SpiceLines

All photos in this post were taken in Sri Lanka by Mystica V. Here, her husband and several workers relax at a family farm in Nuala. Cinnamon is grown at another property in Elpitiya.

Have you ever wondered why cinnamon quills are curled like rolls of ancient paper?

Ceylon cinnamon, that is, the warm, woody spice that, when whole, resembles a single rolled layer of soft brown crumbly bark: This is the "true" cinnamon whose subtle aroma is faintly perfumed with citrus and clove, and whose flavor is both sweet and mildly astringent.

It’s a beautiful spice, one which too few Americans have tasted, given the fact that its more pungent and assertive cousin cassia has stolen its identity, at least in the supermarkets where it’s fobbed off as “cinnamon.”

Mystica V, who lives in Sri Lanka, knows all about true cinnamon. She and her family own a property at Elpitiya in the southern part of the island where the spice is grown and harvested. Elsewhere the family has fields in which “tea, pineapple, mandarin oranges, chillies, vegetables, rubber and a bit of cloves” are cultivated.

Does it sound like a tropical paradise? Maybe—until you hear about the monkeys that raid the corn, the porcupines that tear up young coconut palms and the wild elephant who pays daily visits.

“He just stands at a distance of 300 metres and looks at everything,” Mystica writes. “He comes again in the night and does not deviate from his route, so there’s no point putting up fences…he just breaks the wall and goes through!!!”

Farming is the same everywhere: Hard work and lots of it.

Although cinnamon trees can grow 50 feet tall, they are kept small to allow for easy harvesting. But let Mystica explain in her own words and pictures…

I've adapted Grace Young's original recipe for Stir-Fried Sugar Snap Peas and Shiitake Mushrooms by adding thinly sliced green garlic and heirloom carrots. But the real improvisation came with the thick-cut smoky bacon B brought home one day...

“There is an age-old Chinese expression: “One wok runs to the sky’s edge,” which means one who uses the wok becomes master of the cooking world. As the wok user becomes master of the cooking world, so does the user of Stir Frying to the Sky’s Edge become master of the stir fry.” From graceyoung.com

If you’ve been reading SpiceLines lately you might think I’ve been subsisting on sugar and alcohol.

Alas, no. As much as I love meringues and rum cocktails, there are times when a girl must eat her vegetables. And one of the most delicious ways to get your broccoli and carrots is in a savory Chinese stir-fry.

I have been a devoted fan of Grace Young ever since I discovered her cookbook, Breath of a Wok, a few years ago. The title refers to the Cantonese phrase wok hay, which Young defines as “the prized, elusive, seared taste that comes only from stir-frying in a wok.”

She learned about wok hay during her early years in San Francisco, eating with her family in Chinatown restaurants. “My father taught me early in life that there is nothing quite as delicious as the rich, concentrated flavors of a Cantonese stir-fry, in which morsels of meat are cooked just quickly enough to ensure their juicy succulence and vegetables are rendered crisp and refreshing.”

But you don’t get wok hay by stir-frying in just any old wok.

Photo: Setai South Beach, Miami

Time to view the world through rainbow-colored glasses.

This time it's a girls' getaway. There'll be mojitos and manicures, for sure, but also a trip to Little Havana for a medianoche and cafe cubano. A dip into Miami's art scene, a search for exotic rums, and topsy turvy small plates at Michys. And since I'm still longing for that cocktail-yoga pavilion, a peek at Gandia Blasco's Cristal Box.

Mostly there'll be time, time on the sandy beach and at the hedge-enclosed pool where I can already hear a dulcet voice inquiring, "Is everything to your absolute perfection?"

See you next week...

The glass tower at the Setai Hotel is modern, but its geometric facade and angled balconies echo South Beach's historic Art Deco look. Part of the Setai is built around the original 1930's Dempsey Vanderbilt Hotel on Collins Avenue.

On a tropical playground, what's more glam than a grand Art Deco hotel?

All that geometry, all that streamlined symmetry, all those sunbursts and ziggurats, evoke a more orderly yet lavish moment in history. Big bands, sequined dresses with mermaid fishtails and coupes of the bubbliest champagne. Palm trees, ocean liners and white sand beaches...

An alluring fantasy, like dropping into the midst of a Busby Berkeley number (music by Artie Shaw), and not being one of the chorus girls...

At La Carreta in Little Havana: crazy colorful murals, an austere Cuban sandwich and the best yuca fries and platanos maduros, both lavishly cooked in lard. Addictive cafe con leche.

When I went to Miami, I had a secret yen.

Palm trees and frangi-panis were definitely part of it. So were mojitos, stuffed with mint and stirred with sticks of sugar cane. Walking down a white sand beach just after dawn: check. And finding chunks of pale coral in the sea foam.

But my deepest yen was to eat a real Cubano in Little Havana.

A homemade Cubano may be a little lopsided, but the flavor of the slow-roasted pork is incomparable, especially when combined with sweet ham and melting Swiss cheese. A glass of blood orange juice brightens the richness of the sandwich.

I’m crazy about BLTs, especially the ones that have a roasted jalapeno tucked inside. And I’ve been known to inhale a muffuletta from Central Grocery in New Orleans.

But the sandwich I love the best is the Cubano, a basic compilation of slow-roasted pork, sweet ham, Swiss cheese, sour pickles and yellow mustard. Nothing fancy, that’s for sure. But it hits all the happy flavor notes: tangy, sweet, salty, spicy, meaty, and yes, cheesy.

And while I know the ultimate Cubano is somewhere out there, at the moment the one I love the best is the one I make at home. So I’m going to give you the recipe. But first, there are a couple of teeny tiny issues: namely the slow-roasted pork and the bread.

Somebody graduated on Sunday…

In spite of killer heat (two grads wearing bikinis under their robes), oodles of well-intentioned advice (be yourself, take a risk, ignore that little voice that says “I am not qualified,” turn off your phone, say yes to life….), and a swirling swarm of a thousand bees that buzzed the crowd (seriously!)….

Somebody graduated with style, humor and the greatest aplomb.

It was the happiest of days. So proud, Angus!

Sweet marjoram has a delicate flavor redolent of lavender and sage with faint piney undertones. Though it can be mistaken for its cousin oregano, this all but forgotten herb is far more versatile in the kitchen.

Help!

As of this morning a single thuggish marjoram plant has overrun one quadrant of our herb garden. It survived the mild winter, along with the French tarragon and lemon verbena, but is now trying to smother every herb in its path with vast sprawling branches and abundant leaves.

So I’m looking for ways to use it up. A lot of it. And fast.

But who even uses marjoram anymore? Hasn't it been all but forgotten?

Ordinary chicken thighs, marinated in lemon, garlic and olive oil, become sweetly succulent when grilled over marjoram branches. The magic is in the smoke.

His eyes narrowed slightly and I could almost see the thought bubble over his head: “What the devil is she smoking?”

Not smoking, exactly. I was grilling outside on the tropical deck.

While our new dishwasher was being installed, I was cooking chicken thighs for lunch. Two big discoveries: The first? Marjoram branches tossed over glowing coals smell just like burning weed.

The second: The smoke of the sweetly scented herb is magical. For the chicken, that is.

Unexpected gifts are always the best.

Early the other morning while a young man struggled to load a half whiskey barrel into the back of the Volvo, I felt a light touch on my arm.

It was my tailor, an elegant wisp of man who once worked for a couturier in Paris. “Wait here,” he said. He disappeared into the parking lot.

A moment later he strolled back with a plastic bag of gardenias, freshly cut from his garden. “For you,” he said.

Twenty five gardenias, ruffled ivory petals perfuming the air with their cool, jasmine-like scent, now floating in bowls throughout the house.

It’s the scent of memories.

Thank you, Mr. T. And Happy Memorial Day to you all.

Fresh marjoram leaves are an unexpectedly delicious addition to potato salad with walnuts and peas. The herb's delicate flavors of sage, lavender and pine combine beautifully with a tangy shallot vinaigrette.

It’s the end of May, but I‘m calling it “late spring” even if it’s so hot and muggy that I almost fell face forward into the purple clematis while trying to make it twine around the new tuteur B and I just placed in the corner of the flower bed in front of the house.

I survived but I’m not so sure about the stubborn clematis. Today it looks a bit battle-scarred.

The heat wave has given the marjoram beast a growth spurt so no matter how much I cut it back, new sprigs seem to sprout overnight. I think this may turn out to be the summer of the no-longer-forgotten herb.

I cut a few of the longest branches with delicate foliage and starry white blossoms and put them in a vase over the kitchen sink. The willowy stems wave this way and that, making a graceful bouquet. No arranging skills required.

And when I was dreaming up what to do with the freshly dug potatoes for last night’s supper, there was the marjoram, waving its sage and lavender-flavored leaves in my face: “Choose me!” it whispered. “Choose me!”