hardtack at sea

Something Old, Something New....

2006-10-08T08:58:00.000-07:00

I want to take a second in between my posts of my Europe trip from last October and slip in some news from now. Pastry Chef Dana Cree (Bickford) and I are teaming up to prepare a 12 course menu October 22nd for Gypsy. I am terribly excited not only about the opportunity to create and execute a Gypsy dinner, but about the collaboration with Dana, an extremely talented and innovative artisan. One doesn't need to wait to see her career take off; it does each and every time she places a plate down in front of someone.

Whether we like to admit it or not, chefs, artists, writers... all people who create for a living are in need of bursts of inspiration to avoid getting into a rut. Sitting down with Dana over a delicious bowl of Beef Brisket and Wontons with Noodles at Canton Noodle House provided me with just that bit of inspiration. Below is a tentative menu for our dinner. There are 18 openings, not sure how many are left currently. Contact the Gypsy website if you are interested.

Celery root crostata
Parmesan and buttered leeks

Parsnip Soup
Apple ice cream, parsnip chips

Piquillo pepper, Seafood Mousseline
Pistachio-olive tapenade, preserved lemon

Seared Hamachi
Shiso, Plum salad

Octopus
Beans and bacon, tomato confit

Grilled Squab
mushrooms, huckleberry sauce

Braised Spiced Short Rib
Farro with kabocha, seared fall greens

Cheese Course
Pastilla of Pecorino and quince

Autumn Fritters
Bay ice cream

Honey'd chocolate cake
Pears, Hazelnut Cocoa Ice cream, Honey Sabayon

Campfire Apples
Smoked seasalt caramel, burnt sugar ice cream, candied oats

The Food Tour Begins...

2006-10-02T20:49:00.000-07:00

an impromtu lunch in Piemonte

This is the next installment of my Europe travels that I started previously with Arrival in Milano.

Torino, October 2005
I boarded a train this afternoon from Milan to Torino (aka Turin, the capital of Piedmont, or the region of Piemonte) to meet with my friend Kayleen, the illustrious tour director of the ten day food and wine tour that I joined. I neglected to look up the cross streets for where exactly in Torino the hotel was where I was meeting Kayleen (a day before the actual tour begins). This is not-so-subtle dramatic foreshadowing.

I negotiate my way from the central train station to an internet cafe where I can find out where the hotel is, only to find that it closed despite its listed hours in my tour book and on its sign. I walk to a nearby bar and ask the man there if he knows the hotel I’m looking for. He doesn’t. I show him the address but it rings no bells. I start to leave and then (commence story number 1 of 200 of incredibly generous Italian folks) he proceeds to spend the next 30 minutes on the phone for me, running up and down the street asking friends, and eventually procuring a taxi for me as it turns out the hotel is in a suburb of Torino, a 20 minute drive away.

I meet up with Kayleen (who, incidentally, just barely found the place herself) and we have what turns out to be the cheapest, most delicious bar food of my trip so far. We sit down at some regular enough looking place we came upon in this fairly working class town outside Torino. We order two glasses of red wine and they bring us 4 plates of snacks (free with drinks) consisting of various cheeses, fresh pork salami, ham, olives, pickles, delicious little bits of bread with cheese and tapenade, and strangely, potato chips. Kayleen orders an espresso and I have some sparkling water. Our bill? 4 euros. This amounts to about 5 bucks. A comparable meal in Seattle would easily come to 30 dollars, if not more.

The following day...
We meet up with Mario, the very patient, hilariously understated man who will be our driver for the next 10 days. He's 65, from Florence, claims he doesn't smoke or drink much so he can spend more energy on his third vice, women. We head off to meet the others, full of anticipation and excitement and immediately the van grinds to a halt. It sounds like the entire ignition has dropped out. Kayleen and I just stare at each other. It turns out that Mario drove right over an orange construction cone and it has gotten itself wedged underneath the car. It takes the three of us and 20 minutes to free it.

We're off (again!) to the town of Pollenzo- a small, small town outside of Bra (which is a small town). Basically there are 3 things in Pollenzo, the gorgeous hotel we are staying at, the University of Good Taste (the first University of Gastronomy in the world) and a Michelin starred restaurant called (in all seriousness) Guido.

I meet the rest of the group, 6 in all. We eat that night at an excellent osteria in Bra, Osteria Boccondivino- the food is incredible. I have a wild mushroom risotto, plus a capon salad with balsamic.

The next morning we meet with a representative of Slow Food Italy and get a tour of their national office in Bra, also home to Boccondivino. Afterwards we get to take a tour of the university (including the wine library where there are approximately 100,000 bottles of wine from all over Italy). They have preserved an ancient aquifer running through the cellar. We peer down through the grates in the cold floor at the gray stones and breathe in the scents of old, old, water that flowed beneath our feet.

We drink coffee at this great bar in Bra, Cafe Converso, which won an award for being the best coffee bar in Italy last year. We sip our espressos with a small scoop of gelato on top and eat naughty little pastries. We smile, hold our cell phones to our ears and pretend we’re Italian.

a hilarious, tongue-in-cheek, photo of the cheesemaker for a food calendar

Then we are off to meet Lorenzo, a local cheese maker and seller in his little shop in Bra. He gives us samples of his local cow’s milk cheese, plus a few pecorinos (sheep’s milk cheese), and then a drippy, oozing, perfectly ripe gorgonzola. After the tastes, Lorrenzo takes us to the cellar where he has a small museum of cheese and 20 or so Parmigiano Reggianos which are being aged. Samples are given with flutes of Prosecco.

tools of the cheesy trade

I interrupt this report to give you the very important gelato accounting for today:

1 coconut cone
1 cup of hazelnut and chocolate
2 scoops of vanilla

I now see that these journals are going to be all about food but then you probably expect nothing less from me.

The next two nights we eat at restaurant Guido which I mention above. I have a feeling I will compare all meals to Guido for the rest of my trip. Without a doubt, simply the best seafood I have ever had in my life. This restaurant is so special we all agree to come back the next night if we can get a reservation- despite how expensive it is. The dish I nearly cry over is a seafood dish that consists of the following: a single perfect scallop in its shell, a huge, beautiful prawn (with head fried on the side), several langoustine tails, and squid all cooked perfectly in butter flavored with just a bit of garlic and bay leaf. Nothing so fancy, but quite literally the best tasting seafood I’ve ever had. Sweet, briny, smelling like the sea, fresh, buttery, and lovely.

I start the meal with a carpaccio of sea bass with radishes and lemon and since I seem to be mentioning the dishes backwards, the very beginning amuse bouche was a perfect little piece of a local soft goat cheese suspended in a foam of pumpkin mousse. The wines are equally outstanding...a local Barbera d'Asti one night and the next a Dolcetto, plus a few white wines that I can’t remember the names of. Although, it hardly matters; it all is so good. My two new favorite words: bianco and rosso.

The next day we get a tour of the Barolo region in the Langhe, as well as a tour of a local winery, with of course samples and food. I have never had so much wine so early in the day before and with no great surprise find the afternoon siesta unavoidable and much enjoyable.

After the tour we meet Gianni (pictured above), a truffle hunter, who gives us a short lecture on the methods for procuring truffles. We meet his truffle dogs at his “university of the truffle hunting dog” which cracks me up because the university consists of three dogs, with three dog bowls and three dog houses.

one wonders if they have a phd program...

Gianni plants a truffle in the hillside to show us how he trains the dogs and how they dig them up. "Lady", a Jack Russell type and a bit fat, is especially good at her job because she is extremely fond of truffles. Lady digs it up so fast that it is in her mouth before Gianni even realizes it. He is just barely able to get it out of her mouth. We nickname her "truffle breath". I'm left wondering if the je ne sais quoi of the rare underground fungus people all over the world covet is due to the tour the truffle has first taken around the truffle dog’s mouth. Sort of redefines the whole debate about whether or not to wash your mushrooms.

a truffle dog in training

The next day we say goodbye to Pollenzo. Goodbye to the hotel we have fallen in love with; the church bells that wake us in the early morning; the pigeons and their sounds of resting and flight; the cappuccinos, frothy and light; and goodbye to our warm-hearted hosts Federica and Luca. I leave, also, enriched with a new card game: Scopa which I am now completely addicted to playing.

my room with a view

We have just enough time in our itinerary to check out Slow Food’s Cheese Festival in Bra, which brings together cheese makers from all over the world. The atmosphere in the city is festive and circus-like with small white pointed tents as far as the eye can see. The smell is nothing short of pungent and the samples are offered freely. I spend a great deal of time in the Casa dei Capri (the house of goat cheeses).

We sample a cheese later on that was so truly horrible that we would have wiped our mouths out with terry cloth had we had the good fortune to have some at hand. The taste still lingers as we load ourselves into the van for the only hectic day so far on the trip which was a winding, winding, drive to the Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera. In retrospect, we probably should have omitted this from our trip because we only had a few hours there (it rained the whole time) and then we had to get back in the van for another 3 hour stomach churning drive to the Chianti region. I learn the important phrase "se non rallenta, vomito" which means "if you don't slow down, I'll vomit." We finally arrived in Greve in Chianti, our stomachs in our throats. We eat a late light dinner in the hotel and hit the hay.

prosciutto-a-go-go

Today we go to a famous salumi place in Greve where we have a cured meat tasting and oh, of course, a wine tasting (did I mention it is 11:00 in the morning?) Then, we stop on the way back to -that’s right- a wine festival. We sing oh solo mio with Mario the whole way back to the hotel.

I briefly consider the warning signs of alcoholism. Then I think better of it and go sleep off my hangover.

Resurfacing

2006-09-26T13:06:00.000-07:00

I remember hearing my fellow blogistas tell me that they loved the writing but hated the pressure of having to produce all the time. That their readers would start whining if more than a week went by without a post. I, on the other hand, have resisted all pressure from my 4 readers and have produced nary a word in over 2 months.

I apologize. Is it now excuse time? Would a breakup of a 12 year relationship, a home sale and moving be enough of an excuse? I do believe now I'm the whiner. It's been a rough summer and early fall, but I feel the beginning ripples of a resurfacing and with that, the desire to start writing again. I'll try hard to avoid the overwrought analogy model... but things really do go in waves and as I attempt to get myself off the ground, dust myself off and jump back in the saddle I have high hopes for posting some of the career highlights I've been fortunate to experience throughout it all. There's that. And that is a lot to be grateful for.

Arrival in Milano

2006-07-28T12:58:00.000-07:00

(Below you will find the start of a multi-part European journal-mining retrospective starting in Milan and ending in Paris that took place last fall. I hope you enjoy the stories.)

Milan, Italy (September 2005)
I'm never coming home. I love it here. I'm sure any of you who have been to Italy are not surprised whatsoever.

I arrived in Milan with no problems. The biggest logistical difficulty was in Brooklyn when, for some unexplained reason, my subway just ended prematurely and we were all shuttled out en masse onto some street where we waited and waited for a shuttle bus to take us to a different part of the line. An hour later I was back on track... and just got to the airport on time only to find the plane was delayed anyway.

I had missed the opportunity to study here during college when, instead, I thought blowing out my knee and spending a year on crutches in upstate New York was preferable to studying art in Florence. Fast forward 14 years to this moment.

It was pouring rain and with the help of some nice folks, I found my hotel. My hotel room redefined the word quaint. What I most loved was the French doors that were wide open upon my arrival, the view of the side of some gorgeous building, the rain coming down and within 10 minutes of my arrival the most beautiful woman's voice singing opera. Turns out I didn't realize that my hotel is 2 doors down from La Scala, the famous opera house. I napped to a free 1 1/2 hour concert.

Afterwards I had a shower in what has to be the smallest stall shower in history. I joked to my Dad and step-mom that 75% of Americans would have to be airlifted in and out of that shower. No wonder there's so little obesity in Europe; no one would be able to shower. I had the unfortunate misstep of dropping my soap and then the jet lagged notion that I should bend over to get it and promptly smacked my head into the door. I had to turn off the shower, get out and get the soap and then get back in. And I won't even begin to tell you about how fascinating the toilet arrangement was to me.

Spent a day on my own in Milan where the highlight was touring this amazing arcade with 4 huge arches on all sides, a massive domed ceiling in the middle, a mosaic on the floor on each of the four corners. Most notably, facing the direction of Torino, a tiled bull where I noticed many Italians with one foot pointed on the bull's balls and spinning clockwise 3 times. A nice man explained to me in Italian (and I barely understood) that this practice was for good luck, one spin for health, 2 spins for wealth and 3 spins for sex. The lady at the hotel had a slightly modified explanation saying that the third spin is good luck for love. Ah, different interpretations. Apparently they replace the mosaic every year and a half because it gets so worn down.

(next installment: on to Turin/Torino)

We interrupt this blog to bring you a real life moment.

2006-07-25T00:03:00.000-07:00

I apologize for my absence over the last few weeks. I'll keep this brief and real. I'm going through a break-up of a 12 year relationship, a home sale and moving. Blogging has taken a back seat for a spell. However, tomorrow I start posting my culinary Europe flashbacks that should tide you over while I'm short on current creative energies.

In the meantime, as well, I point you to my friend Traca's new blog. In her very few initial posts, I became instantly hooked into her writing style and insider knowledge of all things relevant to the Seattle food scene. A vivacious, joy of a woman, Seattle Tall Poppy is worth following.

France vs. Italy

2006-07-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Today in World Cup finals action, France takes on Italy. I have no idea who to root for. Why? Because in September and October of last year I took a 2 month trip to just these two countries and journaled at the time I entered France (specifically Paris) that I felt like I was cheating on Italy. Ultimately, though, I never arrived at a firm stance on which country I preferred. And let's get to the point: what I'm really talking about is which country's food did I really go more crazy about.

I've just taken you back 2 years ago to my Quillisascut farm school experience. Question to readers: would you like to see, over the next month, France v. Italy in these pages? I'm happy to continue Hardtack Goes Retro and post bits of my Europe journal. Or, would you rather I keep you in the present moment and not live in the past with my sordid tales of fine cheeses, wines, handmade pastas and cured meats. Prefer to hear stories of current dalliances with jam-making (as I'm doing today with a friend) or do you lean towards a nostalgic meandering through fall 2005? Let your voice be heard.

Until then. Go Italy! Go France!

Retro Musings from a Goat Cheese Farm, Part III

2006-07-07T08:34:00.000-07:00

(This is the last part of a 3-part journal about my experiences studying at the Quillisascut Farm School in Eastern Washington in 2004. As another warning to squeamish folks I continue to discuss butchering in detail in this final part.)

6:30 am, Day 3: Morning milking
Well, technically morning milking was at 6 am, but little miss sleep deprived slept right on through the farms alarm clocks. Wool sweater on, fleece cap pulled low over my ears I jog up to the milking room just off the back of the goats fenced in area. Just in time Becky, says Rick, as he pulls another goat up the ramp and secures it to its holding bar.

Its simply amazing to me that there I am milking a goat and just 5 minutes earlier I was sound asleep. This one is named Pamelot and she hardly has any milk at all. Shes so sweet Rick and Lora Lea cant possibly get rid of her; this confirms that Pamelot is an honorary member of the "special farm". She finishes her alfalfa while Im still struggling to figure out this whole teat-milk-pail relationship. Milk is running down my arm and soaking into my sweater. I can barely hear myself think over the explosive sounds of milk hitting the side of a pail that Lora Lea is making.

Show-off.

Im breathing hard and a distinct cramp is forming in my hand. Meanwhile Pamelot is nuzzling my ear for more alfalfa. I think Im in love.

We finish the milking and all these black cats show up from every corner of the farm (until this moment not one of us has seen any of these cats) to drink the foam left in the bottom of the pails. One runs off with a paper filter they use to trap any sediment. Rick says this same cat consumes the entire filter every morning. Their furious licking scoops froth all over each others backs.

Meanwhile, Jet, the puppy, runs back and forth with a lamb hoof in her mouth.

8:45 am: This aint no Chick-Fil-A
So its chicken butchering time here on the farm and back home at this time Id be hours from waking up. Regardless, here I am handing over 10 pound plus chickens to Rick as he lays them down over a 2x4 and while his left hand holds them by the legs, his right swings the hatchet. Its a difficult maneuver that requires a lot of dexterity and a very sharp hatchet. He wishes the hatchet were just a bit sharper. I mean, the head almost came off in one chop. Some of my queasier comrades walk down the hill. The rest of us stand there sort of amazed, disgusted, in awe. I thought I wanted to kill a chicken myself. I thought it would be the right thing for me to do. You know, complete the circle of life. I wimp out. I just had these bad scenarios playing over in my head and none of them were pretty.

So I learned two things about chickens this morning. I always heard that chickens still move around when they lose their head. But I imagined that to mean some reflexive movements, sort of subtle-like.

Lesson one: chickens go freakin crazy. Head off, Rick holding their feet, the chicken is flapping its wings FULL FORCE, for a disturbing minute, at least.

Lesson two: if you unintentionally (or later, intentionally) press down on a chickens cavity when plucking it, it can cackle aloud just like a live chicken. Apparently, their voice box or voice box-equivalent does not need a head to function. This happened inadvertently to someones chicken on the table where we were working and we all jumped back in horror!

We dip the chickens in scalding hot water to loosen the feathers and fix to pluckin them (which takes a really long time). Where the lamb was very clean to butcher, the chicken is dirty, dirty, dirty. The only real way to remove all the internal organs is just to dig them out carefully with your hands, trying really hard not to puncture the intestines. I am treated to an unexpected surprise when I pull my hand out and see two small oval sacs. What are these? Oh, great! Those are chicken balls. Theyre a tasty delicacy. says Rick. Later, I fry them up in butter and learn another important lessonalways poke a small hole in chicken testicles before you fry them. Basically they just got bigger and tighter in the pan until I exploded them, spreading hot butter all over myself and anyone in a 10 foot radius. What was left was certainly tasty though.

Meanwhile, Jet, the puppy, runs back and forth with a chicken head in her mouth.

Picnic Lunch at Roosevelt Lake
We carry a couple of large picnic baskets down to the beach and lay out blankets. Its sunny and warm and the food is wonderful: mugs of borscht and gazpacho, sandwiches of all types, rose hip iced tea, and Italian plum salad with grapes and elderberry syrup.

Reluctantly we pack up and go on a farm visit to Cliffside Organic Orchard. We tour through the peach, nectarine, apple, and pear trees and watch the family and crew sort and box up the apples for a wholesaler who will take the fruit to Whole Foods, PCCs, etc. in Seattle. We eat the best Jonathan apples.

Some time later ...
Back at the farm, we salt the hard grating cheese and set it out for drying. Im on evening chores so I help feed the turkeys, chickens, and quail. I run out to the garden by myself for some chard for the evening meal. In order to get to the garden you have to go through the goat pen. First, you disengage the electric fence, climb over, reengage it and then walk the 20 feet over to the garden gate where there is a combination lock and two latches, one a metal slide and the other, a metal clip.

I mention all these details so that you will understand the predicament I find myself in. There I am standing at the garden gate, in the goat pen, my right arm held high in the air, my fist wrapped tight around the chard stems. With my left hand, Im trying to shoo the goats back and slide the slide, clasp the clasp, and reconnect the combination lock. One look from the border collie puppy and the goats retreat 50 feet. I try to look menacing. I lower my voice. Now one has jumped up on my back and has grabbed a few leaves of chard. This emboldens the others. Within 30 seconds, there are 15 goats around me and Im sunk for sure. I am just about ready to give up when I see Rick down the road. In as dignified a manner as possible I squeak out a plaintive help? Laughing the whole way, he comes and rescues me and mentions that its always best to take a friend on garden trips. Got it.

Dinner that night:
End of summer rosemary zucchini soup with borage flowers
Smoked Cornish Cross chickens, foraged mushroom jus, farro squash risotto, savory scones, creamed spinach
Italian plum crisp

Day 4: Quillisascut Meat Festival
Today is a kitchen day, all day, all night we process all the foods weve harvested, including putting up apple butter and green tomato ketchup. We butcher and freeze most of the chickens and break down the lamb. In one day, I eat 10 plus different cuts/parts of meat.

Here is my list: simmered beef tongue with mustard, sauteed beef heart with greens and dragon tongue beans, country pate (with lard, lamb heart and meat, chicken hearts), duck and chicken gizzard prosciutto (from a previous group), stuffed lamb loin like we do at the Herbfarm filled with chard and mushrooms stuffed in lamb caul fat, an amazing handmade tagliatelle (made partially with spelt flour) with oxtail ragout, watercress and shaved curado, lamb moussaka, chicken liver mousse, lamb sausage and way too much wine that night. Oy.

Last day on the farm
We take a tour of Riverview organic orchard that also has a small business as a coffee roaster. I try my new favorite type of plum called a French petite. We gather together back at the farm for our last meeting and talk about being grateful for the week. We wrap up our many conversations about what is means to be sustainable and what well take with us from this experience.

I mention how amazed I am at how little garbage I personally produced in 5 days. It could fit in the palm of my hand. Thats truly incredible. In a typical day in Seattle I probably produce 10x that amount, if not more. In the Quillisascut kitchen they have 7 bins, the first is for pig scraps, then down the line, cat and dog scraps (all protein), goat scraps, compost, glass and aluminum, paper and finally, the smallest bin, trash.

We load up our cars, say our goodbyes to head back to the city, each and every one of us reluctant to start our cars.

Retro Musings from a Goat Cheese Farm, Part II

2006-07-06T08:08:00.000-07:00

(This is part 2 of a 3-part journal of my experience at the Quillisascut Farm School in 2004. If anyone is squeamish, be warned that I discuss butchering.)

5:30 am The Passion of the Lamb
Surreal. Thats the word of the morning. Were standing outside in the cold and dark. The steady buzz of industrial lights is behind us while the tractor hums in front. Theres the lamb, hung from the loader high in the air from its back legs, splayed out and tied with rope. Rick is standing there in his coveralls, knife at his side, blood on the ground beneath the lamb. He shot it with a bullet maybe 15 minutes earlier and then slit its throat. I heard it while I lay in bed, waiting for it. Now we watch and help as he butchers it.

It's hardly surprising that throughout the butchering process, the closer we get to what we recognize as primal cuts, the more comfortable we all get. The whole process is amazingly clean. Theres not much blood at all and if you are careful removing the organs, theres really nothing much at all to clean up. The most difficult task is removing the lambs coat. The lanolin in and around the lamb's coat gets on our skin and if it werent for the gamey smell, I would have left it on all day.

2 hours later, we finish up, the lamb is split in half and ready to hang in the walk-in for several days.

8:45 am Cheese-making with Lora Lea
The morning milking crew has left large buckets of goat milk in the milking room. 30 goats give about 17 gallons of milk in the fall, much more when the kids are born. They only milk once at this time of year, twice daily in the spring. But first, before we use it all up, a little metal milk jug with a handle is personally delivered down the hill to Lora Leas mom, Daisy Mae, who claims her long life is due to drinking fresh goat milk.

We make 4 types of cheese: mozzarella, ricotta, chevre and a dry, salt-rubbed grating cheese. The mozzarella and ricotta are ready to eat right away; the chevre and the grating cheese will be ready in a few days. We are all amazed that the hard cheese will be ready so quickly. Of course it can be aged, leading to a curado type but it is also delicious now. Its simpler, with less complexity, but still very good.

There is definitely a science to cheese-making but I was surprised at just how much artisanry and personal touch is involved.

11:00 am Burnt nuts.
We head out to the garden and turn over a long bed to get it ready to plant garlic bulbs. The soil here is gorgeous, but it wasnt always. Years and years of amending it with chicken manure from a local chicken farmer (who thought they were crazy for taking it) plus their own compost. They grow all the usuals, and have a very healthy volunteer borage crop that we are encouraged to use up. The borage leaves that are large are usually very fishy and pokey, but strangely the leaves here, even the larger ones are mild.

After lunch, we go for a walk near the farm and harvest watercress down by a little creek. Soon we are also gathering rosehips, elderberry, and amazingly, pine nuts. I promise right here never to let a sheet tray of pine nuts burn again. Now I know how much work goes into harvesting pine nuts. Its probably done mechanically but nonetheless, it took me forever just to pry one little tiny nut from its outer shell. I think it was a Ponderosa we got the pinecone from. Later we make rosehip and elderberry syrups and use the watercress to top one of the 15 pizzas we make for dinner in the wood-burning stove.

1:45 pm Sorry Al.
Al Kowitz, from the WSU Stevens County Extension drops by to give us a lecture on pastured and grass finished meat. I feel very bad for this man. We have just finished lunch, we are all very, very sleepy. What he is talking about is very interesting but the lights are out, and hes showing us slides and we are sitting on couches. I look to the others in the group and one by one I see all their heads falling forward and then back and I realize Im sunk. The point is that I cant tell you very much about Al Kowitz and pastured and grass finished meat.

(The last part of this journal will be posted tomorrow.)

Retro Musings from a Goat Cheese Farm

2006-07-04T07:59:00.000-07:00

I just got offered a job teaching a week long culinary farm school experience out at the Quillisascut goat cheese farm in Eastern Washington. This is the very same farm that I spent a week on 2 years ago as part of a culinary professional farm retreat. I have often said that the week I spent on the farm was one of the most exciting culinary and personal mini-adventures of my life. I wrote about it then, in a journal. I thought it would be worthwhile to post it now, 2 years later... as I get ready to teach a similar program to culinary students this August (which, by the way, still has openings. If you are a culinary student or a serious home cook interested in a week-long farm experience similar to the one I describe on this site, check out Quillisascut's website.) Today, part one in a series of three.

(Written in October, 2004)

Rice, Washington
Quillisascut Farm School, Part One

Day 1:
I arrive, road weary, very happy and excited but terribly sleepy. This will remain my state the entire 5 days: Happy and Sleepy. I’m two dwarves in one. I am the only person in the group who works late hours. I am the only one in the group who visibly pales at the mention of the daily 5:30 am wake-up.

The farm school staff: There’s Karen Jurgensen. She used to head up Baci Catering and soon will be teaching over at Seattle Central. For the farm school’s last 2 years, she has been their chef. Karen is wonderful, knowledgeable, never preachy and capable of organizing 10-12 different kitchen projects all at the same time in limited space. There’s Joanna and Carter. Joanna takes care of many of the animals on the farm and anything else that is needed. Carter tends the garden and is the group named “dish-nazi” for his humorous neuroticism around the water-conserving dish routine.

And then we meet the Rick and Lora Lea (Misterly, the owners of the farm). Right away, I know I will like them. Warm, approachable, with a good sense of humor and their values firmly in the right place, they set the tone for what turns out to be, no doubt, one of the better and more interesting weeks of my life.

We immediately sit down to an amazing cheese platter, with 4-5 of their cheeses, bread baked in their outdoor brick oven, crackers, amazing grapes from their vineyard, seckel pears from a neighbor’s orchard, and walnuts from their tree. It’s not as if I haven’t been spoiled for a few years now but the food at Quillisascut still gives me pause because, literally, for the entire week, we eat the most amazing, diverse foods and 95% of it we harvest from their farm.

Enter the farm: we tour around the 36 (?) acre farm, check out their composting system, and the garden’s early fall harvest of greens, onions, late corn, beets and herbs. There’s an orchard and vineyard and throughout the week we find millions of different ways to use up the Italian plums.

Meet the animals: there’s Jet, the border collie puppy, in training to herd the goats and her supervisor, Libby, a simply amazing dog. Libby is a Komondor, a breed descended from Tibetan dogs, bred to guard herds and protect its family. Libby has amazing white cords, like dreadlocks, hanging all over her body. A thorough afternoon search reveals that she indeed has eyes.

Then there are the goats. As Rick says, “the most photographed goats in Washington state”. They all clamor to meet us, 30-40 of them, billys in with the ladies for YEE-HAW it’s breedin’ time in Pleasant Valley and everyone’s acting a bit strange. Joanne quips that “the second they put the normally sweet boys in with the girls, they about lost their minds, grunting, eyes rolled back, tongues hanging out, attacking the other males.” Sure enough, for the rest of the week, the goat love makes for some very funny dinner-time conversations.

We meet the 2 pigs, one will be butchered for a later class, one will be sold. We say hello and goodbye and thank you to a lamb that we know Rick will kill in the morning. We all get a bit quiet near the lamb. There are several roosters. One is very off-key and needs a new watch because he starts up way the hell before dawn. The other two like to perform a duet at the appropriate time.

Meet the chickens. They are huge, the biggest chickens I’ve ever seen and only 8 weeks old. They are Cornish Cross chickens. They reach 4-5 lbs in 6 weeks and 6-10 lbs in 8-12 weeks. I think these chickens are close to 10 pounds. They are kept in a chicken “tractor”, a mobile cage that allows the chicken to eat the alfalfa between the rows of grapes in the vineyard. Every day you just pick up the edge of the cage and move it and the chickens underneath to the next spot and you feed the chickens at the same time keeping down the weed growth.

And then the rest: quail and quail babies, and 2 quail eggs a day, ducks (Muscovy and Pekins), turkeys and 2 cows out in the pasture that used to be dairy cows. And lastly, what I called the “special farm” a testament to Rick and Lora Lea’s compassion or simply their inability to kill an animal just because they’re no longer productive due to injury: there’s a duck with a clipped wing that scoots around, a very tiny quail they helped birth out of its egg because it was too weak to get out on its own. And lastly, there’s a billy goat that got stepped on as a kid and its back end is paralyzed. Amazingly, it still chases the female goats.

Dinner, a movie, and bedtime:
Karen and crew make dinner: Beef taquitos with potatoes and corn (beef from a neighbor’s cow, potatoes and corn from the farm) with homemade corn and flour tortillas, roasted tomatillo and garlic salsa, squash and corn sauté with tomatoes, cumin scented slaw, pickled red onions and Carter’s home-brewed beer. Dessert: Cajeta ice cream with candied walnuts and cherries. Maybe it’s the smell of the country air and the big table overflowing with food and beer and good conversation but we all agree everything tastes better here.

We watch a documentary, Broken Limbs, about the Wenatchee apple industry and the struggle to stay small, organic, and sustainable in a world of small orchards being destroyed because they can’t compete with the huge operations. We see Wal-marts sprouting up everywhere. Concrete, corporate crops replacing orchards where apple trees lived for generations. Ultimately, the movie is about how to survive in this world by becoming a different kind of farmer, one who markets directly through CSAs or at farmer’s markets, or fruit stands… any creative way to sell directly to people, avoid depending solely on a middleman and be paid the money they deserve for the amazing product they provide.

It’s 9:30 p.m. and I’m supposed to go to sleep now because everyone else is and we have to get up at 5:30. But my night is just beginning. I finally drift off as the rooster with the bad watch starts up.

(Part 2 in a few days)

Marlboro Man

2006-06-27T21:53:00.000-07:00

Meet the Marlboro Man, aka Tony Bourdain. He doesn't have a cowboy hat and he's way cruder than the iconic billboard figure we're familiar with. But I bet that cowboy never really chain smoked those coffin nails, unapologetically, quite the way Bourdain does. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I smoked one of his Marlboros the other night. But first I stole it.

I don't know why I did this exactly. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. There he was, smoking away, out on the deck, surrounded by us all, chatting us up. He left his pack and went back in the house. Then I made my move. Before you could rasp cancerstick, I had one of his cigarettes lit and I was choking it down. For posterity? As blog fodder? I sure don't know.

Why, on earth, you ponder, was I in the same house as Tony Bourdain? Because the Seattle food world is a small one. I had been home all of 24 hours from my trip to Alaska, and I had volunteered to help out some friends who were cooking a Gypsy dinner, aka Seattle's underground restaurant, for Bourdain and his crew from his Travel channel show No Reservations. My sea legs were still wobbling as I assisted in preparing the meal. Ducking cameramen and videographers, the kitchen crew crafted course after course as the evening played out perfectly.

When asked by Bourdain why most of us volunteered our time, I - emboldened by my petty thievery - said, "what? I'm not getting paid for this?"

Above is the beautifully appointed table for 12 guests, every other person served a different 12 course menu. For you math majors, that is 24 courses of food.

Gabrial Claycamp (and son Rhone), the chef for this Gypsy meal and the co-owner (with wife Heidi) and chef at their cooking school Culinary Communion.

My buddy and pastry chef Dana Bickford, who crafted the incredible desserts for the meal.

Don, Dana's volunteer assistant, Traca Savadago, aka Grand Poo-Bette of the Culinary World, who facilitated Bourdain's participation, and Dana B.

Glasses arranged, about to receive 2 different flavors of homemade "otter pops", a benediction of tequila or gin and a dry ice smoke show.

The wine service was a study in glass management and was pulled off expertly by master sommelier Greg Harrington.

And for those of you who want more details, the menus follow below.

Menu #1
Egly Ouiret Champagne Rose NV

Watermelon Gazpacho
2004 Feudi di San Gregorio Fiano Falanghina, Campagnia, Italy

Creamy Potato Bisque with Crisp Geoduck Fritters

Three Grasses: Raw Asparagus with Bulgarian Feta, Spargel with Vinaigrette, Wild with Olive oil Sorbet and Grapefruit
2001 Mantlerhof Roter Veltliner "Selection" Kremstal, Austria

Halibut Ceviche 'Picada'
2005 Soter Yamhill Carlton District Rose

Douglas Fir, Cinnamon and Vanilla 'Otter Pop'

Tesla, Fried Marrow Sticks and Boudin Noir
2001 Sierra Cantabria "Cuvee Especial" Rioja, Spain

Pan-seared Duck Breast with Foie Gras Ravioli, Strawberry Compote, Rhubarb Gastrique, and Toasted Pine Nuts
2004 Waters Columbia Valley Syrah

Grilled Hangar Steak in Mushroom Tea, Soft Tendon, Fava Beans, Fondant Potato
2002 Pepper Bridge Walla Walla Cabernet Sauvignon

"Cheese Whiz" Whipped Epoisse with Gaufrette Potatoes and Granny Smith Apples
2004 Mission Hill "Five Vineyards" Okanagan Valley Riesling Ice Wine

Lime Cheesecake on an Aural Crust with Strawberry Sorbet
2000 Muller Catoir Mussbacher Eselshaut Rieslander Auslese, Pfalz, Germany

Lemon Sour Cream Pudding
1999 Rene Renou "Cuvee Zenith" Bonnezeaux, Loire, France

Menu #2
Egly Ouiret Champagne Rose NV

Cream of Tomato Soup with Bacon Drizzle
2004 Poet's Leap Columbia Valley Riesling

Geoduck Sashimi on Oceanic Gelee

Mache and Celery Salad with Lardo and Pancetta Dressing
2003 Villa Raiano Fiano di Avellino, Campagnia, Italy

Copper River Carpaccio with Herb Salad
2005 Soter Yamhill Carlton District Rose

Black Pepper, Tequila and Strawberry "Otter Pop"

Roasted Chicken Hearts, Duck Gizzard Confit, and Duck Prosciutto Purses
2001 Domaine du Pesquier Gigondas, Rhone, France

Truffled Braised Veal Cheeks with Morels, Braised Leeks and Pomme Puree
2004 Waters Columbia Valley Syrah

Lamb Loin "Sous Vide", Bruleed Lamb Tongues, Artichoke Bottoms, Ratatouille, Lavender Demi
2003 Pepper Bridge Walla Walla Merlot

'Fig Newton' Toasted Fig Bread with Windsor Bleu and Roasted Grapes
2003 Mission Hill "Five Vineyards" Okanagan Valley Riesling Ice Wine

Bittersweet Chocolate Terrine with a "Cluttering" of Garnishes
2003 Mas Amiel Maury Vin Doux Natural, France

Butterscotch Pudding
1999 Rene Renou "Cuvee Zenith" Bonnezeaux, Loire, France

If you are interested in learning more about becoming a guest at a Gypsy dinner, send an email to apply@gypsydinners.com and ask for an application.

CALL FOR OPINIONS: I'm thinking about keeping the name "hardtack at sea" even though technically I'm home now. What do you all think?

Meyers Chuck, Alaska

2006-06-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

I've saved the best for last.

Meyers Chuck was the pinnacle of my entire tour of the Inside Passage. Not just because it was the quintessential seaside Alaskan coastal fishing village. Nor because, right out of a Northern Exposure episode, the postmaster was also the same woman who made our group 16 pies. Not the quirky locals, the warm community welcome, or the fact that all the fish used in our feast was outright donated by the local fishermen.

No, Meyers Chuck was the pinnacle of my entire trip because it offered up to me the ultimate chef challenge. My job? To arrive in Meyers Chuck, sight unseen, and within 2 hours, with the help of Tomi Marsh, Amy Grondin and our generous hosts Greg and Rebecca, serve 50 people a seafood buffet fit for kings and queens.

As soon as we dropped the anchor, I was dinghied over to Tomi's boat, inspected the boxes of halibut and Stikine king salmon, grabbed the other provisions and, along with my ingredients, equipment and generous helpers, made our way over to the outdoor kitchen to begin our preparations.

A view of the workshop, outdoor kitchen and raised bed gardens. You can see the wood fire starting to burn right in the middle of the shot. In the middle raised bed, later in the evening, we watched as an anemic mink stumbled around looking for food. I threw it a piece of geoduck. Turns out minks love geoduck.

It's always a challenge to learn how to cook in a new space. My particular challenge for cooking for this event was compounded by my lack of time and unfamiliarity with the venue. Add to that, I would be steaming some fish in a jury-rigged wok set-up, roasting the fish in a blazing hot outdoor bread oven and grilling some fish over an open wood fire pit. Each of these stations were as far apart from the other as possible, 3 points on a triangle with all the guests milling about the middle.

I quickly delegated and found a confident looking local. "You're in charge of the wood fire," I told him. "Whatever you do, don't overcook the salmon. Oh, and thank you!"

I needed to rotate the trays in the bread oven, left to right, front to back, every minute for a speedy 3-4 minute cooking time. It might have been 550-600 degrees in that oven. Then I would run around to the kitchen and check on the steaming fish in the rickety wok. Of course, everyone had questions for me and one of my usual challenges with cooking and teaching is to balance friendliness and education with the chef's surly need to tell people to get the hell out of the way, there's work to be done here people!

As always, the stress is for naught...things always have a way of working out.

Pictured above is Tomi Marsh, the only female captain of a King crab vessel (F/V Savage), and one of the founders of Fishwitches, an Alaskan seafood marketing group that enthusiastically spreads the word to consumers about the pleasures of Alaskan seafood. Tomi has worked in Alaska for 23 years fishing everything from crab in the Bering Sea to salmon in Southeast Alaska. She was trained as an engineer and the lore surrounding her is that she has been known to work on her boat's engine in the middle of 20 foot seas in the Bering Sea. Strangely, most of the men on the tour were uncharacteristically quiet after having a word with Tomi, a brilliant spitfire of a woman.

Rebecca Welti, an incredible artist and gardener, and I getting ready for the feast.

The outdoor bread oven we used for baking foccacia and roasting the fish.

Hijiki and carrot salad with sesame oil, scallions and sesame seeds. I also served a cucumber and wakame salad along with several different preparations of fish: Sake-steamed salmon with soy-ginger glaze, Roasted halibut with a pistachio-garam masala crust, Grilled salmon with lemon-pepper spice, and Steamed salmon with green goddess sauce. Tomi had generously prepared potato salad, geoduck ceviche, boiled spot prawns, and pasta salad.

Greg, Tomi and Rebecca heading off in the skiff.

Greg, aka "Alaska's Renaissance Man", cutting down a large chunk of old growth cedar stump for their handcrafted bowls. Greg carves the stumps into the bowls and then Rebecca finishes them with hand-rubbed color and varnish in her studio. The bowls are works of art; graceful, light, and functional.

Max's sunset pic of Meyers Chuck.

And so, to finish this chapter of the Grand Bank's tour of the Inside Passage, I leave you with this image: A local fisherman had trapped some spot prawns for our feast and had kept them alive in a tank so that we could see them swimming around. Accidentally, he had trapped an octopus in his trap. This, too, he put in the tank for a short time. After the feast was over and all of us had cleaned up, the guests gone back to their boats... several of us walked down to the dock with the octopus in a bucket and with the sun sinking in the sky, we slowly lowered it into the water and watched in awe-struck silence as it glided away, opening and closing, undulating in liquid ripples towards the safety of the dock.

Meyers Chuck props to: Amy Grondin, who works for Pacific Marine Conservation Council, connecting fishermen to consumers while promoting sustainable seafood. Amy was instrumental in providing the connections that brought our group to Meyers Chuck in the first place. Then, unpaid, she flew up, joined our group, helped Tomi cook, helped clean my dishes and even spoke to the whole group about PMCC, sustainability and eating locally. Amy, you rock sister!

Lessons learned.

2006-06-15T19:37:00.000-07:00

Towards the end of the trip I led an informal salon with tour participants on some of the food lessons I’d picked up about provisioning, storage and cooking on a boat. I'm not one to keep secrets about recipes or tips, so I was eager to share with everyone things that I’d found helpful or mistakes I’d made along the way. As usual, I learned just as much from them as they learned from me.

Here, in no particular order, follows some of these lessons learned. I might point out that a lot of these tips would apply to home storage as well, but were particularly important on the boat.

1. Storing greens and herbs: It is crucial to protect greens and herbs from moisture and oxygen. Wash herbs (for example parsley, mint and cilantro) and dry very well. You can dry them in a salad spinner and then dry again with some paper towels. Buy large high quality freezer ziplock bags. Place a few fresh sheets of paper toweling inside of the ziplock with the herbs. Roll out all the air (as if you were vacuum packing the bag) and seal well. Check every few days for moisture, replacing the now damp sheet of paper towel with a dry one and reseal.

Romaine lettuce lasts the longest stored this way, but red leaf and green leaf can be kept for at least a week in this fashion. I learned this tip, first from Lynne Rossetto Kasper - one of my favorite public radio food personas - and then it was reinforced daily at the Herbfarm. Since then I've never stood herbs in jars of water in the fridge where, thankfully, they won't be toppling over on everything ever again.

2. Using and growing fresh herbs: It goes without saying that fresh herbs can really improve the flavor of your food and add some freshness when you are having a hard time finding produce. Basil should be stored as above but tends to do better left in a dry cool place out of refrigeration. If you can, plant up a large pot with tarragon, mint, basil, thyme, etc…and it will do well in a warm place protected from the cold and the wind. On Sanctuary I was able to keep a pot of herbs doing really well up on the fly bridge which acted like a modified greenhouse. Beware of keeping a pot of herbs anywhere salt water is likely to be misting the leaves. I had the pot on the aft deck at first and within 2 days they looked like goners for sure. A little r and r on the fly bridge and all was well.

3. Storage: For space reasons, try to find a cool dark place to store onions, potatoes, and garlic. Choose a different place to store citrus fruit and apples. At first I had my produce in bags but as soon as one developed mold it would quickly spread to the others. One day I stepped out onto the bow deck and reached into the under seat compartment for what appeared to be a perfectly sound sweet potato. You know that feeling when you grab for what appears to be a glass and it's actually plastic and you almost throw it over your head? I reached my hand in quickly and efficiently, fully expecting the weight and heft of a sweet potato. What met my hand was a yielding, gooey, orange illusion of a sweet potato. I squished it completely between my fingers and had to laugh outloud at how disgusting it was.

It was then that Margo suggested changing tacks and really letting the produce get some air. We separated all the items from each other by putting them in a long, wide, cabinet where there was ample air circulation. This made a huge difference and I found the rate of spoilage was reduced significantly. Check your produce regularly and remove soft items to a place in the galley where you’ll see them and can use them up quickly. And for god sake's... never trust a sweet potato in storage again. Stick those in cold storage as soon as you have room.

4. Meal tips:

Breakfasts: Make up large batches of granola. Mix up the dry ingredients for muffins or scones in advance (measure out 5 times and set aside in ziplock bags) Mix up the wet ingredients the morning of. You can mix up oatmeal, brown sugar and salt for the whole trip and then pack it in ziplock or in plastic Tupperware.

Lunches: Grain salads last several days under refrigeration and can be made with many pantry items. Soups can be made in larger batches and frozen in portions to use throughout the trip.

Dinners: Plan on catching or buying fresh fish along the way, but stock the boat in case you have a hard time finding it. Freeze chicken breasts, sausage, and steaks. Serve simple salads that are fresh but last a long time on the boat. Later in our trip in the most remote of Alaskan anchorages, it was really surprising and pleasing to have a fresh salad that didn't rely on greens and that had lasted the entire 3 weeks. Combine orange slices with thinly sliced fennel bulb, shaved parmesan and kalamata olives. Drizzle extra-virgin olive oil and lemon juice on top. Season with sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper.

Blog Update: I have one more final entry related to my Alaskan trip and then within a few weeks I'm going to redesign the site a bit. Stay tuned. In the meantime, if you want to receive an email notification when I've added a new post you can sign up (simply and easily) with Blogarithm.

Photo note: I took the above photograph in Ketchikan. The fish are herring and they were being processed on the fishing boat that was docked right next to ours. The herring are used as bait fish for the Alaskan black cod fisheries. The guys on the boat were really friendly and were curious about my job cooking on a yacht. Within 10 minutes of chatting one of them was handing across a plate to me with his homemade wild smoked salmon pate on what essentially looked like hardtack. It pleased me to no end. In return I threw over a pound bar of Valrhona chocolate. Good food makes good neighbors.

Scones for Margo

2006-06-08T16:24:00.000-07:00

Margo Wood, an expert sailor with vast experience of this area has not only selected and advised our group on the most beautiful anchorages along this passage, but she has elevated her single-handed prowess to single-handedly schooling my behind in Scrabble. Which, I might add, is a great source of embarrassment to me. I come from a long line of serious Scrabble aficionados. Most notably is my grandmother who, at the age of 94, still holds her own. She is the reigning queen of words and Sunday mornings as a child I would find myself at her feet; she would play with my hair as she was filling in the New York Times Crossword Puzzle, often single-handedly.

I am no stranger to the wily smarts and savvy sportsmanship of older women.

But Margo, she pulled the old bait and switch on me with a coy, “oh…you look like a smart girl, I don’t know about playing you.” My confidence thus elevated we sat down to play my one and only board game on this trip.

I started off full of enthusiasm and for 10 minutes was beating her fairly convincingly. The first sign that I knew I was sunk was when I noted the incredible speed with which she lay down her tiles. I would sit there, 7-10 minutes ticking away, with – not that it helped me AT ALL – all the high count letters, including the x, z, q, k. She would feign taking a nap, sigh, harass and cajole me for being so slow. I would finally lay down my play, nothing impressive, hardly worth the wait. Before the board could even spin around, she was grabbing for her little letters. And not, mind you, for a play unrelated to mine. She would pin a tail on my words, crossing them with a double word score and then oh-so-innocently ask, “what’s the score now?”

She so broke down my confidence that I couldn’t even return her gaze. And then, even my letters followed suit and I was left staring helplessly at: O O U O I J O or maybe it was T U I O I O O. No matter, one of her last plays was laying down one letter where she scored 20 points. She beat me by 100.

I don’t owe her a thing, especially after this humiliation at sea. Nonetheless I offer up to her and you the lemon scones I made at sea that she loved so much. I learned how to make a version of this particular recipe from a B and B on Vancouver Island. And so it seemed only fitting that it should be dedicated to a fine Canadian and a most excellent Scrabble player.

Lemon Scones
Makes 8

3 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 sticks butter (3/4 cup), unsalted, cubed
2 6-ounce containers lemon yogurt
2 teaspoons lemon juice
2 teaspoons lemon thyme or lemon balm, chopped

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Place the flour, sugar, baking powder and soda in a bowl and whisk to remove lumps. Cut in the butter with a pastry cutter or in the food processor until the butter is pea-size. Add the yogurt, lemon juice and lemon thyme or balm. Mix together gently with a spoon and then turn out onto a floured board. Form into a round as pictured above (about 3/4 inch tall) and then slice into 8 equal triangles. Bake until brown on top, about 12-14 minutes.

Roger that.

2006-06-06T12:46:00.000-07:00

I find beauty in the language of boating. Not unlike any other organized community of people, there are protocols and etiquette. On the VHF (very high frequency) radio, you call another boat by saying, for example, “Best Ever, Best Ever, this is Sanctuary.” Sometimes you repeat your own boat name twice. There is the familiar “roger” or “copy” to alert the listener that you have understood some direction. Often there is the little embellishment with a “roger that”. You finish a communication with several different possible endings. If you’re soon to be unavailable, you may say “Sanctuary, over” “Over” can also just alert the listener that you are done with that particular statement. If you’re sticking around you might say “Sanctuary, standing by”. People often also add the channel they are on. “Sanctuary, standing by on 72”.

If you are stranded in a dinghy with Max, for example, on a beach in Alaska at night and the motor won’t turn over and you find you need to call the “mother ship” to get rescued, the proper procedure for talking on the VHF would be the following:

Eaglet: “Sanctuary, Sanctuary, this is Eaglet”
Sanctuary: “Go ahead Eaglet, this is Sanctuary”
Eaglet: “hey Dad, we’re stranded. Help!”
Sanctuary: “Okay, Eaglet, we’re sending Larry over in his dinghy to tow you back, Stand by.”

Now rules are meant to be broken. Etiquette is meant to be discarded. And recreational fishermen, it would seem, have a completely different idea of how to talk on the radio. Their conversations are very informal and oftentimes we just listen to them talking randomly and at length about little details of their day and their lives. Occasionally they mention something to the tune of, “hey Bob, how’s it lookin’ out there? Have any beer on board?”

Many times on this trip we’ve been fairly well isolated from any other boats and the range of the radio limits our announcements to pretty much just us. In those times, especially after another arduous crossing, you may hear the following:

“Grand Banks Fleet, Grand Banks Fleet, this is Becky, from Sanctuary. Due to the disturbing shade of green that my face has taken on and the sorry state of my tummy, the cooking class for today at 1pm has been rescheduled. The chef’s weak constitution did not hold up well on our crossing and the thought of food is making me sick. Sanctuary, lying by (on the couch). Over.”

Post-script: I must elaborate on said arduous crossing. Coming from Duncanby Landing we were caught off guard and had not battened down anything in the boat. I was in my familiar position laying down on the couch (which, I might add, worked pretty darn well from keeping me from really getting bad off) as Max bravely caught flying objects near her horizon-watching post next to the galley. Buck was laying on the other couch and we were riding 5-6 foot rolling swells that were made more uncomfortable by the side chop we were getting. Forward and back and then side-to-side despite the presence of stabilizers on the boat. I was contemplating getting up to help secure more objects when a large brass lamp caught me in the back of the head. Just as I was rubbing out the pain I watched in slow motion as a cascade of fruit came spilling off the counter above Buck's head; a projectile fruit cocktail on a mission. First the orange, then the mango and finally, one lime dropped squarely on his head, bouncing off onto the floor. It was very funny, even at the time. Even knowing that I was green, with a goose egg on my head, and that Max looked even worse than me - it was truly comical.

Post-script #2: I arrived back home from Wrangell last night and am sorting through all the final posts I'd like to put up about the conclusion of the journey. Stay tuned for those and thanks so much for coming along. I, probably no surprise to anyone, would like to continue the blog and will soon redesign the name and feel of the site. More about food, community, Seattle, seasonal, local food and the people who share their stories and humor with others.

Vortex

2006-06-01T22:40:00.000-07:00

This trip has been described by me and others, especially those of us new to boating, as a vortex. At times slow, introspective and beautiful, at other times fast, dramatic, spinning - a strange, humbling and other-worldly alternate reality. The waves, the ocean, the journey has at times left me feeling adrift at sea. But most of the time I have found this world to be an amazing slice of life that was always there but completely unnoticed by me. This world of slow travel by water, in a community of others, all making the same journey, now forever, part of my history.

We stopped in at Prince Rupert the other day and the sight of a car - the first one I'd seen in 2 weeks - stopped me in my tracks. The land wasn't moving (as it was for Max) but my familiar navigation of the scenery was much altered and I paused at the sight of a coffee shop, an intersection, a Safeway. I'd only been on the water for 2 weeks, but each hour has been a day and I feel like I've been away from home for so long.

This trip even comes with its dramatic sea tales; while I will not reveal names to spare the captain and crew of the boats in question any more sadness, 2 boats on this tour recently got into some very tight situations. The first, after a stern tie at anchorage broke, ended up at a 45 degree angle up on a sand belt until they could be roped and dragged safely back into the water. The second, just the other day, ran aground into a rocky area as we headed out to Ketchikan and destroyed their stabilizer and propeller. Bilge pumps were quickly set up and the Coast Guard called and they had to end their tour prematurely when their boat had to be hauled and repaired. No one was hurt and major disasters were averted but it has been a very up and down few days.

Words are poor tools to convey my thoughts upon seeing the Coast Guard sailing quickly to the area where we had gathered our boats around the damaged one. Water was streaming out the side, being pumped from the bilge at 60 gallons a minute. Over the VHF radio, we supported and rallied around the boat. One boat delivered another pump. Larry, "the last liberal from Texas", Crouch (aka service genius) boarded the boat, took over as captain and took charge of communications with the Coast Guard, as the captain himself attended to the leaking.

I suppose I felt a sense of pride and respect for the professionalism, the seamanship and camaraderie all around me - not unlike how I feel around firefighters and emergency medical providers. The Coast Guard boarded the boat and helped in any way they could and escorted the boat, now safely stabilized by the efficient pump, to a marina where it could be hauled out. In days since, everyone has formed a tight circle around the captain and his first mate, expressing our support and sadness that they must end their tour too early, yet relieved no one was hurt.

There is not enough time in one life to allow all the details of the many different worlds we all walk in to shine through. This is a world that I glossed over entirely. There was no depth, just a vague notion of what being on the ocean and traveling by sea meant.

Before I learned some Italian, I would just listen to the sounds: the ups and downs, the beautiful tones and rhythms conveying sounds alone with no comprehension. When, after a year of study, I would listen to the same sounds, little pieces of meaning would lift themselves up and over the rest. Depth would reveal itself where forever there was only a single dimension. No different, the language of seamanship. The learning curve has been steep and steady. The depths of understanding have inspired in me a new appreciation and respect for the ocean, the wildlife, the desire of so many people to take to the water to explore, to fish, to travel.

Note to readers: sorry this post is so delayed, getting access in any of the remote areas we are traveling in has been impossible. I'm currently in an anchorage 60 miles north of Ketchikan. Tomorrow we arrive in Wrangel, last stop on the tour.

What dish to pair with wildlife sightings?

2006-05-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

Matching the right wine with the right food is the subject of numerous books and esoteric conversations. But what food does one pair with the most amazing wildlife sightings? What wine holds up to drop-dead gorgeous scenery? Im pretty sure that what the boys over on Sea Gate are eating cant possibly suffice. Last time I checked they were still working their way through a Costco-sized bag of garlic bagel chips and potato salad. Last night I heard Larry the last liberal from Texas Crouch mention pulverizing the bagel chips and crusting some fish with it. Im thinking that should use up at least 1/18th of the bag.

Were anchored in Khutze Inlet, B.C., one of the most beautiful places Ive had the privilege to see my whole life. Buck, Max and I spent as much time as we could watching the view off the bow before we froze to death. It was a complete 360-degree panoramic, each angle more stunning than the next. It felt as if, at any moment, the director would storm by and the scenery would roll past and we would realize we were on a Hollywood back lot. Surely were the extras in this movie. The star? That big brown bear eating grass stage left. (Not kidding!) The stunt man? That eagle swooping overhead apparently theres no shortage of stuntmen in this region; eagles are the Inside Passages local pigeon. The stage crew? Those slick seals popping their heads up all around us.

Which way to turn? There are waterfalls in front of us, grassy marsh with bear to our left, seals and white-capped mountains behind us, and all our twinkling boats to the right.

Indeed, what kind of dinner could one possibly prepare to pair with all this beauty?

Certainly something more inspiring than bagel chips. Sorry Larry.

I thought about what the bear might like: salmon, honey, berries, greens. And then I thought about what I have left on the boat, it being the mid-way point on the trip and my produce supply has dwindled down to a mere shadow of its former self. I decided to make one of my signature dishes. A tribute to this beauty should be matched by a meal that I would be proud to put my name behind. In fact, a meal I have recently taught in several classes around the Seattle area.

The salmon was roasted in a low oven with just a simple cloak of olive oil, salt and pepper. Thyme leaves were scattered generously under and on top of the fish. Red wine was reduced in a saute pan with stock, fennel seeds, thyme, honey, pepper and shallots. Fennel bulb, potato and red onion were sliced, slicked with olive oil, seasoned and roasted. The wine reduction was strained and mounted with butter and the meal was served with bruschetta and flowing wine and finished with a lovely cinnamon ice cream (thanks Dana B for the recipe). A meal fit for a bear and a fitting tribute to this lovely place.

I thought this was a job?

Then how come right before lunch today I was sitting in a volcanic hot spring paddling around with everyone else, the sun shining, a light breeze rustling the tree tops?

Seamanship report:

Yesterday J.C. taught me how to tie a bowline knot. Strangely, bowline, from what I would assume is "bow" "line" is pronounced as if you were saying, wanna go "bowlin"? I also learned last night that 3 out of 3 skippers asked say that the bowline is "the most important knot in sailing". I feel quite prepared now. The only problem is remembering how to do it. There was something about a rabbit and a rabbit hole and a fox. The most important thing I learned though was that you actually have to tie the knot to something. I stood back, all proud of my perfect bowline knot, and J.C. pointed out that it was great but I actually hadn't tied the dinghy up to the rail. It seems that "the most important knot in sailing" actually needs to be tied to something to work.

This was no fluke.

2006-05-26T14:09:00.000-07:00

This was the moment. This was the moment I hoped would happen, but willed myself away from expecting it would. Call me pessimistic. Or cautious. I prefer to think my tempered enthusiasm and restrained outlook helps me appreciate the little things.

But even with restraint, you need to prepare for just that moment you secretly hope comes true. And there I was sitting at dinner at Shearwater, our arduous crossing of the Queen Charlotte Sound a day behind us, the brain-numbing drugs finally out of my system, when Matt, the manager, approached me. He asked me if I thought I might be interested in some salmon that these sport fishermen landed the day before and had left for the restaurant. According to Canadian law, all seafood needs to come from commercial sources. He couldnt use it, would I be interested?

We walked to the marinas freezer and refrigerator units at the dock. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beautiful 20 pound King salmon. I held it tenderly like a baby, thanked him profusely, and coddled it the whole way down the dock back to Sanctuary. Jonathan aka Shlomo Im not a New York Jew Cooper, back on board with us after a 4 day hiatus, followed me down the docks. Only mildly embarrassed by my absolute glee at this fortuitous gift I busily got to work. I cleaned, scaled and then, with the help of that infamous filleting knife, cut the salmon into portions so that each of our 16 boats would have some salmon for dinner the next night.

Delaying my own dinner and smelling rather ocean-like for the rest of the evening was a small price to pay for handling a salmon that was fresher than any Ive handled before. Early this morning, I was still peeling scales off of my own skin. After I packaged up the fish I threw the backbone and tail over the side of the boat and watched as little fish picked at it immediately while it slowly sank away from sight.

I may miss the stars, the porpoises, and the whales, but I was in the right place at the right time to get this gift and my smile stretched from one side of my face all the way to the other.

Before even this moment could be fully appreciated, another memorable moment I will share: ironically, just one day after my post about the Seinfeld syndrome, I accidentally slept in this morning when the crew quarter phone rang. I picked it up and it was Captain Jeff yelling, 10 porpoises! Off the bow, port side! 10 porpoises! I threw my clothes on and ran up the ladder and up to the bow where the whole crew was giddy and laughing with cameras out and porpoisesgone. I had to laugh out loud at my stupid dumb luck.

I then trudged up to my favorite perch on the fly bridge. Within an hour I heard from down below, WHALE! I looked around frantically but cautiously (not expecting to see anything, of course) when it showed itself, port-side, first its rounded shiny black back and finand then, and thenyes, its incredible, stunning, breath-halting, moment-stopping, tail. And, indeed, I did not expect it. And this time, dammit, I saw it.

I saw it.

And what a magnificent sight it was.

(Internet access continues to be a challenge...I'll post again as soon as I'm able.)

Did you see that?

2006-05-24T15:48:00.000-07:00

Once again, Max and I awoke naturally this morning, We each leaned up in bed, looked at each other and said SH*T, the skippers called off the crossing - AGAIN. Not that I wanted to attempt it during a storm but, out of empathy for Max and her logistical nightmare, I was hoping we would get the go-ahead to attempt it this morning.

Several hours later and after much skipper debate, it was decided that – after all- we would attempt it at 10:30 this morning. We had said our goodbyes to this little floating village the night before. I, especially, had thanked Leesha, Sullivan Bay’s do-it-all employee, who so eagerly brought in some extra provisions for me. 10# of chicken, several gorgeous bunches of beautiful mint, some fruit and bread and other items. I’m finding that everywhere we go in Canada, the people are extremely friendly and generous.

Case in point: I learned a boating rule the hard way the other day. I sleepily gathered up all my items in the salon to head down to crew quarters. I neglected to leave one hand free (a wise rule to remember) and had piled up my laptop, camera, sunglasses, etc. in my arms. As I walked along the rail to get to our hatch, I felt the sunglasses sliding a bit on top of my load. As if in slow-motion I watched them slide off the top and out into the murky blackness of the water below. I only needed to hear the “bloo-oup” sound to confirm that, indeed, I had lost my $200 pair of prescription sunglasses over the side of the boat.

Leesha’s husband is a diver. She offered his assistance, but it turned out he was without a weight belt and therefore couldn’t do it. She then suggested three visiting commercial divers might be persuaded to go in after my coveted glasses. I agreed to make extra food for them if they’d dive for my glasses. Apparently this sort of thing happens all the time and experienced boaters know to hang a rock with string to indicate the exact area of the dropped item. Turns out, with the current being the way it was, my glasses had probably moved well beyond where they entered the water. So, as we made our preparations for getting underway I said a little goodbye to my specs.

At 10 am I popped a Bonine pill. At 10:30 Max and I donned our fashionable matching blue pressure point wrist-bands. The scopolamine patch was probably all out of medicine but I kept it on just in case. We stuffed our little mouths with crystallized ginger and drank a ginger beer for good measure. Frankly, if someone told me that belly-dancing on the bow would ward off the nausea, you know I’d be out there shaking it for all it’s worth.

As we headed out of protected waters and into the open ocean, the waves started really getting choppy (like “mashed potatoes,” said Captain Jeff). Max and I huddled together at the little table in the center-bow of the boat and our gaze never left the horizon. Captain Jeff continued to use language like, “this is nothing like what it’ll will be out there,” and “this isn’t bad, … yet.” Could have been anxiety and not true seasickness but regardless I was stuffing saltines in my maw and hoping that the next seven hours wouldn’t be the longest ones of my life.

Luckily for me, Max, and all the smaller boats on our tour, we had the wind at our back pushing us along, much like surfing. Captain Jeff increased our speed to 15 knots and the ride smoothed out. Suddenly, the patch/bonine/advil/antibiotic cocktail I was on all hit at the same moment and I just had to lie down. Several hours later I woke up ravenous. I shimmied and shook myself around the galley making a quick sandwich for Max and grabbing some leftovers for me. I ate. I slurred. And then I dropped like a two-ton sack of bricks onto the couch and slept straight through the entire trip. I only remember waking up once to hold onto the table so I wouldn’t fall off the couch completely.

You know how they always warn you not to operate heavy machinery when you are under the influence of certain drugs. I could barely operate my own body. Finding the energy to coordinate the movement of one leg in front of the other was the focus of my evening. Thank God I didn’t have to make dinner tonight. Instead, Duncanby Landing was ready for us with a hamburger buffet. I snarfed a burger and now I’m on the verge of passing out again.

Meanwhile, “Moonwalk” is over here in our quarters. It’s pouring rain, and the tours fix-it-man-extraordinaire is fixing a serious leaking problem we’re having in our hatch. Imelda’s shoe museum had to be relocated a foot or two out of the cascading waterfall that is coming from our hatch door.

The rain keeps coming down and we look back wistfully on the first four days of our voyage when the sun was shining, no clouds in the sky and afternoon breaks were spent up on the flybridge or on deck chairs on the bow watching the birds and boats go by.

The stars here have been absolutely amazing. I lay on my back one night and just gazed above and noted how tightly spaced they were. As I lay there, someone exclaimed “shooting star!” I didn’t see it. Similarly I didn’t see the whale that Sea-Gate saw today. I didn’t see the porpoises the other day either. I call this phenomena the “Seinfeld syndrome.”

Let me explain: Have you ever consistently missed something that everyone else seems to get? Have you ever felt that as you live, you amass more and more knowledge, yet there always is that thing that – amazingly – never passes before you? People around you are simply shocked and say helpful things like, “you’ve NEVER……??? I can’t believe it!!”

I’ve probably seen maybe 30 episodes of Seinfeld. Loved them, all of them. But go to any party or social affair and someone will say to me, “Have you seen the Seinfeld where Kramer x,y,z?” And, indubitably, I have not. Likewise, I’ve never seen a shooting star. And I especially don’t see shooting stars when other people around me see many. Maybe this is emblematic of some message I’m supposed to be getting here. Sort of a reverse of the “if you build it, they will come” mentality. If I look for it, it won’t happen. That is my new m.o. : appear disinterested, look in the wrong direction, allow these things to materialize in front of me, despite my put-on blasé attitude. Hear that whales, porpoises, shooting stars? I’m not looking! I can’t see you!

Marooned

2006-05-23T18:14:00.000-07:00

Still in Sullivan’s Bay, Monday May 22

Max and I slept in until 8 am. This can only mean one thing: the skippers met at 4:30 am and determined again that it was too rough to attempt a crossing. Always keeping the interests of the slowest, smallest boat in mind, the group decided to stay put. This got Max and Buck running around like crazy people. 2 weather days were built into the trip, but not at this early point so plans need to be cancelled or rescheduled. Internet is available easily here in the restaurant, but there are no working phones anywhere. The weather was actually pretty decent here today, but out in open ocean, swells of over 10 feet were reported.

I’m a bit anxious as all thoughts seem to be that we are going to attempt it firstthing tomorrow morning. “Moonwalk” set me up with some Pepcid AC and I still have maybe 1/2 day left on the patch. Might pop a Bonine as well as some ginger tea. I’ve decided that I’ll probably be a zombie tomorrow, too drugged up to even slur the most basic of directions as to where meals are located. “Sschuuur, hep yerseelves….sooome carrit stix thhere zzzz.”

I’d been advised to not even attempt to cook during the 7 hour crossing. I have various things prepared that can be eaten immediately or thrown in the microwave. Some boiled shrimp, leftover roasted turkey breast and cranberry sauce, various cheeses, fruit, a few leftover sushi rolls, cold poached halibut with green goddess sauce, some muffins, and granola. Our captain keeps scaring me with his descriptions of rolling ocean waves. He describes the waves in terms of how many seconds come between them. I immediately prepare myself as if I’m going into labor. Perhaps Max and I can squeeze in a quick Lamaze class before 4:30 am? He further attempts to “comfort” me by telling me that the boat will be fine, that the boat can take far more than the crew. Oh, thanks, I feel better already. Our first-mate scolds the captain for freaking me and Max out.

I feel much like I did one infamous afternoon at Great Adventure (or was it Disneyland?) when I was a kid. There we were, my brothers, my Dad, maybe a girlfriend of my Dad’s at the time, all together in a rollercoaster car. As it creaked and quivered its way up the track, I remember feeling happy and excited, almost proud of myself that it wasn’t scary as my brothers insisted it would be for me. Then, as our car slowly approached the apex of its climb, my little eyes peered up and over and I suddenly realized that this thing goes down, all the way down. Fast. I did the reasonable thing for an 8 year old. I asked my father if I could get off the ride.

Now.

I was done and I didn't need to see how the ride ended. I remember him laughing, and then me screaming and then lots of crying.

This has been a fabulously invigorating experience. But 10 foot waves? Ocean rollers rocking us all over the boat? Gale force winds? I’m sure I’ll be just fine, but I’m just a wee-bit anxious. I’m trying to be happy about the fact that, essentially, I get a day off work tomorrow. But I keep wondering if I ask the captain to pull over and let me out, if he will start laughing. I’m fairly certain that I’m not too old to follow that with some screaming and then lots of crying.

I’m trying to keep my thoughts positive. One way for me to remain optimistic is to distract myself by thinking about the amazing ingenuity of folks I meet all around the world. People are so crafty, especially in their approaches to food. Take this local recipe that I found in the Lagoon Cove, B.C. Cookbook. Just when you thought a hot dog was a hard thing to prepare, out comes this trend-setting simplification of a challenging foodstuff.

Easy Hot Dog Appetizer

I won’t write out all the details but suffice it to say you take a couple of hot dogs, slice them, put them in a hot pan, add a can of coke and cook until the coke is gone. Serve the dogs with ketchup and mustard in separate containers.

What makes me laugh hysterically (and temporarily forget my neuroses about the crossing tomorrow) is the idea that the commingling of coke and hot dogs probably came about by someone spilling their coke on their hot dog and then saying, “wow, that’s not half bad!” Sort of a reeses peanut butter cup moment, as in those old commercials where an unsuspecting woman in an office was walking with her spoon in some peanut butter and she comes around the corner only to run smack into a man dangerously walking with his outstretched chocolate bar.

But my favorite part about this “recipe” is that it makes it very clear you should keep the ketchup and mustard separate. Like, truly, it’s a-ok to mix your beverage with your weiner, but make sure those condiments remain perfectly isolated from one another.

I’m left with this question: exactly what on earth would be a Difficult Hot Dog Appetizer?

Some scenes from our days in Sullivan Bay:

With the help of Margo, Max and Jeff I'm slowly but surely learning how to tie up the fenders as we dock and throw out the lines.

Artsy-fartsy shot of the day.

Not much action here on Hoochie Lane. This land-lubber guessed that Hoochie referred to either alcohol, as in "hooch" or perhaps a B.C. take on getting some nookie. Imagine my surprise when I heard some of the skippers talking about "hoochies" - pink lures to catch salmon and halibut. Not to be confused with "hoochie mama".

Where's a dog to find a tree? Poor Max.

Iron Chef at Sea: Sushi Battle

2006-05-21T15:52:00.000-07:00

One of the things I was most looking forward to on this trip was the adventure of mooring at different stops up the coast and scrounging for local foods to add to my provisions. Yesterday I had such an occasion. We anchored and then took the dinghy over to an abandoned First Nation's village. On the way there we were passed by one of our boats. They informed us that they saw fresh bear scat and that we should grab the coke can on the dock and place a pebble inside and shake it so the bear would know we were there. Honestly, I pondered the wisdom of letting a bear know my exact address. Meanwhile, Max grabbed the can and shook like hell for the next 20 minutes.

I preferred the more civilized technique of screaming "hey bear-y, bear-y!" Our fearless captain forged ahead, leaving the rest of us bringing up the rear, wondering if the photo the other boat took of us as we reached the dock would be the last one ever taken. It didn't comfort me that Buck was around. The headline: "Chef gets mauled by hungry bear before she could even offer it a snack" went through my head. But mostly, I couldn't even hear myself think thanks to Max's vigorous maraca dance.

Meanwhile, I spotted some nettles growing all around. I used the sleeve of my wool sweater to pick them off and stuffed them into a plastic bag. When we arrived safely (phew!) back to the boat I steeped them with a bit of honey for some nettle tea. I then chopped and squeezed the nettles dry. Adding a bit of toasted sesame oil, soy sauce, sesame seeds and seasoned rice vinegar, I set about preparing some sushi for our boat. I used the nettles as a spinach substitute for a futomaki roll (which means literally "fat roll" in Japanese).

I taught my second cooking class the other day. I had no idea what to teach because I had expected that seafood would be readily available and I had been finding it a bit harder to find. Fortunately, as soon as we arrived at Lagoon Cove I spotted a local woman walking a huge bucket of beautiful pink shrimp up to the marina office. I asked her if I could buy a handful from her to use in my class. Turns out the shrimp was for us anyway, as the marina was hosting a shrimp and crab feed for our dinner. I raced back to the boat, sampling a few on the way. They were, hands down, the BEST shrimp I have ever had. Caught that morning, boiled in heavily salted water and pulled way before they had a chance to get rubbery, they were sweet shrimpy goodness.

I decided, mostly because I had only a bit of crab and shrimp to work with, to do a sushi class where the rice and other ingredients could go farther. I knew I wanted the class to sample the differences between the frozen gulf prawns I had provisioned the boat with versus the local fresh shrimp just caught and boiled. There was no comparison. The frozen/thawed/cooked shrimp were good. The local shrimp were UNBELIEVABLY wonderful. No contest.

Sometime before the class started I was informed that the Takagis (the 3 men from Japan traveling with us) were also preparing sushi for that night's potluck dinner. Suddenly, I felt my competitive juices flowing. Could it be that a girl from New Jersey could prepare better sushi than 3 guys from Japan? Tongue firmly in cheek, I explained to my class that this was going to be the first Iron Chef on the High Seas. Buck pointed out that the Takagis had no idea I was also making sushi. I think the class really enjoyed the staged drama. It especially became humorous when Nori, one of the men aboard "Indigo", asked me if he could use our power to run his high-tech rice cooker. Again, remember they have no idea of the competitive fervor that was whipping me into a culinary frenzy. My students asked me if I was going to sabotage his rice (especially after explaining that sushi rice is the most important ingredient to perfect in making sushi). Of course not, I said. I wanted a fair fight.

2 hours later I wrapped up the class and presented these platters to the potluck.

I made the following:

Inari with rice, scallion, tobiko and sesame seed.
Broiled eel nigiri
Spicy local shrimp rolls
Dungeness crab and egg rolls
Futomaki
Carrot and hijiki salad
Sunomono

Buck mentioned at the end of the class that making sushi, to the Takagis, was probably like making a ham sandwich. "Of course, " I said. But in my head I thought " I make a mean ham sandwich..." You probably want to know who won Iron Chef at Sea: Sushi Battle. I'd like to say me, but being that they didn't even know they were on my own reality t.v. show, it seemed unfair to rate our entries. And besides, they only did one kind of roll and actually made more fried things (potato croquettes and dumplings) than sushi. So it would really be unfair to name a winner. (But my offerings were finished before theirs. I won! I won! I won!)

Sea-sickness report: As I was teaching my cooking class I noticed I started to feel pretty dizzy. We were moored but were getting rocked side-to-side by other vessels' wake. Teaching the class, I was spinning from the cutting board to the sink and then behind me to grab ingredients. Sometime in the middle of the class I started feeling pretty green. Afterwards I slapped on another patch, got a good night sleep and decided I better not do dizzy izzies when the boat is rocking.

Meanwhile, today we have been stopped at Sullivan Bay as there were high waves and gale-force winds predicted for our crossing of the Queen Charlotte Strait. We had battened everything down last night, but a 4:30 am skippers meeting led to a weather day being taken in this tiny, tiny marina, with houses floating on logs. The little store had 2 heads of broccoli, 1 cabbage, some onions and 1 bunch of bananas. I single-handedly cleared them out of almost everything. Bear jerky, pringles and beer anyone? That's all that was left.

Thanks to Buck for the opening photo.

Scenes from Day 6 and 7

2006-05-21T14:50:00.000-07:00

Captain Jeff checks out an abandoned house.

Ridgeback and Pacific jumbo shrimp.

Buck and Max try out their "jazz hands."

Rusted out tractor at Shoal Bay.

Fran "moonwalk" Morey wields a mean crab cracker.

Buck shows us his knees.

Last photo of "eye candy" - aka Justin- before he leaves us.

Artsy fartsy shot of the day.

View from the front porch.

Prideaux Haven, Desolation Sound.

All our ducks in a row.

Max takes a sunset kayak ride.

En Route to Shoal Bay, B.C.

2006-05-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

This photo was taken by Jonathan “Shlomo” Cooper, marketing manager and photographer for Grand Banks. He’s a great guy with tons of talent as this photo clearly demonstrates. He said the star was the asparagus, no offense, and could I back out of the photo even more. Love that guy. Love him. Mean it.

Our group has completely bonded, me and Max, Jonathan, David “Buck (Naked)” Hensel, Marketing/Communications Director for Grand Banks, and Justin, a photographer/reporter for an Italian magazine. Justin and Jonathan leave today and Max and I are blue. Fortunately J.C., aka Shlomo “I’m not a New York Jew”, Cooper returns in 4 days.

I discovered the other day that Buck (Naked), was the author of “50 ways to kill your chef” posted previously and therefore the person I had originally thought was the author is not (interestingly, I have so many brilliant people in my life, it was no less than 3 people I had accused).

It’s a bit disconcerting that someone so sick (and hilarious) and so fascinated by inventing ways that chefs have lost their lives on the high seas is sharing close quarters. Fortunately, for me, I’ve retrained the knife forged in Satan’s workshop to attack other people, not just myself. Love that guy. Love him. Mean it. We keep making little otter hands and upon my return to Seattle I’ve vowed to make W.W.M.J.D? “What would Mobily Juckers do?” t-shirts. On the backside they would say, “a seafood buffet to last a lifetime” or something like that.

I must say sharing tight quarters with Max has been a hilarious study in awkward ballet moves (which includes maneuvers like my now signature pose - standing on her bed to get things out of my bed’s little cabinet and looking over my shoulder, my butt in her face.) Other times we are engaging in a yacht-de-deux, stumbling and bumbling and giggling around. Max, aka “Imelda Marcos”, was open to my suggestion of stowing her 5 pairs of shoes underneath our ladder to our hatch. Love that girl. Love her. Mean it.

I’m really beginning to get into a rhythm on board. Up early, I enter the galley with the sun shining (the weather has been absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous) and set about making breakfasts. It’s surprisingly my favorite time of the day as I get to slowly move around the galley, slicing fruit, baking scones, watching it all out the window as I work. It’s quiet and peaceful. The smells of lemon scones filled the boat this morning, flavored with some lemon thyme I harvested off the aft-deck herb pot I planted up in Roche Harbor.

I had my first cooking class on board yesterday. 9 folks came on board from the group, 2 of whom are from Japan, one doesn’t speak any English at all. It was fun getting him to say the names of ingredients in Japanese. I taught the class how to make a Thai curry with chicken, tamarind, peanuts and ginger paired with coconut rice wrapped in banana leaves. I also taught the class my favorite Malaysian inspired salad: tender butter lettuce topped with a mixture of fried tofu, mango slivers, herbs and sweet chile dressing. We grilled prawns on the flybridge grill and garnished the salad with them. Afterwards we hosted a potluck on board. Gunter, a boater from Germany, had collected the sweetest, most amazing Pacific oysters and Max was initiated with her first one ever. “It was actually nice,” she reportedly said, “I was worried it would be a texture violation, but it wasn’t. One was enough.” I ate no less than 7, throwing the shells over the side of the boat. “Go, make more!” I thought happily.

The job hours are long, getting up (usually) around 6, working until 9pm, talking until 12 with some breaks between meals. But the job benefits: the views, the constantly changing environment, the hilarious companions I have been so lucky to share this experience with, and finally the animals (came upon a huge rock yesterday with numerous seals, eagles and baby eagles surrounding a blood stained area) more than offset the work. In fact, most of the time, the work has been entirely fun and short of some issues with product location and storage management - I lost some produce due to rotting when I put it in a bow compartment which bore the brunt of some very unexpected hot weather - totally worthwhile.

After my work ends in the evening, Max, the boys and I head over to the other Grand Banks staff boat or up top to the flybridge, share some beers and process our days. These moments are the pinnacle of the day. Much like any intense experience, each day feels like a week and knowing someone for 3 days feels like you’ve known them your whole life.

Mango, tofu and herb salad with toasted coconut and a sweet chile-lime dressing

I was inspired to come up with this recipe from a dish I had at Malay Satay Hut, a wonderful Malaysian restaurant in the International District. It’s almost embarrassing to tell people that the sauce essentially comes out of a bottle.

2 tablespoons coconut oil or canola oil
1 pound firm or extra-firm tofu
generous pinch of sea salt
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 cup coconut, unsweetened, flaked (some reserved for garnish)
1 mango, peeled and cut into small dice
1/2 cup basil, rough chopped
1 tablespoon mint, rough chopped
1/2 cup cilantro, rough chopped
1/2 cup roasted peanuts, chopped
1 cup of cucumber, medium diced
1 cup of bell peppers, any color, medium diced
zest of 1 lime, plus juice
1 cup sweet chile sauce
lettuce cups or rice crackers

Heat the oil in a sauté pan over medium high heat. Drain the tofu and pat dry with paper towels. Cut into 1/2” by 1/2” cubes. Add to the pan and sauté until brown on all sides, sprinkling with the sea salt and soy sauce. Remove to a piece of paper towel.

In a small sauté pan over medium heat, toast the coconut until lightly brown. In a large bowl, add mango, herbs, peanuts, toasted coconut, cucumber, bell peppers, lime zest and juice and sweet chile sauce. Toss tofu into bowl and mix everything together well. Taste and add salt if needed. Serve with lettuce cups, or rice crackers (shrimp chips are also nice with this salad). If you grill some prawns, they would be extra amazing served around the edge. (In this photo, I had prepped the prawns by leaving the tail section on, skewering them into a straight line – to preserve the shape – mixing them with salt, pepper, lime zest, lime juice and canola oil.)

Sea-sickness report: Hate to disappoint any of you but neither Max nor I, nor anyone else, has lost their lunch over the side as of yet. In fact, we are eating every 3 hours on the hour, so it might not be such a terrible thing to part with our meals. Not that I’m advocating bulemic purges but all this food with little exercise may have predictable results. I’m now patchless as the first one wore off after 3 days. Max is still taking ginger capsules which seem to work really well for her.

I’m finding that a lot of details are slipping by me so if for some strange reason you want to hear more about the actual places we are visiting and the day to day activites, you should really check out OCD at Sea, Max’s blog, as well as Buck Naked’s official Grand Banks tour blog.

Conversations with Margo

2006-05-17T10:54:00.000-07:00

Well-known in the boating community is Canadian Margo Woods, who is taking the journey to Alaska with us. After her husband passed away, Margo continued editing Charlie’s Charts, a series of cruising guides for boaters traveling from Alaska to Mexico and other Pacific waters. Oftentimes she "singlehands" her 34 ft. sailboat.

She has taken me under her wing and taught me little important details about boating, such as looking in the sky for a hazy brown ring around the sun which many agree foretells rough weather ahead.

Sanctuary took its first dramatic side-to-side roll when a smaller, faster boat in our group created huge wake by accident. This would have been exciting had it not been the exact moment I was serving breakfast. I got initiated into boat cooking by baptizing myself with some splashing hot water and oatmeal as they made their quick trip from one side of the stove to the other. Once the waves smoothed out, Margo gave me my first lesson in protective cooking: secure your knives, never fill pots of liquid full and a wet towel can be layed at the edge of the counter to keep things from sliding off.

Margo boated with her husband for years without knowing how to swim. She quipped, “if my husband fell overboard he might struggle for a few hours and then that would be it for him, but if I fell over – it would be glug-glug-glug, GAME OVER” At the age of 35, she finally took swimming lessons. Prompted by a friend who suggested she should learn for the sake of saving her children should they go overboard, she was a quick study and faced her fears straight on.

The main stressor we experienced a few days ago, outside of the hot oatmeal facial I had, was the quick all-guest/crew meeting off the stern. Our captain informed us that someone had left a line in the water and that we had been dragging it the whole morning. It looked like a pack of wild otters had gotten their little teeth around the rope (but in fact it was the rope wrapped around the propeller). Another boat called over on the VHF (very high frequency) radio alerting us to the problem. Apparently the line could have become caught up in the engine, causing major repairs and an immediate end to Sanctuary’s voyage.

Luckily we live for another day. My boating education is coming along, I now know the stern from the bow, the head from the flybridge, the cockpit from the swim platform. And on this particular type of luxury yacht, the trash compactor from the washer/dryer (an important distinction, I might add). Then again, after 3 weeks wearing the same 5 things, that trash compactor might come in handy).

Menus from Sanctuary (the owners requested meals that were healthy and low on the food chain):

Day 1: Lunch
Tom ka gai (Lemongrass, mushroom and chicken soup), Shrimp rolls with chile-lime and hoisin-peanut sauce, ginger cookies

Day 2: Lunch
Penne with mint-pistachio pesto, grilled asparagus, chocolate-peanut butter tart

Day 3: Breakfast
Hash browns with garlic and red onions, Scrambled eggs with basil, cream cheese and asparagus, fresh fruit, yogurt, toast and jam

Day 3: Lunch
Grilled chicken with ceasar salad, tomatoes, parmesan reggiano and lemon-anchovy dressing, leftover pasta with mint-pistachio pesto, finished off the tart.

Sea-sickness report: So far, the “patch” is working marvelously. Feeling more tired than usual but that could be due to the late evenings and the crack of dawn departures. Max is also doing well on the ginger pills (which really says something as she is a self-reported hurler on the high seas).

Scenes from Day 2:

2006-05-16T15:38:00.000-07:00

Beautiful night at Poet's Cove, Pender Island, B.C.

Oh, how I love the Canadians...

Sunset at Poet's Cove.

Stay tuned for stories of fascinating and quirky folks I'm traveling with, recipes, food tales, tall tales and why the word "batten" gets me running around the boat like a crazy person.

Scenes from Day 1:

2006-05-16T15:17:00.000-07:00

Marina at Roche Harbor, San Juan Island, Washington

Believe it or not, Mona, the island camel purchased by a couple from a petting zoo off of e-bay (likely due to a drunken bet.)

The Adventures of Chef and Max begin....

Chef with her other "adopted" boat dog, Cinnamon.

Another shot of Mona, because, well, it's a ^$(*@& camel.

Max says goodbye to Dr. Max.

Sweet Dana sees me off...

Update: Finding it quite difficult to upload photos. Today's stop included an internet cafe where I could put these up. But for the next weeks, it may be words alone. For all of you who emailed me, thank you and don't worry if I don't get back to you. Internet connection will get harder and harder the farther north we go.

I do believe my antennae are twitching

2006-05-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

Roche Harbor, San Juan Island to Poet's Cove and today to Nanaimo:

Not too long ago, I caught the tail end of an NPR program that was about the experiences of people serving long-term prison sentences. A man was speaking about the sensory deprivation that comes from an extended incarceration. As described, life becomes reduced to various shades of grays, cold metal, the jangling of keys, and bland food – day in and day out. Prisoners, he related, become dulled to the input around them. It’s as if each person were entombed alive in swathes of cotton.

He then shared his observation and surprise that, upon release, he found us “free” people to exhibit much the same “dullness” of sensory deprivation. He remarked that our antennae had long since ceased twitching. And while he was nearly blinded from each input - the depth of the color, the flavor of the food, the richness of the sounds - the rest of us walked around blind to it all.

I have experienced this feeling in my life; the sense that you know you should be appreciating each moment, taking it all in, keeping it all in perspective. Yet, at the same time, you feel completely unable to do so. Colors dull, sounds fade, food tastes bland and you try to appreciate it all, but feel the sense of swimming through dense swabs of trivialities and petty annoyances.

And while the image of antennae twitching reminds me frighteningly too much of a ginormous-sized roach I did combat with in D.C. one summer, I continue to gravitate towards it. If your life feels this way; if your antennae cease to twitch, twitch them into awakening. Taking a job doing something challenging and exciting is one way. Today is my first day of a totally exhilarating job. Commence the twitching.

Blood on the High Seas

2006-05-11T22:57:00.000-07:00

If it weren't so ridiculous, it would be ridiculously funny. At the very least, it is a freaky story.

WARNING: if you are in the slightest ill at ease with blood, gore, or stupidity, stop reading this now.

You're still reading.

Well, don't say I didn't warn you.

Yesterday I went down to Seattle Cutlery to buy the photographed scimitar/breaking knife/evil dastardly weapon of destruction. I knew exactly what I wanted having used a similar knife at the Herbfarm, breaking down king salmon and other large fin-fish for several years. The joys of using a thin-bladed, slightly flexible knife - curved at the tip for gracefully filleting near the bone - cannot be underestimated. I knew I wanted my own for this trip as I'm really hoping to catch and fillet salmon and halibut.

With these thoughts in my head, I made my way down to one of my top ten most favorite places in the world, the Pike Place Market, to purchase the torture-device. Once in the store, I chatted with the nice gentleman and discovered that he had spent some time cooking in the galley of a large fish processing ship. We continued sharing pleasantries and then I asked him for a knife guard for my new purchase. He apologized, saying they didn't have one for this size knife.

I then watched, slightly mystified, as he wrapped the 10" machete of doom in a piece of butcher paper. That's right. Butcher paper. As in parchment paper or perhaps as in "you've been SERVED papers". As in "it's as thin as a piece of paper" paper.

Paper.

As in rock, paper, scissors, where scissors clearly kicks the booty of paper. Why? Because it's a blade against paper.

I asked the nice man for a plastic bag with handles. He didn't have one. So he wrapped it, now firmly and certifiably protected in the piece of paper, in a paper sandwich bag. I held it for awhile in my hand and then realized that I might hurt someone walking around in a crowded market with a razor sharp knife at my side. I remembered I had a plastic bag in my pocket (for the dog, you know). I placed the evilness in said bag.

Enter my friend, who just randomly appears in the same store, unexpectedly. We hug and chat and as she is also a chef, we talk about knives and what she's buying. She notices that my satanical slicing device has used all of its energies to muscle through the paper and then the plastic and fully an inch of steel tip is exposed. I put it up on the counter and ask the nice man to rewrap my knife, double-checking that he's sure there is no knife protector I can put over it for safety. No, sorry.

He re-wraps the stainless steel fillet knife from hell in not one, but two pieces of the magical, impenetrable kevlar ditto pad. I put it back in the plastic bag, leave the store, and mingle the death-wand with its newest bag-mates: one eggplant sandwich, a lemonade beverage and a few gifts I have purchased for Max's 40th birthday today (HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAX!!! That's only a few years old in dog years). My friend and I head over to the market stalls, wander a bit and then say our goodbyes.

Literally 30 paces later I feel a searing pain that momentarily takes my breath away. Prone to dramatic overtures, I cue the sweeping music soundtrack, imagine my eyes going blurry and I think (or do I scream?) "I've been shot!" Quickly I notice that I am bleeding. A lot. From my knee.

That's right. There I am, walking along, beautiful spring day, swinging my bag in tune with my step when - while no surprise to you by now, but very surprising to me - I have punctured myself with my new knife. It's crazy I know. That thing put up a mighty struggle to liberate itself from the 2 layers of paper. It did though. And I'm bleeding proof that blades kick papers' collective ass.

Once I calm myself down, I hobble directly back to the knife shop and request 1. a bathroom 2. some alcohol and 3. some bandages. The nice man is now a very flustered nice man. He is literally stuttering. In the bathroom, I peel off my bloodied jeans and check over my knee bits and pieces - now in pieces and bits. I determine that I have self-inflicted a deep puncture wound into my right knee, luckily just above the knee joint itself. The bleeding stops within 15 minutes. The dramatic sweeping soundtrack plays on. I return to the shop and very calmly say the following:

"I strongly suggest that when a customer buys a knife without a proper knife guard that you put a cork on the tip or wrap the blade in cardboard." He hands me a business card and says to call if I need them to take care of anything, anything at all. He stutters a goodbye.
I feel mildly stupid about all this. I'm used to working with knives. I've had my share of mishaps with them. But this one feels a) particularly freakish and b) totally avoidable. I'm not going to sue Seattle Cutlery. But I will say this. If you buy your knives there or anywhere for that matter, make sure (no, demand!) that they package them safely. I also suggest to you that if the weather is nice and you are walking along, excited about your upcoming adventure, not a care in the world, swinging your arms, try not to have a lethal weapon in your bag set on a destruction course with your already compromised ACL-reconstructed knee. Just some friendly advice.

Meanwhile, just to add another layer of freakishness to my story, I relay the following: Max's husband is a doctor and a friend (and my neighbor) and she makes him come over to my house to check out my wound, now quite swollen and painful. He calls his orthopedic friend and we decide the knife probably didn't enter the joint but I should immediately start a course of antibiotics, particularly because I'm headed out to sea for 3 weeks. I quickly ascertain if the antibiotics can be taken along with my seasickness meds and sleeping pills (to dampen out his wife's snoring). He calls in a prescription. Within 20 minutes I'm paying for the meds.

The price of the meds? $40.
The price of the evil-doing blade from satan's workshop? That's right. $40.
Pain-numbing ability of realizing this would make good blog fodder: Priceless

Special notes of thanks to the following for doting on me: Bean, Laverne, Boudinski, biscuit-maggot, Caramel, DD, Max and Doc, and Doc B for the phone consult.

What can brown do for you?

2006-05-10T09:32:00.000-07:00

Because I'm, well, obsessed with food, I often quiz my family and friends about which foods they would bring with them if they were stranded on a desert isle. I thought it would be interesting and fun to pose that question to you.

The rules:

You are stranded on a boat beached on a island. You can get whatever fish you want and hand-harvest your own damn sea salt (think of the money you'll save). There is a natural fresh water stream on the island (snow-melt from the very, very, tall mountain-of course, due to global warming, this is a limited resource, so enjoy it!) There is nothing left on the boat and as far as you know nothing on the island save your own unfortunate soul. You get 10 items to select. Huge categories don't count. You can't say "Herbs and spices" or "Meat". Try to be specific, it's more interesting. These food items will be delivered to you in your sorry state by UPS, because it is simply endless what brown can do for you. No, you cannot ask for more items from the UPS person. I know they're cute in their little brown shorts, but you can't have them either.

To get you going, here is my list (in no particular order):

Honorable mentions: fennel, peaches, raspberries, huckleberries (wow, no fruit...that sucks!), wild mushrooms, nettles, tomatoes, lettuces, beer, NY steak, chocolate-covered gummy bears (I'll still be premenstrual on the island, no?)

I used to think this would be a great question to pose to other chefs and then write a book about it. And then the book Culinary Artistry came out in 1996 which did just that. Andrew Dornenburg and Karen Page, you stole my idea! Ah well, it's a great book and from it I will share with you the top-10 lists from a few famous chefs. They didn't have to follow any of my strict rules (and it shows).

First, from the late Jean-Louis Palladin:

He said nuts and salt on the same line. That's crafty but it's still cheating! And now from Alice Waters:

If she said Bruschetta she could have knocked off numbers 1-5. But then that would be cheating, like my insertion of number 10, matzo ball soup (which is a sneaky way of saying eggs, chicken, carrots, celery and matzo meal, aka Jewish hardtack). And lastly, a list from Jean-Georges Vongerichten:

He is a sweet-bread freak, clearly. Now it's your turn. What kind of a food freak are you?

Trip Preparation Report: T-2 days until I depart for the San Juan Islands, WA where we will rendevous with all the other Grand Banks boat owners going on this trip. T-4 days until we are "underway". Spent all day yesterday repeating the shopping spree at Slotnicks. Blew through over $1000 at PCC (for organic and bulk items), Noah's (for bagels for freezing), Uwajimaya (for all Asian items) and Mutual Fish (frozen shrimp, unagi-frozen, prepared eel, tobiko-wasabi and regular flying fish eggs- and calamari-cleaned and frozen).

Arrived at the boat yesterday to learn that the 6 "convertible" freezer/refrigerator drawers I'm working with in the galley are not "convertibles". Which, in essence, means that I had planned for freezer space for an entire drawer-full of product. Luckily I hadn't yet purchased the poultry items intended for that space. The owners were alerted. I'm waiting to hear if they are having a external bar fridge turned into a freezer or if I will need to set up a cooler on the deck (where it will be much colder) for frozen fruits and breads to make room for the meat which should be in consistent deep freeze.

And in other news: I just discovered this website that gives "virtual tours" of Seattle. On their page, there is a tour of the exact model of swanky boat I will be on. Some things are different on our boat-ours comes with a private chef and a dog named Max- but you'll get a general idea. If you click each photo of the different areas of the boat, it will take you to a page where you can slide your mouse around and get a 360 degree look. If you spin the photo very fast in one direction, you will be able to empathize with any motion sickness we may feel. Oh, and watch your head!

Shopping Spree at Slotnicks

2006-05-08T08:33:00.000-07:00

T-4 days. It's been one hell of a preparatory ride these past few days. My head is spinning faster than Bush's speech writer.

The longest shopping list of my life is STILL being written. There are only 2 Seattle-based opportunities to load the boat. The first was 3 days ago, the second, tomorrow.

My friend spent the better part of Friday with me making quick work of my budget. We were like Laverne and Shirley in that classic episode where they win a shopping spree at their local supermarket, Slotnicks. They only have so much time to load their carts (and their bodies) and cross a finish line. They had hams up their pants legs and boxes and boxes of cookies (if I remember correctly). They couldn't even move they were so overloaded. When they finally staggered toward the finish line-eventually crawling on the floor- the bell went off and they each reached forward crossing the finish line with only one item. Everything else had to be abandoned. This, my friends, is my own worst case scenario and the stuff of my nightmares.

The customers at PCC Fremont had their mouths agape as we approached the checkout line. Saying the polite "oh, no, please, go ahead of me" was pretty much par for the course as we pushed our bloated cart up to the belt. One somewhat surly man just kept staring at the cart and then at me and then at the cart and then at me. We had huge, overflowing bags of bulk items: beans, rice, nuts, flour, cornmeal, pastry flour. Bags and bags of chips, salsa, and pretzels. Cartons of milk, dried fruits, spices, sausages, and shrimp. Nori, bottles of vinegar, oils, pasta, cartons of energy bars. I was so tempted to just look the man in the eye and say with a straight face "My friend here, she just gets ravenous when she's pre-menstrual!"

We quickly loaded up the car and then headed over to the marina on west lake union where the boat is tied up. Our co-captain revealed to us all the possible nooks and crannies where I could store the provisions. One of the primary places to store food is under the seats in the main "dining area". It's fairly remarkable actually because you simply pull off the velcroed back cushions and pull the hydraulic seats and they smoothly lift up revealing plenty of storage. I feel the bizarre need to remember exactly where every item is stored so that I can impress my diners by saying "excuse me sir, can you please stand up, I believe you are sitting on my fish sauce!"

I'll be honest: it's been hard for me to get to sleep at night because I have so many things running through my brain. Little details about recipes and fears of not having enough food (not a chance!) compel me to turn the light on so I can jot down another note about supplies. Mostly I can't sleep because I can't remember the only items Laverne and Shirley came away with at Slotnicks? Was it Bosco syrup and mallomars? Help!

I need insurance, and then porridge

2006-05-04T08:38:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when out driving, I would think about all the discarded cassette tape flotsam and jetsam along the sides of the roads. Long brown streamers that would catch the wind and curl up around the bottoms of street signs and form twisted bundles in the storm drains. I wondered if someone could string together all the bits of different people's lost or discarded music and put them together. What would that sound like? Kenny G/Run DMC/Carli Simon/Dvorchak?

A friend recently suggested an art project where you pick up all the scraps of shopping lists found on the aisles and stuck in the little bars of the shopping carts in every supermarket in every town and form a collage of sorts. I wonder if someone should come upon my shopping list for this trip. What would it say about this moment in time? (And how utterly flummoxed would I be if I lost it?)

The origin of the photo I posted is unknown (and hopefully not copyrighted, she said quietly). It's fascinating to me. It's 1935, no, scratch that, 1937 and whoever wrote this list itemized insurance right along with porridge. It's just one moment in time in one person's life.

I'd call it: Shopping, interrupted.

Because you just know those sad people still needed that list.

Never turn your back on an otter

2006-05-03T07:54:00.000-07:00

A certain friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, has posted a comment after yesterday's entry that is so BRILLIANT and HILARIOUS that I feel the need to post the comment as another post. Perhaps this will convince this friend to go into writing as a profession? Hmmm, perhaps? (For the record, I know exactly who she is and to prove it....I will say to her: "Don't forget the terrible tragedy in 1889 when a barrister in London, while preparing her favorite dish of prawns and lard, was run down and trampled by her own pack of 4 hunting dogs-one just a wee lil' one- chasing a small orange cat named "miss sweet potato.")

Her comment, in it's entirety:

Chef,

I am enjoying your blog, and am eager to read more of your exploits.

I especially admire your courage – particularly in light of the wretched, often tragic ends that befell so many other cooks, chefs and galley stewards who have made the same journey by sea. I’m sure you must know already (for who would tempt fate so recklessly?), but perhaps your readers would like to hear the story as well. If nothing else, the element of risk adds another dimension (dare one say spice?) to your tagine-and-couscous adventure.

Many of the more recent “events” – deaths, dismemberments and disappearances of galley staff aboard cruise lines and megayachts – are well known, of course. I won’t waste space repeating those here. What many don’t realize is that they are merely modern echoes of what some have called the Culinary Curse of the Inside Passage (sort of a “Who’s Killing the Great Chefs…?” of the Alaskan Frontier).

It was Hillary Danforth Merryweather who, riding aboard Captain James’ Cooks’ “Resolution” (dispatched by His Majesty, King George III, in 1776), was the first chef to suffer a brutal end to what was until then a glorious career in the culinary arts. Bitten by a trapped otter while attempting to prepare a celebratory “otter surprise” (apparently Cook’s favorite dish), he quickly bled to death before his shipmates could remove his layered clothes and attend to the injury at his groin. (Footnote: many believe this episode accounts for the origin of the saying, “never turn your back on an otter.” Wise words, indeed…)

At that time, George Vancouver was aboard the Discovery, Resolution’s sister ship. Coincidentally, when Vancouver set sail as Captain himself on another (different) ship named Discovery in 1791, Merryweather’s garde-manger, Robspierre Valentin, accompanied him – this time as chef.

Unfortunately for Valentin, the outcome was not much different. Smothered under more than two hundred pounds of whale blubber that his own garde-manger had carelessly laid into stores, it was two full days before the crew found him suffocated under all the oily fat. (Valentin, while heralded as a culinary artiste in his day, was not known for his physical strength.)

More disturbing calamities followed, in grim succession. Mobily Juckers, chef for Captain Dixon’s first voyage up the Inside Passage, was set upon by bald eagles while on the poop deck preparing an “al fresco” seafood buffet. Several of the crew saw the incident, but none could reach the poor fellow before he was carried aloft and away. A single rowboat was lowered for pursuit until the men saw Juckers disappear over a stand of tall Douglas fir; the rescue was called off.

Captain Billings’ chef, the young Michel de la Pouline Villepangnole, met his end at the hand of his own shipmates (Billings was known for carrying a notoriously salty crew), who failed to find the humor in M de la PV’s amouse bouche of hardtack and salmon roe. Portlock lost his entire galley staff to a sablefish smoking accident. Henderschott saw both his chef and sous-chef devoured by a sea cow of singular size and, as he would later write, “a determined, feisty disposition.”

This list goes on, but this is your forum, not mine; I’ve taken too much space already. Suffice to say, I admire your pluck, young chef. Good luck on your journeys – I and many others will be following along to learn of your fate!

Pork Rib, Boneless, Imitation

2006-05-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went with my friend down to the Army-Navy supply store on 1st Avenue in Downtown Seattle to get some highly attractive plastic rubber pants to complete my 100% fully functional, Alaska-bound boating attire. Cute, I sure won't be. When those cheek-whipping squalls blow by, no one will be calling my number but goddamn it I'll be dry.

So while we are there outfitting the Amazon, I encountered something quite disturbing. I've heard of them. I've seen them. I've even tasted their yuppie-equivalent in the form of an REI chicken cacciatore. And from what I'm recently gathering, an MRE: Meal Ready (to) Eat is nothing short of the military version of the highly publicized "sous-vide" technique.

I may soon eat my words, but "sous-vide" AKA "boil-in-a-bag" has yet to strike my fancy...I've eaten some pork loin cooked "sous-vide" but it didn't seem to me to be very special or different. Not that I'm closed to the idea. So far, though, it hasn't moved me. But back to my story.

The MRE was adopted as the Department of Defense combat ration in 1975 when I was just a wee-thing, only a few years away from master-minding the "Snowball". I'm not sure why but there was something incredibly disturbing about coming face to face with the brown cardboard box that displayed the following 4 words: Pork Rib, Boneless, Imitation. I'm fairly certain it was the last word that was most unsettling.

It's like this: whatever your political leanings, I'm fairly certain you'd agree that our military deserves REAL food. What strikes me as absolutely BIZARRE about the concept of Pork Rib, Boneless, Imitation is this: why not just make an MRE of Pork Stew? Why attempt to MacGyver a boneless pork rib out of porky bits? There is actual pork in the ingredient list...so it's not a lie to call it Pork Something or other. It's as if someone decided "well, it's like this...everyone likes a good pork rib...so we'll just market it like that. But they can't have the rib in the little packages, so we'll make it boneless, but then we don't want to get expensive boneless pork ribs, so we'll just MacGyver a boneless pork rib out of porky bits...they'll love it and no one will ever know!" Until the U.S.D.A steps in and puts the word IMITATION just as big and prominent as Pork Rib, Boneless. It just kills me.

Shall I name the other ingredients? Let's first start with the byline: Caramel Color and Smoke Flavor Added

Ingredients: Imitation Boneless Pork Ribs (Pork, Water, Tomato Powder, Salt, Dextrose, Sugar, Sodium Tripolyphosphate, Worcestershire Sauce Powder (sugar, sodium diacetate, salt, dextrose, corn syrup solids, spice, citric acid, caramel color, dehydrated garlic and onion, cellulose gum, malic acid, natural flavor (OHMIGOD, say it ain't so!), onion powder, soybean oil, smoke flavor, grill flavor (malto-dextrin flavor (from partially hydrogenated cottonseed and soybean oil), modified corn starch, corn syrup solids), flavorings.

I'm not entirely sure what half of the ingredients are but I think I see sugar in about 18 different forms. I'm most in- would awe be the right word?- of the "grill flavor". So they take trans-fats, corn starch and corn syrup and that tastes "like" the grill. It probably would have been cheaper and easier to just chuck a lump of gas-soaked charcoal in the MRE bag and it would probably taste just like most backyard American barbecues. But then the food scientists wouldn't get paid and cynically-minded, sustainable food nerds would have nothing to blog about.

The real reason I'm mentioning the MRE's? Deep down I'm wondering if anyone would notice if I stocked the boat with 630 of them. Forget the shopping list. My work here is done.

Speak, Max, speak!

2006-05-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

The Longest Shopping List of My Life (see last post) is taking The Longest Amount of Time so stay tuned for tomorrow's post where I finally have time to talk about it.

In the meantime, I'm so excited to report that "the couscous to my tagine", my trusted loyal crewmate Max has started her own blog named OCD at Sea. A simple read of her inaugural post will explain the title.

The art of menu-planning

2006-04-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

It's T-16 days here at hardtack. I'm gearing up and I'd like to share with you the process of planning for and executing the provisioning for this trip. First theoretically and then, in later entries, practically.

I've been in this profession for over 10 years now and this is truly a unique experience for me. Countless times I've balanced the elements in a single dish, considering its placement alongside other items and its role on the plate as a whole. I've then extended that balance to the entire menu. But this menu-planning exercise involves a level of complexity that has been a positive edge-pushing challenge for me. Because not only do I need to balance a dish and a set of courses, but they need to balance with that day's other meals, and then...one step further, with the meals the days before and the days after. The entire 21 days of meals need to have a cohesiveness. Of course, we could just eat hardtack every day.

The other thing I've had to keep in mind is that there are really only 3 places to stock up on food. Here in Seattle, in Nanaimo, BC in the first few days and then in Ketchikan, AK for the last 2-3 days of the trip. The freshness of our food will need to be preserved for as long as possible and when that is no longer feasible, I will need to apply all my skills to turn that pantry into something delicious. Because I can tell you that, short of fresh fish, I have heard that finding fresh produce in this area is harder than hardtack.

Another important factor for me to keep in mind is that all exotic ingredients must be loaded up on the boat in the next week or so, here in Seattle. What happens if I forget something here in Seattle? Either I suck it up or I'm forced to walk into a tiny British Columbia or Alaskan coastal town market and say, "um, excuse me..good day! Can you tell me where I can find smoked Spanish paprika? Oh, I see. Surely you have a little touch of ground sumac? Right. Wasabi tobiko? Truffled sea salt? Serrano ham? No, that's quite all right...I'll take those pringles, some beer and that bear jerky." In fact, that might be the best thing. I've talked the talk of eating local...it's time to walk the walk. Bear jerky pot de creme anyone?

As a private chef and cooking instructor, menu planning and teaching about menu planning is a big part of my job. So what's in a menu? And why do I choose to include some things and not others? I tend to focus my menus on what the season has to offer as well as on ingredients I can find locally. So, the first question that pops in my head is: What's in season? I find the answer to that question before writing or advising on a menu. I developed a website that answers that question for any of you chefs or home cooks that are located in the Pacific Northwest. Answering the "what's in season" question accomplishes many things at once: it features food at its prime, cuts down on shipping out of season food from all over the world and matches, not so surprisingly, what people crave at different times of the year.

In the cold, rainy winters here in Seattle, it is the slow-cooking braised dishes with root vegetables and meats that make the rain seem almost quaint. And then, as a kid, I remember summers, in the heat of August, my grandfather would bring his salt shaker out to my grandmother's garden. Bare-chested, little blue shorts on, house-shoes, he would stand in the New Jersey sun and eat the biggest, reddest, most delicious tomato out of hand.

Once I know the seasonal ingredients, I then check in with clients about their favorite ingredients, ingredients to avoid, allergies and health concerns. I often ask them about what cuisine appeals to them or to name their favorite restaurants. At that point, your creativity comes into play as you work with the season's ingredients and use them as the focal point, using herbs, spices, curry pastes, rubs, etc...to present an authentic or authentic with a twist take on the cuisine in question. Once we've settled on a cuisine, I determine the style of service: buffet, plated, family-style, indoor or outdoor, casual or formal? Is the meal going to be served all at once or be a multi-course affair? How many courses?

No matter the service style, one of the most important aspects of menu planning involves the concept of balance. The best way to explain how to balance a menu might be by way of first showing imbalance. I love to tell the sordid tale of my brother and my early experiments with pastry-making. Our father would purchase some Double-stuff Oreo cookies and on the D.L. my brother and I would systematically scrape the filling out of the middles and form what I dubbed "the snowball". We would offer up the tops and bottoms to our older brother who liked them and then, with our dirty, grubby little fingers, we would take a knife to the snowball and divide it in half. We'd sit and watch T.V. while eating our bounty. It makes my teeth chatter to even think about this right now, but I think it raises a good question. What was my father doing buying us so much junk food? No, that's another, different question. My point is that all that snowball needed was a well-made dark chocolate ganache to perfectly balance the sweetness of the white filling.

Clearly, there is no accounting for taste. The most important rule to follow is the rule of one's own taste buds. If you like a certain combination, you should go for it.

But for those looking for more guidance I give some examples: What would pair well with a braised Moroccan chicken tagine, flavored with cinnamon, lemon, and green olives? There are some strong flavors going on here with a sauce that would do well to be paired with something to soak up the juices. Keeping within the cuisine I would suggest a cous-cous. The more heavily spiced, flavored and complicated the tagine, the simpler the cous-cous should be. If you add all sorts of different spices and ingredients to it, it may compete with the flavors you want to convey in the tagine. In this case, you're balancing these two dishes by letting the tagine be the star and allowing the cous-cous to play back-up. This is an example of matching a rich dish with a textural starch that has enough integrity to hold up to the main dish, while simultaneously balancing a strong flavor with a milder flavor.

Imagine, for contrast, pairing a very pungent spicy, strong puttanesca sauce with delicate handmade vermicelli noodles. In my opinion, not a good match. The delicacy of the noodles would be lost under the weight, spice and heft of the sauce. In this case, you need a pasta that can stand up to the strength of the sauce. Preferably you would choose a hearty spaghetti noodle, or a ridged penne to catch the bits of chunky sauce. I have found, when teaching, that engaging students' intellect and curiosity about the "why's" of cooking helps make it understandable, less mysterious, and ultimately more accessible.

Balance further extends to color, texture and shape. There are definitely times when I choose to present a dish in various shades of the same color, but in general a dish that plays on several colors will help whet someone's appetite. Similarly, a dish of all smooth things is less interesting on the eye than a dish that contrasts various textures.

The next thing I consider is flow. If I'm suggesting a multi-course menu, I like to teach my students about the rhythm involved with orchestrating a meal. How do we know what goes first, what goes next and how to finish a meal? In general, I like to structure a multi-course menu much like a wine tasting where you might start with a crisp, refreshing champagne, move to a light white, gradually working towards a heavier red and finishing with a sweet dessert wine. Start a meal with a heavy, heavy dish and the light delicate consomme that follows will be lost. I like to start meals with small bites that are pungent, often tart (which stimulates the appetite) and not too spicy. If the first thing a guest eats is an incendiary bite of chili, that delicate piece of fish will taste like chili. Often at the end of a meal or in the middle of a meal a sorbet will be served to cleanse the palate. This is a great technique to erase the past flavors, refresh oneself and then start anew with new flavors (not unlike the bite of bread between tastes of wine, or a sip of green tea between bites of sushi). Similarly, a salad served after a heavy main course can be refreshing and leaves the guest feeling lighter and less weighed down than if they finished with a braised dish.

Here's a sample multi-course dinner menu that I developed for a class to give you a sense of the things I've written about.

Early tastes of a Seattle spring...

Pea pancakes with sorrel-chive creme fraiche and apple-smoked bacon

Slow-roasted black cod with pinot noir-green garlic sauce, garlic candy and morels, served with roasted potatoes and spring onions with lemon thyme oil

Shaved asparagus salad with fava beans, radish and borage flowers

First of the season trio of local goat cheeses, rhubarb jam and fennel-pepper grissini.

In this particular menu, I start with a chartreuse pea pancake with a tart sorrel cream and a little sprinkling of smoky bacon. I have consciously balanced color (various shades of green reminiscent of spring) with flavor (sweet pea, tart sorrel, and smoky, meaty bacon) and incorporated flow by starting with a small bite that is light and doesn't overwhelm the other dishes to follow. The appetizer is followed by the roasted black cod, a rich, oily fish with a deeply flavored red wine-green garlic sauce. The fish is strong enough to hold up to the strength of the sauce (where the flavor of sole might be lost). The acid in the wine also helps to cut the richness of the fish and the butter in the sauce. The potatoes act as a foil for the sauce (and a perfect medium for soaking it up) and the candied garlic is just a touch of sweetness to play off the richness. Following is a palate cleansing salad that balances color (green, red, and blue) and texture (long strips of asparagus, rounds of radish and star shaped points of the borage flower). And lastly, in lieu of a dessert, a cheese course follows that is a rich lingering finish, with a tart sweet jam and a savory breadstick.

If you start with great, seasonal, local ingredients, most of the hard work has already been done for you: by the farmer, rancher, cheese-maker, or Mother Nature. Coax that deliciousness out of your ingredients by letting them shine and speak for themselves.

Next up: The Longest Shopping List of My Life

Interesting note of the week: The Seattle Times just ran this article about the rash of food blogs in our fair city and beyond. Looks like I've jumped on the trend, in typical fashion, about 3 years after the bandwagon left town. I'd like to send out a special congrats to Dana and Shauna, who were mentioned in the article. You can check their blogs out by following the links I have posted on the sidebar to the right. Another special thanks to my friend, the Grand Poo-bette of the culinary world, for introducing me to the world of food blogs. It's thanks to her that my bills go unpaid, my work remains undone, and all conversations with friends become "blog fodder". When I get a crazy look in my eye and start giggling to myself, consider yourself duly warned.

My name is.....

2006-04-26T23:24:00.000-07:00

Like my photo? I liked the juxtaposition with my other self-portrait as a cracker. Sure some of you were calling me hardtack, or sea biscuit, or pilots bread. But most of you were calling me a cracker. I personally preferred "Salty" as in Saltine, or maybe as in "old salt" as if I knew my way around a boat. Now is the stern the front of the boat? Or the back? And do my "sea legs" take longer to get beneath me because mine are twice as long as my loyal Corgi, Max?

But really I want to talk about my "attempt" at anonymity. Why? Because yesterday I realized that the photo I posted of the yacht says the name right on the back of it, clearly visible in the blow-up. My mother and friend outed me in a record breaking 3 minutes flat. And most embarrassingly, after a tongue-in-cheek scolding of said mother and friend about their carelessness, I then, unwittingly, posted a photo of my seasickness meds that, at first, had my entire name clearly visible on the label.

Why the attempt to go incognito? I think I fantasized about the life of a renegade chef-writer, cooking at sea, writing it all down for posterity while gazing firmly at my own navel. Think of the edginess, the attitude, the joy ride in the blatant lack of professionalism. I imagined great freedom from accountability that could come with no real identity.

I think it's probably possible to do this on the web. But clearly, all signs for me point to no. So here we go. Blog, take 2. This time, let's step out of the closet intentionally. Max is still Max. But Chef's other name is Becky. And Becky lives in Seattle. And one day Becky took a job working as a chef for a company called Grand Banks. And this year Grand Banks turns 50. And hence, the reason for the flotilla of 20 Grand Banks owners signing up for the tour of a lifetime.

I still think Chef is a more fun name and I'll use other fun names to protect the innocent as we travel together up to Alaska. But from here on out I'll be straight with you (so to speak).

The essentials

2006-04-26T08:11:00.000-07:00

The back of the packaging for the "Noise Husher" says, and I quote, "HUSHER Foam ear plugs muffle noise to a whisper so you won't miss important sounds. You will still hear doorbells, alarms, and other important sounds." Let's see..what are the important sounds one might hear on a boat at night? I'm relieved to know that when someone rings the doorbell, I'll be the first to answer the door. Alarms, check...those are highly likely. "Other important sounds." Hmmm, that leaves too much to this land-loving cracker's imagination. But, truthfully, what the "Noise Husher" leaves me wondering most about is this: A snore muffled to a whisper is a whispery snore, right? I might even be able to respect a full-on snore, but a whispery snore? Decisions, decisions.

I decided today that "The Sea Adventures of Chef and Max" could have been another good title for this blog. But then quickly realized in this case it connoted what would likely and ultimately be, a demented children's story. Max sure didn't like the image of herself in what would be cast as the dog role. I told her that, well, no offense (of course) but that just might be spot-on. She sleeps at the bottom of my bed, is half my size and snores.

But back to the topic at hand. What other important items am I getting ready to "provision" the boat with? We boaters "provision". We don't "stock" nor "load" and we definitely don't "pack". And while we are speaking lingo here, Max informed me yesterday that, at sea, you are always responsible. When one is anchored at night, you are literally and linguistically "on the hook". Indeed, if it is bedtime and you are care-free and "off-the-hook", in this new watery world, my friends, you are, in fact, in deep s--t.

My latest boat purchase was this pair of shoes. Light-weight, breathable, sturdy, comfortable. All good attributes for a pair of shoes, none of them being the reason this purchase was made. No, the reason I got this pair of shoes has to do with the white soles. Until your first yachting experience, you probably never noticed the bottoms of your shoes. But I can now tell you that every single pair of shoes in my closet has some black on the bottom. Apparently, they can design a 70 foot, fully loaded luxury yacht but can't design a floor that doesn't show the markings from the land-loving dolt who wandered on, leaving a shameful trail of black skid-marks in their path. I'm a bit concerned about the off-white, grayish parts of my soles in the shoes pictured. Yet another drama remaining to unfold. You can be sure that if I leave a trail, I will photo document the damage for you to see.

One wonders how Chef will accomplish the goal of 21 days of 3 meals a day (63 meals for you math minors) when she is so deeply and utterly and insanely worried about her sleep, her stomach, her lingo, her skid-marks. T-17 days until we find out if the NOISE HUSHERS are worth $3.75. T-17 days until we find out if Chef provisioned the boat with the correct food staples, pharmaceuticals and non-marking shoes. T-17 days until we see if Max is a good dog, or a very naughty, naughty dog.

A contest....

2006-04-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

To the astute and witty reader who can properly name Max's invention...a piece of hardtack for your troubles. I'll save it from the trip. It will still be good, I'm sure.

Departure minus 18 days

2006-04-25T08:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, here I go. I'm dipping my toes into the proverbial pool of online blogging. Damn, it's COLD. And I feel a bit unprepared, but live on the edge, sister...live on the edge. Not only have I signed on to chef for the boat pictured above, teach some cooking classes to the 20 boats on this tour, but I've taken on all of you as my travel partners. Sure, you don't have to keep reading...but aren't you in the slightest bit curious to see if I end up hurling the better contents of my gourmet meals over the side of the boat? I'm thinking the pounds of pharmaceuticals I've supplied myself with might do the trick...but ya never can know.

My roommate and fellow crewmate on this adventure, we'll call her Max, has warned me that she's a snorer. We're tucked in like two bugs in a rug, in what I hear, are pretty generous crew quarters. I'm a boating newbie and also of mildly Amazonian proportions, so as I bent over and crawled up to my top bunk, knocking my head on the ceiling, I was silently cursing Max's tiny stature. Being tall in the world has served me well. Until now.

Max has devised a theoretical fix for my woes. We haven't named it yet, but it's a foam helmet to protect me from the menacing beams, ceilings and other dastardly obstacles meant to give me fits. As value-added features, it sports a chef pez dispenser that doles out my sleeping pills and anti-nausea meds. It has a nifty eye covering made of the finest silk. It attaches to a beer-bong-like catheter that meets up with Max's down below and takes it directly to the "head". That's boat-speak for the loo. See, I'm learnin'! Finally, my addition....it has a secret button that, Rube Goldberg like, flips Max over in her sleep to cut off the snoring.

So stay tuned...look in this space for updates on my preparations, mental, culinary and otherwise. It's going to be a really big show, ladies and gentlemen, a really big show.