Victoria Allman's Blog, page 8
February 7, 2011
The Return of Summer-Cannes, France
I could see the masts of the sailboats in Old Port Cannes sticking out of the Mediterranean like pegs in a cribbage board. It had been an overnight voyage from Spain to France. The new crew, who had not been there before, were excited to explore a new town. I was excited too, not for something new, but for something that had been simmering in my mind for months; the market.
Before the deckhands had even finished tying the lines, I had jumped to shore, cloth bags in hand, and started heading to my favorite part of Cannes; Marche Forville. Heavy heat weighed me down as I crossed the dry, dusty Petanque courts. A loud cheer erupted from a group of men dressed in polyester pants and long-sleeves rolled to the elbow. Their steel ball had knocked their friends, now enemies, ball out of range. It was just like I remembered it.
A feast of summer colors assaulted me as I entered the Forville Marche in Cannes, France. Market tables sagged with tomatoes, the color of fast cars. The shine of the eggplants deep purple, almost black skin sat as backdrop to the emerald green slender zucchini. I immediately decided on ratatouille for lunch.
Before the deckhands had even finished tying the lines, I had jumped to shore, cloth bags in hand, and started heading to my favorite part of Cannes; Marche Forville. Heavy heat weighed me down as I crossed the dry, dusty Petanque courts. A loud cheer erupted from a group of men dressed in polyester pants and long-sleeves rolled to the elbow. Their steel ball had knocked their friends, now enemies, ball out of range. It was just like I remembered it.
A feast of summer colors assaulted me as I entered the Forville Marche in Cannes, France. Market tables sagged with tomatoes, the color of fast cars. The shine of the eggplants deep purple, almost black skin sat as backdrop to the emerald green slender zucchini. I immediately decided on ratatouille for lunch.
January 31, 2011
Cruising the Coast-San Diego
Patrick and I bounced down the string of beach towns from Malibu to San Diego. We both had our own agendas. While Patrick searched for waves to surf, I was on the hunt for the perfect fish taco.
In Huntington Beach, we ate grilled fish smothered in a piquant mango salsa. At Seal Beach, the fish tacos were drizzled with a white sauce called crema that dripped through my fingers and splattered when it hit the wooden picnic table. The wave called Swami's brought howls of delight from Patrick when it rolled overhead and moans of ecstasy from me when we devoured three crispy, crunchy bundles of tuna tacos.
From beach town to beach town we wound down the costal highway past canyons cut deep into the hills on our left and the perfectly timed rolling sets that Patrick yearned for.
In Huntington Beach, we ate grilled fish smothered in a piquant mango salsa. At Seal Beach, the fish tacos were drizzled with a white sauce called crema that dripped through my fingers and splattered when it hit the wooden picnic table. The wave called Swami's brought howls of delight from Patrick when it rolled overhead and moans of ecstasy from me when we devoured three crispy, crunchy bundles of tuna tacos.
From beach town to beach town we wound down the costal highway past canyons cut deep into the hills on our left and the perfectly timed rolling sets that Patrick yearned for.
January 24, 2011
The Heart of the Bahamas
***This story was originally published in MarinaLife Magazine
"Lady." The voice shouted from somewhere outside the galley. "Hey, lady."
It wasn't the first time I had heard it. I hoped it would not be the last. I dried my hands and stepped on deck. The Bahamian sun sizzled against my delicate northern skin. I was going to have to remember to wear sunscreen, even inside the boat. I raised a hand to my brow to shield the shimmering bright light and smiled.
"Lady." The voice shouted from somewhere outside the galley. "Hey, lady."
It wasn't the first time I had heard it. I hoped it would not be the last. I dried my hands and stepped on deck. The Bahamian sun sizzled against my delicate northern skin. I was going to have to remember to wear sunscreen, even inside the boat. I raised a hand to my brow to shield the shimmering bright light and smiled.
January 17, 2011
Deadman's Cay-Bahamas
"Seven hundred islands in the Bahamas and we're flying into one called Deadman's Cay?" Patrick laughed. "Is that really its name?"
But fly in we did. Because when your best friends invite you to their newly built Bahamian beach house for the weekend, you do not put up much of a fuss about the area's name.
Deadman's Cay is the southern stretch of the eighty-mile Long Island, known for its dramatic limestone cliffs, shallow water flats for bonefishing, one of the world's ten best beaches and its deepest blue hole. We were there to see all that, but what I really wanted was to taste everything the island had to offer. I'd been reading about mahi fishing, stewing the islands goats, slow-roasting its wild hogs and flavoring everything with the local salt from the salt marshes.
***
But fly in we did. Because when your best friends invite you to their newly built Bahamian beach house for the weekend, you do not put up much of a fuss about the area's name.
Deadman's Cay is the southern stretch of the eighty-mile Long Island, known for its dramatic limestone cliffs, shallow water flats for bonefishing, one of the world's ten best beaches and its deepest blue hole. We were there to see all that, but what I really wanted was to taste everything the island had to offer. I'd been reading about mahi fishing, stewing the islands goats, slow-roasting its wild hogs and flavoring everything with the local salt from the salt marshes.
***
January 12, 2011
Hearty Mountain Fare, Andorra
I live my life on the ocean. From my "office" in the galley of the yacht I can see saltwater 365 days a year. Sunlight streams through the windows onto my workspace. As many dream of escaping to a beach for vacation, my mind wanders to the majesty of mountains. This week it became more than just a fantasy as Patrick and I headed north from Barcelona to the Pyrenees.
We weaved back and forth across the valley, into the foothills, and up through the mountain passes. I felt like I were back in Alberta, except where Canmore would be we passed old stone castles and Kananaskis held fields of grapes for cava. Here, dairy cows roamed the fields. Large square cowbells hung from their necks, clanging to announce their location to shepherds as craggy as the hills around them. White-fleeced sheep filed across the road, bringing us to a stop to wait for their spindly legs to carry them out of the way. I yearned to stop and taste the cheese their alpine meadow milk produced. But we were on our way to Andorra, a country sandwiched between France and Spain. One of us went to snowboard, the other to taste the local cuisine.
Patrick became giddy as we ascended to where snow dusted the treetops. Like icing sugar out of a shaker, snow began to fall from the sky. Whiteness surrounded us. We could see no more than a boat length in front of us. I wrapped the puffball jacket that I hadn't worn since my days in the Rockies, tighter around my body. This was a long way from the beach.
January 3, 2011
A Spanish Cooking Lesson
It was our last week in Spain. I had been fascinated with every aspect of the cuisine and had been working my way through every recipe I could find for the past six months. I was starting to feel like I understood Spanish cooking a little better, but there was still one recipe I had yet to try. Paella.
Actually, let me back up, I had been making what I thought was paella for years. I would sauté onions and garlic in a stock pot, add rice, fish stock, and saffron and then at the last minute throw in chopped tomatoes and shellfish. I would mix it all together and transfer it to a deep bowl. It was lemon yellow, soupy and tasty. It was quick and easy and I served it often. Everyone liked it.
On our first evening in Barcelona, Patrick and I dined in a restaurant known for its paella. When my dish arrived I was shocked. It was served in a flat, double-handled pan. Inside were rust colored, singular grains of rice. Shellfish decorated the top. One taste and I knew, what I had been serving was NOT paella.
Actually, let me back up, I had been making what I thought was paella for years. I would sauté onions and garlic in a stock pot, add rice, fish stock, and saffron and then at the last minute throw in chopped tomatoes and shellfish. I would mix it all together and transfer it to a deep bowl. It was lemon yellow, soupy and tasty. It was quick and easy and I served it often. Everyone liked it.
On our first evening in Barcelona, Patrick and I dined in a restaurant known for its paella. When my dish arrived I was shocked. It was served in a flat, double-handled pan. Inside were rust colored, singular grains of rice. Shellfish decorated the top. One taste and I knew, what I had been serving was NOT paella.
