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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dining in the Natural Mystic

The best meal ever!

My Dear Gourmet Squatters, I missed you. I recently lost my granny and have been pretty sad. If you’ve been reading Gourmet Squatter for a while now, you know how much I love my granny. God blessed her with 104 chapters of life, but still my family and I weep and rejoice for the departure of our beloved matriarch. So I recently returned from granny’s send-off celebration, and Folks, you’re not ready. On the day before the funeral, the mountains burst with the smell of roasting goats’ heads for manish water and smoky boar’s flesh for jerk pork (I really hope none of you are vegans). My mother says the pork skin has the best flavor, and it does.  A large tent was set as the village cooks hung, cut, and seasoned. The meats were roasted on tree barks and aged pits as the men bickered and puffed themselves into lives they wished they had. Music seemed to grow from the ground—everything from Bob’s “Natural Mystic” to songs I had never heard before like, “One Woman Cannot Satisfy Me.” But I was satisfied as I watched children leap from steep hills and run around the curvaceous earth. My favorite meal was a plate of steamed white rice, steamed callaloo seasoned with gorgeously green, long scallion stalks, onion, salt, pepper, and the juice from the escovitch fish my mom purchased from Old Harbour Bay. The meal was an ode to Jamaican culture--spicy, sweet and fresh. When darkness finally draped the land, a live band arrived and white rum flowed from the clouds as we danced, cried and drank to granny.

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?

 

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 :).     

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.        

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.    

Jamaican Fried Chicken: The Remix

The last time I was in Jamaica, I was surprised to see how prominent fried chicken had become on local menus. From Kingston to Christiana, people were eating fried chicken legs the way they once ate jerk chicken. Even my cousins had fried chicken on my grandmother’s birthday party menu. But I wasn’t disappointed. The flavors came together like some Jamaican remake of an American song. The chicken was grown on a nearby farm. After the slaughter, legs, thighs, breasts and wings sat in a seasoning bath of garlic, onion, scallion, scotch bonnet pepper, and thyme. They were then dipped in flour and thrown in the deep, bubbly Dutch pot. The village feast called hungry bellies near and far to partake of the Jah-merican throwdown. It seemed bodies were emerging from graves, the fried fragrance like the hearkening of Jesus’ second coming. My mother, a spongy cook, who can recall the ingredients and technique of most dishes, made some this evening, the same fried fragrance calling me from my hustle-and-bustle-make-that-money trance.

Tomatoes are So Secretive

Tomatoes are so secretive. We often see them in supermarkets in heaping piles, uninspired by their ubiquity. But a beautifully cultivated tomato is like a clandestine lover that seduces torn baguettes, French country and hard dough breads. Add a twinkle of coarse salt and simplicity becomes an unexpected trip to La Rochelle. Drizzle your tomato with anchovy oil, and your palate becomes a boudoir of flavor ecstasy. A neighbor gave my mother a Ziploc bag of baby tomatoes and we ate them like tangerines. They were so sweet and juicy, and I’ve been eating them with everything. I ate them with Wheat Thins and Jamaican crackers. I mashed them in boiled Idaho potatoes with chopped scallion. I wrapped them with sliced chorizo. I left them on the table while I went to church and now they’re gone—sneaky, little devils.      

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.

Anonymous Affairs in Sunday Gravy

I’ve watched “Under the Tuscan Sun” about 1000 times. I’m not kidding. I know. It’s sad. But when I’m craving anonymity (It’s hard to be anonymous when you have a multisyllabic name most people never heard of), I retreat into this world of olives, wine, broken hearts, and mended mojos. Since I was in Tuscany, I decided to make some cellentani I found in the pantry. I was going for a Pasta e Fagioli, but it turned into something much heartier. The spirit was speaking to me—“Add carrots, green peppers, thyme, and scallion. Don’t grate too much Parmigiano-Reggiano.” Someone gave my mother a Walmart gift card for the holidays, which she passed on to me, so I grabbed a jar of the DelGrosso Sunday Marinara. I’m a sucker for those rustic labels, and this bottle was exactly what I expected—wonderfully savory and light unlike the usual sugary marinara sauces most of us, faux-Italians, are accustomed to. I cheated on my vegan non-boyfriend and sautéed a quarter pound of organic ground beef. In the end, it was like an unplanned affair under the anonymous moon.   

Scent of A Sipper

This past week has been littered with bodies. It’s like the earth is regurgitating, and people are just falling into the next life. Did you hear about the Jamaican family—mother, father, baby and grandmother who were fatally injured in a car recent car accident? So sad. To these stories, my father often replies, “What is man?” The bible likens man’s life to that of a blade of grass. How quickly we forget.  How quickly we become guest stars in our own lives. How quickly we become dreams deferred. And so I choose to live. No matter how difficult the artist road may be, I live for the chase, for the next meal, the next gathering of friends, the next bundle of laughter, and the aromas bursting from vineyards I’ve yet to visit. I remember when I used to lock myself in my room and just dance and dance for hours—New Edition, Cherelle, Michael Jackson, Def Leopard, and Pat Benatar blaring from my speakers. I held all the secrets of an earthly paradise right there in my Toshiba boombox. Today, I summon that girl, that sweet, dream-juicy girl to keep dancing, sipping, living.  

Gourmet Squatters' Guide Through Thanksgiving Snobbery

We, Gourmet Squatters, have some nerve. Even though we squeeze our bite-size budgets for every frivolous,  gastronomical adventure, we have the audacity to look at our family and friends’ Thanksgiving tables with closet-disdain. Oh no—is that the canned, string bean casserole? Could the turkey be any drier? Store bought apple pie with the not-fully-baked crust? And the worst—Arbor Mist. Gourmet Squatters all over the world must be prepared for such atrocities. So whether you’re a zucchini-zealot protesting the cock massacre that defines your family’s table or you just don’t celebrate the mass murder of Native Americans, here are some suggestions for the uppity, financially-demure, food snobs during this holiday season.

Anti-Turkey Carnivore Snobs—If you don’t do the gobble-cock, Caribbean Express’ oxtail stew is sweet, savory, juicy, supple perfection ($10, $12.46). Their curry goat captures the earthy and sweet spice flavor profile that distinguishes Jamaican curry from curry experiences in countries like Trinidad and India ($9, $11.18). My father said their fluffy rice and red peas is almost as delicious as  my grandmother’s. 

Caribbean Express, 6033 Miramar Pkwy., Miramar, 954-981-4989.

Vegan Snobs—These colossally ill-shaped zucchini, pineapple, sour cherry muffins are moist, tasty and look so homemade, you almost want to buy Owner and Baker, Hakin Alexander, baking molds. But their messy shape is part of Alexander's bucolic charm. He balances the earthy zucchini with jewels of sour cherry and pineapple sweetness ($4.50 each). Alexander is always experimenting, so there are other yummy combinations like banana, cherry and walnut and blueberry and pineapple.   

Vegetarian Restaurant by Hakin, 73 N.E. 167 St., North Miami, 305-405-6346.

Wine Squatters Choice—Click here: http://www.miami.com/november-wine-month-article

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?

Dating Mr. Carrot (A Carnivore's Confession)

Vegans can be so self-righteous. You know who I’m talking about. Those burlap bag-toting, tofu Nazis who scope out your basket for meat-contraband as you navigate the Whole Food aisles filled with cashews that were supposedly hand-picked by Brazilian leprechauns. Mr. Carrot was no different. But I liked him. He was the typical wheat grass-renegade-holy-roller with his part-the-Red-Sea-style beard and raggedy, burning bush-slacks that swallowed his dried seaweed-thin frame. Veganism was his calling, his gospel, and his Miramar vegetarian restaurant was like a cool church that could have easily been confused for those vegetarian weed spots back in Harlem. Mr. Carrot looked more Rasta then Seven Day Adventist with his thick, long, gnarly-vine-looking dreds. Anyway, so I visited his spot a few times because I loved his passion for pushing healthy food lifestyles in poor, black communities. And I thought he was sexy. He finally asked me out and I was thrilled when he suggested Andiamo—my favorite pizza joint in Miami. I’m food-agnostic. I can hang with the carnivores and the herbavores, but for the past few months, my culinary romps have taken place in the land of almond milk and barbecue seitan. That Saturday night he picked me up in his wilting Winnebago and I imagined us camping in the woods eating grassy pizza while I took the occasional swivel of sparkling wine I had hidden in my purse. No such luck. When we arrived, Mr. Carrot had several demands: #1 He didn’t want the pizza to be sliced with the same cutter that was used to cut cheese pizza. #2 He didn’t want mushrooms on our sparkling veggie pizza. #3. He inspected my soda order for…I don’t even know. And he’s anti-wine. So how does the evening end, you ask?

Andiamo Bricken Oven Pizza, 5600 Biscayne Blvd., 305-762-5751.