Pull up a chair for Coffee, Some Tea, and GKB.

From a grandmother’s whistling kettle and backyard mint to tea rituals around the world, this warm, witty journey asks what happens when we pause, pour and share. Put the kettle on—there is always something steeping.

This morning, I heard someone mention the Anishinaabe Seven Grandfather Teachings. I couldn’t recall hearing of them before, so I wrote the name down. What I discovered was not seven separate lessons, but seven values meant to guide and balance one another. I’m no expert—just one curious Grandma inviting you to learn alongside me.

Authority came to the door expecting to look down. Then I opened it. Hey, little Sis. As you grow into the tall Black woman you are becoming, I want you to know this: you are not responsible for making authority feel tall. If those who carry it experience shrinkage in your frame's presence, that is not yours to repair. Their ego is theirs to repair. This morning, I was waiting for the superintendent to come to my apartment and assess the work needed to make my unit habitable.

· When generations make time to listen, family stories become living wisdom—carried forward through laughter, truth and love. People ask why grandmas are the best, and the usual answers involve warm cookies, secret treats and someone willing to let you stay up past your bedtime. Those things are lovely. But I think the real answer is more hard-earned. Grandmothers stand in a peculiar and powerful place. We are close enough to remember the chaos of raising families, yet

Three generations of Black women—a great-grandmother, grandmother and three granddaughters—sharing tea and conversation. Since joining the hood—grandmotherhood, that is—I have learned that the role, and the women living it, rarely match the old picture society keeps handing us. Before we begin, tell me honestly: who comes to mind when you hear the word "grandma"? Was she grey-haired, cardiganed and retired? Speak up - I can almost see her too. Was she baking, babysitting or w

Anne Frank wrote from confinement, fear, and uncertainty — yet still believed in human goodness. As a grandmother living through these times, I find myself asking what her voice might ask of us now, and of the next generation.

Did you know that there’s a cost to being “let in”? A cost to fitting in—one that few talk about, because passing is meant to look effortless. It’s packaged as belonging. It feels warmer than being shut out, shunned, or rejected. But behind that performance is constant calculation. The person who decides to pay the price to pass is always watching, always adjusting. And after a while, it becomes a kind of mental fuck (and yes, I said what I said). As Rod Michalko writes, “Th

They expected us to shrink. To disappear into soft chairs and quiet corners. To fade politely into titles like Grandma, Nanna, Nana— and retire, never to raise our voices again. But I was born in the 1960s. I’ve survived too much silence to live in anyone’s shadow. I don’t knit. I don’t fade, and I don’t retire. I build and rebuild. I remember my grandmother applying her “Dark & Lovely” hair dye, not because she loved it, but because she feared what that grey might suggest:

Exploring what it means to reclaim feminism through lived experience. From stripping and house arrest to motherhood and higher education, these stories reflect the intersections of survival, justice, and power.