By Kevin Powell
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I cannot remember when I originally heard the phrase “from scratch,” but I realize those words have been with me since I was little. I am clear my mother was the first who said it to me, probably on a hungry day in our bug-infested apartment, one of uncountable times she would contemplate making something from nothing with meager resources. For sure, I would hear “from scratch” throughout my youth in various African American neighborhoods; and I still hear it, especially from Black women who, like my ma, had to be super-human beings working, raising, doctoring and nursing children, while cleaning, washing, ironing, folding and making food magically appear on the regular.
In fact, it was my mother’s stories about food from her birthplace in the Low Country of South Carolina that especially regaled me. How in that teeny, sleepy town half-way between Savannah and Hilton Head my mom, her parents and her three sisters and brother lived in a sun-battered, box-like wooden shotgun house constructed by my granddaddy with his bare, leathery hands, on a patch of dirt they owned, as they survived off chickens and pigs they bred, and the few vegetables, fruits and herbs grown.
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From scratch for my Grandma Lottie, my mother told me, might mean potting a stew made of odd plants, some rice and whatever scraps of meat they had any given week. Or my Grandfather Pearlie catching and skinning a wild raccoon to be seasoned and cooked. Or my Grandma Lottie whipping up some cornbread or pound cake with the scantest of elements. And from scratch also meant if there was an illness, my grandmother used what was right next to her, harvested from the land, to soothe and cure. That similarly entailed a healthy dose of spiritual practices, passed between generations—whatever it took, honestly, to exist. This notion of making something from nothing, of making life manifest from scratch, was stuffed inside my mother’s powder-blue luggage, tossed beneath a double-decker Greyhound bus, and migrated its way, with her and two of her sisters, to Jersey where I was born.
I had no idea how much of this was embedded in the dusty basement of my memory until I began watching, religiously, from scratch. There is no food and travel show like it on television, not in America, not in the world. It is riveting, addictive, inspirational. Hosted by actor David Moscow, and created and executive produced by him and his wife Karen, from scratch. is the food and travel docuseries we did not know we need.
To understand what from scratch. is and what David Moscow represents, visualize a dynamic fusion of Mister Rogers’ unrestricted empathy and kindness, Indiana Jones’ explosive bursts of curiosity and daredevil heroism, Howard Zinn’s passionate cravings to square history with contemporary realities, Tom Hanks’ boyish “wow” and “whoa” humility and Anthony Bourdain’s power-to-the-people relatability. This is what the charismatic and earnestly authentic David brings to the table.
But David Moscow is not a chef, nor does he pretend to be. What he is, well, is what we should aspire to: a remarkably adventurous life-seeker who loves people, all people, and someone on a mission to not only find out where the food we eat comes from, but also the process, the journey, of how food makes its way to our plates. from scratch. is simply just that.
However, what makes from scratch. such a dope game-changer is how David and Karen (one of the only Asian American women showrunners in television) and the team have melded the docuseries with David’s everyday people persona. Jumpstarted on Tastemade and now on Peacock, from scratch. is reality TV as the heart-shaped soul of a farmer’s market, or a slyly metaphorical Bob Dylan folk song posing as a pop moment. Because David does not run away from vocab like “domination” or “justice” or “the environment.” Because David crisscrosses America relentlessly in rental cars. Because David climbs an uncooperative tree in Mexico. Because David dives into a swirling rush of water, and almost drowns, in Sardinia. Because David hovers jaw-droppingly close to elephants—and bees—in Kenya.
Or: See David fish. See David forage. See David hunt. See David search far and near for the food ingredients, each edition, after consulting with a local chef during their initial meal. And see David bring back the ingredients he could legit retrieve, and prepare the food, with that local chef. Put plainly, David’s surprises are our surprises, his victories our victories, and his failures our failures, too. Because he is as human as the rest of us, which is precisely from scratch.’s mass appeal.
Across six seasons, 30 countries, and half of America, we are enlightened with terms like “organic” and “ecofriendly” and “sustainability” and “biodiversity” and “slow food movement.” We meet farming and fishing communities, local business owners, local protectors and healers of our planet: we, the people, in our splendidly different forms, shapes, sizes, identities, languages, dialects. In short, from scratch. is what legendary rapper KRS-One once called “edutainment,” what John Lennon sang about in "Imagine," what Dr. King named “the beloved community.”
Yes, David Moscow is a dreamer, and so am I. I got it from my mother. David got it from his mother and father. And ain’t nothing wrong with dreaming, from scratch, of healing our Earth with all that is right in front of us.
Kevin Powell is a Grammy-nominated poet, humanitarian, author of 16 books, filmmaker, public speaker and frequent contributor to Newsweek*. He lives in New York City. You can find him on social media platforms by typing poet kevin powell.*
The views expressed in this article are the writer's own.
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