SpiceLines

Thai bird’s eye chili, also known as prik ki nu, ranks at 50,000 to 100,000 on the Scoville pungency scale. It’s hotter than cayenne and Serrano, but can’t touch the tongue-scorching Scotch bonnet. But if you going to char Thai chilies on the stove, you might want to post a warning on your door.

A London restaurant found this out the hard way. In “Shoppers dive for cover as chef’s eyewatering chilli sauce causes a terror alert,” The Times of London (October 3, 2007) reports that “a mysterious cloud of acrid smoke” caused police to “[seal] off three roads and [evacuate] homes and businesses in the heart of Soho, fearing a chemical attack or a dangerous toxic leak.”

Wearing “specialist breathing apparatus,” police tracked the noxious fumes to their source: the Thai Cottage restaurant in D’Arblay Street. After breaking down the door, they “emerged from the smoke carrying a huge cooking pot containing about 9lb of smouldering dried chillies… which had been left dry-frying.” The chillies were an ingredient in a “six-month batch of nam prik pao, a super hot Thai dip to accompany prawn crackers.”

Chef Chalemchai Tangjariyapoon was bewildered by all the hullabaloo. “To us it smells like burnt chilli and it is slightly unusual. I can understand why people who weren’t Thai would not know what it was. But it doesn’t smell like chemicals.” The chef planned to mix the gargantuan pot of burnt chilies with more than 2 pounds of dried shrimp, 6-1/2 pounds of palm sugar, 2-1/2 pounds of shrimp paste, more than 2 pounds of tamarind and 9 pints of vegetable oil.

A much reduced recipe for home cooks accompanies the article.

The clock tower at San Francisco's Ferry Building
was modeled after the 12th century bell tower at
the Seville Cathedral in Spain.

Monday morning at the P.U. Club. Finger on the redial button.

At 9:59, a recorded “call back again” message. But 42 seconds later, a mellifluous voice answers the reservations line. Wincing at the sheer absurdity—Quince is about the toughest reservation in town—I gulp “Any chance of a table for two tonight?” “Well, yes,” says the voice. “How about 7:30 PM?” I blow silent kisses through the phone.

Such is life in San Francisco, where food, to paraphrase Frances Mayes, is more cult than culture.

An hour later I tear myself away from our sun-washed room’s floor-to- ceiling windows and the view, through billowing curtains, of the elegant park in front of Grace Cathedral.

My destination: Food, of course. The Ferry Building Marketplace.

Although the vaunted farmers’ market doesn’t convene on Mondays, you can dive right into the brilliant local food scene by visiting the nearly 40 restaurants and food purveyors who occupy this splendidly restored 1898 landmark. Gazing out at the bay, I imagine living somewhere on the other side, just so I could take the ferry to and from this very terminal every day. Naturally this would involve frequent stops for lobster pot pies from San Francisco Fish Company, olive bread from Acme—and much more.

Here’s how B and I spent a couple of hours last Monday:

11:22 AM: Serious caffeine fix at Frog Hollow’s urban café. Every August good friends send a box of juicy tree-ripened peaches from this 120 acre organic fruit farm about an hour north of San Francisco. Today there’s a tempting display of early autumn pears: sweet, silken-textured Warrens, crisp green Shinseikis, small Golden Russet Boscs. I manage to resist the cream scones, but succumb instantly to luscious nectarine and blood orange conserve, honeyed sweetness for cold, gray days ahead. Two jars, one for me and one for Rebecca.

11:35 AM: Cannot tear my eyes away from the gorgeous fall flowers at Boulette’s Larder—branches dripping bright orange pyracantha berries, golden calla lilies and purplish oak leaves. But when I do manage to scan the shelves of Amaryll Schwertner’s "epicerie du charm," I pounce upon the specially blended spices and salt: fleur de sel with fiery piment d’espelette; Tres Fleurs, flaky sea salt perfumed with rose and lavender petals; and Instant Effect, a spunky brick orange blend of Kashmiri chilies, salt and turmeric. “It will bring anything you cook to life” grins the salesgirl.

I make a beeline (sorry) for the Italian honey with adorable hand drawn labels from Apicoltura Dr. Pescia. It is collected by a nomadic beekeeper who travels with his hives through the fields and forests of Tuscany. His glorious honeys are monofloral, with the flavor and aroma of single flowers. What to choose? Acacia? Ivy? Or one that has a bitter edge? I settle for a jar of sultry Rovo, made by bees that have feasted on blackberry nectar.

“Taste this,” urges my helper. It’s a small plate with a dribble of La Colonna’s mandarin-scented olive oil. “I love it with haricots verts,” she confides. The oil is made by crushing early harvest olives grown on the Campobasso estate of Marina, daughter of Prince Francesco Colonna, with organic Sicilian mandarin oranges, and it is ambrosial. One of those, please.

And I haven’t even looked at the take home menu: stuffed quail with faro, currants and hazelnuts, sautéed erbette chard, gateau Basque with pluots…

I flee before my Visa card implodes.

12:04 PM: Nose pressed up to the glass at Culinaire, an antique shop that inexplicably has decided not to open today. Tant pis, because whispering to me from the front window is a wooden mortar and pestle with a burnished patina that lights up the gloom. About 10 inches tall and 8 inches deep, it would be perfect for crushing handfuls of garlic and pine nuts for a giant batch of pesto.

12:10 PM: Time for lunch. Is it back to Boulette’s Larder for ribollita eaten al fresco, watching the ferries come and go? Or will it be a bowl of Vietnamese pho at the super-sleek Slanted Door? B and I settle on Delica rf-1, a Japanese “delicatessen” that serves Sozai: small takeout dishes that can be eaten at a table outside the shop or at home.

Although the sushi is a little gamey, we’re crazy about the salads: spicy burdock and lotus root tossed with mizuna and white onion; oil-blanched eggplant with “piri kara” sauce of ground chicken, soy sauce and ginger, sprinkled with cilantro and chopped scallions; corn and mascarpone cheese, tossed with sliced red cabbage, onion and cherry tomatoes.

12:41 PM: B and I split up, he to investigate the upper floors of the Ferry Building, while I fetch dessert from Michael Recchiuti’s irresistible chocolate shop. It’s hard work, but I finally select a quintet of bonbons, including the signature gold-stamped burnt caramel. There’s dark chocolate ganache infused with citrusy bergamot, and subtle, almost smoky jasmine tea. But my favorites are pearl mint, which packs a double wallop of fresh peppermint and spearmint leaves, and the truly divine fleur de sel, oozing with rich caramel. The flavors are fragile-- naturally they must be eaten at once.

12:49 PM: At McEvoy Ranch’s retail shop, shelves are stocked with extra virgin olive oils blended from organically grown Tuscan varietals hand harvested and pressed on Nan McEvoy’s 550-acre Marin County ranch. At last weekend’s Sensory Evaluation of Olive Oil course at UD Davis, this peppery blend was a favorite, especially at lunch when we blind-tested various oils on foods like unseasoned potatoes and white beans.

But at the moment I’m distracted by a grove of silvery leaved olive trees in pots, just three feet high. Surely I could grow leccinos and maurinos at home. Eventually, who knows, I might even harvest a few olives. (Note to self: investigate cold-hardy varieties.) In the meantime, I content myself with bars of spruce and lemon-scented olive oil soap.

1:07 PM: A huge spread of late season heirloom tomatoes at Capay Organic, just this side of overripe, almost exploding with juice. A shopper scowls as I snap a picture—but not of her. It’s the tomatoes I’m after.

1:10 PM: Now that Cowgirl Creamery’s opened an outpost in Washington, DC, I can dream that this superb cheese shop might come a little further south. But at the moment I’m lost in the ripe, complex aromas of a hundred or so artisan cheeses from Europe and America. If only we could drop in, on a whim, for the Cowgirls’ own voluptuous triple cream Mt. Tam, or the washed rind Red Hawk, both made from local Straus Family milk. I'll sample just a little, to store up a memory.

1:14 PM: Not another bite. Seriously. Oh, wait, isn’t that Acme Bread? I hear the artichoke focaccia is the greatest…

Extra virgin olive oil crushed with mandarin oranges adds zest to lightly steamed
haricots verts and toasted walnuts. For a touch of heat, sprinkle fleur de sel
seasoned with piment d'espelette over the vegetables.

I really love the idea of Boulette’s Larder.

Copper pots hanging in the open kitchen, a pale green vase of magnificent autumn flowers, shelves stocked with flavored salts, exquisite honeys and fragrant citrus oils. There’s carnaroli rice, duck fat and leaf lard, wild sourdough starter, homemade crème fraiche and a hundred other enticing items in this “epicerie du charm,” all designed to help you create a delicious meal with maximum impact and minimum fuss.

On Boulette’s website, a larder—and not just any larder--is defined thus:

“Larder, n. A storeroom for food. A place where cooks come to find the underpinning ingredients for a planned meal, i.e. last season’s preserved garden ingredients, grains, meats curing in various forms, garlands of dried aromatics, ripening cheeses, etcetera.

(A boulette, I now know, is a “little meatball” and also the name of the shop’s Hungarian sheepdog.)

One of my favorite finds when I was at Boulette’s last week was Colonna Mandarino, a citrus-scented Italian extra virgin olive oil that comes in a distinctive dark glass “amphora." Made by crushing early harvest olives with the zest of organic Sicilian mandarin oranges, this golden-hued finishing oil is produced and bottled on the ancestral estate of Princess Marina Colonna in the province of Campobasso on Italy’s east coast. When you taste the oil on its own, the citrus flavor is light and delicate--but sprinkle it over grilled shrimp or steamed vegetables and it gathers force, becoming livelier and more intensely aromatic. It is an alchemical ingredient—just the sort of wonder-worker that belongs in your own larder.

The idea for this recipe came from one of Boulette’s staff members. It uses four ingredients: haricots verts, toasted walnuts, a spoonful of mandarin oil and a generous sprinkle of fleur de sel seasoned with spicy piment d’espelette. This last item also came from the pantry at Boulette’s, but you could easily make it by mixing any flaky sea salt with some of the ground Basque chile pepper.

The dish can be made in minutes—and might be all you want for dinner.

Haricots Verts with Mandarin Oil, Walnuts and Piment d’Espelette Salt

Serves 2 as a main course, or 4 as a side dish

Ingredients:

1 pound haricots verts
3/4 cup walnut halves or pieces
2 to 3 teaspoons mandarin oil (see note)
Fleur de sel, or any flaky sea salt
Ground piment d’espelette (see note)

Method:

1. Rinse the haricots vert and pinch off the stems, and the tips if desired. Put them in the top of a steamer over boiling water and steam until they are just slightly crunchy. Remove at once and place them in a serving bowl.
2. While the haricots verts are steaming, heat a dry cast iron skillet over medium low heat. Add the walnut pieces and stir continuously for 4 to 5 minutes, until they are heated through and are just beginning to change color. Do not let them burn—reduce the heat if necessary. When done, remove to a plate and let cool slightly.
3. Combine the haricots verts and walnuts with the mandarin oil, tossing gently so that both ingredients are well-coated. Taste and add a little more oil if desired.
4. Mix the salt and ground piment d’espelette, as desired. Sprinkle generously over the haricots verts and serve.

Note: La Colonna is available at Boulette’s Larder and at some Whole Foods Stores. Piment d’espelette can be ordered from spanishtable.com.

Arriving at Quince is a bit like coming to a new friend’s house for dinner.

In this scenario, your pal’s Pacific Heights pad is done up in shades of crème fraiche with velvet banquettes the color of rare old burgundy. Naturally, the hand blown chandeliers are Venetian. The flowers are beautiful but restrained: silver-leaved olive branches punctuated by explosive white chrysanthemums with spidery petals.

Three-year-old Quince is still a hard-to-get reservation–-but last Monday, when we unexpectedly arrived with a friend in tow, the staff seemed genuinely delighted to make room for a third. It was the sort of gracious welcome you might encounter in the home of an amiable but unfamiliar host, when both parties have the agreeable prospect of friendship. Everyone is on best behavior, the detritus of everyday life has been swept away, and an excellent chef has been hired for the evening. You feel cosseted and comfortable.

In its controversial 2007 San Francisco Red Guide, Michelin awarded one star to Quince as well as to 22 other beloved Bay Area restaurants including Chez Panisse and Gary Danko. San Franciscans were outraged at the measly number of stars awarded to local faves—in all the Bay area only the French Laundry won three, as opposed to New York where Per Se, Jean-Georges and Le Bernardin all received top accolades. Most of the city's top chefs are probably on tenterhooks at the moment, since the 2008 guide is due out in a matter of days.

Personally, I thought we had almost a two-star evening at Quince. Michael Tusk, an alumnus of both Chez Panisse and Oliveto, does a refined but beguiling take on mostly Italian cuisine. Tusk seems to be channeling, say, Emiglia Romana by way of Alice Waters and Paul Bertolli, but in the end, what comes out of the kitchen is pleasingly inventive. Dishes like Oxtail Sopressata, crisp around the edges, meltingly tender and meaty inside, manage to delight without startling and never strike a discordant note. This is comfort food at its finest. Match that with the choreographed but responsive service in the front of the house—the hostess even brought out the chef’s favorite olive oil when we inquired —and you have a recipe for a nearly perfect occasion.

Quince’s pasta usually garners stellar reviews, and the menu has a dozen delectable choices, including Pennoni Gratinata, giant tubes of penne stuffed with succulent wild mushrooms, smothered in a richly aromatic veal ragu. Fagottini, fragile beggar’s purses filled with a puree of sweet zucchetta rampicante squash, were served with browned butter and leaves of sage, simplicity at its delicious best.

Like his mentors, Tusk sources marvelous ingredients that don’t require too much razzle dazzle in the kitchen. This particularly shows up in dishes like juicy, rare-roasted Liberty duck breast, a variety of Pekin slow-fed on corn and other grains. The bird’s intense flavor was punched up by quince prepared two ways—some roasted to a sweet, jam-like consistency, the rest in a tart and spicy mostarda with citron. The Watson Valley Lamb Roast, a mixed grill which included sweet, grass-fed lamb chops, and the savory roulade of Devil’s Gulch Rabbit were equally flavorful. The sides are as intriguing as they are delicious. Delicately fried Ozette potatoes, creamy Peruvian fingerlings that have a place on Slow Food’s Ark of Taste, were a happy discovery, while the rich sautéed egglant that accompanied faintly smoked slices of Swordfish Carpaccio was set off by peeled cherry tomatoes, a simple but novel trick that brings out the fruity side of the vegetable.

Was everything wonderful? Unfortunately, the desserts did not delight. A pear tart was lackluster, while a big ball of vanilla ice cream rolled in crushed toffee and served in a puddle of dark chocolate was a bit odd. The wine, a red 2005 Sancerre from the Loire Valley, was less than exciting.

But I’d happily return to Quince. Good food, gracious service and smiles all around are always a recipe to be repeated.

Quince, 1701 Octavia Street, San Francisco, California 94109. Telephone: 415-775-8500. Web: www.quincerestaurant.com.

Even though I normally drink green tea, I just ordered four ounces of Muscatel Valley Estate 2007, a first flush black Darjeeling, from inpursuitoftea.com . Then at silvertipstea.com I found Organic Makaibari Estate FTGFOP1S 2007, first flush, and ordered some of that too.

The Makaibari tea is not the estate’s famed “muscatel,” which, according to Matt Gross in “High Tea, India Style,” (The New York Times, Sunday, October 14, 2007, Travel, pp. 1, 8-9) is “the most expensive brew in Darjeeling.” At auction in Beijing last year, it “sold for 50,000 rupees a kilogram (about $555 a pound, at recent exchange rates of around 41 rupees to the dollar)...” But I also ordered a second flush Makaibari muscatel that, according to the Silver Tips website, has “an exquisite aroma.” So I’ll see. (For more on muscatel teas, see comments to the September 28, 2007 post at Tea Nerd.)

Last March Gross visited three of the 78 tea estates “in the Darjeeling district, a region that sprawls across several towns (including its namesake) in a mountainous corner of India that sticks up between Nepal and Bhutan, with Tibet not far to the north.” Makaibari, a organic, biodynamic tea estate founded in the 1840s, was memorable, not only for its exceptional tea, but also for the outsize personality of owner Rajah Banerjee, “a vigorous patrician with thick gray hair, a clean-shaven angular jaw and black eyebrows in permanent ironic arch.” Gross's first cup of tea--"bright but mellow, with a faint fruity sweetness that lingered on my tongue"--was "the first of many perfect cups."

Gross also sipped tea at Glenburn and Goomtee, two other Darjeeling estates. At Goomtee, he trekked four and a half miles to Muscatel Valley, where the estate’s organic teas are grown. “….Muscatel Valley was positively prehistoric, with massive stone outcroppings and lonely fields of tea bushes stretching into the Jurassic distance. Sunlit mist shrouded the far mountains, and all traces of civilization vanished. There was nothing but me and the tea.”

If this is all too enticing, you can find information on how to get there and where to stay in the sidebar, “Tea Anyone?”

Silver Tips Tea, incidentally, is owned by Rajah Banerjee’s sister-in-law, Anupka. To see her story, go here.

Summery herb and spice blends brighten cold winter suppers: clockwise from left
to right: parsley, walnut and lemon zest; tomato with preserved lemon, cinnamon
and white pepper; classic Italian basil, garlic and pine nut pesto.

I don’t know.

Maybe it’s watching the lush-tailed grey squirrels stashing hickory nuts all over the garden. Could be the shivery mornings, when the temperature's in the forties. Or possibly it’s my dreamy infatuation with Boulette’s Larder in San Francisco.

But right now I’m putting up all sorts of tasty things in my own larder for the chilly days of winter. This week I’ve had to face facts about the garden. Summer lasted a month or two longer than usual and we’re in a severe drought: naturally, outside watering has been restricted. So it’s goodbye to the basil, the flat leaf parsley, the tomatoes and the jalapeno bushes, which have flopped over onto the ground anyway.

One way to preserve these summery flavors is to whip up a few pestos or herb and spice blends and freeze them for wintry suppers. In “The Urban Farmer’s Autumn Ritual,” (The New York Times, Dining In, Wednesday October 10, 2007, p. D3), Melissa Clark sings the praises of classic Italian pesto: “…few things brighten up a dreary winter’s evening more than the grassy summer scent of basil and garlic emanating from a bowl of steaming hot pasta.” Clark’s recipe for Last of the Summer Pesto, made in the blender or food processor, is a good one, and I especially like her suggestion that it freezes better without the cheese. You can add grated Parmigiano Reggiano or pecorino right before you toss the pesto with pasta or whisk it into a vegetable soup.

Yesterday, when I made a big batch of my own pesto, I used most of the basil in the garden, including Genovese, Purple Leaf and Thai, which gave it a wonderfully spicy flavor that stood up to the garlic. (I adore garlic, but find that too much can overwhelm the taste of the herbs.) To let the basil shine through, I also chose a mild, fruity extra virgin olive oil that didn’t have the peppery kick of so many other Italian extra virgin olive oils.

Of all the summery seasonings I made yesterday, I especially love two. The first is a slow-roasted Moroccan-flavored tomato paste with preserved lemon, cinnamon and white pepper. It is absolutely fabulous, if I say so myself. I began with slow-roasted tomatoes, which I make every four or five weeks, basically whenever I see particularly delicious-looking ripe plum tomatoes in the market. Simply cut them in half, toss them in a little olive oil, sprinkle with salt and a little sugar and roast in a 325 degree oven for a couple of hours. The kitchen smells heavenly while they’re cooking, but to save time you could also buy slow-roasted tomatoes at Whole Foods or any other well-stocked shop that sells prepared foods.

To a batch of roasted tomatoes, I added another staple of my own larder, that is, the refrigerated part: preserved lemons. These you can also buy, but as B and I love tagines, I much prefer to make my own using organic lemons and Paula Wolfert’s easy recipe in World of Food. Later this fall, this spicy tomato and preserved lemon paste will make a delicious condiment for braised lamb shanks and for smoky pork tenderloins or chops grilled outside.

The other blend that really sings is a pesto of parsley, walnuts, and garlic, brightened with freshly grated lemon zest. It's as fresh and citrusy as gremolata, but with the added richness of nuts and olive oil. You could use this like regular pesto, tossing it with pasta and cheese, or stirring a generous dollop into soup. But it would also be delicious with boiled or braised beef. Tonight I’m going to try it with broiled fish.

The best way to preserve these memories of summer is to freeze them in 1/2 cup plastic containers. Rubbermaid, Glad and Ziploc all make tight-sealing plastic pots—Rubbermaid pots have to be “burped” to remove excess air-- that can go into the freezer (or microwave). They hold just the right amount for supper and, though you could probably use them a second time, are basically disposable. I use a Sharpie permanent marker to label each one with contents and date.

Just one problem: having enough left over to freeze. I ate half of each standing up in the kitchen.

Jalapenos, pickled like French cornichons with anise-scented tarragon and black
and white peppercorns, make a zesty accompaniment for rich pates and rillettes.

I really like the crunchiness of cornichons.

But even though these tiny French gherkins are soused in white wine vinegar and steeped with fragrant tarragon and peppercorns, they lack a certain…something. Let’s call it zing. And zing would come in handy when you’re using them to perk up an unctuous duck liver pate or fatty pork rillettes.

That’s where jalapenos come in.

Six weeks ago I was wallowing in jalapenos. I had bowls and bowls of them. The three bushes in the herb garden were so heavily laden that I couldn’t see the leaves for the dangling peppers. With abundance, came profligacy. Besides chopping them into and over everything we ate—there’s nothing like a spicy jalapeno to add a kick to sautéed tofu---I made three kinds of pickles for the larder.

And now the verdict is in. B ate the entire jar of sweet and sour Indian pickle with jalapenos, cauliflower, string beans and carrots, but it didn’t do much for me. I expected to love Mexican-style jalapenos pickled in sharp vinegar with lots of herbs and spices. But they were mainly just sour. (For the next batch I diluted the brine. See the recipe below.)

But it was the third pickle that really soared: Jalapenos, French cornichon-style. Stuffed in a jar with a sprig of anise-scented tarragon, shallot rings and a spoonful of whole allspice mixed with peppercorns, then doused in hot white wine vinegar and sea salt, they were hidden in the back of the refrigerator to cure for six weeks. Yesterday, they emerged from the jar crisp and spicy, with the taste and aroma of a traditional French cornichon. In a word, delectable.

How do you describe the searing heat of a jalapeno or any of the hundreds of other fiery capsicums known as chiles (or chillis or chilies, depending on where in the world you are)?

In “Great Pod Almighty” (Gourmet, November 2007, pp. 45-46), intrepid road foodies Jane and Michael Stern sit down with Paul Bosland, “professor of horticulture at New Mexico State University in Las Cruces and the country’s foremost chile breeder,” for a plate of chiles rellenos and some advice on how best to describe the taste of hot peppers.

In an effort to avoid the creeping wine-speak lately used to describe everything from olive oil to honey and chocolate, Bosland (whose license plate reads "Chileman") offers five heat-specific questions to ask when biting into a pungent pepper: 1) How fast does the heat hit the palate? “The speed depends on the balance of capsaicinoids, of which there are at least 15.” 2) “Where does the heat develop?” Tip of the tongue, mid-palate, back of the throat? 3) “Is the heat broad or sharp?” Some Asian chiles “have a pinprick feel,” while New Mexican chiles “paint the tongue like a wide brush.” 4) How fast does the heat fade? In a few seconds, or a few hours? 5) How hot is it? (This you actually have get from a Scoville chart.)

Bosland also attempts to disentangle the spelling dilemma. “In a bowl, it’s with an i. The plant or fruit is e.” (Yes, it’s a fruit, not a vegetable.)

On the other hand, Jean Andrews, author of Peppers: The Domesticated Capsicums and The Pepper Lady’s Pocket Pepper Primer, demurs. She notes that “the spelling chilli was first used in print by Dr. Francisco Hernandez (1514-1578), the first European to collect plants systematically in the New World.” Later, the “spelling was…changed to chile by Spanish-speaking Mexicans.” Andrew comes down on the side of the original chilli which, she says, was Hernandez’s interpretation of the indigenous Nahuatl word for capsicums. Chili is her second choice of spellings to describe the fruit.

Indian cookbook writers tend to agree. Madhur Jaffrey uses chilli, while Julie Sahni, Maya Kaimal and Laxmi Hiremath all use chili.

The debate continues.

The view from the boat, as we sailed into Stockholm on a
sunny morning in June.

At 6:48 A.M. I was dreamily showering when flash of white swooshed by the porthole. Craning my neck, I could just make out a water taxi as it glided to the end of a rustic pier. It picked up a few passengers from a gazebo, then shot back in reverse and zoomed off again, like a deranged water insect.

What a divine way to go to work--especially if you live in the Stockholm Archipelago.

It was the end of June and we were sailing into Sweden’s capital through some of the 24,000 islands, islets and tiny knolls that make up the 60-square mile archipelago, one of the largest in the Baltic Sea. The night before, the boat had climbed one crashing wave after another, rising high, then falling low as we forged across the stormy Gulf of Finland. We retired early, but I never slept. Instead I spent the night in a semi-drugged stupor, dimly aware of every shudder and creak of the boat.

By this morning, though, a pale summer sun was peeking through the clouds and it seemed as if we had crossed into a Nordic wonderland of dark, heavily forested islands. I glimpsed alluring summer houses—a mustard-colored Victorian gingerbread with sheer white curtains fluttering in the breeze; a small red-roofed cottage perched so near the water that you could dive in from the second floor windows; a sprawling brick “castle” with weathered copper turrets and a velvety lawn that could have been the setting for Ingmar Bergman’s romantic farce, Smiles of a Summer Night.

An idyllic summer cottage on one of the 24,000 islands that make
up the Stockholm archipelago.

Mentally I rifled through fantasies of a better life: Bare feet, a linen sundress and a fishing pole? (The cottage.) Or champagne and baroque pearls? (The castle.)