Still Hungry

Still like The Blue Lagoon in Port Antonio, Jamaica

I am still recovering from the turkey binge. I feel heavy as it’s a busy time, the specter of  spent money looming overhead. It’s that time—the closing of the year draws closer. It is the end of things that never began and the beginning of things that never ended. I’m busting at the seams, the guilt of still wanting more and more when there are so many who have nothing. I go through my fridge, foil-wrapped throw-aways staring back at me—the turkey leg, the Basmati rice from four weeks ago, the funky cheese I forgot about and the three year old kremas (an amazing Haitian drink). Yet, I complain about having nothing to eat, my inner-spoiled brat sadistically unquenchable. I drive down North Miami Beach Boulevard, sad faces draping the day with cardboard signs like, “I have cancer, and I have no food” or “Laid-off and Hungry.” Sometimes, I give. Other times, I look away, annoyed, still caught up in my own hunger for quietness, stillness and maybe, more cookies.

Kiss My Morbier

Muenster, flour, bell pepper, scallion, carnation milk, & butter 

Woe betide the creature who steps into my garden when I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner. For me, cooking is a deep, meditative journey and to prepare for such an adventure, I must nourish my spirit with secret treats that will get me through the congested parking lots, frequent jaunts to Walmart and Whole Foods, chopping, massaging, and leaky onion-eyes. These treats are not on the menu. They’re in my gourmet squatter stash. This year I hooked myself up with a quarter pound of morbier and Boar's Head Prosciutto Piccolo. The prosciutto piccolo tastes like a knock-off Proscuitto di Parma with its yummy, salty bite. And it’s way cheaper. I love morbier funk—the detestable, French cheese aroma that’s comparable to sweaty armpits. I grabbed some Jamaican water crackers from my mother’s cracker jar since they were there. These crackers are thick and can handle the most creative topping towers. I made this crazy dip with mayo, finely chopped rosemary I pulled from my garden, ground black pepper and a spike of scotch bonnet pepper sauce. Increíble. And, of course, there’s the wine. I bought an Australian Grenache not worth mentioning and ended up sipping some Korbel a cousin gave me as a gift. It’s not Champagne, but it served its purpose. I was ready to work. It’s taken me eight whole years t0 master the art of making a creamy mac-n-cheese. Inspired by Haitian cooks’ amazing macaroni au gratin, I subbed whole milk for carnation milk. I also subbed sharp cheddar with Finlandia aged Muenster which is reminiscent of a gorgeous, sharp British cheddar. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner. My father told Jamaican duppy (ghost) stories that had us cry with laughter. I watched my family chew bones, their eyes licking the plates. When my mother wandered into the kitchen, I stuck a piece of piccolo-wrapped morbier into her mouth. “Mmmmm. Where did this come from?,” she asked.   

An Ode to The Overweight Lover

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.

The Chocolate Brownie Break-Up

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.

In The Whole: Ghetto or Organic?

The cooked food buffet at the Aventura Whole Foods is ghetto. Have you seen the chicken wings swimming in grease? Even Wing Stop has its limits. All you see now is a sea of dried out rice and beans, pastas covered in cheesy pimples, and oily vegetarian dishes with cultures like India and Thailand haphazardly tagged to them. Is this stuff really organic or even all-natural? I bought a vegan blueberry muffin and the oil soaked through the paper bag. I hate to sound like such a sour puss, but if I'm going to spend $1.79 for a vegan muffin, I want some illusion of good nutrition. Nowadays, I stick with the simple delicacies. I had a long, perilous affair with the vegan chocolate chip cookie, not the dull-colored chunkie one, but the dark, crumbly one. I used to fantasize this beast of a cookie that was so rich and yummy, I often wondered if I was better off eating Oreoes? I loved dunking pieces in Blue Diamond Vanilla Almond Milk while watching some pointless Lifetime TV Network drama about a woman who's sleeping with her best friend's father's brother's son who's a murderer and a psychic. Have you had the vegan chocolate chip cookies?