The Vanilla.COMpany Turns Ten: Celebrating a Miracle

How do we measure time?  Years, decades, significant events, transformative experiences?

I’ve been pondering this over the past few weeks  for a couple of reasons. 

Arriving in Athens For A Spectacular Storm!

It was difficult to leave Italy.   It felt as if we had barely scratched the surface  and there were  so many more places to visit!  But a ferry in Bari was waiting for us to board for an overnight ride to Patros

Sailing the Amalfi Coast

Just writing the title of this entry draws me back to the beautiful Southern Coast of Italy.  It’s rugged, with towns carved from rocky promontories and scrubby vegetation deeply entrenched into the landscape,

Roma in Late May

A Roman Holiday, La Dolce Vita, Three Coins in a Fountain — the list of movies filmed in this historic city goes on and on.  Close to three thousand years old, glamorous, filled with fashionable people,  glitterati and, the  origin of the paparazzi,

Lemon Festival in Cinque Terra, 2011

Rick Steeves declared Cinque Terre (five lands) his favorite place in his favorite European country.  In the early 1980s Rick, then a backpacker traveling through Italy, discovered

Home From Italy: Venice and Cinque Terra

As I have now lost the 2-1/2 pounds I gained eating my way through Italian pastry shops, I will say that I am still happy but not quite as plump as I was when I arrived home.  That said, I just baked a fresh peach pie for my housemate’s birthday and I’m hoping he’ll give me a piece as I wouldn’t want to wither away, especially while writing about food.

We left Cortona for Venezia by train, arriving just before noon. 

Home From Italy Fat and Happy! Cortona

Let’s face it:  If you’re a foodie and you go to Italy and Greece  for three weeks, you’re going to gain weight.  It’s a given.   In fact, the only thing that saved me from returning as a full-on  roly-poly, was that we walked five to nine miles a day.  How do I know this?  I wear a pedometer.

My five friends and I met up at the Rome airport, caught the shuttle to the train station and headed for Cortona, 2-1/2 hours to the north.  Cortona is an Etruscan hill town, roughly 2500 years old.  The road from the train station in Tarantola meanders up the hillside to Garibaldi Square, near the center of Cortona.  From there, the town continues its upward spiral toward the sky.  A castle and centuries-old church look down on the town, which, in turn,  looks down on beautiful, verdant Tuscany.  It’s a breath-taking view.

We rented an apartment slightly down the road from the square.  From the outside it appeared just like the other places along the streets — a nondescript wall with a nondescript door.  Inside, however, it was charming — two stories, with open beamed ceilings, stuccoed walls and with occasional sections left open to expose the old stone, mud brick and wood.

By now it was nearly 8:30 and most of us had been on the road for many, many hours, so we headed to La Grotta, a charming Tuscan restaurant where I had  my favorite meal in Italy.

Before I continue, I need to interject that we were all traveling on a budget, so we did not dine on piatti after piatti of divine cuisine.  It was more like one piatto plus wine or dessert.    What we didn’t eat in restaurants we made up for in delicious sandwiches,  bread and local cheese  and a righteous number of pastries purchased at little shops and bakeries that would suddenly appear like a mirage — except that they weren’t.

So what did I have that was the best meal in Italy?  Light as clouds spinach and ricotta gnocchi with fresh truffle sauce!!  Washed down with crisp white wine.  I groaned with pleasure with each bite.  Later, when I toured the kitchen, I spotted a platter overflowing with truffles.  How could anything so ugly taste so good?

As truffles are killer pricey, here’s a recipe for spinach and ricotta gnocchi with sage butter sauce.  Got truffle butter?  Use it!

Saturday mornings the farmers market comes to Cortona.  Except it isn’t just a farmers market.  It’s more like a traveling department store.  There were gorgeous purple artichokes, piles of fava beans, haricorts verts, sweet peas, strawberries, local apples and citrus.

There were also bins filled with enough hard candies to fill the Christmas stockings of all of Tuscany’s children, shoes, belts and purses, dresses, shirts and slacks, leather goods, bolts of fabric including laces, Oriental rugs, and even pots and pans.

I was quite taken by vans with cold cases that slide out and are covered with a canopy.   Fresh cow, goat and sheep cheese, yogurts, Parma hams, proscciuto, poultry, fish and shell fish, chickens roasting on spits — all of this was set up for shoppers by 8:00 a.m.

Before I had even hit the market I discovered Banchelli’s Bakery.  Of course I didn’t have any idea that it is renowned in Tuscany nor did I know that it has the best Brutti ma Buoni in Tuscany.  I spied lumpy rolls lightly dusted with powdered sugar in the window and knew that I needed one.  Except, I quickly learned,  you can’t very easily just eat one.

Brutti ma buoni means “ugly but good.”  Turns out it’s a Tuscan fave and every town has their own version.  When I returned home, I immediately started a recipe search for these scrumptious uglies, but none is like Banchelli’s uglies.  The recipes consistently call for egg whites, sugar, amaretto and sometimes frangelico, hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, pine nuts or a mixture of nuts, and some even include chocolate.  They are all lumpy,  flat cookies.

Banchelli’s are different.  They look more like small, misshapen dinner rolls and are made with almond paste, egg whites, sugar, aranci (candied orange) and almonds.  And they are soooo good!

I bought sheep’s milk yogurt and strawberries at the farmer’s market and joined the rest of my friends who were having espressos and rolls at a table in front of Banchelli’s.  I immediately bought another brutti and passed it around.  Three of us immediately purchased them.  One of us bought a half dozen to take on the train when we went to Florence.  I kept hoping that I’d find them again on the road.  Alas, I didn’t, but trust me, there were other regional delicacies to take their place and I seem to have a nose for finding the most divine of the local sweets.

One last comment about the brutti.  When I came up empty-handed, I wrote to my friend David Lebovitz in Paris.  He suggested that I contact Judy Witts Francini as she is a doyenne of Tuscan cuisine.  I wrote her this afternoon.  If I ever find the recipe, I promise to share it.  And…if any of you have the recipe, please share it!

Finally, my friends Sandra and Novia launched their search for the ultimate gelato while in Cortona.   Cortona was actually a practice session in preparation for Florence.

Allegedly Bernardo Buontalenti (very talented), a native of Florence  figured out a process for making better ice cream than  had been available to date, and introduced it to the court of Catherina dei Medici.  Later, a Sicilian named Francesco Procopio was the first to introduce gelato to the general public.

Gelato simply means frozen.  In Northern Italy,  dairy plays a major role, gelato and is  more like ice cream, whereas Southern Italy uses more fruit,  creating sorbetto.

It’s really easy to eat a lot of gelato and sorbetto, not only because it tastes good, but because the gelato is much lower in butterfat than American ice cream, with 4 to 8% butterfat as opposed to 10 – 18 percent butterfat in American frozen desserts.  Gelato contains less air than ice cream, making the flavors more intense and creamier.  Finally, it is ready to eat immediately after processing and doesn’t need to ripen, which means it’s served 10 to 15 degrees warmer than ice cream, further enhancing the flavor.

All this and more added to the ultimate gelato experience.  And as it would be cruel not to leave you with a recipe, here is David Lebovitz’ recipe for Gianduja (hazelnut) gelato, which seems especially appropriate as hazelnuts are adored throughout Europe.  Buon appetito!

Why Write About Sun Block?

It seems a little strange to write about sunblock on a site featuring vanilla.  On the other hand, it’s pretty warm and sunny in the tropics!

Truth is, I was inspired when I read an article about a new product put out by Beach Buff that has been endorsed by Jean Michel Cousteau’s (son of Jacques Cousteau) foundation, Ocean Futures Society.

Reef Safe Sun Care is remarkable in that the products biodegrade in less than 90 days in sea water and fresh water. No evidence of toxicity to micro organisms and other sea life was detected.  This is unique among sunscreens.  Further, only about three percent of the sunscreen came off in the water as opposed to an average of 25 percent with other sunscreens.

Researchers estimate that  4,000 to 6,000 metric tons of sunscreen washes off swimmers into the oceans every year. Chemicals such as Octocrylene, Butylparaben, Octylmethoxycinnamate, and Benzophenone-3; present in non-biodegradable sunscreen brands, accumulate in the oceans. These toxic chemicals do not break down easily and are harmful to marine life, especially coral reefs.  Given that coral reefs worldwide are seriously taxed due to global climate change, this is especially hopeful news.

Before receiving Cousteau’s endorsement, Reef Safe sunscreens were subjected to a comprehensive series of independent laboratory tests to support and authenticate the biodegradability of the lotions.

It not only passed with flying colors, Cousteau has named it the official sun care of Ocean Futures Society.  In exchange, Reef Safe will donate a portion of every bottle sold to support Ocean Futures’ worldwide efforts of preserving the ocean for future generations.

Here’s the best part — you can easily “go green” and make a difference for our planet, whether you are sunbathing by the sea, white-water rafting, or bathing in a tropical waterfall.  By using Beach Buff’s Reef Safe Sun Care products, you’ll protect your body from harmful chemicals as well as protect our precious water resources.  And to top it off, your purchase will help with continued ocean research!  Sounds like a great win/win for everyone.

Yunnan, China: Birthplace of Pu’erh

In the process of my Numi Pu’erh tea blogging challenge I have become quite interested in pu’erh, not just because it tastes good, but because it comes from a very interesting part of the world that most of us in the West know little about.

Yunnan Province in Southwestern China, is the birthplace of pu’erh.  It appears that there are few, if any,  early records about pu’erh, but it has been around for at least 1500 years,  as I mentioned in an earlier blog.  This makes pu’erh a relative newcomer as tea has been a Chinese beverage for about 4000 years and consists of roughly 15,000 varieties!  Hard to wrap my mind around a custom that old, especially as an American, where 200 years is considered a long time.

Yunnan province, in southern China, is a tropical region that borders  Myanmar (Burma), Vietnam and Thailand in the south and Tibet in the northwest.  It is a region filled with ethnic minorities, each with a unique history.  The geographical closeness of these countries along with political shifts and warfare, have created an interesting cross-sharing of cultural customs.  For instance, Thailand was not a tea-drinking country until refugee families fleeing war in Yunnan brought tea with them.

The tea growers of Yunnan are hill tribes who still live a traditional lifestyle. This is slowly changing as trekkers and visitors from China and other countries, including Westerners interested in China’s rich cultural history, increasingly come to the rural regions outside of Kunming and the reasonably modern city of Pu’erh, where its namesake continues to be sold.

In the wild, camellia sinensis, the variety of camellia from which tea comes, are trees; women climb the wild trees to harvest the small leaves.  On modern tea plantations in other regions of China, the plants are grown and maintained as bushes about two-feet high.

In Yunnan the trees from which pu’erh come, are frequently 500 years old.  There are some, though not many, as old as 1000 years.  A few years ago a tree guessed to be 2500 years old was found in the tropical forest just north of Myanmar.  What an amazing legacy — and gift –  to have tea from ancient trees!

Some of the tribes that are integrally involved in tea growing and harvesting include the Aini, who refer to themselves as Aka, the Wa (also known as Little Wa), the Bulang, the Dai and the Jinuo.  Interestingly, although the Aini and the Wa live within an hour’s walk from one another and are on friendly terms, they never intermarry.  In fact, the traditional tribes co-exist peacefully, preferring to keep a respectful distance from the Han majority so that they can maintain their beliefs and lifestyle.

The hill tribes are extraordinary weavers and also do intricate embroidery.  Their traditional clothing is exceptionally beautiful.  Fortunately, there is now a greater awareness in China about the value of the ethnic minorities and the gifts they bring to the country as a whole.  There are tours and treks to this area of China now and the purchase of the teas and textiles assist the traditional tribes in maintaining their cultural heritage.

David Kilburn, co-founder of the Tea Museum in China, has spent years visiting tea plantations and spending time with the hill tribes.  Here are a few excerpts  from his blog.

When a villager from the Aini people invites you home to drink some tea, he uses neither tea bags nor a tea pot. Quite likely, he will pick some leaves from a nearby tea tree, singe these in a fire, and then stuff them into a bamboo tube of water which he will boiled (sic) over the fire until the bamboo blacken from the heat. The result is an amazingly invigorating and refreshing drink!

Interestingly, elsewhere in Yunnan, there is a variety of Pu Erh made by packing the tea leaves tightly into bamboo tubes which are then roasted over a fire. When the bamboo itself starts to burn, the roasting is stopped and the cylinder of bamboo-flavoured Pu Erh is removed and allowed first to cool then to mature.

Among the Bulang people, it is common to pickle tea leaves almost like Kimchi. Fresh tea leaves are cooked in water and then packed tightly into bamboo tubes with salt, chili, and spices. The tubes are then sealed with clay and buried in the ground for about two months. The pickled tea is used as a gift for special occasions and also forms part of the tribe’s regular diet. The people of Myanmar also prepare a pickled tea in a similar way.

The Jinuo also make hot tea using tubes of bamboo, much like the Dai people. When I asked the Jinuo farmer how many cups of tea he drank in a day, he answered: “Ah, it is impossible to count such a large number!”

How is this relevant to those of us drinking pu’erh or, for that matter, any tea?   I think it’s important that we know where the ingredients, foods and flavors we use come from, who grows them, and how these people live.  The tropics are a remarkable part of our world.  They are also very fragile.  There are companies such as Numi Tea who are consciously purchasing organic and fair trade teas from regions such as Yunnan.  By purchasing Numi Tea, you are assisting traditional cultures to care for and maintain a tea-growing heritage of great value.  This is one small way we can each make a difference in the world:  wise choices on our part help to support our planet.

Oaxaca and the Virgin of Juquila

Although the weather outside never broke 50 degrees and I never left town, today I spent several moving hours in the tropics, specifically Oaxaca, participating in the annual celebration of the Virgin of Juquila, the patron saint of Oaxacans and the protector of those faced with great difficulties.

Last Thursday  I went to Staples to copy some fliers. I met a Oaxacan family there, and after chatting in Spanish for about fifteen minutes, they graciously invited me to join them on the west side of Santa Cruz where, for two days, there would be masses in honor of the Virgin of Juquila, as well as a procession, music, food and traditional dances. I immediately accepted.

Oaxaca is one of the few areas of Mexico that I have not yet visited even though the mountains of Veracruz blend into the mountains of Oaxaca, which slowly give way to valleys and ultimately, the Pacific. Like Veracruz, Oaxaca’s traditional culture remains strong, and includes several different indigenous groups. And, as in the mountains of Veracruz, many of the people in the small villages tucked amongst spectacular scenery speak little or no Spanish. A couple of times I had hoped to make the journey over the unpaved roads into the mountains of Oaxaca, but the plans never materialized.

So today, the 8th of December, day of the Virgen de Juquila, I entered the sanctuary of St. Joseph and joined our Oaxacan community in a mass in honor of the Virgin and got a glimpse of the culture they brought with them to the north. I arrived on time and found the chapel half full of families, all bundled in shawls, jackets and sweatshirts, small children running up and down the aisles and little girls dressed in beautiful huipiles (hand-embroidered tops) and long skirts, their black hair braided, some with ribbons and flowers in their hair.

One little girl had on a scarf, her hair having fallen out from chemotherapy. Her face was rounded from the steroids, which accentuated her dimples and made her even more beautiful. She joked and teased with the other little girls her age all sitting in the front row of the sanctuary. Every so often she’d wave to her family who were sitting behind me.

Eventually the chapel filled and about twenty minutes after the mass was supposed to begin, the band began to play. A tuba, two trombones, two trumpets and a snare drum filled the chapel with traditional Oaxacan waltzes. What the musicians lacked in skill was made up for in enthusiasm; the music bounced off the walls and collided with itself as it circled the room.

The priest arrived with a small procession of Oaxacan church members, all of whom settled in the front of the chapel to the right of the Virgin, who was ensconced in a glass box and surrounded with roses and beeswax candles in flower-covered candlesticks. The American priest wore a robe with the Virgin of Guadalupe and roses painted on the front.

The service was entirely in Spanish, and included church members reading passages from the bible. Periodically the band blasted another waltz, once accidentally, when the priest was still reading. No one minded. Nor did they mind the children who roamed around the chapel, giggling and whispering to one another while parents and older siblings prayed.

When the service drew to a close, a lace train was attached to the box holding the Virgin and was held aloft by two men. One of them was the father of the little girl with cancer. He held her in his free arm and she held the edges of the center of the train. One by one, the pilgrims passed under the train, kissing their hands then touching the beautiful brown Virgin with long, straight black hair and a white raiment that covered her from neck to well past her feet. Buckets of flowers were brought in and those who passed under the train took flowers into their hands and added them to the offerings of flowers, bread and even the baby Jesus in a rustic cradle.

After respects were paid to the Virgin, we gathered in the courtyard. There was a stage set up with large, papier-mache figures and decorative papel-picado banners blowing in the breeze. Under canopies there were long tables and benches where everyone sat, anticipating the celebratory meal. Another canopied area was for the band members who were joined by more tuba, trumpet and trombone players and two more drum sets and drummers. Young dancers shivered in the cold wind, while tortillas were warmed on the griddle and large metal pots filled with mole were heated on propane stoves. The music blared waltzes and marches, children waved small flags and ran around, adults and teens dined and watched dancers, drank Coca-cola and shared stories.

If I squinted my eyes, I could imagine us in the mountains of Oaxaca, complete with the winter chill that happens there as well. I thought about the beloved brown Virgin of Aquila and said a prayer to her for the beautiful little girl with cancer, that she might live to be one of the dancers, perhaps be a mother and eventually, a matriarch, a bearer of a beautiful tradition and filled with the blessings of her patron saint.