Fresh Air - Best Of: Broadway legend André De Shields / Apache Chef Nephi Craig

Episode Date: July 25, 2026

At the age of 80, André De Shields is now on Broadway in “CATS: The Jellicle Ball.” He won a Tony in 2019 for his performance in “Hadestown” and co-stars in the new movie of the revival. He talks with Terry Gross about his Broadway debut in the original production of ‘The Wiz,’ living with HIV for almost 50 years, and why he walks like a king. Also, White Mountain Apache Chef Nephi Craig explains how cooking and teaching about indigenous foods saved his life. His memoir is ‘Our Knives Will Save Us.’  John Powers reviews Will Ferrell’s new series ‘The Hawk.’Subscribe to our free weekly newsletter Follow us on Instagram Subscribe to our YouTube channel Check out the Fresh Air ArchivesSee pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for sponsorship and to manage your podcast sponsorship preferences.NPR Privacy Policy

From W. H.Y.Y. in Philadelphia, I'm Terry Gross with Fresh Air Weekend. Today, Andre DeShields, at the age of 80, he's back on Broadway and cats the Jellicle Ball. He won a Tony for his performance in Hades Town and co-stars in the new film of The Revival. He made his Broadway debut in the title role of the 1975 original Broadway production of The Wiz. DeShields describes himself as Afro-queer, a longtime HIV series. survivor and unreformed hippie. He's always gone his own way in how he thinks, speaks, dresses, and moves. I don't rush anywhere. I walk slowly. My reputation is that Andre DeShield doesn't walk. He floats. Later, Apache chef Nepi Craig explains how cooking and teaching about indigenous foods

saved his life, and John Powers reviews Will Ferrell's new series The Hawk. That's coming up on Fresh Air Weekend. This is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Terry Gross. When Andre DeShield's name is mentioned, it's often preceded by the words Broadway legend or The Great. He won a Tony for his performance in the musical Hadesown in 2019, and the show won seven other Tonys, including Best Musical. Stars of the original Broadway cast reunited for a revival of the show last year in London. That production was filmed and is now showing in select theaters. Right now, DeShield's is one of the stars of cats, the Jellicle Ball, which won three Tonys last month. It uses the same songs as cats, but with different beats, and is set in the queer underground ballroom culture of the 80s. That show is closing August 8th. De Shields is especially remarkable, considering he's 80 and has been HIV positive since 1991. He grew up in Baltimore in what he describes as the innermost part of Baltimore's inner city and figured getting an education,

would be key to getting out. He earned his BA in English literature at the University of Wisconsin in Madison and an MBA in African American Studies from NYU. He started his career in experimental theater in Chicago. When his theater group performed in New York, he decided to stay. He soon got cast as the Wizard in the 1975 original Broadway cast of The Wiz, which was produced a few years before the movie. He was nominated for a Tony for his performance in the show, A.N. Misbehavin, which was built around music associated with Fats Waller, and he won an Emmy when it was produced for a 1982 NBC broadcast. He was nominated for another Tony for his performance in the Fulmante. He's performed in a wide range of dramas, including King Lear, waiting for Godot and

Death of His Salesmen. Let's start with Andre DeShields singing the opening number of Hades Town, in which he sets up the story and introduces the characters. The show tells a version, of the Greek myths about Hades, Hermes, Orpheus, and Eurydice. DeShields plays Hermes, the god who escorts the souls of the dead to the underworld, which is ruled by Hades. Here's DeShields from the original Broadway cast recording. Chaka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka, checka,

once upon the time there was a railroad line. Don't I swear, brother, don't I swear. It was the road to hell. It was hard times. It was a world of God. Andre DeShields, welcome to fresh air, congratulations on, I just think it's great. Did you ever believe that despite having being diagnosed with HIV in 1991 and believing that you had it considerably before that, but you just didn't have the diagnosis, that you'd not only live, that you'd not only live, live to see age 80, but that you'd be in a new film version of a musical you'd won a Tony

for, and at the same time you'd be on Broadway as one of the stars of cats, the Jellicle Ball. The answer to that question is yes. And my answer to that is no. I believed from my very first conscious thought that my destiny would rise up and meet me. So when my mother shared with me that her lifelong dream had been to be a chorus girl, and that was the term she used, she didn't say dancer, she said chorus girl. And my father shared with me that he had always wanted to be a singer. He had a beautiful ten of voice, but the closest he got to that dream coming true was to sing.

in the church choir. Those two bits of knowledge only reaffirmed what I had been dreaming about since the day I was born. I wanted to sing. I wanted to dance. HIV, when you had it in 91, it was a death sentence.

You had two partners who died of AIDS and friends as well, cast members who you work with. So you really thought you were going to be on Broadway at the age of 80? I didn't think I was going to be on Broadway at the age of 80, but I did know that I would be alive. And I did know that I would continue on my path. And I had already, in 1980, before there was an acronym H-I-V,

that I had had an infection. of my lymph nodes and not any one of three doctors on two continents could answer the question, what is this? Now, in 1979, when I had gone to London for the first time to perform in Ain't Misbehavin, there was already a friend of mine who caught a cold. And three days later, he was dead. So the mystery was already in the air. How can someone die from a cold? There's something going on that nobody understands.

So when my lymph notes blew up in 1980 in Los Angeles, on the tour of Ain't Misbehavin, I clocked it immediately. immediately. Whatever that mystery is, I'm beginning to decode it. I'm beginning to understand it. So you were symptomatic for 11 years before you were diagnosed? Yes. It's a long time. And when I finally got the clinical diagnosis, I had 16 T-cells. So I was near death, but I knew I wasn't going to die.

Wow. You know, Hades Town is about the souls of the dead. So seeing Hades Town made me think about the stories that human beings have told themselves over the centuries about why we are living and why we die. And the Greek myths are, you know, early examples of that. when you did Hades Town, when you were performing in it, and when you went back, which I imagine you did, to read the myths that Hades Town draws on, didn't it make you think about that, that the stories we've told ourselves about what happens after we die, how they've changed over time? I did exactly that. And I also, there's an African proverb, which is based on a bird. And the bird is called, a san kofa. It's a flightless bird, and it is known to walk deliberately forward, but every once in a while it looks over its shoulder. The lesson there is, if you do not know where you're coming from,

where you've been, you can't possibly know where you're headed, where you're going. And when I was asked to embody the role of Hermes. Not only did that proverb come to mind, but all of the close calls that I had experienced in my life came to mind, and I felt prepared to take on this role. Hermes is the creature that accompanies humans when they have to cross the river sticks

to visit in Hades. You can't get there if Hermes does not accompany you. How have you changed how you can perform on stage at the age of 80? No one is as limber, but you still move with such grace. Yes, Mr. Arthur has visited me. I've got arthritis. My knees are compromised. my joints ache. But I've got a doctor.

His name is Dr. Footlights. Her name. Her name is Dr. Footlights. And when I stand on that sage, and when those lights come up, and when the audience greets me, the pain disappears. My guest is Andre DeShield.

He's currently on Broadway and Katz the Jellicle Ball. He won a 2019 Tony for his performance in the musical Hades Town as Hermes. He's in the new film of last year's London revival of Hadesown that reunited stars of the original Broadway show. We'll hear more of our conversation after a break. This is Fresh Air Weekend. This is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Terry Gross.

Let's get back to my interview with Andre DeShields. He won a Tony for his performance as Hermes in the musical Hades Town. He plays the role again in a new movie of the show, which is now playing in theaters. He's currently on Broadway and Cats the Jellicle Ball. So I want to ask you about Cats the Jellicle Ball. It's set in the queer ballroom culture,

where there are drag competitions in different categories relating to like singing, dance, costumes. Were you a part of that at all, either as a participant or an observer? I was not a part of the bald culture, as we know it here in New York, and we give it a birth decade of the 80s. But I did know a phenomenon called the Jewel Box Review, and it toured the Chitland Circuit. I'm talking about the middle to late 50s in the last century. And the Chitland Circuit was like a circuit of like black theaters.

It started like in the vaudeville era, I think. Exactly. And in Baltimore, the theater was called the Royal. And of course, in the 60s, urban renewal raised it. And the cultural spine of the city died. However, I was able to see entertainment like my first Motown review at the Royal. I was able to see Moms Mabley at the Royal. I was able to see Flip Wilson at the Royal.

I was also able to see the Jewel Box Review, which was a company of men who dressed as women, and they were gorgeous. At that time, they were called transvest tights, which comes from, I think, the French word, the Travesti, but it's all about the idea that life is never what you think it is. Nothing is what it seems to be. And seeing the jewel box review was part of my education as an entertainer.

What did it mean to you, seeing people who drag performers? It meant that fantasy had to be in my toolbox. It meant that what we do in our actual lives is what I as a performer must do on the stage. I must fool people. I must pretend. The ancient Greek word for actor means hypocrite. We must tell a lie in order to get through the 24-hour drudgery of each day. Did seeing drag performers add to your desire and ability to dress in very non-conforming ways with like bright colors and like short shorts walking the streets of Manhattan?

You talked about how people would like kind of like walk in the opposite direction. You were so outstanding looking that it was kind of almost scary to some people. Yes, yes. Like so eccentric looking. Did that contribute to you feeling? that you wanted to and were able to wear whatever you wanted to and call attention to yourself in a very colorful and fashionable way, original way. But now, Terry, you and I have only spoken for a few minutes,

and we don't really know one another. But I'll bet you already know that I'd like to wax poetic. And wearing bright colors, and saying, pay attention to me, even to the point of deliberately slowing my gate. I don't rush anywhere. I walk slowly. My reputation is that Andre DeShields doesn't walk. He floats. But this is because each of us, if we want to do something as commonplace as be happy, and if you want to do something as exceptional as being called a legend, then one really must commit to being his best self.

What are some of the things you've seen change on Broadway over the years? Because you started on Broadway in the 70s. And also as a black actor, there aren't necessarily a whole lot of opportunities now either, for black actors, but there's more than there were. Yet you managed to be in two of the shows with Black cast, Aymus Behavin, and The Wiz. Well, you've explained it in a nutshell. In the early 70s, Broadway was an inhospitable terrain for black actors and black audiences. And with the advent of the Wiz that all changed. Part of the change had to do with the decision by the producer Ken Harper to take some of the money and invested in live action TV commercials so that we could lean into the living room and speak to our brethren who is sitting on the couch and say to them, don't sit there and become a couch potato.

There's something that represents you playing on Broadway. You no longer have any reason to avoid it. You have a reason to come and become part of it. So the Wiz opened that door for the growth of a black audience on Broadway and an invitation to black artists to perform on Broadway. Your father who wanted to be a singer sang in church. How churchy was your family, and was that your first stage? The family wasn't very churchy, but they were pious people.

They read their bibles on a daily basis, and everyone prayed for me, and I didn't have to wonder why. I knew that I was the blackest of the black sheep and the family, and my mother particularly would take me to revival meetings, and when the preacher would ask for people to come down to the makeshift pulpit, people who wanted to know Jesus, my mother would always look at me, and that was encouragement enough. And I would go down and I would get on my knees,

and I would, in quotes, accept Christ as my Savior. Not only did it please the preacher, but it pleased my mother. But it wasn't real? Oh, of course not. And I'm not making fun of it. I'm just saying, I was, being a good child. I was pleasing my mother. But I knew I wanted to sing the devil's music. I wanted to go rip-roaring through life, not cast caution to the wind, but have a great time being

myself. Your parents both wanted to be in showbizabeth. Your parents both wanted to be in showbiz. your mother, a chorus girl, your father a singer, and you felt that you kind of inherited their dreams that they couldn't fulfill, and you fulfilled them. But what was their reaction when they learned that you were really serious about being a performer? Did they encourage you? Ultimately, I was encouraged.

In the beginning, when people would ask me, Andre, what are you going to do when you grow up? And my response was I'm going to be a star. And they looked at me as if I had two heads. And then I managed to leave the neighborhood and be the first of that community to attend college. And they started to believe that I was a miracle maker. And while I was a junior in college,

The head of the drama department came to me and said Are you in the drama department? I said, no, I'm studying English. Why? Do you want to know? He said, well, I think this campus would benefit from a production of Lorraine Hansberry's

Raisin in the Sun. But there aren't enough black students, let alone in the drama department for me to do this. But I can do it by inviting people from the town to join us. I just can't find the boy to play Walter Lee younger, and I would like you to do that. Now, all my young life I kept close to my vest

that I wanted to be an actor. And here was the blessing being offered to me. So members of my family took the bus all the way out to Wilmington, Ohio. Not the entire family, but enough of the family to see me at the age of 19 perform as Walter Lee younger and a raisin in the sun. And that's when it happened. Wow, Andre, you really have talent. And then the support began to grow.

What do you think the drama teacher saw in you that made him or her realize that you belonged on stage? First of all, he saw a black male student. Second of all, he saw a young man who carried himself as if he were a king, which I still do. My mission, my journey is to discover the throne to which I know. I am heir. So that's what I carry in my mind, in my heart, and in my viscera. As I walked on the quad when I was 19 years old at Wilmington College in Ohio, and that drama teacher, he witnessed the drama.

And he knew this young man has it in him to play Walter Lee Younger, who had the hugest chip on his shoulder, Walter the Young as the character in Raisin in the Sun, and at 19, by playing that character, I was able to dissolve the chip that was on my shoulder. What was the chip that was on your shoulder? I'm a black man, and I'm tired of being taken advantage of. You did this to me.

I can't get anywhere, and it's your fault. That's the chip. I can get anywhere I want, and it's my doing. And what dissolved that chip was embodying a character who couldn't get rid of? Exactly. Couldn't get rid of it? Yes. And seeing how that hurt him?

Exactly. That's essential to Raisin and the Son, Walsely Younger, who's supposed to be the man of the family, blames everything on Mr. Whitey. And the mother says to him, oh, stop. Andre DeShales, it's been wonderful talking with you. Thank you so much. It was my pleasure. Thank you.

André Des Shields is currently on Broadway and Cats the Jellicle Ball. And he plays Hermes in the new film of the musical Hades Town. It's now in select theaters for a limited run. In the new TV series The Hawk, Will Ferrell stars as a zany, former golf star who's trying to regain his mojo and become a champion again. Our critic at large John Power says that the show has its flaws but delivers exactly what you would expect from Farrell. goofy good humor that's too wild

even to be a parody of the traditional comeback story. The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein was one of the daunting intellects of the 20th century. But when it came to entertainment, he liked dumb comedies. Never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness, he wrote, but come down into the green valleys of silliness. Few stars have spent more time roaming these valleys than Will Ferrell,

Ever since becoming beloved on Saturday Night Live, he's specialized in a brand of surreal, light-hearted goofiness, striking for its lack of meanness. His trademark role is that of the blusterous man-child or overgrown boy. In Hollywood hits like Elf, Anchorman, and Talladega Nights, he used that persona to create carnival-esque movies. They blend genre parodies, musical numbers, physical schick, mockery of male bravado, and moments of bottom-bearing slapstick, far bolder than you find in his

more guarded peers, like Adam Sandler and Ben Stiller. But movie comedy has fallen on hard times, and like many others, he's turned to Netflix for a new series, The Hawk. Working a similar turf, if not style, to Sandler's Happy Gilmore, it's an amiable-shambley golfing comedy that finds him to all the familiar Will Ferrell things. Although he's an acquired taste I've never fully acquired, I found myself laughing enough to watch all ten half-hour episodes. He plays Lonnie Hawkins, a.k. A.k. A.m. S.A. The Hawk. A. Self-absorbed pro-golfer, who was number one in the world in 2004. Then he choked on his final put of the U.S. Open

and went into a tailspin that's kept him off the PGA tour for years. Still hoping to get back to the top, he plays small tournaments along with his new caddy Sam. That's Fortune Feemster, a freewheeling lesbian he stumbles across in a Walmart parking lot. With her help, Haught goes in a hot streak and gets back on the tour. Much of the delight of his adoring fans, who always loved the braggadocio and crowd-pleasing antics that enraged the stuffed shirts of the golf establishment. Not everyone is delighted by his return. His mere presence annoys his foul-tongued ex-wife Stacy,

that's Molly Shannon, and unleashes an edible meltdown on his son, Lance. That's Jimmy Tatro, also a professional golfer, a muscled up ball of tension, engaged to a wellness influencer who, in a witty twist, is the one character who isn't bonkers. Lonnie and Lance head toward the inevitable golfing showdown, alongside their smug nemesis, played by Luke Wilson.

The question becomes, how can Lonnie win the open and reconcile with his son? Naturally, Lonnie's golfing methods are certifiably inane. Here at the team, he has an imaginary conversation with his golf ball before unleashing a mighty drive. What do we got here, little Callaway One? Want to go for a little ride? Huh? What's that?

You're going to have to speak a lot. louder than that. Oh, you want to go far. You want to go into outer space. You'll go flying through that air, screaming your head off with pure ecstasy as you explode into the cosmos. Okay, let's do it. Let's go for a ride. Now, silly comedies need to be short. The hawk clocks in it nearly five hours, more than three hours longer than any of Farrell's hits. The story's too thin, to support such length, even when buttressed by amusing shenanigans, of which there are plenty. There are songs and fantasy sequences, surprise cameos, and insults whizzing around like gunfire. There's a ludicrous scene at a urinal, a hilariously deployed pickle jar, a nifty gag about a tower made of donuts,

even a throwaway joke about E.M. Forster's novel Morris, a reminder that dumb comedies are made by smart people. And of course there's Farrell. A famously nice guy whose annoying comic style is as polarizing as he himself is not. Lonnie is a good role for him, in part because he's a devoted golfer who often turns up at celebrity pro-ams, and partly because he may identify a bit with the hawk. Although his fans still love him, his biggest movies were back in the aughts. With his large frame and suburbation, with his large frame and suburban dad's bland face, just perfect for portraying self-delighted narcissism, Farrell gives Lonnie his all. Whether flying into a panicked frenzy when he's trapped inside a car for ten seconds, singing the baby-back ribs jingle, or looking stunned when people say he's

heartless for doing something heartless. Where there's usually something nasty lurking within comics who play overgrown boys, Sandler excels at dark dramatic roles. Farrell always exudes innocence. Even though Lonnie lets everyone down who loves him, he never really feels like a bad guy. As the Hawks sloped toward its sneaky, quasi-sentimental ending, I found myself respecting Farrell's love of and commitment to unabashed silliness. Although, like Lonnie Hawkins, he's a bit too old for the young man's game he's playing. He still pulls off some unreal shots. John Powers reviewed The Hawk, Will Ferrell's new Netflix series. Coming up, a leader in the movement of Native American cuisine talks about how indigenous food saved his life. This is

Fresh Air Weekend. This is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Terry Gross. My next guest is a leader in the movement of Native American cuisine, eating, cooking, and teaching about that food. saved his life. He became addicted to alcohol and drugs at an early age. After his first DUI, the judge gave him the option of three months probation if he agreed to get and keep a job or go to college. He opted for attending Scottsdale Community College, where he took cooking classes. He eventually got a job, learned about restaurant kitchens, and became a chef at the finest fine dining restaurant in Phoenix. But he also kept getting fired from jobs for being drunk, hung over, not showing up, or being in jail. During time in jail, he was lucky to get work

in the kitchen, where he learned how to design meals with whatever food they were given. When he got out, he kept relapsing. He completed nine rehabs and ran away from five others. Now he's drawing on the more hellish parts of his life, as well as his expertise, to be the Nutritional Covery Program Coordinator at the Tribe-owned Rainbow Treatment Center. working with people recovering from substance abuse. As a behavioral health technician, he collaborates on treatment plans for the center's clients. In 2021, he opened Cafe Gojou,

a restaurant on the reservation that's a place for the community to eat and talk. For members of the staff, it functions as a vocational training program for the treatment center. He also founded the Native American Culinary Association, NACA, and now he's written a memoir called, Our Our knives will save us. Dispatches from a White Mountain Apache chef. His mother is White Mountain Apache. His father is Dinah Navajo. Nephi grew up on both reservations. Nephi, Craig, welcome to fresh air. And congratulations on your 15 years of sobriety. That is really great. So before we get into your personal story, which is pretty interesting, let's talk a little bit about food, the foods that are indigenous to Native people and to America. and to the Americas. Let's start with tomato, because I know learning that tomato was an indigenous food

really meant a lot to you. Yeah, it did. I had no idea that the tomato was an indigenous cultivar growing up. I think it's pretty common for a lot of people to feel that way. And for me, as a young kid, I was studying in culinary school, and I came across this info that it was native to the Americas, And it just brought this really big smile to my face. I was like, wow, this tomato is not Italian.

It's native like me. And that was empowering because as you're in cooking school, you're being taught all of these other world cuisines. And as a Native American in Arizona, you don't really see yourself represented in really anything, let alone cookbooks and culinary school curriculum. So that was a neat point of validation for me that grew into many other.

interests. I want to hear about acorns because that's a real staple, and I don't think about acorns and eating them. I see squirrels eating them all the time. And Apaches. And Apaches. Well, acorns are very special because they can be eaten all over North America on the West Coast and on the East Coast and across the United States.

They have to be leached, of course, which is a process to pull out the real tannic bitterness from the acorns. What makes our acorn special is that they don't necessarily have to be leached. They suppose they could be, but they've always been harvested by our people along the Moghion Rim in Arizona for thousands of years. And they can be eaten right out of the shell. They're ground up into powders into like a yellow acorn flour. And it's added to a lot of different things from like sprinkled on roasted meats or

especially cooked in stews. really good like that. What about acorn soup? We referred to as acorn stew. So it's usually a lot of bones, whether it's beef, for elk or deer, chunks of meat, and it's simmered for a long time until it's really soft. And then the acorn flour is sprinkled in towards the end, and sometimes squash is added, and a lot of times they'll be like flour dumplings or corn dumplings added in. It's real, real simple, real homey, but really distinct Apache flavors. You often make that with racket bread. What is that? It's a traditional Apache bread. It's called racket bread because it's cooked on a tool that looks

like a tennis racket. So it has this like long metal handle and there's this wire circle at the end of it and there's like steel grates or wire strands woven to make it look like a long tennis racket. And that is placed directly on top of hot coals and Apache ladies usually just stretch out the dough and put it right on the coals and it. puffs up really quick. So it's really delicious. A lot of people associate fry bread with indigenous culture. And you associate fry bread with colonialism. Can you explain? Well, it's not an indigenous food. It has this lasting legacy with us. And foods that were distributed required a ration card. And you might get flour, some beef, some dried beef, maybe some rice and potatoes, maybe some coffee and sugar.

Ration lists varied from place to place, but they were pretty much always going to contain flour and lard. And so fry bread emerges, some say in the southwest, and there's big debates about where and who did it first. But if you look across all of Native America, from Florida to New York, to the Great Plains, to the Midwest, to the Pacific Northwest, and the American Southwest, every tribe has frybred as a result of military food rations. and that grows into these food traditions that, you know, are a part of our reality today. So as I teach it, I teach it in a way that hopefully can promote responsibility and food choices, not to take it away, but to be aware. I think most people who aren't Native in America associate indigenous food with Thanksgiving, which means turkey and pumpkin and corn.

Squash I know is really important to indigenous cuisine. Are there ways that you use it that other American cultures don't? Well, I'll put it this way. For major American holidays like Thanksgiving, everyday staples like turkey, corn, and squash and cranberries, those are all important indigenous foods. And when people ask me what recipes or what ways do we prepare Native foods differently or the question comes up, how come I haven't heard of a Native American restaurant or why are there no Native American cookbooks, I usually will say, well, you've been eating Native American foods and cuisine since, as long as you can remember, it's just that the stories are not told.

All of American cuisine, every region in the United States is built on the landscapes or the, the ancestral terroir of Native American foods and food traditions. So you can say Boston baked beans, barbecue, in the American Southwest, there's companion planting and dry farming, the hunting and fishing and agricultural bounty of the Northwest. All of these landscapes inform our diets as everyday Americans. So when we think about how we prepare different ingredients, I think it's pretty straightforward and simple.

We like to roast them, simmer them, turn them into pies just like everyone else sometimes. But Native foods have been there the whole time. So you became fascinated with cooking because your mother was a good cook and a great baker. But you first studied cooking after your first DUI arrest when you were age 18. And the judge gave you the option of three years probation if you got a job or went to school. So you went to Scottsdale Community College and studied cooking there. And even though I think the school was located on reservation land, do I have that right? Yeah, the Salt River Indian Reservation.

But none of the students that you encountered were native. There were a lot of natives on campus, just none in the culinary program. Oh, okay. And you'd never heard of most of the dishes. What were some of the dishes that you'd never heard of? You had no idea what they were. Things like risotto, the weird. The weirdest one was vichy suez, hearing all the terms like mirpois, hearing, like, I didn't know what a bistro meant.

And when I would ask these questions, like, what does that mean? It was like everyday language to the other students. And it was just kind of, I felt like an oddball. You know what I mean? So it was definitely a form of a culture shock. But it was intriguing for me, and I liked it. I didn't let it shut me down too much. But I was definitely aware that I was different culturally from a food standpoint.

So you write that in school, because your teacher was a chef, that you were taught that your reply should be yes, chef or no chef. Were you uncomfortable with that kind of hierarchical structure in kitchens or in school where it was like, yes, chef, no chef? You write it reminded you of an abusive sergeant in the movie Full Metal Jacket. What reminded you of that? No, it didn't really throw me off. I actually liked it because it reminded me of one of our favorite movies. And I think he says, like, the only thing out of your filthy sewers is, sir, yes, sir. And everyone laughs when we watch it at home.

So, and I knew that I needed structure. I wanted something tough. And when I got into cooking, it turned out that it could be very tough. It wasn't always very tough. But depending on what kitchen you got into, it could be like that. And your father was in the military, right? Yeah, my father was the United States Marine. He was a sergeant and a sharpshooter.

And your grandfather was a code talker. This was a group of Native Americans who used Native American languages and codes to share things that the military and intelligence needed to keep secret. Yeah, so I come from a family of United States Marines. My dad's dad, Bob at Citi Craig, was a Navajo Code Talker. He served on Guam, Guadal, and was wounded on Iwojima. The Navajo Codalkers created a code to send transmissions that helped to win the war. And so I grew up in that tradition, and all the great men of my life were that. And so I kind of looked up to the discipline and the rigor of that lifestyle.

After your, I don't know, second or third DUI, well, during the time, that DUI, someone was seriously injured. The passenger of the car that you crashed into was seriously injured. So you did time for that. You spent a few months in jail and you got to work in the kitchen. So I'm really interested in hearing about cooking in prison. What exactly was your position? Well, it was just one of the cooks. It was in county jail and it was nothing glamorous, but it was industrial style cooking. What made it stand out is that I was bunched in with the other Native Americans. And in jail we call ourselves chiefs, or somehow we didn't get that name, but the group of chiefs.

And getting to meet some of the people that were cooking there, all of their different varied stories and the things that they were in for, but also banding together to feed, I just think it was like 7,800, 800, in-year. a day was really eye-opening. It showed me that I was not above or below any style of cooking. And it was a cultural moment where I was reminded that no matter what, we bless our food as natives, that no matter what, we pray and offer gratitude as natives. Coming from a time and a place that didn't seem like that would be where it came from, I guess, you know what I mean? You cook for 7,800 people a day Because the facility you're in, I think supplied the food for all the other jails in the county, am I right?

Yeah, it was a thing they called it, they nicknamed it the food factory There was literally probably about 200 inmates on a chain gang walking to work every day to do that So you had to make do with whatever you were given, and sometimes it was like expired food probably. Oh, yeah, man. It was crazy because, you know, at that level, food's coming in from food banks and donation centers and whatnot. And we would pull out pallets and pallets of frozen ingredients, which they were frozen, but it was still like one year, six months, three months expired. So temperature control was really a big thing. so it had to get above certain temperatures for X amount of time.

But again, it's jail. So, like, you know, I don't think the staff really cared too much. It was just to feed the masses. Give me an example of what you thought was a good dish and what you thought was, like, I'm really sorry I have to give this to people to eat. Oh, man. Well, we made this really big batch of squash soup, just pallets and pallets of frozen butternut squash.

but we did have a big like 10 pound 20 pound bags of pre-cut onions so we're able to give it some depth and there was some like corn syrup laying around so we made it kind of a a sweet like almost like a butternut squar spisk I guess you could say and it turned out nice then another time one thing that I I didn't regret giving to the to the inmates but it was we had this two huge pallets of like this really fresh amazing asparagus that as a chef and a cook you really like and appreciate. We had to just boil that to death. It just turned camouflage green and it was just plopped into trays.

It was so bad. It was so sad to see all that hard work from the farms being just, you know, killed and mashed and put it into green slop. So what did you learn from having to make do with a kind of misalini of expired food? Oh, I think my. My journey to becoming a chef and the way that I've learned, it's really anchored in a lot of moments that could be humiliating for others. And it was that for me, certainly,

but it also taught me a sense of humility and that cooking is very human. And no matter what's happening in the kitchens, at the end of the day, we're feeding people to keep them alive. So it was really humanizing. Your specialty in the kitchen is knife work. Your memoir opens with you selling your knives. These were knives that you got while you were cooking in Japan. And you were selling them because you were broke.

You were living in your mother's home. Your father had died soon before of a rare stomach cancer. So you needed money for alcohol. And all you can think of doing, because you didn't have a job at this point, all you could think of doing was selling these really special knives that you'd gotten in Japan. Like what made them so special? Well, addiction strips away everything slowly. It's this terrible, terrible affliction that just causes you to devalue yourself and all of your belongings.

And as my life stripped away of people, places and things, like places to live, finances, resources, the last things that I held on to were always my chef knives, because I knew if I had my chef knives, I could find a job anywhere in the world, literally, because by that time I had already traveled around the world. And so I held on to those to the very, very, very end. And around 2011, those were some of the last things I was willing to pawn off or sell on the street. These knives were special because I had got them on a trip to Japan in 2007, where I prepared a seven-course tasting menu of Western Apache cooking and cuisine at the Imperial Hotel of Oval. Osaka. So I had, I cherished these knives because they were like samurai swords. They were made

by a knife maker whose ancestors made samurai swords and were samurai. And I brought them back to the States with me and I still have one of them with me, but I sold those other ones and it was terrible because, you know, it's just the name of the game. Things that you find very valuable, you were willing to sell off just to get high again. And that's the way that that was for me. Well, congratulations on all the work you've been doing. Congratulations on your sobriety. And thank you so much for joining us on the show today. I really appreciate it.

Thank you for having me. Nephi Craig's new memoir is called Our Knives Will Save Us, Dispatches from a White Mountain Apache Chef. Fresh Air Weekend is produced by Teresa Madden. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our engineer today is Adam Stanishefsky. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Bledonado, Lauren Crenzold, Monique Nazareth, Thea Chaloner, Susan Yucundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper. Our co-host is Tanya Mosley. I'm Terry Gross.