I'd give anything to be walking amongst these pigs foraging on acorns on large plots of land in Extremadura.
Everyday after walking, we would stop by the butcher and get a helping of cured meat and sip our vino tinto-- eating delicious, local food was one of our only concerns.
Seeing huge legs of cured meat hanging from rafters or on walls is typical to Europe. Every country has their way and delicacy and will argue that theirs is the best.
The US didn't import them and than started to last August when shortly after the US Dept of Agriculture called it unsanitary because of the attached hoof and will only take them hoof-less (which is a disgrace in Spain and an important sign of authenticity) as well as slapped a massive tariff on it.
So, when you over there in Europe, spend the Euro's, be adventurous and eat charcuterie!
There are three different varieties of the Iberico ham, often referred to a Pata Negra for their black color.
The most expensive and highly prized are the Jamon Iberico de bellota which are set free to graze in oak forests eating only acorns, grasses, herbs and roots. Prior to slaughter they are set loose in the fall when acorns cover the grounds eating enough to double their weight in 3 to 4 months. These hams are salted and cured up to 36 months and filled with healthy mono-unsaturated fats and oleic acid.
The Jamon Iberico de recebo is pastured and fed a combination of acorns and grain (barley/corn). And the Jamon Iberico pienso (the least expensive) is fed all grain and cured 24 months.
Pat with us in Rome (since Thailand and Laos we have met in Italy, Switzerland, Nova Scotia, Florida, Boston, and New York!)
“Canadians don’t have garbage disposals,” Pat says as he watches me stuff vegetable remnants down the sink. “We have always just composted.”
I ponder the garbage disposal. I think of all the places I have traveled and realize that I, too, have only seen the odd contraption in the US.
It was good to have Pat here to point out these cultural differences. Kiara and I met Pat six years ago on a ferry boat from the Thai Island Koh Samui to Koh Paghgnan. As traveling does, the three off us decided to go in search of accommodation together and ended up an inseparable trio. A few days after we meet Pat, Kiara meet her now husband Achim.
Sitting outside to a largely grilled meal of carnage, feeling the warm Florida breeze, it was like we were all still there, but old, a lot older. Achim had to lay down to rest his back, Pat had a swollen ankle the required taping and ice, Kiara is exhausted from working life and my bike commute kicks my ass every day (you would think that after a month I’d be in shape already).
In Thailand, we all stayed up until the sun rose dancing to Brittany Spears, Black Eyed Peas and Justin Timberlake on repeat (we heard it so many times, past the point of utter disgust that we eventually started liking it, even made some dance routines) and drinking, literally, buckets of vodka. These days, it’s a glass of wine and in bed by 10 PM. It’s good to know, everyone else is getting old too.
Pat ventured down to Miami to partake in a great American tradition—football. He came back in awe of the tailgate, the masses of people filling the parking lots drinking beer and grilling before noon. While in the game, he couldn’t get over the amount of verbal aggression the fans let loose. “I don’t know what it is, but Canadians are more reserved.”
“Oh yeah, you should go to Chicago sporting events. It’s like road rage times a million,” I inform him.
I have been working at a little French Café which I apparently suck at. I thrive with independence and when micro-managed, I inevitably fail, its like I get performance anxiety or who can do things right when there is someone constantly yelling at you to do things right? So, they moved me over to help the servers out—cleaning tables and such. Two of the servers are South American and full of sass. I like them. My entire life, I have felt more at home with other cultures (being an immigrant family? being raised by Polish ladies? Being from the Chi?) So, my demotion of sorts (I know, hilarious) has been a blast working with these ladies and not to mention the swarms of customers who come in from all over the country and world, like the old man who gave me a gold quarter or the old Spanish lady who tried to teach the other tables Spanish.
“I miss Brazil. I miss my friends. Americans are different. They are so individual. They have their houses and keep to them selves. In Brazil, everyone is over and we talk and talk until late in the night,” says one of the gals.
That’s why I travel. To be with people who enjoy life and their community and really—to spend all night devoted to eating dinner and spending time swimming in a sea of invigorating conversation just like we have created here on the back porch with Kiara, Achim and Pat—an international dinner table, good food and loyal friends who deeply understand that The Road is Life.
The wind is insane right now. It is so strong that I actually have to pedal to get down the hill and I have to work hard at pedaling to get down the hill.
Yesterday, I was lucky enough to borrow Ki's car and that's when I saw the little, old Hispanic man on his bike, riding against the wind. His face all scrunched up, his posture tight and his shirt puffed up like a balloon. You could see, he was pedaling with all his might but he was going absolutely no where. "I feel your pain, my friend," I said aloud. Riding in this wind is exhausting, if not just plain stupid. But, what ya gonna do?
The kite surfers are having a blast, though. The waves are a magical blend of swells and rolls. They rip back and forth with ferocious speed and then at the right moment the wind fills their kite and off they go, twirling in the air, literally flying for a good fifteen seconds.
I like the wind, a lot, makes me think of moving, sailing, going, adventuring; it makes me yearn to travel but I think this body, that's getting old, could use a break for I feel like a salmon going upstream. The fight is intense. But, it sure does make the evening meal well worth it!
Joe is the type of homeless guy that makes middle class white people feel good about their selves. The man is likable. He happily greets all who tread by him as if they were a long lost friend and this, I have observed, makes the white people feel good.
I heard about him the day I moved to this town yet little did I know I would spend every day in interaction with him at the bus stop where he spends the better part of the day when its not raining.
Looks can be deceiving, on all parts. Joe is not just a down and out homeless man and I am not your average white girl. The two of us, agree whole heartily on way of life: keep it simple.
“Now, why would I buy something?” he says looking around at his bicycle and at his umbrella perched above, “I ain’t got no place to put it. There’s no reason to buy anything. All these people buy things, then they gotta worry about it,” he preaches in his southern plantation accent.
“I hear ya. You’re right, that’s why I only have a couple boxes of stuff.”
“You ain’t got no car. You ain’t go no kids? Well, alllllright. You ain’t got nothing to worry about.”
Joe doesn’t worry. Says you can’t take your worries to heaven with you, so he lets all his worries go.
I don’t know why he’s homeless. He doesn’t drink, no drugs, his mentally and physically sound and I am sure the white people offer him jobs. I bet it is for the same reason I only have a few boxes of things, as he puts it “if you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to worry about.” And in that Joe and I have a freedom not many get to experience.
“And you know, hotels are too expensive these days,” and to this I reply that your better off spending your money on a tent. He chuckles, “You’d do that? You don’t seem the type.” He tilts his head back and points at the shrubs across the street and warns me about the rattle snakes and big, black poisonous things that will get me.
His gaze drifts over to my bike and he notices I don’t have a light on it and informs me that I could get arrested with out one as he once did. He spent the night in prison but they were out of beds leaving him with nothing but the floor. Always curious about food, I asked what they fed him.
“Oh, they had bologna and peanut butter and jelly but I didn’t eat. Not when there’s a guy who’s in there for the next 25 years and he wants your food. He don’t care.”
The bus descends on the stop and Joe points his chubby finger at the ground, signaling the driver to stop.
“You, need help, young lady?” he offers to help me put my bike on the rack.
As a young boy in Jamaica, his mom would tell him to fetch some coconuts and he would quickly shimmy up the tree and gather these I-tal fruits which gave you the ultimate form of re-hydration in its coconut water.
It's an apple farm in Mendocino that Vic and I stumbled upon during Harvest 2008 when we drove up to taste the Pinot Noirs and sparkling wines of Anderson Valley.
I immediately loved its sleepy charm with its products displayed outside with no one but a wooden box placed on a table to collect money from your purchase.
We scanned the vast amount of varietals that we had never seen before and eagerly bought some to taste and wandered around the property as we let the juice dribble down our chins to find goats, chickens and little, tiny cottages for guests to stay in!
I spent a lot of money over there in Europe. So, here I am hunkering down, trying to make money instead of spend it. Suffering, though, to replenish the funds is out of the question. Life is too short to not love what you’re doing. I consider it an adventure! That’s why I am here in tropical Florida.
Yesterday, I got my sixth library card. I now am a proud card holder in the states of California, Alaska, Colorado, Washington, Illinois and now Florida. I love the library. What’s not to love about free information, lots of reading material, music, movies and familiar faces? Like the transvestite who takes the bus with me or the customer I waited on at the French café.
Waited? I hear you say. Yes, I have been working at a sweet little French café ten miles from where I am living with Kiara and Achim—the reason I am here (and lets not forget the heat was a major deciding factor).
Ok, so I won’t be spending money on entertainment living with my (equally as food obsessed) friends and having access to the library, we got that one settled.
Now, the hardest thing I have found about moving anywhere in the US is the commute. I sold my car years ago claiming it was the right thing to do, better on my finances, better on the planet, and better on my health. This was after spending 1.5 hours commuting from Seattle across Lake Washington to Bellevue which was supposed to take 15 minutes. The waste of time drove me mad, I swore I would never experience that again.
It has been a test in resourcefulness. In Napa, thank goodness Victor was around, my fellow harvest intern and wine geek partner in crime. Without him, I would never have made it to all those wineries up in the distant valleys and hills of NapaCounty. And Zach, the wine maker, let me use his car that he used to take to drive in the vineyards on days he wasn’t out in the field.
Alaska was hitch hike friendly, so it was relatively easy despite the fact that once we hitched a ride with a man that would later become Homer, Alaska’s first murderer in eight years. Don’t tell my parents that one.
Colorado was difficult. Seattle was difficult. Chicago was good when it was warm but the subway in the winter is depressing, cold, wet and dirty.
When I took the job here in Florida, ten miles seemed like nothing. Ten miles takes an hour. That’s 2 hours a day of bike riding.
On Day 1, it seemed like a marvelous idea. I will be so fit, I will feel so good and save so much money.
On Day 2, doubt trickled in. I was ready to do anything but that bike commute. Kiara got nervous as she watched me obsessively scan Craigslist.com for a moped or scooter. “You can only get one if you can ride it on the sidewalk,” she protested.
Unable to find an alternative and remembering my commitment to paying off my debts, I kept riding. And bike commuting has become my salvation, my joy, and my peace of mind. I mean, I just had two days off of work and I can’t wait to work again so I can ride my bike.
My bosses are giving me a go at this café. Yes, I know food and adore France and have been of service, but lack those multi-tasking abilities required of a good server.
I lack that trait most common to women who can hold their baby, talk on the phone, cook dinner and clean up all at the same time. I like to do things one at a time hence why I was called “l’homme de la maison” in France because I was darn good at making a fire, repairing broken light sockets, taking out the trash or mowing the lawn-- jobs that required focus and determination.
Now, after a days work of multi-tasking (a skill I have to work hard on), I am spent and my hour ride home through the hot, balmy nights of Florida is the perfect stress release.
Exercise makes you happy and having to take this time, doing this physical act to get home has me feeling elated, calm and relaxed by lowering the stress hormone cortisol and pumping out those feel good endorphins.
Before all my travels, I used to go to the gym quite regularly, but working out inside has never felt right. My bike commute is like my own personal outdoor spinning class. And the best part of it all is this was a decision I made to save money. I save it on gas, insurance and buying a car and in return I am one less vehicle harming the environment and I am fit and I am immensely happy!
The rides home are my favorite. The clouds look like a Monet painting with all its purples, grays, pinks and oranges. Frogs, lizards and other swamp creatures jump in my path while I inhale the essence of the jasmine blossom and scan the grasses for wild mushrooms. It's an adventure for the body and senses!
When I get home, covered in sweat and feel as if I just had a massage, there is nothing better than sitting down to a home cooked meal and bottle of wine with Kiara and Achim.
The need to save money, living life simply has given me such a great gift of peace of mind. Sometimes, we learn so much from what we don't have, don't we?
In France, you can rest assured you won't eat something poisonous by taking your harvest into the pharmacy for examination. I would pick every mushroom I saw and take them into the pharmacist where he would tell me what was edible and what wasn't and why. My mushrooms knowledge grew exceedingly with this interaction.
Back in the US, where I don't have an expert to fall back on. I have taken to doing spore prints as well as using my field guide descriptions;the size, color, smell, form of growth (in clusters or singly), habitat (growing on a pine log vs. growing on a lawn), and time of year are all important clues to a mushroom's identity. Only by considering allof the details can accurate identification be assured.
A spore print is super easy to do. Put the cap of the mushroom on a sheet of paper, cover it with a glass bowl and leave it over night or around 8-12 hours. I have been using white paper, but if there is no print, try it again with black paper.
Et voila...the above picture was what I hoped to be a parasol mushroom (coulemelle in French), but when I woke up this morning I saw it's green print and knew it was the highly poisonous false parasol. Without the print, it is almost impossible to tell the difference. This is the mushroom that causes the most illness in North America and Europe.
If you are interested in learning to forage for mushrooms go with someone experienced, start with easily identified mushrooms such as morels or chicken mushrooms, get field guides for your area, do your spore print and always test your mushroom before eating it by eating a small test piece of it well cooked and with out alcohol (which can cause illness when combined) and watch for reactions. And do your research, don't read one little blog post and start your hunting read all you can and talk to other foragers.
Identification is fascinating and fun, even if you can't eat it, just look at how beautiful that poisonous spore print is!
My earliest memory of my pipe dream of becoming a butcher extends back to baby pig dissection in high school where I cut and divided the piece of the pig with a surgeons perfection.
As I entered my early twenties, I stumbled into five years of Veganism. I tried to argue the moral approach, but the truth was I just didn't want to eat meat that was slaughtered factory style because I knew it wasn't healthy and lacked in quality and taste.
As I fell in love with my Anatomy and Physiology studies in University, I grew keenly aware that each part of an animal had different functions and this helps in the understanding of preparing and cooking meat for instance you know the brain needs fat to function so brain will be a very fatty organ or you know that the shoulder of an animal has more muscle and tendon so will need to be cooked slow and long.
The pipe dream was reinforced through my travels when I was set lose in Paraguay to hunt the worlds largest rodent, the Cabybara, with local tribal hunters and as I lived in France, I was always the eager one to volunteer to help Pascal the farmer slaughter lamb and turkeys.
I have done slightly extensive google searches on how to become a butcher and have even written chapters in my book on the importance of knowing and communicating with your butcher. But, never quite found anything in the US on the subject until now when they NY Times published this article on butcher and slaughter courses done by farmers and butcher in the US.
These guys are charging $10,000 for an 8 week course on slaughtering and butchering. Well, you could just WWOOF and learn from farmers for free any where in the world as I did.
It's funny the way the pendulum swings in the States where one year the trend is fancy and worldly cuisine which imports ingredients from all over the world and the next year we are all local and wish to be farmers. But, now we are coming back to our roots. Genetically, I think, we are all wired to take an active role in harvesting our food, not just swiping the credit card at the restaurant and this new wave feels intrinsically good and right.
The article made quite a few remarks about the act of slaughtering being gross or make you feel guilt which is something I have never noticed with all the men I have hunted or slaughtered with around the world. It is necessity, it is our meal and it is way of life and it is time Americans knew what is involved with their food.
As I helped Pascal cut the lamb into sections from lamb chops to lamb roast, I saw what each cut was and whether it was the part of the animal that had more muscle and tendon and with this visual it helped me understand how to cook each cut more appropriately like slow cooking tougher pieces of meat with more tendon. Or when I handled all the turkeys gizzards, how many Americans are clueless as to what a gizzard is? This is why I say, know your butcher, he intimately knows your meat and will give you the best advice on how to cook each cut.
The taste of freshly and humanly butchered meat is incredible. As I always say, the secret to being a good cook has not much to do with your skill and everything to do with your ingredients. A nice piece of meat won't need much more than salt and pepper and perhaps some herbs.
I highly recommend this book. It is a pocket guide to meat and has in it every cut of meat and how to best cook it-- just like a butcher in your pocket!
This pic was taken from 'the Hugh Hefner of South Florida's' boat. Don't ask. My first day in Florida was on a 78 year old ex-detectives boat. Former body guard to Kennedy and everlasting womanizer took two Swiss boys and two American ladies trolling for sun shine and clear waters.
The Florida chapter is going to be a hoot. As I spent today swimming in the ocean, I find it hard to believe this is going to be life for I have been wanting to have a winter-less summer my entire life. The culture here is laid back...how can you be uptight when it is so hot?
Trained in Nutrition. Obsessed with food culture and tradition. Passionate about Old World wines. Been on the road, traveling the world observing people eat/drink for 6 years (30 countries). Most recent adventures were spent living at a B& B/farm in Limousin, France—enjoying food and culture the French way, living the remote life in Alaska and working the wine harvest in Napa Valley. Whether cooking regional dishes in France to hunting the world’s largest rodent in Paraguay to studying Acupuncture in China—I always have stories to share of eating, living and loving well…
I stumbled upon this photo just this minute. I had to post it.
