and the heart lightened. 

My favorite past time forgotten
And the joy of sitting in the windowsill with pen and pad lost. 

The words ceased.

I stopped writing.

I had a sever case of writer's block. 

He said, he said

He told me I could not love enough
I could not fill his emptiness
I could not match his pride with my lukewarm affection
I could not love enough with my smiles

Secure hugs were no replacement for insecurities

My love was not big enough in actions
My love was not loud enough in words
My love was not enough

There was a slow leak in the tire and every so often I’d stop at the pump or buy a can of fix a flat
Buying myself some time because replacing tires is expensive
That old car was too expensive to fix, too costly to get rid of, and held sentimental value because I invested my life into it

The mileage was beyond what the odometer could read
Oil was leaking and the car kept overheating
The seats were ripped and the interior stained beyond cleaning
A few broken lights and of course the tags were expired

No insurance
No more romances or innocent joy riding
Love and marriage were not in waiting for a faithless love
No more patience in an unforgiving heart
No sweet sound of laughter and no growth

He told me I could not love enough
I could not be the mother of life regardless of my genetic make up

My love was not big enough in actions
My love was not loud enough in words
My love was not enough

So I put the key in the ignition and jiggled three times
I shook the steering wheel two times and pumped the gas five times before it would turn over
I knew the end was near and I could not sustain it, nor could it sustain me
The engine gave out and I could not love it anymore

(Circa May 2013) 

Triumph

Tenaciously striding through this endangered world, I am a glamorous species of hope with unwavering faith in what I must know. Wisdom bestowed upon me from beyond the highest element of life, and from the lower morsels of human affliction. I dare to dream through it all.
Reclined and looking up to the blues of infinite possibilities, I commit myself uprightly and just.  


1/7/2013

The Cover-Up

I'm trying to makeup, but it just doesn't make since
Because I can't cover up the cover-up.

Cappuccino number eight to brighten my imperfections.
Purple maniac to give a sparkle to this hue of depressing blue.
Electric eel with a satin finish so you can't see the rough spots.
Number twenty-four makes a brotha stare at the lip gloss
And his girl give the head toss because she's mad.

I've concealed my rotund darkness with a natural tone.
My Queen collection doesn't have me feeling like royalty today.
And MAC better give me my money back,
Because this cover-up ain't covering up like it's supposed to.
Layers of a faulty foundation,
There are too many ways to apply these products.

Years of practice and I'm still no professional.
The rouge does not accent my cheekbones
Which never move from their sad position.
My mascara is running a marathon and volumizing my distress.
Yet, I must reapply and move forward with the cover-up.

A little more adhesive to bring out my eyes,
And some adhesive to mend this brokenness.
Natural beauty is a thing of the past.

So, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Then I can't be certain of what I see.
If eyes are a window to the soul,
Then my life story is an open book for the average browser.

This mineralized skin finish is purely cosmetic.
It will eventually fade while the pain still radiates through my pores.
Perhaps two coats of cherry bomb red to hide my nervous condition
Because this cover-up ain't covering up like it's supposed to.

(Circa May 2013)

What if?

What if my family never moved from Jackson?
What if I never left Lansing?
What if I attended that college I desperately sought after?
What if I chose not to attend college?
What if I let a lack of finances dictate my life style?
What if I were never self motivated?
What if no one ever believed in me or encouraged me?
What if I never attended Upward Bound?
What if I completed studies in architecture, psychology, or sociology?
What if I never pledged Delta?
What if I never loved?
What if I never lost love?
What if I were a product of my environment?
What if I never had Mount Zion?
What if I fell to teen pregnancy?
What if I fell to substance abuse?
What if I were never strong enough to make my own decisions?
What if I never left Atlanta?
What if I were married and started a family?

Where would I be? I am not sure, but those are not questions I have to answer. I am living with no regrets and I urge you to do the same.

My storyboard

Currently, my life is like a storyboard template with sketches and incomplete sentences. Ideas strewn about trying to create a big picture, but nothing quite coming together. Random occurrences and ill thought out plans to create a future of some sort, a future uncertain to present hopes. I keep reorganizing the ideas, but there is no natural flow pattern for this particular storyboard. The plot is generic and has lost its tenacity to reach a climatic point that preludes the dynamic ending. This story could take several courses, yet I am assured there is only one predestined outcome. Creativity is a struggle. The gift of choice and decision comes with great burdens and time sensitivities. How do I organize this storyboard and decide what makes it into the final script? Whatever this production transpires will be the story of my life. Stay tuned...

Cake Batter

When I was I child I loved being in the kitchen with my dad. He would cut and whip, dice and stir, flip and dip, coat and mix. He seared and smothered on top of the stove, he baked on the inside of the stove and broiled under the bottom of the stove. My dad grilled in the back yard and fried on the double burner, free standing gas stove hooked to a tank. It was versatility at its finest. Such sweet smells and memories. Cake batter!

The holidays rolled around and groceries would pour in. Sticks of butter and eggs would pile on the table. Dad left them out overnight, then in the morning he made magic happen with butter, sugar and eggs. We filled the large plastic bowl with flour, a pinch of this and a dash of that. My dad put in the hand mixer and let the whipping begin; he even let me hold it for a twirl. I knew a baking delight was coming within an hour or two, but that mattered none. I was holding out for something much grander, more sweet and instantly delectable. There was no need to wait an hour when I could have the spoon, bowl and mixing spatulas to lick that sweet combination of ingredients that once sat bored in solidarity on the table. Cake batter!

James Brown and Parliament were among the top plays in his theme music. By the age of five I could glide across the floor, twiddle my feet and do a cold spin before I dipped to the floor in a split. The dance breaks in between the cooking brought joy to the heart, especially when my dad threw on his hat and tipped it forward, put his hands behind his back as he hunched forward and slide across the floor with one leg cocked in the air. He did it with so much soul. Cake batter!

I have since grown from that admiring youngster and moved far away from my dad's stove and the holiday filled kitchen. As the years passed, so did sad times and good times. My dad experienced life and all of its peaks and valleys. I came to know life and all of its harshness and prosperity. Even so, cooking holds its therapeutic stance. When the holidays come around I must cut and dice, stir and mix, flip and fry in my own kitchen. The recipes and ingredients remain, and my playlist is quite reminiscent of a youth before my birth. A little James Brown, some Al Green, a little Bootsy, P-funk and the like to get my spatulas spinning. No matter where I am or how old I get, I will never forget those times. My home will share in that same joy to the tunes, to the gastronomic delicacies of my roots. Cake batter!