Confessions of a Traveling Foodie

There are two factors that determine my affection for a country:

1/ The attitude of the people

2/ The quality of the food

I’ve been very fortunate to have had a 99% success rate with the countries I’ve visited (only one country has disappointed me, and no, I won’t share!). As a self-confessed foodie, I keep a “food diary” when abroad. It’s full of recipes I’ve collected from chefs and new-found friends, and every recipe has an entry about where I first tried a particular dish, my first impressions of the place, and the people I shared the meal with.

On top of my food adventures list is Ushuaia, Argentina. Situated on Tierra del Fuego, Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world (although the Chileans will dispute this—don’t get them started). Located on the icy shores of the Beagle Channel and surrounded by the Martial chain of mountains, Ushuaia could easily be mistaken as a seaside town in Scandinavia. It’s now a stepping off point for boat trips to Antarctica, but for me, Ushuaia is where I had one of the most wonderful experiences in my life—even though I didn’t know it at the time.

Somehow I’d stumbled upon a hostel owned by a couple who looked like they’d just stepped out of a hippie commune. My gentle hosts knew little English, but smiled and made me feel welcome the minute I knocked on their door. Although the hostel rooms were small, the communal living area had a massive floor-to-ceiling window with some of the most magnificent views of Ushuaia. Snow-capped mountains framed the steely gray waters of the port where yachts bobbed up and down. Off in the distance were penguin colonies, and some of the world’s most remote ranches. My planned stay of a week stretched into a month.

In the back of the hostel was a shiny, stainless steel kitchen. Guests had access to the fridge, ovens, and cooking utensils, and most nights a cook-off would take place. Travelers from all over the world made their favorite recipes to ward off homesickness, and it was a delight to try out meals from far-flung locales. But things changed dramatically when Rosa and Paulo from Mendoza, Argentina, arrived.

I’d only been in Argentina a short time so I was still testing the waters with my rudimentary Spanish. A trip to the supermarket that should have taken 10 minutes would drag into an hour because I had to pull out my dictionary every time I read a label or needed to ask for something. It hadn’t worried me, but Rosa decided to take me under her wing, and I quickly became her pet project. Determined for me to get a grasp on the language, Rosa dragged me to the markets, confiscated my Spanish/English dictionary, and made me memorize words and phrases. This curvy, pint-size woman with red, frizzy hair scared the crap out of me. She smiled as she barked orders, and I obeyed by reciting my fruits and veggies, hoping this tough love would pay off. Either that, or very shortly, Rosa would jump onto a plane back to Mendoza.

The view from the hostel window in Ushuaia

After a few days, Rosa handed me a piece of paper written in her cursive script, with her g’s and y’s dropping down two lines. Of course, the note was in Spanish. She told me she’d organized for a feast at the hostel that night, and I was going to be in charge of the empanadas. That’s when I tried out some choice Spanish phrases. She shrugged, handed me a plastic bag of ingredients, and said she’d be back shortly.  

I peered into the bag, found the empanada ingredients, and stared at the note. Mierda. I could barely boil water without burning the bottom of the pot; how on earth was I going to make empanadas and feed the hungry hordes? Everyone else was out on excursions or at a bar that afternoon, so I was alone in the large, cold kitchen and felt very, very lonely. The door banged open, I looked up, and Rosa waddled in clasping a couple of bottles of fine Mendocino Malbec.

She pulled out a couple of juice glasses, cracked open the bottle, poured the dark red liquid, and handed me a glass. We toasted to our health, I made a silent wish that I wouldn’t kill anyone with my cooking, and we set to work. That rainy afternoon, I learnt some Mendocino slang and what it’s like to like to grow up in Mendoza. I also increased my Spanish vocabulary ten-fold. Rosa showed me how to lovingly make the dough and filling, and how to shape these delights into little half moons, complete with swirly patterns. Little did I know, this experience was the start of my life-long love for the city that eventually became my home—Mendoza.

That night, we pushed the tables together, sat our 20+ guests down, and fed them some of the most delicious empanadas I’ve ever tasted (yes, I say so myself!). These pastries were made with love, laughter, and friendship and that flowed through to the group gorging themselves between animated conversations and taking large gulps of wine.

Months later I met up with Rosa and her husband in Mendoza, and we shared more cooking adventures. Her passion for her country’s food and love of people rubbed off on me, and now I enjoy introducing new dishes to friends and family. Although occasionally I still burn the pot that’s supposed to boil water.

And here’s the delicious empanada recipe:

Filling:

1 tbs olive oil

1 onion, finely chopped

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp paprika

Large pinch of ground nutmeg

Large pinch of ground cloves

3 hard-boiled eggs, peeled, coarsely chopped

15 pitted black olives

Melted butter, to brush

Pastry:

3 cups of plain flour

100 grams of chilled butter

1 tsp salt

1 egg yolk, lightly whisked

5 tbs chilled water

Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the onion, stir until it is clear and soft. Add the ground beef, stirring with a wooden spoon until brown and cooked through. Add the cumin, cinnamon, paprika, nutmeg, and cloves. Stir again and transfer to a large heatproof bowl. Leave in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. 

Make the pastry by placing the flour, butter and salt in a blender. Process until it looks like breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and water and process again until the dough starts to cling. Take out and place on a floured surface and knead the dough until all lumps are removed. Wrap in plastic and place in the refrigerator for about 20 minutes.

Line 2 large baking trays with baking paper. Turn on oven to 200C. Roll out the pastry until it is around 3 millimetres thick. Cut the pastry into 15 discs, 12 centimetres in diameter. 

Stir the egg into the ground beef and mix with the seasonings. Place a heaped tablespoon of ground beef in the centre of the pastry disc. Top with 1 or 2 olives and brush the edges of the pastry with water. Fold so it is in the shape of a half moon. Press the edges together and use a fork to crimp the edge. Place on a lined tray and repeat this until all the empanadas have been made. Put it in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Brush the empanadas with melted butter, bake in the over until golden (around 25 minutes). Eat and enjoy!

Lost and Fondue

One summer a number of years ago, I packed up and moved to Switzerland for three months. I rented a room in a 17th-century villa on a steep, cobblestone street in Boudry, the canton of Neuchâtel. By day, I worked as a machine translation analyst in Cortaillod, the next village over and an easy ten-minute walk from my room in Boudry. Evenings found me exploring my new temporary home, sipping hot chocolate and eating French pastries in the local cafes, exploring the winding streets and picture-perfect squares, and practicing my rudimentary French on anyone willing to listen. Weekends, I’d take the local train into the city of Neuchâtel, a pleasant half-hour ride through a landscape of rolling green meadows and vineyards. And always, I was on the trail of the perfect cheese fondue.

The search was a cinch because wherever I went, people were always asking, “have you ever eaten real Swiss fondue?”

The only possible response to that was, “no, but I’d love to try it.” Each time, I hoped no one could read my mind and discover all the previous occasions in recent weeks that I’d “tried” a real Swiss fondue for the "first" time.

I can’t say whether I ever found the perfect fondue, since each one I sampled was equally memorable. But one particular meal turned out to be unforgettable.

One weekend, some friends from Boudry invited me to go hiking in the nearby Jura Mountains. The trek took us up a narrow trail through leafy forests and clearings that offered stunning vistas of the undulating, green landscape: forested hills and meadows where grazing cows looked like the figurines you see in Swiss tourist shops. After a couple of hours, we stopped at a one-room shack that offered overnight shelter for long-distance hikers. It had wooden bunks at one end, a stove at the other, and a wooden picnic table out front.

While one friend went off to chill bottles of white wine in the mountain spring and another hooked up a propane bottle to the cabin stove (you had to bring your own), I sat down at the table and started grating cheese. Now I knew why my Swiss pals had been toting such heavy backpacks for a one-day’s jaunt into the wilderness.

Maybe it was the long, hot hike that made the food so appealing. Or the fresh mountain air and the relaxing sight of green hills framed against a clear blue sky. Or maybe it was just the jokes, laughter, and stories that accompanied the meal (including one preposterous tale about the time someone poured vast amounts of absinthe into Boudry’s Fontaine de la Justice on the patron saint's day and got the revelers’ roaring drunk). But I can still taste that fondue: the salty, molten cheese, the slight tang from the wine, the chewiness of the crusty bread.

Photo by Cedric Trachsel

There is no clear agreement on where and when fondue originated. Some accounts say it began with goat herders in Neuchâtel, others claim it originated in nearby Valais, while still others say it’s not originally Swiss at all but was invented in Savoy, a historical region between Switzerland and France. One of the earliest recipes comes from a 17th-century Zurich cookbook, which describes it as “cheese cooked with wine.”

In the 1930s the Swiss Cheese Union promoted fondue as Switzerland’s national dish in an attempt to boost cheese sales. Every region has its own version, using different mixes of local cheeses that give the regional varieties different flavors and textures. In Neuchâtel, the cheeses are Gruyere and Emmenthaler. This, my Boudry friends insist, is the authentic version because, like everyone else, they claim their canton to be the true birthplace of fondue.

Here is the recipe for the fondue I enjoyed during my hike into the Jura Mountains (proportions are approximate, since we didn’t measure anything and I wrote down the recipe only after returning to town):

1 clove garlic, halved

225 grams (½ lb.) Gruyere cheese, grated

225 grams (½ lb.) Emmenthaler cheese, grated

¼ liter (about 1 cup) dry white wine

2 tablespoons kirsch

1 tablespoon potato starch or cornstarch

day-old baguettes, cut into cubes with a piece of crust left on each one (helps them stay on the fork)

Freshly grated pepper

Rub the inside of a heavy-bottomed pot with the garlic clove and discard. Heat the wine over medium heat without boiling. Add the grated cheese and stir constantly in a figure-eight pattern until the cheese melts. Dissolve the starch in the kirsch and add to the pot. When everything is bubbling remove from the heat and season with pepper. Dip the bread into the fondue and enjoy. Pair with wine or hot herbal tea, but avoid cold beverages, which can give you a nasty bellyache.

Bon appétit!

Off The Beaten Track: The Italian Connection

Our guest blogger today is Cathi Stoler, an award-winning advertising copywriter turned crime novelist. Her first mystery/suspense novel, Telling Lies, is set in Italy. Other novels in this series will include Keeping Secrets, which delves into the subject of hidden identity, and, The Hard Way, a story about the international diamond trade. She has also written several short stories including Fatal Flaw, which was published online this April at Beat To A Pulp, and Out of Luck, which will be included in the upcoming New York Sisters in Crime anthology, Murder New York Style: Fresh Slices.

When I was a child, my paternal grandparents were already quite old. They had emigrated from southern Italy at the turn of the last century and had never learned to speak English very well. Visiting them for Sunday dinner was more of a chore than a joy as it was very difficult to communicate. They would speak in Italian, and I would nod yes or shake my head no. The wrong response brought scowls and frowns and quick retorts in Italian, which I understood all too well. As you might imagine, embracing my Italian heritage was not high on my list of things to do.

When I grew older, my curiosity took over and I decided that I wanted to see Italy and understand where my family had come from and the culture they’d brought with them. I visited a few times and thought it was a truly beautiful country, but I really fell in love with it one summer when my husband, daughter, and I decided to spend a month in Tuscany.

I prepared for the trip by studying Italian for a year before and was very happy I did. Even though my Italian was just cosi cosi, so so, everyone made an effort to understand and speak to me. We rented a small house not too far from Florence in the tiny village of Iesa, which served as our home base. In just a few days, we fit into the rhythm of the village, buying our food and wine at the local alimentari, sitting on the veranda at night sipping vino or Cappuccini  and becoming friends with our neighbors, who are still good friends to this day.

It was a glorious awakening to the Tuscan region, a truly amazing place filled cypress trees, field after field of sun flowers, magnificent villas, walled towns, wineries, and winding roads that led to one gorgeous vista after another. And then of course, there was the art. Being near Florence, we visited its many museums and galleries, including the magnificent Uffizi.

My new novel, Telling Lies, opens in Florence at the Uffizi Gallery, one of the world’s great museums. There, my protagonist, Laurel Imperiole, has an encounter with an acquaintance whom she believes to have died on 9/11. The story revolves around a priceless artwork stolen by the Nazis, which is being sought by a cutthroat billionaire art collector among others, and pits Laurel and private investigator, Helen McCorkendale, against the NYPD, the FBI, and the Israeli Mossad. 

Setting my story in Florence, one of the world’s most art-rich cities, gave me a unique opportunity. I was able to incorporate its interesting sites, as well as the facts I’d learned about its culture and people, into the tale. In a way, Italy is as much a character in the novel as any of the people.

We’ve been back to Italy many times since to visit our friends and to visit other places across the country, from Naples in the south where my family came from, to Courmaier in the Alps, as well as many cities in between. In fact, a trip to Venice prompted me to learn glass blowing, which I studied for ten years and hope to include in a future novel. I guess that means I’ll just have to take another trip to Italy for some additional research.

Cathi is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Visit her at http://www.cathistoler.com/.  Her novel, Telling Lies, is available on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Telling-Lies-Cathi-Stoler/dp/160381843X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1300989056&sr=8-1

Alex's Lemonade Stand

Alexandra Scott was probably the youngest founder of a charity fund in history.

On her first birthday, Alex was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a type of cancer that occurs in young children or infants. It is not well understood form of malignancy and a rather rare one – about 600 registered cases a year in the United States – and it manifests itself in various ways. A chest tumor causes breathing problems, an abdominal one leads to digestion problems, and a spinal cord formation robs the child of his ability to walk. Alex's parents were told that even if she beat the beast, she probably would never be able to use her legs. 

Two weeks later, Alex proved them wrong when she started moving her legs and kicking. By her second birthday, she was crawling and able to stand up with leg braces. She underwent treatments and appeared to be winning her battle, but the tumors started growing again. As her fourth birthday’s present, she received a stem cell transplant and decided to raise money so “the doctors could help other kids” as they’d helped her. She told her mother of her idea and founded Alex’s Lemonade Stand. When she was out of the hospital, she set up her stand on her front yard and began raising money for cancer research. Her older brother helped out, and the news about the incredible sick girl so committed to helping others spread quickly. Over the next four years, Alex raised more than $1 million to finding the cure for her disease. Unfortunately, she did not live to see that moment – she died shortly after she turned eight.

Her foundation, however, continues to exist, helping children fight cancer. Her front yard idea inspired a national movement, a phenomena that to date has raised more than $30 million dollars, not only for research but also as emergency cash for families who need funds to travel. Given the not-so-well-known fact that childhood cancer is the number one killer of children in the United States, it is one of the best causes we can donate to. Alex’s Lemonade Stand is an official charity foundation that operates under the belief that every person – big, small, ill, or healthy – can make the difference.

I was luckier than Alex. When I was 12, I was struck with a rare disease that was slowly taking away my ability to walk. I lay in bed for three years and read books.  Similarly to Alex, on my fifteenth birthday I received my own unique present – a spine surgery that gave me back my legs.  But, unlike her, my method of fighting my infirmity was to withdraw, to go inward, to escape into a fictional world. Perhaps, it was because I lived in a different society and at a different time. Still, I didn’t have the emotional strength to come forward and convince people to join the cause. That’s why there is no Lina’s Lemonade Stand or any other Lina’s charity fund for that matter.

But there is Alex’s. http://www.alexslemonade.org/  
 
Got a quarter? 

A Virtually Perfect Revolution

There’s a Bollywood megastar who’s famous for removing his shirt on the big screen to show off his well-sculpted torso. Today’s piece is not about him but about someone who shares his name – Salman Khan – and who could soon become a household name in his own right (so we hope) for his incredible, and very different kind of work on the small screen.

This “other” Salman Khan goes by Sal and was born in New Orleans to immigrant parents from Bangladesh and India. Sal grew up to be a brilliant student – not only was he valedictorian  of his high school, but he earned three Ivy League degrees (in mathematics, electrical engineering, and computer science from MIT and an MBA from Harvard). He went on to become a hedge fund analyst in Silicon Valley until a few years ago, when he did a small favor for his cousin that led him to his true calling.

It started in 2004 when this young cousin, back in New Orleans, needed help with her math homework. Sal spent time tutoring her over the phone from California and used Yahoo Doodle notepad to give her a simple online visual of the math problems he was explaining. Soon other cousins wanted to join the discussion and learn from their helpful older cousin, this MIT graduate with a math degree. But teleconferencing up to six cousins per call got complicated, plus they wanted to bring their friends in on the free instruction, so Sal had to get more resourceful. He began recording his tutorials – using the same simple black backgrounds and colorful, chalk-like fonts – and overlaying them with his calm, gentle explanations. He then uploaded them to You Tube and watched as they received, say, six hits per lesson, then 14, and soon 20, and so on.

At a certain point, it became clear his cousins and their friends weren’t the only ones clicking on these links. Sal soon began receiving emails from students of all ages and, get this, from all over the world to thank him for helping them pass their math class or else making one of their least favorite subjects interesting. See where this is going?

Two years ago, Sal walked away from his lucrative hedge fund career to revolutionize education. As he told one reporter, with minimal effort on his part, he can provide free education to empower anyone, anywhere. Today, the Khan Academy channel at You Tube offers 2,300 free, online lessons in mainly math, chemistry, and economics, with plans to expand to history and biology next. These lessons have been viewed more than nine million times.

As a true testament to Sal’s vision, Bill Gates (who supports the academy through his foundation) says he uses the You Tube courses to teach his own kids. In 2010, Google gave the academy $2 million to create more courses and translate its library into 10 of the world’s most spoken languages. The same year, Sal made it on Fortune’s prestigious “40 Under 40” list. The academy is now working on programs to take free education to parts of the world, such as isolated parts of Asia and Africa, where it's least accessible.

In the meantime, the next time your child struggles with his or her homework, you know where to direct them – not only for, say, math guidance but to inspire them with this powerful testament to the difference one individual can make.

When Tourism Doesn't Mean Vacation

Alli and kids on a project in Bolivia

My first Christmas in Peru was spent in a children’s hospital and orphanage for specials needs kids in Lima. Through this experience, Christmas came to mean something new to me--it’s about reaching out to complete strangers and giving the gift of caring and time. Those precious moments started me on a lifetime of volunteering, including teaching English to kids selling post cards to tourists in Peru, and working as a volunteer for various “official” organisations around the world. 

I’ve often wondered what inspires individuals to reach out to a community and help. For some, it’s a status thing (“Hey, look at me! I just spent a month in Africa handing out rice. I’m such a good Samaritan!), but for most, it’s a chance to help and connect with people from a different culture.

I worked for 15 years in the travel industry and had many, many clients combine a stint of volunteer work with a regular holiday. The term “voluntourism” is relatively new, but the idea behind it isn’t. People have travelled overseas and volunteered on their own accord for years. These days, people can book a trip through a specialist volunteer tourism company and, just like a regular holiday, the agent will organise their flights, visas, travel insurance, and hotels. Instead of sending the client to a resort, they’ll travel to a community project and help out.

I am Pollyanna-like and tend to think most people volunteer out of a desire to help others, rather than for the status of being a do-gooder. I believe there is a need for volunteer tourism, especially for people who are too busy in their everyday lives to go through the lengthy process of finding a project that suits their skills and a community’s needs. I totally get that. But there are a few things that concern me, and I would hope that anyone contemplating such a trip would ask a lot of questions. Such as: 

What percentage of my money will go to the community involved and what will that money be used for?

Could a local be paid to do the type of volunteer work I’m about to undertake? If so, then why would I do it and take their livelihood away?

Can I use my skills to train locals so their project can be self-sustaining going forward?

How is our involvement going to help the community in the long term? Who will monitor the project and ensure it is completed successfully? Who will make sure the locals have the skills and money to run the project on their own in the future?

Helping out at a village in northern India

Will I be living with the locals? Will I have an opportunity to learn about local culture and get to know the people on a personal level?

A volunteer tourism company should be transparent and answer these questions honestly without hesitation. Most people who want to take these kinds of breaks are savvy travellers, so it’s a good idea to go with the gut feeling as to whether a company is being upfront. 

Taking a taxi to a dusty village and labouring for a few hours before returning to a five-star hotel for a refreshing swim is not what I imagine when it comes to volunteering in a foreign country. Living with the host family, helping out with the daily chores, and learning ways to communicate with the locals are all aspects of what I call “volunteer immersion”. Helping a community realise a dream that has been years in the making can be one of the most rewarding experiences on earth.

This is why it’s up to us, the volunteers, to monitor these companies who sell volunteer tourism packages. We need to make sure the money is going directly to the community and projects, and that the locals are learning new skills that will help them over the long term. Our responsibility as a volunteer starts the moment we decide to participate in a project, and it should continue until well after we return to our heated apartments with fresh, running water. 

Realistically, not many of us have the time or money to spend long stints volunteering abroad. No doubt, many of you reading this have already volunteered overseas, or would like to, at some stage. What we need to do as individuals, and as a collective of like-minded people, is to ensure that when we do volunteer, our efforts are worthwhile. And that means the people we help, gain long term benefit.

Whether it’s two weeks, two months, or two years, volunteering can change the lives of many, including, you, the volunteer.

How about you? Have you volunteered on any foreign projects, or are there any you would like to be involved in?

Food From the Heart

It’s a balmy fall evening in Tehran. The city sparkles with strings of colorful lights that make me think of Christmas. Green and white cloths are wound around trees lining the streets, and huge banners bearing slogans in Arabic hang from the buildings. In the city squares, people wave flags and shout “Ya Mahdi!” It’s Nimeh Saaban, a religious Shiite holiday that celebrates the birthday of Zaman, the Twelfth Imam who went into hiding in the tenth century and is supposed to return to earth on Judgment Day.

I’m riding in a car heading north toward the mountains and when we stop at a red light, a man approaches and passes a box of pastries through the window. I eye the cream-filled buns uncertainly. I’ve seen Tehran street urchins rush up to cars and spray water on the windshield then demand payment for carwash services, a practice that usually causes the driver to erupt in a frenzy of angry curses and threatening fists. But everyone is smiling now.

“Take one,” my companions urge. “They’re free.”

I help myself to the pastry as well as a plastic cup of hot chocolate that someone else passes through the window. The pastry man wishes us health, happiness, and good fortune before moving on to the next car.

Later, I learned that this custom of distributing food in public spaces has a name. It’s called nazri, the art of sharing food with strangers. An art because, like much of Persian culture, there’s more to this ritual than meets the eye. And as is often the case in Iran, it’s not done on a small scale. Distributing pastries and hot chocolate is a minimalist form of nazri. More often it involves vats of rice and kebabs, cauldrons of gheymeh (a lamb and split-pea stew) or stock pots filled with halim (a porridge much like oatmeal but made from wheat berries). In short, it’s not intended for a family of four but for hundreds, even thousands, of people.

Nazri comes from the word nazr, which means “vow.” Essentially it’s a pact a person makes with God that if a certain wish comes true (often recovery from an illness), he or she will go out and feed the multitudes. While it’s possible to perform nazri at any time, this form of charity is often associated with religious holidays like Imam Zaman’s birthday.

Another such holiday is Ashura, which commemorates the martyrdom of Imam Hossein, the Prophet Mohammed’s grandson, in a 7^th-century battle between Shiite and Sunni forces. For a period of ten days, cauldrons filled with steaming food are set up along the streets, and volunteers hand out portions to passers-by. These offerings are not the thimble-sized food samples you might receive in a supermarket brand promotion, but normal-sized bowls filled to the brim.

While some families prepare all this bounty themselves, in today’s rushed society where many women work and have careers, it’s become common to order the food from a caterer and have it distributed in a family’s name. One traditional practice is to slaughter a lamb, cut it up, and give the meat to the poor.

Another custom related to nazri involves a trip to the cemetery, which for many Iranians is a regular weekend ritual performed on Thursday afternoons (in Islamic countries, Friday is the holy day of rest). Families visit the graves of their loved ones bearing not only flowers but also food—fruit, pastries, nuts, and tea—which they will share with other people who have come for the same purpose.

Many things in modern Iran are changing, and traditional customs are being lost. I hope that nazri continues for a long time to come, because there’s something about sharing food with strangers that makes us feel connected to our global community.