Saga of the Many Pounds Cake Cont.

Above: From left: Demar Roberts who hooked me (center) up with Rockmond Dunbar (Right). He is now ambassador to Gambia! We met because he served as celebrity judge for my client, Johnson Product's The Great Model Search. Here is my interview with Rockmond:
Rockmond Dunbar: An Interview with The Great Model Search by Johnson Products by isidra@prperson.com

OK, now. So four pound(s) cakes sit on my dining room table. I don't even LIKE pound cake. Give me cake with icing any day. To me, a cake is not finished unless it is properly dressed!

So, after our class, Black History 4 Young People, and after a bird caper (more later) I come home and WHAT IS ON THE TABLE? My husband's mother had driven all the way from Orange County to bring him a HOMEMADE POUND CAKE for Father's Day. A big ring of it with the hole in the middle (why didn't I just say bundt?)

And she brought a big old bag of her famous homemade peanut brittle. Well, I have escaped the call of the sweet crunchy peanut brittle, but I HAD to have a sliver of the pound cake to see the difference. Didn't it? Isn't there a rule somewhere that we must taste the difference between store bought and homemade? Well, the two unopened pound cakes will go to my son, Ravi, who made us grandparents. We will be taking the generations out to Father's Day breakfast today. All you can eat buffet. Argggh. I surrender.

I did convince my husband that the rest of the cake should be frozen in small hunks until we have cause to trot them out again. Small victories, but I take 'em anyway I can get 'em!


It was an active day in Leimert Park Village yesterday. The wafting BBQ aromas celebrating Juneteenth, tempted me once again. But I did not set foot anywhere near one of the food stations. Instead, after class, we went to take our son's laptop back to him. Halfway down the freeway, my husband says "Whoah!" which he NEVER does. And I look at him quizzically and he says "There's a baby bird hanging on my window!"

So I'm like, "Pull over! It could fall off!" He drives an Expedition (I know) and when it was parked under the trees, this baby must have fallen out of its nest to the little crevice between the drivers side rear view mirror and the window. The mirror was shielding it from the wind. Of course he kept driving til we got to our son's home. Ravi is always cool as a cucumber, so he brought us out a box so we could take the bird back to its momma. The bird jumped down and went under the truck, but Ravi got it somehow and scooped it into his cupped hands while Kwaku punched holes in the box top. It was a young thing with hairs on its head, but his body was feathered. He was more like a teen-aged bird--almost ready to fly), looking scared as all get out.

So, we took it back to Leimert Park, where, presumably, he had gotten on, but the tree was so high above we couldn't see a nest. So we placed him in a big potted plant the city has decorated the village with. And hoped for the best.

So what does any of this have to do with my food journey? Not a daggone thing except that it is 5 a.m. and I am still worried about that bird. And I wonder why I am so worried about THAT Bird and not that piece of chicken or three I ate during the Lakers Game 7 Championship Victory Thursday night, especially when I stopped eating chicken! (Something about Albertson's Fried chicken I find irresistible!) I hope the birdlet's Momma (and not some alley cat) heard its call with all the noise in the park. And I hope the momma didn't reject him because my son picked him up. Unlike cats, mama birds don't seem to have a way to get their babies back in the nest once they have fallen out, huh?

Well, Pamela Miller, what has become evident as I read my own writing, is that I am not really in a battle to win this food fight. Oh, there is a struggle to be sure, but not a battle to win. Today I must step this thing up to full out war.

It HAS to be war because when I was getting my locs tightened yesterday by Kurtis, a 6'2" 300 lb stylist, I had to look at myself the entire time in his mirrored wall. (Inescapable). We were people watching what with the two festivals going on in the park (One on 43rd, one on Degnan). But whenever my eyes would rest on that blob sitting in the chair, I would think,

"Dang.
I am HUGE."

Reminds me of a poem I once wrote when I was a single mom:

Fat Cheeks
Fat Chin
Fat Arms
Fat Belly
Fat Thighs
Fat Chance

By Isidra Person-Lynn