A Dravidian-Dixie Model of Localism

If one possesses a particular type of personality, then they will never be satisfied with allures of a materialist middle-class subsistence. What appears to be a comfortable blanket to others, feels like a suffocating sheet of stasis to me. One can only surmise that's why The Divine wrested me away from the shiny trappings of the Golden Coast and led me into adventure at the heart of the coniferous forests of The Volunteer State. The cultural ecology here is one that deftly combines both a small-town simplicity of neighborly grace, and a faint yet unspoken aristocratic social character.

For me, personally, the immersion in a land located 100 miles away from the “Athens of the South” has unearthed the desire within my Being, blocked at every turn until recently, to express a steady masculine virtue; for the men here display a vigorous energy wrapped in a tranquil magnificence, something easily observed in the beards they grow and groom. It probably helps that the oppressive summer heat and humidity remind me of Chennai where my father grew up. It would not surprise me that this meteorological soup has activated blood memories that induce me to reclaim my heritage away from the pathetic deracination that captured my young adulthood.

On the other hand, in the here and now, I occupy as much a realm of exile as I do one of welcome; as much as a realm of ostracism as I do one of community. As much as many folks insist that my presence has been a gift, still others act though I am an unwelcome blight on their landscape of purity. The past week, by rubbing up against these very same forces in the online space, I descended into a well of gloom that I've not had to visit for quite a long time.

And, so, what should one do to confront and rise above the hooks of shame that others try to press into their existence? For me, one practice that gives me a comfort is to cook quality food from local ingredients and distribute it to my compadres. One’s spiritual relationship to food is of utmost import; for if the body is a temple for the spirit, then it must be architected well. At the risk of censure for turning Substack into Instagram, below are some pictures of Nutrition-As-Art borne from creative passion of your local Dravidian Dixie.

1. Roasted aloo and bhindi with potatoes, okra, tomatoes, and peppers gifted to me by my next-door neighbor.

2. Sweet potato pie made from spuds and spices handpicked from the greenhouse of a fellow church-goer.

3. Chicken tikka made with poultry earned from homesteaders through my labors on their property.

4. Plum-and-blackberry reduction, from the Amish fruit market, to be added to a gallon of Kombucha for second fermentation.

Even the yogurt and bone broth that I used in these recipes are homemade.

The reader should note that the majority of these vegetables are American, and of specifically British origin. We sub-continentals have an immeasurable talent to take that from which around us and make a home out of it.

An entire week's worth of delectable culinary oeuvre I obtained exclusively through barter, and only $20 beyond that. Charity manifests in virtuous circles: while raw ingredients were provided to me, a portion of the end-products will be given back to my friends as token of appreciation. At least the smiles of gratitude that spread on their faces upon once again receiving my goodies provide small armor against the waves of alienation that crash unceasingly inside of me.

There is a long road to walk until I no longer feel forsaken, but at least I've started making the trek...