SpiceLines

It is the night before the spring equinox. The way to El Tajin is thronged with thousands of pilgrims and though the scarlet sun has sunk low, the stultifying heat of the day still radiates relentlessly from the soil. Flushed and sweating, Susana, Deborah and I press forward through the crowd, in a miasma of warm vapors exuding from the sea of bodies surrounding us.

The approach to El Tajin would surely qualify as one of Dante’s nine circles of hell. In the 21st century remake, we must navigate a fiendish gauntlet of stalls bursting with white clothing and tee shirts, temporary tattoos, rattlesnake skins, sunglasses, cheap jewelry, woven straw hats, plastic bottles of fake vanilla, synthetic Chinese silk parasols, magic light-up sticks. And there is a glut of food hawkers urging us to devour hot cakes with pineapple syrup, wedges of red papaya thick with glistening seeds, bags of chile- and salt-crusted peanuts, roasted pistachios and fried plantains, dayglo-colored cotton candy, syrupy mango, lime and coconut ices…

But it is too hot to eat. The irony is that this infernal path leads to one of Mexico’s most spiritual archaeological sites. Tomorrow, on the equinox, thousands of pilgrims and tourists will bask in the first rays of the sun and receive cleansings from traditional healers. The ceremonial pyramids, ball courts and palaces of El Tajin were built over 12 centuries by various cultures, but by the time Cortez arrived in 1519, the city had been abandoned. (In the Totonac language, tajin means “place of thunder.”) It was the Totonacs, growers of sacred vanilla, who pledged 50, 000 warriors to help the Spaniards overthrow Moctezuma—and it was the Totonacs who presented La Malinche, now universally reviled as a traitor to Mexico, as a slave to Cortez.

At last we debouche into an open plaza and I can breathe again. Up ahead the voladores are flying upside down in the starry sky--arms stretched like wings, eyes closed, smiling beatifically, tethered to a 100-foot pole only by ropes tied around their waists. This is an ancient ritual, a plea to the gods for rain, born in the 13th century during a great drought. Four “fliers” climb one by one to the top of the pole; each winds a rope around the shaft, then ties it to his waist. At a signal, the four men fall backwards and begin to soar gracefully around the pole, gradually descending to the ground. Each volador makes 13 revolutions, for a total of 52, the number of weeks in the year. It is a mesmerizing sight, at once uplifting and terrifying. Especially when one contemplates the fifth volador, the Caporal, who dances nonchalantly on top of the pole, 100 feet in the air, playing the flute and drum for this celestial dance…

The lines to enter the archaeological zone are interminable. We inch forward for what seems like hours; suddenly we are handing our tickets to a guard. We walk down a long, dimly llt, open air corridor lined with pots of young vanilla vines. Then, darkness. Gentle voices murmur welcome,and guides step forward with flashlights, offering steady hands, taking care that we do not stumble on the rough ground.

We arrive at a narrow stone bridge. Curanderos, healers, are swinging braziers of copal incense and we are enveloped in choking clouds of fragrant smoke. An old woman dips a small branch into a pail of water and gently slaps my chest, back, arms and legs with the wet leaves, then sprinkles cool water on my head, intoning soothing blessings in a language I cannot understand…

And now, purified, we step onto the sacred grounds of El Tajin. By night, it is utterly mysterious. Pools of light reveal dreamlike tableaux separated by vast expanses of blackness. The crowd seems thin now and the site feels limitless. We come upon a shrine to the Virgen de Guadalupe, the altar illumined with votive candles, adorned with offerings of flowers and bottles of honey. A flat, round, woven metal headdress behind the Virgen glitters in the flicking light. Two old men in white are muttering prayers. Further on, a long-haired man plays eerily atonal music on ancient instruments--rattles, sea shells, clay pots.

This night has been billed as a sound and light show, but it is more magical than we expect. We float from one terraced pyramid to the next. Colors dissolve into each other, now magenta, now green, now blue. Ancient symbols are projected onto golden stones. We seem to hear the sound of water slapping against a wall, then down a long corridor that leads to a ball court, the roar of a long-dead crowd. Around each corner, there are dancers celebrating the cultures of the region: quetzals, birds of fire, with feathered headdresses, then bufoonish peasants and conquistadors chasing each other on hobby horses. Fragments of carved stone murals are spotlit, revealing ritual games and sacrifices.

A cooling breeze blows.

Editor’s note: This was a simpler version of the award-winning sound and light show designed by Yves Pepin for El Tajjin in 2002. A wizard with color, light and sound effects, Pepin is perhaps best known for the Eiffel Tower Millenium fireworks display. To glimpse his design for El Tajin, go to Pepin’s website, www.eca2.com, click on “References” at the top and scroll down to “Luz y Voces del Tajin, Mexico.”

It is the day of the spring equinox, March 20. The sky is cloudy but bright, and there is a light, cool breeze. It is late. We have missed the first rays of the sun by six hours. The lure of café con leche and huevos con frijoles negros in the nearby town of Papantla was too strong to resist, and we dallied in the market, buying the most charming hearts, flowers, and scorpions woven of supple, darkly fragrant vanilla beans.

No matter. We have the afternoon, and mysteries are unfolding. Just outside the corridor that leads to El Tajin, there is a curious shrine woven of palm fronds, sunflowers and golden marigolds. On the altar are bottles of Pepsi and a tarnished brass bell, but there is no Virgin or saint. Perhaps the shrine is Totonac, dedicated to the Tajin, the 12 gods of thunder, or, since the equinox occurs at planting time, to some deity of spring and fertility.

An old man, black hair streaked with silver, face dark from the sun, stands in front of the shrine, muttering prayers. Dressed in white, he wears huaraches, a red bandana around his neck, and on his brow, a garland of marigolds. He holds up a stick sprouting more marigolds, palm leaves, colored ribbons and a beeswax candle, limp from the heat of the sun. Around him solemn young men and women, also dressed in white, are slowly dancing in two orderly lines.

Almost everyone at El Tajin is dressed in white today, perhaps because we are all seeking a limpia or cleansing by a friendly healer. In the hazy sunlight, the ruins seem different, certainly less magical, but no less mysterious, than they were in the dark. The main site covers two square miles of massive ceremonial pyramids, palaces, plazas and ball courts which appear to have been constructed over a thousand years. Everything about it is a mystery, starting with who built it--Olmecs, some speculate, or perhaps the Huastecs--and why it was abandoned in the 12th century. By the time Cortez arrived, it had been deserted for three centuries, although the Totonacs held it sacred.

The most photographed structure is the Pyramid of the Niches. Painted red, the stepped pyramid shows, according to the magazine Archaeology, “the distinctive slope, niche and cornice construction that is a testament to Meso-American Engineering.” Once covered with carved stone reliefs, this monumental pyramid has 365 evenly spaced, blackened niches, leading many to believe that it was a solar calendar tied to the agricultural cycle. As intriguing are the 17 ball courts, with fragments of carved stone murals depicting not only the game, but also ritual human sacrifice—the losers lost their heads—and the drinking of pulque, an intoxicant made from the leaves of the maguey plant.

At the base of Structure 16, I find my curandera. She is one of five or six who are offering cleansings there—many more are scattered around the grounds—each with a distinctive style. My curandera is old, as thin and fragile as a bird, nearly swallowed up by her voluminous white blouse and long skirt. Under her straw hat, softly worn with use, her brown, heart-shaped face is criss-crossed with a web of fine lines. It is her eyes which have convinced me: Like inverted commas, crinkled at the corners, they are gently inquisitive, kind, intelligent. I like the way she lingers over small children, giving them extra blessings.

When it is my turn, she picks a white carnation from a pile of leaves and flowers and brushes it over my body. She gently presses my forehead and the back of my head with her hands, then touches my arms and chest and—can it be?---my gall bladder which has been unhappy of late. All the while she is murmuring prayers in Spanish, but her voice is so light and thin that it dissolves into the breeze. I can only decipher one phrase: “…sus suenos,” (“your dreams”). At the end, she sprinkles my head with drops of cool, sweet-smelling water, presses my hands, and sends me on. For no reason, tears rush to my eyes.

On our way out of El Tajin, the voladores are flying. I notice that the fifth volador, the Caporal, is dancing quite defiantly atop the 100-foot pole, almost as if he is daring the gods to topple him. Later in the town of Jalapa we hear that a volador at El Tajin had fallen to his death earlier that day.

(Adapted from Silvia Lagunes Troncaso)

According to The Wall Street Journal, the chipotle has had its 15 minutes of fame. (See“The Next Big Flavor,” Katy McLaughlin, Saturday-Sunday, April 29-30, 2006, pp. 1, 6). The smoky tasting chile Is now so mainstream—it’s everywhere, from Applebee’s Tortilla Chicken Melt quesadilla with chipotle-roasted chicken to the Chipotle Mexican Grill (500 stores in 20 states)--that its allure has faded. Adventurous chefs have turned their sights on more exotic flavors such as tamarind, guava and even leather.

But what is a chipotle exactly? The chipotle chile begins life as a ripe red jalapeno pepper, which is smoked and dried until it shrivels and turns dark brown. Although it is sometimes pickled, in Mexican cooking the chipotle is usually added to salsas, soups and stews both for its heat and for the subtle smoky flavor it imparts. On the Scoville scale, it measures 15,000 units which puts it in the medium range: hot enough to sear your tongue, but not to blister it.

Even if trendy chefs are moving on, the chipotle is a staple of Mexican cookery, especially in Veracruz where a simple salsa is found on most restaurant tables. Usually chipotles and cloves of garlic are sautéed in hot oil, then whirred in a blender with a little water until the sauce is smooth. The salsa can be fiery, especially if the seeds have not been removed. However, it can be tamed by adding a little tomato sauce, or even mayonnaise: It makes a luscious dip for fried seafood.

One day Silvia, our guide to all things delicious in Veracruz, showed us how to make one of the region’s classic dishes: camarones enchipotladas or shrimp with chipotle sauce. In her version, enormous Gulf shrimp are simmered with salsa de chipotle and a few aguacatillo leaves from the wild avocado, which add a touch of anise-like flavor. (We’ve substituted a pinch of ground anise seed.) The smoky heat of the sauce is a perfect counterpoint to the sweetness of the fresh shrimp.

Sylvia recommends cooking the shrimp in a cazuela de barro, or earthenware casserole, to give it a “special flavor.”’ Like the aguacatillo leaves, the shallow, thick-walled cazuelas are hard to find in the U.S., though they can be had for about 60 pesos in Veracruz’s central market. Do not despair: The shrimp are nearly as good cooked in a skillet.

To serve 4

Ingredients for the chipotle sauce:

5 dried chipotle chiles (see note)
2 large garlic cloves
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup water
Salt to taste

Ingredients for the shrimp:

16 jumbo shrimp, or 1-1/2 pounds of large shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 tablespoon garlic, finely chopped
1/4 cup olive oil

1 tablespoon chipotle sauce, or to taste
1/4 cup canned tomato sauce, or to taste
Pinch of ground anise seed
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. For the sauce: In a saucepan, gently sauté the garlic in olive oil over a medium flame until it is golden brown. Remove and set aside. Saute the chipotles, one at a time, until they are crispy, and immediately remove from the pan. Do not let them burn-- lower the heat if necessary. If they turn black, the sauce will be bitter.
2. Remove the pan from the heat. Pour in a cup of water. Return the chiles and garlic to the pan, place it back on the heat and simmer until the chipotles and garlic are soft.
3. Pour the mixture into a blender and whirr until the sauce is very smooth. Pour into a bowl, add salt to taste and set aside.
4. For the shrimp: Heat the olive oil in a large non-reactive skillet. Add the garlic and cook for 15 seconds, stirring, then add the shrimp and sauté until they are pink all over, but not cooked through. Do this in two batches if necessary.
5. Mix one tablespoon chipotle sauce with 1/4 cup canned tomato sauce. Add the mixture to the shrimp and stir until well coated. Taste and correct seasonings, adding more chipotle or tomato, as well as salt and pepper, if desired. Add a pinch of ground anise and simmer gently until the shrimp are cooked through.
6. Serve the shrimp with rice and, on the side, slices of ripe, buttery avocado.

Note: Dried chipotles are widely available in Hispanic grocery stores and sometimes in the produce or international section of large supermarkets. They can also be ordered from www.penzeys.com.

"Tablecloth stainer?" Dona Elena simmers a pot of manchamanteles,
a tropical mole of fruits and chiles.

Martha, Mario and all you other Food Network mavens—make way for Dona Maria Elena Serena. She is cheerful and rotund, nearly as wide as she is tall, with a perfect command of her recipes and kitchen techniques. Alhough she has never given a cooking lesson before today, she is such a natural that, if the cameras were rolling, audiences everywhere would be swept away. The Maria Elena Show would need subtitles, I guess, but that's a just a small concession for a program that would have the foodie universe riveted to the screen.

Susana, Deborah, Liliana (our guide) and I are collapsed around the dining table in the immaculate front room of Maria Elena Serena’s house in Coatepec, a beautiful colonial suburb of Jalapa. The TV is tuned to the Food Network and at the moment, Anthony Bourdain is lapping up an exquisite meal at a small luxury hotel at Macchu Picchu in Peru. (When I was there, the menu consisted of dried cod and freeze-dried potatoes from the cellar.)

We have eaten a ridiculous amount of Dona Elena’s delicious food, beginning with a delicate sopa de calabacitas and ending with an intensely flavored coffee flan. Now she is urging us to try her homemade coffee ice cream with a slice of chocolate cake. It doesn’t take a lot of convincing--I have secretly unzipped my jeans—and the ice cream is everything coffee ice cream should be and never is, with the pure, strong flavor of dark roasted beans.

I should explain that we arrived five hours late for our cooking lesson —this is becoming our regular modus operandi—after an endless drive from the beach town of Tecolutla, down the Gulf coast, inland to Jalapa, the capital of the state of Veracruz. Naturally we stopped along the way to buy luscious local honey and conch shells, naturally we paused at a popular highway restaurant for sopa de mariscos, naturally we got seriously lost…

That would be enough to drive most cooks into a fury. But Dona Elena greets us with complete aplomb and only the most casual comment: “I was wondering if you were coming.” Instead of crashing crockery and barring the door against us, this thrifty, industrious cook, who also rents rooms to local university students, whiled away the afternoon cooking every dish she had prepped for us—and then prepped each one all over again so we could learn how she did it.

The five of us squeezed into Dona Elena’s narrow outside kitchen, which has a sloping roof and looks out on a tropical garden with gorgeous orchids. This is where the real cooking takes place, especially anything that is messy or smelly. (There is a second indoor kitchen for finishing dishes before they go to the table.) The shelves are stacked with a battery of turquoise enamel pots and pans: I notice that Dona Elena’s checked apron is also turquoise and white, and just outside the door, the gas tank has been painted a similar bright hue. The kitchen has all the essentials: a small stove, a sink and a modicum of counter space. It is as spotless and well-organized as a yacht’s galley, everything within arm’s reach of the head cook.

Maria Elena stirs squash blossoms into sopa de calbacitas,
a delicate soup of squash, corn and onion.

Like all accomplished TV chefs, Dona Elena readies each dish for the stove or oven and immediately whips out a finished version to show us. “And here it is!” she exclaims with a flourish, displaying an ensalada de nopales or that wonderful coffee flan. Here’s what she cooked and what we're eating:

Sopa de calabacita (squash soup); Also known as sopa de milpa, or soup of the cornfield. An exquisitely simple soup of squash and its blossoms, onion, fresh corn and the herb epazote. Its delicate flavor suggests fresh picked vegetables simmered in a pot at the edge of the field.

Manchamanteles (literally “tablecloth stainer”): A light, very fruity tropical mole served over cooked chicken. Pears, apples, peaches and pineapple are simmered in a rich paste made of guajillo chiles, onion, garlic, cinnamon and seared tomatoes. “This is good for energy,” advises Dona Elena. “Lots of natural sugar and protein.”

Ensalada de nopales (cactus salad): Slivered nopal cactus pads cooked in water and salt, then mixed with fresh chopped cilantro, tomato, onion and olive oil. When I ask if she’s going to add a green jalapeno pepper, she fixes me with a steely gaze. “ I’m not making pico de gallo.”

Two salsas: The first made of charred tomatoes and jalapenos, ground in a molcajete or mortar with fresh garlic and onion; the other, the classic chipotle sauce, made of 1/4 kilo chiles chipotles, sautéed one at a time, blended with cloves from a whole head of garlic that have been fried until golden.

Two guisos (stews): Guiso de pipian: A vegetarian “stew” of toasted pepitas or pumpkin seeds, blended with guajillo chiles, onion, garlic, and roasted tomatoes, simmered with vegetables such as string beans. Guiso pascal: Blanched almonds, pecans, sunflower seeds, and pepitas, ground with charred tomatoes; served with chicken or pork. Dona Elena scoops up a few nuts that have fallen: "Never eat anything off the floor," she says sternly.

Coffee flan: Made with raw sugar and a special instant Nescafe, Golden Selection Tueste Intenso, as well as sweetened condensed and evaporated milk. “When you cover it with aluminum foil, never put the dull side down because it will turn the flan dark.” She shows us how to unmold the flan by running a knife around the edge, then letting it sit in hot water momentarily before inverting it on a plate.

Before we leave, I ask Dona Elena if she watches a lot of shows on the Food Network. ‘Oh yes,” she says with a big smile. “I like all the chefs. Sometimes I don’t know what they’re saying, so I just make up my own recipes.” Now those would be worth tasting.

Oh, my. Peeling forty cloves of garlic…does that distress you? I’m wandering the aisles at A Southern Season, our local gourmet everything store, where I get the distinct feeling that American cooks don’t want to touch the stinking rose. I find at least 14 peelers and presses, all of which are intended to keep our fingers ever from coming in contact with garlic’s sulphurous cloves.

It’s not hard to peel garlic. You can strip 40 cloves in 10 minutes or less simply by cracking the outer husk with the flat side of a chef’s knife or by pressing the cloves with the heel of your hand. I tend to do the latter, but then I love the pungent smell of garlic and don’t mind it clinging to my fingers. In this recipe raw cloves become sweet and nutty, a near miraculous transformation that requires four hours in a slow oven, giving you plenty of time to go out for coffee, plant some basil and call your brother in Singapore. (Hmmm, it’s three in the morning there. Better not.)

John Thorne’s recipe for Poulet aux Quarantes Gousses d”Ail comes from the Winter 1990 issue of his newsletter, Simple Cooking. For upwards of 20 years, John has been the most original voice in American food writing: opinionated, wry, ruminative, with a brilliant grasp of the way a dish should be made—inspiration born, no doubt, of dogged days at the stove. I became an avid reader when he was holed up in a cabin in Maine, publishing elegantly written and meticulously researched pamphlets such as A Treatise on Onion Soup and Just Another Bowl of Texas Red. As you might suspect, he’s man of lusty appetites with a predilection for down home hearty food. You won’t find recipes for Roasted Monkfish with Pink Grapefruit, Pea Shoots, and Foie Gras in his pages--look for straightforward fare like Cheddarwurst and Potato Soup instead.

As for Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic, John traces the peregrinations of this peasant dish through France and Spain to its likely origins in Catalonia—where he also discovers pistache de mouton, leg of mutton prepared with 50 cloves of garlic. He has sensibly tweaked traditional recipes, reducing the olive oil (stewing hens were once leaner), eliminating the flour and paste seal (aluminum foil works really well) and lowering the temperature to produce “very tender, juicy chicken, well-permeated with garlic essence.”

And if you are still dismayed by the notion of peeling so much garlic, he offers this elegant rationale:

“Finally, we are of two minds about peeling the cloves. It is more work for the cook to do this and less fun for the eater, but they are such appealing little morsels, sans chemise…and how else can you get a whole forkful of them? Like already shelled pistachio nuts, this may seem altogether too much of a good thing. But this is a matter of taste, even morals, rather than of technique.”

To serve four

Ingredients:

3-1/2 to 4 pound chicken, cut into serving pieces
Salt and pepper
40 cloves of garlic (about 4 heads)
1 to 2 tablespoons fruity olive oil
A bouquet garni of several sprigs of parsley and a branch of thyme
Chapons [crusts] of country bread, toasted in olive oil

Method:

Preheat oven to 200F. Season the pieces of chicken with salt and pepper. Examine the cloves of garlic. If they are fresh and firm—and if you care to—use them unpeeled. Otherwise, peel them carefully discarding any soft or moldy ones and cutting away any brown spots and assertive green sprouts. Choose a flameproof casserole with a well-fitting lid, just large enough to hold the chicken pieces comfortably. Heat the olive oil in it over medium-high heat and, when it is hot, quickly brown the chicken pieces on all sides. Do this in batches, removing each piece to a platter as soon as it is done. When all the pieces have been browned, put the garlic cloves into the hot oil and sauté these, stirring constantly, for two or three minutes, until they soften begin to brown a little at the edges.

Remove the casserole from the heat and return the chicken pieces, stirring so that they and the garlic cloves are well mixed. Work the bouquet garni down among them, cover the pot tightly with foil, and press on the lid. Cook for four hours. The chicken will be meltingly tender and suffused with the garlic. Serve with fried crusts of bread, which are to be spread with the soft garlic.

Editor’s Note: John is currently offering a set of available back issues of Simple Cooking for $172, a bargain for collectors and anyone who loves to read great food writing. New subscriptions and his most recent book, Home Body, can also be ordered from www.outlawcook.com.

Much of his writing has been collected in three earlier books, all of which are available from www.amazon.com: Simple Cooking; Serious Pig: An American Cook in Search of His Roots; and Pot on the Fire: Further Confessions of a Renegade Cook.

Editor's Note: Claire has returned after an absence of nearly two months. Quite frankly, I had given up on her. But she has her reasons, not that she would condescend to share them with me. To pick up the thread of her story, see her last entry, SpiceTales: A Shrunken Head and an Old Enemy.

If I hadn’t seen a lurid glow through the skeletal trees, I would have sped past. I braked hard and the Alfa skidded on the slick pavement just as I started across the two lane bridge spanning the Ennis River.

I backed up slowly—believe me when I say this stretch of Highway 70 is deserted at 11 o’clock on a cold, wet winter night—until I found the gravel road on the left. I had been looking for a small, nearly invisible sign that read “Shady Green--Canoe Launch,” letters chiseled into a stick of wood nailed to a loblolly pine. A heavy chain was lying on the ground and I drove over it, tires crunching in the deep gravel.

The road ended in a small dirt parking lot. A hundred feet to my left was a towering electrical grid, a few lights winking against the dark sky. To my right a cluster of people were standing on a rocky bank that sloped steeply down to the river. A big portable spotlight was aimed at a low dam, really just a concrete barricade, with foamy water rushing swiftly through the sluice.

A fine cold mist was falling. My fingers tried to find the zipper on my black leather jacket, but I couldn’t make them work. As I walked toward the group, a figure came towards me. It was Linda. “Claire,” she said quietly and touched my arm. I noticed that she was wearing a blue parka with a lift ticket attached to the zipper and muddy rubber boots. Her nose was red with cold. “I’m fine.” I said. “It’s not him,” I said.

As we neared the river bank, the cluster of strangers parted, their faces curious. Wedged up against the dam, there was a car, nose down in the swirling water. It was almost entirely submerged. Only the tail was visible. Black. Rear tires crusted with mud. License plate JZY 1427. Time came to a shuddering stop. Everything telescoped. I saw it all from a great distance.

“Bring it up,” said a man’s voice. The tow truck rumbled, then emitted a screeching hydraulic whine. A heavy steel cable, hooked under the rear axle of the drowned car, began to retract. The car lurched, then swung loose and was dragged backwards slowly up onto the rocky bank. It was the Porsche. Muddy water was gushing out of the windows and doors. Irrationally I thought about the beautiful champagne leather seats, the pierced ball of amber, the maps, the black journal in which he jotted meticulous notes—a sodden ruin now.

I started forward. “Wait,” said Linda. We had all seen the same thing: a dark figure slumped against the window. A state trooper shone his flashlight inside, then tried the door. It was jammed and he had to pull hard. It jerked open and he stumbled back, then bent down. Something large and unwieldy had fallen out of the car. After a moment he stood up and came over to us.

“Mrs….Polo?” The trooper’s drawl was carefully neutral, but his red-rimmed eyes were sizing me up. I nodded. “The license plate of this car is registered to Marco Nicolo Polo. Is he your husband?” I nodded again. “Can you give me a description?”

“He’s--” my voice was cracking. The words tumbled out: ‘He’s 38--his hair is brown—dark--he has a small scar on his—“ I broke away and ran to the car on legs that were suddenly wobbling.

There was a body lying half out of the driver’s seat, face turned up to the night sky. My breath came out in a rush. The features were still recognizable. The heavy eyebrows, the prominent acquiline nose, the full lips, pale hair plastered across his forehead.

It was Max. I noticed, almost incidentally, that there was a gaping hole in his left temple.

I was suddenly ravenous.

(adapted from Maria Elena Serena, Coatepec, Veracruz)

Our delicious cena at the Coatepec home of Maria Elena Serena ended with a double-barreled coffee dessert: an intensely flavored coffee flan, followed by a scoop of her homemade coffee ice cream.

Earlier, in her tidy outdoor kitchen, Dona Elena had given us a lesson in making flan: Placing a metal pan right over a gas flame, she caramelized a few spoonfuls of raw sugar until it was brown and syrupy. Setting it aside to cool, she frothed instant coffee with eggs, sweetened condensed milk and evaporated milk in her blender. After pouring the coffee mixture over the cooled sugar syrup, Dona Elena tore off a sheet of aluminum foil. She eyed us sternly: “Never put the dull side next to the flan, or it will make it dark,” she instructed. And indeed, the flan, cooked on the stovetop in a pan of simmering water, had a lovely golden brown surface, not to mention a rich, creamy coffee taste.

Dona Elena flavored her flan with Nescafe Golden Selection Tueste Intenso, a strong instant coffee I have not seen in the U.S. Instead, I’ve substituted instant espresso, which imbues the flan with a richer flavor than standard issue American instant coffee. You can try cooking the flan on the stovetop in a pan of water for 45 minutes, or for a silkier texture, bake it in a water bath in the oven. Be sure to chill the flan for a few hours before unmolding.

To serve 8

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons Demerara sugar (see note)
1/2 cup water
2 tablespoons instant espresso powder
1 14-ounce can of sweetened condensed milk
1 12-ounce can evaporated milk, plus 2 additional ounces
6 large eggs

Whipped cream (optional)
Chocolate covered coffee beans (optional)
Sprigs of fresh mint (optional)

You will also need:

1 8-inch round non reactive metal pan
1 9 or 10-inch round metal pan
Aluminum foil

Note: Demerara sugar is raw cane sugar; its large, crunchy, golden brown crystals have the sweet, mellow taste of sugar cane. It is available from gourmet food stores and on line from www.shopstashtea.com/300312.html.

Method:

1. Set oven to 350 degrees.

2. Place a small saucepan on the stove over a medium flame. Add the Demerara sugar and water, and stir to dissolve. Let the sugar mixture come to a boil, reduce the heat slightly, and let it bubble until it becomes brown and syrupy. This will take 7 or 8 minutes from the time it begins to boil. Watch carefully and as soon as the mixture thickens, test by letting a drop or two slide off the spoon into a cup of cold water; if the syrup makes a soft ball, it’s ready.

Quickly pour the syrup over the bottom of the 8-inch pan and swirl to cover. Don’t worry if it doesn’t completely coat the bottom of the pan. It will liquefy during the baking process. Set the pan aside to cool.

3. In a blender, combine the instant espresso powder, sweetened condensed milk, evaporated milk and eggs, and whirr until the espresso powder is dissolved and the mixture is well blended.

4. Pour the coffee mixture over the cooled sugar syrup. Set the pan inside the larger 9- or 10-inch pan. Carefully pour in almost boiling water to reach 2/3 of the height of the inside pan. Cover both pans with a sheet of aluminum foil, shiny side down.

5. Place the pans in the oven. Bake for 50 minutes, or until a knife inserted into the center of the flan comes out clean. Be very careful not to let the flan overcook or the texture will be nubbly and the edges will toughen. Remove the flan from the water bath and refrigerate for 2 hours, or until it is well chilled.

6. To unmold: Loosen the sides by running the blade of a knife around the inner circumference of the pan. Pour a little hot water into the larger pan originally used for the water bath. Set the flan pan into the hot water for 20 to 30 seconds to loosen the bottom. Remove it and dry the pan with a dishtowel. Then place your serving plate, face down, on top of the flan and invert. The flan will release easily from the baking pan, and the smooth, syrupy underside will now be on top.

7. To serve: Cut the flan into 8 pieces and serve on individual plates. Top each slice with a dollop of whipped cream, a chocolate-covered coffee bean and a sprig of mint if desired.

Don Ruperto Opoch is a third generation coffee grower. At his
Museum of Coffee in Coatepec, he displays a six-month-old
coffee sapling.

“We are starving.”

Ruperto Opoch has a natural grace born of equal parts humility and excellence at his chosen metier. He is the third generation of his family to run Predio Guayabal, a small organic finca outside Coatepec, the coffee-growing capital of Veracruz. At 70-odd years, his thick, carefully combed hair is white and his face bronzed by a lifetime of working in the fields—yet he is as dignified in his denim work shirt, fleece-lined jacket and jeans as a banker in a proper Savile Row suit. It is the deep sadness in his eyes that is arresting as he explains what it is like to grow wonderful organic coffee that no one will buy. “We are starving,” he says.

Twenty percent of Mexico’s coffee comes from the state of Veracruz. The finest—designated Altura--is grown in the rich volcanic soil of the mountains around the pretty colonial city of Coatepec. The conditions are just right for the production of high quality Arabica beans: moderate temperatures, an elevation of 4,000 feet, and plenty of rain and shade. Yet Coatepec coffee--prized by connoisseurs for its medium acidity, good balance and smoothness of taste—is virtually unknown in the United States.

Right now I am sipping some of that coffee with Don Ruperto and my head is starting to spin. It is delicious, light in color, brightly flavored, tasting of toasted nuts. (One reviewer has likened it to “a good light white wine delicate in body, with a pleasantly dry, acidy snap.”) The four of us---including Liliana and Deborah—are stitting at a round table with an inlaid surface, scalloped edges and gnarled roots for a base. It is a made of blond wood from aged coffee trees, as are a chess set, coffee cups and sculpture on display in Don Ruperto’s Museum of Coffee. Outside, under the high arched portal of this beautiful white stucco hacienda are vintage roasters and grinders, relics of a bygone era.

Don Ruperto's Museum of Coffee is located in an old hacienda in Coatepec.

“Everything we do is organic and natural,” explains Don Ruperto, as he stirs his coffee. “We plant in the traditional Mexican way, 1,600 plants for each hectare. In Central America, they plant 5,000 per hectare.” He pauses while Liliana translates for us, anxious that we understand the implications of what he is saying. “Coffee is very demanding. It must be grown in the shade, but not of just any tree. It must be grown under the chalahuite and other arboles de vaina. When they drop their leaves, it enriches the earth and makes the coffee plants stronger. I have coffee trees that are 100 years old.”

It is poor taste to ask a landowner how many hectares he owns, but I do. Don Ruperto reluctantly admits that the finca has dwindled to 20 hectares. In 2002, international coffee prices hit an all time low of about 50 cents per pound, the nadir of a decade long downward spiral resulting from increased world production and dramatically lower prices paid by the major coffee companies. All over Veracruz coffee trees have been ripped out and land replanted for forestry. Desperate workers have surged across the U.S. border looking for work. Some who stayed, like Don Ruperto, have had to sell their land, bit by bit.

Technically, things are looking up. For 2006, coffee prices are expected to stabilize at $1.10 to $1.20 cents a pound, but as Nestor Osorio, the Executive Director of the International Coffee Organization told a meeting of specialty coffee buyers, “…time is still needed to enable producing countries to recover from structural problems created by many years of low coffee prices, which cannot be easily solved after just one year of improved prices.” For many small farmers, the message is more urgent: Their way of life is over.

“We want the big coffee companies to give us a good price,” says Don Ruperto. “But they say our beans are too expensive and they won’t buy them.” He gazes at the spindly young coffee trees in the patio. “A few years ago I had the idea of selling a coffee drink in bottles and I took it to someone at the university. They said it was impossible and then they stole the idea. Now bottled coffee is being sold as a soft drink in France. And we are starving.”

The road to Xico is lined with coffee trees. Cherries do not ripen at the same time,
so the harvest may last for months as workers return repeatedly to pluck only
the ripe red fruit.

Later that day, we drive to the waterfalls outside the nearby town of Xico. The two-lane road takes us through flourishing coffee plantations, where tall coffee trees with thick trunks grow six to seven feet tall. Some are covered with sweet-scented white blossoms, others are laden with clusters of berries in various stages of ripeness--green, yellow and red. Towering over them is a dappled canopy of shade trees, punctuated by monstrous banana plants with bunches of upward-growing green fruit,

Lichen-encrusted walls lead to elaborate iron gates and mossy cobblestoned roads. Somewhere, around the bend, is a hidden hacienda. It all looks like paradise, until you know the back story:

A May 29, 2001 article on Dow Jones Newswire ("Coffee crisis sends Mexico producers to death in Arizona" by Maja Wallengren) reported that most of the 16 Mexican immigrants who died in the Arizona desert that month were small coffee farmers from the state of Veracruz. Their smugglers, who left them without water, were paid up to $2,000 per person to arrange illegal entry into the United States. “Most of the Veracruz group turned to local money lenders. In return they handed over land titles for their small 1/2 hectare coffee plots as guarantee for the loans, and the relatives may now lose their land to the lenders.”

Editor's note: You can help Veracruz coffee growers by asking your local specialty coffee store to order Mexican Altura Coatepec Coffee. On the web, Altura Coatepec Coffee is available at www.amazon.com (click Gourmet Foods and enter "Mexico Coffee" in the search box) and from Coffee Wholesale USA .

If you go to Veracruz, be sure to visit the lovely colonial city of Coatepec. Café Opoch, where you can sip a cup of coffee or buy Don Ruperto’s beans, and his coffee museum are located at 5 de Mayo No 66 at the corner of Allende. Telephone: (228) 816-07-07.

It was 2:47 AM and tears were running down my cheeks. But I wasn’t sure if it was the guajillo chiles, sizzling in the hot oil, releasing fiery capsaicin molecules into the air that were making my eyes red and watery…

…or the disjointed images that kept swirling through my head. The dented wrecker pulling the drowned Porsche up the muddy bank, the dark shape slumped against the window, Max’s face white and swollen, a hole in his left temple.

“One hundred grams of guajillo chiles.” I could hear Maria’s firm voice: “Buy good quality chles at the market. Don’t let that thief sell you the dried up dirty ones,” she glared at me sternly. “They must be clean and supple. Fry them gently one at a time and don’t let them burn.”

You’re wondering, of course, what I was doing in the kitchen at this ungodly hour. after being grilled by the police for hours. My husband was missing, his car was found in the river with a dead body inside, and now he was suspected of murdering his old friend Max.

Well, I was upset. And when I’m upset, I eat. But before I eat, I cook. That calms me down. When Marco disappeared, I was working on a job for Gastronome. They’d paid a certain drunken, coke-snorting, addle-brained chef, who can’t get a job cooking but whose name still resonates with their readers, to ride the bus around Mexico on $60 a day and report on all the great cheap food and fabulous cooks he found along the way.

“One medium onion, sliced thin, five cloves of garlic, sliced thin, fried in the same oil as the chiles until golden….”

But the chef couldn’t write—from the looks of his disgustingly stained, scrawled notes, he couldn’t even hold a pen--so my ex-editor, Jeanette, forgiving my defection to the third world (gastronomically speaking), emailed: “Get me 2,000 words and six edible recipes by the end of the week and I’ll run your piece on prickly pears in October.” I didn’t reply. An hour later she texted me, “Plus $2,500.” I waited. The phone rang, “Plus a byline on this one. Come on, Claire. We’re going to press on Wednesday.”

So that would be that would be why I was making manchamanteles—also known as “tablecloth stainer”—at three in the morning.

“Soak the chiles in hot water until they soften and pull them to pieces. Put them in the blender with a stick of cinnamon…” I went to the pantry and pulled out the pale blue jar of Ceylon cinnamon. I opened the top and breathed in the sweet, warm fragrance…

Marco. In the week since he had disappeared, I had been angry and then scared; I had pushed him far to the back of my mind. But as I inhaled the scent of cinnamon, a slow heat began to spread through my body. The crook of his shoulder had the same warm, woody, faintly sweet smell and it sent my mind spinning back…

A cool April evening two years ago: I was floating down the grand marble staircase at the joint Gastronome-Explorers Society affair. Elephant steak was on the menu, and waiters were circulating with plates of chapulines fried grasshoppers from Oaxaca and tiny puff pastry squares topped with ragout of roasted Peruvian guinea pig…

Heads were turning. I was wearing my mother’s vintage Giorgio Sant’Angelo evening coat. It’s sixties’ rock star glam: handstitched orange and cream velvet patchwork, inset with bronze metallic stars, edged from neck to toe in purple ostrich feathers. In a sea of New York noir (“Black is the new black,” Vogue intoned that year) you could say that I was rather visible. Which made what happened next a near disaster.

“…and four blackened tomatoes…” I turned the heat up under the comal and began to sear the plum tomatoes.

I missed the bottom step. I was airborne, heading feet first towards the circular reflecting pool, when a hand grasped my arm and another caught me firmly around the waist and a deep voice murmured, ‘Steady on…’ in an accent I couldn’t place. And when I turned my head I was looking into a pair of brilliant blue eyes, cool and amused, but not unkind…

“Blend the chiles, cinnamon and charred tomatoes with some chicken stock.” The roar of the blender was almost deafening. I looked at the chunky mixture whirling in the jar. As it broke down and became smooth, it took on the color of coagulating blood.

Marco couldn’t have killed Max. Something horrible had happened in that desolate parking lot, but I knew that he couldn’t have murdered the old man. He was remote, undependable, driven, infuriating. But he wasn’t a killer. Was he?

“Now add two pears, two apples, two peaches, three cups of pineapple, cut in large dice...” I picked up the knife and began to chop the fruit.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flickering light outside.

My heart began to pound. I kept chopping, slowly, methodically.

The light flared again. It was rising up into the trees.

The knife slipped and I gashed my finger. Blood began to ooze into the fruit.

Who was there?

(adapted from Maria Elena Serena, Coatepec)

In Coatepec, Dona Elena pours chicken stock into a light, tropical mole made
of guajillo chiles and sweet, ripe pineapple, peaches, pears and apples.

In her last post, Claire was recovering from a shock by making manchamanteles. It is a luscious tropical mole, or sauce, which, in this version, consists of little more than spicy chiles, charred tomatoes and sweet, ripe fruit with a touch of Ceylon cinnamon. Manchamanteles literally means “tablecloth stainer;” you will understand once you see its brick red color.

Guajillos are dark red, smooth-skinned dried chiles. They are long and narrow, tapering to a point at one end, and have a slightly fruity flavor. The Scoville scale, which measures the capsaicin content of chiles, puts the guajillo in the 2 to 4 range which makes it warm and spicy, but not too hot--an ideal complement to the sweet fruit.

For the best flavor, try to buy “fresh” guajillo chiles—even though they are dried, they should be soft and supple. When frying, do not let them burn or turn black—if you do, the mole will be bitter. That means gently sautéing them just until the inner surface turns a light golden brown. This will happen very quickly, so it is best to fry the chiles one at a time.

The spice most of us call “cinnamon” is actually a close cousin known as cassia. Mexican recipes traditionally use Ceylon or “true cinnamon” which is grown in Sri Lanka. It is light brown in color, with layers of crumbly, soft bark rolled into concentric layers. Its flavor and aroma are less pungent than cassia and far more complex: sweet. warm and woody with whispers of clove and citrus. (For more on Cinnamon, including recipes and an interview with Susana Trilling, see SpiceLines newsletter at www.globalprovince.com/spicelines/index.htm.)

This recipe is adapted from Maria Elena Serena, a superb cook who invited us into her home in Coatepec, Mexico for a wonderful cena and cooking lesson. Dona Elena is very health conscious, so she has substituted canola oil for the lard that might ordinarily be used in making manchamanteles. Traditionally, this mole is served over the boiled chicken from which the chicken stock has been made “The sugar and the protein are very good for energy,” she told us.

The mole is also delicious with grilled pork loin, chicken or duck breasts. Claire has been known to eat it right out of the pot.

To serve four:

Ingredients for the chile mixture:

1/4 pound guajillo chiles (see note)
4 to 6 tablespoons of canola oil
1 medium onion, sliced thin
5 garlic cloves, sliced thin
4 large plum tomatoes
A one-inch piece of Ceylon cinnamon (see note)
1 pinch ground black pepper
1 to 2 cups rich chicken stock, preferably homemade from a whole cut up chicken cooked with onion and garlic (reserve the chicken pieces)

Additional Ingredients for the mole:

3 tablespoons canola oil
2 apples, peeled and cored, cut into medium dice
2 firm, ripe medium peaches, peeled and cut into medium dice
2 firm, ripe medium pears, peeled and cut into medium dice
3 cups pineapple, cut into medium dice
1 to 2 cups rich chicken stock
Salt to taste

Reserved chicken from the stock

Method for the chile mixture:

1. Wipe the chiles clean with a damp cloth. Using kitchen scissors, snip off the stem and cut vertically down one side of each chile. Open it up flat and remove the seeds and membranes. Repeat with the other chiles.
2. Heat 3 tablespoons of oil in a medium skillet over a medium flame. When the oil is hot, reduce the heat to low and lightly sauté the chiles, one at a time, for a few seconds on each side. The best way to do this is to open up each chile and flatten it before putting it in the oil. Saute very gently until the inner surface turns a light golden brown. Do not let outer surface turn black, or the chile mixture will taste bitter. If necessary, lower the heat and add one or two more tablespoons of canola oil to the pan.
3. When all the chiles have been sautéed, put them in a large bowl and pour very hot water over them to cover. Set aside to soften.
4. In the same oil as the chiles, saute the sliced onion until it is golden brown. If necessary, add another tablespoon of oil. Remove and set aside. Add the sliced garlic cloves to the pan and sauté until golden. Remove and set aside.
5. Heat a cast iron griddle or skillet over a medium high flame. When it is hot, sear the plum tomatoes until the skin blackens and begins to peel. Remove, chop coarsely and set aside.
6. When the chiles are soft, drain them in a colander. Tear the chiles into pieces and place them in the blender. Add the sautéed, onions, garlic, tomatoes, cinnamon, black pepper and 1 cup of chicken stock. Whirr until the mixture is smooth, adding a little more stock if necessary.
7. Even after blending, the chile mixture will probably contain bits of chile and tomato skin and small pieces of cinnamon. To remove them, pass the mixture through a food mill set into a large bowl.

Method for the mole:

1. Place a large, non-reactive skillet over a medium flame and add 3 tablespoons of oil. Add the chile mixture. When it begins to bubble, add the fruit. When it bubbles again, add some chicken stock. Begin with one cup: the mole should be liquid, but not watery. It will thicken slightly as it cooks.
2. Lower the heat and simmer gently for 20 minutes, or until the fruit is soft. Remove from the heat and add salt to taste.
3. To serve: Arrange the reserved pieces of chicken in a shallow bowl and pour the warm mole sauce over them. Serve with rice and a light green salad.
4. Other options: The mole is delicious over plain grilled pork loin or chops, grilled chicken, or grilled duck breasts.

Note: Whole dried guajillo chiles and sticks of Ceylon cinnamon can be found in Hispanic food markets and in the international section of some supermarkets. On the web, both can be ordered from www.penzeys.com.

Curly scapes from Music garlic are just beginning to unfurl.
Sauteed, alone or in stir fries, they have a mild and delicate flavor.

It’s Memorial Day and blistering hot. A bad omen for the summer to come. While watering the tomato plants, I checked the garlic for winners and losers. Incillium and Morado Gigante appear to have snatched defeat from the jaws of victory: Both began with handsome seed cloves that barely sprouted wispy greens before disappearing. Even the original cloves have vanished, prey perhaps to marauding squirrels or voles with a taste for the exotic.

But Music, a porcelain hardneck grown all over the U.S., and Guatemalan Purple Stripe, a good performer in Southern climes, have both produced vigorous greens and curly scapes. Garlic scapes are flower stalks that shoot rapidly upwards in May to mid June, depending on your climate. As they grow, the slender tips that sport immature flower buds become curly. At this point they should be plucked in order to boost the growth of the bulb down in the soil. If you leave them in place, the stalks will straighten and toughen, and the flower buds will swell until they become bulbils or miniature above ground bulbs.

Fortunately, scapes plucked while still curly are tender and delicate in flavor. If you see them at your local farmers market, buy as many as you can and run home to cook them. Ana Sortun, chef at Oleana in Cambridge, admires the "beauties of garlic as it goes through its stages. When the scapes appear, I love to sauté them like green beans. They have such a delicate flavor. They're also great in soups." You can also chop them raw into salads or use them in your favorite stir fry.

In his 1989 book, Fragrant Harbor Taste: The New Chinese Cooking of Hong Kong, Ken Hom has a savory recipe for Beef and Garlic Shoots in Oyster Sauce. It uses garlic “shoots” as well as chopped “fresh” garlic. Of the shoots, Hom says, “Harvested in early spring, they add a mild and delicate perfume to food that is highly prized among Hong Kong’s discerning diners…their green tops may also be used as a garnish or flavoring.” We've substituted scapes for the earlier shoots, since they too are mild in flavor.

As for fresh garlic, one might use young garlic pulled about the same time as the scapes are cut. Young garlic has a smallish bulb with partly formed cloves—a sort of halfway stage between green garlic, in which bulb is essentially one large, swollen, barely undifferentiated clove, and mature garlic in which the cloves are distinct and have reached their full size. Like the scapes, young garlic's flavor is delicate; when sauteed, the cloves become almost sweet.

Hom also calls for “young” ginger. Young stem ginger, he says, is “the newest spring growth.” The tender rhizomes are “knobby in shape and moist pink; they look naked.” If you cannot find young ginger in your market, substitute very fresh ginger that is not dried up or wrinkled. Peel it before slicing or chopping.

Garlic scapes add a mildly pungent flavor to beef stir fried with sliced
ginger and oyster sauce.

Beef and Garlic Shoots in Oyster Sauce
(adapted from Ken Hom, Fragrant Harbor Taste)

Ingredients:

1 pound sirloin steak, beef fillet or New York strip

For the marinade:

1 teaspoon light soy sauce
1 teaspoon rice wine
1 teaspoon sugar
1 egg white
2 teaspoons ginger juice (see note)
1 tablespoon cornstarch
2 teaspoons sesame oil

1 cup peanut oil

4 cloves thinly sliced young garlic
6 to 12 garlic shoots (scapes) or whole scallions, cut into 3-inch pieces
6 slices young ginger, or peeled mature ginger, 1/4-inch thick
4 fresh or canned water chestnuts, peeled and sliced

For the sauce:

1/2 cup rich chicken stock, preferably homemade
1-1/2 tablespoons oyster sauce
1 teaspoon light soy sauce
2 teaspoons rice wine
1 teaspoon cornstarch

Method:

1. Put the steak in the freezer for 20 minutes or until it is firm to the touch. Cut it, against the grain, into thin slices. Whisk together the marinade ingredients, add the meat and refrigerate for 20 minutes. Mix the sauce ingredients and set aside.
2. Heat a wok or large skillet until it is hot. Add the oil and when it is quite hot (when a sliver of meat dropped in the oil sizzles madly), quickly stir fry the beef for 2 to 3 minutes. Turn the contents of the wok into a strainer set over a large bowl. Allow to drain, reserving some of the oil.
3. Reheat the wok and add 1 tablespoon of the reserved oil. Add the garlic, garlic shoots and ginger, and stir fry for 1 minute. Add the water chestnuts and continue to stir fry for 30 seconds more. Add the sauce ingredients and bring the mixture to a boil. When the sauce has thickened, return the drained beef and mix well. Serve at once with steamed white rice.

Note: To make ginger juice, grate a 1 to 1-1/2 inch piece of peeled ginger into a bowl. You should have about 1 tablespoon. Wrap the ginger in a small piece of cheesecloth, or in the corner of a clean dishtowel, and squeeze it over a bowl. This will yield 2 teaspoons or more of ginger juice.

Very slowly and very carefully, I put down the knife. Without taking my eyes off the darkness beyond the house, I wrapped my bleeding finger in the soft blue and white striped Turkish cotton dishtowel lying on the couner. A red splotch spread through the fibers. The cut was deep.

The lights in the kitchen were blazing. I was exposed to anyone who was watching silently in the woods. The entire backside of this house is glass, soaring two stories into the air. In the morning, the sun filters through the trees, in summer creating a patchwork of green and gold. Even now, in winter, the bare branches gleam, backlit by the pale rays of the sun. As much as I hate this house, I have to admit it’s breathtaking.

But at night I had the uneasy feeling of being an insect trapped under a water glass.

I casually turned toward the Wolf range and flicked off the flame. The chile puree bubbled for a few seconds, then subsided. There was a rich peppery tang in the air. I was ravenous. Too bad I had bled into the pineapple.

I drifted into the front hall. All my senses were heightened. I could feel my finger throbbing, feel the cool polished floor and then the coarseness of the kilim beneath my bare feet, hear the tiny squeak of the floorboards as I darted to the stairs.

The light flickered again, now level with the second story. Someone had slithered up the steps in the giant oak and was in Marco’s study. Naturally It was a glass enclosed tree house perched at the end of a narrow cantilevered bridge that extended from the deck outside our bedroom, across the strip of velvety grass—a concession to my traditional urges--into the woods. It was a high flying sanctuary where my remote and mysterious husband, direct descendant of Marco Polo—yes, that one--had spent long hours intently studying the antiquarian manuscripts and maps that regularly arrived in the mail.

I’m not a fearful person. I’ve ridden with deranged Russian cab drivers, dodged bricks falling from the sky, stared down a pack of snarling King Charles spaniels—and that’s just on Fifth Avenue. But now I was really frightened. Marco might have come back to retrieve something. But why would he sneak through the woods? Wouldn’t he just use his key to open the door? I would have welcomed him back with open arms, no matter what he had done. No, it had to be someone else, someone I might not want to meet in the dark. One murder had occurred. I didn’t want to be the second.

I slipped up the shadowy stairs, turning once, then twice until I reached the landing on the second floor. I took a deep breath. It was cold. Had I left a window open? I paused, listening hard, but heard only the tiny creaks of the house as it breathed in and out.

I ran into darkened bedroom, flung open the walk-in closet—a concession to my ex-urban life---and found the thick, black, cable knit cashmere sweater I had left lying on the floor the night before—was it only 24 hours ago?—in my drunken stupor. I pulled it on over my thin silk blouse and instantly felt warmer. I stepped into my black Merrells, fleece-lined, with silent rubber soles. Now the playing field was level—I was invisible.

Silently I unlocked the sliding glass door that opened onto the upper deck and stepped outside. The shock of icy air set my nerves tingling. I could see the faintest light behind the wooden shutters in the tree house. The deck was wet and a fine mist was falling. I crept slowly out onto the bridge. It swayed slightly under my weight. I took a step forward and the metal cables groaned. I waited. I had to decide. I could run back to the house, lock the door, and call the police who had, coincidentally, issued an all points bulletin for my husband and would be more than delighted to apprehend him on his home turf.

Or I could see if he had come back. I took another step forward. The bridge was wet and slippery, just wide enough for one person, and I held tightly to the metal cables on either side. There was no moon, and I inched forward in total blackness. It was many minutes before I found myself, more by touch than sight, at the door of the tree house. There was a pale gleam of light where the shutters didn’t quite meet the doorframe. I put my eye to the gap.

Books and papers were strewn over the floor. OK, I told myself. It was now or never. Almost dizzy with fright, I grasped the metal handle of the door and opened it.

I saw—and blackness descended over me.