Authors: Nikki Giovanni
Chasing Utopia (6 page)
I have known these women
Have loved and admired them
Have been afraid of and for them
I have slept on lumpy double beds
That were covered with quilts
Made by these women and their friends
Washed in a communal tub
And dried with kisses from the Tennessee breeze
The dreams I have dreamed under those quilts
Took me on this journey not yet completed
I have sat with these women
On back porch steps
Gutting Catfish or Whiting
My knife flying up and down
Split exactly to the center the better to lay flat
In the hot grease of the skillet
My hair covered in fish scales
My hands covered with blood
My lips smiling as I have been welcomed
Into the company of women
My grandmother would let me
Break the green beans
Pop pop pull the string though
When guests were expected she
Would “French” them
That was a kitchen job
Saturday was a cleaning day
I have bent to my knees to scrub
The wooden pantry floor
And climbed on shaky chairs
To Pledge the cabinets in which are kept the good dishes
Sundays were Sunday School and Church
Our Sunday best clothes
Our deliverance from and to
Sunday was the answer
I did not know then
The question
I have heard these women
When they thought I was asleep
Crying for their sons
In jail
Or their daughters
Being beaten
I have seen the bruises of the daughters
And I have seen the grandmothers
Not looking
I have heard their prayers when they didn't know
What to pray for
Looking for understanding and relief
Praying for their granddaughters to not
Make the same mistakes
Had there been magic
I would have lifted these women
All of them
Into a red cape
And sprinted them away to a happy land
But they are grounded
In their God and their families
They are grounded in their hearts and minds
They majestically knew
They are grounded in me
And here I stand
With arms wide open
A song fleeing
from my breasts
from the goodness
Of our grandmothers
And I must sing
After my father had a stroke my son, our dog, and I moved back home from New York to Cincinnati to help my mother. Always being a mama's girl it was a natural thing to do. Plus I must admit I hate it when people know you need help and then make you ask. There was no way taking care of a stroke victim would be easy so we moved. First I put a fence in the backyard for the dog, then turned the garage into a tree house without a tree for my son and the friends I knew he would make. That turned my attention to the house.
It was a nice house. FHA-type house. Small but enough room. We needed a porch, since decks and porches are so different. We had one put on which extended the living room and cooled the house better. My father was an Alabaman by birth and he loved sitting on the porch and calling out to his neighbors. Lincoln Heights is a country town where folks do that sort of thing. Everyone was doing O.K.
Mommy still was working which I hoped she would continue to do until he was on his feet. Mommy tended to feel sorry for her husband, my father, and she would cut his meat, make his bed . . . things like that. I thought he should do for himself. If I could keep her working he would. That would be another story for another time.
I don't eat breakfast. There is probably some deep meaning or perhaps trauma about that but I don't eat breakfast. I am not necessarily disdainful of breakfast but it seems awfully early to put food on the table let alone in your mouth. My first meal of the day to start is dinner. Dinner is my favorite. You can sit down recognizing there is nothing important that you need to do. You can relax. While I was helping Mommy that was what I did: the same as if I were in my own home. I start dinner. It actually got to the point that when my father awoke if there was nothing on or in the stove he would ask where we were going that evening because he understood the pattern.
One of my favorite restaurants then was a little Bistro called Le Central. It is French. In downtown San Francisco. Le Central kept a pot going and they would post on the board how many days the pot was still stirring. They sometimes got several months. The pot works this way: You keep your vegetables in the pot and add water or wine or, I suppose, beer. No meat. Mommy and I got to laughing one day and we decided we would start a frontier pot. Mommy and I had been having a very very low-grade argument about saving grease. I said No. She said Yes. I would throw the grease out; she would hide it in the back of the fridge. We finally called a truce: the frontier pot. Mommy thought I was wasteful because I throw things out; I thought she was foolish to keep teeny tiny leftovers. This was a good compromise.
I think it started with peas. No. First you need a clean gallon jar with a top. Then the leftover veggies of the day. Peas. Corn. Squash. Whatever you have left over. Ziplock bags are important because you might want to save the juice. If you, for example, boil potatoes, the water has nutrients in it but you don't want to save the water with the veggies or they will get soggy. I saved 2 cups liquid in ziplock bags which I froze. Then when I needed to add liquid I could, in 2-cup amounts. Anything can go in the frontier pot. Pasta. Tomatoes. Anything you have. We kept it going for 30 days, then we made soup. To be honest it drove my father and son crazy. They hated Saturdays when Mommy and I would say Oh Frontier Pot for dinner. Of course we made a nice green salad and warm bread, usually corn bread, and we tried to make it very nice with bread pudding for dessert because even though we were four people it still is very hard to eat a loaf of bread. What I did was freeze the leftover bread so that we could have fresh bakery bread most of the time. My son learned to hate frozen bread, too, but we can't always get to the bakery. Bread pudding is the easiest thing on earth so the house smelled good. And let's be honest: If this is all you're getting, then you may as well enjoy it. Sometimes when we finished off the Pot and had to start again, we wrote the number of days on the refrigerator; sometimes we had a little left over and the day count would continue. It was fun. I still put stock in the freezer and when I make soups or beans I pull out my ziplock and think of the good times I had cooking with my mother.
P.S.: I recognize this has no recipe but it is a living thing. It's fun to try, especially in winter. It does keep you from wasting “a little bit.” And with herbs, spices, and a bit of beer or wine it's wonderful.
Or
Happy Birthday, Nancy
The Department Head was hurrying to close her door against the ravages of demands when she heard a whimper. Or perhaps it was a sigh. But whatever it was it was undeniable: Someone needed help. She turned toward the sound. “I am having a birthday soon,” said the Associate Head, “and it makes me feel so old.” “Oh,” said the Department Head, “you shouldn't feel old. There are lots of people here older than you.” “No,” insisted Nancy. “No one is older than I. Some people have been here longer but I am the oldest person in the world!” “Oh, no,” declared the Department Head. “Look at Nikki. No one is older than Nikki.”
“Are you sure?” Nancy said. “Nikki always looks so chipper and vibrant.”
“Yes, I know,” said the Department Head, “but I looked it up. Nikki is way older than she knows. There was a mix-up in her birth records. She thinks she was born in 1943 but she was actually born in 1439. No one knows how to explain this to her so she still gets a birthday every year.
“I know this,” the Department Head continued, “because two years ago I forgot her birthday and received a blistering message from
The Birthday Fairies
. They made it very clear that if I ever did that again they would take away not only
my
February date but my husband's December. That Birthday calendar is very strict.”
“Well,” Nancy asked, “do you think Nikki is planning to live forever?”
“I have to say,” said the Department Head, dimples resting in their arches, “it really looks like it. If she accepted her age now the entire Civil War not to mention the War of the Roses and . . . Good Gracious! Think of the love affairs . . . financial things . . . discoveries that would have to be undone. No, I think the best thing is to let it be.”
“But aren't there people in Heaven waiting for her?” asked Nancy.
“Well. I'm not so sure of the location,” said the Department Head, “but Bandit has been in touch with Wendy who is enjoying Nikki's mother's company. They were just joined by Nikki's former babysitter so the beer and the talk is flowing. Wendy misses Nikki. Don't tell her that, though. It would make Nikki sad.”
“So what should we do,” Nancy asked, “about June 7th?”
“I think I'll make her a quiche. She really likes my quiches.”
“But should someone that old eat that many eggs? It might kill her.”
“Well,” said the Department Head, “we all have our jobs, don't we?” She turned to present a box to Nancy. “And here is my very best Red Velvet Cake for you!”
“So it's O.K. for me to go ahead with my birthday?”
“Yes, Nancy. Happy Birthday. And many many more.”
The End
I think fear should be a spice. Something we sprinkle on our steaks just before we put them on the grill; something we mix in with our corn muffins and bake at 350 degrees for twenty minutes or until golden brown. Maybe we take fear leaves to decorate our apple pie right out of the oven . . . not before or the leaves will burn and not look nearly so pretty. I'm thinking if we can learn to distill fear we have two wonderful preparations: perfume for smells and alcohol for ingestion.
Perfume carries its own scent of danger and excitement but when we throw a little
Fear
in there things really heat up. Ask John Edwards or Herman Cain and see if I'm not right.
Fear: The Scent He Can't Resist.
We'd have to find an exclusive outlet for it. We wouldn't want everybody to be able to get their hands on it. I'll have to form a committee to find that solution. Maybe the White House has some ideas. Or . . . oh yes . . . The Tiger Woods Emporium!
Get Your Fear Right
Here
. You can practice your swing, whatever that might mean, while your bottle is bagged.
And if we made it drinkable we'd probably have a light green liquid with its own two-ounce top. You can take your fear on the rocks . . . or slip a bit of coke in there to make it mighty smooth. We could get the Culinary Channel to feature Fear at one of the drink offs and we'd reward the best new barista with his and her very own gold bottle of Fear to be used anytime they'd like.
I need to explain right here, it's not fear that causes problems, it's when hatred is combined with it. Fear on its own tells you not to lend your cousin money; don't go down that dark street, girl; take yourself home from this party now. Fear is a warning signal. Healthy. Good idea. That fish smells funny. My dog does not like this man. Fear is a good thing. It's why I want to keep it exclusive. If everyone can have fear then we have to cut it. Like drugs. It's not the cocaine that kills you it's the stuff they cut it with to make the drugs go further. You don't want pure fear but you don't want it cut with hatred either. Hatred is a bad idea. Which is why it's cheap and available anywhere you look.
Maybe what will really work is we all need to have a fear tree in our backyard or a small fear plant growing on our apartment windowsill. When we are feeling uneasy we pluck a few leaves and find the right place to put them. Champagne would be the number one choice but spaghetti works, too. Have a little Fear at least once a week and you will build up your resistance. Like a vaccination. Then when wars and hatreds come along you'll be able to recognize that's just another expression of Fear. No thanks, I've had my quota.
That's what I'm thinking we really need: An Antidote for Fear.
First you harvest the laughter
Local is best
But sometimes you need nationwide
To really get the bellows
Mix a bit of dirt
Not the serious hurting kind
But the kind you'll find in the beauty
Parlor or barbershop
Parlor parlay biscuits
All the same
Then gently fold in some grandmother love
There is always a bit of grandmotherly
Love somewhere
Some days though I will admit
It can be more difficult to find
Than others
Call a girlfriend for “Dropped”
Or an old love for “Baked”
Either way you'll know when they're done
Oops! We forgot the salt
You can laugh till you cry
Or cry till you laugh
The salt will come
Crispy Brown Ready
Serve them warm
Remembering summer mornings before Church
Or Saturday evenings with fried fish
Biscuits always bring memories
Of home
Poets shouldn't commit
Suicide
That would leave the world
To those without imaginations
Or hearts
That would bequeath
To the world
A mangled syntax
And no love
Of champagne
Poets must live
In misery and ecstasy
To sing a song
With the katydids
Poets should be ashamed
To die
Before they kiss
The sun