Food is more than what’s on the plate. This is Equal Portions, a series by editor-at-large Shane Mitchell, investigating bigger issues and activism in the food world, and how a few good eggs are working to make it better for everyone. ​​  

Wearing construction boots and an Ironman “kōkua crew” T-shirt, the retired survey party chief narrates each step as everyone else grabs a shovel or pickaxe, working together to dig a shallow rectangular pit in the terracotta red soil, then fill it with shredded Foodland paper grocery bags and scraps of kindling. More fuel, then volcanic rocks are piled on top to be superheated before food is placed in the pit.

Maunakea holds up a mossy piece of firewood. “This kiawe is coming from Kawaihae. It burns hot and fast,” he says. Then he grabs a round of ‘ōhi‘a lehua, a flowering tropical evergreen: “This is Tūtū Pele’s wood. It doesn’t grow on this side of the island, so we gotta go far and get it.” It’s not unusual to hear Hawaiians speak in deferential tones about the goddess of volcanoes and fire like she’s a grandma who lives down the road. Lava from Kīlauea last reached the outskirts of Pāhoa in 2018, but her dwelling, the most active of the island’s seven volcanoes, keeps erupting so residents in the East Rift Zone treat Pele with reverence. Because, as the stories say, she will “clean house” if you don’t. (Hawaiians love telling tales about Pele’s interactions with mortals, but one of the most persistent is the fiery punishment of those who disrespect her.)

This same respect underscores stewardship of sacred spaces and preserving culture across the islands. The Men of PA‘A are no different. (PA‘A stands for Positive Action Alliance and is a play on the Hawaiian word “pa‘a,” which can mean steadfast, among other things.) They’re dedicated to serving their community, whether by clearing ancient fishponds of invasive pickleweed, removing abandoned vehicles from dump sites, or gathering firewood for Imu Mea ‘Ai, their new immersive culinary experience. They are also here for a second chance, returning to society from incarceration or drug treatment programs.

The United States has the highest incarceration rate per capita of any democratic country worldwide, with nearly 2 million people living in confinement. Given the challenges facing anyone who has served time in the prison-supervision industrial complex, second chances are few and far between. Across the country, the hospitality sector has been one of the more welcoming, helping many to find meaningful employment as a path to restorative justice. In the 2022 documentary film Coldwater Kitchen, chef Jimmy Lee Hill shepherds others through a fine dining training program at Lakeland Correctional Facility in Coldwater, Michigan. In Los Angeles, Homegirl Café provides a safe space and on-the-job training for women who have experienced domestic violence, gang involvement, or imprisonment. And in Philadelphia, Down North Pizza exclusively employs formerly incarcerated people. As founder Muhammad Abdul-Hadi explains in his new book, We the Pizza, his mission is to create a positive work environment for those who need a chance to make things right. On the island of Hawai‘i, the same calling involves smoke, steam, and rocks as hot as lava.

“Doesn’t it smell real good?” Maunakea asks the group. “You’re gonna have tears when you eat the food.” Everyone finally gathers around to help remove the blanketing layers—a tarp, wet burlap sacks, banana stalks, and ti leaves—and reveal lunch slowly cooked over stones still hot after hours smothered in the ground. “So everything that’s in the imu is coming right from the land, except the carrots. Maybe the onions. But everything else—kalo, ‘ulu—everything is coming from the land.” In addition to growing the kalo (taro) and ‘ulu (breadfruit), Men of Pa‘a members also tend a plot planted with pineapples, coffee, bananas, oranges, and lemons. Maunakea, whose grandmother was a famous practitioner of lā‘au lapa‘au, a plant-based healing method, explains that the spent leaves from the imu are composted in the garden. “It’s regenerative, right? Yeah. That’s our whole concept.”

Volunteers carefully lift a rack filled with large foil trays from the pit and carry them to prep tables. Several shred the kālua pork butt with forks. Traditionally, a whole pig is buried in an imu and its meat is chopped with the animal’s hip bones. But that typically takes almost 24 hours (and a lot of cold beer) to prepare, so the sober men cut some corners for their guests, who pass along a serving line and pile their plates with cabbage, chicken and pork, ‘ulu, and ‘uala, purple Hawaiian sweet potato.

Maunakea issues an invitation to the table. “We’re going pule kapo, to pray. And then we’re going to just sit down, eat and enjoy each other’s company, and talk story and mingle for a little bit.” The picnic benches fill with young friends from Chile participating in an exchange program on an organic farm, a retired businessman from Southern California, a representative from the Council for Native Hawaiian Advancement, and a couple who manage property for absentee landlords. Most admit this is the first time they’ve experienced an imu meal, especially one so rooted in cultural practice. “I think this one allows you to be more vetted in what you’re doing,” Maunakea says. “You’re immersed in it and you appreciate what you just did.” 

He talks about kuleana, a complex term for the reciprocal relationship Hawaiians feel is core to their worldview and what that means for the men in his care: accepting the consequences of choices made in the past, and through support networks, finding a new approach to recovery; almost 300 have successfully transitioned from the program. Sitting nearby, Charles Pericho, a staff member of Men of PA‘A, explains: “Maunakea grows men. A lot of them, they come through, they get well, they transition. And then they visit us every once in a while. We see them in the community.”

For dessert, Maunakea passes around a pan of kūlolo, a pudding made with grated taro and coconut milk that also bakes in the imu. It’s chewy, like fudge, but tastes vegetal and not as sweet. To end the afternoon, he leads the group in a gratitude chant known as Oli Mahalo. As leftovers are packed for members to take home or share in the community, Maunakea gives out free hugs. “This is about family, it’s about patience, all of that stuff. I’m so happy that you guys got to spend some time with us and do this thing.”