https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site Active Culture's Digest Sat, 19 Nov 2022 05:03:31 +0000 https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site en https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/ISSUE-14 Sat, 19 Nov 2022 04:54:28 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/ISSUE-14 November 2022ISSUE 14 <img width="1300" height="900" width_o="1300" height_o="900" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7562ea0a19679981c75e9532780a62f8acd72305f0381b75a74afa902e076ef1/Issue14Header.gif" data-mid="159883457" border="0" data-scale="75" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7562ea0a19679981c75e9532780a62f8acd72305f0381b75a74afa902e076ef1/Issue14Header.gif" /> From the editor Nneka Jackson Delight. Glee. A practice of loving and gratitude. This is an exploration of joy and its dynamism. Stunning multimedia contributions from across the United States, the UK, and Jamaica come together amidst the richness of contentment and adoration. The things we create in the odyssey transform our existence as we survive. The sustenance is the texturing, and so there are recipes to inspire culinary meditation and mindfulness. Thank you to the contributing artists - each has fashioned Joy into their makings in meditative, fertile ways. In this issue, Chris and Lisa Binns of Jamaica’s beloved Stush in the Bush share reflections of joy through poetry, prose, and a treasured recipe. Shanice of out of many Studio guides us through a multi-sensory journey, gently igniting each sense in satisfaction. Filmmaker Summer Eldemire shares the quest for happiness through a short film and doughnuts. Sara Elise shares ancestral, indigenous ties through sacred corn. Zakiya McKenzie takes us on a romp through her Jamaican childhood with plums. Reneice Charles provides us with the tender recipes she shares in a community practice of love and gratitude. Mennlay Golokeh Aggrey’s cucumber salads provide dynamism in love, capturing the thoughtfully erotic. Joy is vital. It presentsa celebration of humanity and how food punctuates our lives. Some ancestral rituals preserve community and are an ode to multiplicity and the shared understandings to be nurtured there. A snapshot of my ruminations on joy comes to me in re-imagined memory: Box Lunch She sat, legs open on the step of the sixth form lounge, a cosy place for the eldest at the all-girls school to convalesce between classes. She hungrily licked her lips, eager to dig into the warm contents of the styrofoam half container. Brandishing a plastic fork, she opened the lid to fried chicken, a glistening leg and thigh, and a small salad of shredded carrot and cabbage sitting on top of still-steaming rice and peas. The rice’s creamy coconut smell mingled with the hot, spiced smell of the just-fried chicken made her mouth water. She buried her fork in rice, spearing chicken, and brought it to her lips, eagerly pushing it through her lips. As she chewed, a smile settled over her lips, sweet gratitude making its way through her belly. To the exploration. Essay <img width="1658" height="1658" width_o="1658" height_o="1658" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6a83aa671f34e4eab67127c4e55ebf5434ac1b78913f2791b11d2a4437b6680a/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.33.28-PM.png" data-mid="159696750" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6a83aa671f34e4eab67127c4e55ebf5434ac1b78913f2791b11d2a4437b6680a/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.33.28-PM.png" /> Zakiya Mckenzie Red Plum Hero Poem &amp; Recipe<img width="1140" height="1140" width_o="1140" height_o="1140" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/caf6ea75753baa29bd24f55b73e524ffa12d79441184de332ba507e2e1950d5a/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.32.03-PM.png" data-mid="159696669" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/caf6ea75753baa29bd24f55b73e524ffa12d79441184de332ba507e2e1950d5a/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.32.03-PM.png" /> Christopher &amp; Lisa Binns J O Y&nbsp; Essay &amp; Recipe<img width="1152" height="1152" width_o="1152" height_o="1152" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/70105111ec30c3b932982ad489d49a14d4e0c01d594b55864d956cfccd302034/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.32.25-PM.png" data-mid="159696683" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/70105111ec30c3b932982ad489d49a14d4e0c01d594b55864d956cfccd302034/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.32.25-PM.png" /> Mennlay Golokeh AggreyCucumber Salads That Nourish Undeserving Men Essay &amp; Recipe<img width="1100" height="1100" width_o="1100" height_o="1100" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6fbbe41cc0e661da2c06107358146b3ea667bcd70c96ad7042532316b7264396/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.33.05-PM.png" data-mid="159696749" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6fbbe41cc0e661da2c06107358146b3ea667bcd70c96ad7042532316b7264396/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.33.05-PM.png" /> Reneice Charles Take Me With You Essay &amp;&nbsp;Recipe<img width="800" height="800" width_o="800" height_o="800" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5029f629c3c93ece7b859bd109d4c77c84b08e054c29d9c4ac1bfa82fd3eee59/AC-Issue14-SarahElise.jpg" data-mid="159798852" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/800/i/5029f629c3c93ece7b859bd109d4c77c84b08e054c29d9c4ac1bfa82fd3eee59/AC-Issue14-SarahElise.jpg" /> Sara Elise A Call for Corn and Community Video <img width="950" height="950" width_o="950" height_o="950" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/fbb4c537e545c2d727f3f93de8b29c72b0c17aed9337b3a50e4b77b67e97b87b/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.34.26-PM.png" data-mid="159696760" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/950/i/fbb4c537e545c2d727f3f93de8b29c72b0c17aed9337b3a50e4b77b67e97b87b/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.34.26-PM.png" />Summer Eldemire DONUT SPACE ODYSSEY Photo Essay <img width="1428" height="1428" width_o="1428" height_o="1428" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/72a4733a74362f1764d006c8303dce6ce4e66c65fff140bbab5611aac8478ef9/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.35.06-PM.png" data-mid="159696794" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/72a4733a74362f1764d006c8303dce6ce4e66c65fff140bbab5611aac8478ef9/Screen-Shot-2022-11-20-at-7.35.06-PM.png" />Shanice Bryce In Season https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/Red-Plum-Hero-by-Zakiya-Mckenzie Sat, 19 Nov 2022 04:54:36 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/Red-Plum-Hero-by-Zakiya-Mckenzie Essay Red Plum HeroZakiya Mckenzie <img width="2624" height="4000" width_o="2624" height_o="4000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5358a8675b63b025a374923446f8ce60d5a4225e99b11b16da66caf6823edd8a/Red-Plum_1.jpeg" data-mid="159693810" border="0" data-scale="63" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5358a8675b63b025a374923446f8ce60d5a4225e99b11b16da66caf6823edd8a/Red-Plum_1.jpeg" /> “Red Plum Hero” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 14, November 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). Images:&nbsp;Image of the Scarlet Plum variety of red mombins (scientific name: Spondias purpurea), with this specimen originating in Miami, Dade County, Florida, United States. U.S. Department of Agriculture Pomological Watercolor Collection. Rare and Special Collections, National Agricultural Library, Beltsville, 1904. Plum-Gulf Ruby, daleysfruit.com.au. Spondias cytherea - fruit, Ton Rulkens, Flickr, May 13, 2013. Red Coat Plum or Governor Plum, silhouettes1979.com, Pinterest. Horse Chestnuts, Gerald Englad, Geograph.com, October 9, 2013. Horse chestnut fruit, Eastville Park, Derek Harper, Geograph.com, September 7, 2013. Spondia mombin (Hog Plum) sur un papier blanc, Adoscam, Wikipedia, July 18, 2021. __Zakiya McKenzie is a PhD candidate with the Leverhulme Trust-supported Caribbean Literary Heritage project at the University of Exeter researching Black British journalism in the post-war period. Zakiya is a writer and storyteller and was the 2019 writer-in-residence for Forestry England during its centenary year. In Bristol, she was 2017 Black and Green Ambassador and is a volunteer at Ujima Community Radio station. She regularly leads nature, art and writing workshops, including one on Caribbean storytelling for primary schools. Her work has featured at the Cabot Institute for the Environment at the University of Bristol, the Institute for Modern Languages Research at the University of London, the Hepworth Wakefield Gallery, the Free Word Centre, at Cheltenham Literature Festival, on BBC’s Woman’s Hour, Farming Today and Inside Out West. She has written for Smallwoods Magazine, the Willowherb Review and BBC Wildlife Magazine. Once upon a time, Kingstonians from all walks of life would delight themselves on a hot weekend with a trip to the healing waters of Rockfort mineral bath on the eastern outskirts of the city.&nbsp; Kingston city — with its rattling cars overtaking long lines of traffic, its ever-present reggae syncopation always somewhere within earshot, its packed corner cook-shops exuding heart-warming scent trails throughout the day — has no real public swimming pool where folks can escape to and submerge into watery weightlessness. Maybe that’s what you get in a Caribbean capital and a country where every parish touches the sea. So, in those days, the saline mineral bath at Rockfort offered sweet respite for people from all over town. The water was fed by a stream flowing from Rock River high in Long Mountain above, and the garden burst open before the eye in a frenzy of colourful foliage. A most picturesque scene. The mineral water was nourishing and rich; visitors collected it in bottles and buckets along the way and brought it home to pat the aches and ailing limbs of family members praying for help from the holy wash. Excitement would overcome your average Jamaican child on hearing that they were going to ‘the mineral’. If your family planned meticulously and you knew about the trip a week ahead, you mentioned it at school at least 3 times a day, with greater frequency towards the end of class on Friday. That is to say, it was the highlight of my little world and there was hardly a better treat. One trip was unforgettable, not because of the comfort of the pool, but because of the new flavours introduced from the garden. We arrived at Rockfort that Sunday and the scent was overpowering. You can only love or hate it, for the fruit carries a subtle rancid smell that can upset a weak stomach. In this case, it activated my mother’s instinct to forage. <img width="600" height="450" width_o="600" height_o="450" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea4f9da91c403345d397765d11bf409d38458ca5f12bbb9676d4ebf0b48f17b2/Red-Plum_2.jpeg" data-mid="159693809" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/600/i/ea4f9da91c403345d397765d11bf409d38458ca5f12bbb9676d4ebf0b48f17b2/Red-Plum_2.jpeg" /> “Stop. Do you smell that fruit? I’m not sure what it is, but I’m going to find out,” she said with a mischievous smile.&nbsp; These were the days long before a smartphone could have confirmed her concern in less than thirty seconds. My mother looked at the tree with an inquiring face but turned to the pool and we went to our fun. When it was time to return, her excitement was palpable. Now, regular people do not just eat from unfamiliar trees, but this womanis a woman who reads the encyclopedia for fun in her spare time. It was not unusual for her curiosity to translate to the material world. It made her seem to be the most daring adventurer to a seven-year-old who was still free to wonder at all the possibilities of life. “Not today please, you don’t actually know what it is,” said my Dad, aware of what was about to unfold. “Tasting it is exactly how I’ll find out!” she replied, as if it were the best plan. We children debated for half a minute but adamant she was. With the theatrics of a Shakespearean actor, she gave us each a hug and then chose the perfect branch. My mother inspected with great interest until she found a bunch to her liking. Before picking them, she turned to face us and blinked as if long enough for a prayer.&nbsp; Then, quicker than we could see, she had plucked and bitten into one of the plums. I winced and covered my eyes but peeked through my little fingers to see if she was still there. My mother pulled her head back and looked at the fruit before going back for more. Like Eve eating the forbidden apple, my mother devoured a handful (spitting the seeds as evidence at the base of the tree) before remembering that we were there. She looked up and laughed a bellyful laugh and ate two more. “Relax, they’re plums, I used to eat them when I was a child. Here, try.” And with that, all was well in the world. —— <img width="912" height="719" width_o="912" height_o="719" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a08429a556c4a07f1c42a774ee98a1965b7474c3c211c3240fcfe46233779bb5/Red-Plum_3.jpeg" data-mid="159693808" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/912/i/a08429a556c4a07f1c42a774ee98a1965b7474c3c211c3240fcfe46233779bb5/Red-Plum_3.jpeg" /> One bite into a Jamaican plum and the juicy, yellow pulp awakens your mouth into a dance of pleasure. The plum flesh takes on the golden hues you see when you think of the tropics — idyllic, syrupy, and bright. The plum skin is generally red or sunshine-orange, with lashings of purples and greens. The skin can be amber like its pulp, however, you run the risk that the yellow-skinned plum tree you find is not just a plum tree but instead, a Hog plum tree. Otherwise known as the Gully plum, the Hog plum is a little larger and carries firm, mustard-coloured fruit. The problem with them is that they are mostly filled with dreadful worms. Only pigs are found eating Hog plums in Jamaica, hence the name. If you find a rare Hog plum tree without worms, revere it for beating the odds.&nbsp; <img width="3744" height="3035" width_o="3744" height_o="3035" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/dc76df3960e5c889c67ba56add061b1bdbcd7a1d4424da8d4e515dbbb8d7bda1/Red-Plum_8.jpeg" data-mid="159693804" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/dc76df3960e5c889c67ba56add061b1bdbcd7a1d4424da8d4e515dbbb8d7bda1/Red-Plum_8.jpeg" /> It can get confusing. In other countries, what they refer to as hog plum, Jamaicans call June plum. Jamaican hogs eat June plum. Jamaican people eat June plum too. In England, when I see the Prickly Horse chestnuts fallen under a tree in autumn, it looks like how my mother would leave a June plum clean, as if there were never any sour, tart flesh on the spikey frame. (Horses do not eat horse chestnut, despite the name.) <img width="1000" height="1000" width_o="1000" height_o="1000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9228b15e49d60033cf1e52cc9e1fd19db1b898cad41fc9725a689dfa13b45045/Red-Plum_6.jpg" data-mid="159693806" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/9228b15e49d60033cf1e52cc9e1fd19db1b898cad41fc9725a689dfa13b45045/Red-Plum_6.jpg" /> <img width="874" height="1198" width_o="874" height_o="1198" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1a60de8c26d21c4b9668a8b63320abf9d5fddcc31027818fc5a2d31e8e2ff3a9/Red-Plum_7.jpg" data-mid="159693805" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/874/i/1a60de8c26d21c4b9668a8b63320abf9d5fddcc31027818fc5a2d31e8e2ff3a9/Red-Plum_7.jpg" /> And yet, June plums, Hog plums, Red-Coat plums are not even really plums. In reality, they are part of the cashew family of flowering plants — spondias dulcis, spondias mombin, and spondias purpurea, respectively. But names and plants get tangled and grafted when they move around the world. Though the Jamaican Red-Coat plum is not from China, you will hear it referred to as Chinese plum in some parts of the island. Old-time people call it Red-Coat plum because it takes the colour of the old British military regalia from colonial times. Still, others call it Spanish plum or Leather-Coat plum - and these are only the names in Jamaica. Whatever you call it, the Jamaican Red-Coat plum has never really been en vogue. Photographers do not flock to print them on tourist postcards like varieties of mango, and they do not instantly trigger feelings of a seaside daydream like sugary pineapple. Instead, the inconspicuous and unassuming little plum comes every year like the secret candy of the gods. When you find them for sale, buy them on the spot — from a produce stall on a winding country road or from a seller zipping between cars at a traffic light. You can taste-and-buy, but buy you must, for the plums gleam like gold in clear plastic bags, and it will only bring joy. <img width="1284" height="1200" width_o="1284" height_o="1200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2d2da67153430d274abe90b9d78f18bff3006ed91417b3838490410429392e72/Red-Plum_4.jpeg" data-mid="159693807" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2d2da67153430d274abe90b9d78f18bff3006ed91417b3838490410429392e72/Red-Plum_4.jpeg" /> —— Intrepid as she really was, my mother just knew her trees. Having left the island as a little child, she returned to stay as an adult, reliving the sweetness of the fruit of her youth. It took me years to realise that she already knew what the fruit in the garden was, and the whole performance was a pantomime for us children. It is one of those moments where you raise your parents to Bravest of Them All, a reminder of the lightness of innocence and less complicated times. I doubt any of my family members remember it, but to me, Jamaican Red-Coat plums are the fruit of the greatest heroes.&nbsp; I never miss a chance to stop and smell the fruit. https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/J-O-Y-by-Stush-in-the-Bush Sat, 19 Nov 2022 04:54:41 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/J-O-Y-by-Stush-in-the-Bush Poem &amp; RecipeJ O YChristopher and Lisa Binns aka Stush in the Bush <img width="3285" height="2190" width_o="3285" height_o="2190" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6660a2c79b3a32970dd30f83d9f5eefa23f56168197d26463527aeb045aec5f9/Brie-s-Iphone_0127.jpg" data-mid="159763116" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6660a2c79b3a32970dd30f83d9f5eefa23f56168197d26463527aeb045aec5f9/Brie-s-Iphone_0127.jpg" /> “J O Y” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 14, Novemeber 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). Images: All images courtesy of the artists. __ What is Stush in the Bush??? It is a love story. It is the combination of Rastafari and Chic. It is the blending of Ital farming and exotic vegetables. It is the love of mother nature and the love of fine dining. It is rustic and it is gourmet. It is "Sexy Vegetarianism." It is the first and the last ingredient on every bottle, in every meal, in all we do... love and affection.&nbsp; It is Lisa and Chris. Our love story. The Bajan, New York foodie, and the Jamaican, Canadian Rasta, Christopher and Lisa Binns own and operate the inspirational, and aptly named Stush in the Bush, a farm-to-table dining experience in the cool hills of St. Ann, Jamaica, 2000 feet above sea level. “Stush,” a Jamaican word that implies sophistication, a little arrogance, and having an appreciation for the finer things in life is what you find when you traverse to the verdant, lush, spiritually uplifting “Bush” Chris and Lisa call home. What started in 2009 as selling produce and making breads, pepper sauce, and jams, is now an eight-course gourmet vegetarian (often times vegan) dining experience that draws foodies from all over the globe to their 17-acre holistic farm. The Binns’ co-curate an experience that is in itself their own philosophy of living. Guests are treated to both a lovingly prepared, rustic, gourmet meal that stretches the boundaries of what vegetables can be, and an earth walk that attends to your sense of taste, smell, and touch. It is an experience that draws both locals and tourists alike; stepping off the beaten track to refresh the spirit; eating good, clean, local food; and breathing in the air while learning about tradition, medicine and culture. Since 2014 they have been leading the way in the farm-to-table, vegetarian/vegan movement in Jamaica through farming, cooking, and product making. Repeated winners of the Jamaica Observer Table Talk Food Awards (2014, 2016, 2018, 2019), and a recipient of the Jamaica Environmental Trust for Sustainable Agriculture (2014), Stush in the Bush has been featured in MACO Magazine, The Huffington Post, Conde Nast Traveler, Nat Geo Traveler UK, Modern Farmer Magazine, The Business Year, and a number of other publications, blogs, television shows and websites including 2 Sisters and a Meal, Royal Caribbean, Mic.com, The Ainsley Harriot Show, and Bong Appétit. I bought a beautiful, deep-seated wrought iron chaise lounge in January 2021.&nbsp; I fell in love with the simple artistic elegance of the chaise with its rolled arms and sexy legs and decided to complete the set by adding two armchairs in April 2021.&nbsp; Picturing in my mind the beauty of relaxation on the deck of our private space, affectionately called The Black Barn, I began looking for suitable cushions.&nbsp; Of course, not just any cushions, but those that you can sink into, those that you can find sweet respite in, and those that put a small smile on your face each time you glimpse them out of the corner of your eye.&nbsp; Being the vintage, woodsy, classic sort, my initial color choice was cream. Timeless against the black wrought iron, clean against the farm's green and the deck's wood. Simple. That understated elegance that you can use as a backdrop against anything. Unexpectedly, this cushion search became an arduous journey… finding the right fabric and the right artisan, hoping for meticulousness, integrity, beauty, and smart craftsmanship. The first creative made a mockery of my vision. Delivered were these firm, unforgiving cushions that made you want to find somewhere else to sit. Somewhere between my words and the execution, the dream got lost. I lived with that result for many months before I decided to try again.&nbsp; On the hunt, I took random pictures of chairs that spoke comfort. I measured the chaise and the armchairs and carefully considered thickness and softness. I crafted a new vision and sought another creative, who taught me a different language to communicate my desires. Yes, please, surge the ends, create enough space to take them off easily, and yes, I want the softest foam, and yes, I do want them five inches deep and no I do not want that half-moon shape or the rolled round cushions like before. I want a whole new vibe. I shifted my colour choice, chose new fabric, added throw pillows, provided a timeline, and crossed my fingers.&nbsp; On October 6, 2022, I installed them in our space. Thoughtfully, I gazed at the new cushions admiring the artistry I intentionally sought out. I gingerly sat down on the chaise, lifted up my legs, curled into a fetal position, and smiled a soft little smile. Closing my eyes, I blissfully nodded off, deep in the softness of the chaise with the throw pillow nestled under my head. J O Y.&nbsp; Food and dining, for me, draws on much of the same sensibilities as the chaise lounge and procuring the right cushions. This appreciation for craftsmanship is not merely towards things, but it is how I approach food, with a deep respect for the integrity of my ingredients, the vision at the end of the road, and the beauty and JO Y experienced in the creation and by the eater.&nbsp; It is what makes STUSH in the BUSH, STUSH in the BUSH.&nbsp; If your heart and your stomach are not filled to the brim with J O Yand a curiosity towards plant magic at the end of your dining experience, then we have not done our job.&nbsp; The bounty with which we curate food is J O Y; it is joy from Mother Earth in all her glory.&nbsp; It is timeless, most often perfect in its creation, and that which gives from love deserves love in its handling and presentation. From tender nutrient-dense baby greens to the deep purple hue of aubergine; the soft yellow skin of guava and its baby pink flesh studded with seeds for future generations; to the crisp snap of okra; the aroma of Genovese basil complete with flowers at the tip; to the firmness of chayote, cho cho, christophene ready to become anything your heart desires; and the generosity of banana, its hands and fingers are plenty, its uses, both green and ripe are enjoyed by many and still subject to reinterpretation… nature supplies it all amply–It is just tto play in that with reverence; it is to spark J O Y. I love the quiet of the kitchen before the bustling energy of the day, before our creatives come in, before the demands of time are upon us. I love the early call to sink my hands into soft dough that culminates in something dreamy, beautiful, and delicious. I love to eat beauty. It is just so joyful. Cooking and sharing is such a wonderful gift of your soul. And for me, the whole process is pure treasure. I love experiencing food, feeling the texture and mouthfeel, seeing the vibrancy of the colors, the melding of all the flavors, the smells, some familiar and others not, drawing you in and ultimately the J O Y that it makes me and others feel. I often watch from the sidelines the delight of our guests in the drawing room as they experience their meal from course to course. The J O Y on their faces as the plate gently lands in front of them, thoughtfully and artfully made; the steaming, velvety bisque as it is poured, pooling gently amidst its garnishes; the tiny bits of love in bowls here and there around the table; it reveals so much about who we are and why you’ve come.&nbsp; I’m not above a little walk around to feel the glow. In fact, it is essential to the process. It is validation that your conjuring has worked and that the love and affection from your being have found their place in the work of your hands. Good conversation, laughter deep in your belly, glasses clinking, knives and forks doing their work, empty plates, wine pouring, jazz greats playing gently in the background reminding you of times gone by and of those to come, sharing smiles; it is as simple as community, a nod to the communion of spirit, conviviality. This is our experience; this is J O Y. -Lisa Binns <img width="5178" height="3350" width_o="5178" height_o="3350" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/38abdb00fc7342a967464459db7fc0bbaff9205ce8e849a926241cfd322f417e/12080584.jpg" data-mid="159763115" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/38abdb00fc7342a967464459db7fc0bbaff9205ce8e849a926241cfd322f417e/12080584.jpg" />STUSH in the BUSH NoLA Beignets These soft, pillowy, deep-fried, square French-style doughnuts decadently covered in confectionary sugar are your teleportation device to Café du Monde in New Orleans. For me, they are J O Y on a plate. They are, perhaps, our most looked-forward-to dessert. Light just shines from our guests when they land on the table, substantially coated in icing sugar, sometimes dolloped with our passion fruit curd, a fruit coulis, or our rich chocolate coconut sauce. Beignets are fun; that’s it, just plain fun. Since 1862, the French market stand has been offering these gorgeous delights with chicory coffee, another favourite of mine that heightens the coffee’s chocolate notes, and which we often serve here. I have been to New Orleans several times, and having beignets and coffee at Cafè du Monde is just a ritual, but alas, they are not ITAL, plant-based. Purchasing their beignet mix on one of my visits, I hoped to recreate at home what I experienced abroad, and they came out like little square rocks. This recipe that follows is born of plant-based leanings, and a desire to make a classic relevant; I think we have done it well.&nbsp;Ingredients2 tablespoons ground flaxseed meal 7 cups bread flour, plus more for kneading ½ cup brown sugar (demerara) 1 tablespoon active dry yeast 1¼ teaspoons salt 1 cup lukewarm water (115°F) 1 cup oat milk (or plant-based milk of your choice) ¼ cup vegetable shortening (or room temperature coconut oil that is soft but still solid) Coconut oil Confectioner’s sugar 1. In a small bowl, whisk to combine the flaxseed meal with 6 tablespoons of hot water and set aside for 5 to 10 minutes to thicken. 2. Meanwhile, in the bowl of a stand mixer, add flour, yeast, sugar, and salt and process for 1 minute to combine. Add the shortening to the dry ingredients and process for another minute to combine. Add the plant milk to the lukewarm water, then slowly add it to the dry ingredients with the mixer running, until the dough starts to pull away from the sides of the bowl, forming a ball, about 15 minutes. Place dough on a lightly floured surface and knead until soft and pliable, about 5 minutes. Transfer dough to a bowl lightly coated with coconut oil, then flip dough to coat both sides; cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size, about 45 minutes. 3. Transfer dough, which will be very soft, onto a lightly floured surface or board. Lightly flour your hands, and gently press and flatten out the dough with your hands, stretching it out into a large, ½-inch-thick 18”-inch square.&nbsp; Cover with a tea towel to rest and rise a little more about 15 minutes. 4. With a 2-inch-square cutter, pizza cutter, or sharp knife, cut the dough square into 2-inch squares and set aside on a heavily floured baking sheet. Fit a heavy-bottomed pot with a deep-fat thermometer and heat 3 inches of coconut oil to 375°F over medium-high heat. Fry beignets in batches, making sure not to crowd the pot and flipping halfway until squares are deep golden brown and gorgeously fluffy, about 3 minutes. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate to drain. 5. While beignets are still hot, arrange on a large platter or wood board; dust heavily with confectioner’s sugar and serve immediately. <img width="1067" height="1600" width_o="1067" height_o="1600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/828b9e5372838278ef8940f557d0b7315433bed4f1d64ab28895938ab6b1e33c/Stush-by-Wesley-Verhoeve-_V0A0199.jpg" data-mid="159763117" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/828b9e5372838278ef8940f557d0b7315433bed4f1d64ab28895938ab6b1e33c/Stush-by-Wesley-Verhoeve-_V0A0199.jpg" /> <img width="1146" height="1772" width_o="1146" height_o="1772" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/da858f2464ca22eb36949d3f4d80c178144ea0758d7701eb5d720da7772301b4/Screen-Shot-2022-11-21-at-10.39.13-AM.png" data-mid="159763230" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/da858f2464ca22eb36949d3f4d80c178144ea0758d7701eb5d720da7772301b4/Screen-Shot-2022-11-21-at-10.39.13-AM.png" /> JOY Is the seed Planted in My mother’s Teenage belly Rejected for having A child out of wedlock For a man Who had too many Women Joy is the pain She felt bringing forth This life who the family Eventually loved and cherished JOY Joy is the day the letter came This little boy would find new life In a new land Ice cold and snow This little country boy Would come to know Wanted and rejected all at once Dreaming of the bush Coconut and banana trees Replaced by crab apples And skin freeze The stares of white eyes On his dark skin Lost in The life in foreign Longing To be Home again JOY Joy is the seed Planted and transplanted Then replanted in fresh soil Sprouting new roots Locks stretching towards The sky Flourishing branches and leaves Blossoming and bearing sweet fruit Containing the seed Of the fruit thereof The magical mysteries Of plant life revealing Secrets eternal JOY Joy is the sweet Kiss From a lover’s lips The knowing touch in the quiet moments Of the night Gentle hands finding Places only they know The ecstasy The feeling of forever Comfort in the arms Of love Joy JOY Joy is the return from whence We came Birth to rebirth Sowing tears Reaping bitter sweet fruit -Christopher Binns https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/Cucumber-Salads-That-Nourish-Undeserving-Men-by-Mennlay-Golokeh-Aggrey Sat, 19 Nov 2022 04:54:45 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/Cucumber-Salads-That-Nourish-Undeserving-Men-by-Mennlay-Golokeh-Aggrey Essay &amp;&nbsp;RecipeCucumber Salads That Nourish Undeserving MenMennlay Golokeh Aggrey <img width="1333" height="2000" width_o="1333" height_o="2000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/13fbaf0d722476e66f607b481d2d73a4b36daea421b3a9889ca8ce2d45fd0b94/Cucumber-salad-for-Giselle-2-by-Mennlay-photo-for-Nora-Bergman.jpg.jpg" data-mid="159693925" border="0" data-scale="80" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/13fbaf0d722476e66f607b481d2d73a4b36daea421b3a9889ca8ce2d45fd0b94/Cucumber-salad-for-Giselle-2-by-Mennlay-photo-for-Nora-Bergman.jpg.jpg" /> “Cucumber Salads That Nourish Undeserving Men” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 14, November 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). Image:&nbsp;Food, styling, and set design by Mennlay Goloeh Aggrey. Photos by Nora Bergan. 2022. __ Mennlay Golokeh Aggrey is the author of The Art of Weed Butter and co-founder of the Xula—a botanical brand for better periods + cycles. She is an interdisciplinary cannabis professional, working in the legalized markets since 2005. Based in Mexico City for the past 7 years, her work explores the intersections between cannabis, foodways, and the diasporic connections between Africa and Latin America.&nbsp; She also proudly sits on the board of the Floret Coalition, the anti-racist cannabis collective funding monthly equity-oriented actions for the Black, Indigenous, and Latin communities most harmed by the war on drugs. Her work has been featured in Bon Appétit, Washington Post, Vogue, and others. Reading the table of contents of Vertamae Smart-Grosvenor’s cult cookbook classic, Vibration Cooking: or, The Travel Notes of a Geechee Girl, her recipe, “White Folks &amp; Fried Chicken” nearly took me out. I flipped through the pages frantically to see what kind of chisme she had. I was hoping it would be more substantial than what I’d seen in those bland chicken split-screen TikToks on Black Twitter. It was more than that: “French folks always covering up the meat with some sauce or another. Most of the time, it is to cover up the rancid taste of the meat. Poor as we was, we never ate no bad meat. My mother would take it back or throw it away before she cooked with it for us…. If we couldn’t have meat we had greens and rice and we ate plenty of that but my mother never cooked none of that weird ‘tuna casserole.” (p.145) Late to the game, I quickly recognized that this was an entirely new way of writing about food that went beyond the dialectical concepts of fiction or nonfiction, culinary anthropology or prose. She created an entire lane for Black women to tell their stories about foodways through the lens of nonsense, sarcasm, sex, racism, history, and straight-up gossip. Smart-Grosvenor was an American anthropologist who wrote for publications such as the New York Times, Village Voice, Ebony, and more. Her work is now a critical reference point for new scholars researching African Diaspora studies– which is shocking to think that Vertamae (according to herself) was only discovered after a poetry book written by her daughter was accepted for publication. For me, she awakened a genre of storytelling that I needed in my life, that I didn’t know was acceptable or even existed through the lens of foodways. As Dr. Psyche Williams-Forson writes in the cookbook’s forward, “The acts of telling, sharing, remembering, and listening to stories are often part and parcel of the lexicon of African American women’s writings. . .” Finally, I could enjoy writing about food that didn’t feel like a constructed dissertation, but a juicy connection to self through the meditation of recipe development. Through these recipes and this essay, I want to tell the story of my personal experience as a Black woman in Mexico City cooking for men, an activity that most times are a disappointing experience for me, the home cook.&nbsp; Exploring the prepared cucumber dish as vignettes, each an experience with a different person I am allowing a peek into my romantic journey, each memory building towards and cultivating a nourishing, cooling, and restorative recipe. <img width="624" height="936" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/ILkSUFi_SL-rxWS0CJGt5GxFd_gYtkigKVCKr01Q9qCD4zItKxVB-DMIbjG8aZ_wQM6SdAQ_PeCchbUG8MpQ0GcuZ3r-Ih8lfLjwkB9Vnx398cxpnf_9VxCht8K3dWG5Oivgl4_dPw9boFdt1UFFrVIazn_jSTSvSTGmLBwXhnxuk84tTAn2DW-pKczlHg"> Cucumber is a natural nervine, meaning that it naturally calms the nervous system while also soothing and providing nourishment to your body. There was a time when I found myself constantly calming down enraged men. I went home with one to help him wash the blood from his face after he got into a fight at the rave in Centro Historico. If I’m being honest, which I am 80% of the time, it was sexy cosplaying “the nurturer '' to this drastically erratic man. The blood dripped from above his eye down to his chest, smeared across an admirable mosaic of questionable tattoos. Had it not been for all the other Black women he exclusively dated (light-skinned mostly), and the fact that he was a bald, dark copper-skinned Mexican man, you might think he was a skinhead because of his behavior. Standing in front of the mirror with him, I gently dabbed bloody cotton swabs over his inked face. Luckily he had cucumbers, onions, and shitty vinegar in the kitchen so I made a fast cucumber salad. Shaking it up in a plastic bowl to spread the sauce over each bite, I knew that this was the first and last time that I’d live out the fantasy of fixing a broken boy. <img width="624" height="936" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/0bQGIC3-PsYXWjQJji9ZJtqUTd4B8u3KHFTXfvq5eGsr1VdS5wLTJRIgGYA2GtZwVj6LrqMa156xrWl-Rby0kYCISHBXsdCEh13DtzT4MIRgcXzr3ejTrx5x7nm8vph7xupTuga3Tp_MEDGKpx0Vf45lBM72C4fQwFwTfrYtOEnGsGpOFGWDFyCfSzbX7A"> ___ Omar sat at the table with a phone in one hand and a fork in the other. He stabbed at the julienned cucumber I had meticulously and lovingly cut in a shallow bowl for us to share. It was his last day in town visiting and instead of eating me out on the dining room table, or at the very least making strong eye contact as he devoured the salad across from me, he was on his damn phone. By the time he put it down, I was nearly done eating what I had served myself and had no intentions of slowing down. When he left to fly back, his leftovers remained. I ate them right out of the glass tupperware sitting on top of my kitchen counter and reminded myself how good it felt to eat alone in my own company. <img width="462" height="693.3660125527379" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/ae_B2ZcmrQXw6fazCZlFX0yINcLb-Twm_1Gxg2yjEGcGBK0SGrYDn53BIhbMH88QUGNYPxLL04Qe48nMdCb_B3TfzMWQJBAGa-Tdfu6w-XCgJcJ46g17gw6cpGaoKegbc2EMn7P9p6Kf2UkC9odVxXXmvbMDvyV3WZ6E64OalerFJZv-iP9LvRjI0HkHkg"> __ Giselle asked if I needed anything from the market as soon as she saw me chopping produce on the cutting board. It was a genuine ask, not the fake sort, the polite gesture. I didn’t need anything this time but it was sweet that she asked so I made a mental note to reward her for this gesture later. G had finally finished her manuscript draft while in Hawaii on sabbatical and it had been months since we’d seen each other. I was still having a difficult time matching her voice to her face. Our relationship developed mostly over the phone while she was away, so we knew the sound of each other intimately before getting to know each other’s bodies. Don’t get me wrong. I knew what she looked like and that pleased me too. Cucumber salad isn’t really a main dish, and for being something that requires no cooking, the prep took me nearly an hour to prepare it in a way that I knew she would thoroughly enjoy. All the waiting turned me on and I couldn’t wait to see her put that first fork full into her mouth. It soothed me. <img width="1333" height="2000" width_o="1333" height_o="2000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bf6ed4fbaab2a34114fcd4660525ec13c048430a35be27655f1f4f5a19a47e51/Mennlay_s-Kitchen-by-Nora-Bergman-2.jpg" data-mid="159693930" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/bf6ed4fbaab2a34114fcd4660525ec13c048430a35be27655f1f4f5a19a47e51/Mennlay_s-Kitchen-by-Nora-Bergman-2.jpg" /> Cucumber Salad That Nourish Undeserving Men What You’ll Need 2 medium cucumbers, scored with a fork and sliced as thick on this as you desire 2 medium courgettes (zucchini), scored with a fork and sliced very thinly ½ cup fermented rice vinegar or apple cider vinegar 3 tablespoons agave 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 cup of hot water from steeped cilantro 1 tablespoon shoyu or flaky salt 1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper ½ serrano pepper thinly slides and soaked in cold water ¼&nbsp; small red onion, thinly sliced 2 tablespoons of cannabis-infused chili oil What to DoIn a shallow bowl arrange alternating layers of cucumber and courgettes, onions, and soaked serrano slices.Whisk the vinegar, agave, hot water, shoyu, black pepper, and canna chili oil together and pour over the layers of cucumbers, courgettes, onions, and serranos.Marinate for at least 1 hour before serving. Eat with a side of brown rice, butter, and greens. https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/Take-Me-With-You-by-Reneice-Charles Sat, 19 Nov 2022 04:54:51 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/Take-Me-With-You-by-Reneice-Charles Essay &amp;&nbsp;RecipeTake Me With YouReneice Charles <img width="2172" height="1447" width_o="2172" height_o="1447" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8dfb95725c429517b373ba2f9049cedf4afdb868490d7609e917455f9a50ba8b/814B4316-C310-4428-ADEF-F17E6A30C1B5_1_102_a.jpeg" data-mid="159694186" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/8dfb95725c429517b373ba2f9049cedf4afdb868490d7609e917455f9a50ba8b/814B4316-C310-4428-ADEF-F17E6A30C1B5_1_102_a.jpeg" /> “Take Me With You” was published in Active Cultures’&nbsp;Digest, Issue 14, November 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). Images:&nbsp; All images courtesy of the artist. __ Reneice Charles is a writer, home-taught cook, recipe developer, and food photographer in Los Angeles, CA. Like most Angeleno's she has a multi-hyphenate career. Reneice is Director of Communications at Level Ground, active Editor-In Chief of SKEW Magazine, and a freelance writer often speaking at the intersections of food and body politic. She is the author of the baking column Femme Brûlée on Autostraddle.com, and authored a mini e-cookbook, Cozy Holiday Plates, featuring small portion recipes for holiday favorites. She also has a virtual baking course on Quick-breads available online through the Mother Earth News-fair platform. Outside of the kitchen, Reneice is also a plus-size model and body liberation advocate. Reneice is currently working away on two cookbook concepts, launching an independent site, and practicing rest as liberation. You can support her by joining on patreon (www.patreon.com/Reneice) and following her @reneicespieces on Instagram and twitter. Feeding people and witnessing the joy that act elicits is one of my favorite life pleasures. I’m the type that watches in anticipation while loved ones take the first bite of a meal I’ve prepared. Searching their face for that initial emotion the food sparks thrills me. I wait to hear sounds of enjoyment escape from their lips between bites as their eyelids flutter closed. Or see them peek into pots making mental calculations of whether there’s enough to take more (the answer is always yes). Sometimes I know I've hit the spot when a quick shoulder jiggle breaks out, shifting side to side in glee. There is so much intimacy inherent in sharing a meal, and learning about someone through their love for food. I find ways to weave these experiences into my world as often as possible. I make discreet notes when friends mention favorite foods, sudden deep cravings, or dishes they long for when they think of home and safety so that I can learn how to make them and host a meal. I’ve been spotted dancing in the grocery store while thinking of the bond I share with my guests,filling with excitement over surprising them with something beloved and delicious. The roots of this joy pull from many sources. For one, I am the descendant of a particular southern culture. Raised in the cannon of “Don’t you leave my house empty handed! When was your last good home-cooked meal? You know you can’t turn down grandma’s potato salad. Eat, baby.” energy. A culture grounded in knowing that to feed is to love. To bring joy to the table is an honor. To offer sustenance through the work of your hands and the bounty life provides is to say, “I care about you, about your light continuing to shine, your energy being restored, your life force being supported in this world.” And so, in my kitchen, the joy of feeding is inseparable from the joy of cooking. &nbsp;<img width="769" height="1024" width_o="769" height_o="1024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c5c40fd8a0e4da7d25d56f16e2185c36186b6d5710c34e4b444a6afea3f9b80e/748991CA-BC49-434C-ABCB-615350D14A6F_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694188" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/769/i/c5c40fd8a0e4da7d25d56f16e2185c36186b6d5710c34e4b444a6afea3f9b80e/748991CA-BC49-434C-ABCB-615350D14A6F_1_105_c.jpeg" /> The roots also run through my view and belief that&nbsp; food is a tool of community strength and social justice. Historically, meals were made for the entire family/village/tribe by many hands and shared in a common space. This is where the deepest bonds formed, and stories passed between generations, marrying the comfort of community to the taste of traditional dishes. Those that remember our favorite foods and hold the knowledge of how to make them are held dear. The vivid and eternal ribbons of memory wrap around them so that when it's hard to find the words through oceans of grief, a warm container of peanut stew or a steaming casserole of mac and cheese says “I love you. I’m here for you. I’m with you,” often better than words are able. During the most difficult part of my Covid quarantine, I sent out an email to my closest friends asking for assistance by way of food. With the food, came memories. I couldn't physically be with them, but I could taste their laughter and hear their sweet tone as I ate one succulent sweet and spicy peanut chicken wing after another. I giggled remembering a stolen moment over pizza with another as I swirled crusty bread through the cheesy baked white beans she left at my door.&nbsp; I was alone and afraid, but also assured that I was loved. And held. And would survive. <img width="768" height="1024" width_o="768" height_o="1024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/845ff9dd0016f739f0ce2fcdd7c7c0f18c8efdfd8ebb0da87d681b8a4b0d513d/B6107C47-0932-4718-86B1-397B8FBD0BE4_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694195" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/768/i/845ff9dd0016f739f0ce2fcdd7c7c0f18c8efdfd8ebb0da87d681b8a4b0d513d/B6107C47-0932-4718-86B1-397B8FBD0BE4_1_105_c.jpeg" /> I couldn't wait to feed my friends again. In those moments of solitude, I began to reflect deeply on the magic/healing/gift in food made for a journey. Whether to be eaten together on the road or after a long separation, delivered in a period of sickness or grief, or passed hand to hand while wishing someone on their way. In a time of global instability, it is not easy&nbsp; to move forward.&nbsp; And yet, movement must happen. Movements are fueled by bodies, bodies are fueled by food. Like an umbilical cord, the act of feeding and being fed is integral to life. It is how days are distinguished and passed, how rituals and traditions are created; from stovetops, plates, and platters to to-go plates, lunch boxes, and brown bags on the way out into the world. The recipes I’m sharing here were written with this in mind. They are favorites I turn to when times call for portable, reliable, shareable and thoughtful food. These are offerings flowing from the wellspring of love, meant to say I cannot go with you in body, but in spirit, in food, in memory, I can. I do. Take me with you. A vibrant lunch of curried chickpeas held in succulent collard greens shared on the beach while wrapped in the arms of tender love, enveloped in the light of the sun, with waves breaking softly in the distance. They say, “It is a joy to be loved by you. “ A traveling charcuterie plate in tupperware slipped into a loved one’s bag before their flight as impatient drivers honk and airport personnel wave lingering cars on is hugs, kisses and sweet goodbye before their new start because the airport is the worst place to be hangry. It says, “It is a joy to wish you well on your journey.” <img width="769" height="1024" width_o="769" height_o="1024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1392c3713ee51df0f69e1b73f719e034948681bc821e0ba24ff878f9d0575589/C812B256-53C7-4E04-9049-950C39A3536F_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694193" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/769/i/1392c3713ee51df0f69e1b73f719e034948681bc821e0ba24ff878f9d0575589/C812B256-53C7-4E04-9049-950C39A3536F_1_105_c.jpeg" /> As a friend moved to a new destination, carrot cake muffins stood in as breakfast for the road. I handed over the box to say, “I will miss having extravagant meals and winding conversations with you on lazy Sundays and can't wait to gossip while your oven preheats in your new kitchen someday. It is a joy to be your friend, near or far,” as my eyes welled up and a lump gathered in my throat. A jar of jam says, “Thank you for the way you show up in our moments of connection and our shared community; for breathing life into weary hearts and restless bodies. The fruit of this season looks good on you. It is a joy to experience your light.” These are recipes for demonstrating care and blessing a journey.&nbsp; They are for traveling through time and easing discomfort. The instructions I have enclosed and the food they create answer the question, “What is the taste of joy?” __ Sweet &amp; Spicy Pickled Carrots <img width="1086" height="724" width_o="1086" height_o="724" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1aa223015d717b7ff7be4d617282355928fc06b8bc1783faf379aa7affbee02a/A3237955-A9E2-4E4D-8BB8-03F60991CFD6_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694189" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1aa223015d717b7ff7be4d617282355928fc06b8bc1783faf379aa7affbee02a/A3237955-A9E2-4E4D-8BB8-03F60991CFD6_1_105_c.jpeg" /> Ingredients2 cups grated carrots 3 shallots, sliced ½ cup brown Sugar ½ cup rice wine vinegar ½ cup apple cider vinegar 1 jalapeno, chopped 1 ½ teaspoons crushed red pepper 1 star anise 2 strips orange zest 1. Combine carrots, shallots, jalapeno, crushed red pepper flakes, star anise, and orange zest strips in a large bowl. 2. In a small saucepan, bring brown sugar, rice vinegar and apple cider vinegar to a boil, then pour over the carrot mixture and allow to cool to room temperature before serving. 3. Store in the fridge, preferably in a glass jar. Collard Green Curry Chickpea Wraps <img width="724" height="1086" width_o="724" height_o="1086" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/19d425893a149b295c0f2a07214c6547127444280a253c9c6b4e1f1004d5e4ed/B7373ABB-6333-4A6A-A774-89D94F7BFA0C_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694190" border="0" data-scale="78" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/724/i/19d425893a149b295c0f2a07214c6547127444280a253c9c6b4e1f1004d5e4ed/B7373ABB-6333-4A6A-A774-89D94F7BFA0C_1_105_c.jpeg" /> Ingredients4 medium or 2 large collard green leaves, washed and stems trimmed 1 15oz can chickpeas, drained ¼ cup vegan yogurt (I use forager cashew yogurt) (3 tablespoons) ¼ Teaspoon turmeric ½ Tablespoon curry powder ¼ tsp ground chili ½ teaspoon mustard powder 1 shallot, diced 1 celery stalk, diced ½ teaspoon kosher salt 1 teaspoon honey 1 tablespoon fresh lemon or lime juice 1 cup fresh spinach leaves 1. Bring a pot of water to boil, and fill a large bowl with very cold water. 2. Once the water is boiling, immerse the collard greens and allow to cook for 20-30 seconds. 3. Remove and place immediately into the cold water for another 30 seconds, then dry with paper towels and set aside. 4. Combine remaining ingredients aside from the spinach leaves in a bowl and stir until well combined. 5. Mash about ⅓ of the mixture with a fork. 6. Lay collard green leaves on a cutting board with the smaller end closest to you. 7. Layer spinach leaves, curried chickpeas, and pickled carrots about ⅓ of the way up the leaves. 8. To wrap, pull end of the leaf closest to you over the filling and then roll upward, tucking in the edges as you go. 9. Slice in half, and then serve. <img width="1086" height="724" width_o="1086" height_o="724" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3660b8e5576e3dbf3a3c9f72846ef4f88d809904c9b66accd4bf139275fca0b5/7D72CAEA-5C89-4754-9C9A-07ED2A7FC47B_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694192" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3660b8e5576e3dbf3a3c9f72846ef4f88d809904c9b66accd4bf139275fca0b5/7D72CAEA-5C89-4754-9C9A-07ED2A7FC47B_1_105_c.jpeg" /> Plum Jam <img width="1086" height="724" width_o="1086" height_o="724" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/faae627c6ab982d88a5fa8e486e275745eb2fe13785dbb4c34ed33ceda8579de/C5947AED-2C11-4CEE-9AE0-0DF88ADADD7E_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694196" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/faae627c6ab982d88a5fa8e486e275745eb2fe13785dbb4c34ed33ceda8579de/C5947AED-2C11-4CEE-9AE0-0DF88ADADD7E_1_105_c.jpeg" /> Ingredients2 lbs plums, pitted and quartered ½ cup sugar ¼ cup maple syrup 1 teaspoon salt Juice of one lemon 1 cinnamon stick ¼ tsp fresh grated nutmeg 2 tbs bourbon or brandy 1. Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan on high heat and stir until boiling. 2. Once boiled, reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 15-20 minutes until fruit is broken down and the jam is thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. 3. Spoon into jars and refrigerate. Carrot Cake Muffins <img width="1086" height="724" width_o="1086" height_o="724" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bafb306657b27c1aa5314dfadd3d6e97fe6a1fc9d962e696c23dad60ab2aa7db/C71EE133-BA72-4F42-8F71-E984303A1B45_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694199" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/bafb306657b27c1aa5314dfadd3d6e97fe6a1fc9d962e696c23dad60ab2aa7db/C71EE133-BA72-4F42-8F71-E984303A1B45_1_105_c.jpeg" /> Crumb topping ½ cup all-purpose flour ¼ cup walnuts, chopped ¼ cup dark brown sugar ¼ teaspoon kosher salt ½ teaspoon cinnamon ¼ cup (4 tbs) unsalted butter, cubed Muffins 2 cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon cinnamon ½ teaspoon nutmeg ¼ teaspoon allspice 1 cup sour cream, room temperature ½ cup melted butter ¼ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup brown sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 large eggs, room temperature 1 ½ cups grated carrots, drained Cream Cheese Drizzle 3 oz cream cheese room temperature 1 cup powdered sugar, sifted 1 tablespoon milk 1. Preheat oven to 425°F 2. Prepare a standard 12 cup muffin tin by either placing in muffin liners, or generously buttering each cup. Set aside. For the crumble topping: In a medium bowl, mix all ingredients with your hands until it clumps together like wet sand. Set aside. <img width="1086" height="724" width_o="1086" height_o="724" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2d0b97828389189d307a7b8f40bc907fba6da7c639ccab6488196ebc48b180ce/DC467835-C0C6-4C85-860C-78919CC29C5A_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694197" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2d0b97828389189d307a7b8f40bc907fba6da7c639ccab6488196ebc48b180ce/DC467835-C0C6-4C85-860C-78919CC29C5A_1_105_c.jpeg" /> For the muffins: 1. In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. . 2. In a large bowl, whisk together the sour cream, melted butter, granulated sugar,&nbsp; brown sugar and vanilla extract until completely smooth and glossy. 3. Next,&nbsp; whisk in the eggs one at a time until fully incorporated. 4. Pour the flour mixture into the wet ingredients, stirring just until combined and no dry pockets of flour remain. 5. Gently fold the grated carrots into the batter until evenly distributed, taking care not to over stir. 6. Scoop the batter evenly into your prepared muffin tin, and top each muffin with the reserved crumb topping. 7. Bake at 425°F for&nbsp; 8 minutes 8. Reduce the heat&nbsp; to 375°F and bake for another 6-8 minutes or until a cake tester comes out clean. 9. When the muffins are done, allow to cool in the muffin tin for 10 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely. 10. While the muffins are cooling, make the cream cheese drizzle by whisking together the cream cheese, powdered sugar, and milk in a small bowl until smooth. Set aside. 11. Once cool, use a spoon to apply the cream cheese drizzle, and enjoy! <img width="1086" height="724" width_o="1086" height_o="724" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c05e2ef598685c6f50a73bb2c41269c5d3a0b52ceb61bdd771a4ef55d71b276c/92D1D0EA-1FFD-424F-8FD0-547ECF2335E1_1_105_c.jpeg" data-mid="159694198" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c05e2ef598685c6f50a73bb2c41269c5d3a0b52ceb61bdd771a4ef55d71b276c/92D1D0EA-1FFD-424F-8FD0-547ECF2335E1_1_105_c.jpeg" /> https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/A-Call-for-Corn-and-Community-by-Sara-Elise Sat, 19 Nov 2022 04:54:59 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/A-Call-for-Corn-and-Community-by-Sara-Elise Essay &amp;&nbsp;RecipeA Call for Corn and CommunitySara Elise <img width="612" height="640" width_o="612" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0c0a38d7c31b7edd96a4e07a9bee0e49db01e4e243a83a33935a3ceea17d64f6/IMG_0320.jpg" data-mid="159763526" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/612/i/0c0a38d7c31b7edd96a4e07a9bee0e49db01e4e243a83a33935a3ceea17d64f6/IMG_0320.jpg" /> “A Call for Corn and Community” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 14, November 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). Images: All images courtesy of the artist.&nbsp;__ Sara Elise is a Black &amp; Indigenous, queer, autistic femme creative splitting her time between Brooklyn and Upstate, NY. She works primarily in the hospitality and wellness industries and is the co-founder and designer of Apogeo Collective, a hospitality experience centering QTPOC; the founder of Harvest &amp; Revel, an event catering + design company; and is currently working on her forthcoming book with Harper Collins (Amistad Books) entitled A Recipe For More. Sara Elise has been featured in Dazed, Playboy, Afropunk, Healthy-ish, Well + Good, Nylon, StyleLikeU, and them, among others. With all of her work, she aims to challenge our collective reality by first re-imagining and then creating alternative systems and spaces (both external and internal) for BIPOC and LGBTQIA2S+ folks to thrive. She spends much of her thoughtspace contemplating pleasure, pain, healing, destruction, and growth— and how inextricably those concepts are linked. To that end, Sara Elise has deep interests in BDSM, ritualization, relationship dynamics, and the development of personal awareness and well-being. In the same week that my father said it wasn’t his priority to process my feelings or communicate with me, a Black Native woman lovingly braided a leather wrap into my hair and welcomed me into her Powwow family. Over hundreds of years, the United States has displaced and abused&nbsp; Indigenous people but we are still here and present for each other.&nbsp; Still, despite having Indigenous ancestral heritage, so many of us are disconnected from our culture— our language, generational storytelling, and food rituals. My grandmother was the person who told me most about our Native heritage, but when she died, much of that knowledge remained with her. <img width="480" height="640" width_o="480" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5a43be3a02bc525f002e890db56364a2a8934bbaa7032ff0dbae3441b2291eaf/IMG_0049.jpg" data-mid="159763527" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/480/i/5a43be3a02bc525f002e890db56364a2a8934bbaa7032ff0dbae3441b2291eaf/IMG_0049.jpg" /> This past Summer, I attended my first Intertribal Powwow (hosted by the Redhawk American Arts Council at Bear Mountain). I witnessed Tribal dancing in celebration of corn — one of my life’s greatest delights and a symbol of sustenance, fertility, and joy in many Indigenous cultures. I also tried corn-centric traditional foods for the first time like Corn, Pork &amp; Bean Soup, and Cornmeal Fry Bread. Inspired by the hospitality and love I felt from people I met at the Powwow, I decided to make my own Corn, Pork &amp; Bean Soup. This version uses all fresh ingredients local to Lenapehoking (also known now as Brooklyn, NY), where I live. Corn, Pork, &amp; Bean Soup <img width="622" height="640" width_o="622" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e64f5653567ae38a6f3eb20663ed366d4cf1aa74feca305cb737a7883fc92a77/IMG_0380.jpg" data-mid="159763522" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/622/i/e64f5653567ae38a6f3eb20663ed366d4cf1aa74feca305cb737a7883fc92a77/IMG_0380.jpg" /> Ingredients 1 tablespoon sunflower or safflower oil 3 quarts of vegetable stock, preferably homemade 2 bags (15 oz each) dried hominy (sourced from Inca Hominy) 3 ears fresh corn (sourced from Sunny Harvest Farm *pro tip: once you remove the kernels, use the corn stalks for your veggie stock*) 1 lb pork belly (sourced from Stryker Farm), cut into strips 16 oz bag dried organic kidney beans (sourced from a local co-op bulk section) Sea salt to season <img width="480" height="640" width_o="480" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7c3954c7f8e5e4c324824683f79891899b66742ba0ac5fd052d5b6b58cb6ff08/IMG_0322.jpg" data-mid="159763524" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/480/i/7c3954c7f8e5e4c324824683f79891899b66742ba0ac5fd052d5b6b58cb6ff08/IMG_0322.jpg" /> 1. Pat the pork belly strips dry with a paper towel and season heavily with sea salt. Let sit on the counter for several minutes. 2. In a heavy-bottomed pot, heat sunflower oil over medium-high heat and pan-sear pork belly strips so that they are browned. Once cooked to temp, remove and let rest before cutting into small pieces. 3. In the same pot used to cook the pork, pour 2 quarts of stock. Add in the dried hominy and bring to a simmer. Cover the pot and let sit for an hour. 4. Add in the 3rd quart of stock and add in the dried kidney beans. Bring to a simmer, add salt, and cover the pot. Let sit for another hour. 5. Taste the beans and hominy to see if they are tender. Once they are tender, add the cooked pork. Bring to a simmer and add salt to taste. Add fresh corn as the last step and add more salt to taste. I made a huge pot of this soup and shared it with friends, packaging it in containers and distributing it over the next few days. <img width="480" height="640" width_o="480" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f48c1ccbe41d117f66b647960fc1f799754085a70150503e93447f67f630e690/IMG_0321.jpg" data-mid="159763525" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/480/i/f48c1ccbe41d117f66b647960fc1f799754085a70150503e93447f67f630e690/IMG_0321.jpg" /> __ When the people we were born to don’t love us in the ways we need, it’s easy to feel like we’re undeserving of love— always seeking more to fill the places left empty from their limits. For some of us, as we witness the limited capacity of our blood family or learn about and begin to repair our connection to our ancestral line, family becomes more about action than genetics– especially when our connective lines have been largely destroyed and systematically taken from us. Family can be intentionally called in and cultivated. Family can happen through the practice of making and remaking. In her 2020 article for Emergence Magazine, Robin Wall Kimmer references a gift economy wherein food abundance is stored in our brothers’ bellies. Family, found or otherwise, can too be about abundance; endless efforts to listen and receive, to try to understand, to celebrate both our unique selves and collective joys together, to feed each other— ensuring that we can all feel full. https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/DONUT-SPACE-ODYSSEY-by-Summer-Eldemire Sat, 19 Nov 2022 05:02:51 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/DONUT-SPACE-ODYSSEY-by-Summer-Eldemire VideoDONUT SPACE ODYSSEYSummer Eldemire “Donut Space Odyssey” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 14, November 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). __ Summer Eldemire is a Jamaican writer, actor and artist. Watch her webseries at www.highly-favored.com a sugar high leads to an epic crash when a girl and her magical scooter realize that the galaxy’s perfect donut might not exist.&nbsp; Shot on iPhone Written, Directed, Starring - Summer Eldemire,Creative Director + Producer - Jamie D’Arcangelo,Director of Photography - Rraine Hanson,Original Score By - Jamie D’Arcangelowe’re always searching for the perfect donut, and in doing so not appreciating the donut that's in hand. the elusiveness of external happiness. how we really should be searching for the donut within. https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/In-Season-by-Shanice-Bryce Sat, 19 Nov 2022 05:03:31 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/In-Season-by-Shanice-Bryce Photo EssayIn SeasonShanice Bryce “In Season” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 14, November 2022 (edited by Nneka Jackson). Images: All images courtesy of the artist.__ Founded by Shanice Bryce, oom explores the intersection of food, art, and design. What started as a one-off supper club in response to the effects of the climate crisis in Jamaica, through oom, Shanice continued to be inspired by how food could serve as a catalyst for connection.&nbsp;In 2019, she was nominated for a Young British Foodies award under their vegetable category. She has written for gal-dem magazine on the trajectory of Black British food and has spoken on a panel discussing&nbsp;the challenges of urban food planning. Find more at www.o-o-m.com. 01. A Sound:Joyful vibrations <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a0cc4ad72da0bb6ee25bc021cc0f1b6272d899e5f512f8a00e1c49bbbfe52970/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Sound---lead-image-1.png" data-mid="159766625" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a0cc4ad72da0bb6ee25bc021cc0f1b6272d899e5f512f8a00e1c49bbbfe52970/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Sound---lead-image-1.png" /> Songs that are bringing me joy in the this current phase. 02. A TasteYuzu and Ginger <img width="1080" height="1616" width_o="1080" height_o="1616" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3044d582c972918191572871cc0b474091a17aeb3cb495684acdfa3e790c6dfb/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Taste---lead-image.jpeg" data-mid="159766709" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3044d582c972918191572871cc0b474091a17aeb3cb495684acdfa3e790c6dfb/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Taste---lead-image.jpeg" />Ingredients20ml yuzu juice100ml ginger wineThai basil leavesfresh lychee juice&nbsp;fresh mint leavesMuddle the basil leaves.Add the yuzu juice and ginger wine.Shake and put into a glass. Top up with lychee juice.Garnish with the fresh mint leaves. 03. A ScentShinrin-Yoku <img width="3036" height="4048" width_o="3036" height_o="4048" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/fdd6c265166c9ebedb1564e8d9f9fb3ccb227102c4e52eb3b47a636e09c6fd07/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Scent---lead-image.jpeg" data-mid="159766736" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/fdd6c265166c9ebedb1564e8d9f9fb3ccb227102c4e52eb3b47a636e09c6fd07/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Scent---lead-image.jpeg" />The morning after a night of rain, find yourself in an open green space. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath in and out. Notice the scent and sounds that capture your attention. Open your eyes. Take a deep breath in and out. Notice the colours and textures that you see. Feel the weight lifted. 04. A Feeling Liminal Space <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a7aacb81265ff37c16d5c65485aa2ee104f23742bd5e313ba5300a84bf231d61/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Feeling---lead-image.jpeg" data-mid="159766943" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a7aacb81265ff37c16d5c65485aa2ee104f23742bd5e313ba5300a84bf231d61/Active-Cultures-x-oom--A-Feeling---lead-image.jpeg" />The moments of joy in between where I've been and where I'm going. The person I was and the person I'm yet to encounter. Making room for emotional disturbance in order to ignite growth. Revelling in the mundane moments — it is a transitional experience. 05. A Sight Inside the joy... Septembers at Amelida's house. An annual occurrence with friends that have aligned at the time. https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/ISSUE-13 Tue, 02 Aug 2022 20:33:20 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/ISSUE-13 August 2022ISSUE 13 <img width="1300" height="900" width_o="1300" height_o="900" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5a114894b1f3eb59fb7ae6396a7c0f7cd26b71f3cf2510e0fe04ec16c4b5e6ba/Issue13Header.gif" data-mid="150281697" border="0" data-scale="75" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5a114894b1f3eb59fb7ae6396a7c0f7cd26b71f3cf2510e0fe04ec16c4b5e6ba/Issue13Header.gif" /> From the editor Ferron Salniker During lockdown, I wasn’t the only one re-reading Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower, the science fiction novel following Lauren Oya Olamina, a Black 15-year-old girl who journeys north out of a socially collapsed and environmentally devastated southern California in the 2020s. In our own version of 2020, my friends and I talked about the contents of our own hypothetical survival go-bags while sitting under a smoky and orange Oakland sky. Olamina packed seeds. I thought about what seeds I would bring, and if my grandparents grabbed any from their homeland before they fled to the U.S. People have often harbored seeds when forced to leave their homes or when their homes seem to disappear from under them. Seeds have been braided into hair, sewed into clothing, stored and hidden inside shrinking cornfields. Sharing seeds is a layered act: it is survival, autonomy, preservation. In this issue, Leonida Odongo illustrates the powerful relationship between women and seeds in the Kenyan communities she works with through a social enterprise that centers seed sovereignty and Indigenous knowledge over the encroaching influence of giant biotech and chemical companies. Elena Terry, a Ho-Chunk chef, offers a hubbard squash tart recipe, inviting us to cook and preserve the fruits of ancestral seeds. By planting seeds, inside and outside the garden, we also create new lifecycles. For journalist Kyana Moghadam, keepers of seeds from the Iranian diaspora connect her to family lost and an identity found. As mezcal’s popularity grows, Fabiola Santiago sows stories of Indigenous people who come from the spirit’s motherland, Oaxaca. And artist Se Young Au brings electric light to sunflower seeds, transcending them into portals of regeneration. In the face of uncertainty, we keep seeds and hopefully, we put them into the ground. May you find whatever you need to nourish what you plant.&nbsp; Essay<img width="2500" height="2500" width_o="2500" height_o="2500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/68f8f4b0eefaa0e9666a9b608e8d827802f4aba0efff0cc816dd7221d5df9e89/AC-Issue13-ThumbnailFabiola.jpg" data-mid="150232333" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/68f8f4b0eefaa0e9666a9b608e8d827802f4aba0efff0cc816dd7221d5df9e89/AC-Issue13-ThumbnailFabiola.jpg" /> Fabiola Santiago The Spirit of Mezcal: Motherhood, Connection, and Reciprocity Essay<img width="449" height="449" width_o="449" height_o="449" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a291e98ccf3e61f74e1ea3ae0e74967e67f95324980b6e76f9a32bed22bae8c8/Kyana_thumbnail.png" data-mid="150192436" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/449/i/a291e98ccf3e61f74e1ea3ae0e74967e67f95324980b6e76f9a32bed22bae8c8/Kyana_thumbnail.png" /> Kyana Moghadam The Harvest Poem<img width="365" height="366" width_o="365" height_o="366" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/625a383f99a6b31d921f058663c56cfdc61e48b40968d76c5dfcf719abc8cec9/Se-Young_Thumbnail.png" data-mid="150192438" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/365/i/625a383f99a6b31d921f058663c56cfdc61e48b40968d76c5dfcf719abc8cec9/Se-Young_Thumbnail.png" /> Se Young Au Transmutable&nbsp; Essay<img width="2500" height="2500" width_o="2500" height_o="2500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/62df2a50ea66184a88383bf75c06908625ea15931637e3489fe7817cdc0f2af4/AC-Issue13-ThumbnailLeonida.jpg" data-mid="150232334" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/62df2a50ea66184a88383bf75c06908625ea15931637e3489fe7817cdc0f2af4/AC-Issue13-ThumbnailLeonida.jpg" /> Leonida Odongo Seeds &amp; Women: Through an African Lens &nbsp; Recipe<img width="400" height="400" width_o="400" height_o="400" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/16ee468d434511fa857462e53df759c13ee625156786182ac2eeed0794906800/Elena_thumbnail.png" data-mid="150192434" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/400/i/16ee468d434511fa857462e53df759c13ee625156786182ac2eeed0794906800/Elena_thumbnail.png" /> Elena Terry Bearie Seedy SassSquash https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/The-Spirit-of-Mezcal-Motherhood-Connection-and-Reciprocity-by-Fabiola Tue, 02 Aug 2022 20:33:29 +0000 Active Culture's Digest https://activeculturesdigest.cargo.site/The-Spirit-of-Mezcal-Motherhood-Connection-and-Reciprocity-by-Fabiola Essay The Spirit of Mezcal: Motherhood, Connection, and ReciprocityFabiola Santiago <img width="668" height="608" width_o="668" height_o="608" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b73ffdf2592804c896cb320e9a9c565125d3682fc22e921d15cdf0ef4bae375d/Fabiola_1.jpeg" data-mid="150191189" border="0" data-scale="80" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/668/i/b73ffdf2592804c896cb320e9a9c565125d3682fc22e921d15cdf0ef4bae375d/Fabiola_1.jpeg" /> “The Spirit of Mezcal: Motherhood, Connection, and Reciprocity Lens” was published in Active Cultures’ Digest, Issue 13, August 2022 (edited by Ferron Salniker). Images: All images courtesy of the artist. Fabiola Santiago, Welcome sign of Santiago Mataltan with a copper still sitting on top of it. The sign is over the Pan-American Highway (190) and it reads:&nbsp; BIENVENIDOS A STGO. MATATLAN OAX. "CAPITAL MUNDIAL DEL MEZCAL," October 17, 2020. Neighbor from Santiago Matatlán, Manuel Santiago Hernandez, my father, in his palenque circa 1984. He's standing between two wooden vats–used to ferment the mashed agave–holding a pitchfork, February, 1984. Fabiola Santiago, Mother plant of maguey espadin (Agave Angustifolia) and hijuelo in front of it, August 3, 2022. Fabiola Santiago, My grandmother, Teofila Sernas Ruiz, jabbing a shovel through the dirt covering the agave that's cooking to ensure the proper depth, February 5, 2021. Fabiola Santiago, My grandmother, Teofila Sernas Ruiz, in front of cooked agave with one hand over a cooked agave heart, February 10, 2021. Fabiola Santiago, A toddler, Camilo Santiago, walking alongside agave (maguey espadin) fields, May 8, 2019. Fabiola Santiago, My mother Estela Hernandez Sernas, Standing next to a wooden vat full of mashed agave fermenting, May 14, 2019. Alma Santiago, Fabiola Santiago Hernandez holding an unlabeled bottle of mezcal in one hand and a copa veladora filled with mezcal in the other. She has a black rebozo covering her, June 11, 2022. __ Fabiola Santiago is a Zapotec (Indigenous) migrant from Santiago Matatlán, Oaxaca, Mexico. She is a mother, an outspoken thinker, a cultural worker, and a believer in possibilities. Her personal experiences as a formerly undocumented person and her connection to Oaxaca’s rich culture – particularly as a descendant of mezcal makers – anchors her commitment to community, equity, and Indigenous cultural preservation. Fabiola expresses her love for her culture through various mediums: cooking, writing, speaking, and imagining a future where Native Oaxacans have cultural agency and where we have economic security. She is also creating Mi Oaxaca, a project that centers the lived experiences, voices, knowledge, and expertise of native Oaxacan people and those of the diaspora within the food and mezcal industries. Fabiola earned her BA in Sociology and Masters in Public Health from the University of California, Los Angeles.You can find more of her work at oaxacthetalk.com. __ Fabiola Santiago es una migrante zapoteca (indígena) de Santiago Matatlán, Oaxaca, México. Es madre, trabajadora cultural y creyente en las posibilidades. Sus experiencias personales como persona anteriormente indocumentada y su conexión con la rica cultura de Oaxaca–particularmente como descendiente de fabricantes de mezcal–anclan su compromiso con la comunidad, la equidad y la preservación cultural indígena. Fabiola expresa su amor por su cultura a través de diversos medios: en la cocina, al escribir, y hablar e imaginar un futuro donde los nativos oaxaqueños tengan agencia cultural y donde tengamos seguridad económica. También está creando Mi Oaxaca, un proyecto que centra las experiencias, las voces, y el conocimiento de los pueblos nativos de Oaxaca y los de la diáspora dentro de las industrias de alimentos y mezcal. Fabiola obtuvo su licenciatura en Sociología y Maestría en Salud Pública de la Universidad de California, Los Ángeles. Puedes encontrar más de su trabajo en oaxacthetalk.comImágenes: Todas las imágenes son cortesía del artista. Fabiola Santiago, Signo de bienvenida de Santiago Matatlán con un alambique cobre encima del signo. El letrero está sobre la carretera Panamericana (190) y dice: BIENVENIDOS A STGO. MATATLÁN OAX. "CAPITAL MUNDIAL DEL MEZCAL", 17 de octubre de 2020. Julio Hernandez Escobar, Manuel Santiago Hernández, mi padre, en su palenque hacia 1984. Está de pie entre dos tinas de fermentación y con un trinche en otra mano, febrero de 1984. Fabiola Santiago, Planta madre del maguey espadín (Agave Angustifolia) y hijuelo frente a ella, 3 de agosto de 2022. Fabiola Santiago, Mi abuela, Teófila Sernas Ruiz, clavando una pala en la tierra que cubre el maguey que se está cocinando para asegurar la profundidad adecuada, 5 de febrero de 2021. Fabiola Santiago, Mi abuela, Teofila Sernas Ruiz, frente de maguey cocido con una mano sobre una piña cocida, 10 de febrero de 2021. Fabiola Santiago, Un niño pequeño, Camilo Santiago, caminando junto a un surco de maguey espadín, 8 de mayo de 2019. Fabiola Santiago, Mi madre, Estela Hernández Sernas, parada junto a una tina llena de maguey machacado fermentando, 14 de mayo de 2019. Alma Santiago, Fabiola Santiago Hernández con una botella de mezcal sin etiqueta en una mano y una copa veladora llena de mezcal en la otra. Un rebozo negro que la cubre, 11 de junio de 2022. I descend from at least three generations of mezcal producers on my maternal side. We all belong to the world capital of mezcal, Santiago Matatlán, Oaxaca, Mexico. After my parents got married, they continued our village’s craft: artisanal mezcal production. Outsiders often compare mezcal to tequila as its smokey cousin. But mezcal is not young or new; I’d say mezcal is tequila’s mother since tequila is technically a mezcal. Indigenous peoples have been cohabitating with the agave plant for thousands of years. Zapotecs, the Indigenous group I’m a part of, are the largest producers of traditional mezcal. While now celebrated as a refined and complex Mexican spirit, there was a time when it was seen as poor Indigenous people’s drink, a spirit for lower and working-class people. <img width="782" height="556" width_o="782" height_o="556" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/65c3c9d9be117e19544314feaaf2d28fef7ca3a468c73aeba3304246eef69abc/Fabiola_2.png" data-mid="150191190" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/782/i/65c3c9d9be117e19544314feaaf2d28fef7ca3a468c73aeba3304246eef69abc/Fabiola_2.png" /> In the early 1900s, a national railroad reached Oaxaca, which allowed for more commercialization, including of mezcal. But in the 1980s, mezcal production plummeted as the demand for tequila continued to grow. The type of agave used to make tequila—blue weber—became scarce, so tequileros illicitly purchased the raw material we would’ve used to make our own agave spirit. Hundreds of palenques (mezcal distilleries) in our pueblo shut down in that decade. Consequently, my parents stopped producing mezcal. My father was forced to migrate to the U.S. in search of better economic opportunities. And in 1992, he sent for the rest of the family to join him. Hence, this ancestral inheritance has not been passed down to me. But I am raising my son in Oaxaca and in California and his bicultural experience helps transmit the ancestral knowledge, values, and principles I want to pass on, even if he chooses not to learn the craft. Because in my lifetime the global market for mezcal was born and has exploded since. <img width="590" height="714" width_o="590" height_o="714" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1d00fb3e9f9e89513efe3b4b6009a8c9e8f8436e9e59bb86a635f0c984c36ba1/Fabiola_3.jpg" data-mid="150191191" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/590/i/1d00fb3e9f9e89513efe3b4b6009a8c9e8f8436e9e59bb86a635f0c984c36ba1/Fabiola_3.jpg" /> This rapid industrialization and commercialization is tearing the story of mezcal from its Indigenous roots. Oaxaca, one of the states in Mexico with the largest Indigenous populations, is home to the stewards of mezcal. Yet, there is a lack of meaningful attribution, recognition, and respect for the people who have preserved this spirit. These new stories, neatly packaged for mass consumption and commodification, are pared down and compressed for the information age: western scientific information on the agave plant, the artisanal production process, mezcal’s organoleptic qualities, and even how to find your maestro mezcalero and start your own brand. But mezcal exists and is able to be enjoyed by people from the global north because people like my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and other relatives endured hardship. When it was degraded by the nation of Mexico, and even outlawed, it existed in our communal lives as medicine and for social gatherings. Fewer stories are told of the ways the exquisite spirit holds struggle, trauma, and pain. <img width="590" height="639" width_o="590" height_o="639" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bd0563abfa4e4c01db81cf03d794152eece99c6f4505c9260bb14a7c5ee9e19a/Fabiola_4.png" data-mid="150191193" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/590/i/bd0563abfa4e4c01db81cf03d794152eece99c6f4505c9260bb14a7c5ee9e19a/Fabiola_4.png" /> <img width="480" height="640" width_o="480" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bcac9a7163b25b1d81c82f954fec50c99d8cc1d73108eb2c532c25b6d19a41e1/Fabiola_5.png" data-mid="150191197" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/480/i/bcac9a7163b25b1d81c82f954fec50c99d8cc1d73108eb2c532c25b6d19a41e1/Fabiola_5.png" /> <img width="497" height="663" width_o="497" height_o="663" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4d845f98b2fb29b50b9cbb71765285710ae9dc874323d0e8fd19e6e95296bd9a/Fabiola_6.jpeg" data-mid="150191201" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/497/i/4d845f98b2fb29b50b9cbb71765285710ae9dc874323d0e8fd19e6e95296bd9a/Fabiola_6.jpeg" /> <img width="765" height="640" width_o="765" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f4a801fcae1db583065f88fb98ddb14b724d5c3c30a13846f3184002c44b6263/Fabiola_7.png" data-mid="150191206" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/765/i/f4a801fcae1db583065f88fb98ddb14b724d5c3c30a13846f3184002c44b6263/Fabiola_7.png" /> My maternal great-grandfather taught my maternal grandmother how to make mezcal when she was a young girl. Perhaps there were gentle teaching moments from my great-grandfather, but it remains true that for my grandmother, learning to make the delicate spirit was entangled with violence. My grandmother shared how her father would beat her and her siblings if they made a mistake, especially during the cooking process. Mishandling a batch had a direct impact on the family’s financial well being. As a single father, my great-grandfather had no room for error. My mother dropped out of elementary school so she could help my grandparents make and sell mezcal. She has a deep scar on her right shin from when, while carrying loads of mashed agave to distill at one in the morning, she slipped and fell near a water tank. These are the acute and chronic stressful conditions my mother and grandmother grew up in. These experiences remind me of Kazu Haga’s powerful message: “If we carry intergenerational trauma (and we do), then we also carry intergenerational wisdom. It’s in our genes and in our DNA.” The conditions that my mother and grandmother endured are also part of the mezcal inheritance. In cultures that fear looking at the past, especially when the past shows evidence of anti-Indigeneity, it’s easier to erase those stories, and with them, any acknowledgment of our intergenerational trauma and wisdom. The erasure of these central stories traps consumers and producers in an endless cycle of extraction and exploitation. Witnessing the mezcal boom while holding the lived experiences of forced migration, family separation, and my parents’–especially my mother’s–excruciating experiences producing mezcal to make ends meet back in Matatlán, sometimes paralyzes me. Yet, the experiences that my mother and grandmother endured are also the seeds that fuel my passion for a more equitable and Indigenized mezcal industry. By sharing the stories of people with lived experiences, we can access the knowledge we need to create cultures of appreciation and cohesion. The mezcal industry, as it exists in the U.S., is far from cultural appreciation. My first mezcal experience at a bar—an experience very different from the communal experiences with family and relatives that I had since I was a young child—is seared in my memories. It was early in 2013, I had just gotten my green card and I was eager to finally visit places where I could show an ID and experience the visibility that I longed for. A hipster mezcal bar had just opened in the Downtown L.A. neighborhood where I worked. I also saw guerilla marketing for a mezcal brand plastered along the sidewalks. It was a weekend night and the bar was crowded. I previously worked in the service industry, at a restaurant, so I knew to be patient, especially on busy nights. But the bartender, a tall slender white woman with tattoo sleeves, kept overlooking me. Someone next to me was kind enough to get her attention and let her know that I had been waiting for a while. In instances like these, I’ve either left a generous tip to cause guilt, or left a note in the tip section. This time, I chose the latter. Something along the lines of: “You would’ve gotten at least 20%, but service was awful.” This wasn’t the first time a server ignored me. Nor was it the first time I had inadequate customer service. Many bars and restaurants aren’t inclusive spaces, or spaces of belonging. Often, they’re the least accessible to the people whose culture is being sold. For example, a glass of mezcal in the U.S. is what Native people would pay for a liter back home. But over time, I’ve learned to take up space in exclusionary spaces. So that’s what I did that night. But I never stepped foot in that bar after that night. Those of us that are of mezcal culture should not be denied access to our own culture. By listening to the harmful impacts that the mezcal industry continues to have on Indigenous peoples, we have the possibility of course-correcting and avoiding the footsteps of the tequila industry—an industry that propelled the theft of Indigenous lands for the purposes of industrial tequila production and has became a subpar product from what it once was. In nations like the U.S. and Mexico, that both uphold a culture of white supremacy, it’s time for that system to compost. Those of us who have fermented our generational suffering, and distilled our lived experiences into their essential knowledge and wisdom, are the ones to lead and co-create the future of mezcal, and by extension, re-introduce systems of reciprocity and interdependence. Just like the hijuelos—the agave clones, which sprout up from the root system of the mother plant—I am deeply connected to my motherland, and that’s why I feel so protective of her. <img width="2400" height="3600" width_o="2400" height_o="3600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b2e54c7c2d15fdb390defad90be3592336b1903dae50016250e701f67f97b85c/Fabiola_8.jpg" data-mid="150191211" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b2e54c7c2d15fdb390defad90be3592336b1903dae50016250e701f67f97b85c/Fabiola_8.jpg" /> El Espíritu del Mezcal: Maternidad, Conexión, y Reciprocidad Fabiola Santiago&nbsp; Soy descendiente de al menos de tres generaciones de productores de mezcal por mi parte materna. Todes pertenecemos a la capital mundial del mezcal, Santiago Matatlán, Oaxaca, Mexico. Después de que mis padres se casaron, continuaron con el oficio de nuestro pueblo: la producción artesanal de mezcal. Los extranjeros a menudo comparan el mezcal con el tequila como su prima ahumada. Pero el mezcal no es nuevo; Yo diría que el mezcal es la madre del tequila, ya que el tequila es técnicamente un mezcal. Los pueblos indígenas han estado viviendo con el maguey por miles de años. Los zapotecos, el grupo indígena al que pertenezco, son los mayores productores de mezcal tradicional. Mientras ahora se celebra como un espíritu mexicano refinado y complejo, hubo un tiempo en que se veía como la bebida de los indígenas pobres, un espíritu para las personas campesinas y de clase trabajadora. A principios de los 1900, un ferrocarril nacional llegó a Oaxaca, lo que permitió una mayor comercialización, incluso del mezcal. Pero en la década de 1980, la producción de mezcal se desplomó a medida que la demanda de tequila continuó creciendo. El tipo de maguey utilizado para hacer tequila–el weber azul–se volvió escaso, por lo que los tequileros ilegalmente compraron la materia prima que hubiéramos usado para hacer nuestro propio espíritu de maguey. Cientos de palenques en nuestro pueblo se cerraron en esa década. Mis padres también dejaron de producir mezcal. Mi padre se vio obligado a emigrar a los Estados Unidos en busca de mejores oportunidades económicas. Y en 1992 el resto de la familia se reunió con él. Por lo tanto, no se me ha transmitido esta herencia ancestral. Pero estoy criando a mi hijo en Oaxaca y en California y su experiencia bicultural ayuda a transmitir los conocimientos, valores y principios ancestrales, aunque no escoja aprender el oficio. Porque en mi vida nació el mercado mundial del mezcal y ha explotado desde entonces. Esta industrialización y comercialización está arrancando la historia del mezcal de sus raíces indígenas. Oaxaca, uno de los estados de México con la población indígenas más grande, es el hogar de los protegedores del mezcal. Sin embargo, hay una falta de atribución significativa, reconocimiento y respeto por las personas que han preservado este espíritu. Estas nuevas historias son cuidadosamente empaquetadas para el consumo masivo y la mercantilización, se reducen y comprimen para la era de la información: información científica occidental sobre el maguey, el proceso de producción artesanal, las cualidades organolépticas del mezcal e incluso cómo encontrar a un maestro mezcalero y comenzar una propia marca. Pero el mezcal existe y puede ser disfrutado por personas del norte global porque personas como mis padres, abuelos, bisabuelos y otros familiares soportaron dificultades. Cuando fue degradado por la nación de México, e incluso prohibido, existió en nuestra vida comunal como medicina y para ocasiones sociales. Menos historias se cuentan de las formas en que el espíritu exquisito contiene la lucha, el trauma y el dolor. * &nbsp; * &nbsp; * Mi bisabuelo materno le enseñó a mi abuela materna a hacer mezcal cuando era una niña. Tal vez hubo momentos de enseñanza cariñosa de mi bisabuelo, pero sigue siendo cierto que para mi abuela, aprender a hacer el espíritu delicado también estaba enredado con la violencia. Mi abuela compartió cómo su padre la golpeaba a ella y a sus hermanxs si cometían un error, especialmente durante la cocción. Un error de un lote tuvo un impacto directo en el bienestar financiero de la familia. Como padre soltero, mi bisabuelo no tenía margen de error. Mi madre abandonó la escuela primaria para poder ayudar a mis abuelos a hacer y vender mezcal. Tiene una cicatriz profunda en la espinilla derecha. Mientras llevaba cargas de maguey machacado para destilar a la una de la mañana, se resbaló y cayó cerca de un tanque de agua. Estas son las condiciones estresantes y crónicas en las que crecieron mi madre y mi abuela. Estas experiencias me recuerdan al mensaje poderoso de Kazu Haga: "Si cargamos trauma intergeneracional (y lo cargamos), entonces también cargamos sabiduría intergeneracional. Está en nuestros genes y en nuestro ADN". Las condiciones que soportaron mi madre y mi abuela también son parte de la herencia del mezcal. En las culturas que temen mirar al pasado, especialmente cuando el pasado muestra evidencia de anti-indigeneidad, es más fácil borrar esas historias, y con ellas, cualquier reconocimiento de nuestrx trauma y sabiduría intergeneracional. Borrando estas historias centrales atrapa a los consumidores y productores en un ciclo interminable de extracción y explotación. Ser testigo del boom de mezcal mientras los recuerdos de las experiencias de migración forzada, separación familiar y las experiencias intensas de mis padres–especialmente de mi madre–produciendo mezcal para sobrevivir en nuestro pueblo de Matatlán, a veces me paraliza. Sin embargo las experiencias que mi madre y mi abuela soportaron también son las semillas que alimentan mi pasión por una industria del mezcal más equitativa e indigenizada. Al compartir las historias de personas con experiencias personales, podemos acceder al conocimiento que necesitamos para crear culturas de aprecio y cohesión. La industria del mezcal, tal como existe en los Estados Unidos, está lejos de poseer apreciación cultural. Mi primera experiencia de mezcal en un bar, una experiencia muy diferente de las experiencias comunitarias con familiares y parientes que tuve desde que era una niña pequeña, está grabada en mis recuerdos. Al principio de 2013, finalmente obtuve mi tarjeta de residencia y estaba ansioso por visitar lugares donde pudiera mostrar una identificación y experimentar la visibilidad que anhelaba. Un bar de mezcal hipster acababa de abrir en el centro de Los Ángeles donde trabajaba. También vi publicidad de guerrilla de una marca de mezcal pegada a lo largo de las banquetas. Era una noche de fin de semana y el bar estaba lleno. Anteriormente trabajé en un restaurante, así que sabía ser paciente, especialmente en las noches ocupadas. Pero la cantinera, una mujer blanca alta y delgada con mangas de tatuaje, seguía sin hacerme caso. Alguien a mi lado tuvo la amabilidad de llamar su atención y hacerle saber que había estado esperando por un tiempo. En casos como estos, he dejado una propina generosa para causar disgusto, o he dejado una nota en la sección de propinas. Esta vez, elegí la segunda opción. Algo como: "Habrías obtenido al menos el 20%, pero el servicio fue horrible". Esta no fue la primera vez que un servidor me ignoró. Tampoco fue la primera vez que tuve un servicio al cliente inadecuado. Muchos bares y restaurantes no son espacios inclusivos, ni espacios de pertenencia. A veces, son los menos accesibles para las personas cuya cultura se vende. Por ejemplo, una copa de mezcal en los Estados Unidos es lo que los nativos pagarían por un litro en nuestros pueblos. Pero con el tiempo, he aprendido a tomar espacio en lugares excluyentes. Así que eso es lo que hice esa noche. Pero nunca puse un pie en ese bar después de esa noche. Lxs que somos de la cultura del mezcal no se nos debe negar el acceso a nuestra propia cultura. Al entender los impactos dañinos que la industria del mezcal continúa teniendo en los pueblos indígenas, tenemos la posibilidad de corregir y evitar los pasos de la industria del tequila–una industria que impulsó el robo de tierras indígenas con fines de producir tequila industrial y que se convirtió en un producto deficiente de lo que alguna vez fue. En naciones como Estados Unidos y México, que mantienen una cultura de supremacía blanca, es hora de que ese sistema se fertilize. Aquellxs de nosotrxs que hemos fermentado nuestro sufrimiento generacional, y destilado nuestras experiencias en conocimiento y sabiduría esenciales, somos lxs que debemos dirigir y co-crear el futuro del mezcal, y por extensión, reutilizar sistemas de reciprocidad e interdependencia. Al igual que los hijuelos–los clones de maguey que brotan del sistema de raíces de la planta madre–estoy profundamente conectado con mi tierra natal, y es por eso es que me siento tan protectora de ella.