The celebration of a mother is a curious thing. As the story goes, the history of every American holiday with good intent winds up in the garbage bins of commercialization and bastardization. Anna Jarvis, the “founder” of Mother’s Day kicked off the tradition by holding a memorial for her hard-working mother…two years after she had passed away. Thus I guess that, all things considered, I’m glad my 14-year old is willing to celebrate me now and not two years after I’ve returned to dust. Jarvis eventually died in poverty, railing against what her brainchild had become, embittered that lazy American children hardly did more than buy a greeting card for their mom. Luckily, I can’t complain. I’m actually holding out for a freestyle rap from my kid this year that will most likely end up being a cross pollination of Eminem and Bob Dylan.

But rather than wait for Sunday, I sing a Song of Myself all weekend long, relishing in the pleasure that bubbles always bring to my life. No still wine. No beer. No spirits. The entire weekend is dedicated to bubbles, wherever they may call home. Easily the most intriguing bottle I had was a 2010 Causse Marines Preambulles from, of all places, Gaillac. Made with 100% Mauzac grapes, it was described by Jon Rimmerman (of Garagiste) as being “not for those seeking classic Champagne—this is for those that seek the outer reaches of our effervescent world.” Sold! The wine was lightly sparkling despite the fact that, upon opening it the wine geysered out the top. And I, in my infinite wisdom and wolf-like instincts decided to put my mouth over the top of the bottle and capture was was frothing out. Grabbing the wine glass that sat next to it to simply pour out the wine seemed to have gone right over my head for the first few seconds. Hence, about one glassful was lost. After tasting this eccentric petillant-naturel I sobbed a little silently at the loss of that one glassful. Petillant-naturel is sparkling wine made entirely with indigenous yeast (much like a lambic) and with only one fermentation instead of the two that give Champagne its bubbles. This is done by cooling down the wine in tank before the wine is completely dry, and then allowing it to complete fermentation in the bottle. Attempting to describe the Preambulles is akin to trying to nail Jell-o to a tree. It was cider, chalk, honeycomb and ginger all slathered on just-baked bread. It was beguiling. It was out there. Then it was gone.

But when I awoke this morning, eager to enjoy the stillness of a still-sleeping household, I didn’t reach for the bubbles. I reached for grape juice. Verjus. Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes). And it’s why I sit here typing at 7:20 in the morning rather than sitting on my deck, keeping the happiness tucked in my back pocket. I had recently received 3 samples from Bonny Doon and one of them was a verjus (“green juice”) of their grenache grapes. I went to sleep last night a bit miffed because I had forgotten to put the bottle of verjus in the fridge, and by the time I realized it I was tucked just a little too deeply into my warm bed to have any inspiration left in me to go back downstairs. I slept doonly, quietly hoping the juice’s natural acidity wouldn’t bite my face off in the morning…Stretch’d and still lies the midnight.

When fine wines are made, it is standard practice to prune the grapes while they are green, thinning what is left on the vine so that the focus of the vine’s work is one on quality, not quantity. But it seems an affront to the grapes (and to my palate) to leave those trimmed grapes on the ground to become food for the worms. I like worms. But not that much. However if you wait just a bit longer, until the grapes have just turned color but are still busting with acidity, you can actually harvest what you prune and make juice. I have always hated commercial grape juice for it’s lack of grapey-ness. It is generally a clusterfuck of pasteurized concentrate, acids (malic and ascorbic) and “natural flavors”. It’s thick, cloying and ummm….purple. All things that grape juice should not be. Doon’s Verjus de Cigare is lovely—a word I don’t think I’ve ever used on this blog, so take note. It walks the fine line between acidity and sweetness, and it walks it quite elegantly, not like a drunken buffoon at a DUI test. My ties and ballasts leave me…I am afoot with my vision. Randall mentions that it’s a brilliant culinary tool for the chef’s toolbox, but I would add to that the mixologist’s toolbox as well. I can easily see myself scooping up what few bottles of this are left (439 cases produced) and hoarding them selfishly to make cocktails with all summer.

So this morning I raise a glass of lovely verjus and toast both the mothers that read this blog and the motherfuckers. You know who you are. Love your moms before they’re gone, and do not love them more after they’ve gone…love them similarly. Because our hearts should not be gilded by memories, but by the present. As for me, I’ve told my son to prune me while I’m young and still have just the right balance of sweetness and bite. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless.

I was sitting in the quiet of a few stolen moments before party guests arrived, contemplating this piece, when I received an email from a blogger friend telling me that a fellow soulmate of sorts had suddenly passed away. Those of you that have read this blog for more than a couple of years know that I’ve raved before about Oxford Falls and their amazing bloody mary mixes. Behind that name was a man who, beyond being a mad talent in his R&D kitchen, was a kind, beautiful soul who made a shitload of friends on Twitter that now mourn his passing. None of us ever got the chance to meet him, but his snarky, off-center comments kinda walked hand in hand with a warm sincerity that you knew was genuine and unflinching. I gave pause and thought, damn, I should really just dedicate an entire post to him, but he no doubt would have kicked my ass for putting aside what I had intended to write in the first place. Jim Mosier is too soon gone, but from where he sits now (with a cold, spicy bloody mary in his hand) he wants you to know that you are being had…

I can no longer count—nor to do I care to honestly, at this point—how many menus I’ve perused in New York City that offer a dish made with Kobe Beef. I’d liken that offering to the guy outside just a block down, selling Louis Vuitton purses for 15 bucks, but that would be an insult to the street vendor because at least he isn’t fucking you silly while he’s bending you over…after all, you know that purse isn’t really a Louis Vuitton, and you don’t much care because you’re only paying a fraction of what the real ones cost. But those $40 Kobe burgers at the Scam the Schmuck Bistro? They’re not real, either. Chances are, unless you’ve been to Japan you have not had Kobe beef.

You can’t buy Japanese Kobe beef in the US. No store, no restaurant, no “gourmet importer” in this country carries it. It’s doesn’t matter how much of your paycheck you’ve blown, or what rock star chef you trusted with the beef on your plate, if you ordered Kobe beef in the US you were unequivocally fucked. There is absolutely no way you have tasted the master of meats called Kobe. Why? Because since 2010 it has been illegal to import any Japanese beef. And before 2010 you could only import boneless fresh Japanese beef, none of which was real Kobe. In fact, the only place Kobe beef is exported to is Macao. Ever been there? Can you even find it on a map?! China.

Restaurant critics may rave about it, your favorite food rag may dedicate an entire issue to it, online vendors may gladly ship it to you, but “it” simply isn’t Kobe. And answering how they could possibly get away with it is sadly easy. It’s unregulated. Why? Because we Americans have a flare for thievery. In the same way that a New Jersey winery can call their sparkling wine “Champagne” if they feel like it, “Kobe Meat” may be a patented term in Japan, but it’s not recognized or protected by US law. Here, Kobe means nothing. Actually, wait, no, that’s not quite accurate. Here, Kobe means high profits because it means nothing.

The con the US food industry is selling you is that the paycheck-worthy steak on your plate is somehow linked to a heritage of excellence and culinary superiority. It ain’t. And if you are somehow able to put that aside and think that at the very least…if nothing else…you are getting the domestic equivalent of that Kobe cattle, you ain’t. In Japan, to be Kobe requires a pure lineage of Tajima-gyu breed cattle. The animal must also have been born in Hyogo prefecture and thus raised on the local grasses and water and terroir its entire life. It takes much longer to raise for consumption, must be processed in a Hyogo slaughterhouse—none of which export to the US—and then pass a strict government grading exam. There are only 3000 head of certified Kobe Beef cattle in the world, and none are outside Japan. The process is so strict that when the beef is sold, either in stores or restaurants, it must carry the 10-digit identification number so customers know what particular Tajima-gyu cow it came from.

Here, our government lets the cattle, retail and restaurant industries call nearly anything Kobe beef. You may be buying it because of its reputation, but what you are getting is a trampled version of it. Trampled literally under foot. It’s not Kobe—hell, it’s not even Japanese—it’s just a cow. And if they try to put on an air of transparency and sell you “Domestic Kobe” or Wagyu, know that they are still screwing with your head. That has little to no meaning here, either. US ranchers have crossbred cattle, both Eastern and Western, until they’ve become kissin’ cousins, to produce a bloodline that usually only has a hint of Japanese heredity…yet they still call that resulting breed Wagyu. So the burger may be juicy, it may be really damned tasty, and it will no doubt be costly, but it definitely isn’t Kobe. The only true Kobe you can pay to experience in America graces a basketball court, not a dinner plate.

DAY 1 – HAPPY HUMP DAY

Bob the Coworker: …you mean to tell me you’ve roasted a pig before?

Me: Yeah, dude, I’m Cuban. I’ve been roasting pigs since I hit the double digits. Why, you doing one?

Bob: My buddy is turning 40. We’re doing one for his birthday. How do you do it?

Me: Well, did you get a box or a rotisserie?

Bob: What the hell is a box?

Me: Caja China. They’re actually pretty inexpensive if you plan on doing more pigs, but you can rent them, too. Or rent the rotisserie.

Bob: What about procedure and recipes?

Me: Sure. I’ll write it all down for you but it’ll be Cuban style.

Bob: No brines?

Me: (hand on hip, impatient look) No, Cubans don’t brine. And for the love of all that’s holy please don’t think you’re gonna do this “polynesian style” with some sticky sweet baste because you WILL burn the pig with that kind of sugar. If you care about crackling, it’s just a good dose of salt on the skin, OK?

Bob: No, no, nothing like that. Though we might do some barbecue sauce at the end.

Me: (walking away) I did not just hear that. You’ll have a recipe and procedures tomorrow.

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DAY 2 – THREATENING THURSDAY

Me: Bob I just emailed you everything…step-by-step procedures on making sure the pig is clean and ready, how to prep it and marinate it, how to keep it cold, and how to cook it.

Bob: Awesome, you rock. Thank you soooooo much….(hours pass by)

Bob: (approaches my desk looking really pissed off) We have a problem. The dude whose house we’re having the roast at is complaining that it’s like an hour and a half drive to go get to the rental place so he’s refusing to go. He’s claiming that we should do it old-school anyway, without the help of a rotisserie or box.

Me: Oh, so he’s gonna build a huge fire pit in his back yard then and just string the pig up? I’m pretty sure there are fire ordinances against that, dude.

Bob: No shit, Sherlock. This guy is driving me fucking crazy. (throws his hands up and walks away…another hour goes by)

Bob: (at my desk again) OK, so exactly how long do you think a pig this size will be? 4 feet maybe?

Me: Uh, I dunno maybe this long (I motion with my hands). I think I have a photo of me with one if you wanna see.

Bob: Ok, I think that’ll fit. The asshole now claims we can do it in his grill which is pretty big. We’ll just have the head cut off and do that in the smoker. (starts to walk away)

Me: Don’t forget you’ll still have to account for the legs Bob!

Bob: mouths the word “fuck” in the middle of the office

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DAY 3 – FREAKY FRIDAY

Text arrives from Bob with a telling prep photo.

Me: LMAO. U belong in a horror flick…Bride of Piggy   U decide on how U R prepping? Brine?

Bob: No brine. Straight up salt and pepper, with mesquite chips.

Me: Excellent choice, bro! Save me a chunk for my bday!

Bob: You’d be so pissed at me right now. Drinking effin’ Coors Light.

Me: Ewwwww! I am drinking Dogfish Head Chateau Jiahu.

Bob: Friggin beer snob….it’s a great quality to have.

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DAY 5 – SOAKED SATURDAY

Text arrives from Bob with a second concerning photo.

Bob: Revolutionary methods.

Me: That in the grill? LOL. So much for “whole hog”

Bob: So, ummm, it snowed pretty good here. He panicked. We cut it up a bit more and put it in the oven. We have industrial, restaurant-grade equipment.

Me: So no wood chips either, then?

Bob: Mesquite. In the oven. We aren’t smoked out because of the industrial hood above.

Me: I am sure U R drinking so if it does get smokey, just remember: stop, drop and roll…the keg out the door.

Bob: Oh the drinking started at like 10:30.

Me: No more Coors Light, I hope?!

Bob sends third disconcerting photo.

Me: Bleck! There aughta be a law!

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DAY 6 – BLACK SUNDAY

Me: (texting) Wellllll??????

Bob: So much pig. So comatose right now.

Me: Excellent. Tell me tomorrow.

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DAY 7 – BLUE MONDAY

Bob: (sitting in the conference room, waiting for our marketing meeting to start) FYI, I’m going vegetarian from now until my trip to New Orleans in May.

Me: Because of the pig?

Bob: Dude, you had to see it. By the time we pulled it out, it kinda just shredded all apart on the counter and like 30 ravenous, drunk guys just attacked it.

Me: Did you get a nice crackling?

Bob: (silent look of death)

Me: Oh man, you should have called. That’s the best part. I’ve done oven pigs a bunch of times. I could’ve told you how to do the skin! I’m your piggy 9-1-1!

Bob: Anyway, so I was pretty comatose yesterday after eating all that pig. I think I need to cleanse my system before I go to New Orleans. No meat ’til then.

Me: (laughing so hard I nearly shake the glass walls of the conference room) Amateur.

When you start a discussion about the evolution (or perhaps revolution) of craft beer in this country—and the resulting cresting tsunami of microbreweries—that conversation must include Dogfish Head. Regardless of how much you like or dislike its beers, denying its roll in America’s return to craft brewing (and in rescuing it from an ocean of blandness) is foolish. Sam Calagione is equal parts beer geek, brewing historian, maverick and businessman, and those just starting to get a foothold in the market know they are indebted to him for the path he’s carved. But at the end of the day, no matter how noble the intentions, some concepts are bound to fall short of their aim. Not quite jumping the shark, I guess, but at the very least caught in a leather jacket, shorts and water skis.

Sam, being the self-proclaimed music fan that he is, has developed three brews as tributes to milestone albums and seminal songs: Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, Robert Johnson’s Hellhound on My Trail, and Pearl Jam’s Ten. As a self-proclaimed music fan myself, I of course ran breathlessly to liquor stores each time one of these was released, in hopes of nabbing a bottle before they all disappeared from the shelf. Bitches Brew was the first one I opened, and I was fortunate enough to be able to savor the beer while listening to the album it payed homage to…on vinyl. I then proceeded to rave about the music, the beer and their alchemy here. By all accounts, it was a kick-ass tribute to the music—it actually became a tactile interpretation of the sound, all at once fat, intricate, innovative, soulful and cerebral. Miles, I think, would’ve been both proud and flattered, especially given that the album didn’t originally meet a very warm reception in the world of jazz and jazz lovers. But this is pretty much where Sam and I kinda parted paths. The other two brews simply don’t draw the same parallels…don’t harmonize…don’t bear any fucking resemblance to each other whatsoever. Regardless of how nice a beer may be, if you’re going to make it a tribute to something, for christ’s sake, make evident the roots that gave birth to your tribute.

Hellhound on My Ale was brewed as a nod to what would have been Robert Johnson’s 100th birthday. For those that live in a bubble pathetic enough to never have heard Robert Johnson’s mastery of the blues, I pity you. Stop whatever Billy Joel song you’re listening to for the thousandth time and go buy King of the Delta Blues Singers or at the very least “borrow” a few MP3s from a more schooled friend. And no, having heard Clapton’s version of the song “Crossroads” is emphatically not enough. Johnson’s guitar playing was so complex that Keith Richards thought there were 2 men playing when he first heard his music. His vocal inflection was so nuanced that its honesty could be heard in a space beyond words. And his style went way beyond the niche known as Delta Blues…Robert Johnson was the blues. So you hear me yammering on about this bluesman and you figure, whoa, that’s gotta be some seriously soulful beer, right? But it isn’t. It’s a hoppy IPA with some citrus notes in honor of his mentor, Blind Lemon Jefferson, and I’m not sure why. Johnson doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would have thrown back a bottle or two of this while laying down a track. A brew aged in whiskey barrels maybe…something smokey, something with teeth. Hellhound on My Ale has no teeth—dentures, maybe, but definitely no teeth. It’s well made (though not as hoppy as Sam touts), but “well made” isn’t good enough for a musical tribute. The brew is not reminiscent of the blues.

Faithfull Ale is Dogfish’s latest Music Series effort, meant to commemorate Pearl Jam’s 20th anniversary as a band, and more importantly their game-changing debut album, Ten. But again, the brewery fell short of making a beer that could be sipped alongside the album and make that experience greater than the sum of its parts. Was it good? Kinda. Was it grunge? Not on its best day. Described as a Belgian-style golden ale brewed with black currants, Faithfull is light and fruity. When, in the name of all things rock, has Pearl Jam ever been described as light and fruity? Seriously? This brew was fit for The Castrati’s Greatest Hits, not Ten. And that classic Belgian funk that would have at least given the beer more of a rocker’s backbone was scarcely notable. I think Pearl Jam and I think visceral. I think raw. I think flannel shirts, unwashed jeans and big-ass, balls-to-the-wall angst. I do not, at any point in the daydream, think “fruity”. Eddie Vedder’s ukelele album was grittier than this beer, and hilariously enough, I am in no way dissing the album. I spent a lot of time on the phone hunting down this bottle, batting my eyelashes and securing what was probably the last of its kind to be found anywhere in the Tri-State area, but it wasn’t worth the effort (or the price tag) and it certainly didn’t live up to the wonderful noise that filled my head when I put the headphones on and heard the opening notes of “Once”.

The quickest way to lure an Italian into an argument is to weave the subject of meatballs into a conversation. There are, to be sure, at least 300,000 other ways to lure an Italian into an argument, but meatballs is easily the quickest.

I grew up in a Cuban household, being nurtured by a mother who wasn’t content to feed us until any and all protein was cooked so thoroughly that it was guaranteed not to give us botulism, salmonella, mad cow, or e-coli…which at that point was also guaranteed to be dry as a rehab counselor. So my formative years weren’t afforded the luxury of a well-crafted meatball, which is, I assure you, a morsel of art. Marrying into an Italian family was, in many ways a cultural awakening (a euphemism for shell shock) but discovering the art of the meatball trumped it all. I mean, sure, Cubans made meatballs too, but they pretty much got drowned in a sauce laced with cumin and served on a bed of rice, like every other protein we ate. Eating meatballs at the Pizzuto house was akin to having that first orgasm when, as a woman, you finally understand what everyone else was raving about. Thank you sir, may I have another?

With that discovery, though, came extreme caution. As any meatball-recipe-bragging Italian will tell you, ordering meatballs anywhere is pointless. We’re not talking Swedish Meatballs, Moroccan Meatballs or any other spherical servings of ground meat, mind you. Just the Italian ones that so easily go from moist, tender, flavor-packed yumballs to dense, dry, bland yuckballs. That happens…umm…everywhere. Everywhere, that is, except at home. And not just anyone’s home, either. Give an Italian grandmother the soapbox for even five minutes and she’ll be happy to diss Aunt Mary’s meatballs, Cousin Carmella’s gravy and probably even her own sister’s bolognese. In fact, she’ll probably lean in as she’s putting Aunt Mary down, cross herself and then whisper, “She uses ground sirloin” as if it’s a sacrilege (which it is).

The perfect meatball is a marriage of fatty ground beef, bread, cheese, eggs and seasonings. Problem is, asking 100 different well-fed Italians for the perfect recipe will no doubt give you 100 ever-so-slightly different variations. Perfection is, of course, rather subjective, though every last one of those 100 Italians will adamantly insist that their perfect meatball is no matter of opinion…it is a matter of fact. My mother-in-law was fortunate enough to secure that perfect recipe from her mother-in-law, and I was, I guess, just fortunate enough to marry one of her offspring (the sexiest one if you ask him). At no point does it involve any store-bought breadcrumbs, ground sirloin or any other meat for that matter, other than beef. If you are dieting and don’t want to buy chuck, go eat a chicken breast and forget the meatballs. And for the love of all that is holy, do not put them in a pot of sauce raw. Yes, they will cook, and yes, they will be very tender. But in no way, shape or form will they ever taste like meatballs that have been fried first, not only to create a contrast in texture, but also to add deeper flavor to the sauce they then bathe in.

Grandma Pizzuto’s meatball recipe lacks measurements for some of the ingredients, so do yourself a favor and taste the mixture before you cook them. That’s right, don’t be a chickenshit and just taste a little. It’s the only way you’ll know if you need more of something. When you make the meatballs, two hands are all you need. There are no cookie batter scoopers in an Italian grandmother’s kitchen…her greatest tools are her hands. Lastly, do yourself another favor and eat one, fresh out of the pan, before you put the rest in sauce (being cautious to look for Italian men over your shoulder who enjoy taking a meatball or four while you are distracted), for there are few greater pleasures than the taste of a freshly fried, absolutely perfect meatball.

Jersey Government Proves it is Not Completely Corrupt
In what has probably been the single most aggravating, nail-biting, ass-dragging legislative bill passing in the history of The Garden State, it looks like we will finally be gaining the right to have wine shipped direct-to-consumer. With stipulations, of course. You’re not surprised are you? The bill (which passed 51 to 18) will allow “plenary” wineries (those that produce a maximum of 250,000 gallons per year) to ship up to 12 cases of wine per year to NJ residents. If your favorite cult winery makes 251,000 gallons, consider yourself shit out of luck. The bill now sits on Christie’s desk waiting for a thumbs up. We can only hope he doesn’t get hungry and mistake the paperwork for a turkey sandwich.

Shocking News Rocks Paula Deen’s Buttery World
It was tough to fathom, and even harder to “swallow” but news has broken that Paula Deen is apparently now living with Type 2 Diabetes. Food Network fans have been heard around the world in what can only be called a collective gasp of shock. Memorial services are being held for her deep-fried, bacon-wrapped butter stick recipe, but we can all breathe a sigh of relief knowing that her Lady’s Brunch Burger recipe is still widely available. Sources also say that Deen is determined to continue eating the way she wants, stating, “I’m excited to team up with Novo Nordisk on this initiative to show others that managing diabetes does not have to stop you from enjoying the things you love.” Why make dietary changes, after all, when we can bloat the pharmaceutical industry’s wallet some more?

Cedars-Sinai Proves White Wine is a Wuss
Because we all know that red wine will eventually be proven a miracle panacea only to be proven a modern snake oil a decade later, I raise a glass to Cedars-Sinai…and I want them to know I will gladly be a guinea pig for any future “medical research.” Their recent study, published in the Journal of Women’s Health, found that red wine may “slightly” lower estrogen levels in premenopausal women and perhaps lower the risk of breast cancer, an effect not seen in white wine. During the study, 36 women drank either cabernet or chardonnay daily for a month, and then switched to the other. Blood was collected several times to measure hormone levels and results indicated that the red wine might “shift the risk of getting breast cancer.” Researchers were quick to note that in no way, shape or form were they dissing white wine…it will not increase the risk of breast cancer, but it seems to lack the same protective elements found in red wine. One of the study’s co-authors stated, “If you were to have a glass of wine with dinner, you may want to consider a glass of red.” Word is that members of the now-growing White Wine with Fish (WWF) Association may be filing a defamation suit.

Miss America Named Spokesperson…For National Pancake Day
I get it, I really do. You wanna do good. You want to help those less fortunate than you. Especially kids. I guess I’m just used to doing it the old-fashioned way. You know, like a gala black-tie fundraising dinner that tugs at your heartstrings while it empties your pockets. But it was just announced that the newly crowned Miss America, Laura Kaeppeler has been named spokesperson for IHOP’s National Pancake Day Celebration, which will benefit Children’s Miracle Network Hospitals. In an act of what can only be considered jealous competition, Miss Teen USA is now vying to be the National Hot Pastrami Sandwich Day Spokesperson, Miss Universe is in the run to be National Coq Au Vin Day Spokesperson, and Miss Gay America is clawing his/her way to becoming the new National Fudge Day Spokesperson.

Sometimes, land must lay fallow. After it’s been plowed and harrowed, it must remain dormant…unsown…inactive…if it’s to restore its fertility. And sometimes, in an equally organic method, it simply needs to be covered with a healthy dose of crap. Only at the best and worst of times are you fortunate enough to witness both happening at once. You lucky devil, you.

Details, as you well know if you read Gonzo, are for sissies. Suffice it to say that 2011 got flipped not one but two birds at midnight, December 31^st. It wasn’t so happy and it wasn’t so healthy. As if because of some higher intention, it covered me with that oh-so-humungous dose of proverbial crap, and left an indelible plow trail behind it. The fact that the blog became an actual effort wasn’t lost on me, and mind you at 40 years old, a lot is lost on me. I was this close to just hanging up my hat and dedicating the rest of my measly free time to warming the left corner of my couch and either watching American Horror Story or reading Phillip K. Dick’s Exegesis.

But then I had this amazing bottle of wine and I thought, gee what kind of selfish, cold-hearted wench would I be if I didn’t write about it? And here we are. Fallow? Been there, done that…back to fertile now and all that jive. PKD’s ramblings made about as much sense as Michele Bachmann—I don’t wanna read a book whose title I had to look up in a dictionary. What I wanna do is read Ma Gastronomie and tell you it’s bloated. I wanna fail at making bread and cry to you about it, and announce that I’ve decided to make charcuterie instead. I wanna mock the Australians some more and laude the Austrians. I want to warn you about the bullshit that marketers are trying to push on you. I want to make you laugh and cry at the bottle of Sutter Home merlot my husband brought home as a gift from an employee. And I wanna make sure at least 10 posts this year get an inbox full of pissed off commentators, lest I fail at rattling your core for better or worse. I wanna lay a 250 Watt floodlight on the jackasses and geniuses that shape gastronomy.

And then, there’s that bottle of wine that guilted me back here. Murrieta’s Well’s “The Whip”. 2010. Livermore Valley, CA. Price tag: $Who gives a shit.99. It’s an intoxicating blend of sauvignon blanc, viognier, semillon, pinot blanc, orange muscat (yes, I’m serious) and muscat canelli. It was floral, it was fruity, it was unctuous, it was racy, and it was enigmatic, but most importantly it was inspiring. And that is the tasting note to end all blasted tasting notes, so why continue? The Whip was worth the forty lashes I took this year, cuz it brought me back here.

Damn.

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.