Shiraz Sexy

Wow. What a week, right? Yesterday I had a bizarre encounter with two sad women who reminded me that while things aren’t perfect, at least day-old whiskey isn’t oozing from my pores. It’s not that bad, Guys. You’re not waking up to streets ravaged by torn limbs and smoky eyeballs. And if you are, I’m praying for you. Aaaaah. It’s nice to be snuggling up against a breezy, sun-rich Saturday, the week’s events fading into a yummy glass of Malbec. What I love most about South American wine is that many labels offer so much fierce complexity for your dollar. But this post isn’t about the Malbec I’m sipping. It’s about my wine pimp—Michel, who gave me a swig of a single vineyard, Aussie Shiraz that truly widened my perception of the ubiquitous grape. When I think of everyday, Australian shiraz, I think pop music on your palate. But this was Maria Callas or Beyoncé when she’s Aretha’s age. It was an ’05 vintage, grapes picked from one vineyard and the bottle had been decanted five hours before it touched my tongue. The 2005 Elderton Command Single Vineyard Shiraz Cellar Release had aromas and flavors of braised figs, prunes and raisins, and these characteristics were synchronized by seductive tannins. It was amazing to me how firm the tannins were despite the age. So if you think Aussie Shiraz can’t be deep, you’re wrong. On that note, the wine is $80, so I'll be sticking to my humble Malbec lol

Gruet: Pink on the Inside

Pink was never my color. It’s not that I’m not a girly-girl. I just never connected to its implications—female conformity, tears and babies. But today I had a pink-moment. I had a student who arrived in my class today in a wheelchair. He was in his mid-20s, and there was a bloody box around his foot. It’s not that I’ve never had wheelchair-bound students in my class before, but this young man moved me for some reason. My classroom set-up isn’t ADA-compliant, yet this man navigated through the tight space like he had wings. He was so determined to learn--raising his hands and answering questions despite the eyes that were crawling up and down his leg. I later learned that he had kidney failure, and each time I looked in his eyes I became soft like the Gruet Brut Rosé. It’s rusty pink color reminds me of how I feel sometimes—weary, hard and longing. Its strawberry, raspberry aromas and Shirley Temple-esque flavors remind me of that girly-girl who wants so desperately to run through tight spaces then fly. P.S. I spent $10 for the half-bottle.

Straight Jacket Wine

When I began my wine journey in 2001, I knew that this was an art not unlike many other aesthetics. You have the mainstream wine and the small, indie wines. You have the silly, but effective politics—if you like White Zinfandel, you’re a ding bat incapable of understanding the abstract subtleties of Old world wine. If you like Barolo, you’re a wine sophisticate. While I was in sommelier school, it amazed me how everything associated with American wine culture was considered big, audacious, and in some cases, sloppy and unrefined. Who were these crass red, white and blue people stomping unto our turf with their brazen ideas of making wine their way? The other day a colleague and dear friend passed me a bottle of 2010 Macchia Amorous Sangiovese from Lodi, California. When I think of Sangiovese, I think of an entry-level Chianti that’s insipid, like someone is tightening a straight jacket on your palate. I had an amazing Chianti experience at Cioppino Restaurant with Jorge Mendoza—the sommelier. And if someone didn’t thief my hand bag with my wine diary, I’d tell you about it, but as of today, Sangiovese isn’t something I’d go out of my way to find. But what do I always say? Stay open. I already knew that this wasn’t a straight jacket wine with all that lush Lodi sunshine. But I wasn’t expecting blueberry heavy cream. This wine reminded me more of Zinfandel. Blueberry and black currant jam aromas burst through a gorgeous, purple violet color. On the palate, it’s more of the same—black cherry jam and black pepper spice fold into the heavy cream body. And there are medium-high tannins. I didn’t love it. It was too big. And I guess the contradictor in me wanted even a bite of straight jacket-austerity. However, when I chilled it and served it with spicy Jamaican curry chicken, it was a perfect match. All that dark fruit sweetness and jammi-ness was made for West Indian grilled and roasted meats that have hints or hot pepper spice. So what’s my point? Lol I love that American winemakers are experimenting in the grape lab, taking us out of our comfort zone and exploring the endless possibilities. Where would we be if Hendrix didn’t put those electric guitar strings in his mouth and show us what that instrument really could do?  We’d be in straight jackets lol

Rosé: Pink Cookies in a Plastic Bag Getting Crushed by Buildings

My first rosé epiphany happened in Cognac, France, in 2007. I was gazing out into the fertile, green earth from Chateau De L’Yeuse overwhelmed by the sheer majestic beauty of the environment, grateful to God to be there. I was sipping the 1995 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame Rosé with a man who spoke the language of wine so fluently, I was jealous. Before this moment, rosé was Beringer white Zinfandel—flat, motionless and uninspired. But I was wrong. A rosé can be just as interesting as a Champagne. The Veuve Du Vernay Brut Rosé recalls the pleasures of summer—strawberries salads and blood orange mimosas, summer sprinkles and duck pâté in foreign countries with lovers who smell of Parisian pastry shops. Its color is redolent of a fall Miami sunset. It’s refreshingly delicious and viciously romantic. And guess what else? It’s been on sale at Whole Foods for $10, but the regular price is only $11, so I say, go get some and download some old school LL Cool J while you're at it :).     

The Unworthy American’s Jamaican Smorgasbord

Okay, so I have taken on the daunting task of preparing my mother’s birthday dinner. I, the unworthy American, dare to dazzle a squadron of Jamaican cooks who can jerk chicken blindfolded and transform white rice into a cauldron of coconut-perfumed ecstasy. What’s on the menu—jerk and barbecue chicken, smoked ham in maple sugar and ginger glaze, rice and red peas with coconut milk, Iceberg salad, and a faux-sangria. I’m cheating on the rice. My neighbor, Claudette, is making the rice as I’m just not mature enough to pressure cook dry kidney beans, but I am doing everything else. “No curry goat,” my mother exclaimed from her kitchen-pulpit upon hearing about the surprise dinner. Um, please pray for me. Lol This is my last moment of calmness before judgment.

Pasta Purgatory

I’m the queen of making the same damn mistakes. I always forget to salt the water while it’s boiling before I add the pasta. I’m very impatient while waiting for the onions to caramelize in the olive oil-butter bath before adding the protein. And so usually my pasta is, well, okay. It has good flavor and worse case scenario, I will douse the angel hair or penne with Parmigiano-Reggiano and all will be right in the world. But I want to get it right. Know what I mean? I want the pasta to be perfectly al dente like Rachael Ray’s. I want the garlic and onion to be perfectly caramelized. I want perfection. Perfection is accessible and yet, we settle on the lap of mediocrity, surrendering to that lesser existence, that lesser pasta.

Curry Chameleon (Cricket Player, Not Included)

If my soul had a smell, it would be curry. I grew up in a curry kitchen—evenings scented with the bright Jamaican curry powder that bathed everything from kosher chicken to fresh goat meat. As I got older, I realized that curry had many attitudes. In Madras, India, it’s an earthy, sweet opus of coriander, turmeric, cumin, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and other spices. Trinidad’s interpretation of curry is very similar to India’s. However, cooking curry takes patience and skill. The more complex and authentic the curry powder, the more you literally have to cook the powder. If not, the flavor is insipid. The Jamaican curry powders that are on most grocery shelves are easy to work with it and don’t require much cooking, but they also lack that depth of complexity you find in Indian curry. Pairing up wine with curry is an adventurous feat. The 2009 Macchia Bodacious Petite Sirah is perfect for Indian-style curry. Chilled it in the fridge for about fifteen minutes and a tall, dark and handsome cricket player emerged from the bottle with its brawny, blueberry jam aromas. There also flavors of blackberry chutney, anise and cloves that are ideal for curry goat (Jamaica) and lamb curry (India). Unfortunately, the cricket player was not included lol   

The Song Picker’s Barbecue

Today someone asked me how I came to write about food. I always struggle with this question and so my answers are usually silly and unsubstantial. I love food is usually my go-to response. But the question I ask myself on those frustrated, ink-constipated nights is: Why am I still writing about food?  Aren’t there more important stories to tell?  Is this what God called me to do—to chat about foie gras and Pinot Noir? Then I walk through Carol City, The Song of Solomon chapter of Miami barbecue. I watch  those fiery rhythms wind up to the sky as slabs of old southern recipes straddle pits the way they always have and always will. And I get to tell those old stories that begin with some great, great grandmother who can recall history’s history—the song pickers who made damn good barbecue with trees on their backs. Then I’m relieved for a moment.    

Requiem Rosé: Miss You, Sistah Whitney

Yesterday as I pumped gas in my car, I watched a chorus of women sing “I have nothing if I don’t have you,” at the top of their lungs. As our sister, Whitney, strained through speakers beaten down by years of Miami bass, these bent-headed women sang with eyes closed and voices coiled around Sistah Whitney’s spirit. I joined them from the near distance, encouraging them to sing on in a call-response sort of way. It was church. We were singing Whitney through. It’s been interesting listening to different people’s reactions to Whitney’s transition. Some women weep. They sympathize. Other women dismiss Whitney as a crack head who had it coming. That pisses me off. Who are we to judge? If cameras snuck into our homes, what ugly rituals might they see? How quickly we forget how Whitney sang us through those passionate love affairs (“You Give Good Love”) and their endings (“I Will Always Love You”). Whitney helped me find my rhythm as one of the only little, black girls in my Catholic school. Her song would come on the radio and I would dance and feel free in my black girlness—Give me one moment in time when I’m racing with destiny. Then in that one moment in time, I will be free…The race is over, Sis. Be still. A drop of rosé for you, dear Rose of Zion.

Holy Ghost Chocolate

My grandmother is 103 years old. And she’s amazing. In the mornings, we sit on an elderly porch—her last living sibling and watch the morning fog as it encamps around us like ghosts joining us for a cup of Jamaican chocolate tea. Her fingers are more like rickety wands now, grasping that large mug with the words #1 Grandma fading like the words on my grandfather’s tomb which is just beneath us.  You haven’t had real hot chocolate until you’ve had this tea. The cacao is beaten in a mortar and heated with water, condensed milk, vanilla, nutmeg and allspice. The result is a creamy river of dark chocolate and sweet spice twirling around your palate. You can buy the knock-off cacao from local Caribbean markets. They usually come prepackaged with a dry cinnamon leaf and while they’re tastier than generic chocolate powder, it’s not the same. My cousin brought me some from Manchester last week and I could immediately smell the terroir—the deep, dark, red soil that surrounds the pimento and cacao trees. I can smell my granny sipping time like a true OG.

In the Land of No Ice Cream Cones

I was having one of those days. You know what I’m talking about—avalanching bill collectors, late checks, forgotten invoices, and nothing but everything in the fridge. A day when you find out that the harvest will be late and that the road is even longer than you knew it was.  I was feeling weary and the last thing I wanted to do is post anything on my little blog, but then I ran into this photo I took during a Christmas mission trip to Manchester, Jamaica. I remember this little man—dusty with poverty, rich with charm, oozing the swagger of a true Wailer. He and a bunch of his comrades joined me for popsicles at the local bar. They didn’t serve ice cream cones, just Red Label wine, Red Stripe and popsicles.

Longing for Greens

                               

Today was the end of a chapter. You know how it is. You hold hands. You gaze longingly. You sip Champagne. You frolic through that yummy lie like a wine gypsy wandering through this beautiful, French vineyard I once visited. Everything is green and glossy until the last chapter when the longing gaze looks more like a tired eyeball hoping you’ll stop talking. lol

The Veggie Hex

I’m tired. I’ve been up since 6 a.m. trying hard not to be late for my 7:30 a.m. gig. And for the past couple weeks, Miami’s weather has been like a PMS-ing woman whose hormones are like the wind, so I have a yucky cold. Why am I putting myself through such torture? Why else? Love. Not just any love, but the kind of love that makes you abandon your carnivorous yearnings to suffer in the land of turnips and leaf juice.      

Circumcising the Grape

When I was 16, I was madly in love with a graffiti-artist slash rapper from Queens. With Hip-Hop making its way to the mainstream, I snubbed my Luke Skywalker-Me-So-Horney roots for Tribe Called Quest’s “Midnight Marauders” as I was obsessed with all things New York. My mother and I recently discussed that whimsical season over a couple glasses of Manischewitz Grape Concord wine, the season when her daughter added hundreds of gray hairs to her precious, Pentecostal head. Queens and I broke up during my spring break visit from Howard University. It was a dramatic ending complete with a bonfire of all the artistic pieces he had given me. “He circumcised me from his life,” I cried to my mother, weeping and wailing, Jamaican-style, my singed, teenage heart leaning on the biblical words I wanted so much to abandon. I remember my mother, who was dually mortified and impressed, sitting with me as I waded through the miry clay of my first heartbreak. She pulled out her holy oil (Pompeian olive oil) from her nightstand drawer, poured a little on her fingers and made the sign of the cross on my forehead. I had de-Pentecostalized myself after I left home, but I still loved when my mother prayed for me. With my forehead cupped in her slick hand, she prayed that the pain would subside and that I would I finish college. Both prayers were answered (eventually lol).

Château Dreaming

Breath is a loan. Just like that, the universe’s breath can change. Ask the Miamians who frantically search closets for warm coats as winter’s breath burrows itself underneath hot shorts, new implants and men who roam the boulevard with signs that read: Hungry. Broke. Cold. But, this balanced imbalance works somehow. I remember when I first set eyes on Château Margaux. I had less than $50 in my pocket and was recovering from a peculiar night in a neighboring Bordeaux chateau where I was told ghosts lurked in the vineyards. It was so grand, so old, and yet so new. I was also told that slaves once lived in Bordeaux and I imagined them stealing away to glory in a bottle of Château Guiraud. To think otherwise would be too painful. But here I was sipping the Grand Crus de Bordeaux. I had spent five whole days in the same outfit as L’Avion lost my luggage, but I didn’t care. I knew how to hand wash my clothes like my mother once did in her small, Jamaican village. I was just happy to be there at the center of a dream I’m not sure I really dreamed—this broke, black girl who loves wine—the history, the agriculture, the haunted cellars and vineyards, and the untold stories. I was present in every breath. Please be present in yours.    

The Sauvginon Blanc Seduction (Courtship Rules)

Long courtships can be magical. But most of us, microwave-minded Americans, wouldn’t know that. Sauvignon Blanc has courted me for years, but I’ve been evasive, secretly snubbing the Sancerre bottles colleagues have deemed royalty. I’m a Viognier-girl. I’m a Marsanne and Roussanne-girl. When I think of Sauvignon Blanc, I think, “white grapefruit.” Big deal. But, this last year I’ve stumbled into some truly intriguing bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. It’s like the guy or girl who’s been asking you out for years and you’ve repeatedly declined. Then he or she says or does something that makes you take notice. Maybe, he references Frida Kahlo, who is your favorite artist of all time. Or maybe, he references a Psalm that you absolutely adore. Suddenly, they’re not as corny. The 2010 Grgich Hills Estate Napa Valley Estate Grown Fumé Blanc is not corny. Apricot, white peach and lavender aromas emerge from white grapefruit, lemon drop, lychee and white pepper flavors. I love the saltiness at the finish, that beautiful minerality that beckons ceviche, yellowfin sashimi and oysters. It’s absolutely delicious and three days later with no fancy wine preserver, it’s still unraveling on my palate. I paired it up with the savory, sweet escovitch fish my father bought from a seaside port in Kingston and it was the promise of an amazing food and wine pairing fulfilled. As I enter 2012, I think of the promises I’ve made to myself but have failed miserably. “This time, I won’t let him…” But I did. And so I make another promise to myself to consider the long courtship over the corny, one-palate wonder.

Sorrel Scandal

Sorrel season is a scary time of year. Relationships can be broken. Some are even terminally altered. In my family, aunts feud over this luscious, holiday drink made from an herb that turns into a gorgeous, violet color when it’s ready to be picked. The herb is then transformed into a rich, spicy scandal juice. Jamaicans love sorrel, and it’s typical for family members to offer empty, white rum bottles filled with sorrel as holiday gifts to other family members. Each family member has his or her own style. Some make sorrel with dramatic amounts of sugar (Think 80s Kool-Aid). Some use piercing amounts of ginger. Some use lime. Some sorrel juices have the consistency of rhubarb syrup. But really well-made sorrel always has a few splashes of Wray & Nephew White Overproof Rum. Recently my mom has been using me a scapegoat in evaluating the sorrel that pours in during the holidays. “Dinkinish is a food critic,” she will say sneeringly to her sister who may have neglected to send my mother her yearly batch. “She said that yours was very, very sweet last year.” My cousin just sent my mother a batch that was super lime-y. I decided to pour it into a flute glass with some Cava, but the lime assassinated the Cava. But I’m not giving up. I’m sure a more sugary sorrel is sure to work. My mom asked me what I thought, phone in hand, but I learned my lesson. “It’s good,” I responded flatly.

Christmas Booty & Fresh Greens

God drew a heart in the sky for me this morning. I’m serious. I just finished 100 downward dogs, my derriere feeling rounder than the fullest moon. And as I lay down for shavasana, a cloud appeared in the shape of a heart. Whenever possible I go to the free yoga class at Bayfront Park. It’s perfect weather for bending, breathing, straddling the wind and glancing at the woman whose derriere looks like it could hang neatly from a Christmas tree. With all this airy introspection, I decided to eat a simple, mixed green salad. I stumbled into Organic Girl Good Clean Greens at Publix and was taken with the beautiful, bright lettuce that stood out among the other bags filled with dewy, brown leaves. Don’t you hate spending $4.99 for a bag of organic greens that look like they were picked from a sewer garden? It’s been a while since my palate perceived the spicy, earthy, fresh nuances in the ubiquitous spring mix. I had some Gran Queso that I grated for the salad. The cheese is like a Manchego meets Parmigiano-Reggiano in flavor and in texture. I tossed in some dried cranberries and drizzled a little Makoto Ginger Dressing.  The salad was calling for a nice Sancerre, a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc or a yummy sparkling wine—Graham Beck, maybe. But I never have two things that match. I had a 2007 Allegrini Palazzo Della Torre that was leftover from last night, so I just sipped that. This wine is delicious. Dried, dark cherries and raisins downward dog the palate. It gets jammy after it sits in the glass for a while. It’s brick red and super juicy like many of the yogi-dudes who insist on practicing topless.

Happy Birthday, Jesus. I know you’re sipping the good stuff:)

Bareback in Vacqueyras

I’ve been in smorgasbord-heaven for the last five days. I deserve it. The year is ending, taking with it the pangs and woes, victories and defeats, answered prayers and unanswered prayers, good bottles and bad bottles. For me, it’s been a year of staring mortality dead in the eye, leaping bareback into oblivion and emerging like a ravenous tiger. I know you know what I’m talking about. You lost jobs. You found jobs. You lost loves. You found loves. You paid bills. You didn’t pay bills. You slept. You haven’t slept. You passed exams. You failed exams. You lost faith. You found faith. But you’re still here—sticky-fingered, messy, pissed-off, and rejuvenated. So am I. Enough sermonizing. What about the wine? At first, the 2006 La Cuveé du Président Vacqueyras tasted like a 40 year old man on the brink of a mid-life crisis. The dark fruits were still there, but they were dull and sluggish, like they were hanging on to lives already lived. But I was patient. Most men need coaxing, right? So I decanted it and waited 45 minutes. Those repressed dark fruits began to emerge with flavors like mushroom and black pepper. There was some dark chocolate, and the body wrapped around my palate like cashmere. But I do believe this wine is in its last and closing days of time. But you aren’t. And that's what’s important. 

Gourmet Squatter Video

This is my debut video for Gourmet Squatter. I'm so excited and am looking forward to doing more of them. Squat, Sip, Savor...