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.      

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.

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. 

Brunch, Booz and Djon-Djon

What do you get when you mix lightweight ex-girlfriends, a slightly intimidated baby daddy, tabbouleh and a yummy Zinfandel? Brunch. Today is my best friend, Sandy’s, birthday. We’ve known each other for over 23 years (Stop trying to figure out my age lol). Since she was in Haiti for my birthday, we decided to celebrate together. Now that we’re grown-ass women, we don’t see each other as much even though we live in the same city, so this was a special moment. Sandy’s stunningly gorgeous Haitian neighbor—Titu made the tabbouleh, and Sandy's mom made my favorite rice in the world—diri ak djon-djon (Haitian black rice). This luxurious dish is made with black, sun-dried mushrooms indigenous to Haiti though there are bootleg versions you can find in local, Caribbean markets. Having had the dish many times, I can tell the difference, and I can tell Sandy’s mom splurged on the real mushrooms (Thanks, Ma). Oh, but the pièce de résistance was the Haitian pineapple upside down cake jeweled with candied prunes. This is Sandy’s specialty. It’s moist, buttery and sweet, like Jamaican rum cake without the rum. I know the Zinfandel sounds random. You were thinking Bordeaux or even a Chinon for the mushroom-y rice, right? I know, but that’s what I had, and it wasn’t the big, jammy, purple-tooth showdown I was expecting. The wine had aromas of roses and anise and flavors of black cherry, loads of dark chocolate and black pepper. It was a flirty wine appropriately named Macchia Adventurous, ’09 vintage from Linsteadt Vineyard. Sandy drank Riesling…from the blue bottle lol

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.