“Compliments of the House”
We’ve got to cover some maison rules. Guidelines if you will. They’re for your safety, not ours.
You’re welcomed, deliciously, here. But, be so very mindful that that doesn’t mean you’re free to rest your burdens and opinion here, darling. This coifed aesthetic can get you confused quickly if you don’t have pedigreed taste and refinement. It’s lovely, I know. We trust that you know what’s appropriate to touch and what’s not. Many have never experienced this degree of decadence so you may haphazardly think that you have some rights that you don’t. We have a threshold of grace that is appropriate for a new guest. It lessens at a consistent and clear rate. You’ll know if you need to see yourself through the side entrance. It’s where we meet the food delivery driver.
These “blog posts” are compliments of the house, linguistic relics, an amuse-bouche if you will. You’ll feel full, but we haven’t served you yet.
Before we proceed. Caution isn't required here, but it’s highly recommended. You’ll likely feel shaded at some point. Almost no one is spared because you too have likely tried us. You’ll be fine. We have wonderful accouterments and plenty of time for you to pause and adjust yourself. Simply, don’t delude yourself into thinking that the adjustment needs to be made over here, for you. You’ve been informed.
Who the fuck are “The Djordjes”
My actual family has every last name under the sun. We’re a collection of mixed jelly beans that never really had their own box. I was raised in the baby daddy mecca, where last names varied as much as prison inmate numbers. Seeking identity through high-privileged markers like shared last names amongst your siblings and relatives is no type of familiar here. We’re a bunch of mixed pieces that don’t seemingly go together. So, your boy became an architect.
The ancestors sent me. They knew a real one had to enter the ring for this round. Our sauce has simmered so long, that it needed some pretty packaging for those with sensitive palates like yourself. Me, I stuck my finger in that sauce before I had an eye to open. I felt that hickory in my DNA. It was so visceral I thought yall already knew about it when I got here. It is indeed spicy. You’re overwhelmed. I do understand, enough of what your problem is, hence why I was chosen as the creative director of this family. Chief Marketing Officer. Because I’m the cousin who tasted that pot of grits before grandma poured them on him. I’m also the one who talked some sense into her afterward. The grits are delicious. I’ll share a recipe someday.
My maternal great-grandmother was a wild one. And I’ve met and spent some time with her. My grandmother though. Ghost pepper, the kind that’s in “Da Bomb” sauce. I met her towards the end of her journey when you could come closer to her heat without being burned. Carolyn. I don’t know much about her, but I also know so much. Carolyn didn’t check you with words first. You’ll figure out what she meant as you collect your eyebrow hairs and adjust your posture. She created the beautiful riddle of Veronica, the version of her that didn’t get molded directly in the same fire, but that thang was smoked right on top of them charcoals.
One of the first threads I needled about my family was our names. Labeling of people was always on my mind. I found it to be such a poorly managed and inconsiderate concept that had no thought. It was my first note from the moment I got here. I’ve had questions and asked for rewrites on all of this shit for years and still haven’t gotten a sufficient answer. And wildly I knew you don’t like that some broken person from before you were born gets the honor to brand you with the most crucial moniker of your life and they don’t even know you. And you have the audacity to give me a used name? Of someone, I don’t even know? I’m still on hold to the mainline about this one. I’ve made my own adjustments while I wait.
The wild thing is that most of my family don’t know the depth and richness of the legacy in which they embody. It drips everywhere though. The base note of my sauce is an earthy and robust herb that doesn’t scream for attention, it’s seemingly a non-factor, but it’s that grounding bass that is not only fragrant but stylishly kisses everything I do. It’s a bay leaf. To the best of my knowledge, it started with George. Not, my father George, but Grandaddy. George. (Side note for Jesus: double reused name?) I don’t know much about Grandaddy. I love calling him that because I never got to call him that. But, I feel him in my shadows all the time. It’s firm. It’s silence. It’s clear. There is no announcement, but all the mother fuckin’ words are heard. Voice will not be raised. Tone will not be adjusted. Glare is complimentary. I love him dearly. We met once. A glorious time. I haven’t been held so intentionally and thoughtfully since. I look forward to relishing over coffee about ALL of this with you soon grandaddy. I know you’ll hear me. I love you.
Take a walk before you have more.
Christopher.
