What Are We Waiting For

 

What You Waiting For?

 

Feeling a bit like a five year old, dusty sneaker poking at a pile of unrumpled reddish clay soil, front teeth dug into the flakey cracked bits of used flesh on my bottom lip, aging green eyes searching each one of yours, the luscious dark browns, the pale blue, the ones that look like pleated bits of orange and green tissue paper. The dark black, penetrating cobalt, golden honey and chartreuse. All the colors of the eyes that fall upon my words, upon my open soul and keep coming back to drink from me. I can’t and won’t, wouldn’t assume you have been waiting but, I’m sorry if you even once felt the ache seeking my stories, silliness, sarcasm, sensuality, my voice. I’ve been away….

 

Been in the place I always am, as far as physically. My home has not been Wizard of Oz’d, still nestled here in the somewhat protected city I’ve called my, well my house, it has never been my home. San Diego and Long Beach are my home, but this apartment where we raised our son, have stained, laughed, cried, grew, shrank, battled, quit and tried again, the space I’ve made a fool of myself by mistake and on purpose, this hasn’t moved. My rickety dining room table and its tired legs that sweetly shudder but stand strong when I plunk my embarrassingly overflowing platters upon it, it is still supporting my hefty forearms and sweaty drinks. My adorable neighbor’s light across the way just now, a welcome and open sign, for a couple more hours knowing someone is there just across the way. Someone to watch over me. My Spotify being that annoying new thing I have to learn. Eventually letting me pretend that I just don’t know how to work the damn thing and that is why I keep listening to the same damn five songs over, and over again. It’s not that I’m freaking obsessed with Olivia Dean and Hozier, it is the fucking contraption that doesn’t get it…not me. Damn things don’t read my fingertip’s mind! Yeah, like that. The smells around here are a little different, my stove a little less slaving, my bed far more rumpled from the tossing and turning. The unconscious foot sweep and entire body wiggle of the lonely left behind bookend. Only so far you can go before you fall off the shelf right?

 

Before anyone worries, my husband and I are still very much married. I’ve not left or been left, sort of but, my home, my house, it feels more hollow and needy than it ever has. I’m cooking less, enjoying it a bit less and have been finding far less inspiration, both here and crawling my woefully tired clunky frame into bed at night. In the entirety of my 55 years, I have felt completely safe in two, hear that, two spaces, so grateful am I to have this space, my “house” here with my husband, left. The place where we raised our child, the meals, those are all here as if every inch were covered in the warmest, soothing hug of a wallpaper. The other space, well sadly it was basically surgically removed, not an ounce of anesthesia in sight, and no bandage absorbent enough to sop up what I still feel leaking.

 

I crave passion like an adrenaline junkie craves dropping from the tip of a wave or hovering their toes over the side of a plane. I nurse from that kind of swelling like an infant feeds from a firm and willing nipple. Getting older, and slower, curbs some of that but the fire that churns about inside me, the flames that have flicked at my insides since I was old and wild enough to listen, it still smolders and cracks beneath my skin. Still kicks at my ribcage and raises my eyebrow. It slithers about inside me and sends those tired legs searching for a place to tie up, to stop for the night. Feels like a warm palm in the small of my back, pushing me to bend in ways that make them watch. Make them crave too. It’s all here, just beneath my aching to be stroked skin, but...

 

I need that firm willing in my mouth too…

I need a reason to plunge

Leap

Tear at my clothes

My flesh

Bare myself….

 

Feel myself searching more than ever before. The Taylor Swiftication of music. The Parkersation and AntiParkersation of wine. Boring and lonely food I cook for just me. The points wars. The who matters and who doesn’t ego fucking stroke of interweb wine blog self-glorification, and retail hierarchy a soulless and backlit empty footless sweep of a very empty bed. Not sure I ever fit in the whole fancy wine world and as it bleeds out I can say once again, I’m okay with that. I do still so badly ache to learn, read, be fed and nursed…have that tug of my lips on the firm and willing inspire me to spread myself open to those in need of feeding too.

 

So now what?

Settle into a new life with a few less daily voices as I do my best impression of a baby making out the new shapes and faces. I’ve let the weight of acceptance tie my tongue, hold me back and down for long enough. I’ve never been able to line dance or do the electric slide. My body doesn’t bend that way….their way, I stumble and with my “Zinfandel Face” watch the counted out steps drag, uninspired across the dance floor just like the choreographed, “thoughts” spin in front of my screen like they are on some crazy Sisyphus spool. Time to hit the “fuck it” button and open myself again. I miss the feeling.  The wriggling out of those socially acceptable britches didn’t come without a bit of a hiccup. My severely vexed and fatigued mind took that quite literally.

It’s a small thing in the world of serious issues. My sleep has always been a spiteful and craveable mistress but this was the first time I’ve ever woken from a sound sleep, heart racing in my throat, pillowcase ripped in half between my fingers, in tears only to fall back to sleep and have it happen all over again. A reoccurring nightmare (any of you had those) that brought with it a hot shower and flesh scrubbing kind of creepy that kept me up for almost a full week. The kind of darkness that makes you begin to question your own sanity, like how could your own head conspire to terrorize you like that? How could I have been so grossly naive as to think that I made any kind of difference anyway? I started to tell a friend about what went on in these horrific night films and before I could get halfway through he stood up, wrapped his arms around me, face curled into a twist that let me know I wasn’t being a pussy, his nervous voice telling me, “I love you Samantha” think that might have been the thing that flipped my switch. Love…

 

I need it

I need to give it

I need to inspire it

I am willing to share it

Show it

Drink from it and spill it into others

 

Been feeling too alone and part of that

Is

Not

Being

Here….

 

Please

Tell me you missed me

Lie if you have to

Feed me…

Teach me

Inspire me….

I promise

I’ll return the favor

 

What are we waiting for   

 

 

 

 

Bear With Me

 

My Bear Character Wine

 

 

I think I was the first on staff to get sucked into The Bear, the wildly popular, and wickedly intense series about a family operated Chicago Beef stand that is in the middle of absolute heartbreak and turmoil, now in its second season on Hulu. I tried to watch it when it first came out but, there was something in the first episode that failed to hook me, even though I am a fan of most shows involving food, cooking, and crazy ass family drama. Might have been that I put it on as one of those last of the night shows, you know that, just-one-more-before-bed kind of deals, and the intensity was too much. All the yelling, cacophonous slamming of pots, pans, plates and attitudes, along with the actual bear in the first episode, well it was too damn much and I turned it off and forgot about it.

A few months later I had read some interesting comments and reviews for the show I decided to give it another go one evening. Hours later I felt like Tom of Tom & Jerry, holding my eyelids open with toothpicks trying to stay awake to consume more. Finally fell asleep and woke at 5:30am to watch the rest. That my friends, is binging of the first order. Brought my way-too-tired butt to work the next day, a disciple on my soapbox telling anyone that would listen that they, “Have to watch this show!” And watch they did.

 

 

Now that the second season is out, and rightly devoured, it seems the series is bigger than ever and the world it appears to have fallen in love with the richly textured, multi-dimensional, erratic, emotionally saturated, brilliantly acted and stunningly shot show. It can be too intense for some but if you can, forgive me, bear through it, you will be gorgeously rewarded with a gift you just want to keep unwrapping. Much like the original star of the show, a Chicago Beef, the show is meaty, spicy, dripping with complexity and at times, undeniably perfect. Sink your teeth in everyone and bring some napkins.

Jeremy sent out an email asking the team if we thought it might be cool to pick a character in the series and see if there are any wines that remind us of them. I admit that at first I flashed on those insipid pairing wines with music, breakfast cereal or any other such silly thing it has nothing to do with but, the more I thought about it the more it made sense to me. I often write descriptions for wine that read more emotionally, or as if I were speaking about a person and in that context, I loved the idea, and I knew exactly whom I would pick and which wine I thought they would be most like.

 

 

 

Cousin Richie Jerimovich

Temperamental

Spicy

Identity Crisis

Assertive

Loud

Misunderstood

Strong 

Imperfect

Interesting

Exceptional, when given the chance

 

Syrah shares many of these same characteristics as the very charismatic cousin Richie. The variety is grown in many places throughout the world and shows so differently depending on where it’s from, thus a little tricky for those trying to figure out Syrah’s temperament. Bit of an identity crisis, right?

French Syrah, from the northern Rhone, can be lean, floral, more savory and packed with cured black olives and pepper. Many new world wines have those same notes, but you often find more generous, more extracted, and deeper fruit, and in the case of Australia you can throw in a bit of mint on top of all that chewy fruit. There are always exceptions of course, which is why it can be a little difficult to understand the variety. Just like cousin Richie, you never know exactly which version you are going to get, but given a chance, and in the hands of a great winemaker, they can be some of the best red wines there are.

 

 

French Syrah

2018 Domaine Des Combat Crozes-Hermitage, Rhone

2019 Verzier Chante-Perdrix Saint-Joseph, “Madone”, Rhone

 

New World

2019 Savage Red Coastal Region, South Africa

2019 d'Arenberg "The Foot Bolt"Shiraz, McLaren Vale, Australia

2020 Melville Syrah "Donna's", Sta. Rita Hills

Flakey, Salty, Cheesy

 

 

This is quite possibly one of the easiest dishes I make and it never arrives on the table without people gushing and acting like I should run out immediately rush out and audition for Top Chef or Chopped or some junk. While I love the praise, (actually, I am one of those super shy people that freaks out when given too much attention) and all the ohs and ahs I am very quick to confess that this particular dish was a full on cheater one.

 

Now, every chef I know has had to prepare puff pastry in cooking school, but most swear it is a hardly detectable difference between the scratch made and frozen store-bought versions. I am one of those home cooks that does not bake. I am crap at following directions and the very idea of lugging out my measuring cups and spoons gives my undies a right good twist. Before this dish, I loved the idea of things puddling or being planked between layers of buttery pastry that shatter when penetrated, sending a flourish of delicate shrapnel down your blissfully crunching front but, it was deemed as pastry/baking and I wasn’t doing it. Dammit. 

 

 

 

To this day I am not sure what inspired me to just get over it and try working with puff pastry but this dish was the first I made and it has stuck with me and served me, my family and friends, quite well and quite often.

 

15 Minutes Prep

25 Minutes Cooking Time

 

1 Package Frozen Puff Pastry Dough (thawed)

12-15 Slices Hobb’s Wine Cured Salami

7 oz Grated Gruyere

2 ½ Tablespoons Good Dijon Mustard Like Moutarde Forte au Vinagre, (seriously the best mustard I have had outside of Beaune in France)

1 Egg (beaten)

Place rack in the center of your oven and preheat to 450 degrees

Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface until the dough is about 10-12 inches rectangular. Place on a parchment lined baking sheet. Spread mustard in even layer on dough leaving a 1-inch boarder on every side.

Arrange Hobb’s Wine Cured Salami on top of the mustard, slightly overlapping avoiding the boarder. Sprinkle grated cheese evenly over salami.

Brush boarder with egg wash

Roll out second sheet of puff pastry to same size as the first. Gently place second sheet of puff pastry directly over the first doing your best to line up the edges. Gently press sides to seal and chill for 15-20 minutes.

Using a sharp knife trim edges and make three slits down the center of the pastry. Brush with egg wash and place in the oven to bake for 20-25 minutes, turning baking sheet halfway through to ensure even browning. Use your sniffer! If you can smell the dough getting to dark check. You want a nice deep golden-brown crust.

Let sit for a few minutes to set, slice, and enjoy.

This savory treat can be served hot or at room temp, up to you. We like ours after it has cooled off for about 10 minutes but there are days when we simply cannot wait to slice into it and watch the cheese ooze out. Can be served as an appetizer or a light lunch/dinner with a big, lemony dressed salad. 

Wine Pairing Suggestions

Because of the savory and salty nature of this dish it leaves lots and lots of options for wine.

 

Dry Lambrusco 

Dolcetto

Beaujolais

Saumur Blanc

Alsace Pinot Gris

Riesling