The initial exuberance of the woman in the chair sobers as Forté-Saunders contracts and grabs her abdomen, either in pain or grief. She springs from the chair to stand in profile, her full body twitching as if she’s trying to control a rage. She drops to hands and knees and begins scrubbing the floor with a stiff brush, as if in absolution. A tablecloth that she shakes, then waves overhead as a celebratory gesture, quickly shifts to a symbol of grief when wrapped around her wrists. The infant cradled in her arms disappears as the scarf slithers to the floor. The woman returns to scrubbing. “We inherit their spells,” and “We shall prevail” are from lines spoken in voice-over and projected on the wall. This kind of tension makes the work as timely as ever, considering migration, fears of deportation, and racial violence.  

My favorite part is when the dancer takes up a cast iron skillet, plucking ingredients from an imaginary shelf, shaking the pan over a flame, sampling its contents. The skillet becomes a potential weapon when she lassos it above her head. The movement here is inflected with West African dance: chest flexion and quick forward-darting lunges. Sanders walks into the audience and flirtatiously accosts a man in his seat—to give him a lap dance? The twitching returns and she falls to the floor to sleep it off. When she comes to, a quick glance at her watch, she’s back to cooking. A woman’s work is never done. 

For the 2025 production, Forte-Saunders has added a section where a community of live women join her in the dance. They rise from their seats in the audience and enter the stage one by one, seven on the night I attended. Moving rhythmically, they mirror her gestures, stirring, rolling, pouring salt from the shelf. Each places a hand to the forehead in half a prayer gesture, and together they gradually drift to a crouched stance, their mouths open in a silent yell or scream. A video projection of sparkling blue sea water shows behind them as they cluster and stomp once all together—a quick ta-dah. Then again. We hear the inexplicable barking of a dog. Are these women a pack of dogs? In Forté-Saunders hands, the “Chicken Soup” community of women around a white enamel kitchen table emerges fully embodied, fiercely protective. As she said later, “We’re not in the ‘80s anymore.”