By Ruth Terry
/Broadcast version by Nadia Ramlagan
Reporting for the YES! Magazine-Tennessee News Service

-- YES! MEDIA COLLABORATION -- NASHVILLE, Tenn. -- Much of American cuisine is fusion food. Yes, even apple pie. European colonists brought apple trees, which originated in Asia, to these shores. And other foods came from other lands. Hamburger, pizza, and tacos, we know, came here from Germany, Italy, and Mexico, respectively.

Generally left out of the discussion of American cuisine, though, are the Indigenous foodways, which enabled early settlers to survive, as well as the influence of enslaved Africans that shaped our culinary heritage, particularly in the South. The latter is something Black food historians such as journalist Donna B. Pierce, and James Beard Award-winners Michael Twitty and Adrian Miller, are helping to change.

The narrative that emerges is complex and inextricably tied to place.

In his book, The Cooking Gene, Twitty explores these complexities, while sharing how his personal ancestry intertwines with American and African food traditions. He cites the research of historian Stephen D. Behrendt, who documents the relationship between those who were enslaved and the crops they planted grew and harvested that contributed to the wealth of the United States -- crops that were mostly transported to the New World via the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

Behrendt even suggests that enslaved Africans were trafficked here at intervals that corresponded to the seasonal growing season.

"This does not start with race and end with commodities, it starts with commodities and ends with race," Twitty says, in a phone interview, referencing those cash crops such as rice, sugar, tobacco, and others. "These crops shaped the way that people [the enslaved and their owners] lived. They shaped the diet."

Throughout the regions where enslaved Africans were concentrated, certain culinary "common denominators" emerged, Twitty writes in his book. These dishes formed the basis for Southern cuisine and "soul food," an umbrella term used to describe Black people's home cooking which, Pierce says, was popularized in the 1960s.

"As a culture, we had lost our language. We had lost our family... all of the things that bind a culture together," Pierce explains of the African diaspora in America. During the Black Power Movement of the 1960s and '70s, the term soul food was embraced because it was a way "to talk about what we shared. And that sharing felt so good to have something in common with all of us with brown skin," she adds.

Soul food may unite Black people but its iconic dishes, including fried chicken, chitterlings, pigeon peas, collard greens, sweet potatoes, and cornbread -- once an Indigenous staple -- are really a fusion cuisine.

"I think that soul food, and you can argue Southern food as well, is the fusing of West Africa, Western Europe and the Americas," says Miller, author of Soul Food: The Surprising Story of an American Cuisine, One Plate at a Time, The President's Kitchen Cabinet: The Story of the African Americans Who Have Fed Our First Families, from the Washingtons to the Obamas, and a former lawyer and policy adviser to the Clinton administration.

His research included visiting 150 restaurants in 35 cities and reading 500 cookbooks and thousands of digitized historical newspapers. "These things all come together, and there are dishes that are created that remind people of a precursor."

African American food culture is an especially fitting lens with which to explore African American history because, like DNA-which Twitty goes into detail about in his book, it is one of the only aspects of African American identity that represents an unbroken line from Africa to present-day America. "There's so many of our customs, so many of our ways of looking at seasoning and food and everything else, that's just straight up from Africa," he says.

One of these customs is the concept of "teranga," a West African idea of neighborliness and hospitality, which became a defining tenet of Southern gentility.

"These are... values that were taught to White kids raised by Black women," Twitty says. "[W]e were taught to believe that Southern hospitality was grounded in some sort of, like, medieval pass down. It was this thing that we... inherited from our African side mixed with a little bit of European and Native concepts of hospitality and neighborliness."

This kind of misattribution erases the Native and Black identities that helped shape the iconic aspects of Southern cultural heritage, from country manners to cookery, leading us to equate "Southern" with "White" and creating a false dichotomy between "soul food" and "Southern cuisine," which belong to the same tradition, Miller says.

"Within the American South, the difference between soul food and Southern food is so blurred, it's almost indistinguishable," he continues. In terms of flavor, "soul food, over time, has tended to be more intense in its seasoning" and plays with sweet and savory more than White Southern variations. Another key difference: soul food remains stigmatized. It is characterized as "slave food," an unhealthy diet that "should come with a warning label."

In actuality, Miller explains, enslaved Africans ate a largely plant-based diet, with richer sweet and meat dishes savored on special occasions. The stigma is so pervasive that when soul food dishes such as Nashville Chicken go mainstream, African American cooks are not credited.

"We're now in a phase where restaurants menus will tell you [everything about] what you're eating, where it was grown or raised, [the animal's] personal hobbies, whatever," Miller jokes. "So why can't they just say, 'this is an African American specialty'? Just give a shout out to where you got it from. Just acknowledge the source."

Miller, Twitty, and Pierce have made it part of their work to do just that.

Twitty's The Cooking Gene safeguards against cultural appropriation. Rather than writing recipes and techniques -- look to Donna Pierce's website, Black America Cooks -- he focuses on food as part of the lived experience of enslaved Africans and as an element of our shared Black American cultural DNA.

"I deliberately said to myself, [White people] will not be able to appropriate these three things: our Africanness, our experience on the plantation, and our blood," Twitty says. "No one will be able to take these things away from us. I was telling a Black story that cannot be appropriated."

This story was produced with original reporting from Ruth Terry for YES! Magazine. Read Terry's full story here: https://www.yesmagazine.org/social-justice/2020/02/26/food-african-american-history.


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By Kate Mothes for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mike Moen for Minnesota News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

In Norway, the hardingfele, or the Hardanger fiddle, is deeply woven into the nation's cultural tapestry. From the earliest known iteration made in 1651 by Ole Jonsen Jaastad, the instrument originates from its namesake region, the western district of Hardanger, where it was traditionally used to play wedding music, dances, and other songs.

A Hardanger fiddle looks at first glance like an intricately ornamented violin, with a fingerboard and tailpiece often inlaid with mother-of-pearl, ebony, or bone. It is more lightweight, however, with four slimmer strings, ink decorations on the wooden body, and the scroll at the end often carved into the likeness of a dragon or wild animal.

Another key element of a Hardanger fiddle is the addition of sympathetic strings, which sit in a layer below those that the bow touches, vibrating when the instrument is played and adding a richness to the sound. "You are playing, generally, two notes at once whenever you play a Hardanger fiddle," says luthier Robert "Bud" Larsen, a side effect of the instrument's flat bridge.

Larsen, who is based in Brainerd, Minnesota, was introduced to the art of fiddle-making and restoration with the help of local violin-maker Gunnar Helland. Helland had emigrated to the U.S. from Norway in 1901. After stints in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, and Minneapolis, he established a shop in Fargo, North Dakota, to carry on his family's craft tradition.

"Our family moved into the same building where Gunnar had his shop," Larsen says. "We hung out a lot, and I was very interested in what he was building. When I was in the seventh grade, he gave me an old violin and helped me through the process of restoring it."

Larsen's lifelong love for the instrument was born. Over the next several decades, he would build at least 40 Hardanger fiddles and restore more than twice that many.

Preserving, and Evolving, Tradition

Troyd Geist, state folklorist of North Dakota, is a big fan of traditional culture and history. He focuses not only on the heritage of traditional arts but also sees the potential for craft to contribute to health and a sense of wellbeing. He heads an apprenticeship program where a master artist is paired with a younger person in order to pass along knowledge.

Geist is fascinated by how U.S. makers have gradually evolved the Hardanger fiddle over time. Though the instruments have maintained many of their recognizable features, their designs have become distinctly American.

"For instance, the fiddles in Norway would have different rosemaling designs and different flowers that they really focus on," Geist says. "And the head above the fret is often carved, in Norway, like a lion or a dragon. They do that here, too, but they also carve, instead of a lion or a dog head on the end of it, a buffalo head."

Larsen and others in the community who are passionate about the Hardanger fiddle liken the craft to being similar to language.

"We know that a language that is not willing to change will soon die," says Larsen, who was a linguist in Papua New Guinea for more than 20 years before turning to fiddle making. "If people say a language should be prescriptive and you should write it the way the dictionary tells you to, and speak it that way, then the language will die out because it can't change. And that's the same with Hardanger fiddle music. Because new music is being written, and it's being used in different genres as well, it will stay with us for a long time because the music has learned to adapt to people's interests and cultures."

Both Geist and Larsen agree that it's important to continue to teach others how to make the fiddles, which can sometimes take a novice apprentice up to two years to complete. Some makers seek to protect their secrets, but "if you're not willing to share broadly and freely, the tradition is going to die," Geist says.

A Generational History

First comes the making of a fiddle and then, of course, comes the playing. Arts Midwest's GIG Fund recently supported an event at the Historical and Cultural Society of Clay County (HCS) where more than 220 people attended a concert performed by the Fargo Spelemannslag.

A spelemannslag is a group of folk musicians, often dominated by fiddles.

The wintertime concert featured a song written two centuries ago by Eirik Medås. "Eirik's direct descendant, a high school student named Elsa Ruth Pryor, played a new song that she wrote herself, on a Hardanger Fiddle that she made herself," says Markus Krueger, programming director of HCS.

"Minnesota and North Dakota are the two most Norwegian states in America. For a lot of people in our community, this is the music of their childhood that they remember their parents and grandparents playing," Krueger says, reflecting on the significance of the event. "It's a symbol of Norwegian culture and heritage, and even more than that, it's a symbol of Midwest culture."

The concert featured performances by Bud Larsen and Loretta Kelley, the president of the Hardanger Fiddle Association of America. It was a meaningful showcase of a living tradition, passed down through generations.

"The immigrants brought their fiddles with them, and they kept playing them in America, says Krueger. "They kept making them in America. We still make them and play them today."


Kate Mothes wrote this story for Arts Midwest.

By Ann Thomas for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mark Moran for Iowa News Service reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Natural light floods through large windows lining nearly every wall of the Trappist Caskets production facility in northeast Iowa, wrapping it in view of New Melleray Abbey's 3,400 acres, 1,200 of which are abundant in timber.

The storage racks at Trappist Caskets, designed and fabricated by master welder Brother Dennis, stretch six caskets tall between the concrete floor and the rafters that span the length of the shipping bay. This area manages the ebb and flow of production and shipping. The goal is to keep them full at all times. Today, there are several vacancies-demand has been very high.

At first glance, the racks are overwhelming for their enormity, and the realization that each space represents an individual awaiting preparation for burial adds more gravity.

A wealth of midwestern natural resources, combined with the Trappist monks of New Melleray's need to financially support themselves through their own labor and maintain a life steeped in prayer, inspired its entry into casket manufacturing in 1999.

Each casket crafted by monks and employees at this facility in Peosta, Iowa, captures unrepeatable characteristics in walnut, oak, cherry or pine grain. But one casket on the shipping bay's floor this Tuesday stands out. Its design and far deeper red draw the eye quicker than all other cherry caskets in the shelving.

The lone casket served its owner first as a coffee table, its cherry wood aging in open air for 20 years. Rings left by glasses mark the lid's finish. With upholstering completed this morning, and its lid newly reinforced, this old cherry casket is on its way to the funeral home so as to serve the priest in death who purchased it. He will be buried in it within the next few days. Paul Pankowski, Production Manager for Trappist Caskets, notes it isn't uncommon for caskets to be purchased and turned into bookshelves, wine racks, and coffee tables, then for owners to eventually be buried in them.

The design for these have evolved since the cherry wood one was built. Recent interest in green burials necessitates biodegradable joinery and alternate handles, meaning designs continue to evolve.

Pankowski oversees all aspects of production on the circuitous workshop floor, and can identify by eye where boards moving their way through originated. He points out lighter tones that range through black walnut of Wisconsin and Missouri. Iowa's distinguishes itself from all others by richness of its depth, and the incomparable hardness of central Iowa's oak dulls blades quicker than any other wood. The whiteness and clarity of pine harvested from the monks' own land is easily recognizable in contrast to pine sourced from other areas.

For Brother Joseph, it's hard to believe the growth of this work. From the production facility's modest beginnings in the monks' barns to the far reaching ties maintained through prayer and memorial tree plantings for those buried in Trappist Caskets and their families-the span is remarkable.

Brother Joseph, who began in those barns in 2006 and continues to work in varied roles from woodworking to upholstering in the new facility completed in 2007, recalls how cramped and dusty the barns were. He stresses how critical the employment of nearby community members is now - to meet the high demand for their caskets and to ensure the monks' freedom to maintain the rhythm of monastic life.

The monks' concern for land stewardship led Brother Joseph to pursue the hire of their full-time forester, John Schroeder, six years ago. Schroeder is initiating large scale prairie restoration and reforestation projects which prioritize the needs of New Melleray Abbey's land and creeks lying on the cusp of Iowa's Driftless region. It is an area spared by the grinding weight of glaciers moving out of the midwest around 12,000 years ago. This land's delicate ecological balance and exceptionally rich soil are responsible for traits found in the trees that grow here.

Among the most grateful customers Trappist Caskets serves are parents who must bury their children. The monks offer these caskets free of charge. Funeral homes and hospitals are quick to connect families in these tragic circumstances to the monks. The Federal Trade Commission's Funeral Rule ensures that consumers are not limited to caskets offered by funeral homes for purchase and use, and anyone is free to contact Trappist Caskets, whose staff is always ready to guide families through meeting needs.

Trappist Caskets' employees can relate to this devastating experience. Production Manager Paul Pankowski and his wife lost a premature baby, and his first-hand knowledge infuses compassion in every step of the production process. His three-decade long experience within strict quality parameters of the custom kitchen cabinetry business prior to working at Trappist Caskets also informs his approach to all he does.

While the end goal of both industries is perfection, his purpose, as well as all who work at Trappist Caskets, is not to turn a profit, but rather offer an encounter with beauty and consolation during a time of grief.


Ann Thomas wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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An art installation intended to jump-start social commentary about the treatment of immigrants has found a permanent home in Albuquerque.

In 2019, three bright pink and yellow teeter-totters were temporarily installed near a portion of the U.S.-Mexico wall near Sunland Park, New Mexico. The installation, meant to allow children and adults to interact on both sides, generated worldwide news coverage about the treatment of immigrants.

Josie Lopez, head curator of the Albuquerque Museum, said one of the three teeter-totters is now on permanent display, a reminder of its impact.

"When you see these kids on both sides of the border riding the teeter-totters it really flies in the face of this harmful language about people who are coming into the United States from our southern border," Lopez observed.

Lopez noted the Albuquerque teeter-totter is now part of the museum's exhibit called "Common Ground," designed to honor the artistic and cultural achievements of the U.S. Southwest. A second teeter-totter is on display at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Immigration is a significant issue for New Mexico and Lopez emphasized the art piece calls attention to why bridges such as a teeter-totter or seesaw are more effective than walls.

"I think that there's this incredible power of art to create the conversation to deter those folks who fail to see the humanity in what's happening and who insist on making it political," Lopez contended.

The art piece was created by architect Ronald Rael and designer Virginia San Fratello.


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