KWANZAA DAY FIVE: COME LIVE YOUR NIA!

Nia (Purpose): To make our collective vocation the building and developing of our community in order to restore our people to their traditional greatness.

Y'all STILL waiting for Love Jones 2 huh? Yeah. Me too.

Ahh...purpose. 

That's the big question, isn't it? "What's my purpose? What's my purpose?" 

A little over a year ago, I helped to build a church  that actually SANG that before the services started. (Click the lyrics to sing along.)

"I am learning to live
Learning to be
All that I am
More than I see

Moving forward 
To my destiny 
Come take this journey with me

There's no better time to start than now... 
There's no better time to star than now...

Come live your purpose! 
Show us your greatness! 
The world is waiting! 
Show us your greatness! 

There's no better time to start than now..." 


Awesome song eh? 

And that's all well and good...singing that every Sunday, what if you have NO FREAKIN' IDEA what your purpose is? 

But let me back up and talk about this church for a minute. 

First off, it was co-founded by two young black men. One gay and one a single dad. 

Let that sink in. 

They called a meeting and told everyone "We're going to open a church." 

And I sat in this meeting (knowing them both from our former church) squealing with excitement and telling them how wonderful it was and offering support...which they gladly accepted. 

Then we asked when they planned on opening this church. 

"In a month." They said. 

In a month. A new church. That would rely on teachings of all faiths, that wouldn't succumb to dogma, that would be the "hip church". They were planning on having service in a month. 

Four weeks. 

I just started laughing. Like, uncontrollably. 

"This is my purpose," Rodney, a co-founder said. "And I'm living it." 

And let me tell you what happens when you are in the presence of somebody who is living their purpose. YOU. GET. HYPE. 

You turn into a Sister Act montage. You start cleaning and waxing shit while singing along. Dancing with brooms, happily handing out flyers. You don't even stop to THINK that you might be on board the crazy express and the shit has left the station. 

But they weren't crazy. Expansion Church DID in fact, open in a month in an (get this) abandoned firehouse...that was quite fun actually. They then moved on to a bigger and better space and one of the co-founders persued other projects, but that's not the point. 

Rodney and Greg KNEW they had to co-found and create it. They did it. And they were awesome for it. 

Expansion has been going strong for one whole year. You can check out their one year anniversary video below.

Now,  participating in the growth process of that church, (why do y'all keep looking at me like that when I say I helped build a church? What? I'm very fucking spiritual thank you very much!) I believe I've more than Nia'd. I think I've Nia'd enough for a couple of years. I have some left over Nia if you'd like it. 

But that word "Purpose" still bugs me. I started thinking....what is my purpose? 

Unlike Iyanla, I can't answer that like a soulful robot, I needed to do some digging. 

So I searched the Internet. 

Yes. I searched the Internet for my purpose. 

I didn't find it. 

(Shocker.) 

What I did find was an exercise and if you haven't found yours, I highly suggest you do this along with me. 

It's a free write and it's simple. You're just going to write "What Is My Purpose?" at the top of any piece of paper/word processing document and then you'll start writing. 

And you're not going to stop until you whatever you write makes you very...very emo. I mean like, make you cry emo. 

And I know, black people (especially the men) don't like being all emo. We're tough! We survived slavery and Jim Crow! But please, put your thug down for 20 minutes (I promise, you can collect it when you're done) and try this. 

Not tomorrow. Not when you're done reading this blog. 

NOW.  

Now remember... DO. NOT. FUCKING. STOP.  WRITING. UNTIL. YOUR. THUG. HITS. THE. GROUND!

Nah..nah. I'm good Yo. I'm good. 

If you're afraid to do it, that's OK. It's fine. It it helps you feel better...I did it too and I'm more than happy to share it with you (which turns out...is my damn purpose. Tricky. Very tricky this purpose thing.)  By the way, I did not stop until I got it. 

 And you WILL get it. 

A light bulb will go off. A bolt of lighting. A fucking nuclear bomb. 

And then you will know. 

And if you carry that purpose with you... and live that purpose without fear, throughout the new year and beyond, I promise you...I PROMISE you... you will not be disappointed. 

Ready? 



WHAT IS MY TRUE PURPOSE IN LIFE?

I am here for a reason that I have yet to figure out. The thing is, I can't stop writing until I figure it out. I'm here to experience all the things and let people know they are not to be afraid of them. Which means at times, I will have to scare myself shitless. I will look down the barrel of the gun and say with steely resolve "Pull the fucking trigger if you're a man." I'll walk away from the love of my life just so I can see if there's any such thing as coming back. And when he dies, I will know a part of me did as well. And I can tell you that happened. I can hug a girl who I know moved a little too fast. I can tell a child it's OK to be angry. And confused. I am here to make mistakes, get back and up and keep making them. I'm here to piss you the fuck off. To keep operating from that place deep within. I am here to walk the fuck away from toxic people and ignore phone calls even though every ounce of my ego tells me to pick up the phone and don't grow. I'm here to get addicted. To cigarettes. To alcohol. I'm here to successfully kick them both. I'm here to get fat. To get skinny. To become vegetarian. To become pescatarian. To wolf down bacon cheeseburgers. I'm here to make friends. To end friendships. To make love. To break a heart. To be heart broken. To fall in love over and over and over. To have long term relationships. To have affairs. To admit that you can't turn love on and off. To learn. To practice what I preach. To dance. To sing. LOUDLY. To be swept off my feet and treated like dirt at the same damn time. I'm here to wear make up. I'm here to slide down a wall, heaving when I remember the cruel shit adults can do to a child. I'm here to endure sexism. I'm here to endure racism. I'm here to make jokes about both of them. I'm here to make motherfuckers really uncomfortable when they hit on me. I'm here to make you believe you're hotter than you really are. I'm here to be a fantasy for people to masturbate to.  I'm here to intimidate. I'm here to surf porn. I'm here to be a slob. I'm here to be neat. I'm here to be young. I'm here to grow old. I'm here to chronicle every fucking year of this life as long as I have pen/word processor/pencil & paper. I'm here to tell stories. I'm here to show people that growing up in the Bronx ain't so bad. I'm here to see Paris. I'm here to almost die in Costa Rica.  Three times. I'm here to lie. To be honest. To wear heels. To have five pairs of sneakers all for different reasons. I'm here to get all the things. I'm here to give away all my shit. Did I mention Africa? I'm here to see Africa. I am here to reach enlightenment. I'm here because my friends aren't and through me, they always will be. I'm here to bring epic tales to the public. I'm here to get folks thinking differently. I'm here to say it. I'm here to help. I'm here to be selfish. I'm here to lay in a bathtub and meditate. I'm here to question God's existence. I'm here to be an atheist.  I'm here to hold on to God for dear life. I'm here to give hugs when I can. Get them when I need them and curse a motherfucker out even when I know I could probably handle shit better. I'm here to be bad. I'm here to be blunt. I'm here to create. I'm here to create so much shit that I can't sleep. I'm here to say the things you can't. I'm here to stand up for myself. I'm here to stand up for you. I'm here to live this shit out...for as long as possible. I am here to be full of fear. I am here to be fearless. I am here to laugh. I am here to live...and to live...and live..and give you permission to fucking LIVE by example. 



NIA! POW!!

OK Kwanzaa...I see you. I see what you're doing here..

 Today we...Kuumba (Creativity): To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.

Let's get it done!

KWANZAA DAY THREE: UJIMA?! The Kwanzaa Cake Strikes Back!

Riddle me this Batman...why do we even need a Kwanzaa cake?

Huh?

Is there some part of Kwanzaa that rewards us with cake? Is that why we're here? For the cake?
Do we get to eat it on the seventh day or whenever we feel like it? How does that work?

Sure, we went ahead and clowned Sandra Lee's Kwanzaa Cake, right? But we never did answer those tough questions. First being, did we ever try to make one?

Not really.

So as far as I'm concerned, we're part of the problem.

...Da fuck?

We let this foolery go on too long and now...there's tee shirts. Folks are bringing mock Kwanzaa cakes to office parties. It's a mess.

This...

...is all our fault.

So since this Kwanzaa is about to owning up to our own shit...I'm calling us out.

How are you (we) going to just let Sandra Lee do this to the Kwanzaa cake and not do something about it?!

But before we tear Sandra and ourselves a new one...let's just answer the question...

 What exactly is a Kwanzaa cake supposed to be?

 Nobody's ever really defined it...and thats the problem when you don't define traditional foods for yourself. Somebody will come along and do it for you. But I already bitched about that a few years ago.

THIS blog post isn't about bitchin. It's about solution!

So I decided to take some action and help my brothers and sisters out (UJIMA!) by making ...
MY OWN DAMN KWANZAA CAKE!

But this time, I wasn't going to use ingredients we'd never, ever buy.

...OK. Maybe the chocolate. We'd buy the chocolate.

I mean, I really put some thought into this cake and it doesn't matter if you're from the North, the South, or the Caribbean... there's a little something in there for everyone.

HOWEVER, before I get to mine, I have to give a huge shout out to Jamyla Bennu, owner and creator of Oyin Handmade for sharing her picture of HER amazing Kwanzaa Cake...which is a gotdamn red, black and green Kwanzaatastic masterpiece!

Honey Momma got SKILLS!

Amazing right? If you want to know how she did it... head on over to the OYIN blog. 
Man listen. That looks like some shit I want to eat immediately! And it's got "black power" packed in every moist, delicious bite!

Can't lie...when I saw her cake, I was a little intimidated.  I thought "Wow, it's going to be hard to beat that one..." But hey. It's not a competition!  We're all in this together just trying to right a terrible...terrible wrong. JB did an incredible job with the colors  (may The Kwanzaa King bless all artists) whereas, I went a totally different route. I just ignored the colors altogether  (sort of) and went straight for content.

So, without further adieu...Kwanzaas and Kwanzettes... here's my contribution to the culture.

May I present for your consideration..

The Official 

Red Velvet Pineapple Rum Right (on!) Side Up Cake 

with Sweet Potato Hennessy Coconut Cream Cheese Frosting 

Kwanzaa Cake Kake!!!

That's right. Something for everybody. 


See, maybe your problem on...umm...Kwanzaa cake day.... is that you only eat Red Velvet Cake. No problem.  Maybe you think Sweet Potato Pie or Cheese Cake is the best desert ever and if you don't get some on Kwanzaa cake day....shit is about to go down! I got you.  

Or perhaps your grandma's Rum Cake/ Coconut Cake/ Pineapple Upside down Cake makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. Or maybe you're an alcoholic. (Hey...I don't judge.) Perhaps you just skip desert altogether and just chillax with (yet another) nice glass of brown liquor in the form of Henny.  
You think Sandra Lee was thinking about you like this? Nope. Not with some damn angel food cake and canned pie filling. 


Want to make it yourself?  Of course you do. And when you do, make sure you serve it on Ujima, and save yourself some Kwanzaa grief. After all, this day is about helping out your brothers and sisters. Making their problems your problems. Now, if you're anything like me... you've got enough. You may not necessarily be able to help them out and make their problems your problems. Buuuuut....you can give them a nice heaping slice of The Official Red Velvet Pineapple Rum Right (on!) Side Up Cake with Sweet Potato Hennessy Coconut Cream Cheese Frosting Kwanzaa Kake!! and have them tell you all about it, while giving the appropriate amount of sympathy. 

How? 

Step One: Serve Cake. (Can't nobody be mad at ya.) 
Step Two: Nod.
Step Three: Say, "You", "He", "She", "Your Finances" etc, ...are in my prayers". 
Step Four: DON'T SAY ANOTHER WORD. 

So how does it taste? Boozy and chewy and moist and confusing as shit. If you know somebody with "Sugar", you might not want to give them a slice. Unless you want to get rid of them. 



OK...here's how to make it.


Step One: Gather Your Stuff 

Get all this: 

• Red Velvet Cake Mix
• Vanilla Pudding 
• Coconut Milk
• Pineapple Slices
• A small bottle (or big bottle...hey...I don't judge) of Henny
• A small bottle (or...you know) of dark rum
• Butter
• Eggs 
• Veg Oil
• (canned) Sweet Potatoes 
• Unsweetened Coconut Flakes
• Brown Sugar (1 cup)
• Cream Cheese Frosting

Step Two: Old School. 

 You're going to cook it in this: 

Old Fashioned Husband Checker

Why a cast iron skillet? Because that's what our ancestors baked in. They didn't have fancy-smanchy non-stick T-Fal nonsense. A skillet. Only one. And they cooked EVERYTHING in there. This cake is no exception.  Now preheat your oven to 350 degrees and trust me. 

Step Three: Pack, Melt, Spread.

 Pack a cup of brown sugar. Melt a whole stick of butter in the bottom of the skillet on low heat. Stir in brown sugar. Marvel at how insanely bad for you this cake is going to be. Swallow your feelings.


Step Four: Twisted Fruit

Get the Pineapple slices drunk.
Pour the rum over them and let it all sink in together.

Lay the drunk pineapple over the brown sugar and butter.

Then add some coconut flakes...(I know. I said unsweetened. I still mean that. I picked up the wrong one. Whatever...the show must go on. MO SUGAR! MO SUGAR! MO SUGAR!)

Step Five: Come Together...Right Now...over me.

Make your cake batter. Pour the Red Velvet cake mix into a bowl but ignore the package instruction. You need something sturdy enough to support the pineapple upside down (that will end up Right (on!) Side Up.). Use the box recipe and your cake will fall apart.

Instead, add four eggs, one cup of water, a half cup of veg oil and one package of vanilla pudding mix.

         

        

Get your mixer out and....

...for about 3-4 minutes.

Step Six: Pour It On Me

Pour batter into the skillet and put it in the oven for one hour...

Step Seven: Squish!

Play with your child's big ass cheeks when they keep coming to kitchen to see what you're doing.

Step Eight: Make the frosting! 

Combine all the Cream Cheese Frosting with even mo' whipped cream cheese (about a 1/4 cup), 

puree the sweet potatoes until silky smooth, add two or three tablespoons of coconut milk (depending on how thick you want your icing) and Henny to taste. Combine to taste.  Mix and taste...mix and taste...mix and taste...

Step Nine: Flip it! 

After an hour...remove the cake, flip it... pray because it's edges look like yours on a hot day and ... pow. Red Velvet Pineapple Upside down cake! But don't leave it like that. Let it cool on a rack then flip that bitch back over. Why? Because it's a "Right (on!) Side Up" Coconut cake! 

Trim the edges with a VERY sharp knife. Once you get those off...your cake is damn near perfect. 

FINAL STEP: 

Frost. Cover with coconut and add the  DECENT SIZED Kwanzaa candles that don't resemble dildos. 

Take pictures and curse the fact you're not a food photographer because in real life, this shit looks amazing...but here, it looks ghetto, but nothing is worse than Sandra Lee's cake so just bathe in that for a while.

Serve a big ass slice to whoever is in the house...and tell them they're in your prayers. And watch as the eyes roll back and the sugar rush takes over.  When they comment on the navy blue candles, you tell them candle makers are racist   there weren't any black candles... just eat the damn cake Ana Mae.

Problem solved. BOOM!

OK Kwanzaa...what's next?

Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics): To build and maintain our own stores, shops, and other businesses and to profit from them together.

Oh...I GOT this!! Not only do I GOT this...but I'll show you the best places to shop and get your Ujamaa on! (And if you have any black own business you'd like to give a shout out to...leave it in the comments! I'll be sure to include them!) 


-Nyree

KWANZAA DAY TWO: Kujichagaulia...(Ugh. ENGLISH MOTHERFUCKA, DO YOU SPEAK IT?!)

Doing this Kwanzaa thing is always all fun and games until.... (say it with ya chest!)

Kujichagulia (koo-jee-cha-goo-LEE-ah) Self Determination"To define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves and speak for ourselves."
       1.  Who am I?        2.  Am I really who I say I am?        3.  Am I all that I ought to be? 

And the hard truth is, I had no idea what to write. And that's OK.

That's the problem when you pledge to do something EVERY. DAMN.  DAY.


I was going to say something about folks taking offense to what I've been writing.

Then I was going to talk about how my uncle had the nerve to tell me not to encourage my beautiful young cousin by calling her "gorgeous".
(What kind of "New Nigger Rule" is that? I'm not supposed to build up the self esteem of my family?
Keep that. She's not "Precious". We don't put our girls down.)

Then I was going to talk about how, the moment I got my new laptop, writers' block took a hold of my ass and wouldn't let go.

Then I was going to talk about how today while writing, I thought of my beautiful friend Erica Kennedy and got incredibly sad. Like, ridiculously fucking sad....and guilty.  About how I lied to her and told her I finished both her books.  (Sorry E. Though it  wasn't because I was mad about certain things & details leaking into "Feminista". I swear.)  I was going to write about her and the "all that I ought to be" thing, but it just became too much.

 I was going to talk about how "What did you do all day?" is not a question you want to ask a writer and not start a fight. Ever.

I also thought about addressing the "You can't be spiritual and say all the things you say..." bullshit shade I've been given by various Pro-Black Christians. (Pro-Black Christians invented shade. I'm convinced.)

Finally, I was going to talk about how I trash Kwanzaa every damn year, but every year I seem to find out more and more about myself, so aside from the stupid kinara (not available in Target or anywhere unless you're in Harlem...) or putting out produce... it's actually not bad for self reflection. So maybe I should own up to some of the things I said.

And then I realized...

I don't have to address any of it.  

That's not what this day is supposed to be about.  WHEW! I almost let that bullshit ruin my Kwanzaathon!

And this is when I wish Kid Fury was my friend in real life...because I'd call him up on the facetime immediately for a nice cup of steaming shade...(though he might call me a "fish" and we'd have to fight...but anyhoo...)

I'd say, "Kid... guess what I got in my inbox about my "Quentin is Kwanzaa King" post?"

And he'd say...

Oh really. Oh.. OK...OK.

This day is supposed to be about defining MYSELF. I'm supposed to be looking myself dead in the face and asking three questions. 

1. Who Am I? 

2. Am I Really Who I Say I Am? 

3. Am I All That I Ought To Be?

Until I figured these out, I couldn't really stick to my purpose. And had I known all this ahead of time...had I owned up to my shit...AH HA! You see?! You see how easy it is to fall into the "poor me" trap?! 

Anyway, back on the positive side of the street. 

So, today...I had to ask who I was. 

Clearly, I'm a motherfucker who loves cursing. Why? BECAUSE IT'S ENGLISH! Those words were created to add some jalapeno to your prose...so why don't more people use it?

(You all realize by now that gay black men are my spirit animals, right? Good.) 

Well,  sure, I'm a potty mouth and host of other things. But, the real question is. Am I really who I say I am? 

Well, I actually left that one up to the public. 

A while back, I asked folks to give me three words to describe me. Here's what they came up with. 

POW! That's exactly who I thought I was!! Brilliant! OK...so now for the third question. 

Am I All That I Ought To Be?

Is this a loaded question or what?! What if somebody asked you this? Who (aside from Oprah) can honestly answer "yes" to this? 

Shade.

Here's the thing... why can't I answer yes to this?
I mean, real talk (...hand clapping with each word type... *real* *talk*) WHY THE HELL NOT?

Why can't I recognize that I'm EXACTLY where I ought to be in this moment and then strive to get to the next moment? Why can't I just accept the choices that brought me to this place, recognize that I'm supposed to be HERE and then move on from this point?

The thing is... I CAN. Which means my answer is "Yes."  Yes...

BUT...I can say yes knowing there is more that's required of me...and that's called "Purpose". But we'll get to that in a bit.

Oh...you see what I did there? I JUST KUJICHAG... KUJICHAGAU... whatever, you know what I mean.  I'm not looking it up. Not my fault.  Shit should be in English.


Well, however you spell it...I just did it.


...In my fucking footsie pajamas. Boom.

Don't front. You want a pair. 

NEXT UP...

Ujima (Collective Work and Responsibility): To build and 

maintain our community together and make our 

brothers' and sisters' problems our problems, and to 

solve them together.

HA!!! Oh...my friends. THIS shit should be good.  Stay tuned...


-Nyree

Oh...and if you were dying to play that video in the FB grab... you're absolutely right to want it. Here you go. Get ALL the way down with...Carl Carlton.

(Hmm... Nyree Nyreeton... nah. Doesn't work.)

KWANZAA DAY ONE: Eat All Your UMOJA....

We still don't believe you Kwanzaa. You need more people.

OK Everyone! It's day one...ready?

Umoja (Unity): To strive for and to maintain unity in the family, community, nation, and race.


"Well... you know Snuffy, if you've got to go, you gotta go. And hey. You've had a good life."

(...Ladies and Gentlemen, my mother.)

" I mean, you've done everything you wanted to do, so if you kick the bucket tomorrow, " she said, "...it's fine."

This is just one of the gems she dropped during our hour and a half conversation today. And she said this as if we were talking about my not getting approved for a car loan and not about the potential demise of her middle child.

To be more specific, we were talking about my heart condition, which, when first diagnosed was called "pretty minor". Now, a year and a half later, the word "reoccurring" had turned it into something else. Something not quite "serious", but still a condition that makes my cardiologist frown and ask me questions I've answered a bazillion times already.


 But that's not what's concerning me here. What concerns me the most is (sigh...) well... it's the fifteen pounds I gained as a result.

There. I said it. And yes, I know that sounds kinda vain. I'm aware.

One must keep up appearances...

Sure, my mother can talk about my potential death. Whatever.  I'm used to her. What I'm NOT used to is jumping into my GAP corduroy pants, praying the zipper makes it all the way up and just when I can just taste SUCCESS ...I walk and the sound of cords rubbing together embarrassing the shit out of me. Sounding like "DJ Too Fat For These Pants" on the ones and twos. Not to mention that muffin top.

My friends are kind. They don't say shitty things like...

"Wow. You got fat!"

No. They say other shitty things like...

"Wow. Remember what your body looked like when we went to Brazil? Everybody thought you were an athlete! And your ABS. Ugh... a full six pack!"

All with a tone that says, "Oh well kid. You had a good run. You can be fat now."


Hear this enough and despite the obvious pain in your chest, you pay more attention to the small belly, wobbly arms and outgrown bras (actually, that's a perk) and you now begin to think of doing dumb shit. Really dumb shit.


Like working out twice a day to get the weight off.

See, my problem isn't that I don't like working out. I love it. And as a result, I tend to be as lax on my diet as I want. (When you hit the gym as hard I do, you can afford that slice of pie.) However, this wasn't my old body I was dealing with. And I refused to accept that.

CUE TRAINING SEQUENCE.

Oh, I worked my ass off. (Literally.)

And this was perfectly OK for about a two weeks. I drank water. Did yoga every morning and spin every afternoon. The weight was coming off and I felt GREAT....until I didn't.

All of a sudden, my heart said, "Yeah. You're going to stop working out now. As a matter of fact. You're going to stop doing everything now. Walking. Talking in long, continuous sentences. All of it. You're going to stop. Unless I will." It went straight Nino Brown on me.

And so I did.

And the weight came back with a vengeance. (Gee...thanks meds!)  And as soon as I was feeling better, I jumped on the scale. I'd gained four more pounds.

Shit.

*****************************************************************


My whole family is dangerously overweight.

No, that's not true. My mother is small and petite, but I attribute this to her not having any teeth so she eats way slower than the rest of us, gets full faster, puts the damn fork down. Plus, she's been smoking since there were cigarette ads on television, so there's that. But aside from her,  and the few younger cousins that play sports, let's just say my family isn't doing well.

I noticed this yesterday, during our annual Christmas celebration. Everyone looked like they were about to hop on the Diabetes Express, and yet, when it was time to eat, the menu was all soul food.

BBQ Chicken
Ribs
Macaroni & Cheese
Collard Greens
Candied Yams


....you get the idea.


And unlike people I know with amazing bodies, there was no hesitation when it came to piling heaps of food on their plates. ZERO. Folks headed up to the buffet with GLEE I tell you.

It's Dinner Time!!

And later, when I handed out gift cards to "Starbucks" instead of "McDonald's" this year, the disappointment was audible and widespread.

"What's up Cuzzo?, " My favorite cousin asked.  "No more McDonald's gift cards? STARBUCKS? What happened? I'm not black no more?"

Yeah. You read that right.  Please feel free to hit your wall slide right now.

"No. I'm trying to save you from trans-fat. Drink some damn Green Tea or something!" It was the truth wrapped up nicely, in a joke.

And my first instinct was to tell him he was dangerously overweight, and that, combined with his other really unhealthy habits were going to end him.  Soon.

But I didn't. Who was I to talk? Who was I to start ringing the health alarm? Besides, food... more specifically, SOUL FOOD is what unites us. It's what brings us together.

What's a black family get together without a few things on the plate that require hot sauce?

Something had to be done....right now.

Getting my family to watch "Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead" wasn't going to happen. They wouldn't be watching that, "Fast Food Nation", "Forks Over Knives" or anything else that was going to unite us and convince them to giving up tasty fried things.

So then...what what would? How in the hell am I supposed to "Umoja"?

********************************************************************

"Yeah Snuffy, when I saw you on "The Chew" that time, I said, oh my goodness! You look humongous! You look like Oprah! I didn't even recognize you!"

"Gee...thanks Mom."

"I mean, like umm...hey. I know you're not THAT big regularly, but WOW. You looked really..."

"I got it Ma... I'm fat." I groaned.  "What's for dinner?"

I know, probably the wrong question for a woman who's been called fat by her Mom, but I figured if I get her talking about cooking, she'll stop talking about the way my ass looked in those hot pink sparkly tights.

...On national television.

...In front of millions of people.

"Oh I just made some turkey wings and flavored them with smoked turkey. You know I don't use pork anymore? Or hardly any oil. I don't fry nothing now. Had to cut down on the salt and sugar too since Pop's diabetes still isn't right."

("POP" aka "StepDad": On meds. Blind in one eye. "Got The Sugar" and "Arthur"-ritis.  All conditions brought to you by a lifetime of pork, fat and booze. Not necessarily in that order.) 

"Really?" I asked, genuinely impressed.

"Yeah...you see...I went on Google and found some things that said I could..."

And she went on to explain how she changed every recipe I grew up with into a healthy one.
And cousin, that's a LOT of change.

That's when it clicked! First of all... I'd already knew how to do the same damn thing. And second, I needed to stop asking for permission to help my family get healthy. Stop asking someone else to change. I just needed to DO IT. I needed to BE the change.

Loving you is like food to my soul...

Exactly two years ago, I challenged myself to cook a healthy soul food dinner. As a matter of fact, I challenged myself right after Christmas. I vowed to only use organic ingredients and if I had to fry, it would ONLY be in a "good fat". And so, I scoured the Internet and found the best recipes I could for my favorites...and with minimal effort, I did it.

• Skinless "Fried" Chicken (Double dipped in batter to give it a "skin" taste.) 
• Low Fat Mac & Cheese (Used whole wheat elbows, low or skim cheese and milk) 
• Crispy Candy Yams (Baked Sweet Potatoes, sprayed with olive oil ...in the oven till crispy and sprinkled with confectioner's sugar or drizzled with Agave.) 
• Sauteed Kale  (don't forget the hot sauce) 

And it was DELISH. Now...if I can do it, then maybe, I can unite the family and get them to do the same. 

Maybe, I could get them to start thinking of their diets a bit differently by not telling them what to do, but by just doing it myself.  And maybe those documentaries were the wrong ones to watch.  Maybe, I gift them "Soul Food Junkies" . Something they can relate to. 

Beginning today, I began my journey as a pescetarian. Not for weight reasons, but for health. Now, I know damn well they're not doing that, BUT... if next Christmas I say, "Sorry, I only eat veggies and fish. You don't have to make more, I'll bring it." AND if I walk in the door with a big ol' tin of shrimp and crab salad and a tray full of grilled salmon with rosemary sauce, well...who gonna check me Boo? 

And if I make it well enough, which I will (culinary school STAND UP!) perhaps I'll change a few minds. Shake up some menus. Save some lives. 

I might get them thinking about a different approach to the black diet altogether. Ayo. I think I just "Ujoma"'d in advance. Excuse me while I roll in it...

See the sweet potato pie at the top? HOLLA!

**********************************************************************************

"I think you're beautiful." He said.

"Yeah, but you didn't see what my body looked like before..." I said. "I was cut up. I had a six pack and not..." I grabbed my new belly and playfully shook it "...This."

"Babe. You are beautiful and you look amazing. And you're sick. You're taking heart medication. You have to rest and when you're better... you can get back to working out. But for right now... this is what I care about."

He put his hand on my chest.

"My tits?" I joked.

"Yeah. They're bigger. Way to go."

We both laughed.

And then later, while I was cleaning kitchen and trying to stay away from the pita chips, this came on iTunes.... and the man swooped me up and slow danced with me.


Umoja'd like a muthafucker.


OK Kwanzaa...what's next?

Kujichagulia (Self-Determination): To define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves, and speak for ourselves.

Wow. OK. 

-Nyree