tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1 2013-04-25T15:16:13Z Movable Type 3.36 tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.652 2013-04-24T19:24:47Z 2013-04-25T15:16:13Z

On Monday, rivers of fire flowed down the slopes of Mt. Etna, the tallest, almost continously active volcano in Europe. All these rumblings are occurring in eastern Sicily, near the town of Catania. Guess what? We'll be there soon....

SpiceLines On Monday, rivers of fire flowed down the slopes of Mt. Etna, the tallest, almost continously active volcano in Europe. All these rumblings are occurring in eastern Sicily, near the town of Catania. Guess what? We'll be there soon. AP Photo by Davide Caudullo, Lapresse. B and I are about to escape, to Sicily, that is. Between bites of almond gelato and plates of cinammon-spiced couscous, we might catch a glimpse of Mount Etna in full eruption mode. Just two days ago molten lava spewed 600 feet into the air. Surely we'll at least see a puff or two of smoke! But there will also be gently decaying palazzos, an early morning fish auction, and wineries, including one that produces berry-rich wines from Nerello grapes grown in Etna's dark volcanic soil. Through it all, we'll be trying to decipher the enigma that is this magnificent and forbidding island. Lots of you have written to ask what's up with SpiceLines: Let's just say that the new website is slowly taking shape. Very slowly. But I've been working behind the scenes to make it all happen, with the help of stalwart and talented designer Mike and his Austin-based crew. Of course, all work and no play....so it's off to Italy to eat, drink and explore. I'll be back in May, hopefully with a new, much improved SpiceLines. See you then!]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.651 2013-03-11T16:41:02Z 2013-03-12T01:39:16Z

Where am I? A few clues: It's closer to Venezuela than Miami. The surf is Atlantic. Amelia Earhart slept here. Give up? All will be revealed...eventually. I'm taking a break. This time it's for real: Beach, wild surf, palm...

SpiceLines Where am I? A few clues: It's closer to Venezuela than Miami. The surf is Atlantic. Amelia Earhart slept here. Give up? All will be revealed...eventually. I'm taking a break. This time it's for real: Beach, wild surf, palm trees. Coconut cocktails, spicy shrimp seviche. Tan feet, bathing suit, baroque pearls. And sleep, lots and lots of sleep. I won't be away long, maybe just a month (or two.) Behind the scenes, SpiceLines is getting a make over. Along with the new website, there'll be exciting adventures to share. As usual, I'll be on the spice trail, tasting vanilla, nutmeg and saffron. There'll be recipes for delicious things to eat, and cocktails to dream on. A new mortar and pestle (or two), and views of a splashy tropical garden. Sicily is on the horizon, but don't forget the fourth annual cookbook giveaway. Patience, please! I'll see you in April (or May)... ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.650 2013-03-01T22:30:04Z 2013-03-12T01:43:29Z

Oatmeal is the blandest dish imaginable, but when infused with aromatic chai spices and topped with rum soaked raisins and toasted cashews and coconut, it becomes a truly opulent breakfast cereal. Just don't eat the hellebore... Things don’t always...

SpiceLines Oatmeal is the blandest dish imaginable, but when infused with aromatic chai spices and topped with rum soaked raisins and toasted cashews and coconut, it becomes a truly opulent breakfast cereal. Just don't eat the hellebore... Things don’t always work out. For instance, I might eye a new dish with the greatest anticipation, imagining how delicious it will be. And then it falls flat. This happened a couple of weeks ago. On a wet, grey morning, I shivered into our hotel dining room. It was cold by the window, and the view was bleak. A perfect day to take an off-road driving lesson: There were mud puddles everywhere, and pelting rain was in the forecast. But I perked up when I discovered oatmeal with chai spices, a breakfast item that promised a better start to the day. How warm and savory the spiced cereal would be, especially with stewed fruit and crunchy nuts strewn over the top! With a strong cappucino, my eyes might even stay open. It was not to be. There was not a trace of spice in the bowl of mushy, lukewarm oatmeal that arrived on a silver tray, the top already congealing. The accompaniments were laughable: a few slivers of cooked apple and bits of walnut. Let’s not discuss the cappuccino. But the idea of infusing aromatic chai spices into one of the blandest dishes imaginable was superb. So this is my version... ]]> this opulent breakfast dish, spiked with sweet, rum-soaked raisins, infused with fragrant spices and gilded with toasted coconut and cashews, will start even the wintriest day on a cheerful note. Who knows? It might launch you on a trip to the tropics—or warm dreams thereof. Oatmeal with Chai Spices, Rum Raisins and Toasted Coconut Serves 2 Ingredients for the oatmeal: ¼ cup golden raisins 2 to 3 tablespoons rum 1 cloth bag chai spices (see below) 2/3 cup uncooked oatmeal (not instant) 2 cups water ¼ cup cashews, unsalted ¼ cup coconut flakes, unsweetened 2 tablespoons Demerara sugar or honey (optional) Milk, or cream (optional) Method for the oatmeal: 1. Make the raisins: An hour before (or even better, overnight) soak the raisins in a little boiling water just until they plump up. Drain, pour the rum over the raisins and stir. Let them soak up the drink—anywhere from an hour to overnight. 2. Make the oatmeal: Combine the bag of chai spices and 2 cups of water in a small pot. Bring to a boil. Add the oatmeal and vanilla seeds (see chai spice instructions below) and stir. Lower the heat and simmer for 10-12 minutes, or until the water has been absorbed and the oatmeal is soft and creamy. 3. Toast the cashews and coconut: While the oatmeal is cooking, lightly toast the cashews in a small, cast iron frying pan over a medium flame, for 2 minutes, or until they begin to brown very lightly. Stir in coconut and cook for 1 minute more. Do not let the cashews or coconut burn. Spread out on a small plate and cool. 4. Finish the oatmeal: Remove the bag of chai spices from the oatmeal and discard. Stir half the cashews and raisins into the oatmeal. Divide into two portions and place each in a small bowl. Top with the rest of the cashews and raisins, and the coconut flakes. Spoon a little Demerara sugar or honey over the cereal, if desired. 5. Serve at once, while still hot, with warm milk or cream on the side, if you like. Ingredients for the chai spices: 12 black peppercorns 4 green cardamom seeds 3 whole allspice 1 clove 1 piece mace 1-1/2 inches cinnamon stick 2 slices fresh ginger A 2-inch piece of vanilla bean, split in half lengthwise Cheesecloth and kitchen twine Method for the bag of chai spices: 1. Place all the spices, except the vanilla bean, in a mortar and very lightly crush them with the pestle. Do not pound them to powder; just break them up gently. 2. With the tip of a paring knife, scrape the vanilla seeds into a small bowl and reserve. Coarsely chop the vanilla pod and add to the spices. 3. Pour all the spices (except the vanilla seeds) onto a triple layer of cheesecloth, about 6 inches square. Gather the corners together and use kitchen twine to tie the spices in a tight ball. Cut off any excess cheesecloth. ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.649 2013-02-27T15:24:38Z 2013-02-28T17:58:02Z

It’s known as the Italian Garden, but where is it, really? Not in Italy, that’s for sure. You'll find it on an 8,000-acre Blue Ridge estate, with grounds designed by Frederick Law Olmstead. This is not my garden. But...

SpiceLines It’s known as the Italian Garden, but where is it, really? Not in Italy, that’s for sure. You'll find it on an 8,000-acre Blue Ridge estate, with grounds designed by Frederick Law Olmstead. This is not my garden. But you knew that. In my garden, there are no marble cherubs. No curvaceous reflecting pools. No sweeping vistas or long stone walls. I putter around on a single acre. Definitely not more. That’s why I love visiting other gardens. Especially in winter, when you get to see…. ]]> ...the severe geometry of the planting beds in a four-acre walled garden. Laid out symmetrically alongside zig-zag brick paths, it's a jardin a la francaise, designed by Frederick Law Olmstead (who also planned New York’s Central Park. ) In mid-February, a cheerful crew was out cleaning up winter’s debris and doing a bit of pruning. (May I just say that I would kill for even a petit jardin a la francaise—and for a cheerful staff to lend a hand, if only occasionally?) Right now, the branches of the trees are bare. And on a gloomy day, the house looks dark and intimidating. Did you know that architect Richard Morris Hunt modeled parts of it after the majestic Chateau de Blois in the Loire Valley? Or that it has 255 rooms, including 43 bathrooms, 3 kitchens, and, some say, a maze of secret passageways? At 175,000 square feet, it’s the largest home in America. The façade reveals the grandeur of Hunt's design. The limestone may be from Indiana, but the sculpted balustrade is pure French Renaissance. Notice the library terrace, shaded by wisteria vines so old and vigorous that, left to their own devices, the entwined stems… ...might eventually take over, like the tree roots strangling ruined temples at Angkor Wat. (I doubt this was in the original plan.) The view from the back terrace reveals Olmstead’s naturalistic landscape planting scheme. On land that was once deforested and barren, new trees were planted in abundant groves that subtly shadow the gently rolling hills. At one time all the land as far as the eye could see belonged to the estate. But on a cold and windy day, the "cosiest" spot can be found in the 7,500 square foot brick conservatory, a magnificent structure designed as a “sheltered garden for winter walking….” Inside the air is as warm and balmy as a spring day. Imagine strolling through towering palms and cactus, bathed in the pale sunlight that streams through the 40-foot high glass roof while snow flakes fall outside. In the potting room, a starfish flower, native to India and Africa, and other exotic blooms are thriving. I wonder if they like the classical music that’s piped in? For me, this is the perfect spot. Sitting on a bench amidst colorful bromeliads, palms and banana trees, I could almost be in Southern California… And that's the point, isn't it? This garden is designed to transport the owner and his family to other places (and climate zones), most of them far, far from home. But even in the chilly outdoors there are clear signs of spring. The early daffodils are in bloom… I hope yours are blooming too! These photos were taken on the grounds of Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina. To read more about the house and garden, go here. ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.648 2013-02-23T18:30:24Z 2013-02-23T20:26:41Z

Smoky pimenton adds a layer of sultry flavor to a simple dish of sauteed fingerling potatoes, green beans and roasted peppers. Green Spanish olives lend a bit of tanginess to the vegetables. Savoring the pimenton-sprinkled octopus at Curate Bar...

SpiceLines Smoky pimenton adds a layer of sultry flavor to a simple dish of sauteed fingerling potatoes, green beans and roasted peppers. Green Spanish olives lend a bit of tanginess to the vegetables. Savoring the pimenton-sprinkled octopus at Curate Bar de Tapas, I had a double revelation: First, pulpo can actually be delicious—that is, tender and mellow tasting—when cooked properly. Second, I wondered why all my pimenton was buried at the back of the pantry. Five or six years ago, after taking a paella class in Santa Fe, I bought four tins of Spanish paprika, as it’s known here, at the bricks and mortar shop of The Spanish Table. Miraculously, although the tops are a bit rusty, the paprika is still full of flavor. One variety is sweet and a little tangy, two were decidedly bitter, with a trace of sweetness, and one was spicy, but with a distinctly bitter edge. All, except for the sweet pimenton, had been smoked. In Spanish that’s called ahumado. Why on earth did I forget about pimenton, I wondered. Especially when it comes in such beautiful tins…. ]]> An assortment of colorful pimenton tins containing sweet, bittersweet and spicy paprika. Three of the four are also smoked. It’s said that the peppers of the Capsicum family first came to Spain in the sixteenth century via ships returning from the New World. In her cookbook, The Food of Spain, Claudia Roden writes that Franciscan monks planted the American pepper seeds, some sweet and some hot, “in their monasteries along the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain and in the Extremadura” in the western part of the country. They named the chiles pimientos after pimienta, the word for black peppercorns, since both spices created a pleasantly peppery sensation. Dried pimientos—known as pimenton when ground like paprika—quickly became a hit with Spanish cooks. By the 19th century, the seasoning was so popular that Angel Muro, writing in his 1893 cookbook El Practicon, labeled the craving for pimenton “the Spanish vice.” Roden notes that it had become “for almost all the inhabitants of Spain a product of prime necessity, and that in Castile, not a single food was put on the table that was not seasoned with it.” These days, pimenton is no longer the spice of choice—in fact, spices are only lightly used in Spanish cuisine—but it is essential for chorizo and for some rice based dishes such as paella. It is also delicious sprinkled over grilled meats, shellfish and potatoes. Varieties of Spanish paprika, from top left, include smoked pimenton de la Vera, both picante and agridulce, and smoked pimenton agridulce from the Alicante; on the bottom, unsmoked pimenton dulce from Murcia. Spanish paprika comes in three flavors: Dulce, or sweet, agridulce or bittersweet, and picante or spicy. The best known pimenton—de la Vera—comes from Caceres in the Extremadura, and it is almost always smoke-dried, a process which began hundreds of years ago when tobacco farmers dried strings of fresh red-ripe peppers in the same sheds as their tobacco leaves, over the coals of the holm oak tree. La Tienda, an on-line purveyor of Spanish ingredients, says that true pimenton de la Vera must be only be smoked over oak wood for authentic taste. Sweet unsmoked paprika comes mostly from Murcia, in the southeastern part of the country, where, Roden writes, delicate nora peppers are sun-dried rather than cured over hot coals. True pimenton dulce retains the sweetness of fresh ripe peppers, but may also have a tangy or slightly bitter undertone. With both types of pimenton, look for official denominacion de origen labels which guarantee the authenticity of the product. Although smoky pimenton is still an essential seasoning for chorizo and some paella, it no longer has pride of place in the Spanish spice cupboard. My Spanish travel journal brought back memories of many delicious meals in Madrid and Andalucia—how could I have forgotten the caldereta of shrimp, mussels and clam in brothy short grain rice, or fresh orange ice cream drizzled with arbequina olive oil—but nowhere did I find a mention of pimenton. This led me to consult La Tapa y el Tapeo, a marvelous, quasi-philosophical cookbook written by Enrique Becerra, a fifth generation restauranteur and great bear of a man whose eponymous tapas bar is a Seville institution—and I mean that in a good way. We were totally seduced by his alcachofas alla plancha con virtutas de jamon—batons of iberico ham atop shoestring potatoes and melting artichoke hearts—and the tosta de foie con higos, a hunk of sizzling foie gras on toast with sweet cooked figs. I leave the impossibly rich rabo de toro, or braised oxtails, to your imagination. In the first part of his book, incidentally, Becerra tackles the quintessential tapas experience—defining la tapa as simply “nothing more and nothing less than a small portion of something to eat, accompanied by a glass of wine.” El tapeo is the “action of going out for tapas,” but also what some call “tapa-hopping.” Why stop at one bar when you can drop into three or four, downing a copa de vino and a snack or two before moving on? Importantly, the experience is as much about conviviality as it is about the food. “El tapeo implies conversation, informality, the social life. You can go out for tapas alone, of course, but it’s not the same…In a bar, there are thousands of occasions to strike up a conversation with whatever is at hand: Phrases like, “Would you kindly hand me a napkin?” “That looks good. What is it?” or “Do you come to this bar often? What do you recommend?” In other words, either go with friends or use the occasion to meet new ones. (Apologies for the digression--and for my poor translation.) In the second half of the book I did find a handful of recipes in which pimenton is an ingredient. Most of them, interestingly, involve potatoes. In mejillones picantes, for instance, plump steamed mussels are served atop potatoes that have been sautéed with garlic, then simmered in milk and sherry, and pureed; the whole dish is finally showered with lots of spicy pimenton. In remojon granadino, a dish with Moorish antecedents, dried cod is combined with sweet or bitter oranges and sliced cooked potatoes, then served as a cold molded salad sprinkled with sweet pimenton. Potatoes are the unifying factor in these dishes, and in each case, the paprika is added at the last moment, just before serving, often with the salt. This makes a lot of sense: potatoes, whether boiled or sautéed or mashed, are a perfect foil for distinctive tastes such as the garlicky aioli in patatas bravas. Conversely, in the case of Curate’s octopus, the buttery Yukon Gold potato puree is there, I suspect, to underscore the mellowness of the mollusc. Either way, pimenton is a bit like the frosting on a cake: whether sweet or smoked, it adds a top layer of sunny or smoky flavor. But its taste is ephemeral, fading quickly, so you must sprinkle it on just before bringing the food to the table. This recipe is not really a tapa, though you could certainly serve it as one of several small plates with a glass of wine. I think of it, though, more as a side dish for grilled pork chops, quail or fish. Of course if you like it, there’s enough to serve two for supper. Sauteed Fingerling Potatoes with Roasted Red Peppers, Green Olives and Smoky Pimenton This simple dish is at its best when served warm. If made ahead, be sure to re-heat and sprinkle with additional pimenton before serving. Serves four as a side dish, or 2 as a main course Ingredients: 1 pound fingerling potatoes, mixed varieties (red, yellow and blue) ½ cup roasted red pepper, cut into strips (see note) 1-1/2 cups string beans, trimmed and cut into 1-1/2 inch pieces 8 to 12 green Spanish olives, pitted and torn into rough pieces 2 tablespoons olive oil for sautéing Flaky sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste 1-1/2 tablespoons hazelnut oil, plus ½ tablespoon olive oil ½ teaspoon smoked pimenton, or to taste Method: 1. Scrub the potatoes, but do not peel. Place them in a medium saucepan with lots of cold water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and cook for 15 minutes or until the potatoes can easily be pierced with the tip of a paring knife. Drain and set aside to cool completely. 2. Steam the string beans for about 4 minutes, until just slightly crunchy. Do not overcook. Set aside to cool. 3. If roasting a red pepper, follow the instructions below. 4. When the potatoes are cool, cut them into 3/8 inch slices. (The peel will stay intact if you let the potatoes cool completely before slicing.) Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil to a large skillet over medium heat. When the oil is hot add the sliced potatoes and sizzle until they are golden on one side. Turn and continue cooking on the other side. When they begin to turn golden brown on the second side, add the string beans and stir for 2 minutes, until they are heated through. 5. Put the potatoes and string beans into a large bowl. Add the strips of roasted red pepper and green olives. Toss a few times with your hands. Season generously with sea salt and a few turns of the peppermill. 6. In a small bowl combine the hazelnut and olive oil and drizzle over the vegetables. Toss again. Just before serving, sprinkle the pimenton over the vegetables. Toss, then taste, and add more if desired. Serve immediately. Note: For this recipe you can either buy pre-roasted and peeled red pepper, or you can roast your own: A single large red Bell pepper should be sufficient. For instructions, go here.]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.646 2013-02-18T16:00:23Z 2013-02-19T02:35:09Z

Authentic tapas in Asheville? At Curate, you can feast on everything from pulpo a la gallega (octopus in pimenton) to secreto iberico a las finas hierbas, a pure iberico pork skirt steak infused with smoke from burning rosemary sprigs....

SpiceLines Authentic tapas in Asheville? At Curate, you can feast on everything from pulpo a la gallega (octopus in pimenton) to secreto iberico a las finas hierbas, a pure iberico pork skirt steak infused with smoke from burning rosemary sprigs. Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like octopus, as least as it’s usually served. Words that come to mind are rubbery and fishy-tasting. And oh, those suckers… This has worked out well for B, since he loves the dreaded mollusc. He always snags any sashimi that strays onto my plate, and is content in the knowledge that he can enjoy Locanda Locatelli’s insalata di polpo e patate novelle without losing a single bite. But this week our forks jointly hovered over the last exquisite sliver of pulpo a la gallega. Thinly sliced, showered with Spanish paprika and napped with olive oil, it was the dish that finally converted a diehard refusenik into an incipient addict. We found pulpo a la gallega on the menu at Curate, a two-year-old, rather traditional Spanish tapas bar in Asheville, NC, of all places. It's a laid-back mountain-college town with a hippie vibe far from the sophisticated streets of Barcelona, Madrid and Seville, where bustling bars are filled with wine-drinking, tapas-eating regulars every night. And yet… ]]> Tapas, a centuries-old tradition in Spain, are what I want to eat right now. And why not? It’s fun to mix and match small plates of intensely flavorful appetizers or snacks, served hot or cold, grilled or fried, sautéed or braised, to create a satisfying meal. In the right hands, tapas can be absolutely fabulous, especially when accompanied by a copa de vino rojo or a sip of Jerez sherry. Confounding as it may be, Curate (accent on the "u" and do pronounce the "e") is the real deal—a joint venture between American chef Katie Button, her Spanish-born husband, Felix Meana, and her parents, that cleverly evokes the buzzy atmosphere and delicious food of a genuine bar de tapas. Think tangy “home-cured” green olives and marbled jamon iberico (made from pigs fattened on acorns), plump shrimp sizzling in garlic, sherry and olive oil, unspeakably rich oxtail, braised for 18 hours, with potato mousse punctuated by droplets of sweet vanilla oil—cheerfully served up in a chic, converted bus depot on brown paper menus that serve as placemats. Did I mention the envy-inducing vertical garden inside the front door? Five years ago Button chucked a career in neuroscience for one in the kitchen, first working for Jose Andres and Johnny Iuzzini, then hopping the Atlantic for a 7-month stage with Ferran Adria at the now-shuttered El Bulli. The accolades began to flow soon after Curate opened. GQ praised the “ace patatas bravas,” while Afar zeroed in on the “Catalan sausage bocadillos, codfish salad, and honey-drizzled fried eggplant.” Recently Button won the Robb Report’s First Annual Culinary Masters Competition, beating out four more established chefs with her inventive take on traditional tapas. But let’s talk about the pulpo a la gallega. We ordered it twice, on two visits in three days, once for lunch and once for dinner. Why is it so tender? For one thing, the octopus is cooked by shocking it, repeatedly, in big pots of boiling hot and icy cold water, which relaxes the muscles so completely that when the flesh is thinly sliced, it very nearly melts in your mouth. Served Galician style with pimenton or Spanish paprika, and olive oil, the mollusc is both peppery and mildly sweet—a perfect foil for the buttery Yukon Gold puree that goes with it. On both visits, we hopscotched across the menu, trying 19 or 20 tapas in all. When our server told us about a customer who eats there every night, my quick reaction was, “Lucky!” Here are a few more dishes we loved: Migas de invierno: “This is my favorite on the whole menu!” confided our server. The savory sauté of brussel sprouts, cauliflower, and crispy croutons, served with a tart celery root-yoghurt puree, was B's favorite too. Huge sundried Chilean raisins added an unexpectedly sweet touch. Rossejat negro: a Barcelona-style tapa of thin noodles, blackened by squid in its ink, cooked in a small paella pan, drizzled with all i oli (aioli sauce) and salsa verde. A stunning dish that tasted of both the earth and the sea. Secreto iberico a las finas hierbas: thinly sliced, grilled “100% pure iberico pork ‘skirt steak,’” rich with fat, oozing with juices, smoky with the fragrance of rosemary sprigs charred in the fire. A smashing, deceptively simple preparation that could also be used with brined pork chops or grilled quail. Other successes included setas al jerez, succulent mushrooms—oyster, cremini and shiitake—sauteed in olive oil with a splash of sherry; pincho moruno, a skewer of tender, juicy lamb chunks, marinated in “Moorish spices,” grilled medium rare and served with thinly sliced cucumber marinated in vinegar and sugar; and bocata de calamares, addictive fried squid eaten with tangy arbequina olive oil mayonnaise and crusty bread shipped in from Tribeca Bakery in New York. Curate, by the way, means “cure yourself,” presumably by gorging on all these delicious tapas. At lunch, try to get the long table in the front window under the copper clad vertical garden. In the evening, it’s a toss up between the long bar facing the open kitchen and quieter room in back. Did I mention the bottled Estrella beer and the short, but excellent list of Jerez sherries, especially the deep Oloroso Sangre y Trabajadero? Or the totally amazing rosemary ice cream? Curate, 11 Biltmore Avenue, Asheville NC 28801. Telephone: 828-239-2946. Web: curatetapasbar.com/ Here are two more places we liked in Asheville: Chai Pani means “tea and water,” slang in India for “going out for a cup of tea, a tasty bite, a snack or ‘a little something.’” Mehewan and Molly Irani’s casual but colorful eatery conjures up the zingy flavors of the ”mind blasting” street snacks of Mumbai. To be honest, we skipped “fusion” plates like Bombay Chili Cheese Fries (“with spiced Indian turkey”).... ...but scored a winner with uttapam, a large, lacy, very thin “crepe” made of rice and lentil batter, crisp on the surface, soft on the inside, topped with savory onion-tomato masala and coconut mint-chutney. It was even better when we spooned spicy sambar, a vegetable stew spiked with chili and cumin, over it, rolled the whole thing up and popped it in our mouths. We didn’t have time to hit MG Road, the popular bar around back, but some who’ve tippled there call the cocktails “mindblowing.” I like the sound of the Dark and Monsoony and the Ginger Lily. Or how about a rye whiskey cocktail with tamarind, Lillet and plum bitters? Chai Pani, 22 Battery Park Avenue, Asheville, NC 28801. Telphone: 828-254-4003 Web: chaipani.net Reza Satayesh, chef-owner of Rezaz in Asheville. Photo: rezaz.com The first time we ate at Rezaz, I was captivated by the way chef-owner Reza Satayesh used spices to put an even more magical spin on his sunny Mediterranean cooking. In a review for The Global Province, I wrote: “The Moroccan spiced lump crab cake was a crisp golden cylinder of fresh, succulent crab, topped with a tomato-cinnamon jam that amped up the sweetness of the seafood…Pink, juicy slices of peppery seared duck breast …were napped with a sweet-tart pomegranate molasses sauce…Grilled lemons added a bright note to a dill-flecked seafood risotto…..” Years later, both the restaurant (a converted hardware store) and the Mediterranean style menu have become a bit more luxe—and Reza has a second restaurant, Piazza—but those seductive flavors are still hiding in plain sight. The indescribably delicious tomato cinnamon jam, now closer to a coulis, still accompanies the crab cake—itself transformed into a golden crab and scallop cake, sandwiched between thin slices of lightly pickled apple and frisee salad in a roasted shallot vinaigrette. Salted preserved Moroccan lemon peel brightens a plate of house made pickles, some of the best I’ve ever had, as well as a side of sautéed greens and raisins, adding a citrusy note to the bitter-sweet dish. Rich, falling-off-the-bone lamb shanks braised in balsamic vinegar get an extra lift from torshe litte, a tangy Persian eggplant pickle. Midway through dinner, our server brought out a set of tiny white porcelain tagines. He removed the lids to reveal a gift from the chef: a quartet of sparkling condiments, including sour cherry and dried fig chutneys, green olive tapenade with preserved lemon, and a house-made harissa made with cumin and dried Mexican chilies. What joy! Now if we could always have these on our table at home…. Rezaz, 28 Hendersonville Road, Asheville, NC 28803. Telephone: 828-277-1510. Web: rezaz.com ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.645 2013-02-09T19:31:52Z 2013-02-10T16:46:05Z

In the language of flowers, the red camellia symbolizes the flame of true love. The graceful petals of C. 'Crimson Candles' could easily "ignite" a dark woodland forest. “You’re a flame in my heart.” Or so the Victorians mused,...

SpiceLines In the language of flowers, the red camellia symbolizes the flame of true love. The graceful petals of C. 'Crimson Candles' could easily "ignite" a dark woodland forest. “You’re a flame in my heart.” Or so the Victorians mused, when imagining the secret meaning of the red camellia. In the language of flowers, the pale pink camellia symbolized “longing,” while the white camellia stood for “adoration, perfection, loveliness”. But the red camellia captures true love. The way it flickers brightly in the heart, even when loveliness fades and perfection is clearly out of reach. In China, where camellias have grown wild for centuries, the flower is said to symbolize the love of a man and a woman: The petals represent the feminine, while the calyx, which holds the petals at the base, is the masculine. When the flower fades, they fall together, joined even in death. La Dame aux Camelias, a novel by Alexandre Dumas fils, was the inspiration for Verdi’s opera La Traviata. The original tale was inspired by Dumas’ affair with the beautiful Marie Duplessis, a camellia-wearing courtesan who, for a time, was the toast of Paris. She died young, at age 23, of tuberculosis, aggravated, thought her doctors, by the bouquets that surrounded her. The luminous Greta Garbo played the title role in George Cukor's 1936 film adaptation, Camille. On cheerier note, the leaves of the camellia have given us one of the world’s most delicious (and addictive) beverages: tea...]]> C. sinensis is known as chahua—the "tea flower." Dried tea leaves contain about three percent caffeine by weight; processed to achieve different levels of oxidation, they produce all the familiar varieties of tea, from black and aged puerh to oolong, green and white. Green tea is thought to be packed with catchecins, a form of antioxidant. The camellia you see here is an ornamental cultivar, C. reticulata x ‘Crimson Candles,’ developed by the late Dr. Clifford Parks. One winter day we visited his nursery garden, where scores of magnificent camellias, some more than 20 feet tall, were planted in a woodland of towering pines. We wandered through a dreamlike forest of exquisite blooms: crimson, pink and white, some splotched or streaked, singles and doubles, all with graceful petals as smooth as silk or ruffled like crinolines. A few days ago B came home bearing this beauty, completely covered with blazing crimson blossoms. Its fat, furry buds are elongated, perhaps with yearning; soon they too will ignite, like a flame in the heart. Did he know what he was saying? I wonder… Happy Valentine’s Day to all of you! ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.644 2013-02-06T18:35:46Z 2013-02-06T22:08:40Z

Chance encounters make travel memorable. At Mapusa market in Goa, where local residents shop for dried fish and red chilies, I looked up from photographing spices to find this woman staring at me. I really need to clone myself....

SpiceLines Chance encounters make travel memorable. At Mapusa market in Goa, where local residents shop for dried fish and red chilies, I looked up from photographing spices to find this woman staring at me. I really need to clone myself. Three or four of me would be about right. You see, I just made a list of all the places—some familiar, some not—that I’d like to visit in, oh, the next year or two. On the one hand, I’m dying to return to my favorite cities—Bangkok, Buenos Aires, Cochin, Florence, London, Paris and Venice—and to see more of Morocco and Bhutan. But I’m also attracted to all the places I’ve yet to visit. In Japan I want to wander the streets of Kyoto, soak in volcanically hot mineral springs, and visit Tokyo’s famous fish market. I dream of shopping for cloves in the markets of Zanzibar, turning prayer wheels at the Jokhang in Lhasa, slurping pho on a street corner in Hanoi, gathering wild peppercorns in the rain forests of Madagascar. The truth is, the world is still a very big place. I may never get to half the destinations I long to see, but for the ones I do visit, there’s a pressing question: How to travel to an unfamiliar place in a way that puts me into the flow of real life? What do you think? ]]> “authentic travel.” In “Choose Your Own Food Adventure,” (The Wall Street Journal, February 2-3, 2013, pp. D1 and D2), Katy McLaughlin says: “Watching Alice Waters shop at a farmers’ market on the Food Network is old news; now we want to browse the stalls and scrutinize the organic cardoons with her.” She adds that “authenticity has replaced luxury as a culinary watchword…” Vayable offers 80 London "experiences" led by residents, including market walks that show you how to shop for food like a local. Most last just a few hours. Photo: Vayable Personally I love both. But is it possible to buy an authentic adventure? I could easily skip If Only’s $10,000 lunch at Chez Panisse with Alice Waters, Cecelia Chang and Margrit Mondavi, but I did flirt with the idea of Jetsetter’s “live-as-a-local experiences like milking a goat and making your own cheese in Abruzzo, Italy.” Then there’s Vayable’s $49 tour of London’s Borough Market with a journalist who’ll steer you to “the best food stalls in the market where real Londoners hang out.” Vayable, incidentally, has “insiders” in over 500 cities around the globe, ready to take you drinking in the Marais for a few hours or on a 10-day Egyptian camel trek replete with “unplanned encounters.” One thing is clear: We—or, at least, I—have a craving for real experiences when traveling. To get that, you first need unstructured time. I would never splurge on an around-the-world-in-12-days trip—breakfast in Nairobi, dinner in Hanoi—just to tick off the countries on my list. And I’ve had it with most tours (though cooking trips put together by a knowledgeable person can provide access you might not be able to arrange for yourself). But I want to go slow. Watch the sun rise from the Indian Ocean, wander through a down and dirty market teeming with silvery fish and mysterious fruit, have a feast in an olive grove with the people who make the oil, visit Argentine wineries with the sister of a friend (and meet her friend who owns a patisserie), sip homemade mescal while dancing under a glitter ball…. In all this there’s the hope that somehow this real world experience will transport you, turn you upside down or inside out, give you a new way of being, at least for a little while. In this vein the award winning travel magazine Afar has devoted its March 2013 issue to “Travel That Changes You.” One possibility caught my eye: Sri Lanka, an island I’ve longed to visit ever since reading a line from a Dutch captain’s log. He wrote: "When one is downwind of the island, one can still smell cinnamon eight leagues out to sea.” A view of Lunuganga by night. Travelers can stay at the late architect Geoffrey Bawa's Sri Lanka estate, a labor of love which took him 40 years to complete. Photo: Lunuganga. In “Ceylon’s Second Coming” (Jennifer Chen, p. 30), I was captivated by the idea of staying in a house belonging to the late architect, Geoffrey Bawa. Bawa launched Tropical Modernism, a design movement that blended the most seductive features of traditional Sri Lankan and British Colonial architecture—“reflecting pools, colonnaded passages, and terracotta tiled roofs”— to create an open air building style that took full advantage of the island’s “balmy climate.” In Colombo one can visit Bawa’s in-town house at No. 11 33rd Lane and his former office at 2 Alfred House Road (now The Gallery Cafe), but two hours away, there’s Lunuganga, his slightly ramshackle country estate with a 15-acre tropical garden and lagoon views. I’ve always dreamed of living in a Bawa-designed abode, so I’d probably camp in the Glass Room, up in the tree tops, for a few days. Then head back to Columbo for “fresh crustaceans in peppery sauces” at Ministry of Crab (love the name!) and for cardamom and cinnamon-scented lotions at Spa Ceylon. But wait. Maybe there’s an easier way of visiting Sri Lanka, at least for an evening. “In Clay Pots, a Taste of Home,” (The New York Times, January 30, 2013, p. D6), dining critic Pete Wells describes the Sri Lankan restaurant Lakruwana, located on Staten Island, as "a small, charming museum of Sri Lankan arts and crafts" : “I know of no other place in town that goes quite so far to summon up the world where the owners were born,” he writes. A mural featuring gaily painted elephants and “turbaned drummers,” walls of “rough pink stones set in stucco,” wooden shutters, painted masks, sets of spears: I might have the illusion I’d traveled 30 hours instead of 30 minutes from the city. Among the “authentic” delicacies on the menu: “hoppers”—a “batter of coconut and rice flour…fried into a wafer and shaped while still warm into crisp, edible bowls”—eaten with “nuanced, gingery Ceylon chicken” curry or “Wadiya squid seasoned with toasted coriander and cumin;” “sticks of pineapple in a lightly hot curry paste soured with tamarind;” and “fat yellow lentils stewed in coconut milk with the warming flavors of mustard seeds, curry leaves and cinnamon sticks.” Water is served in pottery cups. At $12 to $13 for entrees, a quick trip to Lakruwana might sate the travel yen for a few hours. Off the grid at Scarabeo Stone Camp: According to the website, the stillness that "envelops the camp is broken only by the sound of voices and the clink from a copper basin." Photo: Sven Laurent for Scarabeo-Camp. Even luxury-loving girls like me enjoy getting off the grid from time to time. In “Finding Stillness in a Roving Retreat” (The Wall Street Journal, February 2-3, 2013, p. D4), Darrell Hartman writes about a fantastically casual Belgian tented camp in “the desert highlands of Morocco.” His driver, Mustafa, got lost trying to find the encampment, which moves around depending on the season. Once there, he discovered that Scarabeo Stone Camp had composting toilets, no electricity and décor that was “a rough and ready take on French country chic, accent on the rough.” But there was chicken tagine and hot mint tea served by candlelight, a chance encounter with a Berber shepherd on a hike through the deserted valley, and above all, “soothing desert silence.“ (You could also take a Paris to Dakar dune buggy driving class, attend a Moroccan cooking workshop or fly kites on the dunes. Personally I love the idea of arranging for an astronomy professor to bring his telescope for star gazing.) Hartman didn’t have enough cash to pay his bill, but he and the owner agreed that they’d rendezvous in Marrakech after he visited an ATM. Sounds like heaven to me. Bahama mailboats ship food, building supplies and vehicles to the Out Islands. For a $45 ticket, passengers can get a taste of "authentic Bahamanian culture." Photo: Bahamas4u But for a truly real world adventure, it would be hard to top Porter Fox. In “Off the Tourist Grid in the Bahamas” (The New York Times, February 3, 2013), Fox, editor of Nowhere, a literary travel journal, took three small freighters, actually government mail boats, on a six-day, 350-mile trip to the Out Islands, “exploring the Bahamas the way the Bahamanians do. “ Travel was slow and schedules erratic, and there were a few rough moments—one night he shared a cabin with “a giant man named ‘Jolly’ whose snore matched his frame”—but the compensations were many. White sand beaches glowing in the moonlight, eating the “best” conch salad in the Bahamas at a stall on Potter’s Cay, and a “tour” of Eleuthera with Tiffany Johnson, manager of Daddy Joe’s Hotel, who took him to “secret places” like the Queen’s Bath, “a set of natural stone pools cut into the island’s Atlantic coastline,” and a hippie commune with geodesic domes. You see what I mean about “authentic” travel? Lots of time, local “friends” and a willingness to cut loose from the comforts of home will make it happen. ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.642 2013-01-31T20:19:08Z 2013-02-01T02:01:54Z

Som tum, or green papaya salad, hits all the high notes (hot, sour, salty, sweet and umami), waking up a dull winter palate with its zingy flavors. Top tool? A $1.17 shredder. Is there anything that makes your heart...

SpiceLines Som tum, or green papaya salad, hits all the high notes (hot, sour, salty, sweet and umami), waking up a dull winter palate with its zingy flavors. Top tool? A $1.17 shredder. Is there anything that makes your heart beat faster than a new kitchen tool? I know, I know. A new love, a new puppy, a new pair of K. Jacques sandals. But forgive me for being a little overexcited about the fruit and vegetable shredder I picked up at Thewet market in Bangkok. “You’ll want this,” Blair said, handing me a modest tool from a kitchenware stall with lots of day-glo plastic and shiny metal gear. It looked like a cheap ergonomic razor, with a blue-grey plastic body and two stainless steel blades, one of which was severely corrugated. “It’s great for making som tum.” Som tum—also known as som tam or som dtam--may be northeastern Thailand’s best known salad, an addictive tangle of crunchy, shredded green papaya and carrots, chopped snake beans, dried shrimp, green chilies and peanuts, tossed in a mix of palm sugar, fish sauce and lime juice. Made right, it hits all the high notes, a harmonious but zingy blend of hot, sour, salty, sweet flavors with a hefty dose of umami pulling it all together. In Bangkok, a handheld shredder (Kitchen Series brand) will set you back around 35 baht, a cool $1.17 or so. (I wish I’d bought a dozen to give as presents—to the right people, of course!) I hate to sound like a late night infomercial, but it’s a nifty little gizmo that juliennes firm green papaya, carrots (and who knows what else) in a matter of minutes. Are you interested? ]]> Khun Oil and I tackled the recipe for som tum. As before, she had arranged all the ingredients on a tray: Bowls of shredded green papaya and carrots, chopped green beans and a plum tomato, roasted peanuts, palm sugar, tiny dried shrimp, lethal green chilies and garlic, plus small bottles of fish sauce and fresh lime juice, were pre-measured and ready to go into the pot—I mean, into the mortar. Here are some tips that may be helpful: The key ingredient is the papaya, which must be firm, green and, most important, unripe. Since the fruit will be reduced to crunchy, shredded strands, papayas that are green on the outside, but ripe inside won’t do. (The Maradol is a case in point: It may be firm and green on the outside, but it’s usually sold ripe with gorgeously sweet orange-red flesh.) The flesh of an unripe papaya is pale and crisp, slightly tangy, with no fragrance—a perfect base for absorbing the flavors of the other ingredients. I found unripe green papayas in the produce section of our local Asian supermarket, where I’ve also seen bags of pre-shredded papaya. If that’s not an option for you, consider ordering one from Import Food or Temple of Thai, both of which sell Thai produce and cookware on-line. Julienning a green papaya can be a challenge—and this is where the shredder comes in. That is, unless you’re a purist: In Thai Street Food, David Thompson, the Bangkok-based cookbook author and chef at Nahm, an upscale eatery in the Metropolitan Hotel, writes: “The traditional way to shred a papaya, as seen on the streets of Bangkok, is to hold it in one hand while it is cut and shredded vigorously with a large sharp knife held in the other hand. Every so often the knife is used to pare away the papaya, yielding a somewhat coarse, uneven shred.” But unless you have an exceedingly sharp knife, infinite patience and skill born of years of experience, one or more fingers may wind up in the salad. So take the easy way out and buy a shredder from your Asian grocer—tell them it’s for som tum—or order the very similar Kiwi brand Pro-Slice Peeler from Import Food or Temple of Thai. To use it, cut your papaya lengthwise in half or quarters, depending on its size. Peel the skin from one piece, remove the seeds, and lay it flat on a cutting board. Lightly pull the tool down the outside of the peeled fruit so that the zig-zag blade will rough up the surface. Then, applying a little more pressure, repeatedly pull the shredder down the fruit to produce long crunchy strands. It takes 3 or 4 minutes to get enough shreds for a salad. (Though Thompson writes that handheld shredders produce a “uniform” julienne, my uneven shreds certainly had all the “rustic appeal” of papaya cut with a knife.) It also helps to have a deep mortar and pestle. In Bangkok, it is traditional to make the salad in a conical clay mortar, with sides high enough to keep the ingredients, especially squishy ones like tomatoes, and liquids, from spattering as they are pounded and mixed together. Import Food has a 6-inch Lao-style fired clay mortar and long wooden pestle which was featured in a 2006 edition of The New York Times Style Magazine. Temple of Thai has similar sets in several sizes, including one that is 9 inches wide for “serious cooks.” These have received accolades from Saveur and other publications. Still I must confess that I made a delicious som tum using my old Thai granite mortar and pestle, the 8 inch one that has a 3-cup capacity. I found that adding the ingredients a little at a time quickly reduced the volume, so that in the end, I could pound and toss the entire salad in the mortar without too much spattering. It’s important to wield the granite pestle with a light hand, however, so that you soften, but don’t smash most of the ingredients. In The Siam's teaching kitchen, Kuhn Oil demonstrates the way simultaneously to pound and toss the ingredients for som tum. A bigger challenge is getting the right rhythm for pounding and mixing the salad. In this recipe, once you’ve pulverized the garlic and green chili, you’ll start adding the other ingredients. In one hand, hold a large kitchen spoon and in the other, the pestle. As you add the dried shrimp, palm sugar, shredded papaya and carrots, and cherry tomatoes, pound them lightly with the pestle, just enough to bruise them, while simultaneously scooping and turning them with the spoon so that the ingredients are thoroughly mixed together. Then add the liquid seasonings—lime juice and fish sauce—again lightly pounding and turning the salad with the spoon. It takes a little practice, but not much. All that gentle pounding and tossing creates a deliciously crunchy salad with flavors so bright and vivid that the winter blahs will disappear with the first mouthful. A fine way to bid au revoir to January... Som Tum, or Green Papaya Salad with Carrot, Peanuts and Lime Juice (adapted from The Siam Hotel, Bangkok, Thailand) Serves 2 or 3, accompanied by rice. All the Asian ingredients can be found at your local Asian supermarket, or from the on-line purveyors mentioned above. Ingredients: 1/3 cup roasted peanuts, papery skins removed ½ hard, green, unripe papaya, about 1 pound, peeled 2 large carrots, peeled 3 medium cloves garlic, peeled 3 or 4 small green Thai chilies, or to taste ¼ cup small dried shrimp 2 tablespoons palm sugar at room temperature 2 ounces snake or string beans, cut in 1-inch pieces (I used haricot verts) 10 cherry tomatoes, cut in half 3 tablespoons fish sauce 3 tablespoons lime juice Method: 1. Put all the peanuts, with the exception of one tablespoon, in the mortar and pestle. Lightly pound until they are broken into small pieces, but are not powdered. Set aside. Coarsely chop the remaining tablespoon of peanuts for garnish. Set aside in a separate bowl. 2. Shred the green papaya: After peeling the papaya, remove the dark seeds from the center cavity. (Wait! Don’t throw them away. Papaya seeds are peppery and delicious. I like to eat them on their own—in Mexico they are considered a digestif--but you could sprinkle them into a cold rice salad or over any leftover shredded green papaya and carrots, simply dressed with lime juice and fish sauce...som tum light.) To continue: Place the flat side of the papaya on the cutting board and, using a Thai handheld shredder, lightly pull the tool down the outside of the fruit in order to rough up the surface. Applying a little more pressure, continue pulling the shredder lengthwise down the papaya, producing long, coarsely julienned strands. You’ll need 3 to 3-1/2 cups of shredded fruit. 3. Repeat with the large carrots, for 1 to 1-12/ cups of shredded carrot. 4. Place the garlic and green chilies with a pinch of salt in the mortar and smash them with the pestle to make a paste. Add the dried shrimp and pound lightly, just enough to break the flesh. Do not pulverize the shrimp. 5. Add the palm sugar, shredded papaya and carrot, string beans, and cherry tomatoes. With a pestle in one hand and a large kitchen spoon in the other, simultaneously pound and toss the ingredients until they are mixed well. The objective is to gently bruise the fruit and vegetables—only to soften them so that their flavors begin to melt into each other. Tossing with the spoon further mixes the ingredients, ensuring that everything is well-coated with palm sugar. 6. Add the crushed peanuts and, again, lightly pound and toss the salad. Pour in the lime juice and the fish sauce, and continue to toss until all the ingredients are flavored with the seasonings. At this point, you can briefly refrigerate the salad while you prepare the rest of the meal. When ready to serve, garnish with the chopped peanuts. 7. Typically som tum is served with jasmine or sticky rice. A heartier rice, such as Madagascar pink or Bhutanese red rice, is non-traditional, but quite delicious as the flavorful grains create a more pronounced contrast with the crunchy, spicy salad. ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.641 2013-01-27T18:42:27Z 2013-01-30T15:56:49Z

Yesterday it was spritzing ice crystals. By late afternoon, tiny icicles festooned the picnic table like spiky fringe on a tablecloth. The pup skidded across the frozen deck and took a joyous, flying leap onto the frosty grass. So...

SpiceLines Yesterday it was spritzing ice crystals. By late afternoon, tiny icicles festooned the picnic table like spiky fringe on a tablecloth. The pup skidded across the frozen deck and took a joyous, flying leap onto the frosty grass. So wonderful to have a body that bounces like rubber… In the kitchen, it was warm as toast—and very fragrant. On the stove prawns and eggplant simmered in coconut milk and green curry. The aromas of lime leaf, pungent spices and sea-sweet shellfish swirled through the house: Palate-titillating and supremely satisfying, the rich scent hinted at the pleasures of the warming dish to come. As I stirred the pot, my mind wandered to a steamy morning in Bangkok when I learned to make Gang Kiew What Goong…. ]]> Siam Hotel chef Blair Mathieson and I had just returned from a foray to Thewet produce market, laden with the ingredients needed for the dishes I’d cook that morning—among them fiery green chilies, tiny pea eggplant, bunches of Thai basil, freshly grated coconut. Though I loved all the dishes, it was Gang Kiew What Goong—Green Curry with Prawns, Pea Eggplant and Coconut Milk—that won my heart. I’ve been fooling around with versions of this dish for years, but there in Bangkok, I realized for the first time how how delicate it could be when made with exquisitely fresh local ingredients. I also realized how easy it could be to make, especially using the right prepared green curry paste. The class took place in The Siam’s open air kitchen, located in a traditional Thai house, one of a group originally collected by silk maven Jim Thompson and moved to a prime spot overlooking the Chao Phraya river. Here are a few tips which I picked up first by watching Khun Oil, the adorable sous-chef, demonstrate and then fecklessly trying to duplicate her efforts. Mise en place matters: Normally I tend to wing it, frantically searching for ingredients, measuring and slicing, as I work through a recipe. But the curry cooks so quickly that you should have everything ready before you begin. Above you can see how neatly the ingredients for the curry were organized for my lesson. At the top: bowls of chicken stock and coconut milk; middle row: shelled and deveined prawns, small jar of fish sauce, pea and sliced "apple" eggplant, Thai and sweet basil; bottom row: palm sugar, lime leaves and sliced red chili; green chili paste. Coconut milk/cream: In Bangkok, of course, we bought the richest, freshest coconut milk imaginable. It was easy to separate the thick “cream” from the “regular milk” beneath it. But back here, it’s likely that you’ll be relying on canned or asceptically packaged coconut milk. One excellent brand is Aroy-D, which is available in cans or cartons at some Asian markets, or through Import Food. How to separate the cream from the milk: If using canned coconut milk, do not shake. Simply open the top all the way around and scoop off the thick cream on top. A 14-ounce can will yield approximately 1/3 cup cream and 1-1/4 cups milk. If using packaged coconut milk, refrigerate it overnight, then remove the entire top of the carton. The cream will have congealed on top, making it easy to separate from the milk. As above, do not shake beforehand. If you’re lucky enough to have fresh coconut milk, you’ll begin the curry by boiling the cream until the oil is extracted. Add the green curry paste and cook slowly until the mixture becomes dry and fragrant. If using packaged or canned coconut milk, however, the oil may not separate from the cream: In that event, simply boil the coconut cream until it is reduced by half before adding the curry paste. Green Curry Paste: In many Bangkok markets, there are stalls displaying big round bowls of thick, freshly prepared curry pastes. Every cook has a personal recipe of course, but the point is that a good ready-made curry paste can dramatically reduce the amount of time spent in the kitchen. Although I’ve always made my own, I recently tried and liked “Hand” brand—the logo features a hand with the thumb turned up—which has a bright, tangy, searingly hot taste. The ingredient list includes fresh green chili, garlic, lemon grass, shallot, salt, galangal, kaffir lime leaf, cumin and coriander seed; it omits shrimp paste which can muddy both the color and flavor, although most recipes specify it. Eggplant: The Siam’s recipe calls for two types of eggplant. “Apple” or small round Thai eggplant—light green, streaked with white, about the size of a plum—can often be found in the produce section of big Asian markets here in the U.S. But pea eggplant—which do resemble giant peas—are rarely found. Some recipes substitute fresh peas, but you can also increase the number of apple eggplant, some chopped into small pieces. If you can’t find either type of eggplant, you can use the long thin purple Asian variety instead. Khun Oil, The Siam's sous-chef, stirs palm sugar into the coconut milk and broth mixture, watching as it dissolves, adding sweetness to balance the spiciness of the green curry paste. Watchful waiting is key to a good curry: I was impressed by the amount of time Khun Oil spent simply observing how the curry evolved as it cooked. The green curry paste and coconut cream, for instance, simmered slowly until the mixture had become dry and aromatic. As the eggplant cooked, becoming soft and velvety, it added depth and texture to the sauce, while the pungent fish sauce, sweet palm sugar and bright lime leaf each created new layers of flavor. At every step of the way, she used all her senses to determine when each ingredient should be added to the pot and how long it should simmer. If you can do that, you almost don't need a recipe. But anyway, here it is! Green Curry with Prawns, Pea Eggplant and Coconut Milk (Adapted from The Siam Hotel, Bangkok, Thailand) Canned or packaged coconut milk, green curry paste, fish sauce, palm sugar, Thai eggplant, Kaffir lime leaves and Thai basil can be found at large Asian supermarkets, or ordered from Import Food, an on-line supplier of Thai ingredients and cookware. This recipe will serve 3 to 4 people when accompanied by jasmine rice. Ingredients for the curry: One 14-ounce can, or two 8.5-ounce cartons of unsweetened coconut milk with cream 1/4 cup prepared green curry paste 2 teaspoons fish sauce 1 Tbsp palm sugar, or to taste 12 ounces fresh shrimp, peeled and deveined 1 cup pea eggplant, or fresh peas (optional) 4 or more “apple” or round Thai eggplant, cut into 4 to 6 pieces depending on size (or substitute two cups long purple Asian eggplant, cut into ½ inch rounds) 7/8 cup chicken broth ½ sweet red pepper, cut into thin strips 1 tablespoon Thai basil 3 kaffir lime leaves 1 tablespoon whole sweet basil leaves Method: 1. Separate the coconut cream and the milk into two bowls. If using canned coconut milk, there should be roughly 1/3-cup cream and 1-1/4 cup coconut milk. Two 8.5 ounce packages will yield slightly more of each. 2. In a medium pan, bring the coconut cream to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium and cook, stirring often for 3 to 5 minutes, until the oil is extracted, or until the cream is reduced by half. 3. Add the green curry paste and continue to cook until the mixture becomes dry and fragrant. 4. Add the prawns and stirfry for 1 to 2 minutes. Add the fish sauce and palm sugar. Stir for one minute more, until the palm sugar melts. 5. Add the eggplant, remaining coconut milk and chicken broth, and simmer over medium heat until the prawns are cooked and the eggplant is tender, 10 to 15 minutes. If using the peas in place of pea eggplant, add them a few minutes before the other eggplant is cooked through. Do not allow the mixture to boil; reduce the heat slightly if necessary. 6. Add the kaffir lime leaves and Thai basil. Bring to a boil. Immediately remove from the heat and adjust the seasoning if necessary. 7. Garnish with sliced sweet red pepper and sweet basil leaves. Serve with steamed jasmine rice on the side. ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.640 2013-01-24T15:22:18Z 2013-01-24T15:56:27Z

The newest member of our family, in a rare moment of repose. Let's call it the wild child's "formal portrait." There's a reason they're named "springers..." Seven months, one week, twelve days old. 32 pounds, roughly. Liver and white....

SpiceLines The newest member of our family, in a rare moment of repose. Let's call it the wild child's "formal portrait." There's a reason they're named "springers..." Seven months, one week, twelve days old. 32 pounds, roughly. Liver and white. Oh so handsome, and ver-r-r-r-ry energetic. After 48 hours, here’s what else I know…. ]]> Destroyer of Smiley Face squeezy balls! Slayer of Domino’s green dragon, chewer of Dad’s loafers. Fringed ends of the long Moroccan rug? Delish! Perpetual commotion machine! Gallops up the steps, takes flying leaps coming down. Wild child! What’s this dishwasher all about? Crazy love! Where have you been for the last two minutes?!! Names under consideration: Obie (for Obediah), Archie (for Archibald), Nicky (for Nick Charles in The Thin Man). Also Mercury, Jefferson and King James. But maybe you can help? One thing I know for sure: “Cheeky” is his middle name. English Springer Spaniels forever! ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.639 2013-01-20T22:54:24Z 2013-01-21T04:48:44Z

At Thewet market, silvery fish are packed three or four to a bamboo steamer. On a slow morning, Blair and I trawled the stalls for ingredients to be used in a cooking class. At 9:42 AM it’s unbearably hot...

SpiceLines At Thewet market, silvery fish are packed three or four to a bamboo steamer. On a slow morning, Blair and I trawled the stalls for ingredients to be used in a cooking class. At 9:42 AM it’s unbearably hot and humid. Perspiration is trickling down my spine. A thin cotton blouse clings damply to my back. Blair and I are in the back seat of a tuk-tuk. Up front, the genial driver casually rests one hand on the steering wheel of our motorized "rickshaw." Horns blare, exhaust fumes clog the air. We lurch forward, but a taxi cuts in front of us. Engines rev on either side. A woman in an Army uniform and sturdy heels, riding sidesaddle behind her companion, straight skirt demurely pulled below her knees, blasts past us on a motor scooter. Our driver smiles. This is Bangkok's world-famous traffic. Our destination? Thewet produce market, a few minutes from The Siam Hotel, where Blair is executive chef. Our mission? Shopping, of course! We're buying some of the ingredients for a cooking class I’ll be taking later this morning. At an intersection, the driver pulls over. We cross the street, navigating our way through the flow of cars, to the entrance of the covered market. Once inside, the pace slows…. ]]> ingredients for three dishes that I've asked to make: Som Tum, a popular Northern Thai green papaya salad; Gaeng Kiew Whan Goong, green curry with prawns, pea eggplant and coconut milk; and Kanom Gluay, a steamed banana and coconut pudding served in a banana leaf cup. “This is where I get my herbs,” says Blair, as we stop at his favorite produce merchant's stall. “They’re really fresh and the flavor is great.” I’ve only been in Bangkok for 36 hours but I’m already discovering that real Thai cooking is distinguished by the delicate yet concentrated flavor of its ingredients. The air around us is perfumed with gorgeous aromas of bright, peppery ka phrao, or Thai holy basil, and a softer, milder type of sweet basil. I also see bunches of mint, cilantro and tender lemon basil: Their mingled scents are intoxicating. These Kaffir lime (or magrood) leaves (on the right) will infuse the green curry we're making with their intense, citrusy flavor. There's no substitute for their vibrant taste and aroma. The nubbly peel of the fruit brightens many a curry paste, though the juice is rarely used in cooking. Galanga root, or kah, packs a powerful punch; often used in curry pastes, the thinly sliced rhizome also flavors seafood soups and salads. A ginger relative, it is hot and pungent, with a strong resinous aftertaste. (Gernot Katzer compares the flavor to fir or pine needles.) Although I’ve often bought galanga at home, I’m surprised to discover that the tender root sold in Bangkok has a lighter, more playful flavor. No wonder Kasma Loha-Unchit, author of It Rains Fishes, describes it as a “magical ingredient,” one that “helps mask the fishiness of seafoods and the heaviness of red meats…making them taste cleaner, more delicate and more succulent.” I never expected to find fresh green peppercorns at Thewet. This unripe fruit of the pepper vine is so perishable that it is usually sold freeze-dried or in brine, even in regions where it grows like a weed. (Riper fruit produces black or white peppercorns, depending on how the berries are dried and processed.) Green peppercorns have a fresh, hot, tongue-tingling taste. Though we won’t be using them today, fresh peppercorns are sometimes used to season curries: In a recipe for Crispy Fried Catfish with Red Curry that appears in It Rains Fishes, half a cup of green peppercorns are stirred into the sauce, along with lime leaf and basil, when the cooking is nearly done. They're also used in pungent Jungle Curry. The most widely used Thai chili is the incendiary prik kee noo, a tiny green or ripe red pepper sometimes known as the "mouse shit" chili. As Loha-Unchit explains: "Thai chillies are little guys much like mice, and they leave behind unseen evidence in the food they touch--but you definitely know they have been there!" (I think she's talking about their searing heat...) Blair’s recipe for green curry paste calls for 20 of these green firebombs; they're a key seasoning in endless numbers of Thai dishes, including Som Tum, the shredded green papaya with dried shrimp, snake beans and roasted peanuts I'll be making later on. Three-flavor sauce, which can be eaten with almost anything, is made of chopped prik kee noo with lime juice and salty fish sauce. Other Thai chilies include longer, fleshier green and red peppers with varying degrees of hotness... ...and large dried red chilies that give red curry its characteristic color. These tiny pea eggplants, known as ma-keua puang, will go into our prawn and green curry dish. Like most eggplant, they are bitter to the taste, but when simmered in the curry, they become mellow, adding depth to the sauce. We’ll combine them with small round "apple" eggplants, pale green with white streaks, cut in halves or quarters. I love these fan-shaped bunches of little bananas. They hold their shape even when cooked, so they’re perfect for frying or for sweet, syrupy desserts. Oh, and here’s the dragon fruit I’ve been eating for breakfast. You’d never know that inside the tufted crimson peel, the flesh is white and speckled with tiny black seeds. It has a mild, refreshing taste. Let’s not forget the grated coconut for Kanom Gluay, the steamed banana-coconut pudding. But these gorgeous blue crabs will have to wait for another day... Back to the tuk-tuk. It's time to cook! ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.637 2013-01-16T02:15:48Z 2013-01-16T03:44:15Z

At Hallie's Flower Garden inside Formaggio Kitchen in Cambridge, pots of hot pink cyclamen lit up a gloomy afternoon with bright springtime color. It was dark in Boston last the weekend. Brooding skies, storm clouds, a spatter of rain....

SpiceLines At Hallie's Flower Garden inside Formaggio Kitchen in Cambridge, pots of hot pink cyclamen lit up a gloomy afternoon with bright springtime color. It was dark in Boston last the weekend. Brooding skies, storm clouds, a spatter of rain. By 4:30 in the afternoon, it was as sepulchral as a grave. So I went looking for sunshine... ]]> On Newbury Street, Angus and I joined the crowd at Georgetown Cupcake. We all wanted something sweet, a little bite of life-changing happiness. Pretty pink boxes and a girl wearing pearls—so chic amongst dark winter coats and boots. And oh, the cupcakes, especially Caramel Praline Crunch (farthest left in the photo)—billowy frosting, soft as whipped cream, dusted with crushed praline. Let’s not forget the moist and tender cake, with an oozy filling of, be still my heart, rich, gooey caramel. Rx for the winter blahs! A block or two on, I screeched to a stop at the sight of Valentino’s rose-colored ball gown. Visions of a summer night, wafting down a spiral staircase, a long strand of baroque pearls, the pop of a champagne cork. Sigh... But at Formaggio Kitchen in Cambridge, there was an easier fix for a dark day: bounteous buckets of bright blossoms. I especially loved these hot house tulips. What else might cure the winter blues? A taste of creamy Comte Fort Saint Antoine, from the milk of cows that graze on wild dandelions in the Jura region of southeastern France, could dazzle a palate craving flavor. As could a well-aged, nutty Manchego.... ...paired with a spoonful of tawny honey from Corsica. Harvested from bees wobbly with nectar, a sticky drizzle tasting of flowering broom, asphodel, and sun-loving plants of the shrubby maquis on the rocky isle where Napoleon was born. How about a basket of golden quince to perfume a cold, gray room? Its fruity scent was redolent of warm fall days and pots of jam on a sunny windowsill. But I was thinking of duck breasts brushed with pomegranate molasses and sliced quince stewed with star anise and cinnamon… Which brings us to the spice shelf… There's nothing like sun-dried Turkish peppers—urfa, maras and Aleppo—to infuse cold weather dishes with warm and sultry flavors. Into my basket went new must-have treasures: white Turkish poppy seed; sahlep, a flour made from orchid tubers that's used in Middle Eastern desserts and drinks; rare sumac molasses, sold in tiny glass vials, for drizzling over winter bulgur salads.... ...along with a pinch of precious Iranian saffron; a fragrant nosegay of Sicilian oregano; and rosso peppercorns, incendiary whole pepper, very slightly smoked, a glorious addition to all those warm braised dishes we want on grey shivery days. On the way out, we did stop to smell the roses. Oh, is that the sun peeking through the clouds? ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.636 2013-01-09T20:37:36Z 2013-01-10T15:07:22Z

Curried chicken for breakfast? Absolutely. There's nothing like sweetly caramelized chicken with cinnamon and curry over turmeric-infused rice to fortify you for a long winter weekend of...closet cleaning. Some dishes get lost in translation. They’re so connected to a...

SpiceLines Curried chicken for breakfast? Absolutely. There's nothing like sweetly caramelized chicken with cinnamon and curry over turmeric-infused rice to fortify you for a long winter weekend of...closet cleaning. Some dishes get lost in translation. They’re so connected to a particular place or a moment in time that conjuring up what you ate at that Singapore hawker stall one steamy afternoon 17 years ago is an exercise in futility. I’m thinking, for instance, of Hainanese chicken rice, practically Singapore's national dish: It begins with a tasty, “mature” bird poached in rich chicken stock that has deepened and become more flavorful with repetitive use. The skin is removed, the meat is sliced and then served with white rice, which itself has been simmered in a different batch of stock. The fillip: fiery homemade chili-garlic sauce and some grated ginger. Go right ahead. Try this at home. It’s not that you can't make a reasonable facsimile. It’s just that it won’t taste nearly as good as the same dish made day in and day out by a Malaysian chef at a barebones joint under a freeway interchange. (And just try finding an old chicken.) But sometimes the reverse is true. Here’s a curried chicken and rice dish that’s as memorable now as it was in Bangkok, eaten on a hot and humid November morning as I watched barges and other river boats ply the oily brown waters of the mighty Chao Phraya. What’s more, I ate it for breakfast… ]]> especially hungry for the kind of light, zingy flavors that characterize Thai cooking, but I also needed real sustenance. Khao mok gai winked at me from the The Siam Hotel's breakfast menu. Curried chicken and turmeric rice at The Siam, accompanied by a trio of zingy sauces: a sweet and sour fresh pickle (or achar) of cucumber and red onion; a three-flavor sauce made of salty fish sauce, lime and Thai chilies; and sweet red chili sauce. It was, putting it mildly, the right choice. A succulent chicken thigh, delicately flavored with sweet curry and cinnamon, was tender to the fork and a perfect foil for fragrant jasmine rice cooked with sautéed shallots and fresh turmeric. A trio of condiments hit all the high notes: hot, sour, salty and sweet. When Blair Mathieson, the Siam’s Executive Chef, gave me the recipe, I was astonished to see condensed milk on the list of ingredients. In Asian cooking, I think of sweetened condensed milk as a luscious addition to iced Vietnamese coffee, or as a gooey topping for roti, a thin flat pancake often served with sliced bananas or chicken curry. But as a marinade? I actually woke up in the middle of the night, thinking, “This can’t possibly work.” But the next day the chicken emerged from the oven as moist and flavorful as I remembered it. The sweetened milk seemed to create a slightly caramelized coating that sealed in the bird’s natural flavor and balanced the savory taste of the spices. In the process, the chicken acquired a beautiful golden glow. And while B never tasted the original, he raved over the dish I served him for breakfast—twice. Of course, this may have been a happy accident: When I looked back at the recipe yesterday, I noticed that it called for plain condensed milk. After a flurry of research, I've concluded that the ingredient in question may actually be what we know as evaporated milk, which is not nearly as sweet or thick as the condensed stuff but has the same pleasantly caramelized flavor. Using evaporated milk would certainly make a more liquid marinade—and if you’re concerned about sugar consumption, it would be a reasonable alternative. But even if I used it in error, I like the way the dish turned out with condensed milk, so I’m sticking to that in the recipe. There are a couple of ways to make the rice. Blair’s recipe calls for jasmine rice simply steamed with a knob of fresh turmeric. If you like your rice fairly plain, this is the way to go. The turmeric will turn the rice bright yellow, but it will retain its natural aroma. (Blair notes that you could add a little ginger, if desired.) For more oomph, try cooking jasmine rice in chicken broth with fresh turmeric and shallots sautéed until they turn golden brown. The rice will have a much heartier flavor, closer to the way I remember the original dish. In season you may be able to find fresh whole turmeric at your local Asian market or even at Whole Foods—or try ordering it from Import Foods which carries many ingredients for Thai cooking. The turmeric I bought here is different from what I’ve used in India and Singapore—it’s bright orange, for starters—but it has a deliciously spicy taste and will lend the same golden hue to the rice. If it's not available, you can substitute ¼ teaspoon powdered turmeric per cup of raw rice. This is a great dish for a substantial breakfast, especially if you’ve got a rough winter weekend ahead, cleaning out closets and watching old movies while a cold rain falls. It’s especially nice that so much can be done the day before: marinating the chicken, making the rice and now that I think of it, quickly preparing the sauces. The next morning, just allow 25 to 30 minutes for the chicken to bake. While it’s cooking, heat up the rice and bring the sauces out of the fridge so they can come to room temperature. Sssshhhh….don’t tell anyone, but it’s equally delicious for supper. Curried Chicken with Turmeric Rice (Adapted from The Siam in Bangkok, Thailand) Serves 2 hungry people, or 4 as a main dish Ingredients for the chicken: 3-1/2 tablespoons yellow curry powder (I used D & D Gold Madras Curry Powder) 4 tablespoons, plus 1 teaspoon powdered turmeric 2 tablespoons coriander seed, crushed in a mortar and pestle 2 bay leaves 1 cinnamon stick 1 tablespoon salt or to taste 2 cups condensed milk (or for less sugar, evaporated milk) 4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs Method for the chicken: 1. In a large bowl, combine the spices and the milk, and mix well. Add the chicken thighs to the bowl, taking care to completely submerge them in the marinade. Cover and refrigerate overnight. 2. In the morning, set the oven to 350 degrees. 3. Line a baking dish with aluminum foil. Remove the chicken from the marinade and place it in the dish. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked through. Remove from the oven, but keep warm. Ingredients for simple turmeric rice: 1 cup jasmine rice 1-3/4 cups water 1 small piece of fresh turmeric, peeled and lightly crushed, or ¼ teaspoon powdered turmeric Pinch of salt Or, for more flavorful rice: 1 cup jasmine rice 1 tablespoon canola oil ¾ cup finely chopped shallots 1 small piece fresh turmeric, peeled and lightly crushed, or ¼ teaspoon powdered turmeric Salt and pepper to taste 1-3/4 cup chicken broth 1. For plain turmeric rice: Swish the rice in several changes of cold water until fairly clear. Drain well. Bring 1-3/4 cups fresh water to a boil in a medium sauce pan. Add the rice, turmeric and salt. Return to a boil, cover and turn the heat to low. Cook for 15 minutes or until the water is completely absorbed. Fluff the rice, then cover and let it sit for at least 5 minutes before serving. If necessary, reheat the rice on the lowest flame. 2. For more flavorful rice: Rinse the rice in several changes of cold water until fairly clear. Drain and set aside. Saute the chopped shallots in the canola oil until they have turned golden brown. Add the rice and fresh or powdered turmeric, and stir until all the grains are lightly coated with the oil. Add salt and pepper, and chicken broth. Bring to a boil, cover and reduce the heat to low. Cook for 15 minutes or until the broth is absorbed. Fluff the rice, cover again and let it sit for at least five minutes before serving. If necessary, reheat over the lowest flame. For the dipping sauces: For the achar, or fresh pickle: ¼ cup red onion, very thinly sliced ½ cup cucumber, seeded and cut into ¼-inch dice 3-1/2 tablespoons white sugar 2 tablespoons, plus 2 teaspoons white vinegar 1 or more thinly sliced Thai chiles (optional) Fresh coriander sprigs for garnish Combine the onion and cucumber in a bowl. In a small saucepan, combine the sugar and vinegar, and heat over a medium flame, stirring until the sugar has dissolved . Set aside to cool, then pour over the vegetables. Add the chilies if using, and garnish with fresh coriander leaves. For the three-flavor sauce: 3 tablespoons fish sauce (I like Red Boat or 3 Crabs brand) 2 tablespoons lime juice or to taste 1 or more red Thai chilies, seeds removed if desired, and thinly sliced Combine all the ingredients in a small bowl, mix well and set aside so the flavors can blend. For the Sweet Red Chili Sauce, use a bottled condiment such as Mae Pranon Sweet Dipping Sauce for Chicken. To serve: Scoop a scant 3/4-cup turmeric rice into a small round bowl and press firmly. Invert onto a plate--you will have a perfect round scoop of rice--and top with one chicken thigh, cut into 2 or 3 pieces. Repeat with the rest of the chicken and rice. Serve with small bowls of the dipping sauces. ]]> tag:www.spicelines.com,2013://1.635 2013-01-04T19:47:40Z 2013-01-06T02:47:47Z

Would you like to see where I work? Come on in…. This may be the only time you’re invited. It’s not that I don’t want company. I really do, but early January is actually when my office looks its...

SpiceLines Would you like to see where I work? Come on in…. This may be the only time you’re invited. It’s not that I don’t want company. I really do, but early January is actually when my office looks its best. For the last few days I’ve been tossing out cardboard boxes and holiday wrapping paper, sorting through teetering stacks of books, getting rid of piles of clippings and half-eaten chocolate to make room for the spices, textiles and irresistible objets that I always seem to bring home from my travels. So it's unusually neat and clean, but here's the real incentive: Last spring I changed the color of the walls from a truly yucky hue that could accurately be described as “pond scum.” (There's actually a decorator who uses those very words to describe her favorite green.). It was supposed to be a pale, buttery cream, but an odd trick of the light made the walls look downright dingy. It was so depressing to be here, especially at night. But thanks to paint wizard Ellen Kennon, I’m now enveloped in a truly delicious shade of…. ]]> Chartreuse! And I absolutely love it. It’s bright without being electric, stimulating without making me feel like I’ve drunk a triple shot of espresso. This particular chartreuse has the virtue of also being soft and inviting. During the hot, steamy summer, I was cool as the proverbial cucumber up here under the eaves. And now that the skies are gloomy, being here is almost as good as a trip to the sunny tropics. What I really love is the way the sassy chartreuse walls set off the David Hicks-inspired fabric that I used to reupholster my grandmother’s chaise longue and the wild red and orange Berber rug from Morocco. And the hue is perfect with the contrasting color Ellen recommended for the inside of the bookcases. She calls it 75% Peacock Blue, but I just call it Fabulous. Really, it’s so much like the aquamarine waters of the Caribbean that I always think of the beach at Turks and Caicos whenever I look in that direction. Bring me a Mai Tai and a hammock, and I’ll be happy. Ellen's full spectrum paints come in an amazing range of hues. Some, like silvery Lichen, which was featured in House Beautiful last year, are quite subtle. Others are pretty punchy, like Albania Teal, a vivid blue-green that artist Hunt Slonem used in his New York studio. The pigments are “blended from the seven natural colors of sunlight” which means they are “chameleon-like in their ability to pick up colors from adjacent material and to change color as the light changes." Most important, they don’t “turn muddy or lose their character in low light conditions like standard paints.” Could this be why she's a favorite of top decorators and shelter mags like Architectural Digest and House Beautiful? Here are a few more peeks into my dazzlingly clean office: For a change I can see the surface of my desk! In case you’re wondering, the peacock fan and little Ganesh are from Mumbai, the parrot is Indonesian-Chinese and the evil-eye amulets are from Istanbul. The travel journals are invaluable when I’m posting about some far flung place I’ve been. I mounted three glass Ikea panels over my desk. On the left, I scribble a running list of blog ideas, which keeps me organized, while the two righthand panels display all those bits of ephemera that I bring home, along with family photos, exotic paper money and hotel key cards. Favorites include a pin of the King and Queen of Bhutan (so handsome/beautiful!), a photo of my Dad holding a baby (moi!) and a sketch of a domed edifice I bought from a street vendor in St. Petersburg. My office is quiet but I definitely don’t work alone. I found this luohan in a local antique shop. I’m not sure where he fits into the pantheon of Chinese deities, but his serene, meditative smile makes him a soothing presence. I enjoy draping him with necklaces like these pink coral strands from Morocco and dark amber beads from Russia. The camel is the SpiceLines mascot, so naturally there are a few of those in my office. These Tibetan chests stacked on top of each other hold all my camera equipment and books of memory cards. On top I’ve created a “sniffing bar”—an idea I stole from Goumanyat et son Royaume, a Paris spice shop. A few times a week, I unscrew the tops of the jars and inhale deeply. Right now, I’m trying to train myself to correctly identify, by scent, the peppercorns from four different regions of India that I found at Olivier Roellinger, another exceptional Paris spice merchant. B once called my office a bazaar, and he wasn’t too wrong. Lately the stacks of textiles just keep growing: On this old Mexican-French chair, there are kiras from Bhutan, including the mysterious ngo-sham that might have belonged to the 2nd King’s wife, a length of rough linen from France and a burgundy wool poncho from Northern Argentina. On top, there are prayer flags, bamboo tea strainers and butter boxes from Bhutan, a South Seas seashell fan found in Maui, and in the way back, a figure from a shop in South India (her sister stands guard around the corner). Now, what’s in your office? Ellen Kennon gives color consultations via phone and email. Take a snap of a room you'd like to change and get your party started... ]]>