The Lady turned to the doorway on her right and shouted, “Come on, y’all,” and multitudes of brown-skinned dancing girls with ostrich-feather headpieces and tap shoes started doing the cake-walk all around Sassafrass, who was trying to figure out the stitching pattern on their embroidered dresses, and trying to keep from jumping up and shaking her ass when, in unison, the elaborately beaded women started swinging their hips toward her, singing: SASSAFRASS IS WHERE IT’S AT, SASSAFRASS GOTTA HIPFUL OF LOVE, A HIPFUL OF TRUTH . . . SASSAFRASS GOTTA JOB TO DO, DUES TO PAY SO SHE COULD DANCE WITH US . . . WHOOEEE!
And all of a sudden the chorus line disintegrated into a dressing-room conversation; the women started sharing secrets about lovers, managers, and children staying with their grandmas till the tour was over . . . and Sassafrass gathered all there was that was more to her than making cloth. Just as she was about to slip out of the room, Sassafrass turned to The Lady to capture just a little more of the magic, and The Lady only murmured, “We need you to be Sassafrass ’til you can’t hardly stand it . . .’til you can’t recognize yourself, and you sing all the time.”
Sassafrass closed the door on the babbling women-visitors quickly. Mitch was coming toward her, making the room reel with the craziness of his music; like he was tearing himself all up, beating and scratching through his skin. The horn rocked gently with his body, but the sounds were devastating: pure anger and revenge. He pulled the slight instrument from his mouth and licked the reed once or twice, before he slipped his hand up Sassafrass’ skirts to tickle her a little.
“You gonna make me something to eat, lovely one?” Mitch grinned a Valentino grin, horn in one hand, Sassafrass on the other. She giggled distractedly and mumbled, “Yeah, I just wanna write down a few things before I get stuck in the kitchen.”
She rubbed her temples impatiently, because for a change Mitch wasn’t on her mind. She didn’t want to play; she wanted to write, and Mitch was messing around, being nasty. She caught his wrist with her thumb and index finger. “Not now, Mitch. Not now. I wanna go do something.” Mitch released her instantly. He wasn’t into taking any woman who didn’t want him desperately, so Sassafrass could go. And Mitch picked up his horn and tooted the melody of Looney Tune cartoons he had to watch when he was a child at the boys’ reformatory in Philadelphia: dadadadada dadadadada, and then he imitated Porky Pig saying, “t-t-t-t-that’s all, folks!” He smiled to himself when Sassafrass slammed the door to the kitchen and made obviously rebellious noises with every pot she handled.
Mitch had convinced Sassafrass that everything was an art, so nothing in life could be approached lightly. Creation was inherent in everything anybody ever did right; that was one of the mottos of the house. Sassafrass had made an appliquéd banner saying just that, and hung it over the stove:
* * *
CREATION IS
EVERYTHING YOU DO
MAKE SOMETHING
* * *
She sat on her personal chair to concentrate on what to create for dinner. She was busy thinking of nothing when she fixed on the idea of a rice casserole, sautéed spinach and mushrooms with sweet peppers, and broiled mackerel with red sauce. If she prepared this scrumptious meal there wouldn’t be hardly enough food left to finish off the week, but since Mitch was into her being perfect today, she decided to make a perfect meal and let him perfect out the menu for later, because “you can’t cut no corners and be right” is what he always said. And Sassafrass set to work.
Sassafrass’ Rice Casserole #36
1½ cups medium grain brown rice
pound smoked cheddar cheese
3 ounces pimentos
½ cup condensed milk
1 cup baby green peas
Diced garlic to taste
½ cup fresh walnuts
Cayenne to taste
Cook rice as usual. In an eight-inch baking dish, layer rice, cheese, pimentos, walnuts, and peas. Spread garlic and cayenne as you see fit. Pour milk around side of dish so it cushions rice against the edge. Bake in oven 20–30 minutes or until all the cheese melts and the top layer has a nice brown tinge.
Sassafrass’ Favorite Spinach for Mitch #10
1–2 bunches Japanese spinach
2 tablespoons tamari
8 good-sized mushrooms
½ teaspoon finely crushed rosemary
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 sweet hot peppers
(safflower oil is very light)
Wash spinach carefully in cold water. Break leaves from stem with fingers—do not cut—and set spinach in colander. Wash mushrooms. Slice vertically so each slice maintains its shape. Put oil in heavy iron skillet, heat until drop of water makes it pop. Turn flame down and lay spinach evenly in pan. Spread mushrooms; sprinkle rosemary and tamari. Simmer until leaves are soft and hot. Do not overcook. Place peppers in nice design around spinach and serve quickly.
Sassafrass: The Only Way to Broil Fish: Mackerel
Clean fish thoroughly. Dip in melted butter, add salt and pepper.
Cook 4–6 minutes on each side in broiler.
Red Sauce: Sassafrass’ Variation Du-Wop ’59
1 small can tomato sauce
½ cup finely chopped onion
1 cup cooking sherry or sangria
Garlic to taste
½ cup finely chopped parsley
Cayenne
Mix tomato sauce and wine in saucepan. Add sautéed onions, parsley, and seasonings. Spread some sauce over fish while broiling; save the rest to use on plate.
While Sassafrass cooked she usually did yoga breathing exercises or belly dance pelvic contractions as she puttered around. The movements were almost accidental: tearing the spinach she’d contract on each pull from a stem and release as soon as it hit the colander. She would breathe ten quick breaths out and ten quick ones in as she crossed the kitchen from the sink to the stove. Not wanting to waste a moment, she would do relevés on alternate sets of ten contractions, so it would be: contract-relevé-release-down. This went on for as long as it took to cook dinner, and as the mackerel came out of the oven, Sassafrass was a buoyant and contented woman.
Sassafrass made her way out of the kitchen to get Mitch for dinner. She stepped into the studio to see how his art supplies were standing up against his create-every-day saga. The acrylic paints would probably last just another week before Mitch would have only ochre left; watercolors, sufficient; oils, absolutely tubes’ end. Sassafrass was figuring the actual cost or barter price some new brushes would come to, when she heard calamitous booted feet traipsing through her house, and some men’s voices upsetting her resting plants. She hurriedly took an overall inventory of Mitch’s drawing equipment, and copped a gracious hostess attitude for the unexpected dinner guests. Otis and Howard Goodwin-Smith, two brothers from Chicago, had been in L.A. since Korea, most of their growing-up days. They tried, sometimes, to act like they were from Chi-town, but in a couple of minutes that Southern California hip-less-ness would ooze from every word. Otis was a writer, which made Sassafrass uneasy, and Howard was a painter of contorted phallic symbols dipped in Afrikan mystique and loaded with latent rapist bravado. The Goodwin-Smiths from the South Side. Sassafrass held her tongue while she greeted them; she wanted to ask why they hadn’t brought their white wives. She felt her eyes sneer and her mouth smile, saying, “Too bad Jennie and Olga couldn’t make it . . . I never see them, you know.”
Otis and Howard looked over to Mitch, who was looking at Albert the dog, to make sure Sassafrass could enjoy putting the brothers on the spot. Then Albert moved over to Howard, who was kneeling on the floor trying to get a whole idea of Mitch’s new mural. Albert on his haunches was almost six feet, and he got on his haunches to try to hump the chauvinist Howard. Sassafrass saw Albert rear back and slam his front paws across Howard’s back, saw his dick hanging oily-like from its fur pouch, aiming for Howard’s jeans-covered backside. Howard was shocked, and steady trying to get out of Albert’s way. They made circles around the room, Albert chasing
Howard past the aging velvet couch, the barber’s seat that doubled as a chaise longue, the driftwood coffee table, and the mural lying on the floor. Round and round they went. Sassafrass glimmered, and went to get the food. Mitch started playing the Lone Ranger’s theme song. Otis was rolled over laughing, and Howard finally tore off one of his sneakers to appease Albert, who always tried to make it with small men. They ate with chopsticks, in time to Ron Carter’s Uptown Conversation.
Otis had reconnoitered the barber’s seat for himself, and from his lofty perch, began, “I brought y’all a copy of my new book, Ebony Cunt . . . I autographed it special, Mitch; see here . . .”
for sassafrass . . .
I know yours is good
Sassafrass’ face nearly hit the floor. She glanced at Mitch to see where he was at, and he was enjoying his clout with the fellas, because he announced: “Sassafrass got some of the best pussy west of the Rockies, man, and I don’t care who knows it, ’cause it’s mine!”
They all laughed raucously, except Sassafrass was glaring from her inmost marrow and wishing there was some way to get rid of male crassness once and for all time. She called herself being kind to Mitch, because he liked his friends, while she began discreetly leaving the room. But Otis called out for a thorough reading of his new work, to Mitch’s accompaniment on sax and Howard’s innovative percussion with a worndown tambourine.
THE REVUE
Otis: Sassafrass, you gotta sit in this barber chair and be the queen you are, while I read this masterpiece (teehee) of mine for all y’all black women all over the world.
Sassafrass: Otis, I, ah, gotta get started on something, ya know.
Otis, Mitch, Howard (in unison): Nononono . . . you gotta hear this one, babeee!
(Mitch picks Sassafrass off her feet and places her in the chair, squeezes her leg, and smiles)
Mitch: Go on, Otis. We gotta celebrate this woman of mine even if she doesn’t understand why we gotta have her, every morning . . . in the evenin’ when the sun go down . . .
(Mitch sings like he is Ray Charles, and shakes all around like Little Richard)
Otis: I’ma start now. I’ma read all about it, but first I wanna say, a la Edwin Starr circa 1963:
extra extra reeeeeeead allll about itttttt
extra extra reeeeeeead allll about itttttt
(Howard, Mitch, and Otis do old Temptations Apollo routines around Sassafrass, who is enjoying this worship from the du-wop straddlers in spite of herself)
Howard: Aw right. Now Otis, get it on . . . we ready.
Otis: ebony cunt: for my mama and my grandma and all the women I rammed in Macon, Georgia when I was visitin’ my cousins at age sixteen:
The white man want you/ the Indian run off with you Spaniards created whole nations with you/ black queensilk snatch
I wander all in your wombs & make babies in the Bronx when I come/ you screammmmmmm/ jesus/ my blk man ebony cunt is worth all the gold in the world/ 15 millions of your shinin’ blk bodies crossed the sea to bring all that good slick pussy to me . . .
(Sassafrass stands up like a mannequin, and gazes absolutely redfaced at Otis, Mitch, and Howard, all of whom stare back at her, uncomprehending)
Mitch: Sassafrass, what’s wrong with you? Sit down. Otis gotta finish the book; he isn’t even done with the first page . . .
Sassafrass (standing still): Just one god-damned minute, Mitch. You gotta mother you supposedly love so much, and a daughter by a black woman who won’t see you . . . and you got me all messed up, and tryin’ to make you happy . . . god damn it, I don’t haveta listen to this shit. I am not interested in your sick, sick, weakly rhapsodies about all the women you fucked in all your damn lives . . . I don’t like it. I am not about to sit heah and listen to a bunch of no account niggahs talk about black women; me and my sisters; like we was the same bought and sold at slave auction . . . breeding heifers the white man created ’cause y’all was fascinated by some god damn beads he brought you on the continent . . . muthafuckahs. Yeah, that’s right; muthafuckahs, don’t you ever sit in my house and ask me to celebrate my inherited right to be raped. Goddamn muthafuckahs. Don’t you know about anythin’ besides taking women off, or is that really all you good for?
(Mitch looks at Sassafrass like she was a harlot. He puts his horn away and remains silent. Otis and Howard chuckle nervously, and get ready to split)
Otis: Look now Sassafrass, I’m sorry you took it the wrong way . . .
(He smiles. All three men leave the house. On the way out, Howard pokes his head back through the bagging-screen door)
Howard: I don’t care what you say, Sassafrass . . . I know you got good pussy!
(They all laugh jauntily on the way to the ’59 Chevy 2-door sedan. Sassafrass stands still in front of the barber’s chair for an indefinite time)
When she moved, she went to her looms . . .
makin cloth, bein a woman & longin
to be of the earth
a rooted blues
some ripe berries
happenin inside
spirits
walkin in a dirt road
toes dusted & free
faces movin windy
brisk like
dawn round
gingham windows &
opened eyes
reelin to days
ready-made
nature’s image
i’m rejoicin
with a throat deep
shout & slow
like a river
gatherin
space
i am sassafrass/ a weaver’s daughter/ from charleston/ i’m a woman makin cloth like all good women do/ the moon’s daughter made cloth/ the gold array of the sun/ the moon’s daughter sat all night/ spinnin/ i have inherited fingers that change fleece to tender garments/ i am the maker of warmth & emblems of good spirit/ mama/ didn’t ya show me how/ to warp a loom/ to pattern stars into cotton homespun/ mama/ didn’t ya name me for yr favorite natural dye/ sassafrass/ so strong & even/ go good with deep fertile greens/ & make tea to temper chilly evenings/ i’m a weaver with my sistahs from any earth & fields/ we always make cloth/ love our children/ honor our men/ who protect us from our enemies/ we prepare altars & anoint candles to offer our devotion to our guardians/ we proffer hope/ & food to eat/ clothes to wear/ wombs to fill.
Almost unconsciously Sassafrass had begun the laborious process of warping the four-harness table loom she had transported from Charleston. The eccentric family her family had worked for as slaves, and then as freed women weavers, had seen fit to grant Sassafrass the looms her forebears had warped and wefted thousands of times since emancipation. Sassafrass had always been proud that her mother had a craft; that all the women in her family could make something besides a baby, and shooting streams of sperm. She had grown up in a room full of spinning wheels, table and floor looms, and her mother always busy making cloth because the Fitzhugh family never wore anything but hand-woven cloth . . . until they couldn’t afford it any more. Sassafrass had never wanted to weave, she just couldn’t help it. There was something about the feel of raw fleece and finished threads and dainty patterned pieces that was as essential to her as dancing is to Carmen DeLavallade, or singing to Aretha Franklin. Her mama had done it, and her mama before that; and making cloth was the only tradition Sassafrass inherited that gave her a sense of womanhood that was rich and sensuous, not tired and stingy. She thought that if Kingfish had bought Sapphire a loom, she would never have been such a bitch. She thought that the bronze Dionysius was not saving the sad frigid women of Thebes by seducing them away from their looms, but rather he was planning, under Osiris’ aegis, to wipe out Europeans before they went around the world enslaving rainbow-colored people . . . because when women make cloth, they have time to think, and Theban women stopped thinking, and the town fell. So Sassafrass was certain of the necessity of her skill for the well-being of women everywhere, as well as for her own. As she passed the shuttle through the claret cotton warp, Sassafrass conj
ured images of women weaving from all time and all places: Toltecas spinning shimmering threads; East Indian women designing intricate patterns for Shakti, the impetus and destruction of creation; and Navajo women working on thick tapestries. She tried to compel an African woman to come join them—women, making cloth—and the spirits said, “No. You cannot have her . . . in Africa men make cloth, and women . . .” Sassafrass tossed her head to the left side, and dismissed her congregation of international cloth makers while she rethreaded her shuttle. And Mitch was home . . .
Hi there Sassafrass . . .
How’s mama’s favorite dumpling? Sounds to me like you have indeed worked wonders on your little house. Just watch now that you don’t overdo with too much color. Houses are supposed to comfort us, as well as invigorate the senses. You don’t get one by ignoring the other. There, you see, I do have a notion of aesthetics, black or not. They’re Southern, and that’s close enough. (smile)
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo Page 8
