American jam and the pectin deficit
In a cafe on State Street in Santa Barbara, I gave the barista my printed copy of Zora Neale Hurston's taut short story, Black Death. She'd seen me reading it while I scoffed a buttermilk biscuit (read: scone, dear British and non-American reader) and I wanted to do something good while I was on this self-indulgent Californian holiday.
An aside: Americans do not do jam well. They can't, I don't think. My theory? A pectin deficit, which haunts their jams. (The Pectin Deficit sounds like a boring Netflix documentary you might watch on a rainy Sunday afternoon, no?)
"What are you reading?" the barista asked as she dropped off my flat white (I was chewing an anticipatory lactase pill at the time, because while dairy is the enemy, I love cheese, frothy coffee drinks and ice cream, so. Here we are). Americans are needlessly friendly, and I still find it disconcerting but not as much as I used to. I told her what I was reading, and she asked me to repeat Zora's name. I resisted every urge in me to roll my eyes when she said she'd never heard of her.
I remembered something an older cousin once said about me and my attitude. In less harsh words, she basically told me I was dangerously smug, and that my need to be superior (her diagnosis, not mine) was severely off-putting. Ominously, she told me that I should watch that tendency. Like it was a custard that might form lumps if I ever stopped stirring, or a baby with a malignant stare. I mean, it did its job: I have carried her observation with me for more than two decades. I try to be kind when people do not know what I know. I try to be less of a shit when I am imparting a version of wisdom or knowledge. Some days it comes easy. Other days, well, you can't outrun habit.
So I repeated the name. Zora Neale Hurston. I said, she was amazing. I told her that Zora's surviving work is just remarkable. Truly, I told this friendly barista, it is a shame hers is not a name you recognise. But then with a smile, I added, There are so many artists whose works have been overlooked. Luckily, you can correct that!
Reading this back now, I think I came off a little smug. A tad shitty. But I meant well.
After I finished my breakfast, I snapped a photo of the gorgeous monstera plants high above the dining area and handed the three sheets of folded A4 over. A tip, after the tip.
I hope you enjoy it! I said with genuine warmth. I really hope she did. I hope she didn't think me smug or overbearing.
If you want, you can read Black Death right here; it's hella short. I hope you have been well. To facilitate my own wellness, I deactivated my Twitter for a bit. It's been wonderful.
The monstera is below: