Me - “Hey Babe, do you remember that time when we had
that really brilliant gazpacho? It was just the essence of tomato, the whisper of
bell pepper and slutty with vibrant cucumber? I remember a swirl of sherry
vinegar and maybe some super-savory, wee little croutons that were stained with
garlic and olive oil. You remember that?’
Him - “Not a clue but that sounds exactly like
something you would have made to me”
Me – “Dammit!”
Spent the rest of the afternoon today futzing about
and every once in a while racking my atrophied brain trying to place that
particular taste memory. “Must have been like at A.O.C., or maybe in Spain?” my
words a mere muttering in the background as my husband started the process of
packing for yet another trip. Was killing me in that way that starts to truly
make you angry and cause that Julia Roberts vein to pop out on your forehead, “It’s
my goddamn memory, why can’t I recall it?!”
Ended up trying to ignore the annoying little gnawing
away at my brain and started to compile a shopping list for the evening’s
dinner, the makings for a going away meal of chicken, lemon and orzo soup. A
rich and complex soup that is so very much from my kitchen. Lots of texture,
just this side of being too salty, studded with chewy bits of tiny pasta,
tender shreds of mild chicken flesh and right at the end, a bite of lemon and
spice. The kind of meal my husband craves while away eating three meals at
chain restaurants and hotel diners. As I jotted down the needed items I
inexplicably added, tomatoes, red bell
pepper, seedless cucumbers and jalapeno, items not once found in my chicken
and lemon soup. A crooked grin split across my lips and my tongue began to
water as the realization came clear, I’d lost my memory for that wickedly
delicious gazpacho, so I was about to create another one.
I mentioned a few posts ago that my mother used to
call me Mouse. It had less to do with having a pinched face, (more piglet than
mouse for sure) or constantly scurrying from here to there. Wasn’t even my
from-the-womb love of all things cheese, it was the quiet way I sat, barely
making any noise, observing, absorbing everything around me. I didn’t need or
want much by way of contact but I would pinch myself to stay awake, (the super
quiet often helped people forget I was there) to drink in each and every shape,
noise, aroma….the pictures of my day and life often affixed with the glue of a
sound, smell or flavor. Guess it makes sense that at some point I would stumble
upon the wine business right? The faces, the “pop” and crumble of limestone
pebbles crushing under my feet walking the vineyards, the moist way the perfume
of a cold cellar fills the cavity of your chest, but not before taking an indelible
swipe along your nostrils, the customer that needs another recommendation and
the flavors that tie all of that together. Seems almost like I spent my whole
life training to do what I do now…..so fuck me with that stupid hanging chad of
a gazpacho with nothing stuck to it, I mean other than my fierce desire, and
growing irritation.
As my dinky little kitchen began to become encased in
the sensuous and intoxicating aroma of a chicken carcass that had been nearly
blistered in olive oil and the veggies that gave their sweat to scrape up the
mess left behind. The tongue tingling pop of fresh lemon and the head filling
aroma of slowly bubbling and developing, becoming, broth as it splashed along
the sides of my deepest pot and washed over the treats within, I found myself
flipping the television off and switching instead to some random stream of
music before plunking the remote on the “Fuck I need to dust that thing” coffee
table and charging back to my kitchen.
Cutting board, large, deep bowl, scary sharp knife,
pile of vibrant smelling veggies at my side and so it began. “My lover’s got humor, she’s the giggle at a
funeral. Knows everybody’s disapproval, should have worshiped her sooner”
one of my newest obsessions filling me with his deeply soulful voice and words
that make me ache to have written them…..felt the kind of inspiration it had to
have taken write them. “My church offers
no absolution, tells me worship in the bedroom. Only heaven I’ll be sent to is
when I’m alone with you.” My wrist keeping pace with the heart pounding
thump of the music, my shoulders constricting and releasing as the most
saturated and sexy words splashed along my sides, much like the heady broth
lapped away at the contents of my heavy pot.
“My baby would
never fret none, bout the things my hands and body done. If the lord don’t
forgive me I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me” Hozier
stuffing me as full of want as the scent of things to come was killing my
husband’s focus to pack his luggage. The swish-swish-swish
of my knife as it effortlessly sliced through skinned shafts of cucumber, the
next song up, “She’s gonna save me, call
me baby, run her hands through my hair. She’ll know me crazy, soothe me daily,
but yet she wouldn’t care” my sweat pant covered back end rocking back and
forth as I cored and sliced tomatoes and seeded jalapenos. Head bobbing and
face in what I can only imagine was a cartoonish snarl as I woefully groaned
along with Hozier, feeling every bit of what he intended, including the pang of
slightly desperate falling in love his words inspired me to do. Just in the
midst of a rather grandiose flourish of sherry vinegar I could just make out a
noise other than my beloved crooner, a quiet chuckle. My husband coming in to
check, “how, much, longer?” for dinner just to find his goofy wife, knife in
hand, towel tossed over her shoulder, hands nearly raisiny from cucumber and
tomato juice, dancing, singing and creating gazpacho. When I taste that cold,
pungent vinegar kissed veggie soup tomorrow I know what picture I will see….me
being foolishly in love with a young Hozier’s lyrics and getting “caught”
making a memory.
Dishes done, one soup warmly consumed and filling the
belly of a now sleeping man that will long for it while away, another in a
bowl, still in coarse chop soaking up and consummating before tomorrow’s final
blend. The flavors already coming alive on my palate even though it still needs
to meld, finish and be tasted. A soup flavored with dance, laughter, ache
inducing lyrics and a sprinkle of embarrassment brought forth a flood of
sensational memories that sent me here, to my laptop with a glass of
Pouilly-Fume….and a heart very full of flavor. My gazpacho from nowhere
reunited me with….
The first cookie I remember falling crazy in love
with. The Ginger Snap, but the only way I loved it was with a thin slice of
Extra Sharp Cheddar on top. Sweet and spicy upfront but with a salty, savory,
creamy linger. Kinda the way I hoped people would see me.
Shake N Bake pork chops and the way I would scrunch my
face at the heavy, fake tasting chemical flavors….until I got a bite of my
grandmother’s crunchy iceberg lettuce salad with her house made blue cheese
dressing. I remember loving the smell of Shake N Bake but it was only for a
second, just like I adored the blast of warm air from the oven but I didn’t
want to get too much closer. Visits to my grandparents’ house always meant odd
food, (salad dressing aside) and the smell of cooked food was forever doused in
the stink of utter disapproval….cool lettuce and thick rivers of garlic and
Roquefort taught me that sometimes I could like all the pieces in one way or
another but I didn’t love the whole puzzle.
Dense, dark slices of sweet squaw bread with creamy
avocado and alpha sprouts. The ugly and weedy looking grub my always smack
filled father would make for me on one of the rare visits my mother would
allow. I remember smelling the sweetness of the bread, the weird nearly black
color that my five year old eyes weren’t used to, the nuttiness of the fatty
avocado and the earthy, dirty aroma of the super-fine sprouts I’d end up
picking out of my back teeth as I sat alone on the oily feeling couch as my
father coped in the bathroom. The sweet bread a welcoming break from the patchouli
he normally used to cover the residue of pot and heroin that had started to
leak from his skin.
The tang of yogurt that would sting the sides of my
mouth, but in a good way, as my mother tried once again to find a breakfast I
would agree to eat. Cold blobs of sour yogurt with crunchy sunflower seeds and
a tiny spin of wild honey. Sour, nutty with a bare shoulder of sweetness from
the honey…once again and descriptor I felt, even at like seven, that I wouldn’t
mind people using to describe me.
Cool Ranch Doritos and Dr. Pepper. My lunch as a
middle schooler that always felt fucked up and like it didn’t fit. So in short,
we were partners this horrendous pairing and I, neither of felt or tasted right.
Took spending hours with my mouth on my first boyfriend Myron’s dark flesh to
figure out what I wanted and how to feel, at least in one tiny part of my life,
in charge of something. I think I truly found my palate as I spent hours,
weeks, and years devouring him. I’m a better taster and lover for his patience
and willingness…thank you.
The feeling of velvety foie gras being washed down
with a deep, “get if off of there!” sip of dry Oloroso sherry. Was my first
night in Cadiz, there in the southern part of Spain to learn all about the Sherries
that were raising my eyebrows and digging their cravings into my neck. Feeling
awkward, as usual, wearing the mileage of 24 hours’ worth of travel and the
deep wrinkles of my chosen outfit as we sat down to a twelve course dinner. One
that started with a baseball sized wad of goose liver, (yes, yes I know. I just
can’t do filter meat, no matter how fancy. Yuck, yuck and ewe) with fresh
berries and, thankfully, a bottle of Oloroso left next to me on the table. One
bite, shudder and wash it all away with briny, deeply nutty and extracted
Sherry. Left that trip drunk with inspiration and the confidence that carried
me through and had me accepting the next.
Eggs poached in red wine and settled in a puddle of
demi-glaze, mushrooms and bacon, lifted to other worldly dimensions when cold
Chablis splashed across my tongue and back of my throat. Was at my boss’ house
and I had been asked to drop by and deliver something, Randy invited me sit,
taste, explore and give my earnest and as it turned out, valued opinion on
which wines worked with the dish and which didn’t. Took one yolky, bacon laced
bite and a sip of doughy, stony, mineral-rich Chablis before my eyes rolled
back like triple 7’s and Jackpot! To this day one of my favorite dishes that
Oeufs En Meurette, (Burgundian dish, look it up, make it, trust and thank me)
and I shall never have it again without Chablis. Not only mind splittingly
delicious, it reminds me of the day I knew what I thought mattered to him.
My first bite of crispy, salty, naughtily sultry fried
chicken and Champagne. I know I had to have read about the combination somewhere,
not sure where that might have been like 14 years ago, but somehow I had heard
of it, or something like it and one night, alone with a bottle of my beloved
bubbles I felt the shatter of crunchy skin, the give of tender flesh, the detonation
of a pairing that would have me crawling, goofy grinned and needing to share,
atop a soapbox dizzily extoling the necessity of this particular combination. I
wrote about it, spoke about it, preached and dogmatically wagged my finger
before putting my ass on the line and offering a tasting at our shop, hoping to
prove it wasn’t just some fat girl thing like pizza and Ranch dressing. The
people came, tasted, swooned and came over and over again. This particular pairing
became something of a calling card for me and my entrance into the real world
of Champagne, and specifically grower Champagne. Not sure there is any kind of
map, or if I deserve to be on it but…well I’ve always felt like it was the
fearless (ahem, sort of) insistence of making people try this one pairing that
sang, that brought us devoted Champagne lovers. Looking for more pairings,
drinking more Champagne and finally seeing those wines as just that, real wine
that has a rightful spot at the dinner table. This pairing, this one smells of
goal accomplishment and pride.
Fuck, it’s late, again…
Time to sluff off and nuzzle into sleepy soup filled
man smell before all I gots is scented pillow, too much space and the growl of Hozier without someone to catch me.
Thanks for listening.
Me.
