Memories: From Peckers in Raleigh to Pirozhki in Moscow (with collard greens with fatback on the brain)
by Angela Perez
My body takes issue with my intellectual pursuits. In particular, with my adventures with food. That’s right! I consider food not a just a nagging means for survival or even some kind of guilty pleasure.
Cheese-laden grits and creamy coconut paletas unlock the meaning of universe, wrap my prune brain around the tragedy of man.
Musing on why all those super-jazzed always-nearly-jizzing young white guys with beards and tattoos sling craft beer and bake bread with ancient grains of Mesopotamia and wax poetic on authentic heritage hog bbq stimulates my mind. Awwww, but fuck all that. I haven’t felt like spinning yarns and navigating facts related to the intersections of food, race, class, and gender for a few hours now.
I’ll quit boring you about my foray into raising meat goats (as opposed to the kinder and more lovable pursuit of raising dairy goats – see, I want to roast these babies to make goat tacos and sell them. …goddammit, I’m doing it again…I ought to apologize…).
Thing is, though, I’ve got no secret greetings. No inane uplifting game plan. Just a dusty hide stretched out and sagging from not spending enough time with just me.
People who can’t be alone scare the ever-loving shit out of me. ‘Dem homosapien fumes and skin flakes all cloggin’ up my chi. Endlessly making deals with myself to be happy, to achieve Nirvana…all wearing me slam the fuck out.
Angelita, that young woman of the people, vanished. Endless fine distinctions regarding my expanding middle-aged body and mind are blue-veined and clear to me. In all my years in Raleigh, I’ve observed a nightmare of eager peckers and shared living arrangements and over-priced fried chicken. That foie gras torchon was the bomb though.
Finally, alert, I humbly request you hurl your attention at the bittersweet victories of Southern women.