We were allowed to play with fire when we were little...well, not exactly. My grandmother had an ancient wood burning cast iron stove nestled against the east wall of her Chicago home’s indoor patio. My grandfather would quietly smoke his pipe on the only sofa in the house that wasn’t covered in plastic. Above his head and the effervescent gray clouds of fragrant tobacco were ears of checkered Indian corn, the husks of which were always appreciatively nailed to wall (probably plucked from the garden). Tired of playing Operation and made-up card games my grandmother allowed us to make experiments on her stove. I dare not say recipes because that would suggest that there were directions, ingredients, measuring cups and pots and pans. No sir, we made experiments. There were no directions given, just one rule to prevent havoc from breaking out in the culinary laboratory/(slash) patio. Rule No. 1 as given forth from the high commanding overseer/(slash) grandmother was: You have to eat whatever you make. (Boy was she clever -this meant IXNAY on the sauerkraut, peanut butter and jelly, and pickle combo). The main ingredient usually consisted of bologna slices. And thus, all of our recipes were bologna based. We would scramble from the patio to the kitchen where the other ingredients were at our disposal –nothing was off the table, anything could be added, but one couldn’t forget to adhere to Rule No. 1. My sister turned her bologna into the caviar of bolognas –I swear! I watched her use the butter knife to cut a line in the second slice, “so it won’t balloon up like the last one,” she said, an expert already. (She was 8. I was almost 4.) I watched her sprinkle scallions on the sizzling black stovetop and when she decided it was ready she added a sauce she conjured up in the kitchen. She took a bite and with a prideful smile seemed self-satisfied. My little brother and I gazed on. He sat with my grandfather, preferring to be left out the ruckus, his unbiased quiet nature inevitably made him the taste tester. He nibbled on our big sister’s masterpiece and declared it was good with an ever silent nod of approval that every three year old must feel when handed warm bologna.
Then came my turn. My bologna was burnt on one side because I couldn’t flip it over right. I decided to forgo scallions and opted for what I knew, ketchup and mustard, and spices. At that time I ate everything with ketchup on it. I ate in phases: by color, sauce or with nothing added at all. (In a minute you’ll read why).Once we got my horror of a bologna slice on a paper plate, it was, by the most generous of definitions inedible; too much salt and pepper, soy sauce, and, of course, ketchup and mustard. It took me forever to eat that slice! In fact, it felt like a punishment to eat it. I tried to push my experimental bologna off on my little brother, but he was too smart to fall for my trick after watching my nose crinkle in disgust.
And that’s how the sister-kitchen rivalry began –it was rooted in deep recesses of a childhood Oedipus food-complex.
My sister is still one of the best cooks I have ever come across. Her potato salads have won awards. It’s almost as though she could create a loaf of challah just by looking at a packet of yeast. If she can't make a holiday party it isn't odd for her superiors to put in recipe requests via email and RSVP the attendance of their favorite chocolate cakes in her absence. I once accused her of making my nephew un-marriageable because her version of hot chocolate was a half hour process that started with melting down semi-sweet chocolate squares, fresh cream, whipping cream, and sprinkling mini chocolate chips on top. I shook my head in disbelief. When I inquired about his more than likely unskilled future wife she yelled back, "Don't worry I'll teach her!" (Shakes head) Our recipes are as distinct as our personalities. She’s All-American. When I’m about to cook a meal I ask her to pick a country. "So how'd you make this bruschetta paste?" she asked the last time I saw her. I couldn't help but feel a little tingle of triumph.
To this day we are still playing with fire, shoving forks into each other’s faces begging the other to “taste this.”I guess we just have always had a knack for celebrating small victories, plate by plate. Food is a great muse of mine, and therefore, I hope you have fun with the traditional savory heart-healthy recipes Southern cook Kenny Slyvester has offered to share. Bon Appetite!
Our Gang (Circa 1980)
Muizz Gallery is proud to present
"Mr. Abe's Goody Book"
as many MG Society members will receive signed copies in the mail.
Kenny Sylvester has a way of rescuing southern dishes with his affluent creativity.
Currently embarking on a national book tour his successful Barnes and Noble book signing at The Grove in Los Angeles has led to a request for an appearance at the Rockefeller Center.
POET: Carrie Rudzinski
"Dear Stranger"
At the R.I.P. Exhibit this past June attendees received red felt shaped hearts and were asked to pin it to their sleeve. I was surprised to find so many people were excited to wear them, although those who came late were wondering what the heck was going on.
In celebrating the successes of my friends as though they were my own, I can only say that I hope you meet your stranger someday and keep your heart open to the possibility in the meantime.
TRACK 1: Outcome's Next
I typically wake at 4 am to focus on my vision uninterrupted and often listen to TWP’s track “Conquer Everyday” to remind myself to stay hungry (see their myspace link to listen). The longer I live the more I believe that consciousness is almost always preempted by hunger. In my eyes satisfaction can be detrimental to the creative process in the same manner that it is hard to know what to eat when our bellies are full.
TWP flew in from Florida to attend my R.I.P. Exhibit at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery this past June. It was an unbelievable evening which took many days for me to recover from. I gain energy from solitude and separation but found their presence revitalizing,
My sole ambition in life has always been to own the fundamental core of my being. This has always been my purpose; the achievement I dreamed of possessing since childhood. In psychology some theorists refer to such proclamations as a “final fictional goal.” It is a fantasy that is developed in childhood which may produce angst in the same individual during their adult life should they not attain their adolescent wish. Thus, a little boy who dreamed of being a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, a defender of justice that works with a uniformed team, may grow up and become a police officer.
As a child I often did not know what my virtue would earn but at the R.I.P. Exhibit I saw the evidence of all my hopes as I was surrounded by so many people I respect, admire and cherish. All of my muses were under the same roof!Among them was Infrared Sunday. I was talking to a friend I met seven years ago in Greece when Gadi took the microphone and dedicated “Pictures from a Dream” to me. He said, “I remember when you told me it was going to be just like this one day. That you were going to have an exhibit and we were going to perform. Here we are.” A couple of strokes from his guitar and my mind faded black and I was back in 2003 painting everything out in secret, never knowing where things were heading. I started to cry a little bit as I held a glass of champagne in my left hand. Then my other muse –my gorgeous nondrinking big sister, elegantly snatched the glass from me not understanding it wasn’t the alcohol. (I had only had three sips). It was reliving my strongest and most frail moments in the blink of an eye and realizing everything and everyone I ever truly needed withstood the storm and was right there in front of me.
Sans-Titre (Untitled) was created to Infrared Sunday's "Picture from a Dream" and Star Sailor's
"She Just Wept."
Click to hear Pictures from a Dream
This anonymous email about the Sacred Stones collection reached one of the consultants and was forwarded on to me. The MG Team was unanimous in their belief that I should share it with you. It was inspiring to have my artistic theory completely understood. So my sincerest thanks....whoever you are.
Hello... Just wanted to send a note from a person that has taken respite in the home of those that have moved on to another journey. Often, my friends may have thought me strange, for walking amongst the stories and stones that no one gave second thought. I often felt that each stone, and thus each person, had a story to tell. I thank you for giving them (the stones) more than just the exterior texture that the world can see. I thank you for giving them a voice that the world can finally hear. -howyadoin~x~x~ @ ~blahblahblah~.com
DAVID is a ROCKSTAR
Celebrating the big 1-8!
All David wanted for his birthday was to visit the brother he hadn't seen for almost two years.
In 2005 Positive Resistance was contacted by a social worker who said she had an amazing teen who was losing faith in himself. She requested that I specifically intervene and mentor David. I phoned him at his group home (which is akin to a small orphanage). He said very little. Most foster youth are shy when interacting with adults and the world outside the system. Knowing Easter was around the corner I sent him a basket filled with things I knew a foster teen would appreciate: lots of junk food, a journal, and a mixed cd. He had never had an Easter basket before. David shared all his goodies with the other youth because he has such an amazing spirit. His social worker told me that he said, "Had it been my birthday, it would have been the best present I've ever gotten!"
One day David called me during office hours. I was heading to a meeting. Later that night he apologized for interrupting me at work and was reluctant to tell me why he called. I squeezed it out of him. He got an A on his math test and he just wanted to tell somebody. He has never gotten my voicemail since. Now I leave meetings, listen, say "Good Job! I'm proud of you," and get back to work. Most foster youth don't have anyone to report to, which may be why 50% of youth in care don't graduate high school.
After three years of mentoring David, I have had to track him down through countless moves, negotiate with the adults in his life, remind him of his worth when he couldn't see it, and cope with his pushing me away during the first year because he didn't believe someone would care for him even when he was bad. In the three years I have known David he has moved at least twenty times, attending so many high schools I've lost count, but in all this the one remarkable thing has always been David. That he keeps trying –in spite of the moves, difficulties or the fact that his new school was further along in algebra than his last!
One day he was tired of fighting (even though he knew he was right). A mix up with his transcripts almost robbed him of his graduation ceremony. I refused to let him give up. I told him, “…you’ve come too far to throw in the towel at the finish line.” The calls and faxes happened with a little help from yours truly.
You change a life by loaning your strengths and being consistent over time.
DAVID, KEEP GIVING YOURSELF EVERYTHING YOU DESERVE
David finds a new talent.
David's first outrigging lesson was provided by Dave Martyn, Vice President of the Newport Beach IMUA Outrigging Canoe Club.
BAND: GROUNDATION SONG: UNDIVIDED
BREAKING THE DAY
I break up my day with reggae. Painting tombstones is no easy task emotionally. It demands a focus that is both draining and exhilarating. In my imagination I see so much and have so many abstract thoughts enter my mind. The peace of inspiration can be so overwhelming that I have long given up on paper tissues and have invested in durable cloth handkerchiefs. My once white handkerchiefs are now spotted with various paint colors and smell like dammar varnish.
Whenever I have to make “the transition” and step out of the artist atmosphere that lingers in my head I listen to reggae for the simple fact that it is physically impossible to be sad when listening to reggae. Have you ever heard of anyone crying to a reggae song? No. So, anytime I have to snap from one side of my personality to the other I step out of Craig Armstrong with a little Groundation or move from Radiohead to Bedouin Soundclash. After having so many ideas crowd my mind relishing the drums and lyrics of “Could You Be Loved” has always been enough to reset my mood. One song and I’m ready to squeeze a couple drops of Visine in each eye and start the next phase, be it a meeting or researching.
The Hebron Gate album is by far my favorite latest find
