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.

I am a geek in so many different ways I’m no longer sure what gets a bigger rise out of me. One of the guys at work likes good beer, so I can often talk suds with him. He also happens to have broad tastes in music, so I know I can kibitz with him about the new album Black Sabbath is recording. But when I told him I was recently able to get my hands on a hard-to-get bottle of Dogfish Head Faithfull (a tribute to Pearl Jam’s 20th anniversary of their seminal album Ten), and that I plan on drinking it while listening to the album on vinyl, he looked at me and said, “You are such a nerd.”

Given the choice between a $100 purse or $100 in wine, beer, books or music, the purse gets ditched. Come to think of it, spending $100 on a purse merits a straight jacket or, at the very least, some hard meds. And even better than wine, beer, books or music is beer in honor of music, songs about wine, or books about wine…or beer…or music. Yeah, baby. If you are even half as geeky as my coworker thinks I am, you’ll wanna put these books on that holiday wish list of yours. Forget the miter saw, nix the bottle of perfume and cross out the Dr. Who DVD box set, then throw these on. OK, maybe the Dr. Who set can stay, but that’s it.

A Taste of Heaven (Madeline Scherb) – I firmly stand by the belief that the only good thing to ever come out of organized religion is beer and wine. Hell, the only reason Napa Valley B&Bs can charge hundreds a night is because missionaries planted grapes there in the 1700s. A Taste of Heaven is not only a small history lesson on the beer, wine, spirits, cheeses, breads and sweets made inside sanctified walls, it’s also a travel guide and a cookbook with a bunch of godly/gastronomical road trips and just as many recipes that feature everything from Trappist Tripels to Carthusian elixers. This isn’t exactly a new release (2009) but it hasn’t gotten much attention and deserves it. I actually wish the book were twice as long if I’m being honest, and it would have been a “godsend” if it included the tastes of religions other than those based in Christianity, but as God knows, nobody’s perfect.

The Oxford Companion to Beer (Garrett Oliver) – OK, confession…I actually giggled like a giddy schoolgirl when I cracked open this book. This is the equivalent of a beer geek bible—the single most comprehensive exploration of beer in print, period. Whatever you think you know about suds, you don’t know jack shit unless you have this book. You are an ignorant, green, blank slate and if you don’t put this on your bookshelf you will continue to be. What’s worse is that I’m such a dork that I actually started reading this book cover-to-cover rather than use it as a reference tool, and I now know more about African brewing than anyone I know or have ever met. This is the King Kong…the Babe Ruth…the Robert Duvall of beer books. You may not have ever had the pleasure of tasting a porridge beer, but you definitely need to be able to talk intelligently about it at a party.

The Food Lover’s Guide to Wine (Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg) – I have raved upside down and backwards about the books that Karen and Andrew crank out, and this one joins their ranks. What I love about their publications is the sense of creative culinary OCD that they bring to food and wine. This one catalogs over 250 different wines by grape, region, flavor profiles, etc. and breaks them down for the wine newbie/food geek. Look up Brachetto D’Acqui and you’ll not only see that it’s a light-bodied red made from the Italian brachetto grape…you’ll also find that it typically has notes of cherries, raspberries, roses an vanilla, should be served chilled, pairs best with chocolate desserts and is made by Banfi, Braida, Regali and a bunch more. It deserves as much praise as I gave their masterpiece, The Flavor Bible.

The Recipe Project (One Ring Zero) – Second confession in this post: I heard about this book/CD online and actually asked to be put on their mailing list when review copies were available because I was that anxious to see what the hell this endeavor was about. It had all the makings of gonzo geekdom…food and music in the most intimate of marriages ever. Imagine a recipe from Mario Batali, Tom Colicchio, David Chang, John Besh, Aaron Sanchez or Michael Symon actually being set to music. Imagine the ingredients and instructions for Chris Cosentino’s Brains and Eggs being sung to white-boy-hip-hop backbeat. Imagine, if at all possible in that miter-saw-dreaming head of yours, that there exists a book with recipes from these icons that is served alongside a CD with recipes from these icons. You getting this? I defy you to read/listen to this and not pee your pants laughing to Symon’s heavy metal-driven Octopus Salad with Black-Eyed Peas or Aaron’s mariachi-inspired Duck Breast with Dulce de Leche Ancho Chile Glaze. Creative, inspiring and totally, undoubtedly, single-handedly dorky in the best way imaginable.

While sitting in the doctor’s office waiting room yesterday, I started a conversation with the man across from me—he and I were the only two people there. After a couple of minutes of discussing our own health problems and why we were there, we began discussing our families and in the course of maybe five minutes at most, he put me on a path of gratitude that was mildly equivalent to a bitch slap. His daughter, he told me, had Williams Syndrome…never heard of it, I said. It’s apparently a rare genetic disorder that fucks with a child’s development and painfully enough to a parent, it occurs randomly. It causes delayed speech, ADD, feeding problems that include regular bouts of vomiting, learning disorders, slack joints and a million other medical problems that have no cure…just treatment. His daughter has had 10 heart surgeries, a host of other procedures and then suffered a massive stroke due to the negligence of a hospital. She now takes 13 medications a day and can’t even hold her head up on her own. She’s 10.

He went on to tell me that he went to Medicaid for help, but because he’s a construction worker that makes a halfway decent living, he doesn’t qualify…he makes too much damned money. Add to that the fact that he’s suing the hospital where his daughter had the stroke and that halfway decent living is pretty much gone. He’s 42—just two years older than me—but he managed to smile with the unburdened ease of a child as he got up to leave, wishing me a great holiday.

In that moment, I suddenly felt like an ass for all the pissing and moaning I do (all inside my own head, mind you) about my family’s problems. The medical issues we have, the financial issues…the rocks that life has thrown in our path…all seemed suddenly manageable and pebble-like in size compared to his troubles. I know there are plenty of people that go feed the homeless on Thanksgiving, or go visit hospitals and prisons, and it all serves two purposes: taking care of those less fortunate, and keeping the well-doers mindful of what they are grateful for. I always understood it, but now I get it.

I spent most of yesterday cooking, and as most people who wind up hosting a holiday, you bide your hours of cooking with thoughts of what still needs to get cleaned, what you might forget to serve, and when the hell you’ll be able to order a pizza so you can sit down with a fifth of booze and the DVR, and forget that the holiday is almost upon you. Soon enough you’ll blink and there will be a mountain of dirty plates and pans in the kitchen, your floors and tables will no longer be shiny and spotless, and you’ll be looking for what’s left of that fifth of booze as your left eye starts to twitch.

But yesterday’s conversation changed me. I’ve still got a bunch to do today, but I’ll do it when I’m ready because I’m thankful for the snorefest in my home right now that grants me the ability to write in peace. I’m thankful for having to clean my bathroom to the point of being able to eat on its floor, because it means that my mother is alive and healthy and coming to my home to be fed. I’m thankful for the enormous grocery bill that spit out a receipt longer than my arm, because it means I can grant everyone’s culinary wishes today. I’m thankful for the dirty floors, the scattered instruments and the noise, because it means I have beautiful, healthy nieces and nephews that know how to party. And I’m also thankful for that mountain of dirty dishes and pots…

Because it’ll keep my husband busy while I quietly steal away with what’s left of that fifth of booze.

Have a great holiday and be well.

For some God-forsaken reason, a good chunk of the World’s population (oh, OK, let’s face it, I’m probably basing this on Twitter’s population more than the world’s) is wet with excitement that today is 11/11/11. I care about this phenomenon about as much as I cared last year on October 10th and I promise to care as little next year on December 12th. My kid is in the playoffs right now…first-string running back…so all 11/11/11 means to me is 2 hours of football practice tonight, a load of laundry to make sure the uniform is ready for Sunday, and 30 minutes of meditation to remind myself that I will not behave like a lunatic in the stands. But it just so happens that the Napa Valley Film Festival just got underway, and because I couldn’t be part of their Twitter Taste Live feed today (fucking day job is seriously cramping my style) I promised to review the wines they’ll be tasting. Unfortunately for them…and me…and you…I only got 2 of the 3 wines, but as Meatloaf has repeatedly tried to tell us, two out of three ain’t bad.

Bubbles are a touchy subject in my home because they hold a special place in my heart—a place that demands bubbles on a weekly basis and rages hard against the machine that is big, bland, boring, conglomerate Champagne. And that place in my heart does not discriminate against country of origin. Cavas from Spain, Cremants from the Loire and sparklers from California all make their way into my glass on an equal-opportunity basis. So my palate did a little happy dance when it knew one of the wines would be a Brut Rosé Reserve from Mumm Napa, a winery started in 1986 by Champagne’s famous G.H. Mumm. What I love most about this rosé is that it really walks the tightrope of balance between fruit and yeast…between body and acidity…between ripeness and dryness. The dark berry notes and roundness usually found in pinot-heavy sparklers make for an amazing nose and a certain chewiness, but the yeasty characters from the chardonnay lend a certain austerity to it…well, that and a long-ass finish. SRP $36. Of all the California sparklers, I’d still say that J puts out my favorites year after year, but Mumm Napa certainly does a good job of keeping it on its toes.

Come to think of it, this post is full of touchy subjects because Napa cabernet is certainly no quiet topic in my home (or on this blog), either. Slowly but surely I’ve been unearthing more and more Napa cab that I not only like but actually adore thanks in great part to Twitter Taste Live, but they’ve been a long time coming. I’ve thankfully been tasting a lot of great cabs coming out of California that are incredibly balanced and nuanced, but there are still rivers of high-octane jam streaming forth from there as far as I’m concerned. Merryvale’s 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon is not, in any way, shape or form, one of those rivers. Given the proper chance to decant and blow off some steam, this wine was elegant and graceful without being an enological eunuch. You read things like “extended maceration, 19 months in French oak (70% new) and 14.5% ABV” and you start bracing yourself for a mammoth, but it all manages to work itself out amazingly, with bold berry flavors, notes of tobacco, leather and violets, and a fantastic backbone of acidity that will keep this puppy going for 10 years+. Only question I have is, 1% cabernet franc? Really? Just 1%? Head scratcher. Unfined and unfiltered, it retails for $65.

Two for two on these, but now I’m kinda bummed that the third one didn’t show. I don’t give a crap what Meatloaf says, everyone I know likes to hedge their odds.

A lot of the time that I’m on my soapbox, going on about beer or wine, I want you all to know I’ve usually got a rocks glass behind me, tucked just out of view. I’m certainly not nursing it on most given weeknights, but it’s there…with its perfectly shaped cubes of ice tinkling my name in some foreign language only elixirs speak. And though I adore nothing more than something as simple as some aged Cuban rum or Mexican mezcal, a well-crafted cocktail can top them both, and nothing sends me into a Pavlovian drool quicker than the Old Fashioned.

Bourbon knows how to make me weak at the knees. Gin is elegant, tequila is earthy, but bourbon is that guy in the leather jacket on the beat-up Indian motorcycle who everyone tells you you aren’t supposed to love…so of course you spend a lot of late nights with him, sucking face. And it wasn’t as if I fell in love with bourbon at the onset if I’m being honest. Like just about everybody reading this, my introduction to bourbon was the obligatory shot of Jack Daniels, handed to me at college bars and backyard parties, and given that I spent my formative years in a band with a bunch of guys in the midst of trying to claim their masculinity, let’s just say I did more than hold my own when it came to shots of JD. In fact, I’m pretty sure my husband will tell you it’s one of the reasons he fell in love with me. Discriminating standards, no doubt.

But eventually you grow up and realize if you actually stop and taste the stuff, it’s really fucking good. I started buying Knob Creek, Baker’s and Maker’s Mark and sipping them on the rocks. The smoke, the nutty notes, the butterscotch-covered spice rack all drew me in. And then, this beautiful, wise, cultured woman handed me an Old Fashioned one night, and I figured if it was good enough for her I’d be a dolt not to give it a try. Oh, sweet mother of Jeebuz was that drink amazing. Bitters, sugar, bourbon, a cherry, and a twist of both lemon and orange—absolute, utter perfection. I adore martinis, love a spicy bloody mary, but if it’s bourbon that makes me weak at the knees, then a well-crafted Old Fashioned is the one that carries me up the stairs and finishes the job. A poorly made one, however, is as disappointing as the guy in the leather jacket on the beat-up Indian motorcycle eventually is. Then again, that’s usually the problem with putting something up on such a high pedestal, but the rewards are worth the risk.

So there is no way you spend your well-earned time drinking nothing but wine or beer—after all, you are part Gonzo. Question is, what cocktail makes you weak at the knees?