Tag: #Life

  • Bread and Memory: A Loaf, A Legacy

    Bread and Memory: A Loaf, A Legacy

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    Some smells don’t just linger—they haunt. Not in the way a ghost knocks a glass off a table, but in the way they slip beneath your skin, settle deep in your chest, and curl around your ribs like something half-remembered.

    For me, it’s bread.

    The scent of dough rising—warm, yeasty, patient—takes me back to a church that no longer smells like bread and a family that no longer lives above it. The first name I knew it by was “True Faith.” Later, it became Penson Temple Church of God in Christ, named after my great-grandfather, George Penson. It sat sturdy in Chicago, a place where Sundays were long and the sermons longer, but there was always a rhythm to it. Scripture, music, prayer… and the rising of bread.

    Upstairs, above that sanctuary, lived my grandparents. And on certain Sundays, before the Holy Ghost stirred the congregation, something else stirred first. A batch of dinner rolls, tucked under a clean towel, warming in the silence. The smell would drift down into the pews, enveloping the base of the pulpit, blending with the scent of lemon polish and the aroma of old hymnals. And somehow, in that mingling, the church felt even more sacred.

    That recipe is gone now. Nobody wrote it down. Nobody learned it.

    We lose it to time, just as we lose so many things we assume will always be there. We didn’t think to ask, or we didn’t know it mattered. And now, when I bake bread, I am not trying to recreate it exactly. I know I never will. What I am doing is chasing a feeling. Trying to knead memory into flour, water, and salt. Trying to bring back the ghost of a moment I didn’t know I needed to preserve.

    In that pursuit, I’ve learned more than I expected. About precision. About patience. About what happens when you try to rush something sacred.

    And I found this recipe—a humble, sturdy loaf. Nothing fancy. Just good sandwich bread. The kind that makes you feel like the house is full, even when it’s not.

    My Favorite Sandwich Bread Recipe:

    • 350g (1.5 cups) warm water
    • 3g (1 tsp) instant yeast
    • 530g (4 1/4 cups) bread flour
    • 12g (1 tbsp) sugar
    • 20g (1 1/2 tbsp) olive oil
    • 125g (2/3 cup) ripe poolish or sourdough starter
    • 11g (2 tsp) salt

    To Make the Poolish (Preferment):

    • 65g (about 1/2 cup) bread flour
    • 65g (about 1/4 cup) water (room temperature)
    • A pinch of Active Dry yeast
    1. In a small bowl, combine the flour, water, and yeast.
    2. Stir until the ingredients are fully incorporated into a smooth, wet dough.
    3. Cover loosely with plastic wrap or a clean towel.
    4. Let sit at room temperature for 24 hours or until bubbly and fragrant.

    Once your poolish is ready, use 125g (about 2/3 cup) of it in the recipe above.

    Instructions for the Dough:

    1. Combine all ingredients in the bowl of a stand mixer with a dough hook. Mix on low for 3 minutes until just combined.
    2. Increase to high and mix for an additional 6 minutes until smooth and elastic. (To mix by hand, knead vigorously on a floured surface.)
    3. Place the dough into a bowl, cover it, and let it rise at room temperature for 2 hours.
    4. After 30 minutes, do a strength-building fold. Cover.
    5. After another 30 minutes (1 hour into rise), repeat the fold.
    6. Let rise for the remaining hour.

    Prepare a 13″x4″x4″ Pullman loaf pan by oiling it with olive oil or butter.

    1. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and gently de-gas it with your fingertips.
    2. Shape into loaf and place seam-side down in Pullman pan.
    3. Cover and let the dough rise for 1 hour or until it has reached 3/4 of the height of the pan.
    4. If using the lid, slide it on before baking. If baking uncovered, lightly score the top of the cake.
    5. Bake at 425°F (218°C) for 40-45 minutes. Remove the lid after 35 minutes if the top is covered and brown.

    Cool completely before slicing.

    The bread will speak for itself. But it will also say more if you let it.

    It might remind you of a kitchen you haven’t stood in since you were eight. Of someone who made space for you in a world that didn’t. Of a church that held both gospel and gluten.

    I bake to remember. I bake to reclaim. I bake because the world is loud, but bread rises in silence.

    And sometimes, that silence smells like home.

    By Kyle J. Hayes

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  • A Reflection on the Loss of a Pioneer

    A Reflection on the Loss of a Pioneer

    Today, Sly Stone passed away. And the world doesn’t sound the same.

    They’ll write the obituaries. They’ll tell you about the hits—Everyday People, Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) If You Want Me to Stay—and they’ll remind you that Sly and the Family Stone broke barriers: Black and white, male and female, gospel and funk, radical and joyful. But the truth is, you can’t really write Sly down. You have to feel him. You have to let the bassline wrap around your ribs, and the distortion melts into the marrow of your spine. You have to live inside the chaos of his sound to understand what he meant.

    Because Sly didn’t just make music. He reshaped it. He cracked it open and poured revolution into it.

    Before Prince danced across purple stages in high-heeled boots, before he blurred gender and genius in a swirl of falsetto and fire, there was Sly—funk’s wild architect. The Black man with a perm and a prophet’s pen, who wrote soul anthems that doubled as sermons, who saw the future and tried to drag the rest of us toward it, even as it tore at him. Prince stood on the edge of the genre. Sly obliterated it. Rock, soul, funk, psychedelia—he didn’t choose. He claimed them all.

    But unlike Prince, Sly never won the war for his music.

    While Prince famously scribbled “slave” on his cheek and fought Warner Bros. in the spotlight, Sly’s battle was quieter and crueler. He lost ownership of his music early and, with it, a piece of himself. The industry chewed him up like it’s done to so many brilliant Black creators—those who saw something holy in rhythm and melody, only to be left with shadows and unpaid royalties.

    And then there were the drugs.

    Sly fought them like a man wading through water that got deeper with every step. Cocaine, PCP, the ghosts of genius, and pressure and pain. His band fell apart. His voice changed. The clarity in his music faded. And yet… even in the haze, there were sparks. Small Talk. High on You. I heard, ‘Ya Missed Me; Well, I’m Back.‘ But the world had already started turning its head, already writing him off. And that is the tragedy. Because Sly Stone never stopped being brilliant—he just stopped being what the world wanted brilliance to look like.

    We’ve lost so many of our giants this way.

    Lost them not just in death but in the way they were discarded while alive. Donny, Curtis, Rick, Whitney, MJ, Aretha, and now Sly. Black music—our music, foundational Black American music—has always been the soul of this nation. And yet, it’s often treated like a trend: celebrated, consumed, and forgotten. Those artists built the walls of American sound. Brick by brick. Note by note. And now, those walls feel emptier.

    So I ask: Who carries the torch now?

    Who sings not just with talent but with conviction? Who dares to blend funk and message, to stand against the industry instead of smiling for the cover photo? Who speaks truth to power in rhythm and melody and lets their voice sound imperfect, urgent, and human?

    I’m not sure if the next Sly is out there. Maybe we should stop looking for replacements and start remembering the ones we lost—fully. Honestly. Mess and all.

    Sly Stone was more than a funk legend. He was a sound—a movement trapped in vinyl, a spirit screaming through wah-wah pedals and gospel-soaked harmonies. He was the bridge between chaos and groove, between revolution and radio. And today, that bridge is gone.

    Rest in Peace, Brother Sly.

    You never needed permission to change the world.

    You just did it.

    By Kyle J. Hayes

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  • So It’s Me and Cake Again

    So It’s Me and Cake Again

    A Reflection on Pound Cake, Memory, and Soul

    There’s something quiet and personal about returning to a kitchen after a small failure. You remember the last time—how it crumbled, how you forgot the parchment, how it fell apart before it ever came together. But you also remember the taste, the intention, and the lesson. That’s where this began.

    So it’s me and cake again. But this time, I kept it simple: a pound cake, humble in name but rich in history. I didn’t chase complexity—I honored instinct. I moved with the memory of what went wrong last time and the hope that this time, it might go right. It’s not perfect. It’s just real.

    I made adjustments, measured the flour carefully, lined the pans, and whispered thanks to the ancestors. I didn’t use anything fancy—just what I had. And that, I imagine, is exactly how it began generations ago. Our people didn’t bake from abundance; they baked from necessity, love, and spirit—from what was on hand. And somehow, what they made was enough—sometimes more than enough.

    This time, I tasted the batter and had to pause. It was everything: smooth, sweet, gently spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, lifted with a little lemon. It was the kind of batter that made you wonder why we even bother baking it at all. I almost didn’t—almost just sat at the counter with a spoon and a smile.

    But I finished it. I poured it into the pan, slid it into the oven, and let the scent remind me who I am.

    When it came out—cracked top, deep golden edges—I knew I’d done something right, not just in the measurements, but in the meaning. I had baked something that nodded back to the past while standing firm in the present. I made a cake with my hands, memory, and heart.

    It wasn’t about impressing anyone. It was about honoring where I come from—a kitchen without frills, a recipe born of survival, a dessert passed down not through written cards but through repetition, rhythm, and watching someone you love beat butter and sugar until it sang.

    That’s what soul food really is. It’s not the trending dishes on Instagram. It’s the small, sacred rituals in quiet kitchens. It’s using what you have and turning it into something worthy of memory. It’s the story inside the bite.

    So yes—it’s me and cake again. And this time, I came correct. Not because I had to prove anything but because I remembered what matters: presence, patience, and the power of making something from nothing.

    This cake?

    It’s more than dessert.

    It’s inheritance.

    It’s healing.

    It’s home.

    Want the recipe I used?

    Let me know in the comments or subscribe below.

    By Kyle J. Hayes

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  • A Place to Sit Still: Birthday Reflections, Burgers, and Becoming Social Again

    A Place to Sit Still: Birthday Reflections, Burgers, and Becoming Social Again

    Last night, I went out.

    Not on the day of, my birthday had come and gone, as I’d hoped it would, quiet and unbothered.

    But I’ve learned that the people in my life now don’t take kindly to silence.

    They don’t take “I’m okay” at face value.

    They don’t let me disappear the way I used to.

    So, a few days later, they pulled me out—not with pressure, but with presence.

    Another group of close friends who’ve decided they’re going to keep me in the light,

    even when I’ve learned to find safety in the shade.

    It wasn’t a big thing.

    It never has to be.

    Just a dinner.

    An excuse to wear something better than the soft armor of sweats and a hoodie.

    A reason to put on real pants, brush off the nice watch, and step into the world looking like someone ready to be seen,

    even if he isn’t.

    We went to BJ’s Brewhouse.

    Not my spot—but close enough.

    A place I’ve been to before, one of the few I feel okay in.

    Large, yes. Public, yes.

    But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a spotlight.

    It feels like a corner where you can sit, breathe, eat, and maybe even laugh a little.

    One of the things I’ve always noticed—and quietly appreciated—is how BJ’s handles space.

    Most places cater to the groups.

    The couples.

    The table-for-fours and “Is anyone else joining you?” assumptions.

    But BJ’s?

    They’ve got single tables.

    Not shoved at the bar.

    Not wedged between a high chair and the kitchen swing doors.

    Actual tables—small, functional, intentional.

    They don’t ask why you’re alone.

    They just let you be.

    I can’t explain how rare that is.

    Because when you’re out alone, you don’t just carry solitude.

    You carry other people’s stares.

    The suspicion. The pity. The questions.

    BJ’s doesn’t give you any of that.

    They just give you a seat.

    And sometimes, that’s all a person really needs.

    The staff?

    Cheerful, engaging—yes.

    But never intrusive.

    The kind of servers who know when to smile and when to simply refill your water without breaking the spell of conversation.

    That matters more than people know.

    In Albuquerque, we have breweries like some places have churches—on every corner, every flavor, and every crowd.

    But BJ’s holds its own.

    I don’t drink much.

    Just a light beer to prime the taste buds,

    to keep the appetite sharp, not spoiled.

    Something to mark the occasion without blurring it.

    I ordered the jalapeño burger.

    Spice sharp enough to remind me I’m still alive.

    Messy enough to keep things grounded.

    A good burger doesn’t pretend.

    It tells the truth.

    And this one did.

    After that came the brownie.

    Chocolate. Dense. Almost obscene in its richness.

    One of those desserts that makes you pause halfway through—not because you’re full,

    but because you need a moment to respect it.

    It was indulgent.

    And it was perfect.

    We ate. We talked.

    I laughed more than I expected to.

    And in the low hum of that restaurant, surrounded by people who insisted I still belonged to the world,

    I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while:

    Comfort.

    Not the kind you fake for other people.

    The real kind.

    The kind that says you don’t have to perform here.

    My old spot closed a while ago.

    The place I used to go when I wanted to be alone but not lonely.

    The place where the servers knew me, and I knew the menu by heart.

    When that door shut for good, I stopped going out.

    But maybe—just maybe-I ‘ve found a new one.

    Not because it’s perfect.

    But it makes space for people like me.

    People who don’t always feel right in crowds.

    People who sometimes need a small table and a quiet corner to feel human again.

    It’s not just about the food.

    It never was.

    It’s about finding a place in the world where you can exist as you are—

    birthday or not.

    By Kyle Hayes

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  • Anywhere but Nowhere: On Driving While Black in the Land of the Free

    Anywhere but Nowhere: On Driving While Black in the Land of the Free

    I own a nice vehicle.

    The kind that hugs the road like a whisper and hums like it knows where it’s going.

    It’s the kind of SUV that should be free.

    Built for long stretches of empty highway and distant horizons.

    But it sits mostly still.

    It idles in the garage.

    It moves through town and back,

    But not out there.

    Not far.

    Because while it can take me anywhere, I go nowhere,

    the country will not let me forget who I am while driving.

    I used to move without worry.

    Back when I was younger, maybe more foolish, perhaps just more free.

    Back when I’d take off cross-country with nothing but a map, a CD wallet, and a crooked smile.

    I didn’t think twice about what county I was in, or whose land I was rolling through.

    But age teaches you what experience doesn’t let you forget.

    It teaches you that being a Black man in a nice car is still a flag.

    Still a reason to be stopped.

    Still a reason to be questioned.

    Still a reason to be followed, harassed, or worse—disappeared.

    I’ve had the thoughts.

    You know the ones.

    What happens if I stop in the wrong place?

    What if I need gas in the wrong town?

    What if I pull over in the wrong stretch of highway with no shoulder or witnesses?

    What if I encounter a police officer who feels like proving a point?

    What if they plant something?

    What if I reach too fast?

    What if I say too little or too much?

    What if I’m told to get out of the car and don’t make it to the next sentence?

    These aren’t dramatic hypotheticals.

    These are possibilities.

    Probabilities, even.

    Because Black freedom in America has always come with asterisks.

    Because a license and registration don’t mean much when fear enters the room.

    Because we still live in a country where a Black man in a nice car is a contradiction that law enforcement wants to solve.

    And this fear isn’t new.

    It’s passed down.

    Inherited like a scar.

    In another era, we had something called the Negro Motorist Green Book.

    A quiet lifeline printed on pulp and ink.

    A book of safe places—if any such place ever existed.

    Gas stations where you wouldn’t be chased off with a shotgun.

    Hotels where you could sleep without looking over your shoulder.

    Restaurants where you’d be served a plate and not a stare.

    It was more than a travel guide.

    It was a Black atlas for survival.

    And now I find myself decades later, carrying the same questions in my gut.

    Wondering how far I can go before someone decides I’ve gone too far.

    Sometimes I wonder if it’s paranoia.

    If I’m being unreasonable.

    If I’ve let the headlines and hashtags shape my fear.

    But then I remember names.

    Not just George or Philando or Sandra.

    But names that never made the news.

    Names whispered in family kitchens.

    Stories told with sighs.

    Cousins who had “bad encounters.”

    Uncles who came home changed.

    It’s not paranoia if it keeps happening.

    It’s not irrational if the system was built this way.

    So I fly.

    I fly because in the sky, I have less chance of becoming another roadside ghost.

    I fly because TSA might be annoying but rarely ends in blood.

    I fly because the badge at the gate doesn’t come with a gun and a grudge.

    Still, the road calls me.

    Still, there’s something sacred about the open highway.

    Something spiritual about Black movement—unfettered, unapologetic, unbothered.

    That may be why I downloaded a new app today.

    A modern Green Book.

    A map of safe stops, safe places, safe Black-owned spaces.

    It may be enough.

    Maybe not.

    But I want to believe again.

    I want to believe that freedom can exist beyond my driveway.

    Because a car that can go anywhere

    deserves a country where that promise is true.

    And so do I.

    By Kyle Hayes

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    #DrivingWhileBlack #ModernGreenBook #BlackMobility #FreedomAndFear #BlackVoicesMatter