Victoria Allman's Blog, page 2
February 8, 2016
The King of Cakes–King Cake, New Orleans
I don’t know why I followed the drunk down First Street and around the corner. It’s not something I would normally do, but the more I listened to the man slur and watched him stumble over loose bricks, the more I was certain he was leading me to the right spot.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Patrick asked.
“How could it not be?”
He rolled his eyes, but followed the man just the same. We’d been married long enough for him to know I would not be deterred.
It was Mardi Gras in New Orleans. We’d been tasting King Cakes since January 6th, the day of the Epiphany and the official start of the carnival, when stores started selling them for the season. Each one was different, some more cinnamon roll-like, some reminiscent of a Danish pastry, but each one decorated with purple, gold, and green to signify justice, faith, and power.
The cakes were quickly becoming my favorite treat with afternoon coffee. I was worried they’d disappear after Mardi Gras, and I’d have to wait until the next year to imbibe again.
We’d met the man while he and his family cheered, hollered, and pleaded with the passing parade floats to be thrown some beads. Their section of the street was cordoned off with a tent, foldout chairs, and plastic tables laden with food and drink. Children were perched in the front row on ladders with special box seats constructed for the occasion. They were serious parade-followers and had been celebrating Mardi Gras in this location every year since the man was a boy.
“The year of Katrina was the best parade,” he’d told me earlier, before he’d consumed so much celebrating. “It wasn’t big, but it had heart. “ He’d lived his whole life in New Orleans and had yet to miss a year of Mardi Gras. If anyone should know where to get the best King Cake than he should.
“My favorite King Cake is Randazz-zz-zz-zzo’s.” The man’s pockmarked cheeks puffed out like a trombone player as he worked the wet words and ran out of air on the z’s. I was pretty sure the name was not that long. “They’s use sprinkles on top.”
It was true. We’d had a Randazzo King Cake last week. The spongy light cake-like bread was covered in super-sweet icing and the colorful sprinkles of the ubiquitous colors. It was the best we’d had so far. But, Randazzos was across the water of Lake Pontchatrain in Slidell, and we were in New Orleans’ Garden District watching one of the many parades of the season. For some reason, it seemed perfectly natural to be following a complete stranger around corners and down the streets lined with the large Southern homes that inspired Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire to the closest next-best-thing to the famed Randazzos.
The man tripped over the roots of a live oak covered in moss and ferns that pushed the bricks of the pavement up and out of place as it grew and fumbled into a woman wearing a Mardi Gras mask of the same green, gold, and purple colors visible on each balcony we passed. The city was in full festive celebration. Bright red alcohol sloshed out of the hurricane glass she carried and stained the woman’s t-shirt with a stick figure on the front and the words “Drunk #2.” It seemed fitting.
“”Scuze me,” he slurred.
I don’t think she even noticed.
“I like this one ‘cause they don’t…they don’t…” He stopped in mid-stride and looked up to the sky above for the word he was searching for. He wrapped his hands over his forearms in a tangle that took all his concentration to unwind. “ You know…” He turned back to me and his glassy eyes focused on my braid. “That!” He reached out and grabbed my hair in his fingers.
“It’s not a braided bread?” I filled in the words for him.
He shook his head and confetti from the parade fell from his scraggly locks. “No, braiding cinnamon into it makes them messy to eat,” he whispered to me like it was an old family secret he passed on.
I looked down at his untucked Saints jersey covered in spilled gumbo, the splatters of muddy ground from the rain the previous day, and the muddle of beads coiled around his neck. He’d been sucking on crawfish all afternoon along with the Local Abita beer and butter glistened his chin. No, we wouldn’t want anything messy.
Yet, still I followed him. Because truthfully, he was right. I, too, had heard how good Sucre’s King Cakes were and when I asked where I could get one to bring home, he offered to take me. It seemed reasonable at the time.
Sucre was bright and trendy, the Starbucks of pastry shops; it took all my willpower to walk away with just one cake and a few macarons to snack on in the car home. Boxes and boxes of the hand-rolled, freshly-baked cakes were stacked along the counter. I was not the only person in search of the Mardi Gras specialty that day.
We retreated from the jam-packed store to the sidewalk to share our King Cake with the man. He was right: it was good. The yeasted dough cake was light and spongy and glazed with a thin silvery metallic icing that faded from green to gold to purple. It wasn’t as sweet as other versions I’d tasted, but sitting there, in the center of New Orleans, in the middle of Mardi Gras, feeling festive and full, it was the best King Cake experience I’d had all season.
King Cake
½ cup warm water
1 1/2 envelopes dry yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
3 eggs
5 cups flour
1/3 cup sugar
½ pound butter, softened
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 cup cream cheese
1 cup strawberry jam
Frosting:
5 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons butter, melted
5 tablespoons milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Purple, green and gold sugar crystals
Directions
In the bowl of a standing mixer, combine warm water, yeast, sugar and eggs. Let stand for 10 minutes to start the yeast bubbling. Add the flour, sugar, butter and sea salt and knead with a dough hook on medium speed for 10 minutes until a soft, smooth dough is formed.
Cover and let rise for 2 hours.
Punch down dough and divide in half. Place one portion on a lightly floured surface and roll to a 28 X 10-inch rectangle.
Spread half the cream cheese on the dough leaving a 1-inch seam at the top long end of the dough. Add half the strawberry jam to the top of that.
Roll dough in a jellyroll toward the seam starting with the long end. Place dough, seam down, on a baking sheet and join the ends to form a circle. Pinch the ends together to seal. Repeat with remaining dough.
Cover and let rise for 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 375 degrees and bake for 30 minutes. Cool completely.
Meanwhile, mix together the frosting ingredients. Spread evenly on both rings and sprinkle the colored sugar over the top in an even color pattern.
Slice and serve immediately.
The post The King of Cakes–King Cake, New Orleans appeared first on Victoria Allman.
November 8, 2015
Comfort Food–Nantes, France, Tarte Tatin
My mother is a trouper. Over the years, I have dragged her to dinners that consisted of raw tuna, when she had never had anything but canned before, and spicy curries from countries she had never heard of. She would smile and eat what was in front of her, when I knew she would feel more at ease with a chicken breast or a plate of spaghetti. And although, it all seemed normal to me, the meals tested her comfort level. Now, she was in France for ten days and we were stretching all of her boundaries. I had signed us up for a day of cooking lessons in a French home. We had started early that morning at the market in Nantes, Brittany. Lars wound us through stalls pointing out baskets of mushrooms cultivated in the surrounding caves and misshapen pumpkins with popcorn bumps blistering their skin.
“These are the last of the summer peaches,” he told us. They were smushed as flat as a skipping stone; a different variety than mom bought at home, but not so foreign that she couldn’t recognize it. So far, it had all seemed familiar and mom was enjoying herself, that is, until we got to the corner stall.
There was a line of little old ladies hunched over the table blocking our view. Neither of us was sure what we would find on the table. I was the first to spot the proprietors fare. I saw, registered, and turned to block, but it was too late. Mom’s face had already corkscrewed to one side. I could see the vein in her neck bulge. On the table was a white plastic bucket, no different than one you would mop the floor with. The bucket itself was not the problem. It was what was inside. The bucket was full of shiny black eels slithering over and around each other like slimy snakes. I watched as mom stole one more, quick glance. At the same moment one of the eels lifted his head above the others and opened his mouth to breath.
“We’ll take two,” Lars said.
“I’ll wait for you over there.” Mom turned on her heel and marched directly out of the market area. I couldn’t blame her. I stayed to witness the slaughter and skinning, but only out of politeness. This was stretching my limits too.
Once we reconvened with mom, we headed to Lars’ high-ceilinged, wrought-iron terraced apartment to start our lesson. Lars had been trained in Sweden, but had lived in France for the past 18 years. His face lit up as he spoke about French food and creased in concentration as he bent his tall frame over the stove to study the pots.
“I have a treat for you today,” he said in his half Swedish/half French accent. “Do you like frogs legs?”
Mom was silent.
“I do.” I said, looking nervously at my mother. She wasn’t exactly blanching, but she also wasn’t beaming with excitement. “I rarely eat them. They aren’t exactly common at home.”
“A treat then.” Lars clasped his hands together in delight. We both looked over at mom.
“A treat,” she said with a little less enthusiasm.
But, as I said, she was a trouper. All afternoon we chopped, and stirred, and talked, and learned. Lars taught us how to make the local buckwheat crepes, and instructed mom as she stood by the stove stuffing them with ham, grated cheese and eggs. He switched back and forth from talking in depth about cuisine with me to explaining the history of the food in the area with mom.
“Have you ever tasted homemade vinegar?” he asked.
Mom was intrigued. “You make your own vinegar?” It shouldn’t have been surprising. One wall of his kitchen was shelving like a library lined with dozens of jars of jams and pickles. Fresh rosemary and thyme were potted in the windowsill and a loaf of homemade bread sat cooling on a wooden cutting board.
“I make all my own cleaning solutions, too.” These were things she was interested in, much more so than frog’s legs and eel.
Once we had cut the eel into unsnake-like pieces and fried it, mom pulled together enough courage to take a bite. An ‘I can get through this’ smile stayed plastered on her face. She even sucked the meat off the bones of the frog legs. She didn’t balk when we started stuffing duck necks or run screaming from the room when we shucked oysters and slurped them down with Lars’ homemade vinegar. But, just when I thought we had put her through enough, the menu turned.
Lars’ partner, Nirin entered the kitchen for the final instruction of the day. “I grew up here, eating tart Tatin,” he told us as he wrapped the long white waiters apron around his slender frame. “You are here at the right time of year.” His eyes were wet and sparkled when he spoke. “It’s apple season.”
Mom perked right up. “We are making apple pie?”
“A French version.” Nirin nodded. “This one is more like an upside down tart.”
Mom blew out a sigh and smiled. “I do like apples.”
We laughed and commenced the recognizable task of peeling apples and rolling dough. Once again, I looked over at mom. She was relaxed and enjoying herself. She looked like she belonged in this French kitchen. Maybe, when she went home and told stories of how brave she was to taste eel and frogs legs, she would also tell a tale about how French food wasn’t all that different from the comfortable familiarity of good old apple pie.
Tarte Tatin
8 Gala, Fiji, or Golden Delicious Apples
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon lemon juice
Pastry:
1 cup four
1 tablespoon sugar
6 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons ice water
Mix flour and sugar in a bowl. Add the butter and rub together with your fingertips until the butter is incorporated. Drizzle the water over the mixture and mix together until the dough is evenly moist and begns to come together. Transfer dough to a floured work surface and shape into a 6-inch disk. Wrap with plastic wrap and refridgerate for 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 400
Peel, core and cut apples into quarters
To make the filling, set a 10-inch straight-sided, cast-iron pan, over medium heat. Sprinkle the sugar evenly over the surface of the pan. Distribute water and lemon juice to evenly soak the sugar and continue cooking until the sugar melts and turns amber colored, 3 to 4 minutes. Shake and swirl the pan frequently to redistribute the sugar for even melting and caramelization. The sugar will be extremely hot. Be cautious and do not touch the bubbling sugar. Remove from heat and set over ice water to immediately cool the pan and stop the sugar from continuing to cook and burn.
Arrange the apples, core side up, in a circular pattern in the caramel in a snug, even layer beginning with the outer layer.
Uncover the pastry round. On a floured surface, roll the dough out to fit the pan, slide both hands under the pastry round and carefully place it on top of the apples, tucking in around the edges and being careful not to burn your fingers. Bake until the crust is golden brown, and apples are tender, about 30 minutes.
Transfer the pan to a wire rack and let cool for 5 minutes. Place a large flat serving plate upside down on top of the pan and invert the pan and plate together. Lift off the pan. Slice and serve warm with vanilla ice cream.
Serves 8.
The post Comfort Food–Nantes, France, Tarte Tatin appeared first on Victoria Allman.
November 6, 2015
A Slice of Eleuthera–Bahamas, Pineapple Pie Recipe
“It’s a long way to go for pie.” Patrick, my husband, cautioned as we bumped our way along the long stretch of Bahamian road from South Eleuthera to North.
“Yes, but it ‘s worth it.” I spoke with authority. It would be our third pineapple pie this week.
Our first day on the island, we’d hiked over a scruffy hill down a crater maze of a road to Surfer’s Beach. As the turquoise water curled under Patrick’s board, I struck up conversation with a deeply tanned group of surfers who, by sheer appearance alone, looked like they were apart of the Bahamian island itself.
“You’ve got to go to Monica’s for a hamburger after the beach,” George, a Floridian who’d been coming to the island for the past thirty years, told me.
“And a pineapple pie.” The woman beside George rubbed wax on her surfboard as she spoke. “Her’s are the best in town.”
The whole group nodded.
“Yip.” A yellow haired island dog snuggled deep in the sand agreed.
So, it was no surprise when later that day all of us ended up on the porch at Monica’s ordering cheeseburgers and trading weather reports and swell conditions. As the lone non-surfer, I went inside to talk with Monica.
Steam from the griddle fogged her glasses, but her smile was visible from anywhere in the dim room.
“I’ve been told this is the best place on the island for pineapple pie.” I was hoping to charm a recipe from her.
“Oh, child. I don’t know ‘bout that.” Monica’s laugh filled the small space. She turned her back to tend to the burgers.
Another woman with tight cornrows pulled back from her face handed me a pie wrapped in waxed paper from the case below the register. “You’re gonna like this.”
She was right.
Back on Monica’s porch, Patrick and I devoured the cheeseburgers at a rickety wooden picnic table and moved on to the pie. I split the four-inch round open like a book and the sweet smell of pineapple mixed with warm notes of nutmeg. This was like no pie I’d ever seen. In place of short flaky crust was a light, spongy, cake-like shell. A thin layer of pineapple jam lay sandwiched between the bottom layer and top lattice crust. With one bite into the not-too-sweet, not-too pineappley moist treat, I knew it would not be my last.
The next day, Ponytail Pete, the local surfing guru at Rebecca’s Surf Shop, whispered to me. “Two doors down, a lady named Mary sells pies at the 7-Eleven. “
Normally, I have strict rules about avoiding anything sold as a foodstuff at 7-Eleven, but who am I to argue with local knowledge?
Through the scraggle, on a one-way busted-up limestone path we bounced in the Jeep on our way to Lighthouse Beach on the Atlantic side of the island.
We hiked up and over sand dunes and bluffs emerging from the native shrubs to a never-ending azure vista. Swirls of water and wind erosion decorated the limestone cliffs with waves of Zion. Behind us coconut palms had been battered by the elements for a lifetime. Sapphire waters turned to teal and aquamarine in the bay before lapping gently over rose-colored sand. I lowered my sunglasses to make sure it was not a polarized lens trick.
Patrick fell asleep immediately, a coconut for his pillow, his white belly barely contrasting with the soft sand around us. All the elements were there; the sound of surf, the warm Bahamian sun, a slight breeze to keep us cool and the flies at bay, but my mind could not be lulled to relax. I couldn’t stop thinking of the pineapple pie in the cooler bag beside me.
Luckily, it was not long before the grumbling of Patrick’s stomach woke him and I began to unpack our picnic of conch salad, macaroni and cheese, and barbecued chicken legs from the jerk pit we’d stopped at on the side of the road. Slow Down. Fresh Conch and Jerk Pit Ahead the sign read.
Steven, a large island man, stood sheltered from the searing sun by a blue tarp. “Hello, boss,” he called out when we pulled over. “And, good day to you, baby.”
Half a dozen pink shells lined his wooden countertop, the meat still wriggling inside.
It was Steven who’d told us about Lighthouse Beach. “I ain’t been down there in twelve years.” He munched on the horn of the conch while he talked and chopped at the same time. “It’s an hour away, you know.” He dunked a green pepper into a bucket of water with halved limes floating on the top. He diced the pepper and repeated the process with a tomato. “But, it da prettiest beach in all da Bahamas.”
He bagged the salad and sent us off with a smile.
Mary’s pineapple pie was the perfect ending to our picnic. It had less of the moist crumbly bottom and maybe slightly more of the sticky pineapple reduction, but the effect was the same. It was delicious and disappeared in moments.
A day of diving with grey angelfish, rainbow parrotfish, and midnight blue tangs kept me away from another tasting the next morning. While I chased a mosaic wrasse around the coral outcrop trying to memorize the exact color of blue and yellow to paint my kitchen when I got back home — Monticello Yellow and Blue Reef according to Ralph Lauren paint swatches — Patrick spotted a brown and tan trumpetfish trying to fool us into thinking he was a piece of coral. Schools of yellow snapper floated above. Patrick reached out to fan what looked like Snuffleupagus’s trunk but he assured me after was a sea cucumber.
Exhausted and starving from a morning on the water, we headed down north as the locals are apt to say, to Cocoplum’s wooden deck on the beach for a few cold Kalik’s to wash down the conch salad that Coco diced into small cubes before our eyes.
“You haven’t had nothin’ ‘til you try my mother-in-law Helen’s pie at the airport.” Both Coco and his brother-in-law Kevin, a local impressionist artist, assured me after hearing of my newfound love for the taste of Eleuthera.
Airport meals were another thing I tried to avoid, but I was not about to doubt what Coco said after tasting his version of conch salad. It had less onion than previous bowls I’d tried and used a combination of goat and finger peppers for both heat and flavor.
“You can line ten guys up and give them the same ingredients and dey all will taste different.” Coco’s secret may be the fact that he fishes his conch right out of a rock walled pen in the ocean behind him.
I was envious. I always wanted a kitchen job where I could wear flip-flops and wade into the sea at regular intervals.
As the sun plummeted at too fast a pace, signaling the end of our holiday, both Kevin and I convinced Patrick to get back in the Jeep and pick up one last pie from Helen.
The streaks of grey in her ponytail led me to believe all her years of making pie would outshine the earlier examples. This pie was lighter and moist but also baked in a rectangular sheet pan and cut in squares. Although she laughed like a schoolgirl when I asked about her recipe, I knew her years of experience and the flavor of the island had gone into this one slice of pie just for me.
Patrick was right. It was along way to go for pie, but a week on the island of Eleuthera made it all worthwhile.
Bahamian Pineapple Pie
1 fresh pineapple, chopped
1 cup sugar
1 lime, juiced
1 stick butter, soft
1 tablespoon baking powder
3 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1 egg
1 cup cream
Simmer the pineapple, sugar and limejuice on the stove for 20 minutes to reduce. Set aside to cool.
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
In the bowl of a standing mixer, blend butter, baking powder, flour, sugar and nutmeg with the paddle attachment until it is crumbled together. Add egg and cream and mix until dough forms a ball. Do not over-mix.
Turn onto a lightly floured board and divide into half. Divide one half into eight balls. Roll out the smaller balls to ¼ inch thick and line 8 greased tart tin. Fill with pineapple filling.
Divide remaining dough in four and roll out to ¼ inch thick. Cut into ½ inch thick strips with a crimped pastry roller. Weave the pastry strips across the top of the tart to form a lattice-work pattern.
Bake for 1/2 hour until golden.
Makes 8 individual tarts
The post A Slice of Eleuthera–Bahamas, Pineapple Pie Recipe appeared first on Victoria Allman.
A Slice of Eleuthera
“It’s a long way to go for pie.” Patrick, my husband, cautioned as we bumped our way along the long stretch of Bahamian road from South Eleuthera to North.
“Yes, but it ‘s worth it.” I spoke with authority. It would be our third pineapple pie this week.
Our first day on the island, we’d hiked over a scruffy hill down a crater maze of a road to Surfer’s Beach. As the turquoise water curled under Patrick’s board, I struck up conversation with a deeply tanned group of surfers who, by sheer appearance alone, looked like they were apart of the Bahamian island itself.
“You’ve got to go to Monica’s for a hamburger after the beach,” George, a Floridian who’d been coming to the island for the past thirty years, told me.
“And a pineapple pie.” The woman beside George rubbed wax on her surfboard as she spoke. “Hers are the best in town.”
The whole group nodded.
“Yip.” A yellow haired island dog snuggled deep in the sand agreed.
So, it was no surprise when later that day all of us ended up on the porch at Monica’s ordering cheeseburgers and trading weather reports and swell conditions. As the lone non-surfer, I went inside to talk with Monica.
Steam from the griddle fogged her glasses, but her smile was visible from anywhere in the dim room.
“I’ve been told this is the best place on the island for pineapple pie.” I was hoping to charm a recipe from her.
“Oh, child. I don’t know ‘bout that.” Monica’s laugh filled the small space. She turned her back to tend to the burgers.
Another woman with tight cornrows pulled back from her face handed me a pie wrapped in waxed paper from the case below the register. “You’re gonna like this.”
She was right.
Back on Monica’s porch, Patrick and I devoured the cheeseburgers at a rickety wooden picnic table and moved on to the pie. I split the four-inch round open like a book and the sweet smell of pineapple mixed with warm notes of nutmeg. This was like no pie I’d ever seen. In place of short flaky crust was a light, spongy, cake-like shell. A thin layer of pineapple jam lay sandwiched between the bottom layer and top lattice crust. With one bite into the not-too-sweet, not-too pineappley moist treat, I knew it would not be my last.
The next day, Ponytail Pete, the local surfing guru at Rebecca’s Surf Shop, whispered to me. “Two doors down, a lady named Mary sells pies at the 7-Eleven. “
Normally, I have strict rules about avoiding anything sold as a foodstuff at 7-Eleven, but who am I to argue with local knowledge?
Through the scraggle, on a one-way busted-up limestone path we bounced in the Jeep on our way to Lighthouse Beach on the Atlantic side of the island.
We hiked up and over sand dunes and bluffs emerging from the native shrubs to a never-ending azure vista. Swirls of water and wind erosion decorated the limestone cliffs with waves of Zion. Behind us coconut palms had been battered by the elements for a lifetime. Sapphire waters turned to teal and aquamarine in the bay before lapping gently over rose-colored sand. I lowered my sunglasses to make sure it was not a polarized lens trick.
Patrick fell asleep immediately, a coconut for his pillow, his white belly barely contrasting with the soft sand around us. All the elements were there; the sound of surf, the warm Bahamian sun, a slight breeze to keep us cool and the flies at bay, but my mind could not be lulled to relax. I couldn’t stop thinking of the pineapple pie in the cooler bag beside me.
Luckily, it was not long before the grumbling of Patrick’s stomach woke him and I began to unpack our picnic of conch salad, macaroni and cheese, and barbecued chicken legs from the jerk pit we’d stopped at on the side of the road. Slow Down. Fresh Conch and Jerk Pit Ahead the sign read.
Steven, a large island man, stood sheltered from the searing sun by a blue tarp. “Hello, boss,” he called out when we pulled over. “And, good day to you, baby.”
Half a dozen pink shells lined his wooden countertop, the meat still wriggling inside.
It was Steven who’d told us about Lighthouse Beach. “I ain’t been down there in twelve years.” He munched on the horn of the conch while he talked and chopped at the same time. “It’s an hour away, you know.” He dunked a green pepper into a bucket of water with halved limes floating on the top. He diced the pepper and repeated the process with a tomato. “But, it da prettiest beach in all da Bahamas.”
He bagged the salad and sent us off with a smile.
Mary’s pineapple pie was the perfect ending to our picnic. It had less of the moist crumbly bottom and maybe slightly more of the sticky pineapple reduction, but the effect was the same. It was delicious and disappeared in moments.
A day of diving with grey angelfish, rainbow parrotfish, and midnight blue tangs kept me away from another tasting the next morning. While I chased a mosaic wrasse around the coral outcrop trying to memorize the exact color of blue and yellow to paint my kitchen when I got back home — Monticello Yellow and Blue Reef according to Ralph Lauren paint swatches — Patrick spotted a brown and tan trumpetfish trying to fool us into thinking he was a piece of coral. Schools of yellow snapper floated above. Patrick reached out to fan what looked like Snuffleupagus’s trunk but he assured me after was a sea cucumber.
Exhausted and starving from a morning on the water, we headed down north as the locals are apt to say, to Cocoplum’s wooden deck on the beach for a few cold Kalik’s to wash down the conch salad that Coco diced into small cubes before our eyes.
“You haven’t had nothin’ ‘til you try my mother-in-law Helen’s pie at the airport.” Both Coco and his brother-in-law Kevin, a local impressionist artist, assured me after hearing of my newfound love for the taste of Eleuthera.
Airport meals were another thing I tried to avoid, but I was not about to doubt what Coco said after tasting his version of conch salad. It had less onion than previous bowls I’d tried and used a combination of goat and finger peppers for both heat and flavor.
“You can line ten guys up and give them the same ingredients and dey all will taste different.” Coco’s secret may be the fact that he fishes his conch right out of a rock walled pen in the ocean behind him.
I was envious. I always wanted a kitchen job where I could wear flip-flops and wade into the sea at regular intervals.
As the sun plummeted at too fast a pace, signaling the end of our holiday, both Kevin and I convinced Patrick to get back in the Jeep and pick up one last pie from Helen.
The streaks of grey in her ponytail led me to believe all her years of making pie would outshine the earlier examples. This pie was lighter and moist but also baked in a rectangular sheet pan and cut in squares. Although she laughed like a schoolgirl when I asked about her recipe, I knew her years of experience and the flavor of the island had gone into this one slice of pie just for me.
Patrick was right. It was along way to go for pie, but a week on the island of Eleuthera made it all worthwhile.
The post A Slice of Eleuthera appeared first on Victoria Allman.
August 31, 2014
Culinary Contraband-Ft. Lauderdale
It was this time of day my friends Deborah and Kerry led Patrick and me through the historic district of Sailboat Bend in Fort Lauderdale in search of mangoes, glad for the slower traffic and shade as we left Cooley’s Landing Marina on our bicycles through the tree-canopied streets.
“The best tasting mangoes are the ones you steal.” Kerry’s voice was low and conspiratorial as he spoke over his shoulder from the bicycle ahead of mine. The words floated on the still air back to his wife who trailed behind me, looking up at the overhanging tree canopy for signs of the golden fruits hanging heavy.
July 23, 2014
Mexican Moniker
“Jacqui,” my husband called to me from his hammock suspended over white sand. Before the lime of my first margarita had even puckered my throat, Patrick had decided I needed a Mexican persona for this trip and disregarded my formal staid given name for the more sultry-sounding, tropical moniker. I choked on the tart drink in my mouth and rested the icy cold glass against my too-white-for-this-new-personality thigh wondering if I could live up to the image the name evoked as it rolled off his tongue. “What should we do tomorrow?”
We’d only just come out of the tepid water and the hammock under me had barely ceased swaying. Salt water still dripped from my hair after a plunge into the sapphire colors beyond where we lounged. Right then seemed perfect—what did I want to think about manana for?
July 4, 2014
Diggin'-Boston
“Dig deeper.” James, my clam-diggin’ new friend instructed. “They’re down there.”
We were just outside of Boston searching for lunch on the beach. Actually, we were in the shallows with the Atlantic biting cold on my ankles. Summer had fled and autumn, although named on the calendar, seemed to be skipped over for the harsher temperatures of winter.
Yet, there I was, in shorts and a sweater standing in the surf, shivering and wondering just what was I thinking. Like Lucy squishing grapes for wine with her feet, James was teaching me to dig for clams with my toes.
April 15, 2014
Gator Bites-Everglades, Florida
Gator Bites
Victoria Allman www.victoriaallman.com
“Florida is a giant bug light for crazy people.” ~Phyllis Smallman, Sleuthfest 2014
It’s no surprise to any author living in Florida that some of the craziest stories we can write are actually inspired by true events in our sunshine state. Join us in exploring a different side of Florida than the travel bureau promotes with our first Blog Hop sponsored by Florida Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. Read on, click the links below to read another member’s view of crazy Florida, comment, share your favorite stories, and enter the contest to win a Kindle Paperwhite.
Gator Bites
The ‘glades were quiet. Thick heavy heat weighed on my skin like I was sitting in a bowl of conch chowder. There wasn’t a ripple on the water that wound its way through the river of grass nor a sway of breeze through the bright green saw grasses. Great blue herons stood stock-still sentinel over the scene. The only things moving through the sludge of mid-afternoon August air in South Florida were the mosquitoes.
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March 15, 2014
The Southern Cry of Jubilee-Fairhope, Alabama
It was a sweltering August night along the shoreline of Mobile Bay, so we had our portholes open and could hear him perfectly.
“What’s that?” Patrick rolled over and crushed a pillow to his head, but I had heard rumors of such a rare phenomenon and wanted to check it out.
January 28, 2014
Island Blues-Mustique
February has always been a month of the blues for me. In a previous Canadian life, the cold air and snowdrifts made for a month of indoor pacing and yearning for the sun. But, this year, February would be spent in Mustique, a small island in the West Indies. I wouldn’t be on the boat though, for this trip, the owners of the yacht had rented a house and I was to fly down and meet them.
I’d never been to Mustique or worked in a house so I called the butler to ask some preliminary questions: What equipment is in the kitchen? Where do I purchase food? What food is available?
