(I hope this is ok, it was mentioned in class that this was a blog possibilty but I did not see it on the blog list)
A man is not a man unless he has a truck, a cowboy hat, wranglers, boots and a six pack of Bud. Always keep a bottle opener in your back pocket, if you forget it make sure your hands are strong enough to twist off the bottle cap. Make sure the oven is always preset on 350, biscuits, bacon and sausage, brown just right. DO NOT BURN! Tailgate foods at the ready; make sure you have a steady supply. Wash the jeans, make sure you leave a little mud on the pant legs, a man always needs to look like he’s been working, don’t make the whites too white or the colors too bright. Always have something in the oven, a woman should bake and have food ready at a seconds notice. Don’t get taken in by fancy cars and diamond rings, the man you want works the land for his money and will take care of you at all costs. Don’t settle for a Chevy; keep your eyes on the Ford. Kenny Chesney is a jerk, Willie Nelson is a lover and Toby Keith is a sex god. Music isn’t music unless it has a guitar and the singer has a southern twang. Make sure you got a healthy appetite and you’re not too thin, a man doesn’t want chicken legs, unless they’re for eating. Have a small town attitude with big city dreams. Church on Sunday’s, chili cook-off’s every Jan., trips to Tennessee in the summer, own some plaid girl for heaven’s sake and a big buckled belt or two. Roundup on Friday nights, its right, right, left, left, back, turn, hit up that two step, time your turn for Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy, watch where you throw your lasso. Don’t be afraid to ride the bull, it’s a necessary thrill. Be kind to your elders, don’t talk back, and respect your grandma and God, and good grief sweep that floor right, at least twice a day, you know the sort of dirt that gets trekked into the house at moment’s notice. Don’t wait too long for children and try for two or more, get yourself a hound dog and a shotgun, leave yourself protected. And if that boy your dating is acting a fool, you give him your two sense and threaten his truck, he’ll shape up. But most of all love, love and let live, give your heart and don’t be afraid to lose it. Hurt is a part of life. This is how you light a fire, fry a turkey and make beer can chicken. This is how you get a nice southern fry, heat the oil, bread the chicken, pour in the Tabasco, we like it hot. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and in the cooler. Corona is a poor man’s Budweiser; don’t bring that filth in the house. This is how you drive a stick shift and maneuver a tractor, make sure it’s a Deer. This is how you hook a catfish, this is how you got it, girl don’t you dare serve that fish without a proper fry and collard greens. These are the lyrics to Free Bird, these are the appropriate karaoke songs- Pasty Klein, Reba, Shania and Leanne- and here I come. Jimmy Buffet is your brother. God.Country. Family. Our boys go to war and fight the right fight and you just make sure you send your care packages as often as you can. Most importantly, Sundays are for football, food at the ready! And it’s five o-clock somewhere.
As a child I was always in the kitchen, I felt more at home there than in the solitary of my bedroom or in the imaginary lives of my Barbies. The kitchen was a consistent place, the epitome of warmth and comfort, where some kind of drama or honesty was ever in the making. Paule Marshall’s “Poets in the Kitchen,” is reminiscent of Alice Walker’s “In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens” in that she places her knowledge and intelligence as a skill acquired through the words and actions of her mother during time spent in the kitchen and garden. As cliché as it seems, even offensive at first, I think that most young girls learn the majority of their lifestyle skills and knowledge of the world in this setting.
Home, to me, was in a variety of kitchens. After my mother and father divorced, because of my mother’s status as a single mother of four children, we were constantly moving from place to place simply because we could not afford our residence anymore. But none of those townhouses, apartments and suburban houses were my home. What I remember most about my part-time houses were the kitchens, they were my universal home. Nothing was left uncovered in the kitchen, no rock unturned, no mysteries unsolved, no topic was left untouched, from politics to pop culture, from childhood nostalgia to thoughts about the future.
When my mother was close to giving birth to my twin sisters, my brother and I stayed with my mother’s best friend Sue. I was used to the kitchen being an area filled with laughter and chatter; here it was all talk of the future, of advancement, of prospects. This was not a kitchen I was used to. This was the arena in which I realized that I needed to think about my future. The kitchen was impeccably clean; the white tile floors glimmered, reflecting the glare of a double-door stainless steel refrigerator- freezer combo. The counters were neatly organized with labeled canisters, coffee, tea, sugar, flour…there were dish towels hanging on the handle of the oven, the dinning table was set, complete with a bouquet of fake flours, red, yellow, green, in the center.
Sue talked of cleanliness, homework, good grades and college. She was a housewife that was going back to college to be a middle school history teacher. She wanted what was best out of life, was always at the gym, eating organic foods, taking vitamins, showers twice a day. I definitely was not used to that. Her motto was that cleanliness was not only godliness but that taking care of the body was insurance for the future. This mantra is what instilled in me the need for the gym, for vitamins, for vegetables even. She was constantly finding creative ways to bring health food and exercise into her daily routine with hula hoops, bike rides, walking around the block, the pool, and trips to Whole Foods. The only women ever in Sue’s kitchen were her little girls, all three of them my best friends, it was here that she built a relationship with her girls, not at swim meets or cheerleading practice but where the food was made and plans were built.
My favorite kitchen would have to be my aunt Gretchen’s. Whether it be Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year’s or a cousins birthday there was a permeating aroma of French vanilla coffee- no doubt the reason for my caffeine addiction today- and women everywhere. My grandmother, aunt and mother hustle and bustled their way to cooking enormous feasts with huge smiles on their faces. I’d hear about my aunt and mother taking off from home on the pretense of going to Mexico for a few days and coming back a month later. I don’t think as children we see our mothers as capable of adventure or in the image of anything but our mother. It was here, in the kitchen that I met my mother for the first time. I realized that she was full of passion, she wrote poetry, loved to draw and had been all over the world, with countless of adventures under her belt before she was the age I am today, 19. She was full of happiness and excitement, I started becoming aware of my mother’s likes and dislikes, of her past relationships, of sadness, resentment, how she met my father… I know full well that this is how my mother and I became best friends, and I also have a similar relationship with my aunt Gretchen.
As I grew older I became more and more involved in the baking and aiding in the kitchen, so that I became one of the girls, no longer the daughter or niece. My whole relationship with the women in my family changed because of this. I felt a complete contentment, I could talk about anything and everything and get solid, well thought out, sagacious advice and not fear being condemned. Many people don’t find that sort of trust for the majority of their lives but I found it at an early age, in the only place I feel at home, the kitchen.
Sophie Caco’s progression from adolescence to adulthood can be psychologically analyzed from three poignant pinpoints that placed significant pressure of her sexuality: the series of “testing” assaults that her mother performed on her and Sophie’s course of action to stop the abuse, the birth of her child and the painful sexual relationship with her husband Joseph and finally, Sophie’s eating disorder, therapy and ultimate forgiveness of her mother. Edwidge Danticat’s “Breath, Eyes, Memory” follows the matriarchal line from grandmother to granddaughter and their haunting traditions for protection of purity as was expected in Haitian culture to insure respect in the family name and reputation.
Coffee & Literature 