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.

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.    

   

     

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.

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?   

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)

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.

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 Proverbial Pumpkin Soup

When I lived in Brooklyn, I tried to make my mother’s pumpkin soup. I used both canned and real pumpkin and added Polish kielbasa for flavor, but it just didn’t taste as good. This Miami chill beckons the real thing—a spicy soup-stew made of fresh pumpkin, cho-cho (Jamaican word for green squash), turnip, handmade, white dumplings and beef, the perfume of thyme, garlic and onion filling the space like music. Normally I eat the soup with a couple slabs of hard dough bread, but I haven’t recovered from the hard-dough-bread-ferrero-rocher smorgasbord I endured during the holidays. Feel me?   

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.    

Tigers & Callaloo



Yoko Sugiura  


Nurse: Are you an organ donor?

Me: Um, well, I’m using my organs right now.

Nurse (Laughs): I mean in the event that something happens…

Me: Sure. But try not to kill me. It would be really inconvenient if I died right now.

I had major surgery this year. It was the scariest experience of my life. The surgical procedure was super-risky and major blood loss was highly probable. So was death. The surgeon, a fellow Jamaican-American, advised me to eat obscene amounts of callaloo as it was critical that my blood was iron-rich for the procedure. Callaloo is like a spinach-meets-collard greens vegetable. It’s a classic Jamaican dish that is usually served with boiled yellow and white yams, dasheen, fried dumplings, and ackee and salt fish. My father makes exquisite callaloo and when he heard what the doctor said, he planted callaloo gardens all around his house. In the weeks that preceded the surgery, he pulled, stripped and chopped his fears into edible pieces, seasoning the callaloo with yellow onions, scallion, salt and pepper. He served the callaloo with Jasmine rice that was perfumed with dried shrimp. He offered this dish to his only daughter with all his heart. The day before my procedure was super-intense. What if the doctor accidentally leaves a blunt inside of me? (My brother, a physician, says that many doctors smoke a little ganja). What if I lose my sense of smell and can’t recall the dreamy aromas in that 1997 Bertani Amarone? What if I lose the ability to weave words? I lied on my parents’ couch, the sun frozen between my legs as I chatted with God. I asked him to choose the nurses, the anesthesiologist, even the table I would lay on as they carved into me. I asked him to choose the surgical utensils and to give the surgeons exactness and wisdom with every incision.  That morning daddy and I prayed together. “You’re going to emerge from this like a tiger,” he said as he pulled callaloo from the earth.

Calaloo is very cheap and available at most West Indian or Caribbean supermarkets. If you don’t have these markets in your community or city, consult your nearest Jamaican who may actually be growing some.