Farewell to Mills College

As published by the Mills College newspaper, the Campanil:

My Mills education hasn’t been books only. Around this time two years ago, I’d already paid a tuition deposit for another local MFA program. But when I first drove onto Richards Road, I knew this would be my next academic home. It just felt right; Richards was my grandfather’s last name. He was a great writer, a word enthusiast, one of my earliest influences. As a young girl, I used to do homework at his house while he studied foreign languages and swiftly completed the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, the hardest of the week. For him, words weren’t just an assembly of letters; they had histories, origins. He insisted I consider such things.

Most important for me at Mills has been the word community. By way of context, to be close to campus I moved to Oakland from San Francisco where I’d lived since 2005. I loved my new neighborhood and apartment, but shortly after settling there I started to feel unsafe. My car was stolen twice; I was threatened while walking my bike through the park. The news of more dangerous crime nearby felt stymieing.

At the same time, here at school I began studying prose and poetry that grappled with questions about community. Is our natural state one of peace or are we more war-prone? What, if anything, should we consider shared space? The entire Earth or nothing at all? Every piece we read in the Commons Class, offered by the English Department, provoked deep thought, new imaginings. We read Leslie Marmon Silko’s novel Ceremony about land rights and war trauma, about who owns the storytelling of oppressed communities. What was theoretical was also very real for us.

From the poetry of the Occupy Movement to Emily Dickinson on death and the grave to John Milton against government censorship of thought (Aeropagitica, 1644), every week enlightened me.

The readings also worked in tandem with Mills as an institution by encouraging, even demanding, an attention to one’s community. There is the hectic outside world, yes, but there’s also the welcome of Mills, the teaching of the Millsians.

I’ve been lucky to attend talks by inspired scholars and activists, to hear writers share their work–humorous, political, elegiac–on Tuesday nights in the Bender Room. I’ve also enjoyed blogging for The Campanil, reviewing fiction submissions for 580 Split. And helping other students has made me a better writer and mentor.

My first few months here, I used to get nervous when I read my work aloud. Now when this happens, I think about our clock tower, the oldest concrete structure west of the Mississippi. And I calmly finish reading in a way my grandfather, who lived to almost 100 years old, would be proud.

Long after I graduate, I will continue to think about all I gained from my time here. Thank you, Mills College, for the past two years. I look forward to many more.

Sincerely,

Megan D. Brown 

Late Night of Vegetables and Folk Music II

Well, that was a rude awakening. I'd just published a post about mistaking late night Guerilla Organics deliverers for car thieves–for no good reason–and I also shared a cute vegetable song, but my original words are all gone now.

Google Blogger warned me that I had faulty HTML but I didn't know it was a fatal error and I was allowed to ignore the warning. Reminder noted: always save blogs into Word documents as well. First. Save them first.

The most important thing about my post is not my backstory about vegetable delivery. It's Steve Goodman's song, "The Vegetable Song (Barnyard Dance)". My babysitter sang it to me when I was a young girl. It's a good thing to teach the wee ones and you'll love it, too.

If his voice sounds familiar it's because he also sang "City of New Orleans." I get teary eyed when I hear him.

Enjoy your night, your vegetables and your folk music. I will enjoy my CTRL + S.


Lyrics to "The Vegetable Song"
by Steve Goodman

It was late one night by the pale moonlight
All the vegetables gave a spree.
They put out a sign that said, "The dancing's at nine"
And all the admissions were free.

There was peas and greens and cabbage and beans,
It was the biggest crowd you ever did see.
And when old man cucumber struck up that number
Well, you should have heard those vegetables scream.

Oh, the little turnip top was doin' the backwards flop,
The cabbage shook the shimmy and she could not stop.
The little red beet shook its feet,
The watermelon died of the cockeyed heat.

The little tomato, agitator,
Shook the shimmy with the sweet potato,
And old man garlic dropped dead of the colic
Down at the barnyard dance, this morning,
Down at the barnyard dance.

Oh the little turnip top was doin' the backwards flop,
The cabbage shook the shimmy, would not stop
The little red beet shook its feet,
The watermelon died of the cockeyed heat.

Little tomato, agitator,
Shook the shimmy with the sweet potato,
And old man garlic dropped dead of the colic
Down at the barnyard dance, this morning.

Down at the barnyard, late this morning.
Down at the barnyard dance.

-MDB

Going Whole Hog in the Foothills

When Sous Chef Edgar first started at Rumbo Al Sur­ in Oakland, CA, it was serendipitous that his boss, Executive Chef Matt Colgan, had begun a tradition Edgar knew from back home. That is, smoking a whole pig and leaving little to waste. In Yucatán, Mexico where Edgar’s from, all the smoking is done underground. The pig is first covered in spices, wrapped in banana leaves, and then eased into a casing of metal sheets that are perforated to let in air­. No flames are visible above the surface. Stone and wood keep the fire going. 

Inherently, the roasting process looks a bit different on busy Park Boulevard in the Glenview District. Is there some sort of regulation against cooking underground? I’m not sure. Whatever the case, Rumbo plays it safe with their above-ground outdoor oven or Caja-China, available for about $300. Or, let’s call it $150 each if we go Dutch on it.

Pig in the oven

The afternoon of the roast, I’d walked by the parking lot several times before I found out what was in the big wooden box. I’ll be honest: I had to blink once or twice to get Wilbur out of my mind. But somehow, all my pseudo-vegetarian neurons pardoned me and I went for it. After all, what was in the Caja-China had been marinating for two days in more than twenty juices, spices, and herbs. And it’s true that a whole pig roast is far off the beaten path. I, for one, endorse this kind of big-picture-dining: I’m a waste-not kind of eater these days.

Rumbo’s servers don’t present the whole pig on a platter,­ as is done in say, a luau. Instead, the chefs plate both dark and light meat­–shoulders, thighs and all­–along with moist corn tortillas. Garlic, oregano and epazote black beans jibe nicely with coconut rice. Fresh chicharones­–or fried pork skins­–round out the offering, along with pineapple salsa. It’s a savory, spicy, and mildly sweet dining experience, and if you’ve never eaten the thigh of a pig, a mysterious one as well.

Everything but the tortillas

After such a hearty meal, most people would be satisfied and skip dessert. But I just couldn’t leave without trying their Margarita Pie, which is better than any Key Lime I’ve ever had. I even offered some to a new neighbor seated at the bar. Some. Not all. A final sip of a margarita and I was on my way home after my first pig roast. It was an education.

The night before, when I was still reluctant to dive in, a front-house manager named Erin put me at ease. “I’ve seen my fair share of smoked pigs,” she said, “and [Matt Colgan’s] is definitely the best.”

If you won’t take her word alone, I’m sure her colleagues Elmer, Rick, Ali, Patrick or Matt B. would back it up. Even at their busiest–with customers like me asking for a drink, a meal, and dessert to go–the staff fulfilled my wishes with a smile. It's the food and the service. No wonder they're so packed Tuesday through Sunday. (They're closed on Monday).

Enjoy Rumbo's 'southbound journey'
4239 Park Blvd
Oakland, CA

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