The Global South: 2010 SFA Symposium (Freestyle)

Early morning flight, moon still full
Heading off to Memphis and the hills of Ole Miss.
I missed the first night, and lack of head pain thanks me
Driving down 55, wanting to go 90, knowing what’s ahead.

Ah, there it is, I see the Square, and of course there’s no place to park.
Wait, there’s one, just for two hours, but tickets ain’t much.
Into the Lyric, they’re talking ’bout the Gulf
How seafood’s so clean, and ready for your plate
So why’s so few ready to partake?

It’s an hour short of noon, Bloody Mary time
With President Linton reminding us of how we serve the cause.
I’m still a tad bit nervous, being the new kid on the Board
But meeting lots of people, is just another reward.
We are all old friends, even if we’ve not met.
It’s the SFA. It’s what we do.

What’s that, time to eat? Tamales in the heat?
It’s Robb Walsh and I, off to lunch, to the Powerhouse we go.
He tells me all ’bout Houston
And Tex-Mex history
I’m near last in line, craving for some grub
As my last bite was a muffin, at the Starbucks, back home.

Who’s that? Ann Cashion there? Yes my dear, dear friend, we share tales of old and new
It’s folks like her who draw me back, back to Oxford town.
We love the sweet potato salad, and piquant peas
Quail tamales are something new, with dessert just divine.

Talks of masa and rice lead to Geechee, not Gullah
In Philly no less!
It’s cane sugar Coke and domestic rum, refreshing, relaxing for the bus.
To Taylor we go. For catfish we eat, sharing peach moonshine, hoping not to spill.
Fullsteam’s on tap, goes well with the fish, even when it’s fried in a hip-hop wok.

Time for bed. Fuck that shit. I need a drink. Some bourbon and beer.
Pabst BLUE Ribbon.
Time for last call, you’d think that that’s that. But later we stay,
Pableaux and Joe and Snack and me.
Speaking of snacks. Chevron knows oil, even for food
But not at 2:30. No chicken, no stick.

I’m too old for this crap. Stayin up with the moon. Sleep, I must sleep.
But I have people to meet
Friends to see. It’s the SFA, remember. It’s what we do.

Bring on the profs, after Amy and Kev. Talking ’bout talking. And the world, getting small.
Lam tears it up, and then just tears up. We’re in his palm, and he’s in our arms.
“Suck on the head,” Andrea cracks, Viet pride in Cali, expressed in food.
Not sure what he thinks, this rapper called Bling. With swoosh-laden boots
He stands before us, mostly white, over the hill. But he gets us. And we get him.
It’s the SFA. It’s what we do.

Ms. Bernstein gets us, too, with her Miami nice, serving chicken, and shrimp with all kinds of corn
Crunchy and popped and in hominy form.
I learn about lamb, from my new friend Craig, who’s a doc and a shepherd and a Shakespearean fan.
Ox tail. It’s rich, we need some red wine.
It’s called a tian. But to us, it’s something old as something new.
Nanner puddin, that’s what.

More listening and learning and talking and seeing
‘Bout Houston and Charlotte, so distant, so close.
Then how about a nap, a snooze, a rest?
But it’s time to honor those who’ve done it best.

It’s a film about men, Viet men who fish. Through winds and rains and plumes of crude.
They’ve lived thick and thin. And they’re here to stay.
Just like Calvin in Holmes, where they own their own land
And grow their own. And lend a hand.
One more honoree, Christiane’s her name. We’ve dined on her words, oft poisoned by her pen.
These folks are so proud. But not as much as we.
Because this is the SFA. It’s what we do.

Forty-three heads, of a bovine ilk, were buried in coals. Beef crack is mine.
Horchata with whiskey makes the crowd frisky,
Or was that the licks of Neuvo Banda Corral?
It’s corn one more time, but clear as day,
Don’t worry ’bout germs, it’s self-sterilized, that Mason jar rim.
We share, we hug, we laugh.
It’s the SFA. It’s what we do.

One final day, for the SYM-POS-I-UM. Doc Harris sells wares. But no one is buyin’.
The Mississippi Monks, start soft and start slow. And build it on up, making us move, making us believe
In the power of music, and togetherness and reconciliation.
I dance. I cry. I eat. I hug. I laugh. I say goodbye.

I’m in the SFA. It’s what I do.

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3 Responses to The Global South: 2010 SFA Symposium (Freestyle)

  1. dmwcpa says:

    Cheers to you and the Southern Foodways Alliance.

  2. Varmint says:

    Thanks. I know this was indulgent, and it’s definitely lacking quality, as I’ve not written poetry since the 10th grade, but I just didn’t want to do a typical report.

  3. Craig, a.k.a. The Shepherd says:

    My new friend, you are a man of letters and lyrical prose. Those skills are more than adornments on a man with such devotion to family, his intellectual craft, and the story and substance behind great food. What a joy to make your acquaintance and what an honor to have been penned into your poetic musings about the SFA Symposium. I trust our paths will cross many times in the future. The Shepherd

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