Now, the family of 65-year-old Arthur Janis is seeking an apology.

“They continued to deny that they cut his hair,” said Keith Janis, a member of the Oglala Lakota Nation, of his brother. “They tried to make us all sound crazy.”

On Thursday, UCHealth officials released a statement saying they had determined through an investigation that Arthur Janis arrived at their hospital with shoulder-length hair that hospital staff cut shorter to prevent the intensive care patient from developing a pressure ulcer.

Dan Weaver, UCHealth’s vice president of communications, said the patient was not identified as someone with Native American roots before hospital staff cut his hair.

“Our medical team acted appropriately given the information they had available to them and the acute medical needs of the patient,” Weaver wrote in the statement. “We continue to work with the family to coordinate his ongoing care.”

Keith Janis said his brother was medically transported from Rapid City, South Dakota, to UCHealth University of Colorado Hospital in August after suffering severe chest and stomach pain. Arthur Janis experienced blood clotting and a stroke while at UCHealth, leaving him drifting in and out of consciousness, Keith Janis told The Post in an interview. Arthur remains hospitalized there.

Family members from across the country visited Arthur Janis in the hospital, but expenses kept them from staying long, his brother said.

In October, UCHealth staff arranged a video call between Arthur Janis and his sister so she could check in on him. Keith Janis said his sister noticed Arthur’s waist-length hair had been chopped short, seemingly haphazardly.

“All of us have long hair because it’s a part of our culture,” Keith Janis said. “In Lakota culture, hair has all the memories of your whole life. It has the love of your mother who brushed it and braided it and poured her love and strength into it.”

UCHealth’s Weaver said Arthur Janis had matted hair at the back of his head and that his medical team had to “carefully trim” for health reasons. He said the hospital could share some information about Arthur’s situation with permission from his sister, who is his medical decision-maker and has medical power of attorney.

When a Lakota tribal member dies, Keith Janis said their long hair is cut and becomes part of a memorial for their family members.

“The hair is so important to us and has real cultural significance,” Keith Janis said.

Seeing his brother’s hair cut was particularly gutting to Keith Janis because it transported him back to the memory of himself and Arthur being forcibly separated from their parents as children and taken to a Native American boarding school, where their hair was cut against their will.

“We have been growing it out since then,” Keith Janis said.

Upset by the haircut, Keith Janis raised money for himself and other Indigenous activists to travel to Colorado and learn about what had happened. In early November, Keith Janis and loved ones made the trip from South Dakota. Keith Janis said he and his group were met at UCHealth by “a security detail.”

“We didn’t come in stomping and yelling or making a scene,” Keith Janis said. “We’re all very humble people. We just wanted to see Arthur.”

Keith Janis met with UCHealth staff multiple times, asking what happened to his brother’s hair. He provided The Post with recordings of those meetings, which appear to show UCHealth officials telling the Janis family that Arthur had his long hair when he entered their care but returned to the hospital from the Center at Lowry, a medical recovery and rehabilitation facility, having had his hair cut.

A recording of a meeting with Center at Lowry staff that Keith Janis provided to The Post documented an employee there saying she was comfortable testifying under oath that Arthur did not have his hair cut at their facility.

UCHealth told Keith Janis in the recordings that the situation was under investigation and that staff would review surveillance footage and conduct employee interviews. But Keith Janis said he’s only been provided a couple of blurry still photographs from the security footage, and that UCHealth has not shown him any video.

As news of the situation spread, CU Regent Nolbert Chavez said he wanted answers from UCHealth about what happened, noting the connection between the university and the hospital on CU’s Anschutz Medical Campus.

Chavez said UCHealth officials offered two different explanations to him and other CU leaders, first saying they had video that showed Arthur Janis initially arriving at the hospital with short hair, then claiming to have footage showing Arthur leaving the hospital with long hair and returning from the rehab facility with shorter hair.

“UCHealth has lied to the Board of Regents, to the community and to the family that they have a video that proves their position,” Chavez said. “They continue to withhold it and therefore I believe that it either doesn’t exist or doesn’t show what they say it does. They have lied to everyone.”

Chavez said he plans to ask his fellow regents to review how UCHealth board members are appointed in light of this incident.

Before heading back to South Dakota, Keith Janis filed a report with the Aurora Police Department. Joe Moylan, a spokesman for Aurora police, confirmed the department is investigating the incident, but said he couldn’t share any additional information due to the active investigation.

Keith Janis said UCHealth officials eventually called his sister, Arthur Janis’s medical proxy, in November and admitted the hospital did cut their brother’s hair

“I decided I’d call an even bigger group together and get down there and demand from them an apology for the humiliation they put me and all my relatives through and them knowing they cut his hair and lying to us,” Keith Janis said.

Keith Janis and his loved ones traveled back to UCHealth on Thanksgiving — a day he noted represents loss and genocide to Native American people.

“We demanded an apology from them for what they have put us through,” Keith Janis said. “A public apology from that hospital because of all the lies and deception. They wouldn’t give it. We have not gotten our apology.”

The family is now looking into legal options, he said.

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“I learned from my grandmother, Ethel Black Crow, and my aunt, Rose Spotted Eagle, when I was real young,” the 76-year-old Denver-based Oglala Lakota artist said. “I’ve been doing it all my life.”

Quillwork is an art form that uses porcupine quills to embroider clothing and make jewelry, and it is one of the oldest artistic traditions practiced by Indigenous North Americans, mostly in the northern plains of what is now the U.S. and across Canada.

To Bull Bear, who is from the Medicine Root District of the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, quillwork products are as precious as gemstones.

“Quillwork is like wearing diamonds,” Bull Bear said. “Quillwork is sacred. It was here before the beadwork people do now.”

Bull Bear is one of many artists who patronize and sell their art at the reopened Orr’s Trading Post, a Native arts supply store that has long been an important community hub for Indigenous people.

New owner Lakota Sage wants to expand Orr’s 133-year legacy as a community hub and arts store into a destination for authentic Indigenous arts.

Formerly located in Englewood and Denver and operated by the Orr family for generations, the new owner, Lakota Sage, reopened the store in Lakewood at 9797 W. Colfax Ave. in February after the previous owners decided to close down.

Orr’s has always offered Denver’s Indigenous community a place to buy supplies to make regalia, practice traditions and create art; even Bull Bear’s grandmother used to buy supplies at Orr’s when it was on Colorado Boulevard in Denver.

“Most people come here to buy supplies, so when word started getting around it was closing, the community started freaking out a little,” Sage, a Lakota citizen of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, said of why he restarted the business.

This new location continues the business’ legacy of serving Denver’s Indigenous community, but Sage also wants it to be a place where people who are not Indigenous can come to see and buy local artists’ artwork.

Here, Sage hopes, they can also learn about sacred traditions and see that Indigenous art and culture is alive and well in Denver.

“The more we can have representation, the better,” Sage said. “Because we are still here; we’re still remembered.”

That’s also why Bull Bear said being able to sell her work at Orr’s is so important to her: Not only is quillwork sacred, but here in Denver, the skill is a rarity.

Bull Bear is the only practicing plains quillwork artist in the area; many people stopped doing quillwork to take up the less complicated beading art that is most commonly associated with Indigenous embroidery now. She’s started classes in Denver to keep the tradition alive here.

“They say it’s a dying art, but if people like me teach it, I think we can keep it alive,” she said. “It’s really a blessing to try and teach it to new generations. We need to take care of it.”

Newer local artists also get a chance to show people their work at Orr’s.

Tom Salazar, an Indigenous third-generation Coloradan, is a self-taught artist who sells beaded jewelry at Orr’s and buys a lot of his supplies there. His art is also meant to show people Native American traditions are still alive, and he said Orr’s is the perfect place to teach people about art through his and others’ work.

“Art is something I like to do so people don’t forget where we came from,” Salazar said. “A lot of people don’t see Native art as something somebody put their heart and soul into. When I make something, I genuinely have a love for my ancestry and love for the community to where I want to make it authentic.

“A place like Orr’s is a great place for the community to make and see authentic jewelry.”

Sage also has branched the store out for more than just the beadwork and regalia-making products.

Other wares include macaw feathers for Nahua, or Aztec, people of Mexico; shells of all types, sea stars and urchins for coastal nations and Pacific Islanders; painted beads from Peru; and katchina dolls, ancestral spirits of the Hopi and Pueblo people of the Southwest, are all available at Orr’s.

“There’s something for everybody here,” Sage said. And that goes for non-Indigenous people, too.

A whole section of the store is dedicated to naturopathy, with traditional teas that have healing properties lining a wall and sages, sweetgrass and palo santo available for ceremonies and smudging. Stones with different astrological and healing purposes are also available in different sizes and shapes for different uses.

“It’s not just a store for Natives; it’s a store for everybody,” Sage said. “The idea behind that is the more people we can get in here, the more these local Native artists can be seen and our culture appreciated. It’s a helping hand for everybody.”

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Editor’s note: This story was updated at 9 a.m. on Tuesday, Dec. 5, 2023, to include the address of Orr’s Trading Post. It was omitted because of an editing error.

“Get Ready with Me” videos are everywhere these days, and they’re as straightforward as the name suggests. Social media users, often influencers, invite viewers to watch them get ready to do something or go somewhere. And embedded in the storyline are the skin care, the makeup, the hairdo and all the glam that goes into looking hot — and, of course, the personal stories about life or love that arrest your attention.

GRWM videos, as they’re also known, are part of a trend of “with me” content that has gained popularity over the past decade. Think “Clean with Me” videos where users watch people clean their homes for inspiration or pleasure. Or hours-long “Study with Me” videos for students who want buddies for intense cramming sessions but don’t have any friends nearby.

More than a decade after debuting on YouTube in the days when creator content was still relatively new, “Get Ready with Me” videos and their personal sensibilities have inundated social media thanks to a shorter iteration of the genre, which seems to have lent them a more personal and even revelatory tone.

“For creators, this is a vehicle for storytelling,” says Earnest Pettie, a trends insight lead at YouTube. “It becomes an excuse to share something about your life.”

The videos have made everyday tasks a core staple of our online diets on platforms like YouTube by drawing in viewers who find it either informative, communal, or both.

Consumers, for the most part, seem to be really into it. In a report released in August, YouTube said there were more than 6 billion views of videos titled with variations of “grwm” at that point in the year. On TikTok, videos with the hashtag “grwm” have been viewed more than 157 billion times.

Celebrities and “it girls” have hopped on the bandwagon, often to promote their brands or as part of Vogue’s “Beauty Secrets” series, which draws from the trend. In April, model Sofia Richie Grainge joined TikTok and posted a series of Get Ready with Me videos to offer fans an inside look into her wedding.

In the initial years of the genre, Pettie says, people would simply put on makeup in front of the camera. Soon after, the videos evolved to what is seen today — content creators getting glammed up while talking to their followers about whatever’s on their minds.

It experienced another revival in recent years with the popularity of short-form video, TikTok’s bread-and-butter — which was cloned by YouTube and Instagram in the form of Shorts and Reels, respectively.

The genre is being adopted by up-and-coming creators who might be uncomfortable sharing a story in a video without doing anything else, says Nicla Bartoli, the vice president of sales at Influencer Marketing Factory. Adding activities has the tendency to make content feel less heavy and more inviting, especially to viewers who’ve never come across the creator but are interested in what they’re doing.

Because users also tend to scroll quickly on TikTok, creators must capture a viewer’s attention right away before they move on to the next thing on their “For You” page. More engagement means more popularity, which typically leads to partnerships with companies eager to pay influencers through brand deals or other means.

“The level of compelling stories has been increasing a lot,” says Bartoli, whose company connects influencers with brands who want to partner with them to promote products. “It can be because it’s more crowded. You need to step up the game, so to speak.”

One of the most-known influencers in this arena is 22-year-old Alix Earle, who shares her experiences with struggles like acne, an eating disorder and panic attacks as well as lighthearted episodes about nights out with friends. She has nearly 6 million followers on TikTok.

Alisha Rei, 18, who lives in Toronto and models, says she wants to create viral social media content to help her build her following and, in turn, her modeling career. She says her friends told her to make Get Ready with Me videos because they tend to be popular.

Because of modeling events, Rei says she’d missed some shifts at her part-time job working at a mall shoe store. So she decided to make a “get ready with me to get fired” video while doing her makeup before she went back for another shift. The video was tagged #pleasedontbelikeme.

In an interview, Rei, a college freshman, says she received a warning from her manager but didn’t get fired. “God is good,” she says.

Often, behind the “getting ready” content lurk other, more commercial messages.

Bartoli notes that many of the confessional videos do more than they might first appear: They can provide more engagement from users who want to receive updates on a story that’s being shared or know more about the products creators are using. That can make the videos good for product placements and encourage brand partnerships, which, according to Goldman Sachs, is the largest source of income for creators. The investment bank said in a report earlier this year that the creator economy is worth $250 billion today and could roughly double in size by 2027.

Allie Pribula, a 25-year-old TikToker who used to be an elementary school teacher in the Philadelphia suburbs, says she started making GRWM videos as a way to process her feelings about her old job. Pribula says some companies have since reached out to her to offer gifts and have paid her to market products on her page. She says she considers it a “side hustle.”

Camilla Ramirez Diaz, a 25-year-old optician who lives in Burlingame, California, recently bought a freckle pen that was featured on GRWM videos she watches at night to wind down her day. Diaz prefers to watch them more on TikTok, where she says the content can be a bit more personal. She cites a video she recently came across from an influencer who was getting ready while stranded in London due to an expired passport.

“Its almost like you’re watching your friend on FaceTime with you,” Diaz says. “I could sit there all day and watch Get Ready with Me videos from different creators. They’re just a mix of everything.”

___

Haleluya Hadero writes about Amazon, retail and internet culture for The Associated Press. Follow her work at https://apnews.com/author/haleluya-hadero

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Kristin Taylor and Macie Mincey founded KT Winery in 2020 because they were tired of traditional wine culture. The duo decided they wanted a fun wine brand for women, by women.

So they branded their wines Mom Juice, a reference to their “badass” mothers.

“That’s the woman we’re surrounded by and that’s the woman we want to be,” Taylor said. “It’s not about moms being drunk. It’s giving women the space to have community and a wine they can trust.”

Mom Juice comes in four varieties. The cabernet sauvignon, red blend, sauvignon blanc and rose all retail for roughly $20 a bottle.

Taylor said the winery produced 900 cases of wine last year and will do 9,000 this year. She said 2022 revenue was $96,000 and the company is on track to more than quadruple that this year.

She said the business plans to launch a low-alcohol wine in February and a single-serve product in the spring. To do so, it’s looking to raise $2 million — $800,00o of which is already accounted for.

Taylor said Mom Juice raised $119,400 on Wefunder, a website for entry-level investors. It also received a $20,000 investment this month from the singer Pharrell Williams’ Black Ambition Fund. The bulk of the cash, about $700,000, was brought in from angel investors.

It’s the company’s first capital raise. Taylor said she hopes to raise the rest of the cash through angel investors and venture capitalists, but said it hasn’t been easy, especially as a minority-owned business that caters to women.

“It’s completely fine to have a product that may not be your cup of tea,” she said. “However, there is a big market for it. Mothers do 85 percent of household spending in the world. It’s not a niche market. This is the market.”

Taylor, a 30-year-old Virginia native, moved to Denver in 2019. Before KT Winery, she was working in the corporate world as an account manager. She met Mincey on a “blind business lunch date.”

KT Winery sources its grapes and makes its wine in Napa Valley, although Taylor said she hopes to make a wine from Colorado grapes soon. The wine is made by Brian Kosi, who previously made wine for Kendall-Jackson Wine Estates and Kenwood Vineyards.

Taylor said Mom Juice is now in 500 stores across three states, compared to just 10 stores in Colorado last year.

“I would love to become the household brand that women reach for because they know it’s consistent, they know it’s good,” she said.

Correction: This story has been updated to clarify the amount raised through Wefunder versus angel investors.

This story was reported by our partner BusinessDen.

Travelers flock to New Zealand to experience its lush mountainscapes, jaw-droppingly blue waters and world-renowned wines. Even if the Instagrammable landscapes are the impetus for a trip, those who visit receive complimentary schooling on the country’s native Māori culture, which shows up prominently in language and local traditions notwithstanding the history of colonialism there.

As far back as the late 1300s, Polynesian settlers inhabited the islands that comprise New Zealand and formed that distinct Māori culture. When British colonialists arrived in the 1800s, they signed an agreement with the Indigenous people known as the Treaty of Waitangi setting the stage for the Māori to maintain sovereignty over their lands and villages.

But the reality was not that simple. Because some English words did not directly translate into Māori, the Indigenous communities unknowingly signed away some of the very rights they believed they were codifying. That led to conflicts in the decades following the establishment of New Zealand as a British colony.

Today, New Zealand makes a concerted effort to acknowledge and celebrate its Indigenous roots. Māori language appears on road signs and in common greetings like kia ora (“hello”), as well as throughout local art and customs.

One Māori tradition I brought home with me from a recent two-week trip to New Zealand comes in the form of beautiful nephrite jade, also known as pounamu or greenstone. The stone is revered by the Indigenous people who have a deep spiritual connection to it as they consider it a stone from the Gods.

Importantly, New Zealand does not mine pounamu. Instead, people search for and find it in riverbeds and glacial valleys on the South Island, named Te Waipounamu in Māori, meaning “the Greenstone Isle.”

In 1997, the government deemed the South Island’s largest tribe, Ngāi Tahu, guardian of the mineral. The tribe ensures any local pounamu that is sold is harvested ethically from the island. The tribe also advocates for protecting the rivers where the jade comes from and the communities that surround it.

Māori communities have long used the stone, which is strong and durable, in tools and weapons. Given its rarity, pounamu is also worn as jewelry and gifted. The Māori believe that the stone embodies a person’s mauri – or a piece of their essence and being – when it’s worn, making it a sentimental heirloom.

Local artisans often carve the sturdy stones into six designs that symbolize additional sentiments that the gifter wants to bestow. I’m not a deeply spiritual person, but I was so touched by the story of pounamu and its connection to the people and the land of New Zealand that I did all my holiday shopping at a Mountain Jade store before returning home.

Surely someone you know deserves this for Christmas? pic.twitter.com/0Lx9dsUeUl

— Ngāi Tahu Pounamu (@NTPounamu) October 21, 2014

The six Māori symbols are as follows:

• Manaia: The design features a mythical creature in Māori culture that’s a spiritual guardian and protector.
• Toki: Shaped like an adze tool, it represents strength, courage and determination.
• Koru: The spiral shape harkens to the unfurling of New Zealand’s silver fern, symbolizing new beginnings, life and hope.
• Pikorua: This twisting shape represents an everlasting bond of friendship, love and loyalty.
• Hei Matau: The fish hook design nods to the importance of fish as sustenance in Māori culture and represents strength, good luck, and safe travels over water.
• Hei Tiki: Symbolizing the human form, the design is traditionally passed down from parents to their children as a form of protection and good luck.

Mountain Jade sources stone from New Zealand as well as other countries like Canada, Indonesia and Australia. Its network of artists carve it into the shapes above and others. The Ngāi Tahu tribe also sells authentic pounamu through an online shop.

If this sounds like the kind of storied gift you’d like to share with the loved ones in your life, nephrite jade jewelry is widely available online through Mountain Jade and other retailers on Amazon and Etsy. (Don’t forget to wrap in the free history lesson, too.)

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“I love what (coach) Jay (Norvell) is doing,” Parker told me Saturday after CSU’s 30-20 win over Nevada pulled the Rams (5-6) to within one win of a bowl berth with a game to play. “I believed in him the moment that we had our first conversation through the (interview) process.

“And every day he just affirms that he’s got an incredible way to kind of focus on the things that matter. And what matters most is culture, building a program where every player in the locker room understands the points that they’re going to be held accountable for. And when it becomes less of coach leading those conversations, but more of the players really holding themselves and each other accountable, in a way, that’s healthy.”

CSU football’s coming. Loveable. Flawed. But still coming. The Rammies are creeping in the slow lanes, lurching ever forward. In September, Norvell’s squad averaged 10 penalties per game. In November, that number’s been trimmed to 6.3 flags a week. Giveaways have dipped from 2.5 per game in September to two per tilt in November.

That said, It feels as if the Rams are sometimes throwing the ball to try and prove a point when running it more might actually score them. You’d prefer to see the game in the hands of freshman tailback Justin Marshall — he’s piled up 217 rushing yards on just 37 carries the last two weeks — than in the mitts of fearless but erratic quarterback Brayden Fowler-Nicolosi, truth be told.

That said, the latter’s strung together a quietly nice year (20 touchdowns thrown and 3,143 passing yards) with all kinds of upside bubbling underneath that skinny frame. When BFN is on, the kid’s touch is sublime. When he’s off — the Texan’s tossed 15 picks, and his two at Wyoming proved fatal — or gets locked into “hero mode,” best hide the sharp objects.

“I think he has to really get a handle on his process of playing,” Norvell said of Fowler-Nicolosi. “And when you’re a young player, I think you kind of think you’ve got it handled. But you really have to prepare yourself for all those situations. And he’s a young excitable guy. He’s full of confidence. We don’t want to take that out of him. But he just has to control his process to be a more consistent player week-in and week-out.”

Most nights, the Rammies are an enigma strapped to a roller-coaster. Yet this is also the healthiest CSU has been come late November in six years. That’s both a compliment to Norvell and a scathing indictment of the mess he inherited, a program at 5,003 feet fighting rug burns.

The hosts were far from superlative against Nevada, but the superlatives kept rolling in anyway. CSU just capped its first November with multiple victories since 2016. Its four wins at home were the most since 2017, when Canvas Stadium opened. Attendance for the woebegone Wolf Pack — 20,121, roughly 55% of capacity — was the highest for a CSU home football finale in six years.

Basically, the Rams are clearing some awfully low bars. Which is still good, even if the good’s hugging an asterisk. The next step?

Raising them.

“We really want to go undefeated (at home), to be honest with you,” said Norvell, whose postseason fate hinges on a sneaky-tough tussle at Hawaii (4-8) next Saturday. “But we want to play well in front of our home fans. We want to play well and get that good feeling when we’re in the stadium.

“And I’m gonna be honest — at the beginning of the year, it wasn’t (there). We did not have that good feeling in Canvas. But we’ve developed it and we’ve worked for it, and I believe we have it now.

“We want people to have a hard time when they come here. We want it to be a tremendous atmosphere. And I think we can be. And we have a lot to look forward to next year, (given) the schedule, and the type of atmosphere this place can be. And we’re excited about that.”

CSU lost by 26 points at home to Washington State in Week 1. CU just lost by 42 to those same Cougars in Week 12. Discuss.

“I think Jay has built a really strong model,” Parker said. “I see it every day.”

He smiled. Slow and steady doesn’t always win the race. Then again, what’s the point of being easy to find if you’re so dang hard to watch?

For some, food traditions mean eating chili over pasta, Cincinnati-style with multiple topping options, especially on cold winter days. For others, it means making tamales during the holidays to share with family and friends. Either way, those food traditions bring memories of time spent with loved ones, of lands we left behind, and regardless of how far away we might be they bring us a comforting sense of belonging.

Food traditions don’t happen in a vacuum. In many instances, they are the result of regional adaptations of available agricultural products, seasonal changes, and the preservation techniques used to survive during low-production months. Products like miso or soy sauce, traditional balsamic vinegar, or dried chilis have all been shaped by human creativity around the world.   The European Union calls this the “cultural diversity and authenticity of agri-environmental conditions.” The EU uses these techniques or know-how as the base for its Geographical Indication scheme, a set of regulations created in 1992 to protect the name of European products that come from specific regions and follow a particular traditional production process. Thus, sparkling wine made outside the French region of Champagne cannot be called champagne, or a bleu cheese produced in Vermont cannot be called roquefort.

Food traditions are also the result of food mobility. Take the tomato, a fruit (yes, a fruit) indigenous to the Americas taken by Europeans in the 1600s during the Columbian Exchange and widely adopted in the Mediterranean countries where it easily adapted to the climate. It became the backbone of southern-Italian foodways where it sustained entire communities during the winter months, alongside pasta and bitter greens. Then during the mass migration between 1880-1924 when more than four million Italians migrated to the U.S., the tomato traveled back to the Americas and became ubiquitous in Italian-American cuisine.

Food traditions are also the result of war and colonization, and Bánh Mì is one clear example. In the 19th century, the French invaded Vietnam and brought with them the baguette, a quintessential French staple, to their homes where Vietnamese people had become servants. The Vietnamese took the bread of their oppressor and turned it into Bánh Mì, a sandwich (not a rice bowl) with a variety of fillings, the most known version being stuffed with páté, sliced pork, butter, pickled vegetables, and cilantro.

These historical and geographical facts were an afterthought when I went to culinary school more than two decades ago. We were indoctrinated in the French (and European) food superiority following the Kitchen Brigade system and becoming classically trained chefs, which somehow gave us power over food, anyone’s food. In the two-year program, we had one three-month course called “International Cuisine” that covered the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is how many cooking schools and hospitality departments still operate, pumping out poorly educated, classically-trained students who join the world with a myopic view of the complexity of food cultures and traditions.

Despite that, I have seen a slow but encouraging change toward more diversity of voices in the food world. More and more restaurants owned by other-than-white-male chefs have gained popularity and some have even been celebrated by such institutions like the James Beard Foundation and the Michelin Guide. And, fortunately, the uncontested norms of chefs, especially famous ones, liberally using the names of traditional dishes without their true essence while profiting from them is ending.

This is something Jamie Oliver learned all too well when he tried to sell his Punchy Jerk Rice packaged food product in 2018 getting wide criticism for not properly representing the dish’s flavor. Another famous chef, Gordon Ramsey, received major backlash for lumping cuisines under one single umbrella when he opened his restaurant Lucky Cat in 2019. The restaurant’s tagline at the time, “an authentic Asian Eating House,” drew criticism as one writer said it felt, “Japanese? Chinese? It’s all Asian, who cares.”

Food media has been an extension of the famous white chef syndrome, glorifying their behavior and taking liberties over other food cultures. And even though food writing has diversified, with more outlets showcasing regional food stories full of rich human and environmental connections,  the vast majority still use resources and time to highlight the same kind of voice.

Food bloggers enter this dynamic with a sense of entitlement to write and speak about food without the care of misrepresenting the culture and people behind the food. Half Baked Harvest is a great example. A tour through the website lands you in the Cuisines tab where Asian cuisine is represented by recipes like Sheet Pan Hawaiian Pepperoni Pizza, and Baked Chipotle Salmon Sushi cups, alongside the controversial 25-minute Bánh Mì rice bowls. Do any of these really represent any cuisine in Asia?

But cultural misrepresentation isn’t the only issue with how this website catalogs recipes. There’s also an overall lack of geographical understanding of regions and the foods that come from different parts of the world. Under the Indian Cuisine tab, there are a few ‘Persian’ dishes like Crispy Persian Rice (Tahdig) with Spiced Golden Chickpeas and variations of Shawarma like Cauliflower Shawarma with Green Tahini and Fried Halloumi. Let’s start with some basic history and geography. Persia is modern-day Iran. Shawarma, spit-roasted layers of lamb, beef, or other meat self-bathing in meat juices and spices, is a food celebrated in Turkey and other countries previously part of the Ottoman Empire. And Halloumi cheese originated in Cyprus. None of these are in India. So it doesn’t just misrepresent the rich culinary history and regional foods of India, it waters down the complexity of flavors from all these different regions.

Unfortunately, this reductive approach toward ‘ethnic’ cuisines has gone on for far too long, and one of the most misrepresented is Mexican cuisine. In February 2020, before the pandemic struck, I had the fortune to travel to Puebla, Mexico, to report on the Terra Madre Indígena Pueblos de América while I was working for Slow Food International. At this gathering of young indigenous leaders from Latin American countries, I met representatives from different regions of Mexico. From forested areas where more than 500 mushroom varieties make part of the cuisine to the differences between the language and food traditions between the Aztec culture of central Mexico and the strong roots of the Mayan culture in Chiapas and the Yucatan peninsula. Yet, here in the U.S. any tortilla loaded with cheese and cream gets labeled Mexican Cuisine, dismissing the biodiversity of flavors and century-old traditions that enrich Mexican foodways.

What’s most frightening is that 5.4 million Instagram followers, 700,000 email subscribers, two million cookbook readers, plus many more on other platforms, are learning from Half Baked Harvest and other similar food influencers. And though there have been many requests from people whose cultures are being poorly portrayed, the website continues to misinform its consumers. Perhaps rearranging the repetitive list of mediocre recipes on the website by ingredient and refraining from marketing them as part of some of the most dynamic cuisines in the world might be a way to continue selling books and other products while staying away from cultural appropriation criticism.

Cultural appropriation is baked into everyday life in the U.S. It is a bigger issue than a blogger appropriating other food cultures but rather the result of how we have built our society. And just like racism, it is so evident it has become transparent. New immigrants are expected to assimilate into U.S. culture while white folks take their food and cultural tokens for profit.

Food media is part of the problem. Making the conversation about a blogger’s private life humanizes the perpetrator while dehumanizing the concern of cultural exploitation of the people behind the food. It trivializes real-life systemic social issues by putting the focus on pitiful gossip that perpetuates consumerism, supporting capitalist tropes of image and status, and diverting attention away from much-needed systemic change to address inequalities and the continued oppression that erodes the lines of respect and appreciation.

The trope of the U.S. being a “melting pot brought up by comments on the NYT article is often used when those in power want to silence the conversation of equity and respect for all in the pot. The trope is a filter for the white folk who demand with such entitlement that no one should complain, for at least they are cooking our food.

Paula Thomas is a Colombian-born and Denver-based food anthropologist, cook, and writer. She earned a master’s degree in Gastronomy: World Food Cultures and Mobility from the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Italy, and is part of the James Beard Foundation Legacy Network.

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“Every color, every creed,” he said.

After moving to Colorado in 2018, Ward continued to enjoy winter sports and often went to the slopes solo. He’d connect with other – mostly white – skiers, who were largely welcoming. But a few unsavory encounters stick with him to this day.

Ward recalls how people, emboldened by a few beers, would comment about the lack of people of color who ski.

“The jokes start coming in. I’d get dirty looks sometimes walking through like I’m not supposed to be there. Sometimes just outright racial slurs shouted at me as people zip by the hill,” said Ward, who is African-American. “It happens a lot to us.”

Ward recognized a need for safe spaces in Colorado snow sports for people of color. So he decided to create one.

In 2021, Ward founded the BIPOC Mountain Collective with a mission to introduce more people from diverse backgrounds to skiing and snowboarding. The organization aims to lower the barriers to entry for snow sports and build a robust community of outdoor enthusiasts who recreate together.

One way it does that is by providing low-cost opportunities for individuals to learn the basics of snow sports and try them out before investing in pricy equipment and gear.

“One of the things that people believe is that people of color don’t ski because they can’t afford to. Because skiing’s just too expensive, it’s an elitist sport, and so on and so forth. That’s not necessarily the truth,” Ward said. “The narrative we’re trying to show, it’s not that it’s too expensive — it’s too expensive to try and see if you like it.”

In October, BIPOC Mountain Collective hosted more than 70 people for a beginner clinic at the Snöbahn indoor training facility. Semi-private lessons start at $60, but BIPOC Mountain Collective subsidized the price so its members paid $25 each.

Membership to the organization carries a $39.99 annual fee, which supports Ward’s administrative functions. Member perks include first access to sign up for events, plus other discounts and incentives. Folks can also sign up for the BIPOC Mountain Collective’s email list for free to keep up to date on local happenings.

On Dec. 2, the group travels to Eldora Mountain Ski Resort where members get a lift ticket, skiing or snowboarding lessons, and access to an après ski barbecue for $50. Tickets to the second annual event are sold out, but the barbecue is free and open to the public. Anyone who wants to purchase their own lift ticket is welcome to join in the fun. Ward expects about 100 people to attend.

Members can also borrow snow apparel, skis and snowboards from BIPOC Mountain Collective’s gear locker free of charge. That helps nascent skiers understand the utility and feel of certain equipment so they’re more prepared when they need to buy or rent their own, Ward said.

BIPOC Mountain Collective hosts monthly ski trips in the winter, during which its members carpool to a resort, enjoy the slopes and toast to the day with an après ski tailgate. Additionally, Ward plans to organize backcountry trips this season for adept skiers looking for a community to shred with.

These opportunities are already growing the community. Ward said about a third of people who come to the collective with little or no experience end up becoming regular riders within a year or two. That adds representation on the slopes, another key component to making the mountains more accessible.

According to the Lakewood-based National Ski Areas Association, the vast majority of people who participate in downhill snow sports identify as white. In its most recent demographic survey, conducted during the 2022-23 ski season, just 1.5% of respondents identified as Black or African-American compared to 88.1% who identified as white.

Skiing’s reputation as a white sport is hardly new. When it was first adopted as a recreational activity in the United States in the mid-20th century, skiing was marketed as an extension of European and Scandinavian culture. Against the backdrop of segregation and the Civil Rights movement, Black skiers faced discrimination, leading to the founding of several Black ski clubs that enabled recreators to travel in groups for added safety.

In 1973, the National Brotherhood of Skiers convened in Aspen for a first-of-its-kind summit that brought together more than 350 enthusiasts from Black ski clubs across the country. The organization just celebrated its 50th anniversary in Vail earlier this year and will return to celebrate its homecoming Dec. 13 to 17 at Copper Mountain, an apt opportunity for local skiers of color to find community.

“If you want to do this but don’t know where to start, homecoming is a great way to do that because you get discount on lift tickets, half off lessons and there’s a full gamut of entertainment that’s occurring at the same time,” Ward said.

While winter is BIPOC Mountain Collective’s busiest season, the group is part of the larger Vibe Tribe Adventures organization that plans excursions throughout the year to promote diversity and equity in outdoor recreation.

The BIPOC Mountain Collective’s tagline is “never ride alone” so people of color know they always have a place in the outdoors.

“There’s this feeling usually when you’re a person of color and you’re doing something not typically associated with us — you feel alone,” Ward said. “By joining us you’re not alone, you don’t ever have to ride alone.”

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It’s increasingly common, even after calling Denver home for 23 years, for me to stop and wonder what block I’ve stumbled onto. That’s why I rely on the Denver Infill Blog to not only tell me what’s changed, but when and why — and what’s next for that area, block or parcel.

Since 2004 it’s been chronicling both single projects and sweeping changes in metro Denver, thanks to both planner Ken Schroeppel, who lives and works downtown and teaches at the University of Colorado Denver, and tireless co-editor Ryan Dravtiz.

Yes, I also write for a media outlet that covers this stuff with vigor and detail. But Denver Infill Blog feels complementary, not competitive, and Schroeppel and his contributors aren’t afraid of talking about the quality of transitional housing for indigent people, the merits (or obstacles) of historical preservation, or how some areas fare terribly with public transportation.

There’s insight into the much-hyped One River North project, a RiNo building whose façade is riven with a smooth, winding “canyon” packed with plants. Unlike most news reports, you can follow its detailed progress at Denver Infill Blog with technical specs, close-up photos and light, expert commentary — all part of a roundup of RiNo District East and Cole neighborhood projects, featuring 80 images and buildings organized by address.

The site started as Denver Infill, which still exists as an archive, and has transitioned into the less-updated blog version, itself a companion site to Schroeppel’s also-great denverurbanism.com. Infill is still my favorite, a slippery, shining rabbit hole of well-lit skyline candy and wonky details, with much credit to Dravitz, who has shot more than 20,000 photos since joining in 2011.

I also appreciate Denver Infill’s advocacy for reuse and community development. Not real estate development, per se, and that’s an important point. The contributors look beyond binary reactions to new projects. They wonder how these buildings will affect neighbors, whatever their concerns may be. They add nuance and thoughtfulness to citywide debates, but also scratch an itch, if you’re someone like me, with a satisfyingly detailed tick-tock of visual change.

I check there for updates about Welton Street from the Central Business District to 28th Street — a once-squat historical strip now lined with same-y, sun-blotting high-rises. Or the various haunts connecting West 38th Avenue to the I-25 corridor — a.k.a. the Highland neighborhood, now lousy with slot housing — and pretty much anywhere in what’s now called RiNo. Or the entire Platte Valley.

As we think about how we can revive downtown, how to care for our less fortunate residents, and whether most of us will ever be able to afford a home, Denver Infill Blog should be a trusted friend. Yeah, it’s niche and nerdy. But it’s helped me make sense of dozens of whiplash changes in Denver.

I also like a good advocate for city living. As Schroeppel writes at denverinfill.com: “We loathe surface parking lots and seek their eradication from Denver’s urban core!”

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Through Nov. 12. The Boulder Jewish Film Festival could hardly come at a more relevant time. Films that delve into the complexity and nuance of the Jewish experience during this moment of conflict also include works whose creators have been affected by the ongoing war with Hamas, producers said.

Programmers of the Nov. 2-12 fest have responded to this moment by adding topical elements to the fest, they said, including a 5-film segment that celebrates Israel’s 75th anniversary and the short film “The Boy,” by Yahaz Winner, who died in a Hamas attack on his kibbutz, as well as “Sirens” (in the Shorts program).

The centerpiece is the live-scored silent film “The Man Without a World” on Nov. 9, with closing-night film “Idina Menzel: Which Way to the Stage?” arriving on Nov. 12. And a dozen-plus more. All screenings at the Dairy Arts Center, 2590 Walnut St. in Boulder. Tickets: $18-$25 via thedairy.org/boulder-jewish-film-festival.

Denver Arts Week’s free, low-cost events

Friday-Nov. 11. Free and cheap admission to arts events is what Denver Arts Week is all about, and the annual celebration of Mile High creativity returns Friday, Nov. 3-Nov. 11 with three free events at the Buell Theatre and McNichols Building, plus a fall edition of the city’s popular Denver Public Art Tours.

Presented by the city agency Denver Arts & Venues, this year includes the “Community Cloth” exhibit tour and the Colorado Panorama Denver Public Art Tour (both Nov. 7), a “Woven Together” reception at the Buell (Nov. 8), and the “Culture Cloth” exhibit tour and curator discussion (Nov. 9).

Along the way, Denver Arts Week’s website rounds up dozens of deals and special events that focus on local visual artists, musicians, galleries, murals and street art. The week kicks off Friday, Nov. 3, with expanded First Friday Art Walks across the city’s creative neighborhoods, organizers wrote, plus a free Night at the Museums on Saturday, Nov. 4. See denver.org/denver-arts-week/events for more.

A powerhouse “Don Giovanni”

Saturday-Nov. 12. Many of us save up to splurge at the theater this time of year, whether it’s for a play, touring Broadway musical or dance performance. If you’re looking for a once-a-year big ticket show that’s going to blow your hair back, Opera Colorado is back with its vigorous take on “Don Giovanni.”

It’s the nonprofit company’s first staging of the Mozart blockbuster in ten years, producers wrote, with baritone Bruno Taddia in the title role and Danielle Pastin, Ellie Dehn and Kerby Baier as the avenging women who have crossed paths with our titular cad.

Opera ain’t cheap, but in terms of spectacle and talent, it’s worth it for a show like this. Runs Saturday Nov. 4, as well as Nov. 7, 10 and 12 at Ellie Caulkins Opera House, 1385 Curtis St. Tickets: $49-$225 for opening night, as low as $39-$185 for other performances, via operacolorado.org.

Sad songs like you’ve never heard them before

Monday. So you’ve seen hip-hop legends such as Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA backed by the Colorado Symphony Orchestra, but have you ever seen an emo band powered by the full sonic palette of strings, horns and wind instruments?

Monday, Nov. 6, is your chance when the aptly named Emo Orchestra featuring Dayton, Ohio, pop-punk veterans Hawthorne Heights comes to the Paramount Theatre in Denver. The nationally touring show promises hits from the leading group plus others from the likes of Dashboard Confessional, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance and more. Hands down, this is the best show we can ever remember… always remember.

The Emo Orchestra plays Nov. 6 at 7 p.m. at 1621 Glenarm Place in Denver. Tickets cost $45-$75 at ticketmaster.com.

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