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?

 

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?   

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)

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.        

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.   

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.   

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

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.