Beauty Box Battle | The Professor's Kitchen

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Cook With Me | Peach Cobbler | The Professor's Kitchen

Women's History Month | Shameika Ingram | The Professor's Kitchen

Black History Month | Dr. Theodore K. Lawless | The Professor's Kitchen

Today, I am making gumbo and talking about the extraordinary Dr. Theodore Kenneth Lawless. There's no official recipe for the gumbo, but I do include suggestions throughout the video. Gumbo is one of those soul food favorites that is more about personal taste and preference. I stop seasoning when the ancestors whisper in my ear LOL. 

The Professor's Kitchen - Fun Fact Friday - Perspective

The Professor's Kitchen - Flourless Oatmeal Bars - Pampered Chef Recipe

Are We Setting Our Students Up for Failure?: Minimalism, Maximalism, and the Online Instructor

Several times a semester, I get emails from students either thanking me for my teaching and communication methods or griping about my colleagues and me for failing to support them in the online course environment. I do my best to keep my responses to those emails short and sweet -- emphasis on the sweet part -- to avoid conflict with both the student and potentially the administration for saying something completely out of pocket. In my head, I probably have some heated, emotional response to someone that's had the audacity to criticize one or more of my fellow professors for doing their jobs, but what comes out in the email reply is softened, watered-down, and thrice-checked for political correctness and empathy for an often faceless person on the other side of the vast expanses of the internet. Admittedly, the majority of the reason for my gentility is due to my ever-present fear of conflict, but much of it is tempered by the question, "Are we setting our students up for failure?".

I use the word "we" in the general sense to include myself and my colleagues in the same boat as guidance counselors or admissions advisers even though I have no real experience with any position at the college other than my own. I teach English and never pretend to know more about or to be able to do anything more than that for which I have a degree, but it seems to me that there must be something to all of the complaints. That something, I believe, has to begin somewhere.

As anyone with a college degree knows, registering for classes is as time consuming as it is daunting. Without the proper person or group of people to guide one through the process, it is nearly impossible to complete this task, especially right before the first semester. It is my understanding that it is in that crucial point in time that counselors or advisers nudge students in the right direction based on their abilities and desires. The issue, however, often arises when students with limited interpersonal and time-management skills find themselves desiring to take online courses even though they may lack the necessary abilities to succeed in this environment. For myriad reasons, their desire to complete their degree in their jammies far outweighs their ability to understand the challenges they will face and then they end up with me...the minimalist.

Generally speaking, I feel that less is more until more is necessary. In the case of my online classes, I do my best to limit the amount of information in each unit until a problem pops up and then I address each person or group of people with that problem as needed, by providing them with additional information. For an online class, as with most things these days, the additional information is usually a link to a website or a YouTube video -- because, let's face it, anyone can learn anything from watching a YouTube tutorial about it. While that seems to resolve things for that/those student(s) that asked the question, the real concern is for those that haven't asked and simply go without ever knowing. These are the students that will most assuredly fail individual assignments and eventually the whole course.

Believe it or not, there's a fine line between minimalism and maximalism when it comes to online course design. The maximalist instructor will include more information than anyone ever needs to know about a subject and overwhelm the senses with a colorful array of buttons, bells, and whistles that all contain lengthy descriptions, presentations, videos, links, etc. that not only violate every ADA guideline ever written, but distract from the point of the exercise, disguise the unnecessary as essential, and obscure the essential from visibility. Conversely, the minimalist instructor will limit the amount of information to only the most vital and, in so doing, leave the newest of the new students wondering what the heck they've gotten themselves into and how they are supposed to teach themselves based on what little they've been provided.

The scenarios are definitely extreme and I'm sure that many of you out there are teaching somewhere in the middle, but personal experience and student insight leads me to believe that many of us are designing to these extremes. Let me be clear, this will set our students up for failure; they will fail and we will have failed them. We will have failed to set them up for success by under or overwhelming them with information and, ultimately, will have to give them a failing grade. The only way to avoid this is by implementing and enforcing a detailed system of online course review either internally or externally that focuses on engaging learners in the same or a similar way that we interact with them face-to-face. It may mean making virtual office hours mandatory. It may mean additional student engagement surveys. It may even mean extra professional development courses for us to teach us to learn like our students and navigate through our own courses from a different perspective.

In reality, it is all of these things combined...and it is worth it. We, as professors, may not be able to control what happens when a wide-eyed freshman of any age or background enters our college for the first time, sits down with an adviser, and begins to register for courses, but we can do our very best to make sure that, when they make the decision to learn from home in their jammies, they are doing so with confidence and the right tools they need to succeed.

Being Beige

For most of my life, I've just wanted to be beige; not black or white, but some indistinct color that allows me to blend in or be invisible. But, I'm not beige and in trying to be so, I feel like I've been resisting instead of embracing all the things that make me, me.

When I was in elementary school, one of my best friends was biracial and you couldn't tell us that we weren't sisters. We liked the same things, wore matching outfits whenever we could convince our parents to buy us the same clothes, and we spent much of our time together plotting how we could spend more time together (sleepovers, play dates, weekend trips to my grandmother's house, etc.). Like most children, we didn't see color or shape or size or anything like that. We had to be told that she was just a little taller, or had a lighter complexion, or that our hair was different textures, which was why we couldn't wear it exactly the same.

Around the time we started being told of our differences, she moved away and we were forced to discover how much we differed from everyone else without being able to rely on one another for moral support. And that's when the fight began. During my adolescence, I stood out for being one of the first girls in my class to get boobs and hips. And the dark hair that cascaded to my mid-back didn't help divert anyone's attention away from me. In the 90's, girls my age didn't just have naturally long hair. Moms were still opting to relax their daughters' hair and/or keeping it short for easier maintenance. My hair was easily maintained by washing it, moisturizing it, drying it, and keeping it combed and brushed. Needless to say, this process didn't allow me to be beige. To the girls in my junior high, it made me white. According to them, I had a white-girl body and white-girl hair.

After graduating from a predominantly black junior high school, I went on to a predominantly white high school. As you can probably already guess, this was a culture shock for me and for many of my non-black classmates. And, as you can also probably guess, I was no longer the "white girl" I had been in junior high. To everyone around me, I was black...or something non-white. I was regularly asked "can I touch your hair" or "is one of your parents white" or "were you adopted by white people". There was clearly a significant amount of confusion caused by my appearance and even more confusion in reconciling my appearance with my use of proper spoken English; I was accused of "sounding white". I didn't understand any of this at the time and I didn't want to; I wanted to blend in, fit in, and be just like everyone else. I wanted to be beige.

Like many people, I didn't really start to come into a sense of self until college. Suddenly, I could explain what it meant to be me when my white roommates asked and my black friends sounded as "white" as I did. But, I still couldn't explain what it was like to be black and I definitely had no way of explaining what it was to be white. However, I felt like my friends allowed me to be my regular, beige self. They accepted me in a way that I had never felt accepted before and introduced me to their other friends and family members as just "Reece"! And that's who I was -- regular old beige Reece. I blended in, I fit in, and I was just like everyone else.

Say what you want about the accuracy of Zodiac signs, but sometimes they get it right. Cancer's are known to reinvent themselves every few years and I have definitely done that. But one thing remains quite constant. My desire to remain beige in a world that focuses so much time, attention, and negative energy on making things black or white issues is something that I'm proud of because I don't think that anyone else has gotten
it right. I'm not saying that I've figured out some secret of the universe, but I've figured out what works best for me.

I'm beige. I stand out when I need to. I blend in. I fit in. I'm me and I'm just like everyone else.

Sex in the Kitchen

Much like Sophia from Golden Girls, I consider myself to be pretty good in at least two rooms of the house; the kitchen and the bedroom. And it's no real big secret that I've been putting it down in the kitchen for years. What many people don't know is how erotic the kitchen can be. With spices, music, and foods that are natural aphrodisiacs, it's easy to make the kitchen a very sexy place if you do it the right way. 

"Kitchen, bedroom, I knew it was a room I was good in." ~Sophia Petrillo

The obvious way to spice things up in the kitchen is to add some spice to your everyday cooking. Unbeknownst to most people, they have a favorite taste or smell that makes them feel some kind of way about what's cooking in the kitchen. Sometimes, it's just a matter of asking them what they'd prefer and other times, it's necessary to use trial and error to find that one special taste. Don't limit yourself to the things that you'd typically think of like cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. I was surprised to find out that my husband really enjoys the taste of cumin, which I'd actually never cooked with before. You can bet that I went straight out to the store and bought some as soon as I found out and found more than one dish to add it to just to make him happy. It turns out, cumin (if you've never used it before) has a delicious smoky flavor that is perfect in a lot of vegan and vegetarian dishes like a hearty lentil soup, which is perfect for those cold winter months otherwise known as cuffing season. 

"The key to a man's heart is through his stomach." ~Unknown 

In today's feminist culture where women are encouraged to be bread winners instead of bread makers, this may seem like a horrible lesson to teach a young girl, but I don't see anything wrong with being wise in as many ways as possible! I've learned and taught myself a lot about foods to set the mood by keeping this little quote in mind. Nothing gets an open-minded foodie of any gender ready for "dessert" like a sumptuous meal. One of my favorite Valentine's Day dinners starts with lightly breaded, fried oysters followed by pan seared sea scallops on a bed of angel hair pasta in a white wine sauce, and a mixed greens salad with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Pair it with prosecco so the bubbles make you giggle and hope you have enough in your kitchen to make breakfast the next morning (wink, wink). If either of you actually have room for regular dessert, something chocolatey like warm brownie a-la-mode is simple, yet effective, but a warm apple crumble often does the trick as well especially with the male persuasion...I've found.

"If music be the food of love, play on..." ~Shakespeare  

'Time to seal the deal? The ultimate trifecta is an appropriate combination of ingredients including spices, food, and of course music; because, nothing stirs the soul or warms the loins quite like the right playlist to accompany the evening. Growing up, my parents listened to lots of jazz which, as much as I'd like to pretend like it had no involvement in their sex life so that I can continue to listen to it without thinking about them...together...in that way, was probably one of the many things they used to communicate certain feelings to one another. It was a passion that they shared with each other and, indirectly, with us. As the eldest, I was aware that their date nights often included dinner at their favorite steak restaurant, Gibson's, and a jazz concert. I am happily oblivious to anything that may have occurred after said date. But in all seriousness, meals, music, and making love just go together. Jazz, blues, or soft R&B before, during, and after dinner creates the overall ambiance needed to keep you playing on into the night.

When in doubt, keep it simple. Not everyone is a born chef and not everyone can be. One of my favorite memories about the seductiveness of the kitchen actually doesn't involve any cooking at all, but rather a playful moment with a former beau where, in the heat of the summer, barefoot and too exhausted to cook, we shared a sticky sweet pineapple. As the juice dripped off of our fingertips and into each other's mouths while we fed it to one another, we connected in a way we never had before and never would again; but in that moment, we were satisfied. 

A Lesson in Patience

When you really stop to think about it, you can learn a lot of important lessons in the kitchen. I write a lot on here about lessons I've learned in the past, but as a professor, one of the biggest things I stress to my students is continuing to learn. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't take my own advice, right? But, these days, learning new things can be difficult. Having a toddler and being a full-time mommy often means that I'm spending time reading books to my son that I read as a child, teaching him how to point his toes as he walks down the balance beam like I used to during gymnastics classes, or watching episodes of Sesame Street with him that, although new, contain some of the same characters and messages that I enjoyed when I was a kid.

The same can be said about lessons in the kitchen. As parents, we have to teach the basics: Don't touch that, it's hot; don't touch that, it's sharp; don't eat that, it's raw; don't drink that, it's mommy's "juice". What I've had to learn though is much more difficult than just keeping my hand away from a hot surface. You see, my kitchen used to be my Zen place. I could go there and get lost in a recipe while I listened to my music with a good glass of red wine in one hand and a cooking tool in the other. I could spin around and whip things from stovetop, to oven, to countertop without a care in the world.

These days, I generally have to refrain from carrying sharp, fragile, or hot objects around for fear of tripping over my toddler or stepping on a toy. Frequently, my thought processes are interrupted by requests for snacks or to reprimand him for getting into the garbage can and throwing trash about the floor. And, while I'm still able to listen to music, even that has changed slightly to more upbeat, dance jams that'll keep him blissfully spinning in circles, dropping it like it's hot, raising the roof, or whatever odd little dance he's chosen to perform so that I can finish what I need to do.

Needless to say, I take lots of deep breaths, try not to kick the toys in the general direction of my child's head, and overall just try to exercise patience. I tell myself at night while lying in bed reviewing the day that there will come a time when I'll want him near me to glean whatever he can about cooking, learning, and life so that he grows up to be a well-rounded, self-sufficient man. And what will I do then if he doesn't want to hang out with me? How will I convince him to even just sit there and taste-test what I'm cooking while we have deep, philosophical conversations if I kick him out now and force him to keep himself entertained elsewhere?

I realize that the chances of me capturing his undivided attention will probably be slim to none once he's older and for that reason, I'm practicing patience. Instead of my yummy glass of wine, I'm holding raisins or goldfish crackers. Instead of zipping around and spinning on my heels, I'm checking near my ankles before I make a move. Instead of being in the zone, I'm zoning in and out and taking the occasional dance break with him just to let him know that I'm happy he's there. It's not easy, but like most challenging tasks, it's necessary so when it's time for him to absorb his own kitchen lessons, he'll listen, laugh, and learn just like I did when I was a kid.

From the Kitchen with Love

So recently I had a little chat with my grandmother in which I expressed my interest in getting a certain recipe from her that I have fond memories of us making together when I was a child. Just a bit of backstory on my relationship with her: she's pretty much my favorite person in the whole world and I've rather consistently called her every Sunday for at least the past fifteen years. That being said, our conversations often turn to food, which in my family is how we show love and also how we judge each other.

She'll tell me what she's making for Sunday dinner and then she'll ask me what I'm making. It is understood that cooking a proper Sunday meal is one of the most important things you can do as a wife and mother. An acceptable response is one that contains mention of a balanced meal that includes meat, carbohydrate, and a green vegetable. An unacceptable response, is pretty much anything other than that and should definitely never be pizza. Note: hotdogs, hamburgers, and other grilled meats are an appropriate dinner on certain holiday weekends throughout the year when paired with sensible side dishes.

Overall though, love is cooking and eating good food. A meal that is prepared with love always tastes better no matter what it lacks in flavor. When you think of all of the kind gestures you can give to someone in need, you often think of food first: feeding the homeless, taking a meal to a new mom so she doesn't have to cook, delivering a meal to the sick or elderly, baking someone a cake to celebrate a special event. The last of these "baking" has always been my grandmother's forte. Without a doubt, her cakes and pies are absolute heaven in your mouth and there's no disputing it.

However, the recipe in question has always been a point of contention in my family. You see, the story I received from my mom about said recipe made it sound like one that should never be attempted again. In fact, my grandmother herself relayed a similar message to me when I asked her for the recipe and expressed complete surprise at the mere suggestion that she give me the recipe. So, what is this horrible, awful, disgusting thing that she made that should never be made again, you ask? BISCUITS!! Biscuits that to apparently everyone but me were hard enough to be hockey pucks, were definitely not for human consumption, and not likely to be eaten by the dog either.

I'm well aware that these little additions to a meal are insignificant to most and can be bought rather cheaply in several different sections of the grocery store. But, there was something magical about waking up early in the morning with her, sifting flour, mixing ingredients, rolling out dough, cutting each and every perfectly round piece, smelling them baking in the oven, taking them out when they were done, and slathering them with butter to eat while they were still hot.

It is completely possible that my adult brain has added an element of fantasy or fiction to a childhood memory in an effort to preserve that time with my grandmother as special. If that's true, that's fine. And if it's true, I still want that recipe because it may mean that making those hockey pucks in the kitchen with my children causes them to have a similar fond memory of our time together mixing and making things with love.

A Bun in the Oven

Well it's no secret at this point that I'm pregnant. My once tight tummy has now burst out of every pair of pants I own and I'm relegated to flowing dresses and maternity jeans; but, these are not complaints! At a little more than five months (22 weeks to be exact) pregnant, I really can't complain about anything. I didn't have morning sickness, the nausea I experienced from smell sensitivity has subsided, the headaches I experienced every day for a week have passed, and my energy level has increased since the early months where I wanted to nap four times a day. The best part is that baby is waking and resting rather regularly now, which means at any point during the day I can feel shifts, kicks, flutters, or nothing at all. On one rather fun-filled weekend, baby actually kicked rather furiously on the two separate occasions that I watched Captain America, which made a very nerdy Daddy and Mommy rather happy.

We are about half-way through "the bun's" baking process and I couldn't be more pleased to have a happy, healthy baby. We get regular tummy rubs from Daddy in the evening when he gets home, midday tummy rubs on special occasions when Daddy isn't too busy at work, regular exercise, an occasional ice cream treat, and lots of songs and chats from Mommy throughout the day. One such chat focused on the fact that baby needs to stay in the oven until fully and completely baked without any surprises; baby should also consider coming out as close to on time as possible considering we have future school years to think about (we wouldn't want baby to be the oldest kid in class because he/she missed the September 1st cutoff).

Last week, our excitement increased when we had our mid-pregnancy ultrasound and got to see baby wiggle, kick, hide from the camera, and even try to put a tiny fist in his/her mouth (I say "we" because Daddy hasn't missed a single ultrasound appointment yet!! In fact, we rescheduled the appointment to be sure that he could make it.) From the darkness of my womb, there appeared an adorable face complete with a nose, ears, eyes, lips that parted and pursed, two tiny feet with just the right number of toes, hands that balled into fists, and a strong heart that pounded away as we listened intently. I smiled, I cried, I finally associated the movements with the baby instead of bubbles of gas! It was wonderful!

Overall, I'm a pretty happy pregnant woman and consider it an honor and a blessing to be carrying such a wonderful gift. I'm already looking forward to emptying this oven and starting over again from scratch with bun number two...but not too soon.

Dirty Thirty

I strongly dislike the term "Dirty Thirty" and I don't think that "Flirty Thirty" is any better. As I approached my thirtieth birthday, I began thinking back to past birthdays and what I did to celebrate reaching each and every milestone in my life. In doing so, I realized that with the exception of an "Over the Hill" party, the thirtieth birthday is the only other one that has somewhat of a negative connotation. But isn't each new year of life something to be rejoiced? If so, then each one should have an equally catchy, upbeat title befitting a celebration of life and living. 

Since it is officially my thirtieth birthday today, I would like to propose the institution of the "Nerdy Thirty" or "Wordy Thirty" or even the "Purty Thirty" birthday. I'm leaning towards the "Nerdy Thirty" celebration for myself since that is the one that best fits my personality. I'm dubbing it a unique opportunity for like-minded nerds who are at least thirty years old to nerd out together by watching cartoons, playing video games, laughing and snorting, and eating lots of cheese! Everyone is required to wear their favorite super hero t-shirt or come dressed as their favorite cartoon character. 

If that doesn't work, I can fall back on the "Wordy Thirty" celebration, which is similar to the nerd party except that the participants will have to come dressed in attire suitable for reciting Shakespeare. We'll drink wine and listen to classical music. At some point, we may collectively decide to write the next great American novel or play. 

If all else fails, there's the "Purty Thirty" where a group of girlfriends gets together and celebrates being pretty; otherwise known in certain urban dialects as "purty". That party will probably consist of mimosas and manicures, lots of man-bashing, and could possibly end at an all male review such as the Chippendale's or Thunder from Down Under. 

As far as future birthdays are concerned, I'm working on titles for the Over the Hill party as well. So far, I've come up with "The Pinnacle Party" and "The First Fiftieth". I have a few years before I get there to perfect the title. In the mean time, I'm going to try to enjoy my thirties and try not to lie and say that I'm younger than I really am -- no promises on the latter. 

Happy Birthday to ME!! 

7 lbs in 7 days?

Okay, on my last post I mentioned that I'm sick and tired of getting picked on by people who don't think that I need to lose weight. So, let's take weight out of the equation and just say that I'm trying to be healthy. In an effort to do so, I embarked on a seven day juice cleanse challenge that I'm hoping will at least rid me of some of the bad things that I've been craving lately.

I've been exercising and trying to eat better, but the temptation to indulge in deep dish pizza, pasta, bologna sandwiches, chocolate, Harold's chicken and White Castle cheeseburgers is always there. Friday night was one of those nights that, against my better judgement and my rule about trying not to eat meat on Fridays during Lent, the hubby and I voraciously devoured a Lou Malnati's sausage and mushroom, deep dish pizza. I justified my actions by reminding myself that I was planning to do a two hour Zumba class on Saturday morning; and I stuck to my plan!

Saturday afternoon, the day before I started my juice cleanse, I maxed out on seafood pad Thai and pork suimai from one of my new, favorite Thai restaurants. And, just because I thought it might be a distraction to have my last two Twix from the four-pack I had purchased for movie night lingering in the same refrigerator compartment as my probiotic, fresh mint, and ginger root, I ate them for dessert.

And so the journey to a healthy mindset about eating began on Sunday just before my second trapeze class!

As of day two: juice two, I feel pretty good. I'm not tired, I don't have a headache, and I'm not really hungry, but I can always go for deep dish and pad Thai. Let's see if that changes.

Current mood: good
Current weight: 138.4

Side effects: none

Standing up for My "Self"

When I first discovered Zumba, I thought, "wow, this is my kind of exercise". However, I also thought that it had to be another one of those fad exercise programs that would fade away quickly and surely be forgotten when the next big thing came along. Nearly five years later, I'm one of its biggest advocates and I'm amazed by its popularity and staying power. It is now available on DVD, Wii, and Xbox in addition to being a staple class that's offered in nearly every health club in the U.S. and Mexico and continues to gain notoriety around the world.

Unfortunately, due to financial circumstances and goals, I forced myself to give up my gym membership several years ago and, along with it, my beloved Zumba classes. You can imagine my elation when I recently found a Groupon for an independent company in my area offering the classes for more than half off the regular rate. I jumped on the opportunity and have been attending classes, almost religiously, at least three times a week.

Today was a special day for my regular Zumba pals and me. It marked the first time that we attempted to survive a full two hours of intense cardio dance instruction with only a brief intermission for a discussion about a weight loss challenge in which some of the members participated. During this intermission, a woman kept whispering to me about how I didn't need to listen to the speakers, how the program didn't apply to me, how I was already skinny and really didn't even need to work out. I listened for a while and then excused myself to go to the ladies room. Truly, I've never felt that uncomfortable during a conversation.

After class, she began making similar comments when everyone was invited to get more information about the weight loss challenge. It was then that I decided that I really needed to stand up for myself. I explained to her that I try not to judge other people on how they look and I don't want others judging me on how I look. I have an image in my mind of what I want to look like and even if I'm not doing anything but maintaining the figure that I already have, there's no reason why I shouldn't be in those classes or in that discussion.

Lastly, I told her that I'm well aware that I'm fighting against nature and genetics when it comes to my health and my weight. I have a family history of obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes and many forms of cancer that can all be prevented by keeping up a regular diet and exercise regimen. Her eyes widened and she was at a loss for words by the end of my rant and another woman overheard me and began nodding in agreement.


Complacency has got to be one of the roots of all evil in our society. I find it very hard to believe that it is not wholly responsible for obesity in both adults and children, chronic health problems, and a general apathy about nearly everything else. We should not accept that we will get the illnesses of our forefathers; we should not assume that prescriptions will save us from what ails us; we should not sit idly by and wait for our health and beauty to fail us as we age. We need to do something before something does something to us.


It's nice to walk around and get compliments on how I look; I enjoy slipping into a size 4 dress when I think I'm a size 6; I like being the girl at the beach with the tight tummy in her two-piece, but that does nothing for what's inside. Confidence, energy, and passion also make someone attractive and those things are much more important to me than an hourglass figure. Anyone can be skinny and unhealthy, but few can be well-proportioned and healthy; the latter is my goal.

So, it's official: I'm standing up for my "self" and making me better on the inside...where it counts.

Gabby's Kitchen

It's truly amazing to me that while we're celebrating all of the US victories in this year's Olympics, the biggest discussion in social media seems to be Gabby Douglas' hair. I saw this as the perfect opportunity for this Professor and former gymnast (albeit a not so good one) to speak from two of my favorite kitchens; the one in my grandmother's house and the kinky patch of hair at the nape of my neck. While I was obviously never good enough to compete in the Olympics, I did spend many long hours in the gym sweating out my blowdry.

What a lot of people don't understand is the process a black woman has to go through to straighten her hair. Many of us spend hundreds or thousands of dollars on relaxers or weekly blowdry appointments to keep our hair looking the way Nature never intended it to look. Our kinky curls are chemically treated, stretched, and heated during these lengthy appointments often to the point where the hair completely rebels by breaking and falling off or out. There's no right or wrong in this when it come to ways women of color have for getting their hair to "lay right". I've personally tried everything from flat irons and blow-dryers to the controversial Brazilian Blowout to achieve that sleek, straight look. But, no matter what I do, as soon as I start sweating away the workday, my curls revert to their natural state. 

While the chemicals, techniques, and instruments used to straighten hair have improved over the years, there is still no "good" way to get hair to look "done" all the time without managing to damage it in the process. One could argue that if all of this is causing so much damage, all women of color should just wear their hair natural. But in a society where "nappy" hair is considered by blacks and whites alike to be a sign of being lazy or unkempt, leaving ones hair to the whim of nature is easier said than done. Gabby is obviously not lazy considering all the time and effort she's put into training to compete at this level and if her hair is the one thing she's not good at doing, then I think she's still better off than most of these cantankerous, superficial, and likely overweight or unhealthy women with their perfect hair. 

The real question here, which many people including her mother are asking, is why are black women so upset about this young girl's hair? More importantly, what gives them the audacity to comment on Twitter, Facebook or even in conversation about someone they know little about? The lesson I learned in my grandmother's kitchen was that "if you don't have something nice to say, you don't say anything at all". It's not okay to talk about someone like that in such a public way with utter disregard for the fact that she is someone's child and a teenager with feelings that can be hurt by such mindless and unnecessary chatter about such a trivial subject. 

Let's take a moment to remember that important lesson and start saying positive things about others and encourage instead of discourage positive behavior. Our Olympic athletes represent the best in all of us with their smiles, their hopes and dreams, their drive to be the best, their ability to be winners and their capacity to be humble in spite of their obvious success.

My "kitchen" may not always be "clean" but at least my conscience is.  

Spurlin Family Reunion 2012

Let us first take a moment of silence for those family members who have passed on since the last reunion and those who couldn't make it here this weekend.

The Chicago committee is grateful for all of you who are here with us this weekend to celebrate life, family and the rich history of the decedents of Owen and Amanda Spurlin. We are together in this room tonight not only because we wanted to be here but also because God wanted us to be here. God has been that motivating force in all of our lives that brought this family from slavery to success. And just as we are many members but one body in Christ, we are living members of the bodies of Owen and Amanda; the fruit of her womb, the products of his labor, the leaves that have fallen close to their mighty tree.

Our tree stands tall and proud as it has for many generations because of its foundation on solid ground and its deep roots; the soil from which we emerged and the ground to which we return. Recently, during the home going celebration for my beloved Aunt Mary, our branch had the opportunity to come together to mourn her death and celebrate her life. She was a beautiful woman in many ways; inside and out and losing her was both a blessing and a cause for grief; a blessing because she had been ill for a while and her earthly shell no longer had to suffer and grief because of course she would be missed.

We had the great fortune, however, of meeting a hearse driver who empathized with both our sorrow and our satisfaction in knowing that after 90 years of life, Mary had gone on to be with her parents, siblings, and children who went on before her. He considered it an honor to drive someone who had lived as long as she had, who had seen as much as she had, and who had been through as much as she had to her final resting place. He took great time and care in leading the procession of cars to the cemetery and explained to us in great detail why he had done so. He reminded us all that in Mississippi where she was born, during the time in which she was born she would have had to be careful to adhere to those Southern laws we all now see for how backwards they really are; she would have answered "yes sir" and "no sir" or "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" to whites who spoke to her; she would have had to step off of the sidewalk into the muddy street to allow a white man, woman or child to pass her bye.

Her parents worked hard to move the family out of the south in order to give their children a better life. Many of her parents' siblings did the same and what we have to show for their efforts are the doctors, nurses, lawyers, teachers, business owners, architects, and the parents who remained home to raise us to be all of those things represented in this ever expanding family tree. If you've seen the movie Redtails about the Tuskegee Airmen, you've seen a story about a cousin of yours. If you've followed the progress of the rebuilding in Haiti after the disastrous earthquake, then you've seen the work of a cousin of yours.  If you've paid attention to the war in the middle east, then you've seen the efforts of a cousin of yours.

Jerome D. Spurlin son of Edward and Hallie Spurlin, grandson of Owen and Amanda Spurlin was one of a select few African Americans who were trained to handle every aspect of flying and maintaining army aircraft during WWII. The Tuskegee Airmen, Inc. has since made it it's mission to "honor the accomplishments and perpetuate the history of African-Americans who participated in the air crew, ground crew and operations support training in the Army Air Corps during WWII, introduce young people across the nation to the world of aviation and science through local and national programs such as Young Eagles and TAI youth programs and activities, and provide educational assistance to students and awards to deserving individuals, groups and corporations whose deeds lend support to TAI's goals. TAI also supports the Tuskegee Airmen Award presented to deserving cadets in the Air Force Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps Program."

Jon Randall, son of Theresa Randall, grandson of Almeda Spurlin and Louis Randall, great-grandson of Owen and Amanda Spurlin is an architect by trade who has devoted much of his life, talent and energy to improving the lives of many of God's most unfortunate children. He wanted very much to be with us here tonight but couldn't because he is currently in Haiti helping to build a hospital and orphanage.  Cousins Jon and his wife Yolanda enjoy spreading the gospel worldwide and have had the good fortune and pleasure to be able to do so in Brazil, Panama, Haiti and Africa.

William Watkins III, fondly known as "Little Bill" is the son of Amanda and William Watkins II, grandson of Owen Spurlin and Olivia Moore, great-grandson of Owen and Amanda Spurlin. He is currently bravely serving as a fighter pilot in Afghanistan. 

We are here and there and everywhere but what brings us together bi-annually is the grace of God and the faith and fortitude of our forefather and foremother Owen and Amanda Spurlin. We would be nothing without them but aren't we all SOMETHING because of them?

Jetta-quette

On Saturday, my mother, grandmother and I made a two hour road trip out to beautiful Yorkville, Illinois for a family reunion meeting. The Chicago committee has the pleasure of hosting the bi-annual event this year and is in the final stages of planning the festivities. Because of my work schedule, I've been able unable to attend the meetings and therefore felt obligated to attend this one in spite of the fact that I had a feeling it would consume much of my beloved day off.

The three of us met at my grandmother's house, I parked my adorable Jetta on the skirt of my grandmother's garage and we piled into my mother's Camry. My nervous stomach almost prevented me from agreeing to leave Java the Jetta in the alley unattended, but the thought of putting all those miles on her made the decision slightly easier. I tucked her passenger side mirror inward so that I could get as close to the garage door as possible and did my best to make sure that she was securely parked off the alley so that she didn't get ticketed. I set her alarm and hoped for the best. I thought to myself as I walked away, "Jetta's are the least stolen car in American. It's not like I'm parking a Honda Civic in the ghetto."

After several minutes on the expressway, we hit traffic. My mother is typically a very good and very aggressive driver and I'm used to her whipping in and out of lanes and using her infamous "lead foot" to speed past those she refers to as "slow pokes". This morning, however, she had just gotten off of work and was reaching the point of complete exhaustion. The following incident I blame solely on her state of mind: while creeping along with the flow of traffic, we were suddenly cut off by a little, white Jetta. She yelled out in annoyance and frustration. My reaction was to giggle and tell her, "you're just mad that you didn't get in there". My chest puffed out and I told her that, "that's what you do when you have a Jetta."

I thought about that incident for a while afterwards and it reinforced my theory about Jetta owners. I've been cut off by a lot of cars on the expressway; cars that were faster or bigger, but never by another Jetta. I've come to the conclusion that there's an unspoken code of conduct for these kinds of car owners. If we see another one trying to switch lanes, we slow down or move to let them in. We never cut each other off, we never try to outrun each other. We're respectful of one another and, in a word, have Jetta-quette; our own rules in an unwritten book of etiquette on how to behave when we encounter other Jetta drivers.

I'm convinced that if we had been in my car, that never would have happened.

Weight Loss Journal: Let Me Tell You What Real Beauty Is

I can't possibly be the only woman tired of seeing these stick-thin, anorexic or bulimic, teenage girls walk around flipping their bleached-blonde hair DEFINING fashion and what it is to be a woman. How can you call a girl who has barely reached puberty a woman? I don't look like that and I never will or want to. Don't tell me that every fashion designer has to pull some high-school girl out of class to walk a catwalk in Paris because I'll promptly tell you that I don't believe it. There are better looking examples of the female species out there who have actually had the opportunity to work a day in their lives without having to ask their parents to sign a consent form or help them apply for a work permit.

Although they are not the best role models for little girls, let's use the Real Housewives as an example: Let me tell you what the Housewives of Atlanta have that none of the other Housewives ever will...back fat!! They are healthy, beautiful women who seem to get much less airtime than their puny counterparts and frankly I'd rather see NeNe squeeze into a girdle than see Bethany teeter around on her stilettos like a bobble head. Honestly, Bethany looked better when she was pudgy and pregnant than she did pre or postpartum. I'd rather watch or encourage others to watch and take notes on how much Sheree exercises or what she puts in her juicer than tell them to waste their time dreaming about how much weight they'll have to lose to comfortably fit into one of Taylor's tailored togas. 

We all need to spend more time supporting causes like Dove Campaign for Real Beauty which, "started a global conversation about the need for a wider definition of beauty after the study proved the hypothesis that the definition of beauty had become limiting and unattainable" or Black Girls Rock which, among other things, encourages "dialogue and analysis of the ways women of color are portrayed in the media." These organizations seem to exist in a vacuum -- in our televisions -- where they are unaffected by the reality going on around them. In spite of their popularity, they seem to have done very little to change the media's portrayal of women or society's perception of what a woman should look like.

So, let me tell you what real beauty is: Beauty is what God gave you; it's that face you see in the morning before you pile on the makeup and the body you see in the mirror before you cover it with the latest fashions. I can't ever wait to get home to pull my hair back, wash my face and get back to the look that Shakespeare lauds in his sonnet when he says, "a woman's face with nature's own hand painted, hast thou". Nature is the only beauty regimen you need to be truly beautiful. Put natural things into and onto your body to keep it healthy; remember to eat right and exercise.

  

Keep it right, keep it tight, keep it real.  

Nice Girls Aren't Pretty

Nice girls aren't pretty and pretty girls aren't nice. Pretty girls can't cook, won't clean and therefore don't make very good wives. If you want to get married some day, make sure you find a nice girl who doesn't mind picking up after you, having children, or waiting up for you to get home so she can cook something for you when you come in late at night.

The nice girl will love you forever and unconditionally and will never question whether you've been out with another woman; she knows her place and that she's not pretty enough to keep your eye from wandering. She accepts that as her reality.

Pretty girls like to challenge authority and question your motives because they are aware of the simple fact of life: that they can always find someone better than you. They are fearless, guiltless, and heartless and focus only on their own wellbeing.

Pretty girls will kick you while you're down and leave you when you're in need. They don't have the time or patience to satisfy anyone's wants or needs but their own. They do not sympathize and cannot empathize.

Nice girls will always finish last and get the leftover guys that pretty girls don't want or can't tolerate. They will accept you even if you're fat, ugly, and/or bald and honestly never notice, comment, or complain about your imperfections.

Ladies, if you're not pretty, you had better be nice or you'll surely end up nice and lonely.