Bread is not evil

Tear. Smear. Crunch. That’s how you enjoy your baguette. Slicing is for dilettantes. Slicing is for folks who don’t know the joy of tearing through bread in the open air. While I strolled through Paris, I watched women bite the tops of loaves the way Bugs Bunny chomped on carrots. It was culture shock. It was breathtaking. There were no carb-cocked renegades peering through South Beach Diet boxes judging them as the baguette crumbs threaded their lips. Fast forward: I went to the South Beach version of a Farmers Market on Lincoln Road and stumbled upon a bread chorus line—sourdough, raisin walnut, baguettes, and more. I couldn’t resist. The only thing more exciting than eating a freshly made baguette is shopping for one. I heard of Zak the Baker while lamenting the loss of ACME Bakery to a colleague, but this was my first time seeing his work. It reminded me of the patisseries I saw in Paris. Tear. Smear. Crunch. Plugrá salted butter. Perfection. The baguette was a $3 stroll to a gastronomical season of my life that was so ecstatic, I felt guilty. But I got over it.

Señor Paco, Persecuted for Smoked Salmon Sake

“I was arrested like 20 times,” said Señor Paco, a silver-slick, Cuban fish merchant. “This was in Kendall in the 80s. I was just trying to make a living.” Back in the days, vendors were often arrested for selling the streetside goodies you and I have come to love. But Señor Paco Fernando still stands. His Blue Runner Seafood truck is a deep sea treasure on land. From fresh corvina and stone crabs to ceviche and my favorite, the hickory smoked salmon, a sweet slice of omega fatty goodness, I’m an official groupie. And then there’s Señor Paco in his crisp white shirt and slacks. “My wife, Barbara, makes an amazing salmon spread,” he said endearingly. Señor Paco’s clients enjoy sopping up his one on oneness. It’s hard to imagine him in an icky jail. But sometimes good men get cells, and bad men get badges. “Finally, the judge was just tired of seeing me,” he said.  

Blue Runner Seafood, North Miami, 786-499-9334.

Cheese Heals All Wounds

My beloved Gourmet Squatters, it’s been a long time. Reality has crept into my bounty like a mouse seizing a baguette in the hollow of night, and for the past few months, a thoughtful meal has meant more than it ever has. I am caring for a loved one who is sick, a fellow Gourmet Squatter, a champion, a friend, a leader, and an amazing woman of God. Each day, she fights with loss of appetite, an anguishing symptom for someone who lived for the perfume of jerk pork and the bite of savory, aged Cheddars. It breaks my heart. But every once in a while, she has an urge for her favorites: smoked Salmon, Prosciutto di Parma, and stinky cheeses, and I am happy to oblige. I really love shopping for cheese and experimenting with simple recipes. I love the opposites attract experience of taking a soft, stinky cheese, marrying it with a complex, sweet preserve and smearing it on toast. It’s breakfast. It’s dessert. It’s divine. Here’s a simple, yummy dish that dimmed the noise of sickness, so we could be present in the sweet gift of breath.

 

Bufala Blackberry Toast

Tip: Make sure the cheese is at least room temperature, so it’s easy to smear

Slab of quadrello di bufala (or your favorite musty fromage)

Tablespoon of marion blackberry preserves

Chunk of your favorite baguette

Preparation:

Toast baguette

Smear cheese

Top with preserves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eating Dinosaurs with Old Friends

I belong to a prayer circle of women who I’ve known since Pink Panther popsicles and goomies. About five years ago, we formed the circle because we were grown-ass women who felt like overgrown teenagers.  Our gatherings are much like Blanche, Sofia, Dorothy, and Rose who shared their pangs, woes and pleasures over endless cheesecake pies. But our menus are slightly different; Tastee’s Jamaican patties, Syrian lamb skewers and spicy, red rice, vegan oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and Publix Chocolate Trinity Ice Cream are among my favorites. I’m the wine girl, so I’m proud to say that I proselytized the gals out of White Zin. They’re into sparkling rosé, so I usually bring a bottle. But what’s most delicious are the endless bowls of laughter as we reminisce the past, gently or not-so-gently poking at each other’s strange phases (Back in the day, I dated a crazy DJ I named Mufasa). We laugh loud and hard and long, hoping our echoes will cling on until tomorrow. The last time we gathered, my friend, T, made a vegan lamb stew with sautéed dinosaur kale and steamed jasmine rice. None of us are vegan, but since she’s married to one, she’s mastered some delicious recipes. And this is definitely one of them. I adore Indian food and relished the cumin, coriander, fennel, and cinnamon aromas dancing from her pot. I used to think that dinosaur kale could only be enjoyed in a juice with bananas and apples because the leaf’s texture is tough, but when it’s cooked gently, it reminds me of a mix of calaloo and collard greens. It’s hearty and filling much like the time I spend with my sisters.    

   

     

The Price of P-Funk

If you’ve been reading Gourmet Squatter, you know I love my wines, funky. By funky, I mean I like my dry reds Virginia Woolf-deep, wines that provoke the androgynous mind, compelling you to take a second glance at the color, wines that make you stick your nose in the glass over and over again like a child at the beach, digging through the wet sand in search of treasure. You know you have arrived when you smell the earth at her most vulnerable. Some folks use words like wet cellar or wet leaves. But in my experience, these wines can smell like everything from stinky cheese and wet soil to armpit, sweaty socks and lovemaking. These wines possess Sly Stone-swag, your descriptors getting more and more creative as they unravel in the glass. When I think of the essence of grape funk, I think, Pinot Noir, and like all the things worth having, this grape is called the heartbreak grape as it is difficult to grow. It’s also difficult to find a really well-made bottle for under $25. Last year, when my budget took a boost, I bought several bottles between $20 and $35 mainly from Oregon and was really bored. The aromas were flat, vacant and uninspiring. Today I got off work ready for that good P-funk, so I told the wine dondadda at one of my favorite wine stores, that my budget was $30. He recommended the 2009 Soléna Grand Cuvée Oregon Pinot Noir as a supremely aromatic wine, but the bottle I had was aromatically dead. I tried and tried to smell something, but there was nothing there. A couple weeks ago I bought a bottle of 2009 Sonoma Cuvée Russian River Valley Pinot Noir for just over $20. P-funk jumped out of my glass along with aromas of braised short ribs and marionberries. On the palate, there were dark plum, stewed fig, clove and anise flavors that glided through the lush, cashmere body. I bought the ’08 vintage this evening which wasn’t as interesting, but sometimes, you have to hunt the P-funk.

 

Sipping the Winemaker

So I have a confession. I love wine. You know that. But more than I love sipping wine, I love sipping the winemakers. I love reading about the adventures of those who dare trade their nine-to-five gigs for the long shot, the jagged dream of making money as grape juice hustlers. These aren’t descendants of centuries-old wine families. They are everyday people who stumbled into a bottle that inspired them in the same way that music inspired Aretha and poetry inspired Plath. Helen Turley is the winemaker behind labels like Marcassin, Bryant, Colgin and Peter Michael. Wine Spectator Senior Editor—James Laube wrote in a 2010 article that Turley is a native of Augusta, Ga., where she grew up Southern Baptist raised on a diet of fried chicken and meatloaf. Not exactly a foie gras-Sauternes background, is it? In 1968, Turley and her man drove a VW bus cross-country, hippie-style, ending in California. It was a 1980 Sea Ridge Pinot Noir that changed her life. Mac McDonald came from a family of Texas moonshine makers. Laube wrote in a 2004 Wine Spectator article that MacDonald’s mother, Elbessie, along with her brother and sister, made sweet wine from apples and cherries. But that didn't pique Mac's interest. It was a 1952 red Burgundy that changed his life. When he was a teen, a group of doctors hired his father to take them hunting, and one guest left Mac with that '52 Burgundy. About eight years ago I met the Michael Duncan look-alike in downtown Brooklyn where he rose from the Lafayette Avenue subway stop wearing overalls and a straw hat. I got goosebumps when he explained that he aged his Pinot in Hungarian oak. Are your dreams aging? I know sometimes it feels like mine are. Afraid to take that long shot? Maybe it’s not that long. But are we willing to do the work, pick the grapes and see what ends up in the bottle?

 

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

Cab Slow

So it’s a brilliantly dull Saturday evening. I was supposed to work overtime today, but I declined. It wasn’t easy to pass up the time and a half-money, but when one starts looking like a Chia Pet, it’s time to, as my colleague, Adrienne, would say, “Tighten up.” Right now I’ve got the Zen music channel on while I sip the 2009 Les Piliers Cabernet Sauvignon I picked up last night. I have to work hard at being still these days. There’s always something to do and somewhere to be. What is intimacy if you cannot be intimate with yourself? Lately, I’ve been craving sweet spice aromas from my wine experiences. I think it’s a reaction to being indoors most of the time. I spent the last week immersed in cubicle culture—a land of jarringly big screens, hard, square shaped-booty chairs and the smell of spirits that would rather be elsewhere. This cab is an escape. On the label is an image of the Les Piliers vineyard. I imagine being there picking Cabernet Sauvignon, songs like Fragile State’s “Every Day a Story,” and Bob Marley’s “Natural Mystic,” blowing through my iPod. It’s velvety, full-body tricks my palate into thinking it’s bathing in a warm vanilla spring.   There are aromas and flavors of black cherry, Madagascar vanilla, milk chocolate and in the back drop, there’s a rare filet mignon-funk. You know how much I love that funk. And guess what Gourmet Squatters? It's just $16-something with tax.

Roots, Rock, Red Label Wine

Jamaica is an island of rhythm and rhyme. From the moment I land in Kingston, my hips begin to move. There’s music bursting from every jagged road. And it’s not always Bob Marley or Vybz Kartel. It may be a group of countrymen slamming dominoes on rickety tables while they testify about unruly women, waning hustles and lives already lived. Hot Guinness drizzles down their cracked faces into spirits fortified by mamas’ prayers and Olympic wins. I go to my brother’s bar in a lingering Kingston enclave and soak it all in. I laugh until I cry, the sweetness of the Red Label wine wining through my veins like a dancehall queen mashing up the bashment. A single-toothed, rude bwoy offers me some Wincarnis—a respected, herb-driven tonic wine that allegedly heals impotence and stimulates libido. I graciously accept. With a glass filled with ice and a belly tight from grinning, it tastes like a yummy ruby Port.

Note: Biggups to Usain Bolt and all of the Jamaican Olympic athletes that represented our little island with such style and grace this year.

When Grapes Dance

Ola Fellow Gourmet Squatters. I owe you another apology for being absent. I want to blame it on my new rat race-gig, but the truth is I suck at time management. And if I didn’t have this rat race gig, I’d be sippin' OE (Well, maybe not lol). There are single mothers out there working two jobs, going to school and flipping pancakes. All I have to do is be loyal to my Gourmet Squatter-bredren. So in between rat racing and freelancing, I've been sipping some delicious wine, ya’ll—the kind of wine that makes your palate dance. Among them was the 2007 Kestrel Falcon Series Cabernet Sauvignon. The nose beckons mixed berry tarts. But the palate channels a Moroccan spice festival. Anise, cloves and licorice bellydance around flavors of Madagascar vanilla and Jamaican drops—a traditional coconut dessert that includes candied ginger. It’s always a treat when one bottle can take you all over the world, especially when the bottle hails from Yakima Valley, Washington state.  So what have you be been sippin’ and where has it taken you?   

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 :).     

A Funky Mother’s Day Sandwich

I inherited my insatiable passion for food and wine from my mama. My childhood was a dissonant melody of pots clanging at 6 a.m., the morning, a salty mist of codfish creeping into my room. But unlike many stalwart, Old World Jamaican cooks, my mother had an adventurous palate. My elementary school lunch box was a gourmet playground of Italian ham, Sicilian salami and sweet sopressata sandwiches. And my fromages choices ranged from Sweet Munchee to Cracker Barrel Vermont Cheddar. These weren’t viable stock options in the World of Lunch Box Trades as my classmates’ palates were narcotized by generic peanut butter and jelly. But even then I knew what a good sandwich felt like—the exquisite balance of texture and flavors, the expert weaving of salty, sweet, savory accents. A well-made sandwich can heal wounds, and my mother, the ultimate sandwich-sage, has made many sandwiches. These days, I try to dazzle her with my amateur skills over a chilly glass of Manischewitz Concord Grape wine, her fave.  I’ve tried to bring her over to my side—a decadent Sauternes or a yummy trockenbeerenauslese  and while she smiles politely at my attempt, she loves Mani.  Yesterday I made mama a pre-Mother’s Day sandwich and served it with  a deliciously funky French wine. Hey. At least, I tried, right? lol

A Funky Mother’s Day Sandwich

Ingredients:

French bread loaf

3 thin slices of Prosciutto di Parma

2 thin slices of Jarlsberg

I scallion stalk, chopped

1 tablespoon of julienned sundried tomatoes immersed in olive oil

1 egg, over medium

1 teaspoon of Mayonnaise

Pinch of salt

Pinch of pepper

Preparation:

Fry eggs over medium

Season with salt, pepper and scallion

Place egg on side plate

Tear a piece of French loaf (4 inches recommended)

Cut or tear open bread

Rub inside of bread inside pan where you just fried egg

Spread mayonnaise on bread

Layer with prosciutto and Jarlsberg

Top with egg and sundried tomatoes

Serve open faced  

Yield: 1

Wine Recommendation: 2009 Domaine De La Janasse Terre d’Argile Côtes du Rhone Villages

Okay, you’re thinking sparkling wine, an off-dry Riesling or even a yummy Rosé, BUT I friggin’ love this wine. The purple violet color explodes with aromas of black cherry and spice bun followed by duck pâté and wet leaves. On the palate, the body of the wine is reminiscent of foie gras and the flavors of black cherry, black plums and black pepper are a seamless journey into the southern Rhone.   

    

    

Heaven-Bound Oxtails

On January 2, 2002, the greatest Jamaican oxtail stew cook to ever walk this earth died. Her name was Coralee Ivadney Vaughn, and she was my grandmother. That same year I wrote a poem called “Heaven-Bound Oxtails,” and the poem would go on to win $500 in some bootleg poetry competition. But Moms (my grandmother) would have been so proud. I often think of her preparing Jamaican oxtail stew for God and all the angels. I imagine everyone from Bob Marley to John F. Kennedy, Jr. chewing bones and laughing, those sin-tender oxtails taking their palates to places way beyond the firmament. I know there are many Jamaican take-out spots serving mediocre oxtail. Shame on you! When oxtails are made with love and care, the dish becomes foie-gras- delicate. This isn’t Moms’ recipe as she died before I got a chance to get hers, but this is pretty damn good, too. Enjoy!

                                         In loving memory of Coralee Ivandney Vaughn

                                                        Sunrise: August 4, 1916

                                                       Sunset: January 2, 2002

Ingredients:

3 pounds of oxtails

Nature’s Seasoning or your favorite meat seasoning (dry jerk seasoning works too)
Season to taste (2 tablespoons recommended)

2 chopped large onions

8 chopped cloves of garlic

12 thyme sprigs

4 ounces Gravy Master  

15.5 ounces of canned butter beans

1 tiny piece of chopped scotch bonnet peper

Preparation:

Season oxtails with Nature’s seasoning, half the chopped onions, half the chopped garlic, 6 thyme sprigs, and 2 ounces of Gravy Master. The longer the meat marinates, the better. Try to marinate overnight.

Put oxtails in pressure cooker.

Put enough water in the pressure cooker to cover the oxtails.

Place pressure cooker on stove top over high heat.

Pressure meat for at least 45 minutes or until tender.

Transfer meat from pressure cooker into Dutch pot or large deep pot meant for stews.

Place all the remaining chopped onions, garlic, scotch bonnet pepper and thyme in pot. Taste oxtails to see if they need more meat seasoning.

Cook over medium-high heat for half hour or until the gravy has reduced.


Drain canned butter beans of all juice then add to stew.

Remove meat from stove stop.

Serve with Busha Browne banana chutney.

Serves 3 people

My Beloved Strawberry

I was completely disenchanted with the strawberry. I was tired of buying a container of them then dousing them with sugar because they tasted so blah. I had dismissed the strawberry as a lame fruit that was better enjoyed when articulated through the aromas of a French rosé or a morning jam. After all, if one cannot afford to drive to Homestead or Kendall to pick strawberries from a patch, he is doomed to the dismal, watery flavors of strawberries that have breathed their last breaths in some warehouse truck. What if you don’t have an artisan strawberry jam farmer-friend who rocks a gnarly beard? But today my faith has been restored in my beloved strawberry. Not only does Walmart have affordable strawberries, but their locavore-perfect, their aromas filling the air like Victoria’s Secret Pure Seduction bath splash lol Their juices oozed unto my fingers from the container like a lovely jam. The strawberry is God’s most perfect work (Well almost lol)

Those Lovely Legs

So, I decided to take on the daunting task of impressing a squadron of saved, sanctified, Holy Ghost-filled, water-baptized meat masters. I invited my aunts for my mother’s birthday dinner and decided to rebel a little and prepare something besides jerk chicken. These women have walked for miles and miles, pots on their heads, life swaying from their hips. They’ve sashayed through bushes, rivers and mountains. They’ve made meals for the apostles and kissed the bitter lips of time when dreams washed away. But through it all, they’ve maintained their swagger, especially in the kitchen. And so I humbly accept my inheritance, washing my chicken legs with vinegar, massaging them with poultry seasoning, onion, garlic, and obscene amounts of scallion, thyme and rosemary. I drizzle my lovely legs with extra virgin olive oil, the same one used to anoint my head for protection, place them in a plastic container and set them in the fridge. The result: standing ovation, cheers, love and my aunt who asked, “Where’s the gravy?”

Hallelujah Rosemary-Thyme Baked Chicken

Ingredients:

6 pounds of all natural or organic chicken legs

Vinegar (To clean chicken)

Poultry seasoning (I used Nature’s Seasoning)

1 Large chopped onion

6 cloves of chopped garlic

3 stalks of chopped scallion

8 sprigs of fresh thyme

5 sprigs of rosemary

½ cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil

4 tablespoons of butter

Prep Work:

Clean the chicken with about three tablespoons of vinegar.

Cut off any extraneous chicken fat.

Rinse thoroughly.

Pat dry with good paper towel (I used Bounty).

Massage chicken with poultry seasoning, onion, garlic, scallion, and extra virgin olive oil. Add fresh thyme and rosemary sprigs throughout the chicken.  

Place chicken in sealed container overnight or for at least 12 hours.

Directions:

Preheat oven at 475 degrees for at least 15 minutes.

Line a deep baking pan with foil.

Coat pan with olive oil and butter.

Place chicken legs in baking pan.

Turn down oven to 375 degrees.

Place chicken in baking pan uncovered for 15 minutes or until chicken starts to cook.

Cover chicken with foil and turn down oven to 350 degrees.

After 20 minutes, check on the chicken.

Flip the legs around, so both sides get more of the gravy.

Check on the chicken in 25 minutes to coat chicken with gravy that’s in the pan

(I used a big spoon).

Chicken should be ready in an hour, but if they’re not fully cooked, leave in the oven longer, but make sure to keep coating chicken with gravy to keep it from dying out.

When chicken is ready, they should be gorgeously brown.

Let it sit outside of oven for about 10 minutes before serving.

Beer Suggestion: Ice-cold Red Stripe (Classic Jamaican food pairing) or Monk in the Trunk (An almost sweet, yummy, organic amber ale)

Wine Suggestion: Veuve du Vernay Brut or Veuve du Bernay Brut Rosé (Cheap and delicious French bargains)

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.

Fasting

I come from generations of fasters. Fasting is a ritual where one gives up a meal or meals in order to draw closer to God. Whenever I have this conversation with people who view fasting as some strange, Eastern, Ghandi-esque tradition, they always ask this very valid question: How does not eating draw you closer to God? It’s not about the food; it’s about the sacrifice attached to it. It’s about pushing through the desire to consume with your physical being in order to feed your spiritual being with the strength it needs to overcome those unbearable obstacles and release blessings into your life. I belong to a prayer circle of women between the ages of 30-something to 84, and we fast on Wednesdays. I usually start off by reading scripture, thanking God for all the prayers that have been answered in and out of the circle and stating my petitions. The more specific the petition, the more effective the result. It’s not enough to ask God for a job. What kind of job do you want? Where? How much do you want to make? I have observed amazing breakthroughs in this circle—from healing from brain cancer to deliverance from a huge financial burden. I cherish the old school fasters, who have transformed fasting into a sacred, prayerful art. As I reflect on Trayvon Martin and the Trayvon Martins-to-come, I’m fasting for the divine covering of our young men who dare wander the streets uncovered.    

Carvel Consummated

It’s a beautiful, breezy night in Miami, the kind of weather that leads to lonely hearts tripping and falling into each other. My neighborhood sky bursts with salsa and reggae as young people wander down these sidewalk-less streets.  I spent the evening with Carrie Bradshaw, enviously watching her Russian “lovah” make her pancakes. Then I got the itch. Lately, I’ve been going to Carvel more than usual. I grew up on Carvel ice cream cakes and still go to the same spot for my fix. I’m addicted to those chocolate crunchies. And what used to be a once-in-a-while treat has evolved into a habit. And it’s getting worse. Now, I dress up for the occasion. Tonight I wore a pink leopard print pencil skirt, raggedy, gray tank and paisley print-pashmina with black, Gucci pumps. The guys at the counter know me very well. “The usual,” they asked coquettishly. “Yes, filler up.” The young, black guy with bifocals rushed to the back and emerged with the 12 ounce cup of chocolate crunchies. “Why don’t you get ice cream?,” he asked.