Being raised by both my mother and grandmother had its advantages. Thinking back to life uptown during my 1970s wonder years, one of the first thoughts that come to mind is the food that was constantly cooking on our old stove.

Dark as mahogany, grandma came from Harrisonburg, Virginia; born into a family of country chefs who dwelled in the Negro neighborhood known as New Town (her own grandmother’s fresh biscuits and jelly were legendary), she seemed to think it was a sin if something wasn’t frying, broiling, simmering, boiling, baking or in the process of cooling off.

“Grandma cooks and mommy heats up,” I once told one of my mother’s friends. Yet, since grandma worked in a factory in New Jersey and was out of the flat before I awoke, Sunday mornings was the only time she made a full breakfast. Returning home from nine o’clock mass at St. Catherine of Genoa, where I was an altar-boy, the hearty smell of eggs, bacon, sausages and grits met me at the front door.

Though I’m not sure what was on my mind, I always said I didn’t want any grits. Maybe it was the way they looked or the way grits hardened in the pot when they were cold, but I wasn’t feeling them. “Boy don’t know what he missing, Mary,” grandma’s boyfriend Joe said and laughed. Staring at his plate, a yellow river of yolk from his over-easy eggs pooled into the grits.

“Well, if he don’t want’em, I can’t force him,” she replied. Although I could hear in her voice that my rejection of the grits was a slight betrayal to her, I refused to relent. In the same way that I (at the time) detested chicken and dumplings and pig feet, I spent my entire childhood gritless. A few years later, when I was fourteen, me, mom and baby brother moved to Baltimore. I stayed in the City of Poe graduating from high school. Then, in the August of ’81, I returned to Harlem and to my grandma’s soulful kitchen.

Although it was just the two of us living there, grandma still cooked as though an army was coming. Yet, as a freshman at Long Island University in Brooklyn, I became popular because I often brought home hungry friends for Sunday dinner. “Now make sure you get enough,” she said sweetly, her dark hands holding the spoon tightly as she put more food on our plates.

Afterwards, grandma wrapped up the food in heavy aluminum foil and insisted my friend took some grub back to the dorm. I recall once asking if she had her recipes written down, but she just laughed. “I don’t need any recipes,” she said proudly, pointing to her temple. “I got them all up here.”

To this day, I can’t quite explain what got me eating grits; perhaps, as an adult, they became less gross or I just got more curious about what was such the big deal. I had put a little salt, butter and cheese on them, and shoved them in the mouth.

Expecting the worse, I was blown away by the taste. I thought about Joe, who had died years before, teasing me at Sunday breakfast. It was at that moment that my tongue began to do the happy dance. “Not you eating grits,” grandma blurted proudly that summer Sunday morning as we sat at the faux-wood kitchen table.

Fourteen years after grandma’s death on March 8, 1994, I still eat grits on Sunday mornings whenever possible; and with each massive forkful, I think about grandma.

This post originally appeared on Michael Gonzales’s blog. ]]> http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/12/11/riffsrevolutions-grannys-grits/feed/ 0 http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/11/27/riffsrevolutions-thanksgiving-chitlins/ http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/11/27/riffsrevolutions-thanksgiving-chitlins/#comments Thu, 27 Nov 2008 18:00:56 +0000 Michael Gonzales http://www.popandpolitics.com/?p=9847
Last week Aretha Franklin told NPR: “Chitlins are off the menu. They were keeping my weight up. Chitlins have been canceled off of my list, and I know my fans and friends are screaming ‘Hallelujah!’ I want to be around for a long time, so let’s drop the chitlins.”

Listening to this confession about one of my former favorite dishes made me smile. Especially, since I once heard a story about the Queen of Soul making a pots of chitlins in her hotel room when on tour back in the day. But, in this day in age, many health-focused Black folks have choosen to step away from funky pork parts. Truthfully, though I haven’t had chitlins in years, Ms. Franklin’s comments made me think about my late grandma’s southern cooking.

Perhaps if I had known exactly what chitlins were (or chitterlings, as some people spell it) when I was a boy, I never would have eaten them. Though the funk that wafted through the apartment when grandma stood over the sink cleaning them should have clued me in, how was I to know that my favorite meal was cooked pig intestines?

While some families only prepared chitlins during Christmas and New Year’s Eve, grandma was not a creature of ceremony. Whenever I saw the white ten-pound buckets taking-up space in the refrigerator, I knew there would be a feast by the end of the week. Raised in Virginia, grandma knew how to “put her foot” in a pot of chitlins.

Dumping the slimy swine parts into a large pan in the sink, grandma gripped the black handle of her long-bladed knife with the skill of a butcher. Wearing a flowered apron tied around her thin waist, she managed to look lady like while doing one of the nastiest chores on the planet. Holding our noses, me and baby brother rushed to the front door and went outside to play.

Boiling the chitlins in a giant silver pot of salty water seasoned with celery, onions and vinegar, the entire flat smelled like pork heaven when we returned home hours later. “Are they ready yet?” I screamed, hanging-up my coat in the foyer closet.

“Boy, stop making all that noise and go get cleaned-up.”

After washing our face and hands, we sat at the faux-wood kitchen table, and shook crimson droplets of Red Devil hot sauce on the soul food that also included potato salad, black-eyed peas and collard greens. Devouring my grub with the quickness, I sopped-up the flavorful juice with cornbread and was ready for more. “Your eyes bigger than your stomach,” grandma laughed, as she proudly put more chitlins on the plate.

One thing about grandma, though she never ate much, she got joy from watching other folks eat.

Years later, when I was a freshman at Long Island University in Brooklyn, I hung out at the college radio station and became friends with an overweight pothead named Gary. With flowing dreadlocks and a thick accent, Gary was an on-air personality (although the station only broadcast on campus) who introduced me to the music of Lee Scratch Perry, Peter Tosh and other reggae artists.

Enviably, when you get two fat guys in a room together, the conversation soon became about food. “You like what?” Gary screamed, not wanting to believe my culinary ignorance. “Man, do you know what chitins are? It’s the pig intestine; you know, what the shit goes through.”

“Get out of here…for real?” I looked at him as though he had gone rabbit hunting on Easter morning or lit the fireplace on Christmas Eve. “You’re joking, right?”

“No joke,” Gary assured me. “It’s the part of the pig that white masters used to give to the slaves, because they didn’t want it.”

For a moment, I was mute. Pondering the deepness of this history, I reflected on its meaning before finally determining that it was too late for me to turn back; blunted on surreality, I reasoned that rejection of chitlins would be a denial of my southern heritage and family roots.

“Well, they taste good to me,” I said, much to Gary’s chagrin. Indeed, it was my intention, as my favorite southern female performer Gladys Knight once sang, “To keep on keeping on.”

Ten years after that discussion with Gary, grandma moved to Baltimore to live with my mother; a few years after that, she got stomach cancer. Scared by the fact that my grandmother wouldn’t be around for very long, I kept postponing my trip to Baltimore. Everyday I’d tell my ma, “I’ll be there tomorrow. I promise.”

Finally, tired of my triflingness, mom called me on a Thursday morning and tensely said, “When are you coming down here?”

“I don’t know ma, I got something to do today and…”

Cutting me off, she screamed, “My mother is dying, and instead of lying down, she’s standing over the sink cleaning chitlins for you.” In my mind, I clearly saw grandma’s frail frame as she held tightly to the black handled knife and carefully cleaned filth from the swine.

That same afternoon, as the Greyhound bus zoomed down Route 40 towards downtown Baltimore, I thought about my grandma’s hands and the steaming pot of chitlins simmering on the stove.

This was originally published on Michael Gonzales’ blog.

The moniker “renaissance man” is perhaps overused, but I really can’t think of another way to describe journalist/author/producer/director/man about many towns Nelson George. That’s a lot of slashes for one East New York raised dude, but the fact that he does each with perfection is enough to make a roomful of posers pissed on sight.

As New York as a George Gershwin song played by Bobby Short, as Harlem as a Chester Himes novel directed by Woody Allen, as Brooklyn as a Biggie Smalls track produced by Danger Mouse, as international as a black Bond, the brother is everywhere. Still, no matter how busy the man is, there has never been a time when he couldn’t spare a few moments to give yours dearly a little insight on whatever old R&B legend I might be writing about at the time.

Damn, even in the midst of promoting his 2007 HBO film Life Support (which he wrote and directed), the brother still found time to school me on the DeBarge family drama for my then upcoming Vibe feature “Broken Dreams,” which will be reprinted next year in the Best African-American Essays 2009 edited by Debra J. Dickerson and Gerald Early. From a man who has jiggy folks like Jamie Fox, Chris Rock and Queen Latifah on his speed dial, color this “colored” (lets thank Lindsay Lohan for bringing the word back) brother impressed.

Of course, being a fan of his ’80s writings in Billboard and the Village Voice (where George penned more than a few superb essays for his Native Son column) I’ve known Nelson George longer than he’s known me. Being the geeky nerd boy that I am, a brother still remembers our first meeting one warm summer day in 1988.

Standing in the train station at 145th Street and Broadway, there was funny drunk who was talking much junk out loud. Looking like the Ned the Wino from Good Times, dude was ranting about who knows what. Yet, while everybody else was moving away from him, I noticed Nelson George watching this “performance” as though it were a one-man show Off-Broadway. “There’s nothing as entertaining as an old school drunk,” Nelson said, when he noticed me.

Like the great Richard Pryor, whose ghetto observations was a major influence for many urban writers, Nelson clearly understood that raw material for future writings could be found wherever one might be.

Since then Nelson has written many non-fiction books (on topics ranging from Motown to basketball, hiphop to black films), novels short stories and magazine articles; in addition he also helped fund Spike’s first joint She’s Got to Have It (released two years before I met him), wrote and produced Strictly BusinessCB4 and and, currently, is the man behind VH1 Hip-Hop Honors and BET’s popular American Gangster. As if that wasn’t enough, he has also started shooting a series of short films, the first being A Barber’s Tale.

Next year, I’m looking forward to reading his upcoming autobiography City Kid: A Writer’s Memoir of Ghetto Life and Post-Soul Success. How he does so much I’ll never know, but in my next life, I want to be Nelson George. [Ed note: Me too!]

TO VIEW A BARBER’S TALE, GO TO: http://starworksny.com/blog/2008/11/07/barbers-tale

http://nelsondgeorge.net

[Ed note, part 2: Check out Nelson's awesome new show, which he hosts, on VH1 Soul, "Soul Cities." So far, they've profiled Chicago, Philly, San Fran and New Orleans. Next up: Los Angeles! Check out more here.]

This originally appeared on Michael Gonzales’ blog.

Novelist and former rapper Sherri Sher knows how to tell a good story. “I’ve been keeping a diary since I was a teenager and I’ve always had stories in my head,” Sherri says. As the author of the recently published novel Mercedes Ladies, she mixes fact and fiction while delievering one of the most compelling books ever about the old school/boogie down hip-hop era.

“I was one of those girls who loved going to Cedar Park, going to see Herc and Flash, but back then it was rare to see female MCs or DJs, but we were pioneers,” Sherri explains. “And our main goal was to be better than the fellows.” Befriending the men on the scene and opening shows for the L Brothers, Busy Bee and Grandmaster Flash, Sheri insists that the sisters in the crew always demanded respect. “Most of us came from single family homes, so we were raised to be strong women. Growing-up in the hood, a woman has to learn to hold her own.”

Still, what does Sherri think of the looser fem-rappers who came on the scene twenty years after her? “I’m not blaming Foxy Brown or Lil Kim, because both are very talented rappers, but sometimes women think their only shot at fame is taking off their clothes. They don’t realize that’s not fame, that’s defame. Young black women have to realize their worth and power.”

Currently working as a court officer (“I sent Remy Ma a copy of my book, and I heard that she cried”) and writing her second book, Sherri was recently saluted by the Bronx rapper who is hip-hop. “KRS-1, told me, ‘Most of the time people come to the hood, and take our stories. But, you actually told your own story.’ It took me five years to get Mercedes Ladies written, but it was worth it.”

This post originally appeared on Michael Gonzales’s blog, Riffs&Revolutions. ]]> http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/10/13/riffsrevolutions-michael-gonzales-on-novel-mercedes-ladies/feed/ 0 http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/10/10/riffsrevolutions-michael-gonzales-takes-a-trip-down-old-school-hip-hop-lane/ http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/10/10/riffsrevolutions-michael-gonzales-takes-a-trip-down-old-school-hip-hop-lane/#comments Fri, 10 Oct 2008 18:30:15 +0000 Michael Gonzales http://www.popandpolitics.com/?p=6953

(image copyright 2008, Andre Leroy Davis, all rights reserved)

With the taping of VH1’s Hip-Hop Honors being at the Hammerstein Ballroom last Thursday (the show aired this week), New York City was overflowing with parties and events that brought back a million memories of back in the day adventures. Indeed, it seems like just yesterday that Dante Ross was playing me some of De La Soul’s debut album, I was eating Philly cheese steaks with Cypress Hill for a Source feature (shot by the talented Daniel Hastings), hopping on the Jersey transit to meet Naughty By Nature and hanging out in Too Short’s ritzy hotel room during a photo shoot.

Though I have never interviewed Slick Rick, believe me, it was not for lack of trying. In 1988, his classic track “Children’s Story” was one of my favorite songs.

Two days before the VH1 taping, I was invited to a book party for the upcoming DEFintion: The Art and Design of Hip-Hop edited by Cey Adams and Bill Adler. Old friends since the old Rush/Def Jam days when crack heads used to be lurking and smoking across the street (Cey was the graphic designer, Bill was the publicist), these gentleman put a lot of effort into this beautiful book. While there have been some rumblings about the overt sexism of the cover (sexism…hip-hop…I’m shocked), I encourage folks to look beyond Mike Thompson’s aptly titled Lust and open the book.

Overflowing with beautiful images by painters (Kehinde Wiley, Keith Haring) sneaker designers (I wrote the essay for this section), filmmakers (Charles Stone III, Spike Lee), graffiti artists (Cope2, Sye) and graphic designers (Brent Rollins, D.L. Warfield) this book is a must-have for cool coffee tables and offices.

The party itself had to be the throwback event of the season, with cats like Positive K, media assassin Harry Allen, DJ Chuck Chill Out, Roc, a few Beastie Boys, Andre Leroy Davis (the cool Cancer who drew “The Last Word” cartoons in The Source years back), producer Dante Ross and my adopted brothers-the Ego Trip boys were all in attendance.

Coke La Rock, left, and D.J. Kool Herc at 1520 Sedgwick in the early seventies. (Photo: Coutesy of Cindy Campbell)

While my “Old School Hip-Hop Week” began with the thrill of seeing my first New York magazine in print (a four page joint on Kool Herc) it ended on Saturday night with Common and N.E.R.D. blowing-up the stage at Roseland. During Common’s set, my man Cee-Lo Green (you know he’s a mean machine) joined the windy city rapper on stage.

As my former Billboard columnist/present p.r. maverick Havelock Nelson kept yelling Friday night, last week was “the best week ever.”

NEW YORK MAGAZINE OLD SCHOOL STORY:

http://nymag.com/anniversary/40th/50665

DEFinition: The Art & Design of Hip-Hop

http://www.amazon.com/DEFinition-Design-Hip-Hop-Cey-Adams/dp/0061438855/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1223325501&sr=1-1

This originally appeared on Michael Gonzales’ blog Riffs&Revolutions.

Recently my friend and fellow critic Amy Linden and I were discussing the joy of finding buried treasures in the closet; which, in our case means discovering music we haven’t listened to in ages. She recently began spinning the brillant 1995 Society of Soul disc Brainchild, and couldn’t be happier.

This past Saturday, while it poured outside, I went diggin’ in the crates and stumbled across my favorite Luther Vandross collection, Always and Forever: The Classics. Though I’ve never been as big a Luther fan as some folks I know (I’m talking to you DeChelle Forbes), no other contemporary R&B artist has recorded as many great cover songs as that New York City boy.

To me, what made his versions of “A House Is Not a Home” or “If This World Was Mine” so special was that Luther never tried to copy anybody. Like the best recording artists, including the late Issac Hayes and Quincy Jones, when Luther covered a song, he made it his own. Still, having grown-up listening to the cornball pop that used to be played on WABC, I never thought that anyone could ever cover their hit “Superstar” and make me care. Still, when Luther did his version of The Carpenters ditty in 1983, he proved that he was more than a crooning contender.

Though it is somewhat hard to believe now that I am the King of R&B fans, in the early eighties I slept on a lot of great music. As I was telling my new pal Steven Flemming, a young music writer whose blog Aural Examination is worth checking out, when dudes like El DeBarge and Luther were at their height, the only soul on my turntable was Prince, P-Funk and vintage James Brown. Otherwise, it was all about the big bang of the Clash, David Bowie and other Brit-white boys.

Yet, a year after Vandross had recorded “Superstar” (unknown to me, the song was a big hit and went to #5 on the Billboard R&B chart), I got a job at a coffee shop on 57th Street and 6th Avenue called Miss Brooks. Working with a crew of inspiring dancers, writers, actors and other creative types was a blast. Slaving away all afternoon and going to the Irish pub every night after work, we were like one big family.

One of my new friends was this dude named Xavier, who had been dumped by his boyfriend. And, every single night he would put his quarters into the jukebox and play “Superstar.” Though there was a collective groan amongst the rest of the crew (every night), I truly looked forward to hearing that beautiful piano solo, haunting string section and Luther’s stunning vocals.

Although I have not seen Xavier in twenty years and Luther Vandross is no longer with us, “Superstar” has proven itself eternal. ]]> http://www.popandpolitics.com/2008/10/07/riffsrevolutions-michael-gonzales-on-luther-vandross/feed/ 0