that I copy/pasted from orangette...
often I wish the words here were my own.
particularly these.
(The only way I would probably not eat oats is if I found them in my coat pocket, tangled in lint. Probably.)
that blog was (IS) the reason I started this blog.
thank you Molly; thank you readers--for inspiring and reading my simple words.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Go (away) Grey!
Here in the Okanagan of British Columbia, Canada, we pay what is referred to as the "sunshine tax." This has nothing and everything to do with our oft debated and much despised HST; a payment made simply because we live here in, as our car liscence plates state "Beautiful British Columbia" and therefore must chip in to the luxury of such fine-itude, an unlimitable amount of money (or 13% if you will) paid to reside in the apple and grape (by default: wine) producing valley. "Green Bucks" takes on a whole new meaning here in our environment supporting/loving/taking-advantage-of habitat; we pay a bit to live in the green-ness. But right now, there is only grey-ness...and i would like a bit of a break.
Between the two colors, grey doesnt have alot on green. "Anne of Grey Gables" sounds more like a depressed young lady's autobiography than the attractive coming of age story taking place on the opposite end of our counry from BBC (which, by the way, is still under FEET, not inches, of GREY snow). Would it be such a Canadian legacy if not for the implication that Anne grew up somewhere very green indeed? About as likely as the "Jolly Grey Giant" would have been successful at selling frozen vegetables. Mmmm: grey peas and beans even before they turn to mush when you cook them. There is a reason that St. Patricks day is decked to the nines in green: would you drink grey beer and feel lucky about it? About as likely as feeling lucky (or jolly) to eat a frozen grey vegetable. About as lucky (or jolly) as i feel to be in not-so-beautiful British Columbia right now.
It is grey here. Grey Grey Grey. Unless you are skiing on Big White, in which case, it is white. Which is a close relative of grey, and not of green. But there is sunshine, which makes the grey seem almost white. I dont know, actually, as i am not up Big White, but at a much lower altitude here in downtown Kelowna, which is, as i mentioned, grey. Which, as i mentioned, is not green. Oh how i need some green.
so as i do when i "need" some europe/asia/carribean/mom, i find it via dinner. Eat green has taken on a whole new meaning at my stove. Last nights dinner was entirely monochromatic, and not entirely local...Sure there has been alot of vegetables from my own frozen stores, no gimmicky giants involved. Brocolli, fava beans, peas, rapini, cubes of pesto (not on their own...though i am not above that) and the aptly named green beans. From the farmers market, corn salad, and most recently, sprouting green lentils (thank you Curtis!). But I am so desperate for green that i bought kale at the grocery store yesterday, two dollars for about five leaves. Kale will probably be sprouting here in less than 6 weeks, but i cannot wait. So will other salad greens, all of which i also splurged on yesterday. Even parsely! i bought parsely that hardly even tastes of parsely having travelled so far, but it is so green! You have to really know me to know that this is the sort of thing i work all summer to avoid, preserving my garden to get me through the winter months. But i have caved. And i will likely cave again, because the green is so good. So not "rooty" or frozen, or pickled--i eat alot of green olives. Come April, i will eat alot of green asparagus--this will probably be better for me. Come april i will replace the store-boughts with market-boughts and feel a bit better about my only-green dinner. Come april there will be more green than grey. Come on april. Come on spring. Go Green.
For my sisters sake, i should note that Greys Anatomy is an enjoyable bit of grey (except when it makes me cry despite not having any clue what the heck is going on); and for pop cult fiction lovers, Fifty Shades of Green doesnt have quite the sexy appeal that the actual series offers...
Between the two colors, grey doesnt have alot on green. "Anne of Grey Gables" sounds more like a depressed young lady's autobiography than the attractive coming of age story taking place on the opposite end of our counry from BBC (which, by the way, is still under FEET, not inches, of GREY snow). Would it be such a Canadian legacy if not for the implication that Anne grew up somewhere very green indeed? About as likely as the "Jolly Grey Giant" would have been successful at selling frozen vegetables. Mmmm: grey peas and beans even before they turn to mush when you cook them. There is a reason that St. Patricks day is decked to the nines in green: would you drink grey beer and feel lucky about it? About as likely as feeling lucky (or jolly) to eat a frozen grey vegetable. About as lucky (or jolly) as i feel to be in not-so-beautiful British Columbia right now.
It is grey here. Grey Grey Grey. Unless you are skiing on Big White, in which case, it is white. Which is a close relative of grey, and not of green. But there is sunshine, which makes the grey seem almost white. I dont know, actually, as i am not up Big White, but at a much lower altitude here in downtown Kelowna, which is, as i mentioned, grey. Which, as i mentioned, is not green. Oh how i need some green.
so as i do when i "need" some europe/asia/carribean/mom, i find it via dinner. Eat green has taken on a whole new meaning at my stove. Last nights dinner was entirely monochromatic, and not entirely local...Sure there has been alot of vegetables from my own frozen stores, no gimmicky giants involved. Brocolli, fava beans, peas, rapini, cubes of pesto (not on their own...though i am not above that) and the aptly named green beans. From the farmers market, corn salad, and most recently, sprouting green lentils (thank you Curtis!). But I am so desperate for green that i bought kale at the grocery store yesterday, two dollars for about five leaves. Kale will probably be sprouting here in less than 6 weeks, but i cannot wait. So will other salad greens, all of which i also splurged on yesterday. Even parsely! i bought parsely that hardly even tastes of parsely having travelled so far, but it is so green! You have to really know me to know that this is the sort of thing i work all summer to avoid, preserving my garden to get me through the winter months. But i have caved. And i will likely cave again, because the green is so good. So not "rooty" or frozen, or pickled--i eat alot of green olives. Come April, i will eat alot of green asparagus--this will probably be better for me. Come april i will replace the store-boughts with market-boughts and feel a bit better about my only-green dinner. Come april there will be more green than grey. Come on april. Come on spring. Go Green.
For my sisters sake, i should note that Greys Anatomy is an enjoyable bit of grey (except when it makes me cry despite not having any clue what the heck is going on); and for pop cult fiction lovers, Fifty Shades of Green doesnt have quite the sexy appeal that the actual series offers...
Thursday, January 24, 2013
pho sho
If you are having trouble pronouncing the title of this post, imagine you are a part of this conversation:
Me: "Yo _________ (insert your name here--this works especially well for you G-bob), you down for a bowl of noodles in C-town?"
You: "Word, T-dog--'Chow-Mein Palace'?"
Me: "Fo sho."
Only this time, i changed the 'Fo' to 'pho.' As in the noodle dish. I know: pretty clever.
But this post is not just about Pho; it is about all noodles in general. Its about how nearly every country around the world has some form of noodle (or pasta, depending on where you are). Mostly though, it is about how i have been eating a different noodle dish from a different country every night for the past fourteen days. Two weeks of noodles. Now thats dope.
It all started somewhere in Morocco, when Cindy and i began pining for anything besides white bread breakfasts overcooked vegetable dinners, respectively--Cindy looked forward to her first bowl of oatmeal in her new home, my "first-meal-back" was to be slurpy noodles. A big ol bowl of brothy, gingery, slightly spicy, very slurpy noodles, with big chunks of tofu and something green and cabbage like. The sort of dish you have to eat out of a deep bowl, held close to your face so that your slurping of the slurpy noodles doesnt end up everywhere but your mouth, and so you can tip back the broth when there isnt risk of choking on cabbage-y bits.The thought of this bit of comfort got me through the rainy days of our trip (mind you, so did various street food forms of chickpeas, and large amounts of sherry). Then, in the Frankfurt airport (the grandest airport to wile away seven and a half hours in, by the way), there was a Pho food stand, aromatic and displaying fresh, green, cabbage-like things. Only i had just downed a tub (yes, it was tub-like, that container of cereal) of mueslix. So i showered instead. Thats right, showered. Because the Frankfurt airport has showers. Dope.
Back on the (fast) track. Craving for slurpy noodles still fueling my mind more than body. Lots of rice in Nicaragua.
Home. Christmas. Christmas-y food. No noodles.
Today. Day fourteen. And still loving noodles. Perhaps more than ever. Certainly more skilled with chopsticks. Only, I am running out of countries. I started with udon, my favorite (so much so that i have five, five, varieties of udon/soba--same noodles, different flours, all five of them.), with the gingery/garlicky/tofu/green cabbage blend of my cross-country dreams. I drank sake. Then i had my other favorite slurpy noodles, slurpy pasta. Linguine that i could spin around my fork. Linguini vongole that didnt have nearly enough briny clam juice to tip back. I also had linguine made even more dangerously slurpy from a can of my yellow tomatoes, because i remembered after the first dish that i love slurpy pasta the most. Then there was coconut drenched rice noodles with big wedges of pumpkin. Then there was coconut drenched rice noodles with tamarind, fresh turmeric, and prawns--an open can of coconut milk only holds so long. Twice (good things come in twos?) there was fideos--broken strands of vermicelli--when i missed spain and portugal. I even missed Moroccan food, and steamed capellini in the Moroccan fashion, much the same as they do couscous. Ramen with a soft poached egg. There was brothy five spice Pho, naturally. And tonight was Chinese egg noodles with shitake mushrooms and eggplant i roasted and preserved this summer. I even curried noodles, Carribean style, and toasted strands for Mexico's "Sopa Seca"--a gem, by the way. Iranian "Resh-teh". Somewhere in there, i made speghetti squash, kinda like noodles, but a welcome change. Tomorrow marks the end of this noodle sojourn-- "Balaleet" from India, traditionally a sweet dish--unless you know of any others. Unless i have the other four varieties of Udon in my cupboard--because I really dont tire of slurping or twirling up noodles or pasta--thats pho sho.
(oh wait! i havent had pad thai yet...friday is looking fine indeed.)
Me: "Yo _________ (insert your name here--this works especially well for you G-bob), you down for a bowl of noodles in C-town?"
You: "Word, T-dog--'Chow-Mein Palace'?"
Me: "Fo sho."
Only this time, i changed the 'Fo' to 'pho.' As in the noodle dish. I know: pretty clever.
But this post is not just about Pho; it is about all noodles in general. Its about how nearly every country around the world has some form of noodle (or pasta, depending on where you are). Mostly though, it is about how i have been eating a different noodle dish from a different country every night for the past fourteen days. Two weeks of noodles. Now thats dope.
It all started somewhere in Morocco, when Cindy and i began pining for anything besides white bread breakfasts overcooked vegetable dinners, respectively--Cindy looked forward to her first bowl of oatmeal in her new home, my "first-meal-back" was to be slurpy noodles. A big ol bowl of brothy, gingery, slightly spicy, very slurpy noodles, with big chunks of tofu and something green and cabbage like. The sort of dish you have to eat out of a deep bowl, held close to your face so that your slurping of the slurpy noodles doesnt end up everywhere but your mouth, and so you can tip back the broth when there isnt risk of choking on cabbage-y bits.The thought of this bit of comfort got me through the rainy days of our trip (mind you, so did various street food forms of chickpeas, and large amounts of sherry). Then, in the Frankfurt airport (the grandest airport to wile away seven and a half hours in, by the way), there was a Pho food stand, aromatic and displaying fresh, green, cabbage-like things. Only i had just downed a tub (yes, it was tub-like, that container of cereal) of mueslix. So i showered instead. Thats right, showered. Because the Frankfurt airport has showers. Dope.
Back on the (fast) track. Craving for slurpy noodles still fueling my mind more than body. Lots of rice in Nicaragua.
Home. Christmas. Christmas-y food. No noodles.
Today. Day fourteen. And still loving noodles. Perhaps more than ever. Certainly more skilled with chopsticks. Only, I am running out of countries. I started with udon, my favorite (so much so that i have five, five, varieties of udon/soba--same noodles, different flours, all five of them.), with the gingery/garlicky/tofu/green cabbage blend of my cross-country dreams. I drank sake. Then i had my other favorite slurpy noodles, slurpy pasta. Linguine that i could spin around my fork. Linguini vongole that didnt have nearly enough briny clam juice to tip back. I also had linguine made even more dangerously slurpy from a can of my yellow tomatoes, because i remembered after the first dish that i love slurpy pasta the most. Then there was coconut drenched rice noodles with big wedges of pumpkin. Then there was coconut drenched rice noodles with tamarind, fresh turmeric, and prawns--an open can of coconut milk only holds so long. Twice (good things come in twos?) there was fideos--broken strands of vermicelli--when i missed spain and portugal. I even missed Moroccan food, and steamed capellini in the Moroccan fashion, much the same as they do couscous. Ramen with a soft poached egg. There was brothy five spice Pho, naturally. And tonight was Chinese egg noodles with shitake mushrooms and eggplant i roasted and preserved this summer. I even curried noodles, Carribean style, and toasted strands for Mexico's "Sopa Seca"--a gem, by the way. Iranian "Resh-teh". Somewhere in there, i made speghetti squash, kinda like noodles, but a welcome change. Tomorrow marks the end of this noodle sojourn-- "Balaleet" from India, traditionally a sweet dish--unless you know of any others. Unless i have the other four varieties of Udon in my cupboard--because I really dont tire of slurping or twirling up noodles or pasta--thats pho sho.
(oh wait! i havent had pad thai yet...friday is looking fine indeed.)
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Cheers
i believe i owe those of you who have been paying attention to me in the last two and a half months a few words about all i have been drinking. And how appropriate: it is new years eve, a holiday that is celebrated with drinking. It was now or St. Patricks day, folks, so here we go.
First there was orange juice. Not just any ol Tropicana, but freshly squeezed from a mountain of freshly picked, rather gnome-esque fruit. Sure the skin was wrinkled--more deeply, roundedly grooved--and certainly not polished like our dear imported citrus back home, but the juice was so sweet. And cold. And thick with pulp and humble, genuine, orange-ness. And just a minutes walk from our home(s). And about thirty cents. And so it was enjoyed everyday. Every single day.
Then there was espresso. Screw the free coffee offered with the "breakfast included" riad price (screw the "breakfast included" for that matter--we are still in Morocco here...). Cindy had a hell of a time finding her ideal espresso to hot milk ratio, usually ending up with too much of the latter no matter the request for a cappucino/latte/machiato/(with her luck)espresso con panna. But for me and my unadultered shots, there was only one of the whole lot that wasnt smooth, rich, earthy, and thick with crema...and we drank espresso as often as we drank orange juice. Maybe more.
Then there was orange juice with orange blossom water. And that changed my life.
Then there was espresso et espice, with a blend of spices that is not even available here to try and recreate. And, sigh, my life has changed again.
Then there was "hot sweet almond milk" at Cafe Clock in Fez. It was literally just that: hot and sweet milk made from almonds. No sugar involved here, only a tall glass of comfort for those rainy days there, with gritty bits of nuts to spoon out of the bottom when emptied. It was like my ma and porridge when i needed them most in one delicious drink to melt away all that, really, didnt matter. Its like a revel or fudgsicle when you are a kid in the summer and it is melting faster than you can eat it and the sweet, semi dry bits clinging to your skin are the last drops of the most wonderful part of your day. But without the chocolate. And grown up. Sigh. I am not doing this treat justice. I wish you could have some right now, or maybe tomorrow, when you are feeling shitty after all of tonights own drinks...
And then, and then there was Spain. Or i should say: sherry. Cind and i wiled away an early afternoon in Malaga in a sherry tasting room, where our double shots were poured straight from the barrels, for $1.50. We learned alot about etiquette here (yes, etiquette, while we got tipsy in the middle of the day, right after breakfast, actually). For example: real aficiandos know to mix sec sherry with a splash of the sweeter stuff for a whole new double shot experience. They also know the Spanish word for ice (sounds like yellow), and that only a silly Canadian girl would spend twenty plus minutes trying to request some (including drawing a diagram) instead of simply using the english pronunciation to even more foolishly order a glass of dry (not sweet) sherry with yellow and lemon in a tall glass. I was that silly Canadian girl. I am lucky i wasnt kicked out. I think we made many a spanish mans day that day. I love sherry.
There was also alot of Rose and Cava. There were drinks we didnt try that i wish we had: avacado juice for one; the likely very sweet yogurt drinks in Morocco; sherry from the sherry triangle--probably best we didnt.
On my own in Portugal, drinking was part of walking. You could stop on the street, even in the central square of a bunch of ritzy shops and touristy hotel eateries at a little newspaper stand-esque shot shop. I love porto bianco as much if not more than sherry. I had one every day. I do that with things i love.
The drinking didnt stop in Nicaragua either. It probably should have, it was yoga teacher training after all. But there was nothing there like hot sweet almond milk. There wont ever be anything like hot sweet almond milk.
Tonight, though, there is sparkling wine. It is after midnight and i need to celebrate 2012--it really was a year to highlight my life with. So much changed that life as i know it, even now as i am back in it, is not at all what it was going into 2013. Cheers.
First there was orange juice. Not just any ol Tropicana, but freshly squeezed from a mountain of freshly picked, rather gnome-esque fruit. Sure the skin was wrinkled--more deeply, roundedly grooved--and certainly not polished like our dear imported citrus back home, but the juice was so sweet. And cold. And thick with pulp and humble, genuine, orange-ness. And just a minutes walk from our home(s). And about thirty cents. And so it was enjoyed everyday. Every single day.
Then there was espresso. Screw the free coffee offered with the "breakfast included" riad price (screw the "breakfast included" for that matter--we are still in Morocco here...). Cindy had a hell of a time finding her ideal espresso to hot milk ratio, usually ending up with too much of the latter no matter the request for a cappucino/latte/machiato/(with her luck)espresso con panna. But for me and my unadultered shots, there was only one of the whole lot that wasnt smooth, rich, earthy, and thick with crema...and we drank espresso as often as we drank orange juice. Maybe more.
Then there was orange juice with orange blossom water. And that changed my life.
Then there was espresso et espice, with a blend of spices that is not even available here to try and recreate. And, sigh, my life has changed again.
Then there was "hot sweet almond milk" at Cafe Clock in Fez. It was literally just that: hot and sweet milk made from almonds. No sugar involved here, only a tall glass of comfort for those rainy days there, with gritty bits of nuts to spoon out of the bottom when emptied. It was like my ma and porridge when i needed them most in one delicious drink to melt away all that, really, didnt matter. Its like a revel or fudgsicle when you are a kid in the summer and it is melting faster than you can eat it and the sweet, semi dry bits clinging to your skin are the last drops of the most wonderful part of your day. But without the chocolate. And grown up. Sigh. I am not doing this treat justice. I wish you could have some right now, or maybe tomorrow, when you are feeling shitty after all of tonights own drinks...
And then, and then there was Spain. Or i should say: sherry. Cind and i wiled away an early afternoon in Malaga in a sherry tasting room, where our double shots were poured straight from the barrels, for $1.50. We learned alot about etiquette here (yes, etiquette, while we got tipsy in the middle of the day, right after breakfast, actually). For example: real aficiandos know to mix sec sherry with a splash of the sweeter stuff for a whole new double shot experience. They also know the Spanish word for ice (sounds like yellow), and that only a silly Canadian girl would spend twenty plus minutes trying to request some (including drawing a diagram) instead of simply using the english pronunciation to even more foolishly order a glass of dry (not sweet) sherry with yellow and lemon in a tall glass. I was that silly Canadian girl. I am lucky i wasnt kicked out. I think we made many a spanish mans day that day. I love sherry.
There was also alot of Rose and Cava. There were drinks we didnt try that i wish we had: avacado juice for one; the likely very sweet yogurt drinks in Morocco; sherry from the sherry triangle--probably best we didnt.
On my own in Portugal, drinking was part of walking. You could stop on the street, even in the central square of a bunch of ritzy shops and touristy hotel eateries at a little newspaper stand-esque shot shop. I love porto bianco as much if not more than sherry. I had one every day. I do that with things i love.
The drinking didnt stop in Nicaragua either. It probably should have, it was yoga teacher training after all. But there was nothing there like hot sweet almond milk. There wont ever be anything like hot sweet almond milk.
Tonight, though, there is sparkling wine. It is after midnight and i need to celebrate 2012--it really was a year to highlight my life with. So much changed that life as i know it, even now as i am back in it, is not at all what it was going into 2013. Cheers.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
wish you were here to eat 12 cent donuts with me
my last post was a struggle, and thematically false: hardly postcards at all, rather the cliff note version of my journal. I realized this when i glanced at Cindy writing actual postcards that were, give or take, 30 words. Quick, redolent of excitement, capturing a moment or a feeling, a sight, in, give or take, 30 words (that particular moment/feeling/sight was the 12 cent--thats right--donut she ate that was shaped, fried, and dipped in sugar just for her while i waited and took pictures with a group of local boys who were as fascinated with my camera phone as Cind was with the donut). I tend to use a few more than thirty, including those wasted to say that i wish i had smaller writing so that i could share more (why even write that then? i mean really, think of the space value of that silly sentence!). Now however, it is not about sending postcards. It is about getting terribly, terribly wordy....
I need to talk in detail about two things:
1) Foods
2) Drinks
Yes: "Foods" with an 's' because there has been so much eating that if i didn't pluralize food it would all seem one great, 29 day long meal. This whole trip could very well be just that, one great meal, when really, each taste has been such a surprise that it needs to be "foods," as in many different food.
Lets start with breakfast. It sucks in Morocco. It is boring white bread with uber sweet marmalade, margarine-ish spread, instant coffee, and, if you are lucky hard boiled until grey ringed eggs. The pleasant sub: street breads. Take that same boring white bread dough and knead it with butter, pull it flat and fry it on a flat top and you have mssmen--hot, fatty, pleasantly doughy...like a thin, deep fried waffle...sort of. Somewhat savoury kept plain, they also do well spread with "honey" (pure honey is hard to come by in morocco, and the street stalls carry vats of the less expensive honey and simple syrup blend--stand but oh too true.). Either way they've got nothing on beghir, Moroccos version of a crepe. The batter, though of this dough is left to ferment and bubble, then poured in a thin layer into a pan, and slowly allowed to cook through, without flipping. It is spongy and light, a bit dextrous, a bit tangy, lovely as a mock-honey vessel and a glass of orange juice (something they cannot fake here). And when you are craving the wholesomeness of oatmeal, there is this barley, i want to say 'pancake' but that is just not quite right,...thing: at once chewily aldente and bound by its own cooked out starchiness. Best enjoyed with a glass of "hot sweet almond milk" from Cafe Clock (we--as in you and me readers, will revisit that place in another post), it was what i would want if i was home in the winter as much as i needed it in rainy Fez. I cut up a melon once--never mind it was the sweetest and most generously fleshy melon disguised as a wrinkled, gourd-esque squash like bit of business, i have ever tasted. So by "once" i meant everyday (4) that we had left in Morocco.
Now in Spain our "breakfast incl" fare was first, in Rhonda, toast (actual toasted bread, instead of just stale day olds), homemade jams, juice, cheese, cured meats, and (thank your God of choice) fruit! And sweet, hot, thick, espresso. Vats of it. Small vats. Espresso sized vats. But vats none the less. I guess it just felt like vats after so many shitty sips of coffee. Then in Malaga, our first fend-for-yourself a.m. feast was a baguette from a panaderia, more cheese, fruit, dried figs, honey, and ripe tomatoes from the market, plus more fine espresso. Eaten on the steps of a theatre close to our riad, in the warm sun, the feast was capped off with two clementines each from a man enroute with his own market basket into his restaurant. What more could you ask for really, than to be given oranges at breakfast time from a man who lived in the country you came to visit just to eat its oranges? Life, and breakfast in Spain, was, is special. The next day was just local goats milk yoghurt and more oranges in order to save room for a paella lunch...we'll talk about that bitter and fruitless search later...Most recently, our hostel in Cadiz offered...wait for it...PANCAKE breakfasts!! And though i could certainly go for four mornings in a row of that business, there were just too many backpackers (and staff) and not enough pancakes so Cindy and i opted most mornings for pastries around town. Her breakfast of choice: glazed doughnut (not 12 cents here, though); mine: pretzled almond palmier. And espresso.
We haven't just had pastries for breakfast. But we have had them every day. And stopped in every pastry store we walk by. Which means more than one pastry every day. The first sweet i had in Marrakesh still sticks with me: the tiny sesame button, so sweet and lemony and fragrant; perfect in size and texture, still, one month later, yet to be surpassed. From the same pastry shop came a lemon tart in my description of such, flawless. A thin, cookie like but delicate crust, and thick, dense, zesty, curd, more italian than french, it was a lovely so long to Marrakesh. Then there were all of the lemony almondy, icing sugary ones, and the flat, surprisingly rose water flavoured beauties, and those triangles that i thought would be all baklava style pistachio filled, but turned out to be dry crummy chocolate (one out of who knows how many, not so bad). Oh my, there were so many little cookies in Morocco, i am having trouble remembering now...but i certainly remember a cake. A piece of cake, really, and yes, it was breakfast. Sunday morning in a road of utter splendour, it was Cindys cake. Right there on the buffet. i cannot believe i have not written about this cake until now in this post. I mean, it was our cake, all olive oily and crumbly with polenta, slightly orangey, such a treat. I thought Cindy might cry, but she's sensitive like that. and really loves pastry. Hence all the stops in the stores... Anyways, gazelle horns. Thats right, the ubiquitous, thinly wrapped, often orange blossom water laced almond paste. They are every where, sometimes dusted with icing sugar, or, like the ones in Tangier, decoratively imprinted with triangled designs. But the best we tasted was homemade by the nanny of a woman we met on the train from Fez to Tangier; the dough was so flaky and it was not overly floral, but sumptuous and soft, just a treat. The cookie fest ends here in Spain with unexpectedly crumbly cinnamon rounds--three times as thick as but only one 16th as buttery as the shortbread they looked to be-- and moves onto more serious pastries with the likes of the breakfasty palmiers, almondy cakelets filled with some sorta "vegetable/plant/fruit" like filling the texture of membrillo but certainly not the flavour, a dense and lemony, icing sugar laden torta, orange flavoured fruit jellies, and a lemon tart that doesn't hold a candle to the one in marrakech, though wins memory points for its being laden nuts of the wal, hazel, pine and almond sorts. I have already picked out my pastry for tomorrows breakfast. I just have to find one for dessert.
I also have to find time tomorrow to tell you about the savoury part of this "foods" topic. And a bit (no, probably a lot) about the "drinks." But for now it has been enough words. For now it is sweet, sesame button dreams.
I need to talk in detail about two things:
1) Foods
2) Drinks
Yes: "Foods" with an 's' because there has been so much eating that if i didn't pluralize food it would all seem one great, 29 day long meal. This whole trip could very well be just that, one great meal, when really, each taste has been such a surprise that it needs to be "foods," as in many different food.
Lets start with breakfast. It sucks in Morocco. It is boring white bread with uber sweet marmalade, margarine-ish spread, instant coffee, and, if you are lucky hard boiled until grey ringed eggs. The pleasant sub: street breads. Take that same boring white bread dough and knead it with butter, pull it flat and fry it on a flat top and you have mssmen--hot, fatty, pleasantly doughy...like a thin, deep fried waffle...sort of. Somewhat savoury kept plain, they also do well spread with "honey" (pure honey is hard to come by in morocco, and the street stalls carry vats of the less expensive honey and simple syrup blend--stand but oh too true.). Either way they've got nothing on beghir, Moroccos version of a crepe. The batter, though of this dough is left to ferment and bubble, then poured in a thin layer into a pan, and slowly allowed to cook through, without flipping. It is spongy and light, a bit dextrous, a bit tangy, lovely as a mock-honey vessel and a glass of orange juice (something they cannot fake here). And when you are craving the wholesomeness of oatmeal, there is this barley, i want to say 'pancake' but that is just not quite right,...thing: at once chewily aldente and bound by its own cooked out starchiness. Best enjoyed with a glass of "hot sweet almond milk" from Cafe Clock (we--as in you and me readers, will revisit that place in another post), it was what i would want if i was home in the winter as much as i needed it in rainy Fez. I cut up a melon once--never mind it was the sweetest and most generously fleshy melon disguised as a wrinkled, gourd-esque squash like bit of business, i have ever tasted. So by "once" i meant everyday (4) that we had left in Morocco.
Now in Spain our "breakfast incl" fare was first, in Rhonda, toast (actual toasted bread, instead of just stale day olds), homemade jams, juice, cheese, cured meats, and (thank your God of choice) fruit! And sweet, hot, thick, espresso. Vats of it. Small vats. Espresso sized vats. But vats none the less. I guess it just felt like vats after so many shitty sips of coffee. Then in Malaga, our first fend-for-yourself a.m. feast was a baguette from a panaderia, more cheese, fruit, dried figs, honey, and ripe tomatoes from the market, plus more fine espresso. Eaten on the steps of a theatre close to our riad, in the warm sun, the feast was capped off with two clementines each from a man enroute with his own market basket into his restaurant. What more could you ask for really, than to be given oranges at breakfast time from a man who lived in the country you came to visit just to eat its oranges? Life, and breakfast in Spain, was, is special. The next day was just local goats milk yoghurt and more oranges in order to save room for a paella lunch...we'll talk about that bitter and fruitless search later...Most recently, our hostel in Cadiz offered...wait for it...PANCAKE breakfasts!! And though i could certainly go for four mornings in a row of that business, there were just too many backpackers (and staff) and not enough pancakes so Cindy and i opted most mornings for pastries around town. Her breakfast of choice: glazed doughnut (not 12 cents here, though); mine: pretzled almond palmier. And espresso.
We haven't just had pastries for breakfast. But we have had them every day. And stopped in every pastry store we walk by. Which means more than one pastry every day. The first sweet i had in Marrakesh still sticks with me: the tiny sesame button, so sweet and lemony and fragrant; perfect in size and texture, still, one month later, yet to be surpassed. From the same pastry shop came a lemon tart in my description of such, flawless. A thin, cookie like but delicate crust, and thick, dense, zesty, curd, more italian than french, it was a lovely so long to Marrakesh. Then there were all of the lemony almondy, icing sugary ones, and the flat, surprisingly rose water flavoured beauties, and those triangles that i thought would be all baklava style pistachio filled, but turned out to be dry crummy chocolate (one out of who knows how many, not so bad). Oh my, there were so many little cookies in Morocco, i am having trouble remembering now...but i certainly remember a cake. A piece of cake, really, and yes, it was breakfast. Sunday morning in a road of utter splendour, it was Cindys cake. Right there on the buffet. i cannot believe i have not written about this cake until now in this post. I mean, it was our cake, all olive oily and crumbly with polenta, slightly orangey, such a treat. I thought Cindy might cry, but she's sensitive like that. and really loves pastry. Hence all the stops in the stores... Anyways, gazelle horns. Thats right, the ubiquitous, thinly wrapped, often orange blossom water laced almond paste. They are every where, sometimes dusted with icing sugar, or, like the ones in Tangier, decoratively imprinted with triangled designs. But the best we tasted was homemade by the nanny of a woman we met on the train from Fez to Tangier; the dough was so flaky and it was not overly floral, but sumptuous and soft, just a treat. The cookie fest ends here in Spain with unexpectedly crumbly cinnamon rounds--three times as thick as but only one 16th as buttery as the shortbread they looked to be-- and moves onto more serious pastries with the likes of the breakfasty palmiers, almondy cakelets filled with some sorta "vegetable/plant/fruit" like filling the texture of membrillo but certainly not the flavour, a dense and lemony, icing sugar laden torta, orange flavoured fruit jellies, and a lemon tart that doesn't hold a candle to the one in marrakech, though wins memory points for its being laden nuts of the wal, hazel, pine and almond sorts. I have already picked out my pastry for tomorrows breakfast. I just have to find one for dessert.
I also have to find time tomorrow to tell you about the savoury part of this "foods" topic. And a bit (no, probably a lot) about the "drinks." But for now it has been enough words. For now it is sweet, sesame button dreams.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
wish you were here
Most of you i am sure, have picked up a postcard while travelling, the image--cheesy, iconic, captivating, or otherwise--making you think of someone at home with whom you want to share that exact moment with. You take said card to a little table outside a little cafe and order a little coffee and start to write, only to find that the little space on the back of that card is just too little (so is the coffee, for that matter...). There is just too much to say, and where to begin is as much an issue as where to end once you have started. Soon you may have filled in six postcards (and downed four little coffees and a too little pastry), and still do not feel as if you have recreated any of it. That is what i am prepared to do right now: send you all a right stack of postcards knowing i cannot possibly do justice the wonders that Cindy and i have seen, created, been a part of in the thirteen days we have spent so far rocking' Morocco:
(ps, most of this is directly from my journal, at points in time when my head was a little more clear)
DAY1 (and 2, actually, as they really blended together into one 39 hour day of airports):
Im sitting in the plane waiting to take off from Vancouver to London. It just started to rain. See you later Canada...
Im achy from sitting for so long like some crumpled up receipt for too expensive airport water, then standing around the Gatwick airport in London with my thirty pound bag of things you would never think could weigh thirty pounds until i could check my bags and get on another plane to sit another five hours to get to Marrakech. Yet here i am sitting in a bar while i wait for said plane. Not just any bar, Jamie Oliver's bar "Union Jack's" where they have sparkling wine. Now, Morocco seems only, not still, five hours away.
Morocco is no longer five hours away. It is right now. And it smells like cumin.
DAY 3:
Sigh. The Medina of Marrakech is in so many ways like a mall: vendors selling much of the same thing for the same price; it feels contained, not lifeless but substance-less. I wonder at the honesty, the artistry. The forceful haggling can be too much, the "magical" facade to sheer.
Then again, it is a wonder to turn a corner, and come to an open-air square encircled by pyramids of glistening olives, jars of the tiniest preserved lemons, the smell briny, and, admittedly, refreshing. Down another alley is a quiet cafe where the lights and furniture are made of recycled tins and sacks serving espresso with crema so thick you could spread it on the hot mssmen (doughy, oily, pancake like street bread) we find down a very not-quiet street. Wandering further we are pursued by a French-speaking gang of young boys, clearly saying things they might not dare say if they thought we understood them, only to be chased away, laughing, by a man who gave us a knowing smile. Other cat calls include "Japon! Arogotto!" a discrimination against Cindys, whose parents are Chinese Canadian. I lost it a bit this time, only to have the vendor laugh and say he meant me, because i was "camera crazy." Touche. Finally we end up in an enclave of handmade lamps, all silver and iron, illuminating the alley and giving a bit of peace from the souks. I have never felt more relaxed being completely lost.
DAY 4-8
Hiking is a slow and contemplative process made slower by my stomachs failing to cooperate with digestion, and slower still for my deciding to "take the road less travelled" and ending up clinging to the side of a mountain, tearing out larger chunks of gravel to have somewhere to stick my feet and crawl up. For the next hike I would stick to the path. Really though, this is a much slower way than i am used to travelling, and entertaining myself as the scenery remains unchanged is at once frustrating and peaceful. I don't know exactly what i anticipated, but there is something missing from these wanderings.
It is very cold at night...i expected Morocco to have more fires. And more teal.
I did not, however, expect to be teaching yoga to our tour guide, Yacine, on the rooftop of a humble gite in the Atlas Mountains. Its a story i cannot fit even on a figurative postcard, i can only say it was as nurturing and satisfying as any of the number of tagines we have eaten (and easier to digest).
On the last day we picked garbage in the village, got scrubbed down in a local Hammam (i could have lied on that fire heated floor for the rest of the rainy day), and had our last round together of "Berber whiskey"--mint tea.
DAY 9
Now it really begins. Back in the Ville Nouveau of Marrakech, Cind and i set out on our own for the day, and begin really kicking ass at this travelling thing. Not only do we find the cafe we were looking for (at this point, finding anything not at random is a pretty big feet), which is a hip little spot that serves honey and yogurt (very important detail) and is refuge to travellers past abandoned books, but just around the corner is the restaurant we want to hit for dinner the next night, plus a patisserie that to date serves the best gazelle horns, and a french bistro called CHEESEme. The menu is entirely of cheese (tasting plates, warmed cheesy appetizers, tar tines) save for a lime tart with kiwi sorbet--which i wanted to order if only to see such a green dessert. Even the owners sense of humour was cheesy, and the menu cover read "Veni, Vedi, Vi-Cheese"--"i came, i saw, i cheesed". Our first taste of wine in six days. We picked up more at the grocery store on the way home.
DAY 10-12
For the next four nights, Cind and i are staying in paradise. This riad is such a surprise: each room so detailed thematically or by colour, the orange tree growing in the centre a canopy hung with recycled coffee tin lanterns and the home of a family of tiny birds, the managers Italian leather shoes impossibly shiny. It quickly became a sanctuary. Pictures when i get home.
Other things that make me smile about Morocco:
- the toilet paper here.
- how the dried fruits, especially figs/dates, sometimes taste just like a banana
- how not only can you get freshly squeezed orange juice for five cents canadian, but banana, apple, grapefruit, pineapple, lemon, pear, or avocado juice too. I also recently discovered you can add orange blossom water to your orange juice--its a whole new, kinda fancy juice.
- sesame cookies, the size of a quarter, plump and lemony. They are my perfect sweet.
- Lebanese food in Morocco
- Being witness to a festival that brings together seemingly every person in the country for a day of gratitude and feasting (despite the smell of burning sheep bones, and piles of hides.) Canadian thanksgiving's got nothing on this one.
- The populations unanimous love for Bob Marley
- $3.50 omelette dinners
DAY 13
Day trip to Essouira where we shopped a much more calm medina full of art galleries with working local artists. For dinner we picked our fish and had it grilled over low coals right there by the sea. Free exfoliation from the sand whipping in the wind at us.
But a day mostly of farewells: to our Italian oasis and the days of cake for breakfast, to the couple and their two year old whose connection to in the last twenty four hours was kind of unreal, to Marrakech, already familiar, but exhausting and exhausted.
DAY 14
Fes is home for the next three days, and we have already learned this:
- we are going to spend the next three days very very lost (we may cave and hire a guide...)
- we are going to spend the next three days very very wet (i already bought an umbrella; may buy gumboots if we have to wade through the twenty five mm that is supposed to fall tonight--it is currently leaking through the roof that the wind is threatening to rip off entirely).
- meals are eaten backwards here. A pursuit for b'ssar--butter/fava been and garlic soup--came up with begher-- a semolina crepe i have been searching for for breakfast since we got here. Apparently, the soup is a morning thing to keep you full, the crepes come out at night, with honey, after you have feasted. I feasted on crepes.
- indoor activities: cooking classes (hopefully hand rolling couscous or learning to make those incredible sesame cookies) and more regular blog posts so that they are not so disjuncted with past/present tense and more alive with "I just saw/ate this and am way to damn excited to even try to fit it on a little postcard which would take to long to share it with you anyways!" (and less full of made up words like disjuncted).
Ciao from Morocco
(ps, most of this is directly from my journal, at points in time when my head was a little more clear)
DAY1 (and 2, actually, as they really blended together into one 39 hour day of airports):
Im sitting in the plane waiting to take off from Vancouver to London. It just started to rain. See you later Canada...
Im achy from sitting for so long like some crumpled up receipt for too expensive airport water, then standing around the Gatwick airport in London with my thirty pound bag of things you would never think could weigh thirty pounds until i could check my bags and get on another plane to sit another five hours to get to Marrakech. Yet here i am sitting in a bar while i wait for said plane. Not just any bar, Jamie Oliver's bar "Union Jack's" where they have sparkling wine. Now, Morocco seems only, not still, five hours away.
Morocco is no longer five hours away. It is right now. And it smells like cumin.
DAY 3:
Sigh. The Medina of Marrakech is in so many ways like a mall: vendors selling much of the same thing for the same price; it feels contained, not lifeless but substance-less. I wonder at the honesty, the artistry. The forceful haggling can be too much, the "magical" facade to sheer.
Then again, it is a wonder to turn a corner, and come to an open-air square encircled by pyramids of glistening olives, jars of the tiniest preserved lemons, the smell briny, and, admittedly, refreshing. Down another alley is a quiet cafe where the lights and furniture are made of recycled tins and sacks serving espresso with crema so thick you could spread it on the hot mssmen (doughy, oily, pancake like street bread) we find down a very not-quiet street. Wandering further we are pursued by a French-speaking gang of young boys, clearly saying things they might not dare say if they thought we understood them, only to be chased away, laughing, by a man who gave us a knowing smile. Other cat calls include "Japon! Arogotto!" a discrimination against Cindys, whose parents are Chinese Canadian. I lost it a bit this time, only to have the vendor laugh and say he meant me, because i was "camera crazy." Touche. Finally we end up in an enclave of handmade lamps, all silver and iron, illuminating the alley and giving a bit of peace from the souks. I have never felt more relaxed being completely lost.
DAY 4-8
Hiking is a slow and contemplative process made slower by my stomachs failing to cooperate with digestion, and slower still for my deciding to "take the road less travelled" and ending up clinging to the side of a mountain, tearing out larger chunks of gravel to have somewhere to stick my feet and crawl up. For the next hike I would stick to the path. Really though, this is a much slower way than i am used to travelling, and entertaining myself as the scenery remains unchanged is at once frustrating and peaceful. I don't know exactly what i anticipated, but there is something missing from these wanderings.
It is very cold at night...i expected Morocco to have more fires. And more teal.
I did not, however, expect to be teaching yoga to our tour guide, Yacine, on the rooftop of a humble gite in the Atlas Mountains. Its a story i cannot fit even on a figurative postcard, i can only say it was as nurturing and satisfying as any of the number of tagines we have eaten (and easier to digest).
On the last day we picked garbage in the village, got scrubbed down in a local Hammam (i could have lied on that fire heated floor for the rest of the rainy day), and had our last round together of "Berber whiskey"--mint tea.
DAY 9
Now it really begins. Back in the Ville Nouveau of Marrakech, Cind and i set out on our own for the day, and begin really kicking ass at this travelling thing. Not only do we find the cafe we were looking for (at this point, finding anything not at random is a pretty big feet), which is a hip little spot that serves honey and yogurt (very important detail) and is refuge to travellers past abandoned books, but just around the corner is the restaurant we want to hit for dinner the next night, plus a patisserie that to date serves the best gazelle horns, and a french bistro called CHEESEme. The menu is entirely of cheese (tasting plates, warmed cheesy appetizers, tar tines) save for a lime tart with kiwi sorbet--which i wanted to order if only to see such a green dessert. Even the owners sense of humour was cheesy, and the menu cover read "Veni, Vedi, Vi-Cheese"--"i came, i saw, i cheesed". Our first taste of wine in six days. We picked up more at the grocery store on the way home.
DAY 10-12
For the next four nights, Cind and i are staying in paradise. This riad is such a surprise: each room so detailed thematically or by colour, the orange tree growing in the centre a canopy hung with recycled coffee tin lanterns and the home of a family of tiny birds, the managers Italian leather shoes impossibly shiny. It quickly became a sanctuary. Pictures when i get home.
Other things that make me smile about Morocco:
- the toilet paper here.
- how the dried fruits, especially figs/dates, sometimes taste just like a banana
- how not only can you get freshly squeezed orange juice for five cents canadian, but banana, apple, grapefruit, pineapple, lemon, pear, or avocado juice too. I also recently discovered you can add orange blossom water to your orange juice--its a whole new, kinda fancy juice.
- sesame cookies, the size of a quarter, plump and lemony. They are my perfect sweet.
- Lebanese food in Morocco
- Being witness to a festival that brings together seemingly every person in the country for a day of gratitude and feasting (despite the smell of burning sheep bones, and piles of hides.) Canadian thanksgiving's got nothing on this one.
- The populations unanimous love for Bob Marley
- $3.50 omelette dinners
DAY 13
Day trip to Essouira where we shopped a much more calm medina full of art galleries with working local artists. For dinner we picked our fish and had it grilled over low coals right there by the sea. Free exfoliation from the sand whipping in the wind at us.
But a day mostly of farewells: to our Italian oasis and the days of cake for breakfast, to the couple and their two year old whose connection to in the last twenty four hours was kind of unreal, to Marrakech, already familiar, but exhausting and exhausted.
DAY 14
Fes is home for the next three days, and we have already learned this:
- we are going to spend the next three days very very lost (we may cave and hire a guide...)
- we are going to spend the next three days very very wet (i already bought an umbrella; may buy gumboots if we have to wade through the twenty five mm that is supposed to fall tonight--it is currently leaking through the roof that the wind is threatening to rip off entirely).
- meals are eaten backwards here. A pursuit for b'ssar--butter/fava been and garlic soup--came up with begher-- a semolina crepe i have been searching for for breakfast since we got here. Apparently, the soup is a morning thing to keep you full, the crepes come out at night, with honey, after you have feasted. I feasted on crepes.
- indoor activities: cooking classes (hopefully hand rolling couscous or learning to make those incredible sesame cookies) and more regular blog posts so that they are not so disjuncted with past/present tense and more alive with "I just saw/ate this and am way to damn excited to even try to fit it on a little postcard which would take to long to share it with you anyways!" (and less full of made up words like disjuncted).
Ciao from Morocco
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Life, as I have no idea
At 615 this a.m., life as I know it ceased to exist.
I am at the first stop before the very first stop of my next great adventure. One that promises freedom, friendship, oranges, dancing, vino, yoga, and change. Not necessarily in that order (I mean, vino in the fifth spot, c'mon?!).
Ciao for now
I am at the first stop before the very first stop of my next great adventure. One that promises freedom, friendship, oranges, dancing, vino, yoga, and change. Not necessarily in that order (I mean, vino in the fifth spot, c'mon?!).
Ciao for now
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