AfricanKelli

« Home

Have you ever read the book, or seen the movie, “Como Agua Para Chocolate?” It’s one of those stories that stays with you for ages. Specifically, I love the thought of emotion being transferred into creative works — in this case, food. The main character cries as she cooks, invoking an unexpected tirade of tears later at the dinner table as the guests eat her sorrow. I’d guess most women have found themselves crying into a sink full of dishes or over a stove at some point, thankful their emotion wasn’t later detected with such Hollywood flare.

When designing a project for a loved one, I enjoy thinking of how it will be used — ultimately what I want the end result to say. I’m learning to create less, but do so with more intention. The fabric, thread, yarn, ingredients are all being selected with a bit more care, often hidden meanings and emotion tucked away never to be revealed to those unwrapping the bow or picking up a knife and fork. It’s enough that I know. My instinct to over think such things makes most uncomfortable. Social grace is something I’m still learning.

I’ve made countless wedding and baby shower gifts wrapped in happiness, joy and optimism in a new start, a fresh future. I love making aprons thinking of the bounty of satisfying meals to be created with it wrapped, hugging the recipient. Bright birthday handbags being toted around the mall, making their own content, confident statements in a sea of Coach and Dooney repetition. Or the adrenaline filled rush fueling runs down snowy mountains with ski caps and scarves I’ve knit.

This project isn’t quite finished; if I could wrap it my feelings they’d be unconditional love, caring, kindness, joy, relief, optimism and the luxurious pleasure of opening the front door after a long trip away, take your first deep breath and swimming in the comfort of home.

From my weekly wordy email list: Suppose you’d called your theme ‘textile words’? Now there’s a reminder of how words and metaphors relating to textiles pervade our language. Textile is derived from Latin texere, to weave, also the origin of text — words woven into a fabric. Then think how we lose the thread of an argument; spin a yarn; give credence (or not) to a tissue of lies; spout homespun philosophy; and travel from one airport terminal to another on a shuttle bus. Nor must we forget the Greek and Roman Fates, spinning, measuring, and cutting the thread of each of our lives.

~k

Today’s dream is to be studying in Alice Water’s kitchen by day and gardening in her organic fields by night. I’d be begging David Tanis to teach me all he knows and watching the people flow in and out of Chez Panisse in Berkeley. One day. Today, in the heavy heat of Phoenix, I’m thinking of creative menus for the summer that require little energy and much refreshment.

Last night I sat under misters overlooking a lake and watching the sun dip below a tangerine horizon,  sipping a cold glass of sauvingon blanc and enjoying a chilled bowl of gaspacho topped with spicy pine nuts. I left the table full but light, feeling like I’d earned another Arizona summer day survivor badge. While last Saturday I spent 8 hours roasting and baking in my tiny kitchen, I’ve decided now to leave the oven off until September. It is time to celebrate summer foods that require little heat but burst with flavors of the season.

I’m thinking summer green salads with almonds, berries and pulled chunks of cold chicken. Bowls of cold cucumber soup topped with generous dollops of yogurt. Cereal with cold fruit in lieu of steamy nutty oatmeal for breakfast. Less bread, more raw fruit and vegetables. Less meat, more dairy. And everything cold.

If I had the chance to bbq, this post would be entirely different. More like, “An ode to my father’s cooking: BBQ chicken, watermelon and a side of chlorine.” We ate most of our summer meals as children on the patio, sitting on towels in wet bathing suits, running away from my mother’s 30-minute warnings as we dove back in immediately afterward. Alas, while the quickest smell of charcoal brings me right back those blissful childhood memories, I’ll have to wait until I have a proper house to plan summer menus around his secret recipes.

Do you have a favorite summer food?

~K

I have a fundraiser I’m coordinating this weekend. It is magical to watch pieces of a destined puzzle come together: the musicians, dance troupe, food, wine and location were all donated. We have more than 80 people attending and I have a fabulous new cocktail dress I’ve been waiting to put out of the closet. Abracadabra! With any luck, we’re about to pull an organization-saving event out of our hat.

It’s like the community garden similarly coming together in a series of incredible events, with experts, tools, land, farmers and lots of energies joining with a synergistic effect. When something is meant to be — there is no stopping it. Like Finny reminds me in my frequent moments of impatience — the spring will come and the grass will grow. Regardless of what you to do force or prevent something from happening, what will be, will be.

I once watched a Bravo interview with a movie star who described how his rather difficult childhood prepared him for his current fame. Each step of the way, he was pushed to learn something that made him incredibly uncomfortable. Raised by his grandmother, he was forced to learn the piano, play on the football team, be a member of speech and debate. Later, he recognized each of these skills were instrumental in his rise to success through film that specifically required his talents. Without his grandmother’s insistence, these golden opportunities would have passed him by.

I am so thankful for the opportunities for uncomfortable growth that have put me right here, right now. Synergy, divine power, destiny, fate — call it what you will — it is a grace-filled moment to look back at life and see how the dominoes managed to knock each other forward to push you into the beauty of today.

~K

I recently found this poem by Marge Piercy:

“To Be of Use”

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

We all have those in our lives who are hard workers, dedicated to a cause,  goal or even a paycheck and way of life. Work ethic is such an odd characteristic; one child may receive twice as much as the next from the same nature and nurture. It’s hard to come by if it isn’t instinct, and yet it is equally hard to lose for those who are constantly on the go and need to relax. To be the pitcher, crying for water to carry — I like to think the joy I find in working is also spent in fulfilling a greater purpose.

One of the characteristics I admire most about my father is his unwavering work ethic. He has worked hard, long hours his entire life and done so with a smile, knowing his family would benefit from his toil. He’s the type to trim the lawn and wash the cars before the rest of us were out of bed on Saturday morning. Then again, teaching his children that no job was too small was essential. I remember him making me write a thank you letter to my first employer when I had to leave to move away for college and insisting that if they asked me to clean the bathrooms, to do so with a smile. It was important we have the attitude and ability to take out the trash or to greet the most valued customer.

I’m still not fond of the cleaning, but I appreciate what he’s taught me more today than ever before. Being able to bounce between caring for an office, “lunching” with donors, schmoozing at fundraisers and running after the postman with the mail wouldn’t be possible if my dad hadn’t pushed us to work a bit harder.  I am truly blessed to have such a great example.  (Two, really. My mom was the original domestic engineer.)

I’ve recently been gifted two particularly useful objects.  A pincushion ring from glorious Julia, created by Susannah Rodgers.

Nothing like a little useful bling while you sew!

And Amy Butler’s peeps sent over her new software with two dozen new patterns. Oh my goodness, what summer fun this will be. Friends, expect many a crooked seamed purse and pillow. They may not be perfect, but they will be useful.

~K

Blurry photos, but you get the idea. Matty currently looks like Elmer Fudd, walking around with a broom (in lieu of a gun), shaking it at anything that moves near the garden.

I’ve also decided next year I need about 15 tomato plants instead of 4. I’m not going to have the shelves of late summer canned tomatoes I’d hoped for. I keep hearing that I should have used fertilizer; I’d rather have fewer tomatoes than mutants.

~K