A day of perfect eating in Puerto Escondido should end at Costeñito Cevichería.
With a population of about 200, Cody, Nebraska, is a quiet town. Only a handful of restaurants can be found within its city limits, a few other locally owned businesses, and a sole grocer, Circle C Market.
As longer days roll in and temperatures rise, I think of beach season. I think of weekend trips or longer vacations spent sipping margaritas or mai tais. But I also think about how for people who look like me — for black folk — beach trips weren’t always an option.
When I was a child in the 1990s and early 2000s, I looked forward to our family vacations to Myrtle Beach, S.C. My family would pile into our station wagon and road-trip from Atlanta, loaded down with snacks and music for the ride....
The lobby is a ruckus: loud talking, movement, spirited laughs. Spaniards and native English speakers (mostly Americans, which explains the noise) are playing an “icebreaker” game.
The leaves were starting to change colors — from the deep greens of summer blades of grass to shades of burgundy, gold and orange — when I visited Philadelphia in November.
Since Philadelphia formerly served as the nation’s capital, the story of the founding fathers is often the core lesson that visitors take away. There is, however, a narrative of equal importance to remembering and preserving American history here: the legacy of African Americans and their contributions to the city’s cultural fabric.
A year ago, I was wrapped up in the rapture of love (word to Anita Baker) — and convinced that hopping on a plane to Washington, D.C., from Atlanta, where I lived at the time, for a romantic weekend was a great idea.
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Of all the quintessential Southern food I learned to cook at the heels of my mother—smothered pork chops, skillet cornbread, a proper gravy with meat drippings—neck bones and lima beans surely was not one I loved.
Knees bent and spread apart. Feet positioned at a half-diamond just beyond my behind. Torso resting between my thighs.
Long before I stepped foot in Ireland for the first time, I dreamed about what it would feel like to be there: taking in the lush, green, rolling hills and exhaling with some sort of beautiful certainty; being caught in a light afternoon rain as droplets gathered in a mosaic on my eyeglasses; trying to understand an Irish accent.
My years as a Girl Scout are mostly a blur of sashes and uniforms—a fast flurry to accumulate as many patches as possible—but one pillar that stuck with me was how essential, necessary, and life-giving friendships were supposed to be.
Growing up in the Deep South, the daughter of a woman from Alabama and a man born and bred in Lagos, Nigeria, who I was and where I came from never had an easy answer. Food helped me find the way. Especially jollof rice.