The Edible Promised Land

So Rich and I are on the way back from the launch party for Human Nature Magazine, a counter-cultural mag whose aim seems to be increasing awareness about socioeconomic issues in the communities of people of color. You can check them out at humannaturemag.com. But I digress.

So we're about to go down towards the F train home when Rich finds himself met with a dilemma. Should he break his month-long fast from dairy on one of the last days of the month to enjoy a slice from his favorite pizza parlor? Or should he do the right thing and buy some soy milk from the local Whole Foods and keep his fist in the air. He chooses B. So we head into the promised land.

From where I stand Whole Foods is the absolute dividing line between the haves and the have nots. There's no other place like it. There's fish that actually looks fresh, organic fruits and vegetables with perfect coloring and few sides of decay, an entire aisle devoted to olive oil, etc. It's a cook's oasis and the general store for people who want to eat healthy. I'm sure that I could drop a grand in there without blinking between the appliances, high end seasoning and damn near perfect cuts of meat and seafood.

It's ironic that at all the locations I've visited in the city, it's cashiers are almost exclusively people of color. But the numbers of us shopping there are spotty at best. If this a question of a lack of taste and understanding about nutrition in our communities? Maybe. But the way I see it it's a matter of money. Not unlike anything else including house, health care, education, etc. if you want the best for yourself you have to be able to afford. And monkfish at damn near fifteen bucks a pound isn't exactly affordable. Soy milk, however, is cheaper there than it is in the hood. Go figure.

So as I browsed the aisles I found myself dreaming again, seeing myself strolling into one of those new condo buildings down in DUMBO, giving a nod to my doorman and as I lug a backpack and two bags full of whole foods up to my crib. Upstairs is the big-screen with the matching pull-out couch and loveseat (no more cheap futons). I can see Manhattan across the water like I own it.

The funny thing is that cats like Walter Mosley are living this shit as we speak. And while I'm far from a hater I guess I'm pissed that such things aren't in the cards for me as of yet. If I was a little younger and dumber I might consider the drug game. But mandatory sentencing ain't no joke and a jail stint for me would either make me dead or turn me into something beyond my worse nightmares. So I keep climbing the mountain, hoping that my joints won't give out before I reach the top, or that these kids don't kill me first.

Yesterday in a four-person game the girl in the lead decided to cheat at Scrabble and then got pissed when I sentenced her to giving up three turns. And it was like I was asking for them to play in Greek when the game rule for the week was that you couldn't use any words less than three letters. The more I think about it, the more I might be willing to home-school my kids, as systems public and private only get worse. And I'm only in there for a few hours a day.

Shoutout to Seda as she's often to bronze on beach. Shoutout to Imani for getting into both of the schools of her choice with scholarships. Shoutout to Nicky for healing ever so slowly. And my best to all of you who woke up on the right side of he bed this morning, as I, for many reasons, definitely did not. Out.