Rediscovering Home: Cooking in the Backcountry of Mt. Rainier // Washington, USA

Hey there.

It's been awhile. One year, two months, and a week to be exact since I wrote on this blog. I never stopped writing completely, but sharing it publicly felt too exposing. As I went through all the major life changes I've taken on over the past year, my writing got swept aside, laying patiently dormant. But I always felt guilty as if it were some small child I neglected. That's sort of how creative processes are--they go into hiding when life challenges you most, until you realize one day that a part of you has been missing. That it's been there the whole time, waiting for you to make time in your solitude to visit them again. To nourish them and be nourished by them.

I've been surviving some big changes in my life. Walking alone for hundreds of miles. Moving to New York. Freelance. Creative work as work instead of just a side hobby. Moving to the equator. Living on a boat. Working and living with my partner. I use the word survive because it takes courage to leap into the unknown. To turn everything upside down that is comfortable and easy and to always choose the riskier path.

I changed homes so many times in the past three years I lost sense of what "home" means to me, internally and physically. A good friend recently said that home exists in the space between your heart and the people and places you love. But I struggled to find that for months and months. I learned that without that sense of home, loneliness is a deeply painful drifting, swirling feeling with no roots, no anchor (ironic metaphor, I know). 

Food became a home but also a point of contention. Cooking morphed from being my creative exhibition to my crawl space. It became both a seemingly endless routine and a necessary outlet of emotions. It was a tunnel that sometimes didn't feel as if there was a light on the other side, but its also what got me out of that tunnel.

I flew back to Seattle this week, to the home I grew up in, to old friends, and family. To all things wonderfully familiar and comfortable. At first, I vowed that I would take a long break from cooking and being responsible for feeding people in general, worried that it would bring up anxieties I felt in regards to cooking professionally recently. But when an opportunity arose to wander into the backcountry of Mt Rainier with some of my dearest friends, I volunteered to plan the food. The challenge was to plan two lunches, dinner, and a breakfast easy enough for a backpacking stove, light enough for us to carry, while being delicious (because one of the best parts of backpacking is how good the food tastes when you're done). And I took the challenge, not just because I had the extra time but because I genuinely needed to reconnect with food in a new and positive way, and in turn, with my own understanding of who I am.

I've shared the menu below, not only as a how-to guide for the outdoors but because this menu represented a healing shift for me. It nourished the soul and the body. It was the center between me, my cherished friends, and the quiet wisdom of the forest. It was home.

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Menu

Backpacking Indian Henry's Campground, Mt. Rainier

Note: I think most people just go with a freeze-dried option from REI because it's light and easy, but for me it feels so dull to end a gorgeous grind with a poor rendition of phad thai in a bag...if it can be avoided. Instead, with a little pre-trip prep, some good seasoning options found in small bags (the same size as your REI freeze dried option), and some tricks, you can enjoy nutritious food that will become a central part of the experience instead of just a side note to the trip.

15 miles RT, 3500+ elevation gain

LUNCH: Hummus, Roasted Chicken, Basil, Spinach, Chickpea wraps

For this lunch, I made the wraps at home before heading out. Saute organic chicken breast tenders with Penzey's "Tuscan Sunset," a mixture of dried basil, oregano, red bell pepper, garlic, thyme, fennel, black pepper, and anise. Prepare a spinach wrap with hummus, the warm chicken, fresh basil, big leafy spinach, and finish with a chickpea and couscous salad (that I had on hand leftover, but could easily be replaced with any grain you have leftover--quinoa, farro, wild rice, etc.). Wrap everything together in tin foil and the three wraps fit in one ziploc bag--perfect for the top of your pack.

DINNER: Corn and Kale Fajitas with Tomatillo Salsa, Hot Whisky Apple Cider

Fajitas are a favorite backpacking meal in part because you can use whatever is on hand. Before heading out, we cut the corn off the cob, sliced the onion and peppers, and sautéed the tuscan kale and brought them in ziploc bags. Pre-washing everything allows you to save water on the trail, and pre-prep saves you time on the trail when you're already tired. Added bonus: it also reduces food waste you have to then carry out.

For seasoning, I brought a small blend of cumin and cayenne in a ziploc as well as a tomatillo and cilantro sauce made by Frontera. At Safeway, you can find their sauce in a small plastic bag, which folds up into nothing once you pour the contents out. The salsa is a blend of roasted tomatillos, cilantro, onion, and a few spices--all natural, recognizable ingredients and did not have to be refrigerated beforehand. It added a delicious kick to the vegetables. Lastly, a few flour tortillas that easily fold in the bag and some small individual sized guacamole packets I found that come in 2 oz containers, a wedge of lime, and thats it! I specifically chose not to add meat to the fajitas so as not to risk it going bad in the hot sun all day. The vegetables with the sauce were plenty of food, but for those wanting to add more protein, I found some great refried bean options in a plastic bag that just included adding water.

For a warm beverage option we poured whisky from a flask into mugs of hot apple cider using the instant mix. Warm, spicy, and sweet for a cold night.

BREAKFAST: Steel cut oats with fresh berries

Better Oats makes very good individual-packet sized instant oatmeal using steel cut oats, which had a nicer texture than your regular instant quaker rolled oats. The fresh blueberries and sliced peaches were definitely an indulgence, but add a nice crunch, and can be easily packed in a tupperware container. Then you can use the tupperware to carry trash down as a closed vessel once it's empty. For the oats, you just have to add boiling water and stir. You could always add a splash of leftover whisky from the previous evening like my family does : ) 

LUNCH: PB&J, Salami, Hardboiled eggs

This one is pretty straight forward! I recommend making the sandwiches before you leave so you don't have to carry the heavy jars, and hardboiling the eggs before as well. It's a nice protein and they stay fresh enough in the shell to last until the second day. I chose a pre-sliced salami that is nitrate-free and is found near the bread section, out of refrigeration.

CUSTOM GORP aka TRAILMIX

For the past few years I've always opted for making my own custom trailmix. This time I mixed chocolate turtles (clusters of pecans and caramel dipped in dark chocolate), pistachios, raw cashews, dark chocolate covered almonds, dried sour tart cherries, and pepitas (otherwise known as shelled pumpkin seeds). You can pull from the bulk section of the grocery store or buy the individual packets and mix at home. Either way, it lets you get exactly the components and ratio you love because the pre-mixed trailmix always either doesn't have enough M&Ms, too many raisins, and way too many almonds, am I right?

A few more fun backpacking tricks I've learned...

• If you are using iodine to treat your water and you can't stand the taste, add some dried apricots, apples and/or cherries to your nalgene. It'll flavor your water nicely and once they've re-plumped themselves in the water you have a nice fresh fruit treat to munch on!
• REI sells a french press/tea thermos and mug that holds two servings of ground coffee in the bottom. It's way better than instant, and you just unscrew the coffee from the bottom, pour in, add hot water, and press down in a few minutes. Then drink straight from the mug (it has a filter for any loose grounds) or pour into a friends mug. You can bring whatever gourmet coffee you love pre-ground the night before, plus your mug can additionally be used for the aforementioned whisky cider : )
• I always bring a tarp in case of bad weather but it also acts as a really nice base to set up your camp kitchen. If you take your shoes off before stepping on to it, it helps reduce any stray dirt or needles from getting into your food and water and makes clean up after a meal easy (and the campsite clean for the animals).
• Envy apples are by far my favorite apples to bring. They're crisp, sweet, and so aromatic. I can only find them in select grocery stores in Seattle but if you do see them, get them. They're fairly big and keep well in the heat.

I hope this inspires you to go out and explore--I always feel a profound presence in the Pacific Northwest mountains. The weather is beautiful, the wildflowers are in full glorious bloom, and the snow has melted into some wonderful refreshingly cold glacier-fed pools to jump in after a hot and dusty hike!

Road Trip Through The Peloponnese // Stemnitsa, Greece

We had just finished our charter in the Saronic Islands of Greece, a place that we have come to dearly love (you can read why here). Because we're so busy leading up to these trips, we tend to plan our post-charter "layover" trips on a whim the Saturday we return the boat. After we departed the boat and found a sliver of wifi, I googled "road trip Greece." I found an itinerary on the Lonely Planet through The Peloponnese -- the large mainland of Greece that looks like a large island just Southwest of Athens. The recommended journey was close enough to make the most of the two nights we had until our flight home. 

I love road trips as an affordable and flexible way to see a lot in a little amount of time, plus it lends itself to the kind of serendipitous and unplanned excursions we enjoy. We had done many mini road trips throughout our travels (it's how I learned how to drive stick shift, as scary as that was), and found it an affordable way to see a lot in a little amount of time. Plus, it lends itself to the kind of serendipitous and unplanned travel we enjoy.

We rented a car from Athens and set out west, driving four hours to the land of the Ancient Mycenae people, the Tomb of Agamemnon, and the mountain village of Stemnitsa.

We headed to Mpelleiko, the Bed & Breakfast nestled into the mountain village of Stemnitsa that would our homebase for our trip. It was an old farmhouse from the 1800s that had been adapted into a cozy Bed & Breakfast by the granddaughter, and our host. Her knowledge of local hikes was thorough (she helped develop many of the hikes in the surrounding area) and her breakfasts were outstanding -- a medley of her mother's seasonal preserves, fresh yogurt from her neighbor, and homemade seed bread and pastries. We were given the choice between rich Greek coffee or the selection of hand-mixed teas her mother makes for different ailments.

We chose to stay in Stemnitsa because it is one of the starts/ends to the Menalon Trail -- a multi-day trek between the two mountain towns of Stemnitsa and Dimitsana. We chose a portion of it for our day hike into the Louisios Gorge -- a lush valley that hosts the very old Prodomou Monastery built into the cliffs that is still inhabited and worshipped in by monks, and overlooks the Mylaon river that flows at the base of the gorge.

The next morning, we drove back to Athens through the lush Peloponnese land, past farms, villages, and coastal ports. It is a place I fell in love with in such a short amount of time, and hope to return to soon to complete the Menalon Trail.

Sailing the Salish Sea: A Vacation Simplified // San Juan Islands, USA

***Originally published on the Gourmandly Blog, May 21, 2016.

The fog draped us in a damp embrace in Blind Bay at Shaw Island. Through the opaque cloak of clouds came the morning symphony of marine birds. Wrapped in North Face Gortex and Patagonia fleece, the guests cozied together in the galley around the table cupping mugs of freshly brewed Orcas Island coffee and mint teas. The crumbs of the recently devoured blackberry pie from Whidbey Island Pie Co. still graced the compass-rose inlayed table. Nothing moved outside. Not even the water rippled. We cranked the diesel heater to its max on the Beneteau 50 sailboat sporting a dark mahogany-colored galley and an abstract painting hanging next to the sink, giving the leased vessel a lived-in feel. This was a perfect day to indulge ourselves at the fireside bar and sauna of Rosario Resort just across the channel, so we redirected our course North to the quiet East Sound.

Stretching to the last nautical mile of the Northwest United States border, the San Juan Islands archipelago consists of 128 named islands — plus an additional 400 smaller unnamed islands which serve as platforms for colonies of seals and flocks of birds. Although ensconced in the marine backyard of Seattle, few Seattleites have navigated the more isolated islands that the ferries do not reach. The complex tidal range of this area that is responsible for producing such a lush variety of aquatic wildlife also creates its notoriously strong currents. These currents can reach up to 8 knots in certain areas—enough to stop a sailboat our size from propelling forward if incorrectly timed to the tidal cycle—a deterrence for many less advanced boaters and sailors.

This is where Paul learned to sail. It’s where he scattered the ashes of his grandfather. Where he learned the best place to drop a crab pot and how to break their shells open on the side of the hull. Where he raced dinghies with his two older brothers. Where I first learned how to cook in a rocking galley, and bake salmon on cedar planks. Where I collected wild lavender for a bouquet, and poked my fingers into the yellow anemones and purple starfish of the shallow tide pools like a child. Where, sitting in the rain in my kayak, I witnessed my first Orca whale up-close and eye level. And where we first vacationed together, touring around the islands three summers ago on the quaint sailboat Paul had eccentrically repurposed—him at the helm, me in the galley cooking the rock crab we had just caught. It’s where our summer romance flourished into a relationship. Now, the stakes were higher. Our passion had become our profession, hosting guests onboard for a customized charter, eager to show them all the places we had come to cherish—Shallow Bay at Sucia island with its sculptured sandstone, Matia Island with its nature reserve teeming with birds, and Stuart Island with a hike that takes you past old barns and pine trees to Turn Point Lighthouse.

Our guests hailed from every direction: Oregon, California (by way of Thailand), Iowa, and Calgary. Except for one pair of friends—doctors dedicated to spending their retirement traveling the world—no one previously had known each other. One worked in theater; another in engineering. Some had never before experienced sailing. They had all arrived for a week-long summer sailing adventure that was a change from the usual sailing destinations of the Caribbean or Mediterranean. This would not be a boat trip over turquoise blue water to a rainbow beach bar. No, this would be a color palette celebrating both heather grey and crystal skies, evergreen branches, and so many vast shades of sapphire blue water.

The flip-up table on the aft deck became the centerpiece of our trip, where we spent much of our time congregated around our outdoor dining room. In the warmer rose-blushed evenings, we gathered around a feast of local spot prawns cooked in garlic and white wine that previously had journeyed with us, alive, in a bucket tied to the swim platform as we sailed from Friday Harbor. In the cooler afternoons, the table hosted rounds of Bananagrams with flights of different beers, wines, and ciders made locally in Washington State. It hosted broken off chunks of tender white Dungeness crab cooked in ocean water that Paul’s father had caught for us that morning, from a specific drop location off one of the fingers of Sucia’s Echo Bay where we had anchored. The table hosted whole coral-colored Sockeye salmon flaked from a cedar plank covered in summer leeks. It hosted the leftover droplets of truffle oil drizzled on heirloom tomatoes in all their multicolored brilliance.

I wanted to share with the guests the foods I grew up with, unmasked: lightly flavored and served whole. Food that I only ate and served in the summer because that is when it came to life. Each island we visited brought a new bounty specific to the San Juans. This tour through the culinary vastness of the Pacific Northwest showcased what is most important to me about my home.

We drifted quietly through narrow inlets, past the skeletons of trees topped with bald eagles. We rode the tides across the straits. We sat in the soft sand. We wove through forests of Madronas that stretched out from the perimeters of the islands. We crawled across the wind-cratered sandstone rocks. We clinked ruby glasses of wine to a brilliant sunset. We swung on an abandoned, lopsided wooden swing on our hike through Stuart Island. We peacefully read books on the bow. We polar-bear plunged off the stern. We watched blue herons glide silently over the water at dusk. Occasionally the nose of a seal popped up on our stern, following us like a curious dog. We strolled silently under the filtered sunlight of old-growth forests awash in moss green and blankets of ferns. At night, we scrubbed our dishes in the ocean to see our forks turn to wands creating bubbles of bioluminescence.

The final day, we awoke to the sun’s gentle warmth as the weather returned to its typical celebrated summer climate. When the sun shines on the San Juans, the whole place sparkles. Its light glittered on our wake as we sailed back to Anacortes crossing through Rosario Strait. The guests took turns at the helm, navigating our boat through the Northwest winds that blow through the strait. On our final and last sail, a herd of porpoises danced in the distance—a final farewell to the islands teeming with wildlife.

It became a perfect vacation, not for its exoticism or snapshot moments, but for its sense of community. The true breadth of what a vacation means in regards to a boating adventure changed. We became a fluid crew, working together to trim the sails, coil the lines, tidy the galley, and batten down the hatches when needed. We all loved who we traveled with as much as the location we traveled in. We valued seeing how something was created more than just the final product’s presentation. And we appreciated the relevance of a particular flavor to its birthplace, not just the dish itself.

Any Pacific Northwestern will gush over their glimmering summers that make up for all their long, lethargic, waterlogged winters. Summers made of long days that stretch into stunning sunsets that reflect onto the water, and endless outdoor activities. But we discovered that what most made this journey special, was the crew we became onboard. That is why the memory that lingers most is the pleasure of that foggy morning, simply sitting amongst a warm group of people, in a warm cabin, with a warm cup of coffee.

"New York is Like a Devilish Mistress" // New York City, USA

**Today marks a year since this post was initially published -- May 19, 2015. To celebrate, I've edited and updated some of the writing and content to reflect my additional experience living in New York City.

"New York is like a devilish mistress," the woman at some obscure New York bar told me in her drunken British accent, "sometimes you can't get enough and sometimes you can't stand her."

I first arrived to New York a year ago with four years of built-up illusions of grandeur, intending on using my first month to plant my feet in this city. For years, New York was my fantasy of a place that would unleash my creative tempers of fabulous food, limitless opportunity, and buzzing energy. I hoped, as many other New York-bound folks do, that the energy of New York would unveil to me my next path in personal and professional development. 

Reflecting on the entire experience of adjusting to this new home, New York has been a struggle between the things I value and the things I must accept. (Like the trash piled on the street waist-high infecting your nostrils with an industrial stench, or the habitual honking of angry drivers.) Far more unsettling is the way New York seems to mirror back to me all my deepest insecurities, frustrations, and inner demons. This city seems to test the best and worst of all of us who make it our home, and one must choose how to survive it. 

There is nothing that feels familiar here. No comforts of home, no reminders of the mountains that embrace Seattle. I imagine, as I look out over this city, the experience of the millions of immigrants who have arrived at the shores of New York. Picture the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1863--in the most densely populated neighborhood in the world at the time--and home to 2,223 immigrants, mostly Russian Jews, in just a 2-acre space.  Mixed in with peddlers and pushcarts were the tenement buildings in which they lived, 5 stories high, 20 families per building, 4 outhouses, and no indoor plumbing or electricity. It is in these confined, almost inhumane spaces, that people recreated the comforts of home. Tradesmen like the krauthobbler, i.e. "cabbage-shaver," thrived by going door-to-door slicing cabbage for German immigrants to be used for homemade sauerkraut. Italian women scoured vacant lots for wild dandelions to be used in salads. These food adaptations not only brought immigrants some sort of relief in this stark city, but also evolved the New York food scene into the multi-cultural mecca it's known for today. Throughout the Lower East Side, you still see remnants of this cultural influx, through places like Katz Delicatessen (established in 1888), Russ and Daughters (which turned 101 years old a few weeks ago), and Essex St Market, which has been selling goods for 75 years now. (Just as a side note, it blows my mind how old so many establishments are here in New York--some older even than my home city of Seattle).

Despite my feeling cramped and overwhelmed in this large city, I've found comfort in exploring its food.  What I love most about the food scene here isn't the freshness, the ambiance, or even the taste. In many regards, I actually find Seattle to be far more fresh and direct from local farms than New York places claim to be (for better prices too). Rather, I see how food in New York has been, and continues to be, a means to survive. Its community thrives off of the shared experience of food. The sidewalks are filled with restaurant-goers meeting their with friends, in part, to just get out of their stuffy apartments. And then there are the 170,000 workers who work in the 13,000 restaurants of New York City who rely on the restaurant industry for a living. That includes all the chefs, food writers, and servers whom which food is their media (including yours truly). Food is not just a comfort or luxury here, it is a necessary vessel through which people find community, escape, and inspiration.

Everyone I talk to here believes they know where the best _______ is. Whether it's a hero sandwich, a bagel, a donut, or slice of pizza, I get a wide variety of answers for each and for different reasons. ("The cake donut is good there, but the jelly filling at Peter Pan's is to die for.") In this city of plenty, restaurants and shops survive off of being really good at one thing, which people continue to come back for. I love asking people where the best [food item] is so that I can watch the passionate debate take off among anyone within earshot. My favorite memory was one I experienced in my first month here. As I was walking through the East Village, I stumbled upon an idyllic New York scene--a man dressed in a fine white linen suit sitting backwards on a chair talking with his friend wearing a newspaper cap outside an old Albanian butcher shop dated over 40 years old (the butcher Momo inside, still actively running the shop, despite approaching 92 years old). I approached the duo, asking to take their picture, and the man in the white suit said, "Sure, and then I'll tell you who I am." The man was named Vinny Vella Sr., and he's best known for his roles in The Sopranos, Coffee & Cigarettes, Analyze This, and more. His voice had a thick New York accent, and he liked to wink in all his photos. I asked for an Italian restaurant suggestion and he offered La Mela in Little Italy. His friend recommended a different place. They went back and forth, interjected with a -- "yeah but have you been here?" Even if the place is mutually agreed upon, what to order is then up for debate. The only thing mutual conclusion they made was that I should come back to Momo's shop -- the one they were sitting outside of -- during his business hours so I could see the long-time butcher in action. I thanked them for their many suggestions, and went on my way. I've learned that in these situations, it's best to just write down all the suggestions made and decide where to go based on location, in case a craving arises. I've been slowly working my way through that list to determine which one is my favorite.

Throughout my introductory days in New York, I found myself asking, "What am I supposed to get out of this?" The first move to New York was painful and confusing. Jobs don't pay as much as you think (or hope) they will, and everything costs much more than you expect. (The minimum wage in Seattle at $15 is much higher than the $7.50 minimum wage in New York, where the cost of living is 3 times higher). I had days when I felt inspired to seize the opportunities this city is overflowing with. Those were easy. The hard days came when I doubted what my purpose was here, what my passion really was, and why I was making all these sacrifices just to be here.  I've seen many of my initial illusions of New York turn to delusions. I've pondered what it is about this city that 20 million people are willing to struggle through and what it's all for.

Here's my theory. Maybe the value of New York isn't what it gives you, but what it ignites in you. For me, that's cooking. I worked four different jobs in four months here before I found the right fit -- as a personal chef now in the city. That doesn't count all the months I tucked back into the city over the past year to try to build relationships, do various side jobs here and there, following leads that seemed like they would become a steady job, just to watch as they quietly evaporated before they could even really take off. Rather than look for inspiration, or wait for it to envelop me, I've come to realize that the way to survive this vortex is to let its every twists and turns, angers and joy, swell up in you until there is no option but to let it out in some expressive form. These emotional waves this city brings--the blunders and the celebrations--forced me to specify and figure out exactly what I want to do (cook) and why I'm here (to learn). Simplifying and specifying my purpose for being here got me through all the times I almost couldn't pay rent, the times I've spent cooped up in my apartment out of fear that stepping outside would cost money, or when correspondence with the job I hoped for suddenly just stopped for no apparent reason. I changed my measure of success from what I would become here, to what I was learning here. 

The beauty and diversity and sheer amount of ideas and objects and art that is released from this city is incredible. It's through getting sucked into New York and all of its culture, swirled around in its frantic creative energy of jazz clubs in the West Village, Greek food in Astoria, and Afro-diaspora cuisine in Harlem, that gives me a sense of place and purpose. It is in the same way that my own ancestors found a sense of place, home, and cultural identity when they arrived by way of Ellis Island. With knife and fork in hand, I take on the struggle of this city with purpose, determination, and pride. 

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An Invitation to the Spice Isles // Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

If you unpacked my suitcase on my maiden voyage to the Grenadines, you would find a few somewhat modest but colorful bikinis, worn-in Havanas sandals, my Shun chef knife, smoked salts from Seattle, and butcher twine for trussing a chicken, just in case.

I was to set sail, as I had done a dozen or so other times in the past year, to cook for guests aboard. I step on to a new, unfamiliar, boat each time—a Lagoon 52, a Bavaria 51, a Leopard 44, a Juneau 53, some with a reefing system and self-tailing winches—all boating terms that sounded like gibberish when I first began the work. The inconsistencies of chartering only exasperate the many variables of travel—will I sleep on the bow or in the galley if it rains; will my propane oven work or will it go out mid-week as it often does; do I have enough wine glasses such that if three break on a big wave I have enough for dinner that night; will my fridge be cool enough so that my meat won’t sour a day after its purchased or will it freeze instead on the day it’s meant to be used for lunch? As the chef, I commit to making the best of whatever is available to buy that day. But tacked on to all these variables this time was a destination I had never been to before. I knew nothing of St. Vincent and the Grenadines before my captain, business partner, and boyfriend, said that we were headed there to take some thrill-seeking kiteboarders on a weeklong wind-hopping tour through its myriad tiny islands.

Kiteboarding has bubbled up to the surface of mainstream consciousness, having moved from its place within the perimeter of “extreme sports” to one that the kids try out on family vacation in the tropics. Don’t be fooled, though. I watched as even our seasoned kiteboarders were swept out of the protected lagoon by a strong downwind gust or forced to paddle against the current to retrieve their board. When you are harnessed to a kite four times your size that hangs two-stories above, one wrong move can plaster you against the trunk of a palm tree if you’re not careful, then warp your kite like tumbleweed in a tornado.

I am no kiteboarder. I get my thrills by walking a mile up a dusty road, off of a tip from a local named Black Boy. I came across him smoking a joint under the shade of his palm tree on Mayreau Island, and he pointed me in the direction of a village on the other side of the island selling the only pork ribs around. Rather than accept a ride, I chose to find it on my own walking under the intense heat of the midday sun. What I seek, like the kiteboarders who hired me as their guide, is to voyage into the unfamiliar.

Backtrack a few days ago before the trip started. We were walking along a dusty trail leading to a picturesque waterfall—the kind you swim under and send the picture as a postcard—when we crossed paths with a toothless farmer wearing barely-held up pants, muddy rubber boots, and a faded t-shirt. His creole was too thick to comprehend by my unpracticed white-American ears. Without prompt from us, he motioned to follow him deeper into the jungle. While many might hesitate before following an indecipherable stranger holding a machete, we nonetheless accepted his invitation, which took us to a tree hanging with ripe hibiscus-colored baseball-size fruits. I relished in the exotic taste of these tropical fruits as I ate the two, then five fruits passed my way. The skin was waxy and crisp like a pear with a white juicy interior that softened as I bit into it. Its delicate rose-like smell wafted around us in the shade of its tree. I later discovered its many names as I wandered Grenada’s Saturday market—French cashew, plumrose, Malay apple, rose apple, and others. Our fruit farmer, who had invited us to share in the plenty of his personal French cashew tree, planted a stone’s throw from his one room home, filled our backpacks to the brim. The fruit acted as a wordless welcome to these Spice Isles, filled with smells and tastes I would soon joyfully discover and pass on to my guests. The next day, I displayed his beautiful fruits in a white bowl at the entrance to the boat—an invitation to our guests as they boarded their vessel and home for the week.

Food was my currency of communication.

On the islands, grocery stores were scarce and minimal, so instead I bought all the food from someone: mahi mahi from Xavier, a local fisherman who visited my boat every other morning; soursop from Jenny who manned a fruit stand on Union Island; and lobster from Cliff who cooked it alongside his girlfriend on the sandy shores of the uninhabited Tobago Cays surrounded by a ring of coral reefs. Like a nostalgic nod to the days before giant one-stop-shop grocery stores, food here still remained an exchange not just of goods, but of information and personal history. It was a seamless part of the daily routine in the Grenadines and the backbone of social interaction. 

Underneath the rainbow of umbrellas at Grenada’s Saturday market, women and men softly chatted as they hand-shelled pigeon peas into plastic bags, occasionally taking a break to coax me into buying their baby purple peppers, stalks of bananas, or clusters of nutmeg and mace and jeera (aka cumin). On the coast of Grenada at dusk, I walked past a group of twenty or more villagers as they pulled in the heavy-laden nets full of jacks fish. Their ages ranged from little kids who helped collect the squirming fish into buckets to older men and women who negotiated the communal task of pulling the rest of the net on to shore before night fell. The deal was, you help, you take home fish.

As the outsider, I yearned to be invited into the local community. To join the conversation, I’d ask about recipes. One fruit vendor who quietly sat beside his wife in their life-size doll house painted in bright Easter egg colors with a small roof awning to provide shade, jumped up excitedly as I began to feel and smell the aromatic baby pineapples hanging in their front doorway.  I hadn’t intended to buy any, having brought many of the islands luscious pineapples back to the boat already. But he stepped in, asking what I did with the rinds. His eyes widened as I replied, joking with a smile that I was crazy to throw away the rind of the pineapple, when they were perfectly good added to boiling water, a little sugar, and made into homemade pineapple juice. The draw of trying something new from a local tip convinced me to buy a bunch.

At a stop in the interior hills of Grenada a young woman grilling in her repurposed oil drum told me that the secret to her family’s remarkably succulent chicken barbecue was that after they boil the chicken (before grilling it), they add the leftover water and a case of Carib beer to the sauce. Her family, in concert with the many others, dragged their makeshift barbecue to the street every Friday, turned on the reggae, and greeted friends and family with fresh juice or local rum as they informally passed through, eating whatever was cooking or just catching up. It was an open invitation.

My challenge was to acquaint myself as quickly as possible with these foreign foods, enough to create a week’s worth of luxury meals for ten hungry guests on a constantly unstable platform. I have to remain malleable and attuned to the whims of the group and the logistics of sailing, accommodating for allergies, a fluctuating daily schedule, and variables of seasickness, sunburn, and dehydration. But for my crew of kiteboarders, the practice of remaining fluid was effortless. Despite the countless unknowns and unplanned excursions -- or perhaps because of them -- our only expectation was of something we hadn’t yet experienced. We were each excited by the adventure of navigating through the unknown.

Our week was framed by the full moon. To celebrate, we congregated on the windward side of Union Island, where Jeremie Tronet, the pro-kiteboarder most famous for his “Jesus walk” trick, was hosting a full moon party complete with barbequed Lambie (the meat of the marine mollusk found in a conch shell) and rum. Dressed in black with lights running through his kite and down around his legs, Jeremie walked into the water towards a large metal basin that hovered above the saltwater flats, filled with a tower of dried palm fronds. Invisible in the darkness were the four thin nylon threads that connected him to his kite, which wafted directly above him like a patient hawk above its prey. At once, he lit a spark and the fronds erupted into a 15-foot flame.  With it he sped away from the statue into a dark waters beyond. Silhouetted by the spotlight of the full moon, gaining speed, he leapt over the flame, turning the energy of the wind into an artistic performance. He waltzed with his kite over and around the flame, to and from the waters edge to a beach of growing onlookers. Once the fire had nestled into the ocean, our crew of eager kiteboarders—like giddy schoolchildren at the last bell—flocked to the water, their boards in hand and tethered to their kites like wings ready for flight. One-by-one, they tilted their kites downwind, on a race through the moonlight highway.

The wind and water shape these islands. I met Kevon, a 28-year-old fisherman in a tiny low-lit rum bar on the southern part of mainland Grenada. He was in tune with global current events—while listening to Jamaican rap music he spouting dreams of visiting Mongolia to see its animals before they became extinct. Although very much influenced by his “millennial” generation, he also remained keen on preserving his past. He sailed around the islands to sell his fish to a nearby restaurant, and in his free time raced wooden sailboats with his friends. The boats are still made right around the corner from his home, a continuation of the tradition of boat building of his Ciboney and later Carib ancestors. On our return to Grenada, we sailed alongside a small sailboat manned by three locals—older gentlemen, whose white curly beards were a stark contrast to their dark, sun-weathered faces – while their fishing net dragged behind them, the end of it marked by an almost invisible empty 5-liter water jug. Like Kevon, they practiced the old style of fishing in the Grenadines as a means to catch fish. Sometimes preservation of heritage is born out of necessity, and boating was an integral part of the daily diet. It was essential to the Grenadine’s food culture, thus allowing it to remain intact.

I was seduced by how personal the food sources were, lured by the homegrown meats, fruits, and vegetables sold in the markets or on the street. How little of outside exported food there was. There was a life to the food outside of the vertical fluorescent-lit aisles of a grocery store. What a relief from the plastic and packaging—literally and culturally—that plagues other popular tropical destinations.

If you opened my suitcase upon returning home, you would find dried shredded cassava for the cassava pone recipe from Margaret, a welcoming B&B owner tucked into Woburn Bay on Grenada I stayed with my first few nights before moving on to the boat; Curry for the fish curry recipe Kevon explained over a couple shots of rum in the dimly-lit aptly named “Hangover” bar; And Ms. Jo’s hand-rolled cocoa balls mixed with nutmeg, mace, and cinnamon—the three essentials of the Spice Isles—from Saturday’s farmer market on Grenada. All remnants of an invitation. An exchange between person and place.

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Slow Food Tour // Piemonte, Italy

“You can’t leave Italy without visiting Piemonte in November,” is all my friend said to me before I took off to Italy for three months, “The colors alone will inspire you.”

Piemonte is best known by Americans for its hills of Barbaresco and Barolo, but for many Italians, its known better as the birthplace of National hero Carlos Petrini and his Slow Food movement. Slow Food is defined as, "Food that is produced or prepared in accordance with local culinary traditions, typically using high-quality locally sourced ingredients." It refers to food that not only has a beneficial environmental impact, but a communal one as well, and more particularly, one that tries to preserve heritage plant varieties and dishes.

I wanted to go to where sustainability was a practiced lifestyle, where Petrini first declared war against McDonald's developing on Rome's famous Spanish Steps, to where sustainability has had time to engrain itself into the soil and show its success in restaurants, agriculture, and tourism. I began first by focusing on visiting Slow Food producers, but later broadened my itinerary to include many of whom didn't have its official seal (for various reasons, mainly financial) but who still practiced its values. The entire 12 days I spent in Piemonte for me were a beautiful exploration of Piemonte's--and arguably Italy's--greatest gastronomic center. Below are some of my favorite highlights.

BARBARESCO TASTING, CANTINA DEL PINO

Renato and his partner Franca live on Renato’s 70-year-old family vineyard and winery, Cantina del Pino, where they invited me for a tour and to taste the wines they had just opened. It was a perfect first stop for Piemonte, as Babaresco was recently declared an UNESCO World Heritage site. It is perched high enough that you can look over the Langhe river and see for miles the foggy haze that wafts through these steep foothills of the Alps. We tasted their Nebbiolo, Barbaresco, Dolcetto, Barbera, and a blend. In each label and year resides a different composition of factors: grapes from different hills or “Cru,” orientation to the sun, and soils that range from more clay to sand-based.

The operation there is precise, where Renato keeps the grapes from different rows of his property separate in the initial fermentation process so that he can taste the individual differences, then blends them in exact percentages to achieve the taste he desires. His intuition is incredible, and both he and his partner Franca do all of the work to create the 8,000 bottles they produce each year. For anyone interested in trying one of their incredible bottles, the 2011 vintages are ready, and the weather was perfect that year in creating an incredible wine.

SILVIO PISTONE, SHEEP CHEESE PRODUCER

I met Silvio at his home, where I was led past rooms filled with antique collections and paintings done by Silvio's mother and friends until I reached the adjoining barn, conveniently located as an attachment to the family home -- a subtle way of saying that these sheep were just another part of the family. 

In this region of Italy, cheese is most commonly made from cow milk, or a blend of cow and sheep or goat. But I was on the hunt for a farmer who continued the rarer sheep cheese traditions of the area. Silvio Pistone was just that. He is a self-taught sheep farmer going on 18 years now, and raises 30 Pecora della Langhe sheep, a local breed of this Alta Langhe region.

His traditional tume cheese is surprisingly simple, but in its simplicity, the quality of the milk shines, a testament to how they are raised. They spend half of their day eating outside on fresh grass and the rest inside feeding on hay he gets from his cousin. The whole animal is used and made by hand—wool meat, and cheese. When I asked "Why not pecorino cheese?" his answer was simple: it's not typical in this region. His cheese is sold privately out of his home to neighbors and to a few restaurants.

He laughs when I tell him our American obsession with pasteurizing our milks and cheeses, particularly for pregnant women. (He has three kids and his wife ate his unpasteurized cheese throughout all of her pregnancies). The practice of pasteurization began after the end of the industrial revolution as our food started traveling longer distances from farm to growing urban centers as a way to retain milk and cheese's shelf life. But when the farm has high quality conditions for the animals such as his, and the distance from production to consumption is shortened, it is perfectly safe to eat unpasteurized milks and cheeses. There are many farms at farmer’s markets in the U.S. trying to practice small-scale old non-pasteurized traditions of cheese making; but because of strict USDA safety standards geared towards big industrial farms, these smaller sustainable farms whose conditions are safer and less bacteria-ridden have a hard time selling their products commercially within our current regulations.

Silvio is a relaxed, laid-back character, but underneath his thick Piemontese dialect there is a fierce political flair, and his cheese making has made him a popular sustainable food advocate in the region. You can learn more about him in the documentary titled Langhe Doc.

IVRINO, GOAT CHEESE PRODUCER AND BEEKEEPER

After visiting Silvio, I drove to San Benedetto Belbo, set even higher into the hills of the Langhe region. Here, I met Irvino and his herd of Alpina Comune goats. As he spoke to us, his young children ate his goat milk-based lattica cheese and giuca hungrily--an old-style dessert similar to fresh ricotta, which is eaten after just one day of fermentation. The goats feed on chestnuts in the old forest up the street from his home, which gives the milk its flavor.

What I found most spectacular about his cheese was that it was aged in an old cellar dug out of one solid rock. The cave was built even before the house was built around it, some 400 years ago. The cave requires no regulation, as the humidity and cold create the perfect environment for the cheese to naturally ferment in.

As the night fell, he insisted that I try his certified biological honeys, using organic beekeeping practices. The honey, lined up by season from early spring to early fall, created a color spectrum directly related to the different foliage they ate in each season. The darkest jars towards the fall got their color from the bees eating the leaves, rather than the flowers. The unfortunate thing, however, was that similarly to the rest of the world, he watched many of his beehives die and collapse for some unknown reason. Determined to continue, he was making space on his farm for 40 more beehives, which carries on the beekeeping tradition that has been a part of this region since the 1800s.

ALBA INTERNATIONAL WHITE TRUFFLE FAIR

Inspired by a conversation I had with my last boss, whose eyes closed and shoulders lifted as she described the "warm polenta topped with fragrant truffle shavings" she had in Alba one year, I made a day of going to the famous Alba Truffle Festival.

Unfortunately, this had been a bad year for truffles, and all fungi in general, due to the lack of consistent rain and alternating dry sun that mushrooms really love, with a cold ground to keep the worms at bay. Truth be told, the locals wait for all the tourists to clear out mid-November, then enjoy the better truffles in December and early January. The festival has been going on for 85 years now, and it’s amazing how the climate change has pushed the truffle season back 2 months since its origins. Many locals I spoke to said that if the festival wants to survive, it will have to change its dates.

Despite the truffles, I wandered through the festival tasting moscato from Asti, castelmagno, blu, and robiola cheeses, sausages, bagna cauda, andtorta di nocciole (a Piemontese hazelnut cake). As I walked by, one of the truffle farmers handed me his prized 350-euro truffle. I had never held food worth that much, and while I was tempted to buy its smaller less expensive cousin, I was advised by a friend not to buy truffles at the festival or at this time. Air and moisture deplete a truffle's taste and fragrance rapidly, and the ones at the festival sit out all day long. Even more alluring is the selection of truffle oils and salamis, but often these are used with synthetic truffle. Supposedly, everything sold within the festival's walls is certified as using real truffle, but given how real truffle spoils quickly, I personally refrained from buying anything with truffle in it to take home. Rather, I was advised, enjoy the truffle freshly shaved over the tajarin or tartare at one of the restaurants in town. So that's exactly what I did.

I ventured to Caffe Umberto – Enoclub at the start of town. The restaurant was chic, boasting a special truffle menu with tajarin, the famous local egg-based thin noodle, and tartare di fassone. While both were well made, the 40-euros worth of truffles shaved on top were undetectable. Oh well. Alba is a cute little town with esteemed restaurants, a thriving local community,  and the birthplace of the famous Ferrero Rocher chocolates. The festival was a wonderful chance to taste a wide variety of Piemontese classics.

OSTERIA DA GEMMA

Here was a restaurant like no other I had ever been to. There were no menus, no choices, no website reading the prefix menu. I had no idea what would be brought to my table. I just made a reservation—the only requirement—and showed up. I was excited by the idea of giving the chef complete authority and autonomy in serving what it is she deems best and in season.

As soon as I sat down, I was greeted with two different salamis, served unapologetically on a plastic cutting board with a chef knife. It is implied, as I looked around unsure of what to do, that you cut off what you wish. After I did, the server passed the plate from table to table. The dinner lasted 3 or 4 hours, including 10 different classic Piemontese dishes of tajarin, pin, and Russian salad. The tartare di fassone was the best I had anywhere, and I just wished for a bigger stomach to finish everything.

A certified Slow Food restaurant, Osteria da Gemma gets its name by its creator and chef, Gemma. An older woman with white hair and a sweet smile, she makes appearances on the floor of her restaurant in her nondescript white apron, house slippers, and basic black knee-length skirt and cotton tshirt. The restaurant originally began as a circulo, which is like a casual dining club for farmers. The circulos became popular in this region in the 1980s, just as Slow Food was starting to build itself as an organization. The "members" club, just 10 euros to enter, were made up of local farmers who supported each other by eating communally and locally. She would make meals in her living room with friends and family, which is the same way the restaurant operates today. Word got out about her fabulous cooking, she was invited to teach her tajarin all around the world, and her restaurant was created.

She’s built up quite a community of international foodies and local fans. Every table, everyone, receives the same dishes no matter who they are. The restaurant, run by her family, preserves the customary dishes of the region and the community of Roddino, the small town on the Alta Langhe it calls its home.

GATASSO, RODDINO

Throughout my time in Piemonte, I made my base a sweet little farmhouse in Roddino that I found on AirBnb. I was given a room down the hall from the rest of the family that looked out on the green hills dotted with their white Fassone cows with black-rimmed Egyptian eyes. On the steep hills that led down to the stream, they grow organic Dolcetto that the daughter makes into a small batch of wine sold in restaurants around the area. The father raises the cattle, while the mother takes care of the home and breakfast for guests. Her true talent however, besides her incredible meals, are her hand-illustrated comic books. Her most recent was a re-publishing of her Mago di Oz, originally illustrated in the 1970s. The book is one of the most beautiful I've seen, and retells the Wizard of Oz in bright watercolors. Their home is filled with a wide collection of books and records, and the family is well versed in the small artisanal food community in Roddino. Their home was a place of beauty, ease, and inspiration, not to mention fabulous home-cooked meals.

ANTICA TORRE

My last stop before heading to Turin was the famous Antica Torre in Barbaresco. Maurizio, the chef and son of the first chef and founder, Cinto, has taught many successors, one of which is the original chef and founder of the famous Seattle restaurant, Spinasse. Cinto originally started cooking in his own circulo, a similar setup as the previously described, and began his career cooking banquets for friends next to his little fishing cabin by the river. Word got out, membership grew, and he was urged to open a restaurant. I had lunch with the marketing director of Prodoturri del Barbaresco, Aldo, who is credited in the last 25 years with putting Barbaresco on the international map of quality Italian wines. We ate favorites like veal with tuna sauce, Russian salad, and last but not least, Antica Torre's famous tajarin with sage. I watched as Maurizio cut the tajarin pasta by hand so thinly with a knife that the pasta fell into a heap of shredded confetti. It is then cooked for its precise time -- one minute--before its tossed with butter and sage. The pasta was so delicate that it evaporated in my mouth.

While Piemonte is a hot spot for winos, the region is still largely off the beaten path, compared to places like Amalfi and Tuscany. And while some could argue that Slow Food has done a lot to boost food tourism in the area, in the various interviews and conversations I had, I got the picture of this being not a tourist-driven movement, but a moral and spiritual one. Sustainable food is a hot topic globally right now, in relationship to the larger Climate Change debate raging in the political and social spheres. But the factor that we often forget in regards to sustainable food, the one that I found ubiquitous throughout this region of Piemonte, is the preservation of cultural practices and heritage cooking. This is the aspect of the movement that feeds the soul of its locals and the community that survives off of it.

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***Other worthwhile stops:

• Cherasco, double helix snail-capital of Northern Italy
• Barolo, touristy but cute town tucked on top of the hills
• Roero, a sweet valley on the other side of the Langhe, filled with the delicious white wine, Arneis and hiking trails

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Day in the Life, Alle Rose Farm // Tuscany, Italy

Every morning, I am greeted at my fogged up door from the breath of two cats and two dogs who are both eager for attention and food. The cats, perfect opposites of each other, clearly try to reconcile how to be both domestic felines, dependent on the food given to them each morning, and rustic terrors of mice, responsible for keeping the farm clean and rodent-free. The male cat, fat and lazy, has decided to dedicate his life to being fed and petted, and tends to rule the bowl at feeding time. The other cat, a smaller female, has made due with the situation by becoming the more athletic hunter, wandering the farm throughout the day and night. For this, she has the respect of the family.

The two dogs, Otto and Asia, also play contrasting roles. Otto, bred to be a dominant sheep herder, has decided that being a playful puppy is far more fun, and in his first 4 months of life, escapes the sheep pen whenever he can to roll around with his human colleagues. Now, he is beyond reprimand--an adorable Pastore dei Carpazi whose puppy fur still stands atop his head, and whose gait still resembles a new born deer. The only one he remains inferior to is his counterpart, Asia, who remains the fierce boxer and ruler of their territory. They are like toddlers in their understanding of dominance and space. If Asia likes a toy, Otto wants it. And if Otto wants it, Asia makes it very clear that he can't have it. The game restarts once Asia has lost interest in the toy, and thus Otto moves on as well.

Asia escorts me to the oldest pigs first, where she is only brave enough to bite their ears when there is a fence separating her from a 300-pound pig, hungry and large enough to crush her if it wanted to. The pigs are the breed Cinta Senese, and have been a part of this Tuscan landscape since the year 1300 (you can see Cinta Senese in royal paintings of that time). Their existence nearly evaporated in later years before the Tuscan government reintroduced them and encouraged farmers to raise them again in the 1970s. Now they're celebrated as the regional pig of Tuscany, famous for the way their meat is naturally marbled with fat, its texture and flavor unique and delicious. The oldest Cinta Senese, who are next in line to be slaughtered for salumi in November, can smell the approach of their feeder (me), and will run as a herd to the gate to greet me, climbing over each other to get in. We put food in their pen the night before, so as to make the morning process more swift, as the ears can only take so much of their eardrum-bursting squeals of hunger in the morning. I ensure you though, these pigs are well fed. The farm follows the rules of the DOP, Denominazione di Origine Protetta, which says that Cinta Senese farmers must feed their pigs a combination of what they produce (in this case we feed them our ancient cereals, which we also use to make our own pasta and flour) and whatever the pigs find naturally in the forest and on the land. Cinta Senese farmers are only allowed to feed them once per day--then they must forage on their own for the rest of the day. But pigs will always eat if they smell food, and nothing tickles their nose quite like the grain I feed them each day. When I open the gate, it's important to stand clear of the way, as hundreds of pounds of might and hunger rush by me. Then, a negotiation ensues as each pig looks at their helping, wanders around to make sure no one else has more than they do, and finally settles to eat. 

I next visit the teenage pigs, whose pen is now shared with the litter of half breeds, whose mother, a Cinta Senese, was approached by a wild boar roaming the nearby forests. You can imagine the surprise of the family when they found a litter of half wild animals; (there is a bull for breeding here, usually responsible for this job, but it remains to be known how he felt about this occurrence). The tame teenage Cinta Senese and the baby wildings don't quite get along, as the babies nibble and bite, try to drink the pee of their cousins, and crawl over each other for food. Perhaps they are a bit too wild, though I think both parties have come to terms with their cohabitation. Even so, their shrills of hunger in the morning are deafening. One can't imagine what a lot of hungry pigs sounds like, though to give you an idea, take any torture scene from Game of Thrones, and multiply it by 21, which is how many pigs eagerly await my arrival at this pen each morning.

With the greediest animals out of the way, my morning calms down. I visit the two pregnant Cinta Senese, who now reside in their own luxury suites--almost an acre for each to walk, eat, and sleep comfortably without the pressure of the other pigs. They each have their own little house to sleep inside when it rains, and a private mud hole to rest in. I found one of the mothers, due any hour now, calmly laying in her mud hole as if she were in a multi-jet Jacuzzi. Her eyes were half closed, her breathing a little shorter, but content nonetheless. ***

The sheep at this point know that I am around, but patiently wait their turn to feed. They don't complain, or whine, but their curiosity is far greater than their timidness to resist, and so they will send one out to me to scout the situation for food. If their pal stays, the rest know they can proceed to food, but if it turns and runs, there is no hesitation to follow as a group. They are the breed Razza Di Agnello Pomarancino, who were originally found here in Tuscany, though in which year no one really knows. Most of the sheep we recognize in Italy are a race originally from Sardinia, who are raised, and well known, for their milk for the pecorino cheese. The Razza Di Agnello race of sheep we have are solely raised for their meat (they don't even produce milk except for their babies), and thus there is something a little more special and more delicious in how their meat tastes. It is considered a highly localized sheep--only about 25 farms raise this type in this area. Each morning, I feed them a mixture of grain and hay, and whatever they find out in the fields. However, a few times now (no ones knows really how), the door was accidentally left open and the sheep were found in the neighbors field, eating the herba medica, a green plant that is both very good and very delicious for sheep (and no this is not a reference to marijuana). If left to their own devices, they are almost always found there, and Otto the sheep herder no where to be found, doing almost anything but the job he is meant to do. 

I next open the door to the chicken coop, which we close nightly to protect them from foxes; though, it is nearly pointless. The twenty or so chickens that reside at the farm live a far more radical, free range life, and I rarely see any of them inside their coop. Instead, they choose to lay their eggs in the tool shed or on top of the hay feed, sitting like princes while the sheep munch around them. They take us on an easter egg hunt every day, just looking for their eggs. Sometimes the cat huntress perches on top of the chicken coop, tempted but also too nervous to ever make a move, watching as the chickens prance about happily and care-free.

I smile often as I watch the animals interact with each other--Otto barking at one of the half-breed pigs, neither sure of what to make of the other. Or the chickens reeking havoc in the fields with the pigs. I imagine sometimes that I am in George Orwell's Animal Farm, and the pigs hold congressional meetings every night with the other animals to decide what games they will play next with their farmers. I anthropomorphize these animals because to me, there is so much whimsicality and silliness, both in our encounters and with each other. I can see their caring nature--a reflection of the love and freedom they are given throughout their life. There is a relationship here between farmer and animal in which never are too many killed, never too many placed in a small area, and food scraps saved for their feed. The animals are raised for our own consumption and also for the adjoining restaurant, which resides 4 km away in the center of Volterra, a small community in the hills of Tuscany, home to rolling grain hills and Sangiovese. 

A tourist draw for foodies and winos, Volterra also hosts a strong local community including farmers, wine makers, and artists. It is a big enough town to have its own schools, local police, and stores, but also small enough to know almost everyone. What I find most charming about this town and this place is the pride in which people create their art--whether its alabaster sculpture (which is famously found and formed here), Sangiovese, Cinta Senese, Razza Di Agnello Pomarancino, local honey (from the beehives we raise), or wild boar pasta made from boar hunted in these forests, everyone enjoys what they do. I feel a part of a community here, not just of people passionate of their craft, but of animals who care as much as I do, the beauty and essence of their lives.

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*** The two pregnant pigs had their babies after this was written. Nine babies each the same rainy night. Two have died the first few days for each mother, but this is one of the most successful numbers the pigs have produced, a testament to their healthy way of living here.

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Bathed In Jewels // Islands of Naples Bay, Italy

If one were to look at a map of Italy, one would easily miss the small little islands equally spaced in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the coastal city of Naples.

Yet these islands -- Procida, Ventotene, Ponza, Palmarola, Ischia, and Capri --host the most dramatic union of natural and anthropological beauty I have ever seen. The whimsy in its people, its dramatic natural beauty, and the setting for serene sailing combined to make a truly unparalleled trip, both for myself, and for our guests.

When we first arrived to Procida, on a quick ferry from Naples, we were met with a row of pink and yellow homes facing the marina. Their bright but decaying paint jobs, with peeling walls and sloped wooden shutters, gave the appearance of an old but cheerful lot. We found this kind of colorful vibrance everywhere we visited, in both the architecture and the people: grandfathers convincing their grandchildren to make their first leap into the water off the bathing rocks of Ventotene; teenage girls gossiping in their soft sing-song Italian on the way back from the beach on Ischia; the cascading lemons, peaches, plums, apricots, heirloom tomatoes, and herbs that seduced you in to each hole-in-the-wall market. The islands lured you with their playful nature, allowing the common day-to-day stresses of life to gently flutter away.

Set juxtaposed from this cheerful whimsy was the sheer, spectacular display of hundred-foot white cliffs jutting vertically out of a royal blue sea. Of the islands, the three that marked itself so permanently into my brain were the white cliffs of Ponza, the blue-hued caves of Palmarola with its jagged-green rocks and lavender-pebbled beaches, and lastly, the jaw-dropping white-washed rocks on the south side of Capri, where flocks of white birds swirled in and out of its caves. Rarely do you see nature so naturally, unabashedly white, or caves flecked in gold. I felt humbled by its vastness, honored by its uniqueness. Most of this natural beauty went untouched, though occasionally, we came across a stunning castle built right into the rocks of its island. One such castle on the island of Ischia was remarkable for its view of the town and sea below. Despite its sometimes dark history (it was used as a political prison in the 20th century), one got a sense that this castle was as much for enjoying the pleasure of viewing these islands as it was for guarding it.

The winds seemed to always be in our favor, with a gentle breeze that blew in our direction. There is a quieting effect to sailing--when the seas are calm and the weather is fair--that leaves one in sort of a serene dream-state. Because of your place on the horizon, you are always looking at the rise and fall of the sun and moon, and this cycle tunes us in to a natural state we've forgotten. On one of our final mornings, we rose at 4 am to depart from Ponza and make the 60-mile sail to Ischia. Our journey began East, directly into a sun that slowly began to fill the sky, composing a gradient of yellow to orange to blue. Our guests slept onboard and as they woke, their faces showered in gold light, our sailboat--both our home and our vessel for the week--crept across a placid ocean. 

It is hard for one to ever find a sense of stillness or tranquility these days, and yet I found it nearly every morning and night in these islands. From the soothing effects of the natural hot springs on Ischia to the curdled yellow highway reflected from the moon across the water each night, these islands are bathed in a magic unlike any other. They will forever be imprinted in my mind as jewels of the Italian sea.

A Sea of Blue // Saronic & Clycades Islands, Greece

I will remember Greece first and foremost by its cheese. Feta was ubiquitous, and in the Saronic Gulf Islands in particular, it was almost exclusively made of sheep cheese. (This was a win for me, being lactose-intolerant to cow milk.) There was a wider range of styles of feta than we're used to in the United States —from fresh and creamy that sprinkled like chèvre, to harder, earthier kinds served as a solid block atop a salad. Greece has 19 registered cheeses that fall under the DOP or PDO label--Protected Designation of Origin in English--signifying cheeses grown and produced in the local region they traditionally come from. This regulation protects the cultural reputation of the cheese (and other food products across the EU) and of its producers. In that way, from how the sheep or goats are raised to how the cheese is cured or brined, generations of history and culture are preserved in each bite of cheese.

Equally emblazoned in my mind were the colorful hues of Greece. It is a country of blue—from the brightly painted blue shuttered houses, to the sapphire blue water, the dusty evening sky, and the distant peaks that jut out from the horizon. The fluoride-white houses illuminated the sage green olive trees and the camel-colored wheat fields that terraced into the ocean below. 

From artifact to architecture, history in Greece is woven into its surroundings. Tucked into Aegina island is the small town of Messagros, where a famous potter--the last of his kind--still practices an ancient style of pottery. Nektarios Garis, who carries on the traditions of his ancestors, still collects clay from claybeds around the island and fires his pottery in a wood-fired kiln fueled by fallen pine branches from around his home. On Andros, a beautiful little island in the north of the Cyclades (that is uniquely devoid of the common Greek crowd of tourists), old hand-stacked rock walls parcel out land along the steep cliffs. They seemed unused in current day, and more stand as a memory of ancient civilizations that date back further than I can even imagine. There is a similar feeling of awe, both from afar and close up, as you enter the ruins of the "Sacred Triangle" -- the Acropolis, the Temple of Poseidon, and the Temple of Aphaia--all of which were built by the early Minoan people (early Greek settlers) in the 5th century BC.

It seemed there were three main simple joys to life in the Greek islands: family, religion, and fish (nearly every inlet, hill, and island had a small one-room church on it). Fishing was a hobby and a profession. One taxi driver told me that his retirement plan was to fish everyday. Fisherman enter the ports in the morning on islands like Hydra, selling fish directly out of their iceboxes to locals (and throwing the scraps to the eager harem of cats awaiting their turn). Men and children idly walked the docks at night with a small cooler and a hand-reeled hook, waiting for the night squid to reveal themselves. 

What Greece gave me, and more specifically the Saronic Gulf Islands, was an opportunity to play with local ingredients in a creative way. As a chef on chartered sailboats, I got the opportunity to act on a food fantasy I’d had about provisioning directly from the local fisherman and the fruit and vegetable vendors, discussing recipe ideas like “Bake this one in fresh tomatoes”, or “Fry this one lightly with oil.” I got tips from the old woman at the dried fruit and coffee shop I loved on Aegina for her fassolatha recipe. On Porros, I was recommended the right cut of lamb for kleftiko, and on Spetses, step-by-step directions on how to make the famous frothy Greek coffee, frappe. I was inspired by the different personalities on each island--from the food to the people--and that context got built into each dish.

After traveling through the Greek islands and meeting the people on them, what struck me was that beyond their enthusiasm to share their food knowledge, it was their connection to their food that stood out to me. Their food came not just from an ocean but the ocean right outside their doorstep. One restaurateur in Porros told me that fish, like produce, varied by its season here. Restaurants won’t serve a fish out of season, nor will the same fish appear year-round. Instead, you eat only the fish that can be caught that morning. At restaurants, it was common practice to be welcomed back into the kitchen or the icebox where the server would introduce you to the fish that was being served that night, allowing you to choose by its appearance and size. Throughout the meal, servers would beam with pride when they asked “Did you like that? Have you tried this? My mother made that!” Their eagerness to share, their enthusiasm for what they were serving, their pride—it seemed to me a way of outward cultural expression through food. But it goes beyond just food as cultural identity. It’s a direct invitation to outsiders—“Come taste Greece,” they’re saying. Come learn who we are through our food.

Walking the Way Your Own Way // Camino De Santiago, Portugal & Spain

For those of you who haven't heard of the Camino de Santiago, it is a famous pilgrimage to the Catedral de Santiago in Santiago de Compestela, Spain. You must walk at least 100 km of the last portion to be considered a pilgrim. It directly translates to "The Way of St. James," and his crypt remains underneath the Cathedral to this day. The main Camino that traverses Spain has existed as a Christian pilgrimage for over 1,000 years. Now, there are 12 routes beginning all across Europe that head into Santiago. They follow roads through medieval villages, modern cities, farmland and forest, and past churches (some dating as old as the 12th century).

Many who have done the Camino de Santiago say that it is too unique an experience to explain to others. While this may be true, I think the lessons and challenges I faced are relevant to many people's journeys in life. The Camino is the ultimate journey, though. One that is famous for its history and ability to transform its travelers. Everyone does the Camino for different reasons, though I've found that many peregrinos (pilgrims) enter into it with a purpose of finding some sort of change in their life. Or an answer to a question.

The best way to share my experience doing the Camino Portugués Interior, which starts in Porto and works its way north into Spain, is to share with you snippets from the journal I kept along the way. Buen camino!

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5.22.15 - Day One - São Pedro de Rates

     I sit below a small cascade beyond the medieval bridge, on the shore of a lazy river. I've walked somewhere close to 8 miles already. Much of the road has been cobblestone, passing through small towns and farmland. Everyone I greet is friendly and the old ladies call me "Mi niña" (my child).

I eat my baguette, cured goat cheese, and prosciutto which are just perfect for the occasion. I've also been snacking on the powdered figs I bought from the kind shopkeeper this morning, where I received my first stamp on my Pilgrim Passport (my credential stating I am officially a pilgrim, allowing me the many benefits pilgrims get along the way like discounted meals and lodging). The hill in front of me is terraced in vineyards with beautiful white clay homes and red roofs. There's a man fishing out front.

Lesson 1: When there's a shady spot near water to rest, take it. Another one won't come for at least 2 hours.

I arrived in São Pedro de Rates in the afternoon at the volunteer-run Alburgue--a government-owned basic accomodation for pilgrims that charges 5 euros (though some are donation-based), and stacks pilgrims in bunk beds sometimes 60 to a room.

I feel very young here. Everyone I've met so far is 60 and above, with one couple that is 75 years old.  I met one very particularly funky older couple from Dublin who have done the "French Camino" 3 times. You hear a lot of that lingo--how many "Caminos" people have done and which they've done. They said they wander on the Camino. Sometimes they don't even get to Santiago. It isn't the point for them--it's the journey itself that is. They barely seem to calculate mileage and allow their days to unfold at will. 

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5.23.15 - Day Two - Barcelos

     I had breakfast with a fellow pilgrim--a 70 year old woman from Belgium who was on her 4th Camino. She and I had played the Tortoise & The Hare all morning, where it didn't seem to matter how quickly I walked (then rested), there she would appear slow and steady right alongside. 

Inspired by her, I decided to slow things down, take a bit of a risk, and go the alternative scenic route. While it was lovely walking through eucalyptus trees, I found my (2013) guidebook already out to date. And rather than just enjoying the path, I spent too much time just trying to figure out where I was. I had had aspirations of sitting at the top of the viewpoint, outside an old church looking at the ocean, writing barefoot for the afternoon. When I suddenly found myself in town, 2 km past where the viewpoint was, eating messy canned tuna in a hot bus stop, I nearly cried from dissapointment and frustration. 

Lesson 2:  Let go of my expectations of how my day will evolve--the pace, the view, the activities, all of it. Trust the path as it stands.

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 5.24.15 - Day Three - Ponte de Lima

     I walked 34 km today--21 miles. I've never walked so far in a day in my life. By the 20th km, it felt like the soles of my shoes were melting on the 86 degree asphalt and my feet were like wet noodles dangling off the ends of my legs. And yet my day was wonderful.

Lesson 3: Always take your shoes and socks off when you take a break. And always sit. Bonus: rub your feet for some lovin'.

The path became truly lovely at Tamel, where it dropped into the lush green Lima valley. At Balugães, I hit the halfway mark at noon. I was really speeding along. There was an equally fast older couple that had been at my heels all day, so I decided to walk with them. They were a friendly older couple from South Carolina. She was an Episcopalean priest, and he was retired "from a little bit of everything." We were instant companions and talked politics, feminist ideals, church philosophies, travel stories, and more. They shared my enthusiasm for shouting things like "Wow! How fragrant are these orange trees!"

Now I feel as if I've made my first "Camino friends." I feel an opening in myself of kindness and compassion--from a genuine place. This is one of the things I wanted to find on this path. Santiago shows you the way, they say. I feel at peace with the world and with myself. I feel like a true Camino traveler.

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5.25.15 - Day Four - Somewhere between Ponte de Lima and Rubiães

     I've adopted a walking stick. I tied my bandana at the end of it for comfort. I thought that was rather clever. The landscape has begun to change as I make my way out of the Lima valley. The surrounding hills are getting taller and denser with varieties of pine and oak. Today the trail has meandered alongside a river and it's been shady and cool. I saw some of my Camino friends but let them pass at the first chance. Today, I want to walk alone.  

I entered a dream state, wandering over various thoughts as they came and went through my head. It was a relief from the physical stresses of my body--the aching of my feet, knees wobbling, my back petrified in a convex arch. But my mind disconnects from my body, and I just place one step in front of the other. I read in Chatwin's Songlines today that "...wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe." He was writing about Aboriginal walkabouts but I can start to feel its truth.

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5.26.15 - Day Five - Somewhere between Rubiães and Valença

     There is a common Camino saying that keeps replaying in my head when I begin to judge myself (on pace and stamina) or the other pilgrims (who get their heavy packs driven) on the Camino. The saying goes "Everyone walks The Way in their own way." Each person has different goals, different itineraries, accomodation styles, food choices--and this makes each Camino different. For me, the Camino is about taking the time to walk and travel alone. For others, it's about visiting historical monuments, or it's an inexpensive way to spend their holidays. For some it's spiritual, others religious, physical, or just plain fun.

I like that about the Camino. Each village, cafe, and alburgue adds twists and turns to your journey. From the people you see everyday to those you have a brief conversation with by the side of the road build up to the bigger journey. And when things seem to turn for the worst, a friend you met 3 days ago re-appears and all feels ok again. I'm learning to trust Santiago and in doing so, trusting the world.

Lesson 4: Everything is as it should be.

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5.27.15 - Day Six - Tui

     I came across a bar that advertised "Last Bar in Portugal on the Camino." So I'm celebrating Portugal with one last hoorah--a giant gin and tonic with a little tapas. I feel a warm and heavy heart leaving Portugal, a country that has been so welcoming and generous. But I am also excited to cross the Río Miño into Spain, where the food and language will change.

Tui, now spelled Tuy in Spanish, should be called the City of Bells. There are so many churches on either side of the river and they all chime their unique song at the top of the hour. I've just walked over 100 km in the last 6 days, which means I've hit the halfway mark for my Camino.

Spain has such a vibrant energy. Everyone gathers in the plazas. I like that there are spaces to sit and socialize--or be alone--for free. To me, Seattle breeds solitude. And New York is like one giant social space. The Camino feels as if I can have both.

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5.28.15 - Day Seven - Redondela

     I began my walk before the roosters rose, in an effort to get a head start on another 33 km day (20 miles). I have been relatively lucky so far in the health of my feet. Though within the first 3 miles of today, the small blister that had been subtly forming on my right heel started to invade the rest of my foot until every step sent pains through my heel, to my knee, and into my hip. 

They say that the halfway mark in a marathon is 20 miles. Today, I walked 10 miles in the first 3.5 hours. And 9 miles in the last 6 hours. The mental warp of feeling near to the end makes it painfully slow.  It is a balancing act between listening to what your body needs (food, rest, water) and pushing it to go further than it's ever gone. 

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5.29.15 - Day Eight - Pontevedra

     Today is about leisure. Today, there is no urgency. Instead, I've found a pace devoid of mileage and time. There is so much freedom in that--space for whim and spontaneity. I will rest wherever it is beautiful. I'll eat where it is charming. I'll sip my tea slowly.

I'm starting to track time with the length and direction of my shadow. The sun always rises on my right, hits my back at noon, and falls to the left side of my face in the afternoon. The trail always heads North. 

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5.30.15 - Day Nine - Caldas de Reis

     At Caldas de Reis, Santiago gifts the pilgrims a hot bath for their feet, at a constant 40 degrees C (104 F). Caldas de Reis is known for its natural thermal baths that flow out of fountains along the streets of this small medieval town, with spots for pilgrims and locals to sit and rest their feet in the water. This was once a famous stop for the Romans to bathe in; (this is also where you start to see the remnants of the old Roman military road that's formed much of this portion of the Camino).

Tonight is also the last major stop I have before I head into Santiago de Compestela--the final stop for pilgrims. To celebrate, I splurged on a tapas dinner including mini fried sardines, chorizo made of deer meat, octupus in olive oil and paprika, blistered padron peppers (which hail from the neighboring city of Padrón), and hearty bread. I enjoyed it with laughter and friendship along the river at dusk.

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5.31.15 - Day Ten - Padrón

     There is so much energy on the Camino today as all the peregrinos enter the last stretch towards Santiago. Today is finally one of those grey, misty days everyone talks about in Galicia. This area of Northwestern Spain is known for being very wet and green, similar to Ireland (which explains why the Celtics landed here ages ago).

Despite the many new friends ahead of me, I've chosen to spend this day alone--my last day to do so. 

I stopped in a cafe on the way that advertised "Santiago cake," or Tarta de Santiago. It was a curious place with a strange man who took on the appearance of a hermit artist from an obscure French movie. His hair was long and black, and balding at the top. He cleaned and drilled holes in buckets of shells while listening to a very sad, beautiful woman singing. When I asked who it was, his only response was that she had died. There was a creepiness to his clutter, and to his personality, but my curiousity was too high to resist. I sat down and ordered a cake and a coffee.

For 15 minutes, I heard clanking in the back room. I wondered if he might be baking the cake to order. He then suddenly emerged with a tea tray, plopped himself down across from me, handed me a bright pink timer, and told me the French press would be ready when the timer ran out. Then he got up in the same unceremonious gesture and went back to drilling holes.

The cake was delicious--a version of the traditional cake served all over Santiago. It is soft but dense like a pound cake, with lemon zest and hints of almond. The top is dusted with powdered sugar. As I ate, he occasionally spoke to me in the middle of his stream of thought, as if a curtain were suddenly opening into his mind. Then he would fall silent again and retreat into reticence. Once I got over the creepiness of it all, I came to appreciate the cafe's uniqueness, like the little soldier dolls glued to the tops of the napkin holders and signs like "Foot Bath: ask us for fresh mint to scent it" posted above a decaying dried-up fountain.

Lesson 5: When you come across something curious, follow it. (Unless it feels really unsafe.) It usually leads to something worthwhile (and being too tired to detour is rarely a good excuse).

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6.1.15 - Day Eleven - SANTIAGO DE COMPESTELA!

     I have just walked 260 km -- 160 miles. It is officially the first day of summer in Spain, June 1st, and is a perfectly symbolic day to arrive. Spring has ended and a new season will begin.

The plaza outside the main cathedral is full of pilgrims hugging, cheering, and embracing their fellow pilgrims. Some are just laying star-shaped on the ground looking at the sky. People have come from every direction, on bicycle, by foot, and even some by horse.

The mass at noon inside the cathedral was even more moving. There is a ritual that each pilgrim takes when they arrive: hug and kiss the gold statue of St. James, visit his crypt where you give thanks for your safe arrival, then find a seat among the hundreds of pilgrims for noon mass. Most of mass was in Spanish, but the real joy was at the end when they lit the Botafumeiro--the old thurible that was used to fumagate the often disease-ridden pilgrims. Now it is just lit with incense. It was a stunning spectacle as 12 robed men pulled a thick rope to swing it high above the crowds, emitting smoke as it travelled. The old organs played and pilgrims around me cried tears of relief, joy, and accomplishment.

After mass, I took my walking stick that had been my stronghold, my cane, and my rhythm. I wrapped the stone I had brought from Seattle into the bandana, wrote a line of gratitude and the date, and placed the cane at the bottom of the steps of the cathedral. I promised Santiago that the next few days would be about rest, ease, and laughter.

Lesson 6: Just as you've allowed something to enter your life, allow it to exit. Letting go is equally as important as letting it in.

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6.2.15 - Day Twelve - Finisterre, the end of the world

     I am at the end of the road. I walked until there was no more. Just an invisible hazy horizon faded between sea and sky.

I arrived to Finisterre by car, crammed in a small Fiat with 4 of the friends I had met in the Camino--1 Aussie, 1 Dutch, 2 Germans, and myself. We walked to the lighthouse at the end of the spit, where pilgrims come to burn their clothes and throw their shells back into the sea. (Every pilgrim buys a sea shell on the Camino and carries it on their bag as a symbol of both the pilgrimmage and of this region of Galicia, Spain.)

I feel as if I've wiped my slate clean so that now I can see the world with fresh eyes. Partly, this journey has been about renewing a child-like faith in the world--that the universe will look out for me. Partly, it has been about gaining the confidence to travel alone. I also wanted to answer questions I have about my future and where I will go.

I walked to the edge over the water, holding my shell that I had gotten my first night in São Pedro de Rates. Holding it to my heart, I said these words:

Thank you for this beautiful journey. I found courage, friendship, challenge, and joy. I want to carry what I've learned into the next stages of my life. But mostly, I promise to keep walking. For "our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.*

Then I kissed it and threw it into the ocean, where it returned back into the sea.

* Quote by Blaise Pascal, copied from Songlines by Bruce Chatwin.

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