The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

 My oldest son and I were up early this second day of Kwanzaa. I am already an early riser and so is he. He is visiting from Missouri for the holidays and was getting all this gear packed. Both of us missed to family message that his flight had been cancelled. So we were blissfully going down our checklist, secretly happy that we had the day planned out with plenty of time to drive from Connecticut to New York for his would've been evening flight. "Your flight has been cancelled and the earliest day is January 2nd." Now for me, I smiled a bit and hugged him, thankful that he is an entrepreneur with his own custom sneaker design and restoration business. He is his own boss. "Thanks, Mama." And in the next minute, "I need to call my partners." He and two of his business partners have a unique business in the Kansas City Metro Area that compliments their target audience - studio work, tattoo, custom sneakers. We both smiled for a minute and just like that...

 If you've been a bit like me and spent anytime at all in the world of Instagram, you know there is something amiss. The Harper Collins Union has been striking since what feels like the entire holiday season, since November, I believe. These are the publishers folks who, we writers depend on to get our words into a semblance of a book for that coveted space on a store shelf. The agents, the editors, the assistants, all the people behind the scenes who make it work. Just as I was absorbing that news and supporting the strike while also supporting the AfroDiasporan authors whose works is on a Harper Collins Imprint, I looked up and the New York Times workers and staff are on strike. What is going on in these information streets? Harper Collins and the New York Times and now even Starbucks is on strike as well as some workers in the south, are all related to the ways giant corporations have confiscated power and put a chokehold on life. They realized what some of the earliest folks in...

 It is Turkey Day. That quiet time of the morning when home chefs are busy in the kitchen. If you are African American or have family origins in the American south, that kitchen has homemade cornbread ready for the oven, sweet potato pies and pound cakes cooling, it has greens being cleaned and four kinds of cheeses ready for the Mac-and-cheese that now only my youngest daughter can make to perfection. The onions and celery would be sautéing in some butter while the sage sausage is being crumbled and fried for the dressing. The counters and kitchen table would be set up for the budding sous chefs. That turkey may be fried or the way I grew up, seasoned, rubbed with butter, stuffed with onions and celery and apples and sealed up in a brown grocery bag - long before those oven bags came out. The green beans and sweet potatoes -nothing from a can. The sweet tea, lemonade, and sparking cider. It was the sights and sounds. When my kids were all home for the holidays, I would be making c...

 Zora Neale Hurston once said that there was no agony like having an untold story inside you (my paraphrase). I think I have been living in that space for a while. Yes, I’ve been writing and have published some pieces, but the story that my son keeps telling me I need to write is probably the story I have been waiting the longest to expose to the world. My husband says that we do not owe anyone our story. In light of the Twitter take over and my previous statements about social media, I began to contemplate a bit more of how much of our lives are already under the naked glare of the blue light of smart phones. Who are  these people we have invited into our atmosphere at the mere swipe? When are our lives objects to be consumed in ten seconds or less? What is the harm we have done to ourselves and others by always trying to be provocative or alluring enough for one to stay on our page long enough to ramp up clicks, followers, or likes? I am an introvert. An INFJ actually, part ...

 There are a thousand messages telling us of what it will take to make us acceptable, worthy of being counted, of being awarded a contract or job or presence. Constantly having to prove our lives are counted as one good enough to care if we live or breathe. I have been thinking a lot about it. Perhaps it is the time of year, October is a month of reckoning and loss, of changes and remembering. How long does one pay a price to be alive in the world? Just the other day, I was musing about the ways that social media has overtaken our lives and connections when it was supposed to be a way of connection. The problem, it became, seems to be the over exaggerated ways of our lives being worthy enough for likes, clicks, and views. Is simply breathing and walking and being human enough to be among the cherished in the world? When I think about the ways that human beings are with each other, I often think of the ways that we miss celebrating just the sheer essence of breathing in this world w...

 There is a scripture the says “life and death is in the power of the tongue.”  In the Hebrew Bible, there are so many poems related to what one says and how what comes out impacts so many lives.  I am a writer.  We live and breathe on the words that swirl around in our minds that eventually make it to the end of our pen on paper or fingers on a keyboard.   We all want to persuade, encourage, motivate, and call people to action of some sort. To make an impact is the goal of every writer of every genre, to be remembered is even better. The other day, I wrote about how I was getting a divorce from social media and after the official Twitter take over yesterday, it looks like that separation will be not just on Facebook.  Over the past decade that I’ve used what I called the virtual picket fence, I’ve noticed the severe lack of civility that comes with the anonymity of the keys. People don’t really know each other that if they posted and then ran into them at ...

 When was the last time you took a moment to really truly discover something sweet? Something new? And just relish it? Appreciate it? For me, that has been pomegranates. I’ve had them served on a Chaat Dog at a local Indian street food restaurant in New Haven and they were sprinkled on top as a garnish. It added a gentle flavor and crunch to the treat, offsetting the other flavors. Then, of course I’ve had them purchased in the little containers from the grocery store.This s I decided to get a real one. This summer, during the height of fruit season, I picked up one from the farm up at Bishop’s Orchard.  I was preparing a rice dish - heirloom rice with sautéed pecans and wanted to add a pop of color and sweet to the dish. I was still a vegetarian and was always looking for ways to enhance my diet.  It’s shell is touch, can’t really peel it with your hands, you need to cut it. Then you have to pull it apart. I will admit I was a bit shocked and in awe of what I saw inside....