Papa and Mama's house in Georgia

My grandfather built this five bedroom house in Georgia in the late 1800's for his wife Mabel and their children. It needs work today and I would like to have it restored. As a child I spent many summers playing around the house with my brothers, sisters and cousins.

Roots

I am in love with the food of my people. Not having the satisfaction of knowing my people's past, I know I have tasted it creating meals from the love for and from my people.

Afro-Centric FoodFusion

Food in my African American household is what Miles Davis is to the trumpet and to jazz, it wraps itself around the moment. It's no mistake that a Sunday breakfast before church was a sermon by itself. Taking a bite of a warm biscuit, that my father just pulled out of the oven, was like tasting heaven, and, I swear I heard music in the distance bringing my black patten leather church shoes to a light tapping on the wood  floor. I began moving in a rocking and then more and more rhythmic motion and before I could fall out of my chair, I heard "young lady stop that singing at the table." That is when I noticed that I was singing out loud! Yes, my father could cook and he listened to loud jazz when he did. I often refer to my father's cooking as music, jazz music. When he cooked, he was always happy, and to this day I can feel this happiness within me.

My father, the grandson of a African slave by the name Joe and an African Cuban slave woman named Jenny, could cook. Not much of a desert man, desert to my dad was the pretty bright red flesh of a summer watermelon.

Breakfast Menu:
homemade biscuits
scrambled eggs                                                        
crisp bacon
butter and syrup
juice and coffee

Without breaking the bank ($$$) and keeping open to a changing world of African infused cooking,  I will find a good breakfast in San Francisco. Hang with me while I look for that special meal.

My grub: sourdough twist loaf, tomato, egg over easy, slice peaches with mint, and coffee. I love a firm peach. To this day, every time I smell a sweet peach I think about my summer visits to my grandparents' farm in Georgia. A peach tree outside their kitchen window lend branches drooping into the house offering a happy summer scent of peaches. My dads father was a farmer, who grew peaches and plums.