somewhere in the world containing squiggles and shapes from my efforts to record my favorite
childhood cartoon characters while glued to the screen. There are lost dishes somewhere in the
world that bore country-fried, hot-sauce-drizzled beef liver paired with collard greens and stuffed
eggs that I carried to the table from my Tennessee-bred Grandma’s hands. Looking back, I
realize this particular meal might be strange to want as a kid, but I loved it. And just in case you
were wondering, her fried beef liver tasted like fried chicken, and I miss her cooking with a dash
of cussin’ here and there very much.
While my appreciation for food started early, I had a rather late start getting into the kitchen for
myself in a serious way. Over the years, I dipped my toes in the shallow end of what you could
call “cooking” (i.e. scorching) things. Don’t get me wrong, I WANTED to throw down in the
kitchen. If restaurants and church mothers could serve such delicious food, then why
couldn’t I? I knew I belonged in flavor town but didn’t know how to get there (and I’m sorry for
forcing my family to lie to me about the food I offered them during my “figuring it out” phase). I
also had no idea that my roadmap would take on the form of a woman who would push me into
the deep end of cooking when I had been a total kiddie pool swimmer all that time.
Let me introduce y’all to Ms. Beverly Mackey.
Beverly is my third cousin on my father’s side. Hailing from the Windy City, she blew down to
Mississippi for a brief stint after a series of unfortunate events up-ended her life. I like to think of
our now-lifelong bond as part of the silver lining in the clouds from that period. When she
arrived in town, I didn’t know her. My dad did. But all of that would change when the time came
for my parents to go out of town. They pitched Beverly’s apartment as a place for me to stay
until they returned. I was a little wary (’cause new family member, who dis?), BUT I was more
concerned about being alone than with her. So we set a date, and that was that.
And then the day came. I arrived at her door, and what I experienced when I stepped inside can only be described as “if Martha Stewart was Black…” Nobody told me Beverly is domesticity personified. Her home is immaculate and comfy, her warmth blazing and undisguised. And we haven’t even gotten to the food yet.
The food. OH. MY. GOODNESS. If I lived with Beverly full time, I would
be constantly shamed by the scale because ya’ girl would stay stuffed like a turkey with much
thanksgiving. She had full-course meals at attention and ready for all three squares a day.
What do you mean you “just decided” to bake this fresh banana bread from scratch after the spaghetti with homemade sauce?
A full seafood boil in an apartment!?
FRIED PLANTAINS!?
And while I thoroughly enjoyed the sustenance, it became clear that food was not the only thing she was feeding me. As we spent more and more time together, the oven light in my brain finally flickered on.
Food became about more than “what” or “where.” It became about “who.”
She grandmothered me, as my actual grandma lived states away. She loved me. She fed me. The yeast rose and bloomed into a type of communion between kindred souls, a few generations apart, that bonded us for life. Once that truth dropped in my heart, nothing could hold me back in the kitchen.
Beverly’s love and warmth set me free to explore my relationship with food. I began to pick her
brain and learned how everyday cuisine works. I learned how to think through ingredients,
flavors, and my personality. I cook ALL the time now (my coworkers at BREAD can attest to
this). I bake fresh bread from scratch often. I dehydrate fresh herbs and grind them into my own seasonings sometimes. I went from blackening the bottom of my mom’s pots and pans to roasting whole blackened ducks just because it was Thursday. And then I’ll follow it up with stock and gizzard gravy. Cooking: it’s my thing. It’s our thing – the folks for whom my ceramic reactive glaze plates have a purpose.
It’s a thing because it became about love.
Looking back, I notice that how I cook mirrors how I engage my artistic hobbies and build brands. I appreciate your slow-roasted patience while you waited for me to connect the two. As with cooking, art-making is all about love. And that love for creativity frees me to explore the relationships between color, typography, shapes, and texture. It also prompts me to think through the personality and the ingredients the piece needs to achieve the best results. Too much salt? Not enough blue. That’s a terrible headshot! Did I paint that line too thin? Does this tagline work with this ad? Did I forget the soy sauce? To me, it’s all the same.
What are we putting into what we’re making, for whom, and why? Ingredients matter when we create art, prepare meals, or write commercial scripts. Both cooking and design are about sharing creativity with people and being a part of their stories, if only for a few moments.
These are the ultimate lessons cooking has taught me about branding. When I’m in “cook” mode, I’m developing for plate and palette. When I’m in “brand developer” mode, I’m developing for the client and the marketplace.
We live about an hour and a half from New Orleans, and my maternal grandpa was from
Louisiana, so it’s fair to say I’m a little more than familiar with Cajun/Creole food. I love how
usually simple but flavor-packed the cuisine is, and my favorite dish to make (currently) is
crawfish etouffee. “Etouffee” means “smothered” in French. Like the green bell peppers and sweet onions simmering over the seafood in the pot, I smothered this entire article with fond memories of my cousin, whom I hope reads this one day. She smothered me with her love, which changed my life. Now, I smother every creative endeavor I’m involved in with purpose, personality, and flavor. Memorable brands deserve that, as does the audience that comes to the table to dine and enjoy them. That’s the roux of true creativity: a soul-stirring mixture of intentionality, problem-solving, and fun bubbling from the fire within to thicken into something we all can lick our fingers to and sigh: “Oh, that’s good.” Now, I’m going to fix me another plate. Want some?