Substack is a place where I publish whatever I want.
Because the best stories are often the ones no one is waiting for. They’re not written for clicks; they’re the literary equivalent of blood-letting. This is one such story.
Don’t get me wrong; I prefer to be paid for my craft. However as any professional writer will tell you: the hardest part of writing is pitching. The essay that earned my James Beard Finalist nomination? I pitched that over 200 times across two years, before getting the nod from Epicurious.
I write because I can’t not write. I write because I refuse to die with unfinished thoughts trapped inside me. I write because sitting around hoping editors will respond is waiting for a bus that’s left the station.
Except for
.Two months ago on the anniversary of my Mom’s death, I chose to cope with overwhelming Grief by typing (it’s cheaper than therapy). Half a bottle of warm Sorel and 45 minutes later, I sent my draft to the Executive Features Editor of Food & Wine.
Because everyone deserves to know the legacy my mom left behind.
That surgeon general’s warning on every cigarette pack? My mother helped put it there. The picture above is from her days as a research scientist at the FDA. She was running some of the first studies on the effects of cigarette smoke in lab animals, teaching doctors how to do autopsies on mice—for a janitor’s salary.
This was the 1950s: a time when this country didn’t have a use for Black people, or women.
My Mom had real reasons to be angry. Did she take it out on her family? Never. She took it out on the dough. She pressed her righteous indignation into every tray of cookies; turned every bite into something delicious, joyful, and defiant. They’re a blueprint; a revolution in sugar, flour, and heat. Proof that anger–when wielded properly–can be transformed into something that nourishes.
Read it. Share it. Bake them. And remember: sometimes, the best way to fight is to create.
The essay on my Mom’s famous Aggression Cookies is live right now on Food & Wine.