Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
|Still like The Blue Lagoon in Port Antonio, Jamaica|
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Nurse: Are you an organ donor?
Nurse: Are you an organ donor?
Me: Um, well, I’m using my organs right now.
Nurse (Laughs): I mean in the event that something happens…
Me: Sure. But try not to kill me. It would be really inconvenient if I died right now.
I had major surgery this year. It was the scariest experience of my life. The surgical procedure was super-risky and major blood loss was highly probable. So was death. The surgeon, a fellow Jamaican-American, advised me to eat obscene amounts of callaloo as it was critical that my blood was iron-rich for the procedure. Callaloo is like a spinach-meets-collard greens vegetable. It’s a classic Jamaican dish that is usually served with boiled yellow and white yams, dasheen, fried dumplings, and ackee and salt fish. My father makes exquisite callaloo and when he heard what the doctor said, he planted callaloo gardens all around his house. In the weeks that preceded the surgery, he pulled, stripped and chopped his fears into edible pieces, seasoning the callaloo with yellow onions, scallion, salt and pepper. He served the callaloo with Jasmine rice that was perfumed with dried shrimp. He offered this dish to his only daughter with all his heart. The day before my procedure was super-intense. What if the doctor accidentally leaves a blunt inside of me? (My brother, a physician, says that many doctors smoke a little ganja). What if I lose my sense of smell and can’t recall the dreamy aromas in that 1997 Bertani Amarone? What if I lose the ability to weave words? I lied on my parents’ couch, the sun frozen between my legs as I chatted with God. I asked him to choose the nurses, the anesthesiologist, even the table I would lay on as they carved into me. I asked him to choose the surgical utensils and to give the surgeons exactness and wisdom with every incision. That morning daddy and I prayed together. “You’re going to emerge from this like a tiger,” he said as he pulled callaloo from the earth.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Wine Squatters Choice—Click here: http://www.miami.com/november-wine-month-article
Saturday, November 12, 2011
So the overweight lover, Heavy D, has crossed over. Damn. I used to jam to Heavy D & the Boyz. Back in the days I was part of a dance troupe called the “Sensational Supersonic Six” (I know. What were my friends thinking in letting me get away with giving us such a name?) That’s when those MC Hammer Let’s-Get-It-Started pants were in and we thought we looked so fresh. Last night, a friend (an old school sommelier) and I discussed Heavy’s possible cause of death while munching on Michy’s Bread Pudding. Heavy was a big dude, so my first thought was heart disease. I know two young men who died of heart disease. One was 19 (I used to be his babysitter), and the other one was 32. Eating healthy and living in the moment can be arch enemies. Should I have passed up this warm, luxurious, custardy, chocolate-chunked slab of decadence for an apple? And did I mention the 2009 Domaine La Tour Vielle Banyuls Rimage? My friend recommended this dessert wine, and it was, hands down, one of the grandest food and wine pairings I’ve had all year. This wine has aromas and flavors of prunes, raisins, molasses, and sweet tobacco (He threw in the “sweet tobacco” description. I have no idea what it smells like lol). When paired up with the bread pudding, it was like the perfect wedding happening in your mouth—the perfect arrangement of music and colors and no unwelcomed guests. It was a sweet mystery that didn’t need to be solved, just enjoyed. I tried to pour a little into the ground, so Heavy could enjoy a sip. He isn’t buried yet, but I know his spirit is fluttering around. The sommelier protested (He was buying).
Michy’s, 6927 Biscayne Blvd., Miami, 305-759-2001.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I will always love Paul. Ours was a love affair defined by bacon, pancakes and the moistest, most decadent chocolate brownie in town. I met him a few years ago at an outdoor yoga class. It turned out he read the food and wine column I used to write for The Miami Herald called “The Promiscuous Palate.” But Paul just didn’t offer you’re-such-a-great-writer feedback. If he didn’t get something I wrote, he let me know. I loved that about him. And he was a great writer. His emails would make even the most tawdry novelist, blush. He was a horny, old, gay man and he didn’t give a damn who knew it. But underneath the peace sign tattoos wreathed with age spots lied a lonely spirit. He wanted what we all want—to smell the fresh funk of day-old love making in his sheets, the sweet perfume of morning armpit welcoming the first morning stretch, burnt pumpernickel toast, and the security of love that is found and kept even when it leaves for the afternoon. His love never returned. Didn’t even leave a note. And I could see it hurt him, and while I never pitied my accomplished painter-mat buddy, it was hard to love him. Our relationship took a shift when he found out I was Christian. He didn’t approve, and he let me know that. It was either him or Jesus. Funny—Jesus never asked me to make that choice. I now enjoy my La Provence brownie by myself. The texture is like sticking your fingers into a velvety, black beach. It’s chocolate perfection. I miss you, Paul.
La Provence French Bakery & Café, 2200 Biscayne Blvd., 305-576-8002.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
|Half veggie and half Portabello mushroom and goat cheese|
Andiamo Bricken Oven Pizza, 5600 Biscayne Blvd., 305-762-5751.