Enjoy in wool socks ...

Disclosure: I have somehow managed to sprain my neck (am convinced it has something to do with inhuman cold) and am writing slightly … medicated. Off we go!

Inhuman cold ... deceptively pretty ... and cold ... mostly cold ...inhuman ...

For the last two weeks dear readers, I have been existing in an icebox (in two provinces!). No, no … an icebox would be balmy ... I have been existing in a piercing, biting, nose sticking together, eyes barely blinking cold that the glaciers would be jealous of. I mean, temperatures have reached minus forty. Minus forty. Plus … windchill. I shudder …

I ask you, how is any rational person supposed to participate in anything other than burying themselves under a huge duvet, steaming mug of spiked tea in hand, peeking out of said duvet and staring at the frostbitten windows, suspicious of a cold relentless draft you know is coming from somewhere and cursing the frost god’s.

No? Just me? Maybe …

All this to say dear readers, for the last two weeks, my culinary adventures have consisted of hibernating in our home in Montreal with a short hiatus of hibernating at Germain in Toronto sprinkled with a brief stint discussing a Philippine delicacy of field rats (big ones, which have to be hunted, skinned and deep fried and served piping hot with a spicy sauce …) with Ariel, who works at Germain and sent me home with two of his mothers recipes (not for field rats) which I will make once I thaw.

This brings us (somehow) to what I love to make the most, on the coldest of days. To what I equate to a big, warm and comforting hug.

Broths, dear readers. Many, many broths …

Chicken broths. Veal broths. Chicken and veal broths. 

Not quite chicken but was the only fowl flouncing around...in the heat...back when there was some...

Veal ... thank you dear ...

What I wanted to share with you today is venison broth but plans were foiled when I called my butcher and he did not have any. “Call me on Monday” he rasps with heavily accented voice over the din in his shop. Given said circumstance, I share with you today a beautiful chicken and veal broth recipe. A simple, soothing afternoon kitchen adventure, in thick wool socks. Temperature outside: minus 30.

Because of the nature of broth and the few ingredients involved you must purchase the best ingredients possible to experience the broth bliss that has rendered mankind warm and cosy in many kitchens. The most well fed and cared for chicken and veal. The ripest tomatoes, the most sweet and fragrant carrots and aromatic celery stalks (yes that’s right, fragrant and aromatic). Carrots and celery are commonly peddled for their crunch but dear readers, next time you buy a bunch of fresh beautiful carrots and leafy dirty celery, I invite you to stick your nose right in there and inhale … trust me …(and don’t worry about any strange glances you may get … speaking from experience here …). The rest is simple …

Time to dish.

Chicken and veal broth

Here is what you need ...

• Chicken necks, backs, a foot or two …
• Veal bones (some with marrow)
• Ripe tomato
• Fragrant and aromatic (and dirty) carrots and celery
• Sprig of parsley
• Sea salt
• Whole peppercorns

Here is what to do ...

In a big, heavy pot add all the above mentioned ingredients and bring to a slight boil. Slight because the ingredients are delicate and you do not want a rolling boil to start breaking them apart and clouding your broth. Which brings us to the next point. Do not stir. Not even once. Resist the temptation and you will be rewarded with beauty. Once slight boil has been achieved, reduce the heat so your both comes to a simmer and then watch it lovingly and gingerly skim off any foam that accumulates. Once that is done dear readers, leave it alone for a few hours and then enjoy the bounty of your "labor".

Serve yourself a warm bowl of broth with a little meat from the chicken and some fresh parsley and dig out that veal marrow to serve on a small piece of crusty bread.

Enjoy in wool socks.

Originally published on dish chronicles 1.31.11

Bearing of souls and other things ...

This week dear readers, I am bearing a bit of my soul. My food soul, that is. Putting it right out there for you to see. Right out there. Be gentle … 

I want to tell you a little story of my grandmother. Of what she taught me. Of what I believe about food today and what it means to me. A kind of “culinary about me” if you will … At heart, as you all know by now, I am a glutton. Completely, wholeheartedly and with gusto. Give me wonderful food, heady wine and fabulous company and I am in heaven. There is however, another side.

Bearing of souls …

In my heart, food is an expression.

An expression of love.

Of connection.

Of gratitude.

Of humanity.

Of suffering.

Of identity.

Of life.

I would like you to take little a trip back with me in order to give you a glimpse to what has shaped my ideas and who I am today.  

This glimpse takes us to my family’s farm.

I have vivid memories of my childhood summers spent on my grandmother’s farm. Memories of playing in the river while my cousins fished. Memories of leaving at dawn and coming back at dusk, muddy from head to toe from all my adventures, to the great dismay of my grandmother who had to bathe me. Memories of the backbreaking work and long hours it took to care for the land and the animals. Memories of gathering, preserving, smoking, salting, pickling …

The most profound memory I have is of the animals.

The nurturing and killing of them, to be more precise.

Dirt poor, in communist Romania (she was one of the lucky ones whose land was not taken away) my grandmother was up at 4am.

Every day. Until the day she died.

She was alone on the farm (my grandfather had died a while ago and I am not sure he was much help when alive). Tiny and skinny as a twig, quiet, hunched over from years of hard work gardening and taking care of the animals, long sallow face with the deep wrinkles of wisdom, sorrow and quiet resignation, handkerchief on her head she marched out in all seasons.

Social visits were rare and a luxury when they happened. Idle time was non existent. She rarely smiled.

Except, dear readers, when she was with her plants and animals.

It was in those moments.

Moments when she was weeding the gardens, walking in our sunflower field to pick the seeds for roasting, collecting eggs from the hens and telling them how proud of them she was when they produced many eggs (and “chastising” – aka whacking - them when they got lazy and didn’t) feeding the pigs (sometimes better than herself, really) and petting them because pigs crave contact, milking the cow all the while talking to her and giving her extra special grasses to eat so she would be happy and her milk would taste heavenly, feeding the geese walnuts and seeds and grasses and other special treats so they would be fat and happily waddling around the land foraging for extras, feeding the sheep and shaving them for wool, and at the end of a long, exhausting day sitting me down and feeding me the most simple of things. Sometimes it was a hot egg fried in pig fat and some homemade bread. Other times it was chicken soup from chicken killed that morning. Beautiful, honest peasant food.

In all these moments, she smiled.

As I followed her around the chores of the day (this was a luxury as usually she would not let me because I was more in the way with my incessant questions and running around startling the animals) she would talk to me.

She would talk to me about the animals, their different needs and personalities (pointing out the trouble makers and the ones that had an extra special place in her heart) why it was important to be kind to them and treat them well, why (when I asked her why the pigs were eating better than her) it was important that they eat well.

If you will allow me dear readers, I would like to tell you what she said.

She said that like people, all animals are unique. No two pigs or chickens or any other animal for that matter were alike. We had to pay attention to each one so that we would know what the best way to interact with them was. It was very important to spot a disgruntled pig and find out why or you could be in trouble…It was also important to spot content animals so you know your work was worth something.

She said that animals were our responsibility. That we were responsible for making sure they were healthy, happy and well fed. That we were also responsible for killing them.

She said that everything was connected. That what the animals ate, how “happy” they were and finally how they were killed were all indicators. Indicators not only of how we respected the animals but of how we respect ourselves and every other living thing that we are a part of.

When she took such care of the land and the animals, she was taking care of herself. Of me.

I remember thinking years later, after she died trying to lift a dresser to move it over (the fact that she was ancient and riddled with osteoporosis did not concern her and she went out working – the way she would have wanted to) that this was her expression. This was her connection to the world and all the living creatures in it. (I have more but fear will find myself in the “spawning of novel” predicament again and you will wind up with a six page blog post so I will peel more layers in the future …)

All said, dear readers, she was, looking back, the seed, the cultivator, the water and sunshine that nourished my respect for all life and the food, in all its forms, that sustains it.

And other things …

The existential:

Food allows us an intimate and profoundly human form of expression. It connects who we are, dream to be and what sustains us. It is the poetry of existence, of dependence, of collaboration, of beginnings and ends and of continuance. It is the undiscriminating bond between all people. It is a feast for all senses. It art. It is beauty. It is love.

The manifesto:

The philosophy is simple.

If you eat meat, as I very obviously do, eat less of it.

Have a respect for the animal, understand that a living thing died so you can eat their meat and do not waste.

Buy from local farms – they deliver and the food tastes so much better.

Buy small time organic whenever possible.

Buy everything else you could possibly desire in moderation.

Understand that with every food purchase you make, you have a direct effect on the future of our world.

At least once in your life, if you can, try to witness (either live or via media) an animal being killed for your food.

Plants also have to die so we can eat them.

Abundance is not a natural state.

Change takes time, failure and the willingness to try again.

Don’t preach (except for preachy moments above but only this once I swear!). 
Lead by example.

Above all:

Enjoy.

And eat with people you love.

To remember the lessons …

Simple Fried Egg on Toast

Here is what you need ...

• Egg
• Pig fat (butter was a luxury and not often available)
• Crusty bread
• Wild Thyme
• Sea salt
• Cracked black pepper
 

Here is what to do ...

Could not be more simple dear readers. In a hot pan fry an egg in lard (runny yolk please) and sprinkle with sea salt. In the meantime, cut a thick piece of country bread (smear it with lard, of course) and toast in the oven until nicely browned. Top with fried egg, sprinkle with thyme, cracked black pepper and enjoy the crunchy, creamy, oozy, herby bites.

The staph of life ...

Oozy bites ...

Thanks Bunica ...

Originally published on dish chronicles 1.12.11

I heard angels sing ...

Year after beautiful year as winter peeks over the horizon and the first chill presents itself, I experience a shift. About late October as things transition from languid warmth and lush green to icy bone chilling cold and desolate bare drudgery (a little resentful here), I need comfort. And warmth. And wine. Especially (lots) wine. And …well …fat. All kinds of fat. Crispy fat, soft fat, gelatinous fat …Duck fat, pork fat, back fat, lamb fat…

Part of the changing of seasons is learning to recognize and of course, acknowledge what our bodies (and souls) crave: fat! fat! fat! (I am talking as if I were some sort of bear about to go into hibernation … I know …) Anyhow, in my world, this acknowledgment usually means I am about to get myself into some kind of mess and will drag all kinds of good, unsuspecting people with me.

One very ordinary day, as I stood in my kitchen admiring the antique cabinet we purchased a few months ago (I love this thing it brings me back to my Aunt’s farm kitchen and every day I walk past it and give it a kiss … no no, just kidding … but I do tell it how nice it looks …) I knew I was in trouble. I really knew it when (as if there was some kind of gravitational force pulling me) my hand landed on Martin Picard's Au Pied de Cochon.

Long parenthesis alert: (What was I so worried about you ask? I must be exaggerating you say? Here is "step one" in one of his recipes: “Using a saw, cut the top of the piglet skulls to remove the brains” … I dare you not to shiver ...)

I remember standing there, opening the book, looking at the recipe I wanted to make long and hard, and thinking to myself (long and hard) do I really want to get involved in this? I mean we are talking about 1 Liter of pig’s blood here. Not to mention chestnut flour, very precise cooking techniques (there is a temperature measuring gadget involved) and a crazy move of hand funneling the pig’s blood mixture into the sausage casing. It took about a week of debating before I decided Au Pied de Chochon’s Boudin Maison was my charge. This itsy-bitsy decision dear readers, is how I found myself, on a perfectly lovely Wednesday evening, elbow deep in pigs blood.

Pigs blood ...

Here we go ... Once (lunatic project) decided, the first thing I had to do was secure some guests. As much as I am in love with this magnificent recipe, I did not fancy the prospect of eating Boudin on my own every day for two weeks.

Another long parenthesis alert: (I must confess though, that I did give the thought of eating Boudin on my own every day for two weeks some serious consideration - I find myself a bit of a lone ranger within my close circle of cow and fowl loving folk especially when it comes to matters of … shall we say … a sanguine nature …).

You may not believe this dear readers but not everybody loves Boudin. So, I had to be crafty. I had to be persuasive. I had to pray. I pitched it as a tasting and sent out an exploratory e-mail titled “Who’s with me …”. 

I fessed up to the star of the tasting, gave them a three week window (the God’s saved me with this) to prepare themselves and gambled that the adventurous culinary spirit of the invitees and their curious palate would ensure at least a foot in the door. “A night of nibbles” I claimed. “Please eat first as this is not a supper” I pledged (could not have them thinking I wanted them to eat a whole supper of Boudin). And slowly, if a little hesitantly, the confirmations trickled in …

Guests secured, I immediately wondered where I would pick up my pigs blood. My first thought was to call Jean-Pierre (Ferme le Crepuscule) and just ask him for it. My back up plan, in case they were not killing a pig that week, was to just pop by my local butcher and ask him. Frankly, I was more concerned about where I was going to find chestnut flour. Oh my ... how little I knew…

My biggest concern ...

To get this blood dear readers turned out to be a community effort of herculean proportions. Getting this blood, dear readers, wound up taking three weeks, two farm trips, countless searches online, visits to almost every butcher in Montreal, visits to fish mongers (I thought if the meat people could not come through perhaps the fish people ... I do not discriminate), seeking council through Chowhound and all to no avail.

No blood.

The city was dry.

It was looking grim. It was looking like despite my best efforts, I would have to cancel my “tasting” and claim defeat. Then, it hit me. Poff! It was clear. There was no other choice. I had exhausted all my other options. I was going to have to go to the source. To the mecca of all things pig. To PDC. I dear readers was going to plead my case, throw myself at their mercy and beg for their suppliers.

Once on my way I was plagued with thoughts of would they laugh at me … would they ask who is this lunatic and why does she just not buy her Boudin like everybody else …would they yell at me … would they throw me out ...Then, I arrived, stood outside for a moment, gathered my courage and … Ahem ...excuse me please, do you know where I can find some blood in this city? I want to make your Boudin Maison but have been looking for three weeks and nothing …

There was discussion, debate, disgust (at not being able to freely access quality blood) and at once, all of a sudden I saw hands moving, heard when do you need it, gave the two wrists up I am at your mercy salute and I, was saved dear readers. Saved. A certain chef, made certain arrangements, and a week later, vast grin on face, there I was again collecting my thick, dark prize. I heard angels sing …

As I headed home with my goodies, panic struck. Who did I think I was going home with blood and casings! I had gone too far this time! What had I done! How would I do it!

A little voice whispered … just follow the recipe …

Dear readers, if you will allow me to paint you a little picture:

Me, guests in home, casings in water, blood mixture ready, wine in hand, ready to go. Then: “ummm … don’t you need some kind of machine for this? I think my grandmother uses a machine …” (again the machine predicament! I do not know how I keep doing this!). I had intended to use my big yellow plastic funnel … so … I confessed to no machine (again), begged for help and silently prayed…

Now, the simple act of eating Boudin these days is seen as a “big deal” (hence preliminary exploratory e-mail). Asking friends to hold casings and ladle blood mixture into big yellow plastic funnel while you squeeze it through with big giant toothpick is a whole other ballgame. Steph (who had never eaten Boudin before) was a champion. She grabbed her courage by the collar, stood right beside me and feet planted firmly on the ground, ladled away until four feet of casings were plump and glistening with beautiful chestnut colored blood mixture.

The result ...

I then plopped the plump sausage into the water (all the while imagining it smashing to the ground and splattering everywhere) with the thermometer waiting to alert me to any temperature fluctuation (I checked it every 30 seconds for a half an hour).

Obsessive checking ...

Once done, I took the Creuset off the heat, looked at the beauty that was inside, placed a creamy morsel in my mouth and tasted heaven.

Tasting ...

Heaven ...

Wine, candles and newspaper ...

Debates ...

Rosso Cornero ...

Time to dish:

**dear readers, please make this if you can, I promise you it will be worth every effort and is much easier than you think**

Martin Picard's Boudin Maison 
From celebrated cookbook Au Pied de Cochon 

Here is what you need ...

• Pork casings
• 1 liter of pig's blood (good luck oh adventurer!)
• 3 medium onion, minced
• 10 ounces of pork back fat cut into 1/4 inch dice
• 300 ml 35 % cream
• Fresh thyme, leaves from two sprigs
• 1 teaspoon of 4 spice mix (grind your own! you've come this far! you can do it!) 
• 1/4 cup of chestnut flour (warning, this stuff is incredible you will become addicted) 
• 2 cups of bread, crusts removed and cut into 1/4 inch cubes
• 1 tablespoon of salt

Here is what to do ...

1. Soak the bread in the cream (what a first step n'est ce pas?).
2. Blanch back fat in boiling water for about 25 minutes, chill and set aside.
3. Sweat onions in a pan with thyme, 4 spice and salt until translucent but not brown. Add chestnut flour and stir for about 2 minutes. Set aside.
4. Check to make sure the casings have no tears by running cold water through them, measure out 4 feet and then tie one end with butcher string.
5. Using a large funnel (or machine! for heavens sake ...) pour in blood mixture until you have plump, gorgeous sausage. Then tie the other end.
6. The sausage must be cooked right away as casings are permeable.
7. In water that does not go above 80C or 175F (they may burst on you otherwise) cook the sausage for 25-30 minutes depending on the size. Make sure to poke tiny toothpick holes in them at the beginning of cooking (once in water) to avoid tearing.
8. Once done, stop cooking by dunking glorious sausage in ice water.

Remove. Enjoy.

For those of you who care to know what else was on the Menu, it was:

Hearts, livers & blood, oh my ...

• Crostini of turkey hearts seared in butter, quartered and slathered with tarragon cream.
• Crostini of turkey livers sauteed in butter and served with maple and balsamic glazed figs.
• Crostini of beef livers sautéed in butter (of course) and doused with a lemon, tarragon and maple cream sauce.
• Mini frisee cups with lemon and olive oil dressing.

Lettuce cups ... hands only please ...

An expression of gratitude … I have always loved how food unites people in a common adventure and this was no exception. From the many butchers, fishmongers, old ladies, chowhounders and farmers who guided me, gave me advice and tips and stories of how their ancestors made “Blood Sausage” to Stephanie helping me through the whole process with her voice of reason and bravery to Nicolas at the SAQ who so lovingly chose our wines after asking what was on the menu and salivating with glee to Marc and Emilie at PDC for their time and conversation to Mr. Picard and his kindness and sheer generosity without which this Boudin would not have seen the light of day there was a whole community of people behind this beautiful evening that we were lucky enough to share together.

Thank you.


Originally published on dish chronicles 1.5.11

Wait for it ...

Warning: No recipe, no photographs. Not for the weak of mind. Carry forth brave one.

Okay, so I don't have a post this week. I know. I know! 

In lieu of my predicament, I have decided to fess up and beg for your forgiveness (insert me here begging please). It was certainly not for lack of trying mind you. I really tried. Really really hard. Really (one too many?). And ... fell flat on my hard trying behind. But, dear reader, I tell you, I had no comprehension of the monumental force that I was up against. I have spent the last three weeks, yes, count them, three, weeks, searching. 

For what exactly was I searching, you ask? How does that concern you in any way, shape or form when all you want is the story this week, you ask? Well, in the holiday (choose yours) spirit it is always kind to exercise that patience muscle (I have to use anything I can get here) and moreover, what I have finally found (miraculously and after some serious stunts) is truly worth waiting for. I promise.

Wait for it ...


Originally published on dish chronicles 12.16.10

Bottoms up ...

After the initial gasps and numerous proclamations of really’s and are you serious’es (such wonderful, down to earth, sweet and genuinely kind people are a rare find in such serious titles), it was time to get down to business. It was time for questions. I may as well confess now as I will inevitably be outed... I (pause here please for dramatic effect) am a lover of learning. I am interested in everything. I want to know. To understand. To appreciate. Hence, I ask questions. Lots of them. So, I proceeded in asking my myriad of questions, rapturously listening to tales of travels, a multitude of culinary adventures, Bajan gossip and planning the next adventure. It was heaven. A little while (and a lot of rum) later, heaven came to a temporary end when I suspiciously started seeing 2 bottles of rum on the table but was pretty sure there was only one there…yes … At this point, very happy and hot, we went home and yours truly spent the rest of the night thinking about the next days agenda …a journey to an ancient coral beach called Bottom Bay.

I could barely contain myself.

Gratuitous fish pic ...

Middle, almost:

The next morning, I was up bright and early, dragged myself into the ocean (body felt like a sack of potatoes after night of pig tails and rum) and then proceeded to pester husband into consciousness. We met Ale and Gene at the local grocery where they picked us up and after the initial greetings (and relief that they were just as awesome if not more so the next day, you know how that can go) our adventure began. The drive was long, green, bumpy (we thought this was bumpy but we had not seen bumpy yet), filled with Ale’s inspired architectural commentary and simply beautiful. The air smelled of sweet flowers, rain, salt and the occasional cow.

Our arrival brought us onto a “parking lot” in a “field”. I took a look around me and for the life of me could not understand how in the world we were going to get to the ocean way below. We were quite high up and I saw no signs of a humanly possible, on the ground decent. At this point, for an instant, I started having thoughts of: What have I gotten myself into? These people are strangers. They can say anything, be anybody! Maybe they have climbing gear in the trunk and expect me to climb down? Maybe they are adrenalin junkies and expect me to cliff dive! Maybe … At this point, angel Ale mercifully interrupts my thoughts and magically steers us towards a bulky bunch of tropical plants that, yes, magically concealed natural coral steps, leading all the way down to the beach. Thank goodness!

The path ... thank goodness ...

The opening ... thank goodness ...

As we made our way down this ancient path, tucked into the tropical forest, giant trees and their winding roots enveloped us, lizards were scuttling past, frogs were unseen but chirping, Ale was pointing out the magnificent natural fossils in the corals, Gene was ever so graciously urging us along, Axel and I were transported into a wild paradise. After a while everything opened up and we were greeted by an enchanting Robinson Caruso’esque beach with immense coral cliffs and big rolling waves. Big ones. Really big ones. In fact, being the semi obsessive that I am, I glanced at Ale and right after the ooohhh’s and aaahhh’s, the spectacular look around (a lot of it at the big waves) and the discarding of our possessions, I asked him if we could swim in there because the waves were, well, so huge! My answer came from all three of them and being the men that they are, they looked at me in that “awww isn’t she so cute and scared” way and immediately proclaimed it safe.

“Come on in! All you have to do is get past the crashing point!” they said. Phhftt! No way my friends. I laughed, waved, and stood safely on the beaches edge watching my peeps get thrown around, toppled, laughing, smiling and waiving me in as I shook my head mmmm mmmmm and took in the massive waves and rolling water. It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time. In the end, I finally went in (only for a bit and screaming) due to peer pressure and the fact that I was roasting. It was wonderful. 
Terrifying and wonderful, at the same time.

If you will allow me a mini “you see?!” moment here, when arriving back home (Montreal) I immediately checked out Bottom Bay and the “swimming conditions” and what do I see? This. This, dear reader, is the warning on the “swimming conditions”: “Bathing here is not recommended, as the waves are very strong, and great care should be shown by those who choose to do so”.  Hah! …

Anyhow, back to paradise. After getting knocked around, ahem, excuse me, swimming in the ocean, we ran for our lives, sorry, excuse me, walked out of the water and onto the beach we sat down and as all beach dwellers in my world naturally do, broke out homemade rum punch (Ale and Gene’s dynamite recipe) and proceeded to discuss food. We spoke of crepes made in earthenware, of lemon trees, of Gene’s memorable trip to Italy with Ale where he had ribs that he has not forgotten to this day. Ribs from a pig that they chose themselves. A pig that fed on plump acorns and wild grass. Of plantain lasagna. Of cooking classes in an ancient water mill. Of the local unpasteurized goats milk for making cheese. Ale had made some and was aging it for shaving on pasta (I of course attempted it the next day and failed miserably but it was glorious and I am going to give it a second attempt here at home).

This was it friends. Here it was. I had achieved my dream on earth. My perfection. Sitting here, in this prehistoric paradise, with my love smiling contentedly at me, Ale smoking a cigar, Gene dusting himself off of sand, jade ocean, sunshine, wild coral beach, salty breezy air, rum punch, discussing food. Glorious food. This was it.

Then, all of a sudden out of my blissed out stupor comes a contented sigh from Ale and a casual “one day, I would love to have a bonfire here and grill some food under the stars…”. Well, his wish was my command. I hoped. Enter Sam.

Junior Sam Gittens ...

Junior Sam Gittens to be exact. The easy smiling, ya man talking, smooth singing, Bottom Bay guardian Rasta. Sam was the man here along with second Rasta in command, Esra. He greeted you upon arrival, took care of anything you needed. Most beaches you go to these days have some evidence of urban interference and you can be fairly certain that food and drink are not far away. Not here. Sam sent the local people to get what you needed. Do not ask me where because there was nothing in sight for miles.

I spot him and walk towards him, tap him on the shoulder and (practically jumping) ask: Sam, we want to have a bonfire here one evening. Do you think you can arrange something? Of course man! he says smiling. When you want to do it man! he asks smiling. I then tapped Ale on the shoulder and (practically jumping) said: Ale! He can do it! He can do it! Can you do it?! When can we do it?! Gene, when can we do it?! Tomorrow? The next day?! At this point, I think I actually was jumping and to my great delight, after some discussion of times, dates, best possible weather, what food and drink we were each to bring, it was set. The four of us were scheduled for a private bonfire in the coral cave, in two days! I could (can you guess?) hardly contain myself.

Almost end:

It was decided that Ale and Gene would bring fish to grill, the rum punch, of course, and a local delicacy called Ground Provisions Salad. We were going to bring Grandfathers Salt Fish Cakes (see previous post for recipe) and lots of rum. We were limited in what we could carry as we insisted on taking the bus, you know, for the local experience. Who was it that said to us that whenever we travel we move in …?

Just one more ...

I will take you two days forward, to the fish market bus stop, where the bus is picking us up and ask you to imagine this scene: Us on the bus. One hundred degree heat. Axel with a beer and three bags in hand, me with my rum and coke (the bus arrived faster than we anticipated!) and my fritter dish in hand, squashed cheek to cheek, sweat bead to sweat bead with everyone on the bumpiest bus on this planet. The locals took one look at us and had mercy on our souls. The old ladies took my fritter plate so I could finish my rum and coke (bless their souls) and made space for Axel to put the bags down so he could finish his beer (I love these people).

The time passed and bus started to empty out (I tell you, this was the never ending bus ride) and eventually, after an indeterminable amount of time and several how much further is it (answer was always “far”), we were the last ones left. As we were being shaken like little pebbles in a gold sifter, much worse now that the bus was empty, Axel looking particularly green, I could not help wondering who thought this was a good idea again. Why didn’t we just impose and take the car ride offered? But, as always, as things were looking their worst and I was contemplating emptying a plastic bag for Axel just ...in case, at last we arrived and every bump (so many) and all the time (it was long) it took was worth it when the bus stopped and dropped us off at the top of a road.

Smiling, a bit wobbly and green, we thanked the driver picked up our considerable belongings and bid him good day.

Ahead of us was a small, narrow, country road with fat little goats happily munching on the long, bountiful (and apparently quite tasty) grasses. As we started the long walk down, I took a deep breath of the salt air and thought to myself, how wonderful. How wonderful is it to be walking down a small country road, goats around, sun shining, ocean waves crashing in the background, with my beloved, carrying a plate of just made salt fish fritters, about to embark down coral steps to a secluded paradise for an evening beach bonfire. Life was beautiful.

We reached the beach and Sam was there to greet us with his big, easy smile and “How ya doin’ man!” Put all your stuff here man and go enjoy the beach man. But first come and let me show you what we did for you man” We follow him into the coral cave and see that they had carved out a pit in the sand for us and placed some driftwood on either side to hold the makeshift grill. It was gorgeous. It was awesome. There was also a “table” for us to store our things. The dream was off with a bang…

The bang ...

Men work ...

As we waited for Ale and Gene to arrive the men began their men work. I swear! One minute I am basking in the sunshine and thoughts of things to come and the next I am watching Axel and Sam carrying an entire palm tree log to the cave for the fire and collecting other beach wood for anything we might need in terms of fuel. I was sure I was on Gilligan’s Island for a moment. Then, as if it was a beautiful sonata winding its way up to a glorious crescendo, the evening sky took hold and Ale and Gene arrived with native friend in tow. Smiling, with lots of goodies in hand we greeted one another and then got down to the beautiful business of food. We examined each others bounty, thanked Sam repeatedly, strategized on the best timing for each dish, marveled at the glory that was this place and the fortune that was ours in meeting one another and poured large, stiff drinks.

We even experienced a slight pre-dusk storm where we all had to hide in the cave and watch the storm come in and rain pass us by. I mean come on. Once the storm passed, amid the stories, laughter and natural kinship, night had fallen. The sky was clear. The ocean, black. The moon and stars were lighting up the sky. The ocean gracefully offered a soft breeze that was moist with sea water. At this point Ale decided it was time for the fire to really burn and the men went to work. It was not long before we had two beautiful fires. One bonfire for our visual pleasure and one grill fire for our soon to come culinary delights.

The fire ...

The storm ...

The cave ...

Those two magnificent fires, combined with sensorial overload from the natural beauty around us and the good friends laughing hysterically and strolling the evening beach were enough of a whollop to send me into another “I cannot believe the camera stopped working and I can’t take pictures of any of this and how can this happen and I have to fix it etc etc ” rant. Because I was quite vocal and quite obviously dismayed (well, as dismayed as you can be in paradise after several (many) rum punches, of course) at the inability to take pictures so I could forever capture the moment, the men went into action.

All of a sudden I see huddling, lights are moving and then …there they all are, I kid you not, shining beams (yes, someone actually brought a shining beam), cell phones and camera lights in my face all in an attempt to light me up enough so they could take a picture! It was so touching and wonderfully odd.… Here is the result …

The result ... bless their hearts ...

This being the eventful evening that it was thus far, we were all famished and it was time to grill. First were the Bajan fritters (which were soggy after the long, foil enclosed bus ride but nevertheless got recipe requests from the Rastas!). Then there were the swordfish skewers grilling on the fire which were absolutely gorgeous. Finally, there was Ale’s Ground Provision Salad which was, creamy, savory, spicy, sweet and absolutely delicious. We were literally scraping the container. Just imagine it ...

Blatant attempt to distract you from the no provision salad photo predicament ...

This story closes with stomachs full, hypnotized by the fire (and endless bottles of rum) Sam and his friends singing songs of long ago, beauty in our hearts and rum glasses (of course) in hand … dear readers, Ale, Gene, dear friends, these are the days of our lives (sorry, sorry I got carried away a little) until the next time cheers and bottom’s up.

End. Really. I swear.

Time to dish:

Ale’s Spectacular Ground Provision Salad

What you need:

• 3 large sweet potato (purple skin) chopped into hunks
• 3 large plantain (semi-ripened) sliced into pieces
• 1 large taro root, chopped in large chunks
• 2 medium sweet green pepper, chopped
• 1 medium sweet red pepper, chopped
• 3 large Celery stalks, finely sliced
• 2 medium Onion, finely diced
• 1 cup Spring Onion, finely diced
• 3 cups Pumpkin cubed
• 3 small garlic cloves, very finely minced
• 1 tablespoon green seasoning (Caribbean herb mix ground in blender, recipe below)

Peanut oil for frying

A bowl of ice water for blanching the sweet potato and taro

Salt and hot sauce, of course, to taste

What to do:

1. Bring a pot of lightly salted water to a rolling boil. Start boiling the sweet potato until soft. Retrieve cooked potato with a slotted spoon and transfer to a bowl with enough ice water to cover it. Using the same boiling water cook the taro and once it’s softened, transfer it to bowl of ice water.
2. Next, fry the plantain slices in a skillet until the sugars contained have browned, but not blackened, flipping over once.  Transfer onto a paper towel to absorb excess oil. Repeat for the cubed pumpkin. Once the two batches are fried, drain almost all the frying oil, leaving enough of it to brown the onion. Once browned, remove the cooked onion and set aside.
3. Once the  sweet potato and the taro have reached room temperature, drain and transfer to a bowl and gently mix them together. Add the remaining ingredients (browned onion, raw spring onion, green & red pepper, celery, pumpkin, minced garlic and fried plantain), very lightly mashing them up. Add salt to taste. Refrigerate for at least one hour. Serve lightly chilled.

Carribean green dressing

1 bunch of Cilantro
1 stalk of celery, include leaves if you have it
1 small head or garlic
4 green onions
1 bunch of fresh thyme
1/4 cup of water
pinch of salt
2-3 shallots
2 pimento peppers, 1 banana pepper and 1 Cubanelle

Roughly chop and blend all ingredients in a blender and you will have a gorgeous, emerald, herby, spicy warming dressing that you can use for the ground provision salad as well as a marinade for lamb, chicken and fish. Freeze for up to 3 months. Enjoy with loved ones.

Originally published on dish chronicles 12.08.10