Victoria Allman's Blog, page 4
December 4, 2011
The South Pacific Dream-Maupiti, French Polynesia
"Iorana, Victoria. Mahi today?" Nunu, a dark Tahitian man with tribal tattoos of tikis, turtles, and rays wrapped around his bicep and stretched down his muscular calves, dropped a blunt-nosed fish on the back deck. The iridescent greens and blues still flashed on its silver skin indicating it had just been caught.
"Thanks, Nunu. Will you stay for lunch?" Nunu had been bringing me mahi each time we anchored in the South Pacific lagoon of Maupiti. With guests on board, I rarely had time for more than a quick hello and to ask about his family, but today it was just the crew.
His face lit up like our navigational spotlights. "Me? On here?" He looked up at the towering levels of teak decks and polished stainless rails. Pangaea was quite different from the fishing boats he was used to seeing come through the pass in Maupiti.
"Thanks, Nunu. Will you stay for lunch?" Nunu had been bringing me mahi each time we anchored in the South Pacific lagoon of Maupiti. With guests on board, I rarely had time for more than a quick hello and to ask about his family, but today it was just the crew.
His face lit up like our navigational spotlights. "Me? On here?" He looked up at the towering levels of teak decks and polished stainless rails. Pangaea was quite different from the fishing boats he was used to seeing come through the pass in Maupiti.
November 19, 2011
Lobster Rolling-New England
There is a certain time of year when hopping a flight out of Florida and heading to New England seems like the thing to do.
Last weekend was that time. The golden yellow of poplar trees and cinnamon reds of the maples glowed out the window of our rental car as we headed out of Boston. The smile on my face grew deeper as the car rose and fell over the undulating hills—a vast difference in topography from our home in flat, tropical Florida.
The late-in-the-year heat of the day made for the perfect afternoon to go boating. The colors along the riverbank championed the decision to stray from the normal hues of blue of our ocean home.
Last weekend was that time. The golden yellow of poplar trees and cinnamon reds of the maples glowed out the window of our rental car as we headed out of Boston. The smile on my face grew deeper as the car rose and fell over the undulating hills—a vast difference in topography from our home in flat, tropical Florida.
The late-in-the-year heat of the day made for the perfect afternoon to go boating. The colors along the riverbank championed the decision to stray from the normal hues of blue of our ocean home.
Lobster Rolling
There is a certain time of year when hopping a flight out of Florida and heading to New England seems like the thing to do.
Last weekend was that time. The golden yellow of poplar trees and cinnamon reds of the maples glowed out the window of our rental car as we headed out of Boston. The smile on my face grew deeper as the car rose and fell over the undulating hills—a vast difference in topography from our home in flat, tropical Florida.
The late-in-the-year heat of the day made for the perfect afternoon to go boating. The colors along the riverbank championed the decision to stray from the normal hues of blue of our ocean home.
Last weekend was that time. The golden yellow of poplar trees and cinnamon reds of the maples glowed out the window of our rental car as we headed out of Boston. The smile on my face grew deeper as the car rose and fell over the undulating hills—a vast difference in topography from our home in flat, tropical Florida.
The late-in-the-year heat of the day made for the perfect afternoon to go boating. The colors along the riverbank championed the decision to stray from the normal hues of blue of our ocean home.
November 13, 2011
The Animal Chef-Being a Yacht Chef
The hour before twilight in the Bahamas is magical. The robin's egg and baby blues of the ocean slide to royal, peacock and sapphire. The fierce sunlight of day gives off a golden glow. A slight breeze cools off the heat.
We'd been cruising the Bahamas with the guests for the past few days. Each evening, as the light began to change, I would step out the galley door; bucket in hand.
"Is it time?" The missus pulled her Chanel glasses lower on her nose and peered over the rim at me.
We'd been cruising the Bahamas with the guests for the past few days. Each evening, as the light began to change, I would step out the galley door; bucket in hand.
"Is it time?" The missus pulled her Chanel glasses lower on her nose and peered over the rim at me.
November 5, 2011
The Life of a Yacht Chef-article in Boca Life
I have been blessed with an exciting job and adventurous life. I am a yacht chef that has traveled the world in search of new foods and recipes. I live my life through food and love every minute of it.
I am thrilled that the editors at Boca Life magazine thought so, too. They sent the up-and-coming talented writer Melissa Pender to interview me this month. Her look at my life made me sound so glamorous...especially when paired with the gorgeous photography of Steven Martine .
Thank you so much to Boca Life, Melissa and Steven for showcasing how exciting being a yacht chef can be.
Check it out!
See Food
I am thrilled that the editors at Boca Life magazine thought so, too. They sent the up-and-coming talented writer Melissa Pender to interview me this month. Her look at my life made me sound so glamorous...especially when paired with the gorgeous photography of Steven Martine .
Thank you so much to Boca Life, Melissa and Steven for showcasing how exciting being a yacht chef can be.
Check it out!
See Food
October 29, 2011
Savannah Shrimpin'-Savannah, Georgia
Whenever we pull into a port, I always like to get to know the local foods. I want to meet the people at the markets and see what they are cooking. It is my way of soaking up culture. In Savannah that meant shrimp.
It was early morning as we cruised the river of marsh grass. A local fisherman had agreed to take me out on his shrimp boat to see how they were caught. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of large live oaks. They looked like they were about to topple from the weight of the Spanish moss hanging from their limbs. A cool breeze blew off the water, rustling the palm fronds and causing me to don my sweater.
Bo-Nita was a fifty-two-foot trawler. Like most shrimp boats, she was rugged and well worked in appearance, her wooden hull battered from hauling equipment.
It was early morning as we cruised the river of marsh grass. A local fisherman had agreed to take me out on his shrimp boat to see how they were caught. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of large live oaks. They looked like they were about to topple from the weight of the Spanish moss hanging from their limbs. A cool breeze blew off the water, rustling the palm fronds and causing me to don my sweater.
Bo-Nita was a fifty-two-foot trawler. Like most shrimp boats, she was rugged and well worked in appearance, her wooden hull battered from hauling equipment.
October 22, 2011
Crackin' Crabs-Florida
Splash! Splash! A tarpon jumped and flopped back into the still Intracoastal waters to the left of us. I could barely avert my eyes from the food in front of me to see the ripples in the water. On my plate, sat six more succulent stone crab claws. The juice of the first crabs rolled through my fingers, their shells piled high in a bowl by my elbow. Patrick and I did not speak, could not, we were too busy sucking the sweet meat from the cartilage. The river was quiet that night, devoid of the normal yacht and dingy traffic cruising past. The only sound that filled the air after the splash was the continual zit, zit, zit of the cicadas in the mangroves across the water.
It is stone crab season in Florida, a time that makes me thankful the yacht has returned to this part of the world. We have spent the last few years in the Mediterranean, and although seafood abounded, I had missed stone crabs. When most people think of Florida, they think of Disney, the beaches, and the endless strip malls. But, when I think of Florida, I think stone crab.
It is stone crab season in Florida, a time that makes me thankful the yacht has returned to this part of the world. We have spent the last few years in the Mediterranean, and although seafood abounded, I had missed stone crabs. When most people think of Florida, they think of Disney, the beaches, and the endless strip malls. But, when I think of Florida, I think stone crab.
October 15, 2011
Pickin' Peas-Mississippi
The day sweltered like only a day in Mississippi can. There was not a single whistle of wind. I felt like Spanish moss on the live oak trees, drooping over the branches, unable to move. I dragged my feet across the open parking lot to the farmer's market, feeling my skin sizzle with each step.
In the shade of the Ocean Springs-Biloxi overpass, a woman sat on an overturned orange paint pail, protected from the suns rays burning between her tight cornrows. Her shoulders hunched forward, and her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers were thick and cracked with years of hard work, yet nimble as she used her thumbs to split apart dark purple bean pods. She ran her index finger down the pocket, extracting the green-tinged beans. The same deep purple color marked the center of the bean surrounded by a pink oblong splotch.
"Are these black-eyed peas?" I asked.
In the shade of the Ocean Springs-Biloxi overpass, a woman sat on an overturned orange paint pail, protected from the suns rays burning between her tight cornrows. Her shoulders hunched forward, and her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers were thick and cracked with years of hard work, yet nimble as she used her thumbs to split apart dark purple bean pods. She ran her index finger down the pocket, extracting the green-tinged beans. The same deep purple color marked the center of the bean surrounded by a pink oblong splotch.
"Are these black-eyed peas?" I asked.
Pickin' Peas
The day sweltered like only a day in Mississippi can. There was not a single whistle of wind. I felt like Spanish moss on the live oak trees, drooping over the branches, unable to move. I dragged my feet across the open parking lot to the farmer's market, feeling my skin sizzle with each step.
In the shade of the Ocean Springs-Biloxi overpass, a woman sat on an overturned orange paint pail, protected from the suns rays burning between her tight cornrows. Her shoulders hunched forward, and her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers were thick and cracked with years of hard work, yet nimble as she used her thumbs to split apart dark purple bean pods. She ran her index finger down the pocket, extracting the green-tinged beans. The same deep purple color marked the center of the bean surrounded by a pink oblong splotch.
"Are these black-eyed peas?" I asked.
In the shade of the Ocean Springs-Biloxi overpass, a woman sat on an overturned orange paint pail, protected from the suns rays burning between her tight cornrows. Her shoulders hunched forward, and her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers were thick and cracked with years of hard work, yet nimble as she used her thumbs to split apart dark purple bean pods. She ran her index finger down the pocket, extracting the green-tinged beans. The same deep purple color marked the center of the bean surrounded by a pink oblong splotch.
"Are these black-eyed peas?" I asked.
October 6, 2011
The Perfect Day--Being a Yacht Chef
Amy winced the minute I uttered the words.
"Shh!" She hissed waving her arms in front of her like a traffic cop in Piccadilly Circus. "Don't say it out loud."
"What? Why?" I asked.
"They never end well," she whispered. Her chestnut brown eyes shifted from left to right to see who might be listening. "They are cursed."
"Shh!" She hissed waving her arms in front of her like a traffic cop in Piccadilly Circus. "Don't say it out loud."
"What? Why?" I asked.
"They never end well," she whispered. Her chestnut brown eyes shifted from left to right to see who might be listening. "They are cursed."
