Oh Snap, Are We Hosting the Homies Again?

Peace y’all,

Over the weekend, I spent an overcast Sunday morning having brunch with Nicole A. Taylor and Adrian Franks, chosen family and fellow artists in Brooklyn. Usually when I see these two, I’m sprawled out on their Bed-Stuy living room floor in some passive yoga pose, which typically triggers their young son Garvey to presume we are playing a game, and my attempt at a cozy stretch suddenly turns into me becoming an airplane.

I always joke, who needs a $30 reformer Pilates class when you can get 30 minutes on the floor with a first grader? But on this day, we met at Rucola in Boerum Hill during the same time as the Brooklyn Marathon (among several dishes, we shared the French toast—carb loading in solidarity).

Allow me a moment to brag about my people: Adrian’s track record across digital and interactive design could fill a few books—experience with all the major corporate brands, plus collaborations with filmmaker Spike Lee and the estate of Jimi Hendrix, and his own independent line of eyewear. Nicole is a household name for folks in and beyond the food world—she writes and edits, and she consults on forthcoming restaurant builds. She’s so early on cultural trends that people forget she was usually there first, and has given so many notable names their first break. In the Maroon Life, one of my favorite couples is in conversation on a range of topics, but the common thread is building a life rooted in creation.

The show is named for their estate, the Maroon House, their second home and artist retreat in Nicole’s hometown of Athens, Georgia (Adrian is from Atlanta). “Maroon” refers to the countless self-emancipated Africans who fled bondage and created communities of their own throughout the Americas. The language, customs, rituals, and cuisines that emerged from these self-defined villages and towns still shape modern culture and geography, and they serve as inspiration. Even in the most desperate of times, with armed heathens at their back, these ancestors declared their “no” to a society that criminalized their humanity. They chose themselves and one another.

The Maroon House stands as an affirmation of heritage, autonomy, and the human need to rest and retreat, particularly among people of shared ideology and spirit. I’m one of many folks who’ve been able to take up space there to reconnect with self, watch the red birds among the many trees that surround the property, and stay up late at the fire pit while the group chat comes to life. Nicole is currently working on her fourth cookbook that centers entertaining, hosting, and the meals and new traditions that emerge from Maroon House gatherings (there have been many). I recommend cueing up their show while we wait for Nicole’s forthcoming project to land, it’s available wherever you do podcasts.

We appear to be on the precipice of several home entertaining books hitting shelves soon. Amber Mayfield Hewett’s Your Turn to Host, is expected this summer, a guide that distills years of planning major events and hosting a supper club into a DIY approach that rejects stress and performance for ease and genuine connection. I’ve seen other entertainment projects announced with a home focus. Recession indicator, or is hanging at the crib now being seen as a shift for other reasons?

I like that hosting is re-entering the chat with guidance on how to do it well, even if the publishing world is remiss in acknowledging that there are differences in what a successful night in can look like. (I can tell you, editors of all backgrounds are very concerned that you will only understand hosting advice if a white woman is the one advising you.)

Some of my best nights in the last few Covid-ish years weren’t at glitzy restaurants or dimly lit bars, although your girl does love closing a place down! They were spent channeling the homey vibes of my family members who played vinyl and card games in 1960s and 70s Los Angeles. My richest moments have been in the living rooms, backyards, and balconies of friends where the drinks are whatever you pull from their fridge, the stemware is mismatched, no name placards, and someone running around who’s young enough to be a “Ms. Rachel” fan. No closing time, no last call.