On the fly this morning...

And my new artist in residence.

You can still see all past stories on my portfolio where I store clips.

https://eatgordaeat.blogspot.com/

If you want to contribute to this artist in residence, mami’s f’ing expensive ass burgers or Dollar Tree visits:

Venmo: @illya-maiso

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illyanna in the news

Hopefully you’ve seen my latest piece for Bon Appetit.

Bittersweet. I’m super excited to see nana and mami’s cornbread and salami recipe publicized for the first time. This means their legacy will live on and I’m leaving little bits of them in the world. However!!! It’s a bitch that all that shit had to unfold over at BA in order to make it happen. All I ever wanted was just to see more Puerto Rican food in the magazine. That’s it. And when all that shit unfolded, I still wasn’t happy because...there still wasn’t PR food in the magazine!! And it may be selfish of me to duck and weave the controversy in order to get our voice heard, but shit. At least I’m the one taking the brunt of being called an Uncle Tom, but meanwhile leaving the Puerto Rican culinary legacy out in the world. Hopefully your kids will thank me. Or, maybe they’ll just see me as Sammy Davis, Jr. So, thanks to @hilarycadigan that asked me to contribute to the Thanksgiving issue. Thanks to her for getting the money I asked for. Thanks to her for listening to me complain about that damn pink and white gingham tablecloth. And MANY thanks to the homie @yungbludlau for his beautiful work and who was like “You better bring your ass down to NYC...”

Pavochon

Maisonet Family’s Cornbread and Salami Dressing

This one means a lot. It’s the single and only thing that Mami cooks that is identical to nana. And since I don’t have children of my own to pass this recipe down to, I’m passing it down to y’all. Pass it down within your family. Do me proud.

Grab the Thanksgiving issue on your local newsstand!

Saveur 100: Chef’s Edition

I was kindly asking by the new EIC of Saveur to contribute to their annual 100 issue. I agreed without even thinking.

“50. Ingredients For Puerto Rican Cooking in a Post-Goya World.”

Grab this issue on your local newsstand!

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Welp, folks. I’m writing to you this morning completely on the fly. The impatient sounds of mami’s feet pacing the hallway of our very large (and very expensive) Victorian is of course completely tantamount (and opposite) to her, “Are you working? Ok, I’ll leave you alone.”

My new assistant Karim - who you will not get to know because I don’t want y’all getting comfortable with him or he with you - might have realized that the only way I was going to allow him to do his job without interference, was to be able to do my work…without interference. Last week he offered up his family’s rental in San Francisco, California. And I reluctantly accepted.

I had always imagined myself writing a book. And when I got that book deal, I had always imagined myself writing in a place like the South of France, Tangiers, or in a cabin in the middle of the woods. Although y’all know I have never been camping and am terrified of sleeping in the middle of the woods at night because…The Klan. Obvs. But, that idea had came with reading too many novels by alcoholic white men (most of which were possibly on the spectrum) who had access and wealth. When I thought of me writing in those places, those aforementioned traits never occurred to me. The way it may never occur to some of us light-skinned folks with access to avenues some of our dark-skinned brethren and sisters don’t have. Harsh, but true.

It’s like my childhood friend Yolanda (whom I call “cousin”) always says to me, “Well, you know, you black. But, you ain’t….BLACK black.” I’m aware that opportunities that have been provided to me that have not been to her. I started out as a visual artist, a painter. And although she is a queer visual artist, a painter, white folks may not feel as comfortable around her because of the depth of her 60% Cacao Dark Bittersweet chocolateness of her unblemished skin.

When Karim and his family offered up their San Francisco Victorian I almost turned my nose up. Me. The person whom most of you financially contribute to on a regular basis and keep from going hungry, keep from defaulting on student loans, put gas in my car. And the most important, keep Mami in burgers and Dollar Tree nail polish. I had no business turning down a goddamn free thing. That night I laid down in my bed and stared at the ceiling. I’m middle aged. There are parts of my life that I still desperately cling to. And there are parts of my life that I have forgotten.

When I was 23, I was still living in Sacramento and working at Home Depot. A motley crew of mostly Sac State students from all walks of life and of all shades of colours. But, they started firing folks after hiring someone to make the store a “lean, mean, money making machine.” The cleansing was fast and fierce. When they turned their attentions towards me, “Illyanna, you can’t wear hats to work.” “This isn’t a hat. This is a bandana.” “You have to take the bandana off.” “Fine.” The next day I returned with my beloved beanie. “What did we say about hats?” “This isn’t a hat. It’s a beanie.” “Do you want to take the beanie off?” “No.” “Will you take the beanie off?” “No.”

I was fired the next day. I said, “Where’s my check? This was pre-meditated, you knew you were going to fire me. The law states I get my check immediately. You may have a 48 hours grace period. Until I get my check in my hand, with today’s pay because you made me come in, I ain’t going nowhere.” Their faces turned red. And the smoke flew from their ears. I walked across from their office into the break room and yelled out, “They fired me!” The manager’s office door slammed behind me.

That was the day I said, “fuck this.” And moved to San Francisco to be an artist. I was putting it off for so long because I was trying to help Mami out. I was paying her bills and groceries, something I had done since I was 16-years-old. But, it was time to live for myself. If this is what work was going to come down to, working for someone who is FAR MORE INTERESTED in controlling YOU, rather than having a good worker. Then, fuck this shit. Mami always said, “They’re always looking for someone with a strong back and a weak mind.”

Above Image: Me in front of my mural, 2005.

I left for San Francisco the next week. 2004. The first person in my family to have left Sacramento. If my family didn’t understand me before, they definitely didn’t understand me now. Sadly, I hardly ever thought of them. Or, Mami. I was painting. I painted. And painted. And did art shows. And went to art parties in lofts that were only accessible by cargo elevators. And sold things at Needles and Pens on 16th. I volunteered at the Low Gallery on 15th and Guerrero that was owned by John Trippe, founder of Fecal Face. It was the beginning of the lowbrow movement, graffiti writers bringing their work into galleries. Bigfoot, Sam Flores, Shepard Fairey (Obey), ORFN, Audrey Kawasaki, Robert Williams. They’d have big Juxtapoz Magazine parties at 111 Minna and Giant Robot in the Upper Haight. It was fucking amazing. And I was all in it.

Above Image: Me in San Francisco, 2004.

I made my living off my art until 2008. I was living in a Victorian on 26th and Treat with five roommates. Our slumlord, German Maldonado, turned out to be a maniacal property manager (who would meet his maker seven-years later in a large court case), who’d enter our house at all hours of the night, high as a kite on coke, intimidating us. The real estate market had completely tanked. 2008 was a year of ratchery. I had done things that I’m not proud of, but I will also not apologize for. I’d do it all over again. But, I’ll never write my memoirs until Mami is no longer with us.

Above Image: Me, roommate and Carlton the Cat in San Francisco, 2006

2009 was slow and lean. I was staying with a friend who lives in a casita in the middle of nowhere. Wallowing in misery. But, cooking and baking every day. Because…it’s the middle of nowhere. Yelping things just to get my writing seen. When he said, “Why don’t you go to culinary school? You already know how to write and cook. It should be a breeze.” And by Fall of 2009, I was in culinary school. The rest is history. Ish.

Karim’s family told me their history of heavily supporting and being involved in the black arts back East, where they’re from. Their family’s involvement in the Harlem Renaissance. And how they’ve been wanting an opportunity to do the same out West. “It couldn’t have came at a better time to have an Artist In Residence in our rental.”

And just like that, I became an Artist In Residence with their property at my disposal until my book is finished.

It seems apropos that I’d return to the land that encouraged and nurtured my creative side. A place where my art flourished. Where I could freely and freakishly be myself without the Mall-brand-clothing-new-car-state-worker-career-suburban cliquism of Sacramento’s judgment. I turn corners here and am reminded so many good and ratchet memories. But, none of them are sad or traumatic.

Above Image: Mami’s first day in the house.

Mami and I have coffee in the morning. Then I do some writing. In the evenings we’ll go for a little walk. There’s a store, a cafe and a few restaurants on the corner, a few feet away. So, Mami isn’t cooped up, but she’s also not so far away I have to worry about her. Pseudo-independence. Occasionally, we’ll go for a little drive.

And that’s life at the moment.