Today I’m here to share joy, specifically Black joy. On Juneteenth Eve I was so excited to attend an extraordinary dinner at Maxwells Trading here in Chicago. If you know me, you know that once I get home from work, the pants go off, and stay off.

However…if Alisha Norris Jones is doing a thing, and she’s partnered up with sommelier Anika Ellison (another Black woman), and the theme is Eden, and the food is an homage to Black royalty like Zora Neale Hurston and your Grannie’s Garden, you put on pants, drive through rush hour traffic, and consider yourself lucky to be there at all.

While I was eating and sipping, I kept thinking that I should write something about the experience. The challenge is that I find myself without the right words. Anytime I’m around Alisha, I feel inspired. She is an artist, a chef, a tastemaker, a legend, and a loving human being. Alisha is a force of nature.

This dinner was extraordinary. I’d had all but one of these cheeses before, but Alisha’s pairings made me feel that I was trying them for the first time.

“Deviled Lemon Curd” has never been part of my vocabulary before, and months later, I’m still thinking about it. I’m still hoping she makes more plantain jam, bottles it, and sends it to me as part of a non-existent quarterly ANJ subscription box that doesn’t even exist yet.

This dinner was unapologetically Black. The red rink was divine, the homages were clever, extraordinary, completely innovative, and yet somehow familiar. I wasn’t dining with strangers. I was sharing plates with my cousins, aunties, and elders. I usually introvert pretty dang hard, but not on that night. That night I started conversations, laughed, snorted, sipped wines, celebrated, and savored the experience.

Thank you to Joanna Miller, a Chicago friend, who gave me her ticket when something came up and she couldn’t attend. This night was a beautiful tiny spark of light in what had been an otherwise dark several months.

I am so blessed to have such generous and loving friends.

What am I going to say? What makes my words special? Why would anyone want to read what I’m writing?

Who the fuck do I think I am?

That’s the big one. That’s the one I felt every time I wrote for Culture magazine. I just kept thinking, who am I to tell my story? Who am I to shine a light on injustice, mental health, love, insecurities, and all of the things that make my experience completely unique, and simultaneously painfully familiar?

The truth is, I really like writing. I always have. From my first class assignment in the late 1900s when I was in kindergarten, I’ve wanted to be a writer. To be fair, I also wanted to grow up to be a Disco Queen, a dream that my heart still clings to.

The heartache, anguish, pain, joy, laughter, silliness, and passion have to go somewhere, and I’m going to make myself put it down here in words. I’m going to write something every week just to get back into the practice of it all. It won’t be perfect, and I’m going to have to acknowledge that and hit “publish” anyway.

A new bit will be out tomorrow. I’m just going to go for it. No overanalyzing, no deep critique, no editing out superfluous commas. Just me, trying to get back to me.

Thank you all so much for sticking around. Thank you for listening.

I need to get my hair done

I want to sit on the floor, criss-cross applesauce between my mom’s knees the jar of grease for my scalp and the clips to part my hair

Moving my head, hoping to dodge the comb and the strength she summons to get through my kinks and coils and knots

I want to look in the mirror when she’s done and shake my head back and forth, not caring that the beads at the end of my braids are hitting me in the face and neck

I know I can’t go back

I know it can never be the same

My kinks and coils are thinning and grey sparkles like tinsel around my temples

My knees are too creaky to sit criss-cross for too long

I’ve lost my elders and have also become an elder

The heart wants what it wants

My spirit craves comfort

I want to sit between her knees, cradled by her thighs, rest my head against her soft stomach that was once home, and hand her the comb

My mother was stubborn. As a single mother with two kids, the argument could be made that she had to be stubborn; That as a Black single mother with two kids, she had no choice but to be strong. As a smarty-pants woman who graduated from one of the Seven Sisters schools, she always had a game in play.

My mom had a side hustle on the side of her side hustle, but her baking setup at the flea market was the one I got roped into most of the time. During the summer, when not at sleep-away camp, I would wake up to the tantalizing smells of cookies and quick breads baking. Chocolate chip cookies, muffins, banana bread, pound cake, and more all made their way from our home to the flea market. My brother and I would set up the table, and then the market would open, and we’d sell as much as we could. As a Girl Scout, I had the ability to sell a cookie or two and was usually the one behind the table getting folks to buy cookies, or an early morning muffin.

It was impressed upon me how important it was for us to go home with as few baked goods as possible. That money we earned that day sometimes paid for gas so my mom could go to work, or clothes and school supplies for my brother and me.

I hated it. I didn’t want to wake up early. I didn’t want to smell all the treats that I wasn’t allowed to eat, and I certainly didn’t want to be in the blazing sun selling said treats. I didn’t want my summer vacation to be co-opted by my mother. It wasn’t fair, and I want to say that I wasn’t a brat about it, but I’m sure that’s not true.

Surprisingly, more than 20 years later, in a small Vermont town, I began selling my own baked goods at the farmers’ market. During the week I would make cookie dough to store in the freezer. Plain muffin batter was made a day in advance and kept in the fridge. Focaccia dough was portioned and ready to be made first thing in the morning. Before I knew it, I was doing my town’s farmers market and occasionally bringing my baked goods to two additional small markets.

Although it was a side hustle, I didn’t do it for money. In fact, most of the time I just broke even. I did it for the joy of baking. The joy of feeding people. Having a table at the farmers’ market allowed me to meet my neighbors and make connections. I had a table right next to a fiber artist who helped me with my knitting and yarn obsession. I got to purchase veggies and beef from a neighbor up the road. My friend, who suggested that I do the farmers market, had chickens, and I bought her eggs for personal and professional use. My landlord had a huge garden in the backyard and I used those goodies to top every week’s focaccia. I was part of a community, and my baked goods were the ice breaker when meeting new folks.

I loved living in that small town. I love the people I met there, the friendships I’ve cultivated, and how, years later, I still receive support from that community. I miss that physical connection; The connection with my neighbors, and the connection with my mother that baking gives me.

So today I’ve made a blueberry-banana bread in honor of my mother’s birthday and in honor of the girl she raised into the woman I was, the woman I am, and the woman I hope to be in the future.

Happy Birthday Elkn

Having the freedom, time, and money to wander around Manhattan is not something I’d done in years, and using my forced time off to go downtown to visit an art gallery felt like something I would’ve done with my grandma, or Aunt Gerry. Or maybe something my mother would’ve dragged me to when I was too young and stubborn to get the importance of where we were going.

And it was important. I was wallowing deep in some personal and professional insecurities. We call it imposter syndrome, but I don’t know that I’d heard that phrase before or owned it as something that applied to me and how I was feeling about myself. I walked into the gallery and was struck by the words The World Is Yours. It hit me in a way I didn’t expect. I’d been singing that chorus in my head all morning. Seeing it, though, that was different. It felt personal.

The first quilt I saw was of Harriet Tubman. I was stunned. The work that Bisa puts into her art is glorious. The fabric choices, the stitch work, the colors. I’ve rarely been impacted by art the way I was by this new look at General Tubman.

Here she is in a royal-purple jacket, gold in her skirt, her skin glowing. She is amazing. She is regal. She is looking at me. She tells me I’m worthy. Worthy of what? Worthy of everything. I started to cry. Tears of connection, of belonging, of feeling at home.

I walked along and gazed at the works on the wall, piece by piece, staring, getting as close as I dared to admire the stitches, then moving farther away to see the whole piece. Some quilts lay flat against the wall, some turned up at the corners, or curled along the edges. Each quilt was a revelation. They showed love and strength and art and music and revolution and oppression and joy. I found something new to admire in each piece. I stared into the subjects' souls and let them stare into mine.

Each piece left a stamp on my heart. Each piece reminded me that we are glorious. We are powerful. We are beauty and radiance and strength and softness and joy and music, and we are worthy of everything.

On my way out, a young Black woman was walking in. I asked her if she would take my picture. I’d taken a selfie, but I wanted a picture of me in front of the wall. I wanted to mark my time here and the feelings I was leaving with.

While the insecurities didn’t leave me permanently, I remain changed by Bisa Butler’s work and forever grateful for bad weather, long days wasted at LGA, too-small hotel rooms, and a gallery in SoHo for helping me find part of myself that I’d forgotten.

This year during Black History Month, I am going to do my very best to focus on Black joy. We are more than our suffering, and while I am filled with seething rage, fear, worry, compassion, and empathy, there is also joy. Sometimes I have to dig a little bit to find it, but it’s there, and I’m excited to share it with you all.

“If you can convince the lowest white man he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he’ll empty his pockets for you.” - Lyndon B. Johnson

“In the United States of America, you don’t have to apologize for being white anymore. And if you’re an Asian, you don’t have to talk around your skin color when you’re applying for college because we judge people based on who they are, not on ethnicity and things they can’t control.” - JD Vance

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

We’ve all seen the headlines with the first part of the quote, while the same media conveniently ignores the second. The first sentence is attention-grabbing. It’s like how you’re meant to feel bad if someone uses the phrase “Jack of all trades but master of none” you’re supposed to feel like a piece of shit for not being an expert in any one thing. But if you know that the original saying is “Jack of all trades but master of none, oftentimes better than master of one” you understand that the original idiom is saying that having multiple skills is a good thing, not something to be ashamed of or feel bad about. It’s only when you hear or read both sentences that you really get the full picture, and that’s how I feel about this quote.

When we talk about anti-blackness, which is ABSOLUTELY one of the foundations of this country, part of that hatred works because of the racist “model minority” lie that more often than not is put on the shoulders of Asians. Vance’s quote, when taken as a whole, gives us the complete racist package.

The first part makes us think that he’s talking to “them”. Who are they? They’re the obvious suspects. People who voted for Trump and all of his hate. People who celebrate the Muslim ban and the destruction of lives by ICE. People who believe the Civil War was because of states rights, but don’t acknowledge what rights were being fought for. They hate CRT, HRT, and DEI. They’re the ones we’re fighting.

The second part, though, that’s the rub. That’s for people who verbally decry racism while simultaneously trying not to be at the bottom of the white supremacist hierarchy. Under the cover of an LGBT flag (the progressive one, obvs), or a black square, they want to help…unless it puts them in danger of being targeted. They agree that White Supremacy is bad, but they also know that the closer they are to the supremacist version of a patriot, a woman, a citizen, or anyone else of value, the further they are from harm, and self-preservation is their goal.

So the second part of the statement is a reminder. A reminder to the model minorities that they’re special. WS doesn’t lump them in with those “bad” minorities. They’re the good ones. They work to get things done on their own merit instead of looking for handouts, as Black people do. The “good” ones work within WS to change the unfair systems to make it equal for everyone. The office of the VP wants you to know that they haven’t forgotten about you. They love you. You are welcome in their circles.

And some people will fall for it. They’ll fall for it again and again and again. Every chance they get, they will do what they can to get as close to WS as possible. The model minority is still primarily associated with Asian communities, but the definition is expanding. It’s LGB people who refuse to include the T. It’s Black people from Africa who haven’t experienced what it is to grow up Black in this country, and when they succeed, tell us that there’s no racism, because if there was, how are they successful? The model minority is a colorist who trades on their skin’s proximity to whiteness, and I’m not talking about “white passing”; that’s a whole other thing. The model minority is the one who separates themselves from their race, ethnicity, and nationality by not just repeating but believing in the hateful things White Supremacy tells them.

This desire to be closer to WS is why a lot of the ICE agents you see are Black and brown. There are people in every oppressed racial group in the United States who won’t admit it, but see WS as something to aspire to. Assimilation and being seen as “one of the good ones” is the goal, and if they have to get there by becoming an oppressor, that’s not just okay with them, but is a mark that they’re one step closer to achieving their goal. ICE not only offers proximity to whiteness and WS, but it also offers financial incentives. Good money for jobs that require no experience. All you have to do is agree to a soupçon of fascism, and you not only get to live out your violent and racist power fantasies. You’ll also get a bonus for doing it.

What they don’t see is that they will never be chosen. They will be used for the sound bite or the social media post, but they will never be embraced in the brotherhood and sisterhood of WS. They are tokens, and one way or another, all tokens get spent.

Please read Gordon’s Patreon this week. Not just because he’s brilliant, but this week he’s also got some words straight out of the mouths of people living in Minneapolis. Also, just fricking subscribe to his writing already.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK

FUCK ICE. FUCK THESE MONSTERS RUNNING AROUND WITH GUNS TERRORIZING, SHOOTING, AND MURDERING US.

ICE has been a problem for years. This isn’t new; it has been known, just not known by all of us, and those of us who did know maybe didn’t necessarily want to know the extent of the horrors they commit.

I have spent years of my life trying not to watch the snuff films that are plastered all over social media. In this case, I’ve failed. I opened up TikTok without thinking about it, and it was the first video on my FYP. I gasped, and my breath caught and wouldn’t release. Just like when I saw the freeze frame of the murderous officer kneeling with George Floyd’s body mostly obscured by a car. Just like when I saw the freeze frame of Tamir Rice at a playground, and just as I did when I heard about the police shooting and killing Amadou Diallo.

Every time another video is publicized monetized, I think that my heart can’t take it. I start thinking of all the loved ones left behind and about how scared most of those who lost their lives must have been. How frightened I am knowing their lives were taken on a whim. I feel guilt that I wasn’t there, that I didn’t help, although how could I stop the overpowering hate that caused someone to take a life?

Right now, I feel that guilt, but I also feel an exhausted rage. I’m so angry, so fucking angry. I want to scream and cry and wail and rip out my hair, and the next day ICE shoots more people. The same day, they rip families apart, terrorize neighborhoods, and inflict their inhumanity on innocent people.

I want to keep writing, but I can’t. I’m starting to get all weepy in the eyes, and I am not going to cry today. Instead, I’m going to share a few resources that help keep me sane when everything is fucked to hell:

The first is Marcia Howard. She and the community in Minneapolis have been holding it down at George Floyd Square since his murder almost 6 years ago. If you’re on Instagram, please follow: 38thandchicagogfs and her personal page: marciahoward38thstreet Linktree is also listed

I also find thecollectress to be a good source of opinions and ideas. She has a mostly inactive substack here, but is very active on Instagram. She’s Blackity-Black so if you’re not ready to confront your complicity in White Supremacy, 1. you’re going to get your feelings hurt, and 2. Why are you reading the shit I write? Fuck off.

Finally, a shoutout to my friend (and famous author of amazing cheese books), Gordon Zola Edgar. Gordon writes on his Patreon mostly every Sunday. His post today tapped into so much of what I was and am feeling. In each post he usually gives some reading recommendations, and musical ones as well. This Sunday’s post can be found here. Most of his posts are free to subscribers, but if you have a few bucks a month that you can spare, please consider being a paid reader.

This world is absolute bullshit right now, but I really do believe that we can make change happen. We can look out for our neighbors. We will not let the darkness overwhelm us. We will continue to fight in whichever way we can. I believe in us.

Also, go Bears.

The first rule of Rancho Gordo bean club is that you tell EVERYONE that you’re a member of the Rancho Gordo bean club. Who knew that I would start 2026 by talking about how I’m a member of the leguminati and the conflicting feelings that come with that monthly shipment.

Like most stories about the present, it only makes sense if you acknowledge the past. My past starts with my brother and me being raised by a single, Black mother. This is not the time to talk about how my mother managed to feed, shelter, and care for her kids with food stamps, Section 8 housing, and other government assistance while working two or three jobs. What is important is that she did the best she could with what she had.

At the beginning of the month, when we got our food stamps, we would eat the good shit. My mother would take us to Bread & Circus (eventually bought out by Whole Foods), and we would go crazy. My mother would get fresh fruits and veggies, chicken BREAST, and ground beefalo. She would also get carob chips because I had a chocolate allergy, and she didn’t want me to feel left out when my brother would sneak a cookie she’d baked to sell at the flea market on Saturdays in the summer. As an extra treat, my brother and I would also get Tiger’s Milk Bars*.

For that first week or so we were eating high on the hog. Mom would get herself a chunky bar and a pint of either rum raisin or butter pecan Häagen-Dazs. We couldn’t afford take-out, but we could afford the sweet and sour jar of ‘Chicken Tonight’ which was almost as good as the stuff that came in the white boxes from the Chinese restaurant. After a few days of amazing meals, the good stuff would run out, and we would end up with the next tier of groceries: frozen veggie medley, boiled hot dogs, and bacalaitos from the Goya box. The house would smell like those fritters for days after the meal, and that’s when the brown lentils would appear. Brown lentils are an excellent food source; full of protein, fiber, iron, folate, and all that other shit that keeps anemia away, and bellies full.

Dried beans were a standard dinner in our household. Black beans, kidney beans, navy beans, and more, but lentils were the workhorse of the meals served at home. Lentils made an appearance on my plate for too many years to count. Brown lentils, white rice, and ketchup. When I got older, I’d add hot sauce, but the meal stayed the same. It’s one of the first meals I learned to cook before I’d turned 10. My mother was working so much that I became the one responsible for making dinner for the family too many nights. That changed when I started working at McDonald’s when I was a teenager, but that’s a story for another time.

We had lentils so often that when I got my first apartment on my own, I vowed that I would never eat lentils again. I was still poor, so beans were on the table more often than not, but never lentils. Black, brown, green, red, yellow, those little French ones, it didn’t matter, I wasn’t going to eat them. I kept my vow for about 15 years.

Over the years, as my income increased from assistant manager of Cumberland Farms to family court clerk and beyond, I shied away from beans. In my upbringing, beans were a sign of poverty. They were there to make up for the fact that we didn’t have money for meat. They were in the house because they were cheap and easy to cook. They were in the house because we could get them for free at the food pantry and the survival center. As a newly fledged adult I got all of my groceries at the supermarket or the co-op. I bought canned beans. I didn’t need dried beans, and I certainly didn’t need lentils. That was poor people shit, and I was not poor. Looking back now I can say with confidence that I was absolutely delusional about my level of financial security.

I don’t remember when I decided to give lentils another try. I’m going to say that my SIL was making some for dinner, and I finally agreed to try them again. Or maybe it was trying the yellow dal from one of my favorite Indian spots in Chicago. All I truly remember is that they were good. They didn’t taste like poverty, or my brother begging me to make something different for dinner. They didn’t bring back any memories of being a latchkey kid with a stepstool at the stovetop. They were just lentils. I started trying different kinds of lentils, and slowly I became a lentil lover.

This bit here is where I would start talking about my love of food (I did go to culinary school after all), and how the more I broadened my palate to include non-European cultures** the more I began to fall in love with beans. Let’s pretend that I told you all those stories so we can get to the present day.

Two years ago I was scrambling to get the ingredients for Hoppin’ John***. I couldn’t find them, but I did see a bag of yellow eye beans. They looked close enough to black eyed peas that I bought them and brought them home to do a quick soak. They were amazing! So creamy, and a little bit sweet. I couldn’t believe that I’d splurged on heirloom beans from Whole Foods when, if I’d planned better, I would’ve spent one-third the price on dry black eyed peas, or even a can of Sylvia’s seasoned black beans

Those yellow eye beans were just the beginning. I found myself going back to Whole Foods for another bag, and then another. When my Chicago brother (from another mother) would ask if I needed anything from the store, I’d ask if he could get me some beans. In 2024 I went to Los Angeles for a fundraising dinner for the Cheese Culture Coalition put on by Blakesville Creamery, and Agnes Restaurant and Cheesery. I also had the opportunity to meet up with a friend, and we did some food shopping. At one of the stores I saw more Rancho Gordo beans. I bought them, brought them home, and gave in to bean bliss.

I put my name on the waiting list to be a member of the bean club. The day my name came up, I was elated! Every three months, I was going to get beans. Heirloom beans. Beans that I’d never heard of, from places I’ve never been. At the end of 2024, I was laid off. I kept my bean club membership. It was my treat while I looked for the next great opportunity. When I ran out of savings, I still kept the bean club membership, I just paid with a credit card. When my credit card was almost maxed out, I kept the bean membership. It wasn’t until I was days away from giving up my apartment, putting my stuff into storage, and moving back east that I seriously contemplated having to give up my membership.

The bean club membership had become a sign that I was still okay. Maybe I wasn’t thriving, but I was doing alright. The bean club became a kind of sign that I’d made it. I wasn’t eating beans because I didn’t have a choice. I had a choice. I chose to embrace that there are different types of beans out there, and that it’s okay to spend my money on heirloom beans, and beans that are part of an international collaboration supporting producers of products indigenous to Mexico. I’ve learned to respect and care about my beans just as I care about where my coffee, eggs, meat, or chicken come from. I care about beans not just because I need to put something on the table, but as a celebration of what I can put on the table.

It’s hard, though. Every time I get my bean club delivery, I feel excitement, and then immediate guilt. I’m not sure why. That’s a lie. I know why I just didn’t want to say. I feel guilty because beans are food for “the poors”. When we had a booklet full of food stamps, we didn’t splurge on beans. We went fancy with chicken breast and lean ground beef. I wasn’t raised to believe in beans as anything other than a means to end hunger. Being a part of the leguminati has broadened my perspective on which foods I consider a treat, and has helped me be even more intentional when I shop.

I can picture ten-year-old Agela scrunching up her face in disgust every time that bean club box gets delivered, wondering why, if I have “extra” money I didn’t just get a cheeseburger or Chinese takeout. I know that twenty-year-old Agela is calling me a traitor for having two different types of dried lentils sitting on my pantry shelf. None of that matters though because present-day Agela is so excited that she has the opportunity to try heirloom beans, to discover the different flavors and textures of the beans. What a joy it is to continue to learn, taste, and embrace something so delicious, nutritionally dense, valuable, and culturally significant to so many.

Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart. The more you eat, the more you fart (although soaking does help with the toots). The more you fart, the better you feel (no one wants to be bloated). Now you’re ready for another meal…of beans.

Happy 2026!

*Tiger’s Milk Bars are the only time (except for my mother’s baking) that I have ever enjoyed carob. Also, to be clear, I’m not talking about those bullshit rebranded bars they did a few years ago, trying to capitalize on the “everything has so much protein because that’s what you want, right? GET THOSE GAINS! PROTEIN, MUTHAFUCKA”.

**There’s nothing wrong with European bean dishes, but exploring other cultures is always good for the shopping cart, tummy, and mind. I am currently searching Chicago for some duck confit so I can make a cassoulet-inspired dish, so don’t come at me.

***Hoppin’ John is a Gullah Geechee cultural recipe and is made with field peas, but those aren’t always easy to find, so black eyed peas have become “the standard”. Traditional Hoppin’ John is still made, and while I love making it with black eyed peas and yellow eye beans I want to be sure that when I know the originators that I’m giving proper cultural attribution. Also, yellow eye beans are apparently a common bean used for New England baked beans.

Today I am giving you a lovely review of one of the most atrocious movies I’ve seen in recent memory: Red One. It stars some people and they’re doing things and it was so bad. It’s also not what I entended to end the year with. I was/am writing something a bit more “Agela’s on her soapbox shit again”, but when I wrote it, it felt unfunished. There’s more that I want to write, but I’m also worried that it’s a slippery slope from “I want to add a bit more” to “I’ve added too much and now I have to post this as an audiobook” and I don’t think any of us are ready for that.

So I’m ending the year with silliness, absurdity, and that other mysterious third thing. Let us all go into 2026 happy that we’ve gotten through this year, and also secure in the fact that Ryan Reynolds is not in this movie, even though I keep thinking he is.

Red One

“Santa doesn’t care about what’s in your pants, just what’s in your heart.” - my VT brother.

There’ll be more on this later. Actually, no. I’ll talk about it now. Santa knows that gender is a man-made construct. So while he is male-presenting, the name Santa is the feminine in Spanish and Italian. But that doesn’t bother Santa. Santa gives no fucks. Now, let’s get on with the movie.

This kid doesn’t believe in Santa. He’s ruining Santa for all of his cousins. He drinks the milk and even eats the cookies. What a bad kid he is.

30 years later, a woman picks up her coffee at the counter and sets it down to get some sugar. A person walks by and picks it up, and walks away with it. It’s Chris Evans! I bet he still doesn’t believe in Santa.

Ooooh Lucy Liu is going to be in this movie. She’s great!

Chris Evans is getting the guy on the phone his money. Oh, he’s definitely a bad guy. He’s checking out a young blonde woman doing jumping jacks outside a building that he cares about.

Time to start an electrical fire! Also, he dumped the coffee, AND his alcohol.

He’s so dang nonchalant.

He gets grumpy with a baby!

Doberman trip! That old chestnut. So far, this movie is giving me Home Alone vibes…even though I’ve never seen that whole movie.

Produced by Dwayne Johnson? Sure. Did he just steal candy from a baby? Yeah, he sure did. He’s a really bad guy.

That damn Spider-Man! JK Simmons is great!

Oh, he’s Santa’s bodyguard. Oh it’s a content creator. The Rock is really standing straight on not letting that creator skip the line.

Oh we’re making a commentary on the commercialization of the holiday.

Oh, sounds like our bodyguard may be getting ready to retire. You know that that means… bad news bears.

That’s another movie I haven’t seen.

I like that Santa addresses the reindeer as ladies. We all know that the male reindeer lose their antlers in the winter, so if that deer’s got antlers, it’s a lady reindeer.

“Red One, you are clear for takeoff”. That’s the name of this movie. What joy.

KAVALAME! I have a feeling that’s going to be said more than once.

Chris Evans is a scientist? He’s tracked a seismic anomaly. He’s also a gambler and has just lost on the boxing match.

We’re 15 minutes in, and I’m bored. Ugh. Oh looks, it’s the elves, and a troll?

A polar bear? I mean, yes, a polar bear would be part of the security team, but wouldn’t it also eat the people, elves, and everyone in the area?

Why is he dressed like he just came off the Black Adam soundstage? Why is JK Simmons jacked? I like my Santa to be roly-poly!

Oh, The Rock has lost his faith in the adults, not the kids. So much bad behavior out there.

I really need this movie to be better. I’m going to check on my cranberry butter in the oven. I’m not going to pause the movie. Also, my little Choux is snoring like a grown-ass human who had a long day at work. I also made a small batch of experimental dough, I’m proofing it with cinnamon sugar and dried cranberries. I really want to eat this with some of the ginger butter I got from Ploughgate.

Oh there are some baddies who are doing some bad things. Drilling into the forcefield around Santa’s land.

Uh oh. A light just went out. Another one went out. Jeff isn’t responding. Oh no! Talking penguin. I NEED EYES ON RED, NOW!!!

Ohmigod! It’s a breach! Someone’s rappelling down the building, and now it’s time for Dwayne to run. Put up all of the barriers, not just wall #5! Put up all the fucking barriers, you schmuck! Really, no one’s raising barriers until Dwayne tells them to? Just raise all the fucking barriers, you idiots. Save Santa!

I really do love a chase scene. Even when it’s in a silly movie about who kidnapped Santa, and the Rock is on a jetski. Love that shit.

He caught up to the vehicle, but no one’s inside. OH NO…SANTA!

Lucy Liu is the director of North Pole? The Wolf? Chris Evans is AKA “The Wolf”? And he wakes up in a bathtub? Ugh. And he’s a deadbeat dad? That checks out. He’s a bad guy, AND a bad dad.

I missed some stuff because I had to check on my cranberry butter. Let’s just assume that he’s a horrible dad and didn’t teach his kid any good lessons. Now he’s beating up guys with super weapons who are all in his house. Apparently, the weapon puts you to sleep where you stand or something like that.

I don’t know/care.

This is a little Jason Bourne-ish now. I love those movies. especially when Jason’s all “I’m gonna fuck up your shit with a rolled up magazine because you’re a bad puppy!

Then the German guys’ house goes KABOOM!

Lucy Liu is so dang pretty.

So now they’re going to need him to find Santa event though he’s the reason Santa got kidnapped in the first place.

What is this accent that Chris is using? It’s kind of Bostonian, but I dunno.

He’s a level 4 naughty-lister. This movie is ridiculous. The Polar Bear gave him a bear hug and didn’t kill him?

Oh my gods. I’m watching this movie because my brother and I were watching The Italian Job and then Amazon was all “I’m automatically playing this movie, hope you like it.” But it has commercials? Does streaming have commercials now? I have never wanted a Papa Johns pizza, Also I don’t care about the 3rd Avatar movie. I saw the first one, and that was enough for me. Samual L. Jackson wants me to get a Capital One card. Not today Sammy! New Balance! We’re not just for middle-aged dads with plantar fasciitis.

It’s that actress who played Sabrina. Her plan is to make the world a better place. She’s borrowing some of his energy and sending him into a sleep. He’s just in a ball with no bathroom or anything. That can’t be good. What if he has to pee or make a poo?

They’re in Aruba now.

Yup, that’s a Boston accent.

He’s the Santa bodyguard.

They’re trying to do some witty banter, and it’s just not working. I wish there was something funny happening, but I don’t think I’ve even cracked a smile.

Oh, it’s a box that makes me think of the movie Hellboy. And a snowglobe. Probably a mystical one. Oh now, Santa’s glowy lights are making him feel pain.

And now we’re on the beach. The bad guys are surrounding Dwayne. They’re fighting him, but now he’s small. Now he’s big. Kickdudes in the genitals. It’s like a shitty Ant-Man.

Nick Kroll is a bad guy. He can’t say her name or she will hear. It’s like Voldemort or something. Oh shit she’s a cold princess or something? Oh she’s fucking Nick up. Oh, Gryla is the Christmas Witch. Nick Kroll is good at being possessed. Why would a jaywalker or litterer or everyone who’s ever been late be on the naughty list.

Oh, Nick is still alive. Now shit is coming out of the water. An ice cream truck playing Feliz Navidad? Don’t trust it. It has a maniacal clown thing on the front of the bus.

Oh, abominable snowmen? On the beach in Aruba? Okay. How are they not melted? Why would Chris think he could punch a supernatural snowman?

Oh, remove the carrot and the snowman dies. Also, if you blow him up.

Yup, this guy is really bad. He’s got a porsche parked in a handicapped spot. He was all “tell grandma to take the bus.” and other mean stuff.

They only have 17 hours before Christmas Eve. I am absolutely not invested in this movie in any way. Ugh. Blergh. Ack!

Oh, the part where he’s a bad father has been brought up again. I’m going to play some Candy Crush while this shit goes on.

Are they trying to make this a serious movie?

Oh, we’re about to meet Krampus. Also, have you considered purchasing a Chevrolet?

Cool. Hellhounds. He just created a chicken and is calling her Ellen. he told her to distract them. Did he just send a chicken to fight hellhounds? Ooof.

Don’t touch the gold, Chris. He touched the gold. Now they’re in Krampus jail.

This movie. Who decided to make this movie? Why did this get the green light? Not like John Legend, but the other way.

Oh Krampusschlap? It’s the slapping of the face. I love that this is now a sport that I’ve seen on the internet before. It’s just face-slapping.

Lots more dancing and chanting than what I’d expect in the hall of Krampus.

Chris Evans just volunteered for The Rock to win at krampus Slap. Also, Ellen the chickenis still alive. The hounds are chasing her pretty hard.

Krampus’ hand is the size of the Rock’s head. The slap was significant. He left a palmprint on his face.

He’s got some rock em sock em robots and they’ve been biggified. Krampus is so mad. They have to get away. They have to save Ellen.

They got away. And saved Ellen.

Spooky piano in the middle of the road playing dance of the sugarplum fairies. Get back in the fucking car and drive away. Or I guess the other thing is open the box and then watch your kid open the box also. Now they’re both trapped in slow globes. What do they do if they have to pee or poop? Why does no one consider these basic needs.

It was all a diversion. The North Pole has been taken.

I’m bored. Gonna play some Angry Birds. Maybe check on my dough to see how it’s doing. Why is this movie 18 hours long?

I went to check on my dough and when I came back the globes shattered and they’re free now. I think it’s because Chris Evans was being nice and atoning for his sins.

The reindeer are mad that strangers are trying to use them. Now everyone’s fighting. Lucy Liu is such a badass.

Polar Bear security is working real hard to bonk heads together.

How is it that Dwayne and Chris ran at the same speed/ Dwayne is like 1 full foot taller than Chris.

Flying reindeer. Sleigh crash. Witch plummets to her death. Something something save Christmas.

Oh, witch did not fall to her death. She just became the awesome ogre that Krampus once loved. She’s so big, and has two bigass tails.

Oh, Krampus is here to help save the day? Oh she whomped him with her tail. Dwayne got whomped by the tail twice. Chris too. No one can stop this huge ogre lady witch.

Oops. Santa woke up and is kinda angry. Oh, Kavalame slo makes the reindeer attack with their horns, and the witch is imprisoned in a snowglobe.

I knew this was going to be a bad movie, but I thought it was going to be bad and fun, not bad and a fucking slog to get through.

Who wanted this movie? I can’t figure out who this is for. I’m not trying to be an asshole, I just legit can’t understand who this is for? Now they’re showing how Santa gets down chimneys and stuff. When Dwayne looks at Chris now he sees him as a little kid and we’re supposed to feel something. I know we are. I don’t know what the feeling is supposed to be, but I know I’m supposed to feel something.

This is the 2nd Mariah Carey Christmas song they’re playing. I don’t understand this movie. It’s just disturbing and makes me grumpy. Fuck this shit. Do not watch.

In October of 2015, I was notified that my biological mother had died. This is not about that either.

My birthday is Christmas Eve. This post isn’t about Agelamas, either.

This is about the kindness of a stranger, but I need to set the stage with those little bits of backstory first.

In November of 2015, I was doing some Christmas shopping. My nephew was obsessed with My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic, and I was determined to get him a Pinkie Pie gift. Now that I’m thinking about it, it might’ve been December of 2015. That detail is lost to me, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that Nana and my mother had died, and I was determined to march through the holidays. I would acknowledge the grief that was coming, but I wouldn’t let it overwhelm me like it did at work that past May.* I was going to be okay.

TLDR: I was not okay

Fuck. I’m still not okay. Gonna take a break from writing this and take a shower, maybe get my heart rate to go down.

Where was I? So it’s the holiday season of 2015, and my motto is “Pinkie Pie or die”. I end up at the Hallmark store in West Lebanon, NH. I just KNOW they’re going to have what I need. I see a nice big Pinkie Pie plushie on the shelf, and I go to pick it up. While at the store I realize that there are some other gifts that I could buy. Before I know it, I start shopping for Nana. I’m looking at Pashminas and Hallmark-quality jewelry, and then it hits me. Nana is gone.

I’ve been punched in the chest. I feel like I’m dying. I can’t breathe. How could I have forgotten? I grab Pinkie Pie and try to hide in the back of the store. I call my bff (who is also my nephew’s mom) and tell her that I’m crying at the Hallmark store, struggling. She tells me to leave. I push back, saying that I need to get this gift for the kiddo. She begs me to leave. I tell her I will, and I hang up.

I can’t leave, though. All I can do is cry. I’m causing a scene, and while I recognize that, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The tears won’t stop flowing. I can’t stop shaking. My entire body is screaming in pain. I can’t leave. I can’t put down this dang pink pony. I don’t know what to do, and now people are starting to notice. I remember thinking that if I don’t get my shit together, they’re going to call the cops to have me removed.

Suddenly, I’m embraced in a hug from a stranger. She’s holding me and rocking with me. She’s telling me it’s going to be okay. I’m crying even more now, now that someone’s there. I completely give up any strength I thought I had, and I give in. I give in to my grief, and I give in to the warmth that this stranger is offering me. I allow her to give the love that I so desperately need, and she offers it freely, allowing me to cry on her shoulder. The store has stopped. There is only me, this woman, and my broken heart. She waits for me to let go. She rubs my back. She reassures me. She stays with me in the back of that fucking Hallmark store until I can be me again.

Eventually I am able to walk up to the counter and buy the pony for my nephew. I walk to my car, and I cry some more. It is the last time I ever go into a Hallmark store.

I never found out who that kind woman was. I could’ve done a missed connections ad on Craigslist, but I never did. I wish I could tell her how much I appreciate her bravery. It takes guts to walk up to a stranger having a grief meltdown and wrap them in love while they douse you in tears. I wish I could send her a note every year letting her know that it did get better and that I did get through it, and that every single year around this time, when I start to feel everything close in around me, her act of love still helps me.

I don’t know how to end this story. I think that’s because there is no end to grief. It bends, twists, lunges forward, and hides in the corner. It is always by my side. I am better equipped to deal with it today than I was 10 years ago. I acknowledge that this grief is neither friend nor foe. It just is. It is truth and love and tears of joy and pain. It is my companion for the rest of my life and a reminder that even in the darkest, there is love.

*Thank you to Pam for doing what needed to be done. I hated that day so much, and was so irrationally angry with you for showing me kindness when I was convinced that strength would get me through. Thank you for forcing me to be kind to myself. I am so grateful to you.

1. I was in the hospital and eventually had my gallbladder removed. I’m much better now. I’ve got my last follow-up in a few weeks when they’ll remove the stents they inserted. Yes, I’m working on a post about my time in the hospitals (yes, there were two different ones).

2. Depression. Yeah, I wish I could call it something else, but bitches have the morbs, and I am bitches.

Today, instead of bringing the sads, I’m going to share a spoiler-filled review of the latest Superman movie. I was going to create another Substack just for these movie shenanigans, but I’m wondering if I need to do it, or if I can just write whatever I want here. It would be good to have a theme for this Substack, right? Popular Substacks have themes, right? But then I’d have to stick to the theme, but I’m too much of a magpie for that. Oooh. Shiny. So here’s the lovely note I sent to my brother (the VT one) after watching Superman.

Here’s a picture of Cannellini Bean being a cutie patootie, because cats are great, and my domesticated quadrupeds make me smile.

SO MANY SPOILERS BELOW THIS TEXT! SO MANY! I’M SO SERIOUS!

Superman

This movie loves the number 3

Superman was beaten so bad he has asthma now

Dog jumping on him isn’t helping. This is how I feel when the cats try to get me up to give them breakfast.

They are not strong enough to drag me through the icy snow. They are just cats. Choux is a chunky girl, but not super enough.

Speak friend and enter…”BARK!”

These robots! Alan Tuydak!

Is that Bradley Cooper?

Is that wish version Scarlet Johannnnnnsssson?

“The alien is on its way back”

Lex Luther is calling out Battleship coordinates. He sank his battleship. Oh no. He’s developed over 2500 moves and has them all memorized?

Is he in Stark Tower? That’s some bullshit. Okay. It’s not Stark Tower.

Is that guy one of the guys from YouTube?

Why are people listening to…wait a fucking minute! That’s the Hydra guy from Winter Soldier. His name is General Flag in this movie

Lois just got home and hears a clatter so she grabs a bat. Oh, it’s her boyfriend…Superman making breakfast for dinner.

Oh. Now she’s going to interview him instead of making out. And now she’s being an asshole because her career is more important than her heart.

Ugh. I hate Lois.

This argument is stupid

They’re breaking up because she was an asshole?

How did Alex just walk into the compound? And now cornrow lady is killing all the Alan’s!!!!!

Not the dog! Don’t hurt the fucking dog!

Oh he’s creating a distraction that has to be kept in a cage. It’s a Stitch looking monster. Oh. It’s big now. Smash smash! Oh and it breathes fire.

Oh. More superheroes. Green Lantern. Hawkgirl, and Mr. Terrific.

Nathan Filberts (I know that’s not his last name, and just can’t remember it right now), and Alan Tuydak back together again!…eventually

That’s a lot of monster eyeball poking

Did Superman just save a squirrel?

“Metahumans Save Thing” is the best title I’ve ever seen

Oh no. People just saw him helping, but they’re watching Fox News and now believe that instead of what they’re seeing in real life?

Oh and it’s that guy from that show that I like. IAN BLACK! I just remembered his name.

His secret harem? Take as many wives as you can?

Nathan’s got horrible hair in this movie.

Can, oops gotta get a snack. I’m back and have no idea what I was going to say

Oh no. The president of fake Russia (complete with picture of him on a horse) is a baddie.

Oh no! Alan/4! NOOOOOOOOOO Also where the fuck is the dog? Lex’s girl took that dog. Also, Peacemaker?

Big floating eyeball in the background. Green Lantern just hitting it with a bat.

I love that after he’s had a hard day Lois gives him a mug of cocoa. He’s such a good guy. He loves her.

It took me this long to recognize Lois from the Mrs Mazel show.

My brother told me that some things would be explained, but nothing has been explained.

She does remind me of Margot Kidder a bit. How much sugar does she need in her coffee? If she doesn’t like the taste of coffee?

Why does Jimmy know about pocket universes?

Angry monkeys to do rage baiting online? Huh.

Jimmy is walking under the scaffolding where the ladies of the night work. Also the source is Lex’s girl? She’s Jimmy’s ex-girlfriend?

“You have unconventional toes.”

I like how they explain his hypno glasses.

Nathan has such bad hair. I can’t get over the bad hair. Why is it so bad? Who let this happen? Is this from the comic book? Also she’s right, that haircut should be against his vows.

Buy a Toyota. Live in Delaware. Have a flying saucer type of vehicle. Install the slowest garage door opener

Why is Luther playing Russian roulette with such a big gun?

Wow. When is the last time I heard a Noah and the Whale song? What a fun song to have in the background while you murder and incapacitate everyone at a base.

PUPPY POWER! Krypto is super, but in the end, he’s still just a puppy.

Brief break to check on the beef I’ve got braising. The beef is delicious.

All the kids are cheering for Superman. Little old lady evacuating with her turtles. If I had to evacuate I’m prioritizing the kitties.

The guy I thought was YouTube I think is actually SNL. I think.

Stop teasing us with the music. FINALLY!

Luther has over 2500 codes but never really goes above double digits.

Why are Engineer and Ultraman so committed to him dying? I know they’re bad guys but I kinda want some context. Like she gave up her humanity to be a micro machine, but why?

Oh the bad guy is a clone. Sure. Why not. I can accept that.

Oh, Green Lantern saved the kiddo and Hawkgirl totally killed the bad president because she’s nothing like Superman. Also she is no man!

I really do love that fricking dog.

OH NO. BLACK HOLE.

Lex really hates him not just for being Superman, but for also being a better human being.

KIRK! Kirk from Gilmore Girls!

Oh. Lois loves him too.

Supergirl’s drunk?

Two after credit scenes

*Added for this piece: there’s a lot more going on with the relationship between Superman and Lois in that fight that I didn’t get into. Bottom line is that they’re both assholes, but Superman is the hero, so she’s got to be the bigger asshole. Also, I did enjoy this movie as a distraction, but not really a big distraction because subtext shit.*

Chicago is under attack by the government. We all know that All Cats Are Beautiful, but the kidnappings, assaults, murder, and terror and that these masked marauders are inflicting upon families, neighbors, and communities are horrifying. Chicago is standing up though. People are coming together to fight the tyranny. While the kidnappers are primarily targeting Latin American neighborhoods, they are also going after low-income Black neighbors as well. If you have melanin, speak a second language, or fit the stereotype that a masked “agent” has, you are not safe. You’re also not safe if you’re a member of the press, or clergy. The list of who is considered a threat for sticking up for human rights keeps growing. If you are able to protect others, now is the time to do so. Join the protests in Chicago or down in Broadview, a neighborhood that demographically is Black as heck, but is also known to have a large number of Palestinian neighbors as well. Protest and spend money in their neighborhood.

Speaking of spending money, lots of neighborhood restaurants in Pilsen, Little Village, and others are suffering. The hospitality industry runs on the labor of the oppressed and right now people are afraid to go to work, and afraid to go out to eat. My two favorite places in Pilsen are Jumping Bean Cafe and Pollo Express, and Little Village has got the delightful Tacquerias Atotonilco. Don’t listen to me though, go where your nose or tummy leads you. If you happen upon a tamale cart during your travels, you MUST support. Street vendors are especially vulnerable and the quicker these folks can sell out and get safe, the better. The goal is just to go out and support neighborhoods being targeted by hatred and inhuman practices. Don’t feel badly if you can’t go out and do the big things that get publicized on the news; the key is to do something. Do what you can. Go out to a new restaurant, send money to groups doing the work, they always need supplies like megaphones, whistles, and printing services. Check out ICIRR ( https://www.icirr.org/ )for more information on how you can help along with info on your rights. Follow Kelly Hayes ( https://kellyhayes.org/ ) on IG, and check out her books “Let This Radicalize You”, and her upcoming “Read This When Things Fall Apart”. Since we’re talking about books, you should check out Pilsen Community Books for all of your radical book needs.

Do the best you can for your community, your neighbors, and yourself. Be safe.

I’ve already got a list of things that I need to get started on, so I’ve got to go, but I’ll do a better update soon. Thank you to everyone for your love and support, I am so grateful to be in friendship with you.

*I got a new desk and Bean immediately jumped on top to make sure it’s big enough for cat shenanigans, laptop, printer, AND my desktop computer (not pictured). Also, I have decided to not worry about that screw that didn’t make it into the build*

That being said, 2025 has been hard. Real fucking hard. Depression has been kicking my ass all over the place. I’ll have some days where I can push through. I laugh, smile, and feel something that resembles joy, only to come crashing down when reality comes tromping in. Live. Laugh. Lexapro.

I am two weeks away from not having a permanent address. Today’s post is not just a “poor me” post, although there’s a little bit of that going on in my head. I really just want to share how my 2025 has been going and how just like becoming disabled, losing your permanent address can happen to anyone at any time.

Today is August 20th. Thanks to a gofundme that I set up to help me with my living expenses and move, I have $350.76 left in my bank account. My lease ends on September 5th, and on September 6th the kitties and I will be driving to Vermont. How the fuck did I get here?

I was laid off last year and December 30th, 2024 was my last day of work. Although I was sad to leave my job, I was confident that I would find a new job within a month or two.

I was mistaken.

In the beginning I was applying for jobs that I was excited about, and that I was perfectly qualified for. I wasn’t rejected by most of these companies, I was ignored. I spent hours trying to come up with the best version of my resume, and a compelling cover letter, and I was getting nowhere. Corporate jobs sent automatic rejection emails on Sundays, when they bothered to respond. Independently owned businesses didn’t respond. I was spending so much time and energy trying to be the perfect applicant, and I was getting nowhere.

I filed for unemployment which left me with $47 per month after paying my rent. My unemployment gross ‘wages’ put me $200 above the threshold for SNAP benefits and Medicaid. Before I knew it my credit card was completely maxed out and I was borrowing from family, using their Amazon account for cat food and household needs, and was giving them lists of things to pick up for me at the grocery store. While I am so grateful for the assistance, I have beaten myself up for needing it.

In my adult life there have been two other times when I’ve been unemployed. The first time was in 2011. I was working in a farm store in Vermont. Tropical storm Irene came through, and decimated the farm. The fields had flooded and everything in those fields was no longer fit for human consumption and had to be destroyed. I was out of work while the owners tried to wade through all of the paperwork and red tape that comes due after mother nature kicks your ass. I was out of work for a few weeks and then started a new job. Easy peasy lemon squeezey.

In the summer of 2017 I voluntarily became unemployed. I’d left my job in Vermont, and moved to Chicago. Saffron (RIP kitty) and I was stayed with my brother, sister-in-law, and Kiddo. The first couple of weeks without work were fine, but then I started to get antsy…and grumpy. I was out of work for about a month before I started a new job.

Being out of work for almost 9 months has been devastating. Not just to my wallet, and credit score, but to my self-esteem as well. As someone who has worked in marketing for the past 6 years of my employment I’ll put it like this: There’s tons of enthusiasm for the product, but it isn’t translating into sales. I know that I’m not just a product, but during this job search I’ve felt like my humanity is being stripped away. AI scans resumes and cover letters and without human eyes, my talent, personality, and experience are overlooked because I’m not using the right words, or doing whiteout wording to trick the new artificial overlords into passing my resume on to a human.

I don’t want to have to trick someone into giving me a chance.

So, here I sit months later typing away after a day of packing and bringing things down to the dumpster. I’m going to be putting most of my items in storage soon and am moving back to Vermont to stay with a friend who has room for me and the kitties. While in Vermont I’ll take some time to be sad, to cry about the life I thought I was going to have this year, and hopefully make some plans for the future.

Maybe it’s time to start something on my own. I’ve had a few people tell me I should start a consulting business, but I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’ve been considering putting my whole heart into freelance writing, but I don’t know if I’m ready for that step yet either. If my knee weren’t the size of an angry pomelo I might try getting behind the cheese counter again, but as I type this, every joint in my body is screaming DON’T DO IT! I feel lost, scared, and exhausted.

Shit. The powerball is up to 700 million or something like that so maybe I should get a ticket. Anyone wanna float me a fiver? I swear I’m good for it.

T and I are twins. He’s a 6ft tall white man, is 6 years younger than me, and we are not related by blood or marriage, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still my brother, and we are obviously twins. Sometimes I’ll watch movies and since we live so far apart I’ll send him a note describing the movie to him. If it’s a good movie that he should watch I won’t write him anything, I’ll tell him to watch it, and once he has, I’ll send him my synopsis. My notes fit the scenes playing, except for when they don’t, and he always laughs, which in turn makes me laugh. Today I’m sharing my review of the movie: A Working Man.

I watched this movie last month when flying back home from the American Cheese Society annual conference. Please not that there are NO EDITS to this note that I’m sharing.* I hope it helps bring a smile to your day. The world is on fire. lose yourself in the amazing action skills of Jason Statham as verbalized by me, courtesy of United Airlines’ entertainment selections. I would warn you about spoilers, but it’s a Jason Statham action movie. You already know what happens.**

Oh dang. Is this a military movie? Is this his background d story? He was a soldier…now he’s a welding man…a working man.

Produced by Sylvester Stallone! So many British and American flags so far.

He’s brushing his teeth in his car. Sorry. His truck. He’s a man. A man with a hard hat, and a blue truck just standing in the morning fog.

Oh no. One of his minority crew members gives him lunch that his wife made just for the boss. Is this gonna be white savior shit?

Let’s go home with the same number of fingers we came with!

Oh. The business owners are Latino! He’s just a foreman or something.

Oh shit. A black pickup truck. These guys sound dangerous according to the music. Oh yeah. They are dangerous. Just beating the shit out of one of the workers.

FIGHT!

Oh no. The guy who gave him lunch is in trouble. He’s pissed off some Spanish-speaking “gang people”. He told them not to come back. I bet they’re going to come back.

He got some homemade tinga and tortillas. Abuela loves him. He’s gotten so much food today. How will he eat it all? No one knows.

The daughter says “just get my back if I ever need it.” I have a feeling she might need it.

He’s driven up to a house he clearly doesn’t live in. It’s an Alice in Wonderland looking thing. Oh gods. The grandpa is horrible. He tells Statham that he’s an “unsafe parent. A killer. You can’t pretend that you’re not.”

He couldn’t protect his wife. And he won’t be there to protect his daughter whose name I’ve already forgotten. She’s here for exposition and possible collateral damage.

Oh shit. It’s a limo of underage girls with false id’s. Hip hop is playing. Jason has moved out of his truck to a really creepy room by the trains.

His boss’ daughter is at the club. Someone took her picture and passed it on to a creepy guy.

Oh these young women are bar hopping g and drunk as hell. Bartender is in on it too? How many people are watching these women? Why is it so windy outside?

Why would her friend leave her in the bathroom when she’s been puking?

KIDNAPPING! YOUNG WOMAN-KNAPPING!

Oh. The construction site owner had a dad who was a green beret he can smell them from a mile away. They’re offering 70k for him to find their daughter. He says no. That’s not who I am anymore. Is it not. Seriously?

Oh. He’s meeting up with an old military buddy. A blind buddy who can still shoot like crazy. He’s going to have his friend support him. Just to make sure he’s doing the right thing. Which he obviously is.

His boss is a girl dad. He’s a girl dad. Girl dad’s stick together. Oh. He’s drinking tequila straight from the bottle.

I’m gonna bring her home. I promise. Gonna bring her home.

Also this takes place in Chicago.

Also the person sitting next to me is an anxious flyer or maybe just an anxious person. The tapping and leg jostling is a bit much.

Jason Statham in a dank, wet alley. He finds something. The bar is closing up. The door is armed and locked. Jason’s got a bug on the car. He’s gonna follow.

Downtown shot of Chicago.

The bad guy is hitting a bong. That’s also how we know he’s no good. The weeds. Jason picks the lock. He’s in the house.

“You a cop?”

“You wish I was a cop.”

People lie. Do you lie, Johnny? And water boarding.

Woopsie. 3 people dead. And those guys are Russians. Fuck. You know it’s bad news when it’s Russians.

The kidnapped girl is writing hostage poetry? Or she’s at least saying words.

The Russians have the best track suits and hats. Russian boss is slapping henchmen. He’s big mad. 90k or 9k is missing. Not sure which.

Oh we’ve got a dead mobster cleaning company coming to take care of anything. His kid just called to say hi. Oh she’s gonna get knapped.

He’s got a black pickup now. Good. The blue was really noticeable.

A CYBERTRUCK?! Why is that in my damn movie.

He’s going trucking through the woods of…Algonquin or some other fancy suburb.

The bad man is really bad. His wife tried to kiss him. He slapped the shit out of her. She grabbed a knife! That’s right, bitch! Don’t take that shit!

Oh. He’s in the house now. Burned the Russian with hot coffee. Made some toast. He’s got him hooked up with a chair over the pool.

“You and all connected with you will be hunted for three generations.” I love badass gangsters and their words.

Dang. He just drowned that mutha fucka in his own pool.

The cleaning company is getting good work today. Oh damn. The father of the mob is mad and calm. That’s a dangerous combo.

The dialogue in this movie is really…full of words.

Oop. He’s at a country bar in Joliet. They sell meth for the Russians. And have a Schlitz neon sign.

Black man sitting in a chair of motorcycle mufflers. It’s like Game Of Thrones but biker gang style.

Jason’s about to take on the whole crew. “Alright. Let’s play.” Jason’s just breaking arm and leg bones all over the place.

I do not understand why he’s buying meth and how that’s gonna get him the missing girl.

Nothing in this movie makes sense. Why is she still in a suitcase. Why was her heartbeat so steady?

Statham in a suit is always a good idea. Oh. Is this how he gets to meet the big Russian guys?

Do I even care about the Russians?

That guys’ name is Dimi. “This is my associate. He is small potatoes. I am the big potatoes. “

He stole a motorcycle. The lady who turned him in is so angry. Like I feel like she’s angrier than the situation or her character calls for.

He’s running away on a motorcycle. They’re shooting at him and nobody’s made a singele hit. They’re the stormtroopers of the mob. Oops. There’s a cop car. They’re dirty cops. ACAB

He’s made fun of their track suits. Now they’re mad. Are there really that many woods in Joliet? Oops. Driver got shot. Isn’t that always the way. Two more dead guys. They really did have nice track suits. A bit flashy, but that’s alright.

Big mob guy is so mad. Convene the war council.

Lady is going to get the tip of her finger cut off.

Matrix looking assholes are going g to find Dimi.

Chicago shot so we don’t forget where we are. Oh. We’re just shooting up the club.

They almost killed grandpa.

Weapons sommelier.

He’s making promises to his kid. There are only 39 minutes of this movie left. How is his daughter going to get in trouble and rescued while he tries to save Jenny.

Where are all these fucking woods coming from? Do I need to explore more of the suburbs?

She found some cops. Surely they’ll help. Oh no. It’s the crooked cops! ACAB bitches. ACAB.

Dino’s doing coke and looking through his passports. Statham is casually and quietly killing all the guards.

GRENADE!

Dimi has a hole in his hand.

So this is John Wick but for a young woman. Dimi called her a whore. He got punched. I really feel that this movie has a lot of loose ends that need to be tied up in the next 20 minutes.

This whole thing has nothing to do with the fight at the construction site. That was a punchy red herring.

The daughter is going to play the severely out of tune piano. And the biker gang is coming.

There was a reference to going south on 57 so I guess I’ve got to check out what’s down there.

How was she able to play the piano with her hands handcuffed together? Why does the guy who has the “date” with the girl dresses like the penguin from Batman?

Oh. He doesn’t want to rape her. He wants to cut her open and do some murder instead?

GUNS! SHOOTING! PEOPLE FLEEING. MOTORCYCLE GANG! FIRE! KNIVES AT A GUN FIGHT! GRATUITOUS MURDER OF AN ARMY VET WHO COULD’VE BEEN A FRIEND IF CIRCUMSTANCES WERE DIFFERENT!

How is that guys neck not broken? I spoke too soon. Big Russians are coming. The moon is full and the Russians are coming.

She said she thinks she killed her but didn’t check? Can we please make sure people are dead please? Is that too much to ask for?

He’s leaving his weapon? The Russian guy was told to leave Jason alone. He doesn’t want to since Jason killed his kids so he screams.

Dad came back.

And it’s all good now. The young woman is with her family and the dad is with his daughter.

No seriously. That’s the end of the movie.

*I did edit a few words, but the spelling, grammar, and heart of the snopsis has not been changed.

**I love Jason Statham movies, but they are predictable af.

It’s fun and cringeworthy to see how much I’ve grown not just in the industry, but as a writer as well. This week I’m heading out to Sacramento, CA for the American Cheese Society conference. I’ll be presenting a panel on DEI, doing a Moth Radio style storytelling about cheese sushi, and working with my team at the Cheese Culture Coalition to put on a cheese event.

So today we’re going to have a bit of a flashback. This was the first bit of cheese writing I’d ever done and it’s all because of an exchange between Arianna Huffington and Jon Stewart. Without further ado, let’s take a trip back in time. The year was 2008, and I’d just started working behind a cheese counter. I had no idea what this event would spark within me.

Summer of 2008:

This picture is from the 25th anniversary American Cheese Society cheese festival. The ACS conference was held right here in Chicago at the Chicago Hilton. This is a cheese sculpture of the Chicago skyline.

So I was watching The Daily Show today. Jon had Arianna Huffington on the show promoting her new book about blogging. She mentioned that you should blog about your secret passions. When she mentioned that her passion was cheese there was some mocking. She made some claim that 9 out of 10 Italian cheese are “fake”cheese from Wisconsin.

How many times have I come across the snobbish customer who only wants European cheese because they just don’t like American cheese. There is so much great American cheese out there. A lot of it is from Wisconsin, Vermont and California. there’s also cheese from Texas and North Carolina and Georgia. My current favorite cheddar comes from Seattle, Washington.

Well Mr. Stewart, Arianna and studio audience cheese is awesome! There is nothing silly about cheese blogs and the obsessive foodies who love the cheese.

My grandmother passed on April 26th, 2015. While the relationship with my mother was, is, and will always be complicated at best, my relationship with Nana was simple.

I adored her. She adored me. She loved me when I was an adorable youngster (my cheeks have always been this pinchable.) She loved me when I was a teen terror, when I dropped out of college, when I went to culinary school, and when I pivoted from wanting to have my own restaurant to slinging cheeses behind the counter.

Where Big Ma (stepdads mother) was the best cook I knew, Nana was the opposite. I can’t remember a single meal that she made. She was a world traveler, not a cook. We lived in Eastern Queens and drove into the city to see a show on Broadway, go to a concert or visit the Met. When we went out, we ate for real. We dined at Sylvia’s and Daniel, and we ate schmancy dinner while getting a rotating view of New York City. We had Chinese food that expanded my palette beyond sweet and sour chicken takeout. Nana couldn’t cook for shit, but that woman could make a reservation like nobody’s business.

One of her favorite cuisines was French. When I was on break from culinary school I would test out recipes and techniques on her. She would have me do the grocery shopping and when I’d come back she’d look at the receipt and tell me that I’d better do good for as much as everything cost. I did her proud more often than not, and when I created…less successful dishes she still ate everything.

When I left my professional cook career and moved into the cheese world, Nana was there ready to taste everything alongside me. I’d visit from Chicago, take her car and drive to Brooklyn to visit two or three shops before going back home with my cheesy bounty. Sometimes I’d switch it up and take the LIRR to the city and visit the tiny Saxelby stall or Murray’s in the village.

Together Nana and I would eat cheese for days. A little goat cheese on toast for breakfast, Alpine cheese grilled cheeses for lunch, and a cheese course with dinner. She loved stinky cheeses like Livarot, Epoisses, and other funk bombs, but her two favorite cheeses were Saint-Félicien and Saint-Marcellin. If it came in a little crock, she was all for it. As she got older and alzheimer’s started to take over her speech and memories she would still ask for French cheese when I came to visit. She couldn’t remember what it was called so she would ask me to bring her “that cheese in the pottery.”

Nana never got to read my column in Culture magazine. She didn’t see photos from when I was inducted in the cheese illuminati. There’s so much that she’s missed out on and today I’m going to share some of my joys with her. My grief which was once all-consuming has lessoned. The ache is still there, but the sharpness is gone - most of the time.

Today I am thinking back to the joy I shared with her, sitting at the dining room table, eating cheese and telling her all about the exciting and mundane news of my life. Today I have a pot full of yellow-eyed peas stewing, fresh bread ready for toasting, and an espellete pepper sheep’s milk cheese ready to be devoured. Happy Birthday Nana.

*I’ve got to be honest about what I wrote above*

I started writing this a few weeks ago. I really wanted to have a tribute to Nana. I was going to get some St. Albans and spread it over freshly baked bread. I was going to make a nice dinner in her honor. There was going to be cake. Today none of that shit happened. It started going downhill a few days ago when I couldn’t find any St. Albans. Whole Foods always has it, and suddenly every single WFM was out. Chicago cheese shops didn’t have it either. I cried.

I became fixated on what I didn’t have. How could I possibly celebrate Nana without that cheese? I could take the Willoughby in my fridge and put it into a brie baker, but that’s not the same as the pre-crocked St. Albans. Why didn’t anyone have it? Why didn’t I buy that damn cheese online weeks ago and have it shipped to me so this wouldn’t happen? Why am I crying over a cheese? Why is this the thing sending me over the edge? Why does this still fucking hurt so damn much?

The yellow eyed peas and rice came out delicious, but when it was time to eat dinner, I couldn’t do it. The meal was incomplete. I feel incomplete. Fuck.

On the morning I’d planned to go, I started coming up with excuses not to. It was raining and I hadn’t packed an umbrella. My joints were screaming and I had to use my cane. My mobility was compromised and wet roads present even more difficulty. I called an Uber anyway.

I can tell we’re getting close. There are no supermarkets. Homes have boarded up windows. Even though it’s muggy and wet, apartment windows are open to combat the inside heat because air conditioning and the electricity it costs is out of fiscal reach.

On my ride there I can feel tears coming but I can’t tell you why. It would be easy to say that I’m sad because of the lynching that happened here, but that’s not all of it. I’m upset because there’s been progress, but not nearly enough. The community that’s been holding down George Floyd Square and the People’s Way for five years have 24 demands that have yet to be met. Black people are still being murdered, but it no longer makes the news.

People have forgotten. Well, they haven’t forgotten so much as they’ve moved on. Our attention span, even for videos of Black lynchings has an expiration date. What does that mean for our future? What does that mean for oppressed peoples in this country? What does it mean for how our country treats oppressed peoples in other countries, especially those we consider “lessor.” I don’t know. Or rather I have some ideas, but I don’t want to investigate it too much today. My heart hurts too much already.

I get another Uber to go grab some lunch after visiting. I ask the driver if he gets a lot of people coming and going from GFS.

“Not anymore. People used to come a lot, but not anymore.”

I tell him I’m from Chicago and now we’re talking about how this country is failing Black and brown youth. In Chicago they’re cutting down basketball hoops, closing schools, talking about curfews, and treating our kids like criminals. The driver and I start talking about immigration, but we’re at my destination.

I thank him for the ride and tell him to stay safe. Then, cane first I get out of the car, and galumph into the shop.

This store is in a “good” neighborhood. You can tell by the bus stops. In “bad” neighborhoods (you know exactly what they mean when they say good and bad) the bus stops have benches. “Good” neighborhoods have hostile architecture at the bus stops so homeless people can’t use them to rest. The bus station here has individual stools. The seats looks like they’re at an angle. It appears to be more for leaning, than for sitting. It is not for the undesirables. I, a fat Black woman, hobbling around with a cane do not belong here.

At George Floyd Square I felt welcome. There are benches at the bus stop and put out for community use. When I can’t walk anymore, I sit down. After a rest I resumed hobbling around the square. I read what others had written, what they’d left behind, observe the art on display for all. People walking around said hello or give me a nod of acknowledgement. I smelled something cooking. I didn’t know which restaurant it was from, but the smells were familiar. The aroma reminded me of my Big Ma. Her house always smelled like something was in the oven, or had just been taken out of it. I knew if I follow my nose someone behind that counter of that restaurant would have called me “girl, auntie, mama, or sweetie.” I purposely left the area because one word of kindness or familiarity, while desperately needed, would have absolutely shattered me.

Thank you to the community at 38th and Chicago for holding it down for five years. If you would like to donate and learn more about the demands, please follow Marcia Howard on Instagram: Marciahoward38thstreet

The other day I received an email addressed to Angela. Easy mistake, right? But the sender has done this before. Several times. I’ve known this person for years and years and autocorrect can no longer shoulder the blame for the misspelling. My name is part of my email address. AGELA. This misspelling was intentional.

It’s always intentional* when you live in the United States with an “ethnic” name. People want to shorten it or give you a nickname. They tell you that your name is too hard to pronounce. I had someone tell me that learning my name was an inconvenience and they were just going to create a name for me. I had a former boss call me Azalea and when I told her that I wouldn’t answer to that she told me that it was a much prettier name and easier for her to remember.

Over the past few years I’ve started matching energy. On a Zoom meeting I started using a different name for one of the participants. He reminded me that his name wasn’t “Bob.” I told him that I would start calling him by his name once he started calling me by mine. For the rest of the conversation and for the remainder of our professional interactions he made sure to call me Agela.

Refusing to learn how to pronounce or spell my name is the easiest way to show me that you have no respect for me, and that’s okay. I am not going to waste my limited time trying to change your opinion of me.

In the past I let people shrink me down by changing my name to what suited them. I didn’t push back. When I started pushing back I was told to “stop being so angry.” Now I’m just tired. I’m tired of pushing back, of constantly fighting for basic respect and recognition. I have no fucks to give.

I didn’t send an email back to this person with my name correction. In fact, I didn’t respond to their email at all. I don’t plan on addressing it or the contents of their email either if/when our paths cross at industry events in the future. I don’t have the energy.

I’m moving on.

Shakespeare was wrong. A rose by any other name doesn’t smell as sweet. Angie, Azalea, Angela, and all of the other names people have tried to force upon me are perfectly fine, but nothing smells as sweet, tastes as savory, or coats the tongue quite as decadently as Agela.

*Exceptions are made for people with speech impediments, learning disabilities, language difficulties, and other circumstances that cannot be changed.