Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer: Dear God, bless me with the courage to ask questions. Amen.

Affirmation: When my call exceeds my confidence, I trust God.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for ancient lessons.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Where’s The Beef

(This piece is an adaptation of a message I am giving at church today.)

One of the most iconic commercials of my lifetime posed a very important question: “Where’s the beef?”

I really love that commercial because the three women were older adults. In 2026, I rarely see older adults represented in commercials.

I also love how the creators captured the boldness of a woman who wasn’t afraid to ask questions.

I grew up very shy, but the older I get, the bolder I become, and the more willing I am to ask questions, especially when something doesn’t make sense.

Moses, in Exodus 3, is a lot like the woman in that Wendy’s commercial. He asked questions.

When Moses encounters God at the burning bush, he isn't baby Moses, young adult Moses, or even middle-aged Moses. This is eighty-year-old Moses leading his father-in-law Jethro’s flock through the wilderness to Mount Horeb.

God doesn’t pass over age or experience. We live in a culture where older adults are often overlooked for opportunities, where foolishness sometimes takes precedence over the wisdom of our elders, and where respecting older adults seems out of style to some. Humans may overlook and disregard people for a multitude of reasons, but God never does.

God loved baby Moses just as much as God loved eighty-year-old Moses keeping the flock.

As Moses was leading the flock, he encountered something that made no sense. The angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush.

Here is Moses, a shepherd herding sheep, staring at a bush that was burning, but not burning up. A bush that was burning, but not consumed.

This fire scene happens in Exodus chapter 3, but chapter 2 was about water.

At three months old, Moses’ mother placed him in a papyrus basket among the reeds of the riverbank. Pharaoh’s daughter saw the baby, took pity on him, and saved him. When he grew, Pharaoh’s daughter named him Moses because she drew him out of the water. At the end of chapter 2, we find Moses watering the flock of the priest of Midian.

So from one chapter to the next, the story quickly shifts from water to fire.

Such is life. The only constant is change, and in chapter 3, Moses gets a change of scenery. His story moves from water to fire, from being rescued to being called, from surviving to receiving a call to serve.

Sometimes God changes the scenery because God is changing the assignment.

Moses heard the voice of the Lord calling out from the bush: “Moses, Moses!”

When God got Moses’ attention, Moses answered: “Hineni! Here I am!”

God began to tell Moses about the misery of the people in Egypt, their prayers, their cries, their suffering, and God’s plan to deliver them into a land flowing with milk and honey.

Then God told Moses: “Go to Pharaoh.”

Yes, Pharaoh, the house of the ruler who wanted him killed as a baby, who wanted him killed as an adult, and who would surely want him killed for trying to set the Israelites free!

Moses had questions.

First, he asked: “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”

Moses had a natural reaction to what seemed like an impossible task. Sometimes the task we have might feel bigger than our confidence to do it.

God didn’t spend the rest of the conversation trying to convince Moses to believe in himself. God revealed more of who God is in the middle of Moses’ uncertainty.

God didn’t say to Moses, “You are talented. You are charismatic. You are a great shepherd.”

God assured Moses: “I will be with you.”

Moses had a second question for God.

“If I tell them the God of your ancestors sent me, and they ask, ‘What is His name?’—what shall I say to them?”

Moses moved from asking, ‘Where is the beef in me?’ to asking, ‘Where is the authority in You?’

God said to Moses: “I AM WHO I AM. Thus you shall say to the Israelites: I AM has sent me to you.”

God added: “Tell them the Lord God of your ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, has sent me.”

God didn’t say, “Tell them I WAS the God of your ancestors.” God didn’t say, “I WILL BE.” God said: I AM.

Moses started by asking, “Who am I?" He worried about his own limits. Then he asked, “Who are You?”

God answered by revealing the ultimate presence. Generation after generation has relied on that same revelation. Even me.

I AM lifted me out of the miry clay!

I AM turns darkness into day!

When things don’t make sense, when tasks seem to exceed my confidence, when I'm just living life, I will trust I AM.

I don't have to wonder where to find real substance in this world. I found the beef!

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

I always have a helper.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

Where’s the beef? Where do you find substance in your life?

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Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

The Golden Hour by Karen Attiah

The Washington Post Fired Me. I Fought—and Won My Job Back.

Last spring, I was sitting on the couches on the 7th floor of the Washington Post, fighting back tears…

Read more

10 days ago · 1663 likes · 207 comments · Karen Attiah

Recipe Exchange

I love a good beef hamburger, and I really love one when I get the meat from the butcher in my hometown in Arkansas. I usually buy meat during my yearly Christmas pilgrimage to Arkansas, but unfortunately, I didn’t buy ground beef last year.

I haven’t bought ground beef from a grocery store in a very long time, so when I want a hamburger and I can’t get fresh ground beef, I buy ground turkey and make turkey burgers.

I am sharing my turkey burger recipe below. If you try it, let me know.

Ingredients

• 1 lb ground turkey (93% lean)

• 1 tbsp olive oil

• 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce

• 1 tsp garlic powder

• ½ tsp onion powder

• 1 tsp kosher salt

• ½ tsp freshly cracked black pepper

• Burger buns and desired toppings (lettuce, tomato, red onion, cheese)

Instructions

1. Season and Mix Gently: Keep it cold.

In a bowl, combine the ground turkey, olive oil, Worcestershire sauce, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and pepper. Gently mix with your hands or a fork until just combined. Keep the meat cold right up until cooking to help patties hold their form without binders.

2. Shape with a Center Dimple: Form firm patties.

Divide into 4 equal portions. Gently press into patties about ¾-inch thick, smoothing the edges with your hands so they don’t split. Press a shallow thumbprint into the center of each patty so they cook flat rather than puffing up.

3. Heat Skillet or Grill: High heat prevents sticking.

Heat a cast-iron skillet or grill to medium-high heat. Add a tablespoon of high-heat cooking oil to the skillet (or oil your grill grates well).

4.Cook to 165°F: Flip once only.

Place patties in the hot skillet. Cook undisturbed for 4 to 5 minutes until a rich brown crust forms on the bottom. Flip gently and cook for another 4 to 5 minutes, until the internal temperature reaches 165°F (74°C). Add cheese during the final minute if desired.

5. Rest and Serve: Don't skip the rest.

Let the patties rest on a warm plate for 3 to 5 minutes before assembling on buns. This allows the juices to redistribute so the burgers stay moist.

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Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Protect me from the unscrupulous con artists. Amen.

Affirmation: I embrace the support I receive from friends and strangers.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for those who fight on behalf of others.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

The Battle of the Greediest

The Little League World Series happening in Pennsylvania right now brings back fond childhood memories. I remember parents setting up folding chairs along chain-link fences, kids slathering sunscreen while the fumes hung in the summer air, people cheering for the players and yelling at the refs. This was a regular weekend ritual during my time as a travel-team softball player.

The rural community I grew up in supported our team financially and helped cover our expenses. I played in four World Series tournaments and sacrificed my summers for the love of the game. Youth sports were much less expensive in the 80s and 90s than they are today.

Every weekend, baseball, softball, football, and soccer fields around the country are filled with spectators and players, and all are part of America's competition culture. Parents invest enormous amounts of money in sports training programs so their children can crush the competition. Athletes put in hours and hours of training to gain a competitive edge. No pain, no gain. Youth sports are so commercialized that access is now gated by who can afford to pay to play. Participation in youth sports is getting more expensive – and there seems to be no end in sight.

Youth sports have become a pay-to-play microcosm of a much larger system. While families with access can choose whether to enter the youth sports race, we have no such choice in the broader system governed by a very different kind of competition: the Battle of the Greediest.

In traditional sports, there are rules and referees, boundaries and lines, coaches and camaraderie, teamwork and sportsmanship. In the Battle of the Greediest, people become the ball that is kicked, hit, thrown, and even shot during the competition. There are no rules, and sportsmanship is a foul. The field spans every industry, and the competitive edge goes to the most ruthless. In this battle, there is no mercy rule, so hearts break, people suffer, faith wavers, and souls are crushed.

This isn’t theoretical. Greedy people stole retirement funds from people I care about: unsuspecting clergy, widows, widowers, and their families. I heard the fears and saw the tears from clergy families. Accountability doesn’t always happen in the Battle of the Greediest.

However, to try to even the score after the theft, my ministry mentor and a few other clergy came together and filed a lawsuit in hopes of recouping what was stolen. The fight to recover the losses continues.

In competitive sports and the Battle of the Greediest, heartbreak is a risk. Cowboys football fans choose the possibility of heartbreak year after year. They show up disappointing season after disappointing season. The clergy members had no choice in their heartbreak.

Beyond the injustice with the clergy, the Battle of the Greediest thrives on unapologetic theft, unfiltered nepotism, unscrupulous con artists, and underhanded deals across society, including church systems.

I always competed in and watched sport for the love of the game. In the Battle of the Greediest, people can lose everything without ever agreeing to step on the field. There is no consent.

Years ago, after earning a degree in Exercise and Sports Science, a mentor asked me, “How do you spell sports?”

I looked at her and spelled, “S-P-O-R-T-S.”

She asked me again. Confused, I gave the exact same answer.

She looked me in the eye and said, “No. It’s spelled M-O-N-E-Y.”

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Cheaters never win.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

What happens to a society when the competition for money and power has fewer rules, referees, and consequences than the games we play for entertainment?

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From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

SNOBHOP

The Cultural Impact of 'A Different World'

The streaming wars will always be considered an interesting period in history. Shows come and go, and some are never heard from again…

Read more

2 years ago · 25 likes · 13 comments · John Wright

Recipe Exchange

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

One ballpark treat I always have to have is nachos with jalapeños. The hotter, the better.

What’s your favorite game day food?

Leave a comment

Nachos with Cheese and Peppers

Ingredients:

• 1 tbsp unsalted butter

• 1 tbsp all-purpose flour

• 1/2 cup whole milk

• 1/2 cup evaporated milk

• 2 cups (8 oz) American cheese or Mild Cheddar, chopped or freshly shredded

• 2–3 tbsp canned jalapeño brine (liquid from the jar)

• 1/4 tsp paprika or cayenne pepper

• Salt to taste

For Serving:

• 1 bag of round tortilla chips

• 1 jar sliced pickled jalapeños

Instructions

1. Make the Liquid Cheese Sauce

1. Melt butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Whisk in flour and cook for 1 minute.

2. Whisk in the whole milk and evaporated milk. Cook for 2–3 minutes until slightly thickened and simmering.

3. Turn the heat to low. Add the cheese in small batches, whisking continuously until melted and smooth.

4. Whisk in the jalapeño brine and paprika. Taste and add salt or more brine for extra tangy heat.

2. Assemble and Serve

1. Pile round tortilla chips into a basket, tray, or wide bowl.

2. Pour the warm cheese sauce generously over the center of the chips (or serve in a side cup for dipping).

3. Top with sliced pickled jalapeños and serve immediately.

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Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Teach me how to love. Amen.

Affirmation: I am a lover.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for the lovers.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Lovers Are the Architects of Survival

Everyone fighting oppression is defending love. Those defending love are also defending humanity.

In high school, I was a great student and never missed a day. Unfortunately, I had to have surgery my senior year, and that ended my perfect attendance. Most of my teachers were understanding, but one teacher showed no leniency and gave me zeros while I recovered. My dad, who loved me dearly, came to my defense, met with the teacher, advocated for me, and she changed my grade. It took me months to walk without assistance, but my dad loved me, stepped up for me, and I felt secure because he was there.

What my father did for me at a small school in Arkansas reflects the same instinct that compels lovers everywhere to rise up and refuse to let people or systems discard those they care for. These people are lovers, not romantically, but because they recognize their own humanity, defend the humanity of others, and refuse to stand by when people or systems deny either. This love unites countless struggles against injustice.

Unfortunately, one of the most effective tools for oppressors is to disrupt and attack bonds of love, solidarity, and belonging that allow people to protect each other. The Christian command to “love one another” is strategically targeted through policies, strategies, and institutionalized practices such as the Indian Removal Act, Dawes Act, Southern Strategy, redlining, the REDMAP Initiative, Project 2025, and many more efforts that ripple through society, shape culture, and force lovers to defend the right to love freely. Many of these efforts are designed by those who claim Christianity.

History is full of moments when people, united by love and solidarity, have resisted oppression and built movements for change. From Jesus and the disciples to modern civil rights efforts, people have joined together to demand justice because of love. These institutionalized priorities force lovers to fight for the physical, legal, and social conditions where love can exist without permission or interference.

Lovers are architects of survival.

They build the conditions people need to live, love, and belong. Through families, communities, movements, laws, institutions, and cultures, lovers protect human dignity, even when oppressive systems try to destroy it.

My father did this for me when he refused to let a teacher treat my recovery as an academic failure. Across history, people have done what my dad did on a much larger scale by standing up for those who are downtrodden, speaking up for the demonized, and sitting with the dispossessed.

This outward expression of love is only possible with an internal conviction. To love oneself is to recognize your own humanity, and to love others is to defend their humanity.

Love, when put into action, builds human solidarity.

Solidarity becomes resistance.

Resistance, rooted in love, becomes the foundation for survival.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Love yourself. Love one another.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

Who is someone who stepped into the gap for you? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments below.

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From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

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Substack Recommendation

Three And A Possible

bell hooks, bonnets, and beautiful mirrors:

An introduction to me…

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21 days ago · 32 likes · 10 comments · Robert the contemplative

Recipe Exchange

Breakfast

My dad loved and supported me until he died in 2018. Thankfully, what he poured into me continues to shape me and fill me with love.

One way he showed his love for me and others was through food, particularly breakfast. We hosted many guests at our house, and they always received a home-cooked breakfast. He also cooked breakfast every Sunday before church.

One breakfast staple in our home was rice. We never ate breakfast without it.

For years, I thought everyone ate rice for breakfast until I moved away and people commented that they’d never had it for breakfast.

In memory of my dad and to honor our great breakfast tradition. I am sharing my rice recipe. For years, I cooked it on the stove, but now I cook it in an electric pressure cooker my sister gifted me. The rice comes out perfect every time!

RICE

1. Rinse the Rice

Rinse 1 cup of long-grain white rice (Basmati, Jasmine, or standard white) in a fine-mesh strainer under cold water until the water runs completely clear (about 30 seconds). Drain well.

2. Combine Rice and Water: Maintain a 1:1 ratio.

Add the rinsed rice, 1 cup cold water, 1/2 tsp salt, and 1 tsp oil or butter to the pressure cooker pot. Stir gently to ensure all grains are submerged in a single layer.

3. Pressure Cook on Rice Setting

Lock the lid and set the steam release valve to Sealing. Cook on High Pressure for 3 minutes. (It will take 5-7 minutes for the pot to build pressure before the timer starts.)

4. Natural Release for 10 Minutes: Do not quick-release immediately.

When the 3-minute cook cycle finishes, leave the pot alone for 10 minutes to allow the pressure to release naturally. This allows the rice to finish steaming gently without turning rubbery.

5. Venting and Fluffing: Final step before serving.

After 10 minutes, carefully vent to release any remaining steam. Open the lid, let the steam dissipate for 1 minute, then gently fluff the rice with a fork.

Do you eat rice for breakfast?

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Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, May I always find power and freedom in reclamation stories. Amen.

Affirmation: I am more than a single story.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for WilmingtonNColor.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Resurrected Roots: Make Us Proud

A reclamation story is a source of freedom. It asserts and reasserts ownership over history, and is an act of resistance, cultural continuity, and survival.

Last week, I heard and experienced a freeing reclamation story while in Wilmington, NC.

I traced one of my husband’s family lines to the 17th century in Virginia. His earliest known ancestor arrived from Angola, Africa, and generations of his descendants, including my husband’s 10th-great-grandparents, moved to North Carolina and built lives along the Cape Fear River in what is now known as Wilmington, NC.

The vacation activities blended genealogical, historical, relaxing, and fun experiences, and it became something far deeper when we met the great storyteller, Cedric Harrison.

Cedric is the founder of WilmingtonNColor, a cultural storytelling company redefining how people experience history, place, and community across North Carolina.

Cedric, along with the driver for the experience, Mr. Steve, immersed three generations of my family-my mother, husband, children, and me-in a reclamation experience. We learned about the great leaders in architecture, the arts, sports, and education whose roots run deep in Wilmington soil. We learned about the instrumental African Methodist Episcopal and African Methodist Episcopal Zion churches in Wilmington that are beacons of hope and holders of history for the city. We learned about the fight for control of the city's historical narrative. Most strikingly, we confronted the memory of the Wilmington Massacre and Coup d’état of 1898, the only successful coup to happen in the United States of America.

WilmingtonNColor ensures this history is no longer buried beneath a whitewashed narrative. Instead, it boldly and powerfully centers the truth and honors the victims and communities impacted by the tragedy.

During the experience, we learned about the paths enslaved people took to escape to freedom by way of the Cape Fear River. We saw architectural masterpieces built by African builders. We imagined the thick smoke rising from the Daily Record newspaper building as it was burned by the evil, white supremacist mob. It's former location is now a parking lot.

Because of the storytelling, we immersed ourselves in the history of the place. We felt the pain, and we felt the promise.

The reclamation storytelling embodied by WilmingtonNColor reflects Sankofa and provides a path forward for a stronger, more honest Wilmington and a more truthful nation.

The experience helped frame and reframe what I thought I knew about the South and Wilmington, and added context to the genealogical work I'd already done.

The day after the tour, we met a small business owner selling some of her food products at a farmers market. Ironically, she has the same last name as my husband’s ancestors, so I asked her about her surname. She confirmed that my husband’s ancestors came from Virginia and lived along the Cape Fear River. This made the trip even more special.

As we parted ways, she looked at our children and said,

“Make us proud!”

We left Wilmington informed, encouraged, empowered, freer, and deeply energized to make our people proud.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

I love a great reclamation story. A story that once lay dormant, buried under the surface, just waiting for someone to resurrect it and tell it. A story that was complete, but somehow made its way to file 13 until someone discovered it. A story that became eclipsed, purposefully, by dark forces who never wanted the story to come to light.

A reclamation story refuses to hide.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

Has a community tour, historical marker, or local storyteller ever shifted how you understand a place's history? How do you practice Sankofa in your own life?

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Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

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Art

Substack Recommendation

Reading Howard Thurman with Dr. Shively Smith

My Howard Thurman Book Arrived! So Did the Winks.

The Book is Here…

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a month ago · 20 likes · 7 comments · Dr. Shively Smith

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Recipe Exchange

Oh Yeah, Oysters!

Wilmington’s food scene is surprisingly amazing. We enjoyed dinner at Voyce, owned by James Beard semifinalist Chef Keith Rhodes, and Seabird, owned by James Beard finalist Chef Dean Neff. Both restaurants offered delicious oysters, so in honor of these amazing jewels of the sea, I am sharing a BBQ oyster recipe today.

If you try it, let me know.

BBQ Oysters

Garlic-Herb Butter Compound

| Unsalted butter (softened) | 1 stick (1/2 cup) |

| Garlic (minced) | 4 cloves |

| Fresh flat-leaf parsley (chopped) | 2 tbsp |

| Fresh lemon juice | 1 tbsp |

| Hot sauce (Crystal or Louisiana style) | 1 tbsp |

| Grated Parmesan cheese | 1/4 cup |

| Smoked paprika | 1/2 tsp |

| Fresh oysters in the shell | 12–16 large |

1. **Prep the Butter Mix:** Make before lighting the grill.

Mix the softened butter, minced garlic, parsley, lemon juice, hot sauce, smoked paprika, and Parmesan in a small bowl until fully combined. Set aside.

2. **Fire Up the Grill:** Target high direct heat.

Preheat your gas or charcoal grill to high heat (420°F–450°F). Ensure the grates are clean so the shells sit as level as possible.

3. **Shuck and Top:** Keep the liquor in the shell.

Shuck the oysters, discarding the top shell. Run a sharp shucking knife under the meat to detach it from the bottom shell, taking care not to spill the natural oyster juice (liquor). Spoon a generous tablespoon of the compound butter over each oyster.

4. **Grill to a Bubble:** 5 to 7 minutes total.

Place the oysters directly onto the hot grill grates. Cover the grill lid and cook for 5 to 7 minutes, until the butter is bubbling vigorously and the oyster edges curl slightly.

5. **Garnish and Serve:** Handle with tongs.

Transfer the oysters carefully to a serving platter using tongs (shells will be extremely hot). Top with extra chopped parsley and serve immediately alongside crusty French bread for dipping in the leftover garlic butter.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

The 1898 Memorial Park commemorates the events that took place in Wilmington.

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, teach me to share with discernment. Amen.

Affirmation: In simplicity, kindness, and sharing, I find everything I need.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for those who share.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

It’s OK to Talk to Strangers

Life has a funny way of reminding me of things I forget. Last week, I planned to write a fictional story about parents who refused to teach their son to share, but an unexpected visit from a peacock distracted me from that idea. Yesterday, though, a brief encounter with a stranger brought the importance of sharing back into my focus.

My husband and I rushed into a pharmacy to grab some drinks and hair products, and we noticed a well-dressed woman in the aisle where we grabbed our first item.

With just a quick glance, I noticed her fancy leather gloves, a tan trench coat layered over a black shirt, perfectly cuffed blue jeans, a gold belt, black loafers, and a diamond-encrusted cross pendant. It was 90 degrees outside, but her outfit looked more suited for a European fall than a quick trip to the local pharmacy.

As we left the aisle, she looked me over from head to toe, just as we had noticed her.

We continued shopping.

A few minutes later, while we were picking out drinks, I saw her peek around the corner.

“Excuse me. Hello,” she said in a thick European accent. “You look…different.”

I didn’t know what she meant or whether to be offended or flattered.

“You have such a simple style, and you’re beautiful,” she continued.

Her compliment caught me off guard, and I relaxed a little. That day, I wore a white halter dress, crystal sandals, and my hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. It was quite a contrast to her layered outfit.

“You all seem to be a wonderful couple,” she continued.

“We’ve been married for twenty years,” I humbly replied.

“Wonderful,” she said with a smile.

“My mother died when I was five or six, and my father raised me. He never remarried, and he gave my sister and me the best he could,” she said.

“Since childhood, I’ve learned to enjoy the simple beauties in life,” she said, pausing as she began to walk away. “Continue to enjoy each other.”

“Will do. Thank you,” we replied.

For a second, my husband and I began discussing drink options, and she turned to us one last time.

“I like how you all are helping each other. You know, I have lived a very long time, and I learned that the best we can do for each other is to share, even if it’s a piece of bread and cheese. Always share.”

She disappeared as quickly as she appeared, but her words of wisdom clung to me.

That brief interaction reminded me of my original plan to write about sharing. I may not have written the fictional story yet, but by sharing this real-life encounter, I hope you’re encouraged to value sharing, even if it’s just a kind conversation with a stranger.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Even if it’s a piece of bread and cheese. Always share.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

The best thing a stranger ever said to me was ______.

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From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

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Substack Recommendation

Confessions of a Retired Pastor

When Scripture Eclipses the Message

One of my closest friends is the pastor of a very large church. For years he invited me to preach there once a year. Every time I came, he told me the same thing. He could not believe I attended the seminary I attended. He was convinced that most seminaries are very good at one thing: turning people away from Jesus. He was not alone. In a lot of circles…

Read more

a month ago · 10 likes · DeForest B. Soaries, Jr.

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Recipe Exchange

Break Bread Together

I love hosting dinner parties. There aren’t many things better than the combination of great food, great people, great conversations, and great laughs. When I host, I prepare “stretch dishes” to ensure there is enough food for everyone.

One of my favorite stretch meals is Jambalaya. It’s rich, hearty, and always a hit. One of my go-to jambalaya recipes is this one by Chef Leah Chase.

If you try it, let me know.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

It’s great to share, but everything should not be shared on the internet.

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, thank you for reminders that you are always near. Amen.

Affirmation: I am blessed.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for slow mornings.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Here We Go Again

Wednesday morning began like any other day. The familiar morning soundtrack was playing outside my kitchen window. The rooster was crowing, the robins chirping, and the cars riding by in the distance.

I was standing in the kitchen ready to cook breakfast, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something moving outside the kitchen window. It moved quickly and low and disappeared behind our storage building before I could see what it was.

My mind immediately started racing through the roster of possibilities:

Did one of our chickens manage to escape the coop? Was it the fox that occasionally sneaks around to hunt? Was it that orange stray cat I usually only see at dusk? Was it just a figment of my imagination?

I paused with my spatula in hand and waited a few minutes. I stood there watching and listening.

Then, bam!

Strutting out from behind the storage building came an animal. First, I noticed the long, elegant neck. A turkey? Then I saw the gray body, and finally, the long, blue tail feathers gave it all away.

It was a peacock.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Just last year, another unexpected peacock had randomly graced our backyard, stayed for a week, transformed our routines, and vanished as quietly as it arrived.

Here we go again.

None of our neighbors have peacocks, and we have no clue why, out of all of the people we live close to, the peacocks chose our home.

Last year’s visitor felt like a once-in-a-lifetime visit. It was that bird that taught me about “peacock pauses,” those unexpected disruptions that force me to stop, breathe, and notice the wonders of life.

When this new guest strutted from behind the building, my initial reaction wasn’t fear or confusion like last time. I didn’t rush outside, nor did I panic about where it came from. I called my husband to take a look, and we paused and watched the bird from the kitchen window.

It is funny how life works. Sometimes something comes into our lives, makes an impression, and fades away. When the same unpredictable something shows up a second time, it starts feeling like an important sign.

Maybe my life had gotten a little too busy again. Maybe the morning routine had turned back into a mundane act rather than a mindful start to my day.

Whatever the reason, I am sure I needed a refresher course on “be still and know.”

When the peacock came last year, it felt like learning a new song on guitar. This time around, the new peacock’s visit felt more like a reprise, a familiar song I hadn’t played in a while.

As I watched the beautiful bird strut past the storage building, I realized that sometimes life’s soundtrack will play a familiar song.

My only job is to decide how I respond when it happens. Will I dance? Skip it? Listen?

I chose to dance and listen this time.

I don’t know how long this second visitor will stay, but as I turned back to finish cooking breakfast, I felt a deep sense of gratitude.

Friday before sunset, while my husband headed to the coop to feed the chickens, he spotted our visitor strutting in our fenced-in garden. He called to tell me what he saw, and I walked out to join him. For thirty minutes, we took a peacock pause and just watched. The world kept right on moving, but we stood still, humbled and completely in awe of what we were experiencing.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Don’t be afraid to pause!

Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” - Matthew 8:20

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Nobody Warned Us About This Part.

There are versions of ourselves we'll spend a lifetime gently saying goodbye to…

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2 months ago · 639 likes · 42 comments · Dionna Johnson

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Recipe Exchange

Sow: Garden to Table

This upcoming school year, I am working, taking classes, self-caring, and trying my best to show up in a meaningful way for people I love. I know I will need time to both pause and maximize the time in my day.

A few days before the peacock came, I was on the phone with one of my cousins. It was about 9:00 p.m., and I was cleaning the kitchen. She said, “Honey, before I retired, I got up early and cooked my dinner and cleaned the kitchen, so I wouldn't have to worry about doing it in the evening.”

This was an aha moment for me!

Thankfully, my entire family cooks and cleans, and starting this week, we are taking her advice: Get up earlier, prepare dinner, and clean so our evenings will have more flexibility.

Getting up early to cook breakfast is what put me by the kitchen window to see the peacock. Maybe getting up even earlier will come with some surprises, too.

Here is a recipe for a slow-cooked breakfast for a slow morning.

Cast-Iron Summer Garden Frittata

Ingredients:

• 8 large eggs

• 1/4 cup whole milk or heavy cream

• 1 cup ripe garden tomatoes, chopped (or cherry tomatoes, halved)

• 1 cup fresh spinach or shredded garden greens

• 1/2 small onion, finely diced

• 1 cup shredded cheddar or crumbled goat cheese

• 2 tbsp fresh herbs (basil, chives, or parsley)

• 2 tbsp butter or olive oil

• Salt and black pepper to taste

How to Make It:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F. In a 10-inch cast-iron skillet over medium heat, melt the butter. Add diced onion and sauté for 3–4 minutes until soft.

2. Toss in your fresh greens and half of the tomatoes, cooking just until the greens wilt (about 1 minute).

3. Whisk eggs, milk, salt, and pepper together. Pour over the skillet vegetables. Sprinkle the remaining tomatoes, cheese, and fresh herbs evenly over the top.

4. Let it cook on the stovetop untouched for 2 minutes until the edges begin to set, then transfer the skillet to the oven. Bake for 15–18 minutes until puffy and set in the center. Slice into wedges and enjoy with warm coffee.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, strengthen my capacity to sow compassion. Amen.

Affirmation: I trust the Master Gardener to provide abundant blessings.

Gratitude: I'm grateful that God meets me where I am.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

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The Farmer Who Didn’t Protect the Seeds

Every spring, I become a little obsessive about my garden.

Before I plant a single seed, I design the garden layout on an app. I measure the rows. I think about sunlight, spacing, and companion planting.

Seeds aren’t cheap, and I don’t believe in wasting them. I don’t throw heirloom tomato seeds onto my asphalt driveway. I don’t drop bean seeds into a patch of rocks. I don’t scatter cucumber seeds into a thicket of overgrown poke sallet and then hope for the best.

I plant every seed with the intention that it will grow and become something.

That’s why Jesus’ “Parable of the Sower” has always fascinated me.

In Matthew 13, Jesus tells a story about a farmer who seems... irresponsible. He scatters seed everywhere. Some fall on a hard path where birds eat it. Some fall into rocky ground, where they spring up quickly but dies just as fast. Some fall among weeds that choke it out. Some fall on good soil and grows. Three of the four places where the farmer sows produce absolutely nothing.

If I planted my garden that way, I wouldn'texpect a harvest.

So why would Jesus describe a farmer who appears so careless?

Maybe the farmer isn’t careless. Maybe the farmer is compassionate.

Every farmer I know protects seed. That’s what makes this story so strange. This farmer doesn’t. Time, money, energy, and emotional capacity are all limited, so farmers naturally calculate where to invest them. Farmers want to maximize returns.

The human experience is much like farming. We write off certain situations or relationships because pouring ourselves into them feels like pouring water into a leaky bucket. We might even reserve our compassion for people we deem worthy of receiving it.

The farmer in the parable doesn’t calculate risk or write off any environment. The farmer simply scatters seeds.

That’s one of the most beautiful pictures of God in all of Scripture. Human farmers protect the seed because the seed is valuable. God scatters the seed because people are valuable.

God doesn’t inspect the soil before offering compassion. God doesn’t wait until our lives are cleaned up before extending mercy. God plants in all places.

Divine love is sown into hurting families, forgotten neighborhoods, and disillusioned people. God refuses to write off any person or any place as a waste of effort.

Whether you follow Jesus or you’re simply curious about his teachings, something is compelling about this parable. Imagine what our world would look like if we stopped asking, “Who deserves compassion?” and started asking, “Who needs it?”

That’s an entirely different way of seeing this parable and the world.

What Happened to the Soil?

There’s another detail in this parable that is impossible for me to ignore. Jesus is describing four different environments.

During my years working in community development, we used a process called root cause analysis. Whenever we worked to address a community problem, we kept asking “why” until we uncovered what was happening beneath the surface.

Why is this neighborhood struggling? Why are families hurting? Why are people losing hope? Why? Why? Why?

The answer was never simply personal failure.

Environment matters. Every gardener knows that. You can have the healthiest seed in the world, but if you throw it onto concrete, it can’t grow roots. If it’s buried beneath weeds, it will eventually be suffocated. If the soil has been neglected for years, the seed is fighting an uphill battle before it ever begins.

Jesus’ audience, who listened to this story on the beach, knew exactly about challenging environments. These weren’t wealthy landowners listening comfortably from vacation homes on the beach overlooking the Sea of Galilee. They were ordinary people living under Roman occupation. They carried the weight of crushing taxes, exploitative economic systems, and religious leaders who placed heavier burdens on people than they were willing to carry themselves.

That’s part of what makes this parable so radical. Jesus is explaining and exposing the reality that environments shape what and who can flourish.

The hard path didn't become hard on its own. It was trampled on by countless feet. Some of the weeds choking people were planted long before they were born. The farmer didn’t create the rocky ground. It was already there before the sowing.

Through these examples, Jesus refuses to reduce every struggle to a personal failure.

That doesn’t eliminate personal responsibility. Scripture is clear that people don’t always make the best choices. Some people allow fear, greed, bitterness, or comfort to choke out what God wants to grow, but through this parable, Jesus also refuses to pretend that systems don’t matter.

Corrupt governments matter.

Exploitative economies matter.

Abusive churches matter.

Neglect matters.

Environments can determine whether or not people make it.

Since reading this parable through that lens, I’ve found myself asking different questions. Instead of asking, “Why would the farmer sow like this?” I ask, “What happened to the ground?” What made the ground unsuitable for growing?

For those of us who follow Jesus, those might be uncomfortable questions because they demand more than charity, which churchfolk love to give. Systemic change efforts are often avoided by churchfolk.

Systemic change requires people to loosen hard ground, to pull weeds, and to challenge systems that keep people from surviving and thriving.

Pulling weeds is slower work than handing someone a bouquet. Systemic tilling is difficult, exhausting work.

Blessings on Blessings

Because systemic tilling is so difficult and exhausting, Jesus gives the parable a happy ending. Jesus doesn’t end the story with the hard road, among the rocks, or in the weeds. He ends with abundance. Blessings on blessings!

When the seed finally reaches good soil, Jesus says it produces thirty, sixty, and a hundred times what was sown.

To a first-century farmer, those numbers would have sounded crazy. Four or five times what you planted was respectable. Tenfold was extraordinary. A hundredfold was miraculous.

The abundance of the harvest exceeds every apparent loss. That tells me three things.

First, sowing is important. Every act of compassion, every pursuit of justice, every gesture of love, and every seed of grace that finds good soil is multiplied in ways we could never accomplish on our own. When we sow the seed, God gives the increase.

Second, a seed’s destiny is to produce a harvest, and every harvest produces more seed. I often save seeds from a harvest so I can plant them next season. Sowing and harvesting are continuous.

Third, the Master Gardener never changes the sowing method. The Creator doesn’t look at the hard road, rocky soil, or thick weeds and say, “Well, that soil rejected me, so I’m moving on.” People are notoriously quick to stop scattering the moment seeds fail to grow. The Divine Farmer doesn’t limit the scattering of compassion, love, and grace based on the survival rate of the last seeds planted. Neither should we. Sowing seeds is worth the risk.

The Parable of the Sower invites us to see people differently. It reminds us that lives are shaped by forces deeper than what we can see on the surface. It calls us to sow compassion generously, refuse to ignore the effects of injustice, and trust that God can produce a harvest far greater than our efforts alone could ever accomplish.

Thanks to this parable, I’ll keep sowing because I am the Divine Farmer's farm hand. I still won't throw tomato seeds onto my driveway, but this parable has changed the way I think about the people and the responsibility to sow.

Today, I’ll probably walk through my garden like I do every day. I’ll pull a few weeds. I’ll thank God for the rain we received yesterday. I’ll admire what has finally broken through the soil and is growing. And I’ll remember that every tomato, every pea, and every cucumber began as a seed I buried and then surrendered.

Sowing and surrendering is the hardest lesson gardening has ever taught me.

But every spring, I sow again because I've learned that my responsibility is to sow and surrender. The harvest has always belonged to the Master Gardener.

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Do the sowing. God will do the growing.

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Thank you, , for encouraging me to share this piece today!

The Variety Page Limited

Fear of Seeing

I’m standing here looking at my unfinished basement and wondering how to make it more welcoming to this human who thrives in sunlight and fresh air. My eye is caught by the slat blinds over those narrow rusted-shut windows that basements are notorious for. The blinds were here when we moved in…

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2 months ago · Jill Hames

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Recipe Exchange

Sow: Garden to Table

I try not to waste seeds, but I’m not afraid to experiment in my garden.

The squirrels, however, have no respect for property rights. They’ll pick a perfectly ripe tomato, take one bite, and leave the rest on the ground.

This year, I decided to introduce a predator to the garden: a plastic owl. So far, it seems to be working. I haven’t seen a squirrel near my tomatoes, and I haven’t found a half-eaten tomato lying on the ground.

The squirrels haven’t gone hungry, though.

A blackberry bush sprouted beneath my kitchen window from a seed a bird dropped a few years ago. The squirrels have happily claimed it as their own, and I’ve caught them eating the berries for breakfast more than once.

That’s the way creation works. Birds scatter seeds they never intend to plant. Blackberry bushes grow where no gardener planned them. Squirrels find a meal they didn’t cultivate.

We’re all just trying to find our place on this little patch of earth, living off gifts we didn’t create and hoping there’s enough to share.

Old-Fashioned Blackberry Doobie (Blackberry Dumpling)

Ingredients

For the berries

• 4 cups fresh blackberries

• ¾ cup sugar

• ½ cup water

• 1 tablespoon lemon juice

• 1 teaspoon vanilla (optional)

For the dumplings

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 tablespoon baking powder

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 2 tablespoons sugar

• 4 tablespoons cold butter

• ¾ cup whole milk

Directions

1. In a Dutch oven or large saucepan, combine blackberries, sugar, water, and lemon juice. Bring to a gentle simmer for about 10 minutes.

2. While the berries cook, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in the butter until crumbly, then stir in the milk just until a soft dough forms.

3. Drop spoonfuls of dough into the simmering blackberries.

4. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and do not lift the lid for about 15 minutes. The steam cooks the dumplings.

5. Serve warm with heavy cream or vanilla ice cream.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

PJ Morton: Noochie’s Live From the Front Porch

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Thank you for giving me space to lament. Amen.

Affirmation: I am empowered because I lament.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for the time and space I have to lament.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Minor Keys, Major Tensions, and the Necessity of Lament

My spiritual formation never included lessons on lament. However, I did it instinctively when my family moved to Virginia in 2017. The weekend we moved into our new home was the same weekend the white supremacists took over Charlottesville, spewed their vitriol, and proudly displayed their evil as they paraded through the streets. Tight khakis and blue shirts were their uniform of choice, and silly tiki torches were their scepter.

Lament was never an intentional part of my faith practice up until that point. However, I grabbed a yellow legal pad and a blue pen and wrote my feelings based on Jeremiah 11. I felt as though I was an artisan in exile like the people in the biblical text.

I shared the writing with my brother-in-law, who is a graduate of the Interdenominational Theological Seminary in Atlanta. He proceeded to give me a lesson on lament and its importance in my life and faith. He encouraged me to lament.

When I learned to lament as a faith practice, it transformed my faith and gave me another opportunity to explore a new form of writing.

During 2020, I wrote several lament pieces. I tore my Achilles tendon in February of 2020, so before the concept of social distancing became a reality, I was forced to social distance while recovering from surgery. That year, I spent a lot of time in bed with my leg propped up, and I wrote lament after lament. I even published some of them in a poetry book.

The more I learned about lamenting, the more I realized it was an embedded practice in the community that raised me, but no one I knew called it that.

I grew up in the Delta, where the blues and gospel are the music of and for the people. It was acceptable to belt out “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” It was the norm to sing “My Last Two Dollars” and “Trouble so Hard, Lord, Trouble so Hard.” The same voices that sang, “Sit Down and Hurt Awhile,” belted “Trouble in My Way, I Got to Cry Sometimes.” Lament and music coexisted across these two genres.

I’ve taken acoustic guitar lessons for two years, and for my first recital, I played B. B. King’s “The Thrill is Gone.” Through my amazing teacher, Brett Jones, I learned that both the blues and gospel use the pentatonic scale. The blues often uses the minor pentatonic scale, and gospel uses the major pentatonic scale. Together, they mirror the major and minor tensions of life and give me a sense that lament and hope are a part of my spiritual formation. Blues and gospel, for and by the people, both make room for lament.

I’ve made ample space for lament this week. I lament for Nolan Wells and his family. I lament for unanswered questions and the mysterious July 4th, 2026 events that led to his death. I lament for a history that informs my skepticism of a fair investigation in Mississippi. I lament because I need space to lament. I lament because it helps me make sense of what makes no sense. I lament. I lament. I lament.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

When my grief looks for a place to go, I lament.

Lament acknowledges the reality of pain while trusting in divine promises.

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Do you practice lament? Why or why not?

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Anjali Camara

Surviving Mississippi

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice…

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2 months ago · 7 likes · Anjali Camara

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Recipe Exchange

Smothered

Meat and gravy are more common than peanut butter and jelly in my neck of the woods. Meat and gravy are dishes that can stand alone or come together to create a harmonious dish.

The act of letting the meat simmer in the gravy is known as smothering. I’ve smothered chicken, pork chops, cubed steak, and more.

There is something about the slow simmer of smothered meat that makes the food taste delicious.

A chef friend of mine once said, “You can’t rush food.” This dish is not to be rushed.

Neither is grief. It is ok to slow down and lament. This is a step in the healing process.

The goal of lament is not smothering or covering up the pain to pretend it isn't there. Rather, lament allows us to acknowledge the full range of difficult emotions we feel as humans. It is the space where we can honestly say this hurts, humbly ask for help, guidance, or understanding, and trust in divine promises.

After every lament, I received divine answers.

If you give this recipe a try, let me know.

Smothered Pork Chops

Ingredients

• 4 bone-in pork chops (about 1-inch thick, room temperature)

• ½ cup all-purpose flour (for dredging and the roux)

• 1 large yellow onion, sliced into rings or half-moons

• 2 cloves garlic, minced

• 2 cups chicken broth (or warm water)

• 1 tsp garlic powder

• 1 tsp onion powder

• 1 tsp Cajun Seasoning

• ½ tsp smoked paprika

• Salt and black pepper to taste

• 3 tbsp vegetable oil or lard (for frying)

• 2 tbsp butter

Instructions

1. Season and Dredge

Pat the pork chops completely dry with a paper towel. In a small bowl, mix the garlic powder, onion powder, smoked paprika, salt, and plenty of cracked black pepper. Season both sides of the chops generously with the spice blend. Put your flour in a shallow dish and dredge each chop, shaking off the excess. Save the leftover flour. You’ll need it for the gravy.

2. Sear the Chops

Heat the oil and butter in a heavy cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Once the skillet is hot, add the pork chops. Sear them for about 4–5 minutes on each side until they develop a beautiful, golden-brown crust. They don’t need to be fully cooked through yet. Remove the chops from the skillet and set them aside on a plate.

3. Build the Gravy Foundation

Turn the heat down to medium. Drop the sliced onions into the same skillet, using their moisture to scrape up all those delicious, flavorful browned bits left at the bottom of the pan. Cook the onions for about 5–7 minutes until they are soft and slightly caramelized. Add the minced garlic and cook for just 1 more minute until fragrant.

4. Make the Roux

Sprinkle 2 to 3 tablespoons of your reserved dredging flour over the onions and garlic. Stir everything together well so the flour coats the onions and absorbs the fat. Cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes to remove the raw flour taste. The mixture will look pasty and turn a light golden brown.

5. Simmer and Smother

Slowly pour in the chicken broth, whisking or stirring constantly to prevent lumps from forming. Bring the gravy to a gentle simmer. Once it begins to bubble and thicken, taste the gravy and add a pinch more salt and pepper if needed.

Nestle the pork chops and any juices from the plate back into the skillet. Spoon the rich onion gravy right over the top. Turn the heat down to low, cover the skillet, and simmer for 25–30 minutes.

Serve these chops hot out of the skillet over a mountain of mashed potatoes or white rice.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Thank You for the stories that shaped me and the courage to write my own stories. Amen.

Affirmation: I have the power to tell the truth with wisdom and love.

Gratitude: I'm grateful for every person willing to wrestle with difficult truths.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

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Brilliant Prose, Brutal Practices

My dad sat me on his lap and opened up an Aesop’s Fables book. I was enamored with the word ‘Aesop.’ He read about the tortoise and the hare, the boy who cried wolf, and the ant and the grasshopper.

These short stories held life lessons too extraordinary for me to fully grasp as a four-year-old listening to my dad bring these fables to life. I was hooked on these fables the first time I heard them, and by the time I started kindergarten, they had already shaped my early childhood education.

As time went on, I was introduced to Anansi the Spider, a mythological creature who is known for adventures and wit, and to Greek mythology. Learning about Zeus and Poseidon, Athena and Apollo, Artemis and Hermes transported me through words to new worlds. These fables and myths were foundational to my love of reading and storytelling.

Nothing I knew about the world asked me to mistake these stories for history. They were simple mirrors to life.

Throughout my childhood, however, I encountered a different kind of story: mythologies disguised as truths - state myths. I heard these myths on television, at school, and even in books I read. These state myths contradicted truths I already knew. The state myth that Christopher Columbus “discovered” America contradicts the truth that people had already been living throughout the Americas. The state myth that enslaved people were lazy contradicts the truth I knew: enslaved people built wealth for enslavers through forced labor in the fields and in the “big house.” The state myth that “all men are created equal” contradicts the truth I knew about people fighting to be recognized as human.

Today, state myths continue to circulate through speeches, headlines, algorithms, and, increasingly, AI-generated media. They insist that tariffs never raise prices, that immigrants are uniquely criminal, that Black people are unintelligent, or that manipulated A.I. videos can substitute for truth. The technologies change. The purpose of state myths does not.

My family, my church, afternoons spent looking through scrapbooks, visits to historical sites, and the curiosity my parents encouraged all prepared me to recognize contradictions long before I had language for them.

I remember seeing a black-and-white drawing of scantily clad enslaved people in my third-grade history book, with a small caption identifying them as “slaves.” This was the extent of the Black history in the book. It reduced human beings to a caption. To sit in a classroom and be handed a state myth that actively erases truths I knew felt like theft. When stories are told to uphold narratives that serve no purpose other than erasing truth or dehumanizing people, they become dangerous. I love fables because they invite reflection; state myths demand blind patriotism and shape how people are perceived and treated.

On this 250th Anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, it is clear that mythmaking is a part of the American experiment. Now is the time to celebrate by reflecting on and auditing where this country is, how myths shape it, and what kind of country it should be.

America is a nation built on brilliant prose and brutal practices. The Declaration of Independence is beautifully written, and the country's history is filled with trauma. The myths soften the violence of that contradiction. Easy lies are cheaper than hard truths, and mythmaking has always yielded remarkable returns, not only in wealth, but in comfort for the powerful and compliance from those persuaded to accept distortion over accountability. Truth demands repair. Myth demands only belief.

Living in the friction between America’s myths and its truths requires the choice to accept the narcotic of the state myth or undertake the difficult, yet necessary labor of excavating truths that should never have been buried. To mark two and a half centuries of this country is to recognize that the distance between its highest ideals and its lived realities should not be sanitized. The distance can only be narrowed by rejecting purposeful distortions of the American experiment and embracing the honesty required to move toward a more perfect union.

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” — James Baldwin

Thankfully, the machinery of the state has never been the only thing that can wield a pen. I began my life hooked on the power of words, thanks to my parents and the books they read to me. If the American experiment continues through the strength of its mythmaking, its progress must depend on those willing to challenge those myths with truth.

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There’s flavor in the small things.

Can all Americans handle the truth about the nation?

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What's a book from childhood that has stayed with you?

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Footnotes by Jemar Tisby

The Trick Inside Frederick Douglass's Fourth of July Speech

Right now, curricula across this country are being rewritten to erase exactly the tension Douglass named in 1852. Subscribe and make sure this history does not get edited out from under you…

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2 months ago · 118 likes · 1 comment · Jemar Tisby, PhD

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Recipe Exchange

Family and Food

I had some friends over this weekend, and I prepared a blackberry cobbler. Like all cobblers, the key is a great crust. It’s foundational!

I put the crust on the bottom of the baking dish and on top of the cobbler. My recipe is below. You can use it for both pies and cobbler.

Ingredients

• 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour

• 2 tbsp granulated sugar (plus extra for sprinkling on top)

• ¾ tsp fine salt

• 4 oz (½ block) brick cream cheese, very cold and cubed

• ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, very cold and cubed

• ¼ cup Crisco (vegetable shortening), cold

• ⅓ to ½ cup ice-cold water

Step-by-Step Instructions

1. Combine Dry Ingredients

In a large bowl, sift together the 2 ½ cups of flour, 2 tablespoons of sugar, and salt.

2. Cut in the Fats (The Secret to Flakiness)

Add the cold cream cheese, cold butter cubes, and Crisco to the flour mixture.

• Using a pastry blender or your fingertips, work the fats into the flour. I use my fingertips.

• What to look for: You want the Crisco and some of the cream cheese to blend into the flour until it looks like coarse sand. However, leave the butter and remaining cream cheese in visible, pea-sized chunks. Those distinct pockets of cold butter will release steam in the oven, acting as your natural leavening agent.

3. Bind with Ice Water

Sprinkle ⅓ cup of the ice-cold water over the mixture. Toss gently with a fork. Press a bit of the dough together in your palm. If it holds its shape, it’s ready. If it’s still dry and dusty, add more ice water one tablespoon at a time just until it clumps together into a shaggy dough.

4. Chill

Shape the dough into a flat disc or square, wrap it tightly in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 to 45 minutes. Cut the dough disc in half, flour your surface, and roll out two crust layers. One for the top and bottom of the baking dish.

5. Roll and Bake

• Roll Out: On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough to about ¼-inch thickness. Put one layer on the bottom of the baking dish and poke holes in the dough with a fork.

• Top the Cobbler: You can lay it over your fruit filling as a solid sheet (make sure to cut a few large slits to let steam escape), cut it into traditional lattice strips, or cut it into squares and layer them like shingles.

• Bake: Lightly brush the top with a tiny bit of cold water and sprinkle with extra sugar. Bake over your prepared fruit at 375°F (190°C) for 40 to 50 minutes until the crust is a gorgeous deep golden brown and the fruit filling is bubbling thickly.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Help me discover more of what makes me me. Amen.

Affirmation: I am a descendant of love.

Gratitude: I am thankful for personal discoveries.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

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Dig in

A Prince in the Family

For over twenty years, I’ve conducted genealogical research for friends and my family. This research continues to teach me that records aren’t always accurate, oral histories are stories with holes, and I will never know the complete story of those whose lives I try to piece together through a series of decades- or centuries-old clues.

I am convinced that the clues I find are what the ancestors want me to find, and each new discovery gives me an adrenaline rush. I had an adrenaline rush last week while creating the booklet for the Ambrose Family Reunion 2026, which my immediate family hosted.

A part of the booklet contains family history, and as I was putting it together, I decided to do one last search for my oldest known Ambrose ancestors. To my surprise, I found the marriage record for them, my fourth-great-grandfather and fourth-great-grandmother, Prince and Maria Ambrose, from St. Landry Parish, Louisiana, who were married July 10, 1866.

What stood out to me immediately were the words “Freedman” and “Freedwoman” written beside their first names. Through all of my family research, this is the first time I’ve found a direct connection to the enslavement of any of my ancestors.

What stands out even more is my fourth-great-grandfather’s name. I don’t know whether this was the name his parents gave him or whether he adopted it after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed. I don’t know whether he descended from royalty in another country or was given a moniker based on his personal characteristics. There are many holes in Prince’s story, but this tiny clue lets me know that when he and Maria were able to legally marry, they did.

I choose to believe that despite enslavement, my ancestors were free. I also choose to believe that those who seek to distort, disregard, and deny the history of Black people in America do all of us a disservice. There should be no fear in telling the truths we find in history. History is not a complete story, but we should be able to glean enough from it to learn and draw conclusions about what it means to us individually and to society as a whole.

When some stories or histories are untold or ignored, particularly stories that reveal the plight of oppressed people, then it makes it easier for some to justify the continued maltreatment of all people.

Prince and Maria didn’t have a choice in how they came into the world, but they chose to legally marry. Their enslavers didn’t choose how they came into the world either, but they chose to live lives void of dignity. There is never honor in subjugating anyone to enslavement, and there is no justification for chattel slavery.

Whether “Prince” was a name inherited from an ancestral home or a moniker earned through his character, I believe he lived up to it. He and Maria took the fragmented pieces of a world that sought to break them and built a foundation of choice, love, and legacy. History may be a series of decades-old clues with lingering holes, but on July 10, 1866, Prince and Maria wrote their own chapter. I will keep searching for more of their story and finding hope because they survived a system created to work them to death.

One hundred and sixty years after Prince and Maria married, our family gathered under the banner of the name they chose to legally bind them. The Ambrose family is the evidence of their love.

There is no fear in telling the truth about Prince and Maria because, by honoring their history, I ensure they are never forgotten, never minimized, and forever free.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Family stories, even if there are holes, matter.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

Why do you think there is so much fear surrounding the truths of history today?

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Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

Tia The Writer

All of my favorite writers didn't pop off until their 40s and I think I know why...

For as long as I can remember, I dreamt of being as dope as Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni, Alice Walker, Terry McMillan and the great Toni Morrison…

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5 months ago · 1904 likes · 118 comments · Tia The Writer

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Recipe Exchange

Family and Food

Prince and Maria lived in the heart of what’s known as Cajun country. One of the most popular dishes in the region is cracklin’. Maybe they ate them too.

My son and I love them, and I remember people cooking them in huge, black cauldrons in my hometown, and we would eat them fresh out of the grease.

Here is a simple cracklin’ recipe that you can make at home.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

The art above was created by folk artist Bill Traylor.

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Bless my family. Amen.

Affirmation: We all we got.

Gratitude: I am thankful for family, both by birth and by choice.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Family Reunion Liturgy

I just wrapped up an amazing spiritual formation course. The book for the course was Cole Authur Riley’s, This Here Flesh: Spirituality, Liberation, and the Stories That Make Us.

One of the final assignments for the course was to write a liturgy based on Riley’s liturgy template.

I chose to write a family reunion liturgy.

My husband and I are hosting a family reunion this weekend, and this assignment reaffirmed the importance of family reunions, especially for those of us whose families were separated due to forced migration.

As you reflect on these words, I invite you now to join in the liturgy.

Welcome

Since 1997, we’ve gathered. Bringing our shared history. We’ve gathered. Proudly sharing our lineage. We’ve gathered. Sharing stories of old. We’ve gathered. Making memories anew. We’ve gathered. Loving on each other. We’ve gathered. Welcoming the babies. We’ve gathered. Mourning the deceased. We’ve gathered. Remembering our ancestors. We’ve gathered. From the North, South, East, and West. We’ve gathered. We’ve gathered, we’ve gathered.

Through the years, these gatherings have become our tradition. Now, as we gather for this, our twenty-ninth annual family Reunion, I say welcome!

Let us celebrate, celebrate, celebrate because we are family!

Ancestors

“It is the family that gives us a deep, private sense of belonging. Here, we first begin to have ourselves defined for us.” - Rev. Dr. Howard Thurman.

“We are one people, one family... and what affects one of us affects us all.” - John Lewis.

“we are each other’s

business:

we are each other’s

magnitude and bond.” - Gwendolyn Brooks from her poem “Paul Roberson.”​

Wisdom

“Lineage” by Margaret Walker

My grandmothers were strong.

They followed plows and bent to toil.

They moved through fields sowing seed.

They touched earth and grain grew.

They were full of sturdiness and singing.

My grandmothers were strong.

My grandmothers are full of memories

Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay

With veins rolling roughly over quick hands

They have many clean words to say.

My grandmothers were strong.

Why am I not as they?

​

Truth-telling

“Family” by Andrea D. Price

Our family didn’t migrate

Nor leave the hope or pain behind

We stayed and kept the Black, rich soil

An heirloom that is yours and mine

​

We hung all day in Mississippi

Then belted songs on Dockery Farm

We broke the horses in Louisiana

Stopped tenant farming in Arkansas

​

Our family didn’t migrate

Nor leave the hope or pain behind

We stayed to preserve the family’s truth

Now our Delta stories remain alive.

Truth-telling continued

The truth is, those of us who stayed in the Delta, both east and west of the Mississippi River, held on to the land and the family's memories. We kept the sanctuary intact and protected what is sacred. We even have a street in Monticello, AR, named in honor of the first ancestors who crossed the River into Arkansas in 1916. We made sure the great migrants always had a home to return to. And when we return, it’s as though we never left. Time and distance separate us, but love always brings us back together.

God’s grace is sufficient, and so is our Delta home.

Truth is, those of us who left the Delta forged new paths, created ways out of no ways, found communities that held us tight. We didn’t forget our roots, and we sprouted new ones. We held on to our name because there is power in it. We built roads through the forest so our family down South could reach us easily, and we could reach them easily. Time and distance separate us, but love always brings us back together.

God’s grace is sufficient, and so is our new home.

Mercy

Let mercy sit at our family’s table. Let us lay down the burdens of violence that led to the forced migration of some of our family from Mississippi to the north—and let go of what was lost along the way.

May the bonds broken in this family find repair at this table. The body was broken so that we can find wholeness.

May forgiveness and accountability drink from the same cup at this table. May the cup run over.

Let us show mercy to the empty seats, for those who wanted to be here but couldn’t, and for those who’ve been separated from this family.

To everyone here and the entirety of our family, let’s feast on love at this, our mercy table.

May goodness and mercy follow us, sit at this table, all the days of our lives and the lives of our future generations.

Amen.

Dreams

We dream that God’s love flows through this family like the waters of the Mighty Mississippi. We dream that the currents take us to the places you want us to go, and when the waters get too rough, you lead us to higher ground. We dream that you protect us from life’s floods, as you protected our ancestors during the River’s flood in 1927. They found refuge in the state of Maryland; we dream of always finding refuge in you. We dream that our family reunions last as long as the river itself. We dream that your deposits leave us as rich as the Black Delta soil.

Thank you, God, for allowing us to dream.

Inhale: We are family.

Exhale: That is enough.

Closing Blessing

May the peace of God and the strength of our family empower us each day. May love be our compass and may wisdom guide our way. May we always represent the family with integrity and grace. And may we find safety as we leave this place. Amen.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Reunions Matter.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

Inhale: We are family. Exhale: That is enough.

If you could dedicate a single breath prayer or blessing to your family or friends, what would your Inhale and Exhale be? Share yours in the comments.

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From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

Black Star Rising

Countering the Miseducation of Juneteenth

Dr. TaSha is currently offering a 4-Part series called “The Hidden History of Juneteenth.” Become a paid subscriber to Black Star Rising and access live recordings…

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a year ago · 82 likes · 10 comments · Dr. LaTaSha Levy

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Recipe Exchange

Family and Food

I found a copy of The Black Family Reunion Cookbook many years ago and purchased it.

In honor of family reunion season, I am sharing a copy of the Family Biscuits recipe from the book. The recipe comes with many variations, just like families.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Help me to remember to celebrate. Amen.

Affirmation: I am free to celebrate.

Gratitude - I am grateful for celebrations.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Reclaim Juneteenth

Wilmar, Arkansas, a small community of about 500 people, is home to one of the longest-running Juneteenth celebrations in the country. There, Juneteenth is referred to as the “June Dinner.” This name captures both the communal and historic nature of the celebration.

Every year, people from all over the country converge on this small town to celebrate family, love, and the emancipation of enslaved people in America. I attended many June Dinners, and now my children celebrate this tradition.

The smell of smoky barbecue, the rumbling sounds of motorcycles and blues, the weight of the thick Arkansas heat, a vibrant parade, and sprawling family reunions make up this yearly pilgrimage. I’ve celebrated June Dinner, even before I fully understood the profound meaning of the day.

The History of the Gap Between Law and Lived Reality

Slavery was the greatest human rights tragedy in the history of America. The physical and psychological trauma Black people experienced during this evil era is a reality that is difficult to imagine, and for some, hard to accept. A volatile mix of public policy, protests, bloody debates, and a devastating Civil War all had to take place to try to shift the trajectory of America and end legal slavery.

After hundreds of years of chattel slavery, Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863. For some enslaved people in Texas, the news of their freedom did not arrive until June 19, 1865. This gap between the law granting freedom and the reality of continued enslavement lies at the heart of Juneteenth.

Legal chattel slavery ended, but the systemic marginalization of Black people in America morphed. A constant fight for true emancipation has ensued ever since.

Generations of Americans continue to experience the evil remnants of slavery, and those remnants continue to inform the perspectives and realities of millions of people.

After Emancipation, new laws that penalized the very existence of free Black people were enacted. States passed “Black Codes,” then Jim Crow laws, which were explicitly designed to criminalize movement, autonomy, and presence in spaces deemed “white.”

Today, the echoes of these systems are found in policies, executive orders, and the MAGA movement, which continue to shape belonging, citizenship, equal protection under the law, and the rights of minoritized people.

Juneteenth in 2026

Juneteenth lives in the gap between what the law says on paper and what a community experiences in reality. When Major General Gordon Granger went to Galveston, Texas, on June 19, 1865, he was enforcing the law that had been signed two and a half years earlier. For thirty months, a legal right existed in writing while Black people remained enslaved.

Unfortunately, the distance between a granted right and a realized right is not a relic of 1865. It is the exact structural hurdle that people face today.

The gap between legal rights and lived reality continues to appear in different forms. Whether in education, housing, voting access, policing, or the legal system, many Americans still experience a disconnect between formal protections and practical outcomes.

The law promises an impartial trial by a jury of “peers” and the right to defend oneself. Last week, when 19-year-old Karmelo Anthony was convicted of murder by "peers" in Texas, that gap between law and lived reality appeared once again.

This case began when another teenager didn’t want Anthony to sit under a tent at a track meet while it was raining, and he demanded that Anthony leave. A physical altercation ensued, and Anthony stabbed and killed the person who didn't want Anthony there. Anthony claimed self-defense, and the jury was left to decide his fate.

During the three hours of jury deliberation, the tension between the law and Anthony's right to seek shelter, defend himself, and be treated as an equal citizen rested in the hands of the jury.

Just as in 1865, the law remains something written by one group, applied to another, and endured by those whose very presence carries the presumption of guilt in the hearts of many.

One hundred and sixty-one years after General Granger landed in Galveston, Karmelo Anthony stood on that same Texas soil and was sentenced to 35 years in the Department of Corrections. He will experience another system that demands absolute control over his body.

Juneteenth was never a basic marker of freedom. To reclaim it now is to know the precise coordinates where one's right to exist, to breathe, or to seek shelter from a storm remains fragile and tenable, and then work towards liberation for all people.

Celebration

Today, Juneteenth is a time to reflect on American history, assess current social, economic, and political challenges, and work toward a future in which life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are realities for all people. Juneteenth reminds us that freedom and justice are not static milestones achieved by a federal holiday. They require continual work to ensure that all people can live with dignity, safety, and opportunity.

To celebrate Juneteenth, we can commit ourselves to causes that advance equity, foster belonging, and promote kindness. Celebration also means closing the gap and ensuring that rights promised on paper are realized in practice.

Each year, when families return to Wilmar for the June Dinner, they honor generations who endured the gap between promised freedom and lived freedom. The celebration itself is an act of remembrance, resilience, and reclamation. While gaps still exist, there is still hope.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Celebrate Juneteenth!

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

How does celebrating Juneteenth help preserve collective memory and pass history from one generation to the next?

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Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

Tia The Writer

It’s not this, it’s that: How ChatGPT had me out here sounding crazy

And why I’m writing straight from the heart again…

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4 months ago · 180 likes · 34 comments · Tia The Writer

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Recipe Exchange

Freedom and Food

My favorite dish at the June Dinner is barbecued goat! This is the only place I’ve ever eaten it!

In addition to goat, Juneteenth is connected to great food traditions. Check out this video to learn more about these traditions.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

Third Weekend in June

Blues
Barbeque
&
Burnout

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Family
Friends
&
Four Wheelers

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Parade
Pageant
&
Popsicles

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Vendors
Vacationers
&
Vibes

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Car Show
Cards
&
Concerts

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Seventh Street
Smiles
&
Struts

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Reunions
Rims
&
Relationships

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar

Greater Shady Grove
Goat
&
Grounds

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar.

Heat
Horses
&
History

There’s nothing like June Dinner in Wilmar!

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Guide those caring for people living with brain change/dementia. Amen.

Affirmation: Caregiving is a noble calling.

Gratitude - I am grateful for carers.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Rooted in Service

I’ve lived in Virginia for almost eight years, but it’s been hard to find my place here. I spent the first two years flying to Arkansas almost monthly to work with clients I served through my company, Bridge Builders Group. This extensive travel and my refusal to fully integrate into my new place of residence left me tired, sometimes feeling empty, and occasionally lonely and depressed.

Then my dad died. Then I wrote a book. Then I tore my Achilles tendon in January of 2020. Then the pandemic. Then I wrote another book. Then. Then. Then…

I had a hard time finding the rhythm to a song I didn’t want to hear.

Then, Bishop James Davis of the African Methodist Episcopal Church asked my husband and me to coordinate webinars to educate the faith community about the pandemic, available resources, and ways to stay connected when people were distant. We organized several webinars, and sometimes more than 5,000 people logged on.

Through this work with faith communities, I began to rediscover a rhythm, one that reminded me of my true calling: service. Whether through Bridge Builders Group, pandemic outreach, or in my current role helping make faith communities dementia-friendly, I’ve learned that as long as I am serving, my life’s rhythm makes sense.

My work with the AME church led to an opportunity to lead the Alter program in Virginia. This international program helps make faith communities dementia-friendly. Alter allows me to lean into my gifts of community organizing and teaching and prove that, as long as I’m serving others, no matter the location, I find fulfillment.

I try my best to lean into my call to serve. Since June is Alzheimer’s and Brain Awareness Month, I worked with several community partners over several months to plan an event for dementia care partners and those living with brain change/dementia. We focused on holistic care and screened the film, “Mama Joe.” The filmmaker, Herb Caldwell, traveled from Illinois, and Alter’s founder, Fayron Epps, traveled from Texas. They were two of the many experts who showed up for the community, providing hope and help to the almost 200 people who joined us yesterday.

The rhythm of the event moved me, and my spirit danced.

It took years of resistance, personal loss, and a global crisis to realize my sense of place isn’t defined by a zip code, but by the people I am called to serve. This June, as communities worldwide unite for Alzheimer’s and Brain Awareness Month, I’m reminded that service is my anchor.

The rhythm of my life makes sense again, and the song continues as long as I am serving others.

Resources for care partners.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Brain health matters.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

For the care partners: what is one resource, word of encouragement, or act of service that has made the heaviest days feel a little lighter? If you aren’t a care partner, what words of encouragement can you offer a care partner?

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Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

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Music

Art

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Sherrilyn’s Newsletter

The SCOTUS Project to Undo Voting Rights Protections is Nearly Complete.

The Supreme Court’s decision this week in Allen v. Milligan allowing the state of Alabama to erase a majority Black congressional district is as bad as it sounds…

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3 months ago · 504 likes · 12 comments · Sherrilyn Ifill

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Recipe Exchange

MIND Diet

The more I learn about brain health, the more I understand the importance of a well-balanced diet. One recommendation for brain health is the MIND diet. Yes, another diet. This is not a “can’t eat” diet, but it is a simple guide.

I am sharing a baked salmon recipe with you today since fish is a suggested food for the MIND diet. If you try it, let me know.

Baked Salmon

Ingredients:

• 2 wild-caught salmon fillets (about 4–6 oz each), skin removed

• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

• ½ lemon, thinly sliced into rounds

• 1 clove garlic, very finely minced

• 2 sprigs fresh dill or parsley

• A tiny pinch of salt and black pepper

• 2 large sheets of parchment paper

Instructions:

1. Prep the Oven & Paper: Preheat your oven to 180°C (350°F). Fold each sheet of parchment paper in half to create a crease, then open it back up flat on a baking sheet.

2. Layer the Base: In the center of one half of each parchment sheet, place 2–3 thin slices of lemon and a scatter of the minced garlic. This creates a fragrant, moist bed for the fish.

3. Season the Salmon: Place a salmon fillet directly on top of the lemon slices. Drizzle each fillet with extra-virgin olive oil and lightly rub the minced garlic over the top. Lay a sprig of fresh dill or parsley over the fish.

4. Seal the Packet: Fold the empty half of the parchment paper over the salmon. Starting at one corner, make small, overlapping folds along the open edges, crimping tightly as you go to form a sealed, half-moon-shaped pouch. This traps the steam inside.

5. Bake Gently: Bake for 12–15 minutes. The parchment packet will puff up slightly from the steam.

6. Check for Softness: Carefully cut open the packet (watch out for hot steam). The salmon should be a delicate, opaque pink and flake apart effortlessly when pressed gently with the back of a spoon.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Protect me from propaganda. Amen.

Affirmation: I am worthy of truth.

Gratitude - I am grateful for inventions that advance humanity.

I am grateful to every reader, subscriber, commenter, and anyone who shares this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Makers and Manipulators

Inventions have always fascinated me. There is something miraculous about creating something that never existed before.

Every invention begins as a belief. Then comes the creation, testing, failing, refining, and reimagining of possibilities, until belief finally transforms into knowledge. In the lives of inventors, knowledge has the power to become truth.

As a child in rural Arkansas, I read countless books about inventors. Garrett Morgan’s brilliance amazed me, Sarah Boone’s genius captured me, and Lewis Latimer literally brought light to my life. Their creations solved real problems and expanded the boundaries of human possibility.

As an adult, however, I have become fascinated by a particular kind of invention: propaganda. These inventions do not expand human potential. They diminish it by transforming human beings into caricatures and presenting those caricatures as reality. This propaganda mixes repetition, symbols, slogans, stories, and modern media machinery to shape public perception. Propaganda doesn’t require any truth. It thrives on persuasion.

Unlike inventors who discover what is true and build upon it, these propagandists construct a false reality that competes with truth. The people targeted often find themselves trapped in an endless cycle of mythbusting, and have to forcefully defend their humanity against claims that should never have existed in the first place. Propaganda leaves real-world wounds. It purposely punishes people.

Ultimately, all inventions and propaganda spring from the same well: the imagination. However, the contrast between inventors and propagandists is stark.

Garrett Morgan’s traffic signal organized and improved the flow of physical movement through an intersection. A propaganda campaign organizes and damages the flow of love and empathy. It alters how millions perceive people who are simply trying to move through life.

Inventions that advance humanity eventually get tested against reality. When a traffic light breaks down, chaos ensues, and there is no hiding the truth of its usefulness.

Propaganda, however, offers no warning signs to those fooled by its illusions. It allows misguided people to live comfortably with beliefs that will never, and can never, become true. It survives by convincing people that illusion is reality and that reality is the illusion. It’s a wicked, wicked creation.

Great inventions are tools that help us navigate the world. Propaganda puts people in cages. When reality is buried beneath false narratives, creating art, joy, and community becomes the ultimate counter-invention. Beauty becomes the counter-creation. Now I know why caged birds sing.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

Propaganda leaves real-world wounds.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

Think about a time when you realized propaganda about a person or group wasn't true. What changed your mind, and what did that experience teach you about propaganda, perception, and truth?

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From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

Black Girls in Archives

What It Means to be in The Company of Prophets According to Joyce Elaine Noll

Archivists serve as the guiding light for their communities' history. They seek out that which is lost, hidden, or overlooked. Black archivists are no exception to this rule; if anything, they embody its essence. Black American author Joyce Elaine Noll understood an archivist's purpose and demonstrated it by taking on the challenge of illuminating the p…

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3 months ago · 20 likes · 3 comments · Black Girls in Archives

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Recipe Exchange

Pound Cakes Stand

For years, I unknowingly bought products whose branding was propaganda: Aunt Jemima, Uncle Ben’s, Ms. Butterworth, and more.

Once I learned the origins of the branding, I refused to purchase these products. I even discovered that homemade pancakes taste much better than the premixed Aunt Jemima mix.

In honor of the delicious homemade pancakes, I am sharing a simple pancake recipe. If you try it, let me know.

Pancakes

Ingredients

* 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

* 1 ¼ cups milk

* 3 ½ tsp baking powder

* 1 egg

* 1 tbsp white sugar

* 3 tbsp butter, melted

* 1 tsp salt

The Method

1. Mix the dry ingredients:

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt until completely combined.

2. Whisk the wet ingredients:

In a separate bowl or measuring cup, whisk the egg, then pour in the milk and melted butter. Whisk until well blended.

3. Combine (The golden rule):

Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and pour in the wet mixture. Stir gently with a spoon or spatula just until combined. Stop as soon as the flour disappears; overmixing activates the gluten, making the pancakes tough and flat.

4. Cook to perfection:

Heat a lightly oiled griddle or non-stick frying pan over medium-high heat. Pour about ¼ cup of batter into the pan for each pancake.

When to flip: Watch for bubbles forming on the surface of the pancake. When those bubbles pop and form tiny, permanent holes, flip it over and cook the other side until golden brown.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Please give me the strength to stand up for myself, stand in the gap for others, and live a life rooted in your standards. Amen.

Affirmation: I am part of a community.

Gratitude - I am grateful for my roots.

I am grateful for every reader, subscriber, commenter, and those who share this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

An Act of Rebellion

Tap… Tap… Tap… Tap…

The sound of hard-bottom shoes tapping on the wooden floor at Stranger’s Rest AME Church is one of my earliest auditory memories of worship service. Churchgoers, both sitting and standing, rocked side to side and embodied the rhythm of each tap.

With each tap and sway, the people lifted hymns like “Standing on the Promises of God,” and the harmonies danced through the open windows, reaching those gathered outside who enjoyed the spirit-filled singing. During those times, it wasn’t uncommon for community men to come to church, stand under a huge tree, and socialize during the service.

In my formative years, Rev. Spencer, the pastor at the church, would stand in the pulpit and raise his long arms, palms up. Those who could rose in unison. His gesture prompted coordinated action. Raised arms signaled it was time to begin service, give an offering, or be dismissed. Those of us raised in this Methodist tradition knew what to stand for.

Standing was more than a physical act at the church. It was a way of being for those who lived in the Stranger’s Rest community. When couples wed, community members built them a new home. This tradition was known as “raising the roof.” No one went hungry, and long before I heard of ‘community gardens,’ people shared food. My great-grandparents farmed and shared their crops. If someone caught a mess of fish or butchered a deer, they shared. When sickness or death happened in the community, people brought benevolent offerings, prepared meals, visited, and supported one another. The people stood in the gap for each other. Above all, the people stood for love. Love was the community’s ethos.

Is standing still a way of being for communities, for society? Standing in the gap. Standing up for others. Standing on God’s promises. Having standards.

I don’t know the answer. However, Stranger’s Rest taught me about how a community that stands operates. Now, I am clear about the differences between a community and a place managed by a homeowners’ association (HOA). HOAs are built on documents and restrictions and have “watchers” who operate from suspicion rather than support. Communities look out for each other with love. HOAs charge fees. Community people invest in one another. The name ‘Stranger’s Rest’ means everyone is welcome. I've never heard of a community called Stranger’s Rest that has an HOA.

Can the spirit of such a place survive in a world dominated by gates and restrictions?

I believe it can. The modern community isn’t necessarily defined by proximity, like Stranger’s Rest, but by intention. It takes intention to stand. Unfortunately, society at large resembles a rigid HOA that is governed by strict rules, surveillance, exclusion, and steep costs. I prefer Stranger’s Rest, where I saw mutual respect and self-determination, support and selflessness, faith and love, hope and freedom. These qualities make communities strong.

When society acts like a rogue HOA, choosing to stand for community, stand with grace, and stand in the gap for others becomes an act of rebellion, an act of love. I hope society adapts the loving standards I learned from Stranger’s Rest. Maybe we need people willing to lift their hands, like Rev. Spencer, and for society to know what to stand for.

Tap…Tap…Tap…Tap…

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

If you don’t stand for something, you will fall for anything.

Table Talk

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What is your earliest auditory memory of community or gathering? What was the 'rhythm' of the places that shaped you?

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Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

Reading Howard Thurman with Dr. Shively Smith

Reading Howard Thurman when Life Goes Dark

Howard Thurman didn’t just point out problems or your interior feelings…

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4 months ago · 26 likes · 3 comments · Dr. Shively Smith

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Recipe Exchange

Pound Cakes Stand

One of my favorite desserts is a pound cake. It is a simple dessert that rises beautifully.

My paternal grandma was born and raised in the Strangers Rest community, where many people were known for their delicious pound cakes. In 2019, I went through all of her recipes, searching for pound cake recipes.

My grandmother died in 1987, so I didn’t have the opportunity to learn to cook from her, but her recipes gave me many clues about her favorite pound cake recipes.

My grandma had several pound cake recipes in her stash, but the handwritten ones stood out. The recipe in cursive below, Vivian’s Pound Cake, was in one of her recipe books. Mrs. Vivian lived in Strangers Rest and often brought pound cakes to church when we had dinner on the grounds.

I am happy to share this recipe with you today. If you try it, let me know.

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

I stand for…

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Help us work together to restore what is broken, so that the fabric of our lives and our society may be made whole again.

Affirmation - I am attentive to the small things that matter.

Gratitude - I am grateful for lessons from children.

I am grateful for every reader, subscriber, commenter, and those who share this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

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Worn at the Seams

The Charge

My daughter is wrapping up her first year in high school, and my son just returned home after his first year in college. When he came home, he gave me one of his classic “I love you, mama” hugs, and I felt a joy similar to the one I felt when he was on my chest shortly after he was born.

Being their mother is one of the greatest privileges of my life. In many ways, my children are my teachers because they offer lessons disguised as simple moments.

Just yesterday, my son, who is a savvy thrifter, wore a red, long-sleeved thrifted t-shirt to his sister’s track meet.

The bright sun on that 90-degree Virginia day exposed a tiny hole in the side seam of this newly thrifted shirt. I didn't notice this minor flaw when we were indoors, but it was impossible to ignore once we were outside.

“Son, you have a small hole in your shirt. Do you want me to sew it up?”

“It’s okay,” he replied, unfazed by the newly discovered hole.

“If you don’t take care of a small hole, it will get bigger,” I reminded him while thinking of how often this applies to other problems.

“You should write about that,” he said with a grin.

So, that’s my goal today: to explore what happens when we ignore the small holes, both in our clothing and in the fabric of our society.

Sewing and Society

I’m a seamstress and enjoy the process of designing a garment, cutting fabric, and stitching shapes together to create a one-of-a-kind piece. I also enjoy and take pride in mending holes, particularly at seams. For me, these are the easiest fixes. It's amazing to see the hole vanish. It is a patient act of restoration that leaves the fabric whole and ready to be worn again.

Unfortunately, it seems as though society is ripping apart at the seams, and it is hard to watch the holes currently widening in our larger, collective life. Many people purposely put holes in society, and the civic thread woven from trust, ethics, honor, and integrity is fraying.

The garments of a civilized society won't always stay intact and are subject to the same laws of strain and tearing as any well-worn garment. Like my son’s shirt, most tears do not begin as disasters. They start as tiny openings. The same is true for society: small, disparaging comments about “others” can grow into policies that wage war on them. Tiny lies fester into grand deceptions. Micro-moments of compromise stretch into enormous chasms of integrity. The strain pulls at the weak places until they widen, and a deep divide forms. The damage becomes hard to ignore.

Thankfully, sewing has taught me something else, too: mending is still possible. Last week, I mended a pair of jeans for my daughter, and she wore them the next day.

A sewist knows that repair requires patience, but they must first see and acknowledge the tear. They cannot pretend the fabric is whole when it is not. Then they reinforce the weakened places, stitch by stitch, until the hole is closed.

We can’t pretend that divides aren’t a reality in our society. We must choose to mend the fabric and make society stronger. We mend it with truth and integrity, courage and compassion, understanding and care, patience and love. We mend it by refusing cruelty, rejecting lies, and creating policies that value human dignity instead of causing harm.

I think about my son in his thrifted red shirt, standing in the bright Virginia sun, unconcerned about the tiny hole at his side. I know that with a needle, a spool of red thread, and a few minutes at my sewing table, his shirt can easily be made whole again, and it will have an extended life.

Maybe society, like my son’s red shirt, can still be repaired before the hole becomes irreversible. We cannot pretend the world is whole when it is not. It’s time to stop watching the seams rip and start stitching them back together.

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Pot Likker and Cornbread Crumbs

There’s flavor in the small things.

If you don’t take care of a small hole, it will get bigger.

Table Talk

Join the Conversation

What do you think might mend the divides in society?

Leave a comment

Potluck

From Our Community Kitchen: Book, Music, Art, Substack

Book

Music

Art

Substack Recommendation

Leave a comment

Recipe Exchange

Freeze

This spring feels like summer, and a common thread in all of my summers is freeze cups, icebergs, huckabucks, lilydillies, or whatever you call them in your neck of the woods. I make them every summer, and enjoy having them on hand for guests who stop by the house.

They are simple to make and are the perfect cold treat for hot days. The recipe I use is almost identical to the recipe below. You can add fruit or even candy like gummy worms to this delicious treat.

What are these called where you are from?

Dessert

A Sweet Send-Off

Quilts by Nikki Giovanni

^{for Sally Sellers}

Like a fading piece of cloth

I am a failure

No longer do I cover tables filled with food and laughter

My seams are frayed my hems falling my strength no longer able

To hold the hot and cold

I wish for those first days

When just woven I could keep water

From seeping through

Repelled stains with the tightness of my weave

Dazzled the sunlight with my

Reflection

I grow old though pleased with my memories

The tasks I can no longer complete

Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past

I offer no apology only

this plea:

When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end

Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt

That I might keep some child warm

And some old person with no one else to talk to

Will hear my whispers

And cuddle

near

Copyright © Nikki Giovanni.

Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Thank you for mothers. Amen.

Affirmation - Mothering is communal care.

Gratitude - I am grateful for mothers.

I am grateful for every reader, subscriber, commenter, and those who share this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

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We, The People of the South

“The South got something t…

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Bless my efforts. Amen.

Affirmation - I am on a mission.

Gratitude - I am grateful for mentors.

I am grateful for every reader, subscriber, commenter, and those who share this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

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What You Gon’ Do?

Several years ago, former president Bill Clinton t…

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Help me discern the real from the fake. Amen.

Affirmation - I am human.

Gratitude - I am grateful for gospel singers.

I am grateful for every reader, subscriber, commenter, and those who share this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

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AI Can’t Testify

Have you ever expected one th…

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Set the Table

Say your grace

Prayer - Dear God, Thank you for the resilience that is built through loss. Amen.

Affirmation - I am loved even through loss.

Gratitude - I am grateful for resilience.

I am grateful for every reader, subscriber, commenter, and those who share this newsletter with others.

The Main Dish

Dig in

Don’t Cry Over…

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