Chef Ophus

I’m officially official on UNC status now 🤣, and listen… I’ve never felt this level of PEACE in my spirit. My sister and brother in law just dropped the first grandchild off in the world, and I’d like to personally thank that baby for freeing me from YEARS of parental side eye, shade, and unsolicited “so when you settling down?” conversations.

My parents already forgot I exist. My dad said “good morning, son” for the first time in 12 years he meant it for the baby, but still. My mom stopped asking me about grandkids so fast you’d think somebody hit the skip intro button.

This child didn’t just get born… they SAVED me.

Uncle Ophus, walking in freedom like the Israelites after the Red Sea parted.

Anansi () is about more than food it’s about the stories that bind us across oceans and centuries. Every course last weekend at .urbanoasis was a chapter in the Afro-diasporic story: bun & cheese on the corner, seeds that traveled with us, tides that carried memory, crossroads where ancestors whispered, uprisings that fed freedom, and my grandmother’s porch light pie to close it out.

Because whether you’re in Kingston, Lagos, Port-au-Prince, Bahia, or DMV we’ve all got that same thread of survival, laughter, and seasoning running through us. The diaspora don’t just connect us to each other it connects us to the world.

And if you don’t believe me, just ask somebody’s auntie who can stretch one pot of rice to feed the whole block. That’s folklore, that’s history, and that’s flavor.

Around this time summer/2024, after a painful day at work and I finally took trip to the ER, I went through a whirlwind of tests. A gastroenterologist visit, an MRI, a sigmoidoscopy, a colonoscopy, and then a laparoscopic procedure revealed two tumors in my intestines. One was benign. The other was cancerous.

No post. No announcement. Just silence. I had the surgery, healed up just enough, and went straight back to work like nothing happened. Because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Keep grinding. Keep pushing.

But I wasn’t okay. I’d been feeling off for a while. Ignored the pain. Nights I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit without discomfort. Still, I kept showing up. I was living alone in Austin with no friends or family within a thousand miles. No one to lean on.

And my mental? My mental was all messed up. Depression, anxiety, loneliness, all of it hit hard. But I didn’t want to stay home. I couldn’t stay home. Sitting in that silence with those thoughts felt heavier than any kitchen shift. So I threw myself into work, even when my body was screaming, even when my spirit was exhausted.

Here’s the part I haven’t said out loud until now. I was in no shape to be a good co-worker, leader, creator, cook, or chef. I was surviving, but I wasn’t whole.

Not taking the time to rest and heal, not just physically but mentally, ultimately cost me my job. And more than that, it cost me pieces of myself I am still trying to reclaim today.

Hearing Deion Sanders speak on his journey with bladder cancer cracked something open in me. The pain. The honesty. The strength. I felt every word. Because this idea that we as Black men have to be unshakable, untouchable, always “on”… it’s killing us.

Rest is not weakness.
Silence is not strength.
Pain ignored doesn’t disappear.

I’m still here. Still healing. Still learning how to choose myself. And now, I’m learning to say it out loud.

This isn’t for sympathy. It’s for the next person carrying too much in silence.

You matter. Your rest matters. Your healing matters. And you don’t have to carry it all alone.

“They tossed us the scraps…
so we seasoned ’em, skewered ’em,
and made the streets line up.”

Peruvian Anticucho — beef hearts, fire-kissed and flexin’.
Huancaína? Creamy drama.
Red palm oil sabayon? That rich auntie energy.
Chermoula? Herb game strong.
Boniato? Sweet, like your ex said you weren’t.

Dusted with Le Courage from
the spice blend that pulls no punches and smells like purpose.

Born from survival.
Cooked with courage.
Served with sauce and a little side-eye.

Moqueca Baiana – Polvo e Camarão (Octopus & Shrimp)
Coconut broth so rich it whispers sweet nothings. Palm oil painting the bowl sunset orange.
Polvo e camarão tangled like lovers in Pelourinho. Citrus kosho bringing that fogo lento.
Mustard greens with bite. Benton’s bacon farofa? Crocância com orgulho.

But this ain’t just stew this is the Baiana’s gospel.
From lace and beads to dendê and fire, she carries centuries in her hands.
Her food is prayer. Her pot is protest. Her moqueca is legacy.

A dish with body, soul, and sway. The spirit of the diaspora, served hot.

Cabbage kissed by flame, dripping in sh*to and Dende oil bold, loud, unbothered. Laid on yuca and salt cod, a Diaspora remix of brandade. But this ain’t Provence. This is ours. Sh*to from Ghana. Salt fish from the Caribbean. Yuca from stolen lands and stolen people. What they called scraps, we called supper. What they threw away, we turned into legacy. This is Black food. Black memory. Black pride on a plate.

July 4th thoughts (some of us had work! 😎)…

“The Fire This Time”

They pop fireworks on stolen land,
sing of freedom while cages line the border,
and wave flags like amnesia.

July 4th
where liberty got a barbecue invite,
but truth still ain’t on the guest list.
Where the anthem blares louder
than the cries of the undocumented,
and Black skin still looks like a threat
instead of a birthright.

They love the smoke
just not the kind from protests.
They love the red
just not when it bleeds from our backs.
And they love history
as long as it’s edited for comfort.

A man once sat in the highest seat
with the lowest soul,
turning walls into policy,
and hatred into campaign confetti.
He made mockery of the dream,
then dared to call it patriotism.

But we?
We’ve been here.
Lighting grills and fires.
Telling stories our grandmothers whispered
through spoonfuls of greens and grace.
We’ve been free in ways
no constitution could define.
Black joy, immigrant hustle,
resistance wrapped in rhythm.

So no,
we don’t need your fireworks.
We are the explosion.
Every step we take,
every truth we tell
is the spark this country
has been running from
since 1776.

Let the sky light up.
We been shining.

Cake on Juneteenth by ain’t just dessert its declaration.

Symbolically, cake on Juneteenth is:

For centuries enslaved Black people were denied not only freedom but also joy. Celebration was regulated food was rationed and sweet things like cake were rare or reserved for the enslavers’ tables. So to bake, to frost, to share cake especially on a day marking our liberation is a soft and powerful flex. It’s reclaiming joy. Reclaiming sweetness.

160 years since .
Let’s run the numbers, fam:

2 parents
4 grandparents
8 great-grands
16 2nd greats
32 3rd greats
64 4th greats ← The first ones who might’ve heard they were “free.”
128 5th greats
256 6th greats
512 7th greats
1,024 8th greats
2,048 9th greats

That’s 4,094 ancestors each.
And for most of us, 3,968 of them never knew freedom.
Born enslaved. Died enslaved.
Didn’t live to see Juneteenth.
Didn’t get the news. Or got it late. Or didn’t get it at all.
But still they held on.

So when we laugh, rest, gather, build, thrive, and take up space unapologetically
we’re doing it with thousands of ancestors riding on our backs, whispering, “Keep going.”

Our joy? Our excellence?
That’s not just resistance.
It’s reparations in motion.

We weren’t just born free.
We’re walking proof the fight wasn’t in vain.

A fresh start is always an opportunity to revisit traditions, to rekindle old joys, and to create new memories around the table. ~