Make-Your-Own-Rilletes: An Adventure in & Rant on Preserving Meat

my homemade pork rilletes

 Valentine's Day this year was fantastic.  Matt treated me to dinner and drinks at a couple of local Portland establishments that we'd never been to.  The first was an amazing restaurant called Grace where we had an aperitif in what is a converted decommissioned Methodist church from the 1850s.  We didn't have any food there but I can highly recommend their bar as having very interesting and delicious cocktails as well as fabulous and out-of-the-norm ambiance.  After a drink we headed to our final destination: a tiny restaurant called Figa that I'd been eyeing for months, on Congress Street, toward's the Mujoy Hill end of the city. 

Matt and I are happy and dedicated consumers of preserved meats (especially Matt).  As such, we were very excited to see a fantasmagoric charcuterie plate available as a starter at Figa.  Matt always gets the charcuterie plate or the antipasto plate (if we're doing Italian).  It's his thing.  And I always sit there and pretend I prefer my appetizers (in this case roasted bone marrow with an oxtail ragu and caper berry gremolata served with crazy delicious bread).  But I inevitably break down and beg for a couple of bites of this and that.  This and that, in this case, was cured pork jowl, duck pastrami, chicken neck & rabbit terrine (among several others), served with homemade pickles and melba toasts.  It was a reminder of just how much I enjoy cured meats and preserved meats in general and how much it annoys me when people act like they are "gross" or "unnatural."  Yes, people do that.

In fact, just last week I got into a semi-heated-conversation with a rather opinionated and ill-informed lady over whether aged meat was "gross" or not.  She was howling about how disgusting it is that in Japan Kobe beef is "just hung out to dry" in the open and how it is unsanitary and revolting.  This is a huge pet peeve of mine - when people a) are overly vocal about personal opinions to a large group (except on blogs, of course :)) and b) when they are actually kind of wrong about said-vocal-opinions.  This woman truly believed with all her heart that there was an inherent difference between dry-aging beef and aging things like cheese or salami.  And that the former was also, by virtue of being aged, a disgusting and "wrong" thing to eat.  I can understand that argument if it's based on not liking the flavor of aged beef, but to brazenly proclaim that something is just "gross" without having eaten it or knowing how it's made is beyond my tolerance level.  Argh.

I bought this fantastic postcard for Roman this Christmas
at the Fort Worth Science & History Museum

I got roped in.  When I pointed out to this woman that she eats mold all the time if she likes aged cheeses or salami she got flustered and annoyed and proclaimed that "well, salami is not the same thing - there's a PROCESS to it."  As if people in Japan just randomly hung cow carcasses out in the open for 28 days and then ate them!  There is a process to all of it, lady.  And most of those processes are well-established and closely regulated (thanks to our sometimes overzealous but necessary USDA and thousands of years of collective meat-curing experience!).  Go read up before you start proclaiming (at least in front of me). 

And so, having simmered down slightly, I valiantly ask the following as rhetorical pieces of intellectual stimulation:

What is it about preserving food that freaks modern-day-eaters out?  (I clearly recall the shreaks of horror that came from the chefs on Chopped when they were given whole-chicken-in-a-can as one of the secret ingredients; does look kind of gross but once one of the chefs explained how and why his grandmother used to can whole chickens on their farm, it no longer seemed wrong.) 

Why is it that people so hate (and demonize) canned foods?  (It has become a line of demarcation for those horrible food snobs out there.  I think I'll scream if I hear one more person say how gross canned food is.  I even had a guy who worked at an Italian deli tell me he thought preserving tuna in olive oil was "unnatural.") 

What is SO disgusting about dry-aged beef?!  Granted, it's not my favorite either but...just sayin'.

ALL that aging, curing and preserving means is that the meats were preserved, aged, sealed and saved -  so that in a time when refrigeration wasn't as prolific people could still have meat all year round.  Is that wrong or gross somehow?  We are very lucky to live in a time of 24/7 refrigeration and utter convenience, but that doesn't mean that there's no value in understanding the art of food preservation.  Apart from being practical it is a different, tasty and vastly interesting way to prepare foods that also allows for a completely different level of availability, economy, and nose-to-tail eating.

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Anyway, now that my horrifically-long introduction-rant is over with, let's get to the whole point behind it: I mentioned briefly back in November that I was making Pork Rilletes as one of the appetizers I was serving at Thanksgiving dinner with the in-laws.  It was my foray into the world of homemade preserved and cured meats and it was a smashing success.  Not only were the rilletes amazingly delicious but they opened my eyes to a whole world of lesser-cuts-made-magical.  And best of all, through all of my research for the best rilletes recipe available, I came across some awesome websites and books on the subject that I feel compelled to share.

My Top 5 Books / Websites on Preserved & Cured Meats

yes, I do know this is a hate-me or love-me post :)

Thyme & bay pork rilletes

5. The Paupered Chef: Pork Rilletes Recipe

I used this as a visual guide for my adventure in pork rilletes.  I am still in awe that the Paupered Chef actually made pork rilletes for his entire wedding (!).  I found this the most pragmatic visual guide to homemade rilletes online.

4. Charcutepalooza & Michael Ruhlman
This is a giant, year-long blog challenge.  Every month there's a new charcuterie-challenge - everything from duck prosciutto to homemade salami using Michael Ruhlman's book (link above).  Very cool.

3. Cured Meats

This blog is a focused study on home-curing.  Highly informative, simple, and delicious-looking.2. 

2. Hunter Angler Gardener Cook

I am kind of overwhelmed by this website but I utterly love it.  I totally aspire to that holistic approach to food - eaten, appreciated, grown and prepared with appreciation from every angle.

1. Pork & Sons

The original recipe I followed was an overly simplistic one written by Stéphane Reynaud of Pork & Sons in an article promoting his book for an Australian magazine.  And it had been sitting in my recipe book for close to 3 years before I managed to fish it out again.  It was an inspiration more than a guide, but it truly made this burgeoning pork devotee want to buy this "definitive guide to pork."

Happy Valentine's Day 2012!

I found this beautiful nostalgic Valentine's wrapping paper
at a cool Portland stationary store: Papier Gourmet

Every year on Valentine's day I try to find an e. e. cummings poem to put in Matt's card.  I find his poetry so stirring, so beautifully composed and so unique.   

I just hate trite, overused and boring love poetry.  It's almost like a slap in the face to the idea of poetic expression.  That said, I see nothing wrong with buying things like pez dispensers and Russel Stover chocolates as a Valentine's Day gift.  Love doesn't have to be pretentious and expensive - it just has to be genuine.  And I don't care what crazy materialistic conspiracy theories the hipsters of Portland may spout - and I definitely do not agree with the decision by Roman's school to not allow Valentines or treats - I simply cannot find anything wrong with devoting one day a year to telling the special people in your life - friends, family, lovers - that you love them.  That's all.

Roman's Kermit Pez dispenser and gifts awaiting his return from school.

To that tune, this year I happened on a poem of cummings' that I'd never read, which is odd because I thought I'd read them all.  I didn't use this one for Matt's card but I loved it so much that I thought I'd offer it up anyway as a small inspiration for a day which, fantastically and quite simply, celebrates love. :)

* * *

dive for dreams

dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at the wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for good likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neating each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn, and (stooping
through the morning) kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.

silently if, out of not knowable

silently if, out of not knowable
night's utmost nothing,wanders a little guess
(only which is this world)more my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if(spiralling as luminous
they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself,i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow's own joys and hoping's very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit's born:
yours is the darkness of my soul's return
-you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

- e.e. cummings

Happy Halloween from Romathor (who also hates candy corn)!

 

Happy Halloween from our little Viking Warrior*!  

There will be much devouring of sweet things and much crashing in a sugar-induced coma afterwards.

Life will be as it should be. :)

So, I'm doing my Halloween post a little early this year mostly because I couldn't wait to share Roman's costume but also because, let's face it, nobody cares about Halloween the day after :)

* * *

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays and also one that I have not been able to celebrate properly for years due to our non-American residence.  Let me tell you, Trick-or-Treating in the balmy Abu Dhabi weather had its perks but it definitely had its shortcomings - for one, Halloween was postponed until the first weekend in November last year due to the death of a Sheikh.  Not my cup of Arabic coffee.  

But it's not just the candy and dressing up that I love.  I love the whole run-up to Halloween with the candy-stashing, the decorating, the pumpkin carving (and of course pumpkin seed roasting!) and generally obsessing over autumnal and spooky things, something in short supply in the Middle East.  Here in New England, though, it really looks and feels spooky at this time of year with crunchy leaves, howling winds, and rustling woods everywhere you look, so it makes Roman's real "conscious" experience of the holiday all the more special.

I have to admit, though, that these days I'm not so involved in what used to be my very favorite part of Halloween: dressing up.  At least, not for myself.  I had so much fun choosing Roman's costume this year and I loved being able to make it myself too now that I have a sewing machine.  Growing up my mom always made our costumes and though I have to admit that sometimes I wished we could go to the store and buy the nice pre-made ones, looking back I see that our costumes were always that much cooler because they were unique.  I get it now and fully intend to inflict the same reality on my children.  I mean, I've had some pretty crazy costumes in my day (A Geisha, Uncle Fester and The London Eye(ball), for example) and I am proud to say that none of them were slinky, sexy or flaunty, and that, in fact, the weird ones weren't imposed on me by an over-imaginative mother - they were entirely my choice and sometimes to my own detriment (yes, someone called me a Condom when I dressed up as Uncle Fester and yes that did scar me). 

Understanding "costumes" and Halloween has been a real epiphany. :)

For the first time this year Roman really gets Halloween.  He is as much if not more of a devotee as me.  Every store we go into the request is loud and clear: "Can we go see the Halloween stuff?"  And then he makes me try on 20 different masks, push the buttons on all the dancing vampires / ghosts / witches and points out all the different kinds and colors of trick-or-treating pumpkins.  The clerks LOVE me.  It's actually really cute but after about the 30th time I started lying and saying that the masks were sleeping because too many people tried them on and they were tired.  So sue me.  The kid is obsessed!  Besides, I don't want him having some freaky preoccupation with the morbid.  On the other hand, I think it has been a serious epiphany for Roman to understand what it means to "dress up" or pretend to be something else.  I think next year will be really cool because I have a feeling he'll have a very definite opinion on what he wants to dress up as, whereas this year the Viking was allowed because he just didn't get it yet.

But sentimental discoveries aside, let's get to the point of Halloween: everyone likes Halloween because of the candy.  No matter how many silly commercials or kids' shows try to tout the idea of "healthy" Halloween snacks, it's just utter BS.  Nobody eats apples on Halloween.  Nobody wants nuts in their bag.  And nobody actually eats the "home-baked oatmeal pumpkin cookies."  I mean, come on, that's just bad!  

So not all Halloween candy is created equal.  We know this.  

And actually just recently Matt and I had a serious discussion regarding a traditional Halloween candy that we find utterly puzzling: Candy Corn.  He doesn't like candy corn.  I HATE candy corn.  Even Roman won't eat it!  In fact, between the two of us, we couldn't think of a single person who actually does like it.  We have started to wonder if it's just one of those old-timey things that people gave out and ate on Halloewen because they didn't have Snickers bars around back then.  Interestingly, the Nick Jr. Moose seems to agree.

Candy Corn nightmares aside, over the many years of relentlessly stalking down every single light-on-pumpkin-out-ghoulish-creature-in-the-corner-house in the neighborhood, I've become a connoisseur of Halloween candy - the good, the bad and the downright ugly.  What makes you smile, what makes you cry, and what makes it worth shoving the little fairy next to you to the ground ninja-style to get into that plastic cauldron first?  Here they are in Top 5 form.

* * *

Brenda's Top 5 Halloween Treats

Because I have no qualms about taking down the little fairy princess if I have to.

5. The Holy Trinity of Halloween Mini-Candy Bars: Snickers, Three Musketeers, and Almond Joy (Milky Way?)

You know you're in a home of generosity when you see these pricey little guys in the treat bowl.  Unless a 1 or 2 piece minimum has been established by your patron, dig in brotha' because chances are the guy next door will have something nasty like Dots or unmarked orange and black taffy things on his plate.  Milky Way is kind of an honorable mention. I prefer Almond Joy but I know that's probably not the norm.

4. BlowPops or Tootsie Pops

I mean the full-size ones and I would take BlowPops over Tootsie any day but would settle for either over DumDums.  Admittedly, I love DumDums (especially the thrill of the mystery DumDum) but you just cannot pass up that sugary bubble gum interior (or the chance to mimick the ridiculous owl who asks how many licks it takes to get to the center :)).

3. SweeTARTS or Smarties

I am a sour-candy fiend.  I could eat sour stuff all day long but on Halloween my choices are limited in that department.  Almost nobody gives out Warheads or Nerds these days (though those are high on the longer list of awesome Halloween candy), so the next best thing, and  all nostalgically-packaged-to-boot are SweeTARTS and Smarties.  I LOVE the crinkly wrapping.  I love that you get to eat them one little coinlet at a time in both cases.  I love that they are sweet but sour.  Ah, I just love them.

2. Hershey's Miniatures

Back in the day I was quick with the eye and the hand in getting the Mr. Goodbar before all the other kids in my trick-or-treating group.  It was a fight for survival.  The Goodbar, the Krackel, or the Dark Chocolate.  Always good, and kept well in the closet stash for the next few months leading up to Christmas.  Besides, am I alone in believing these are literally the perfect size piece of chocolate?  Not too much that you feel like a pig.  Small enough to justify more than one.  Halloween candy in Platonic form, really.

1. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups - The Big Ones.

Nothing sets the Halloweener's heart a-racing like the sight of that bright Orange wrapper.  We all know what it is - the big single-serving Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.  A veritable Holy Grail of candy - something so utterly decadent and wonderful (unless you have peanut allergies) that you almost want to eat it before you get home so you don't have to split the difference with your kid sister (sorry Caaa).  Sure, we all like the little ones wrapped in their golden foil, usually half-smushed by the time you get home, but you really feel like you did your parents proud when you get The Big One.  The combo of peanuts and chocolate is the perfect, sticky, messy Halloween indulgence and my favorite treat of all. :) 

* * *

Happy Trick-or-Treating and Many a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup to You All!

* * *

* For Roman's costume this year I used a grey jogging suit from Wal-Mart as a basis and then sewed the brown vest and boot covers you see from furiously fuzzy remainders I found at Joann's.  I used his rain boots as a pattern for making the boots which have no bottom and a long felt section at the top which folds into the top of the boot, keeping it in place.  Roman has been wearing the boots around the house and in public for well over a month, so I think they are a hit and am considering making other variations including green monster feet :)

Yeti Feet.

Dish-Dasha-ing Around Abu Dhabi, Abayas in My View

Sheikh Zayed Bin Sultan Al Nahyan Mosque in Abu Dhabi:
6th largest in the world
image credit

We made it! We're here! Or in the words of a hilariously self-important friend overcome by the glory of Union Square shopping in NYC, arms outstretched: We have arrived!

London is but a distant memory and now our world consists of 100-degree days, air conditioning and lots of (shockingly cheap) cab rides. It's hard to encapsulate the changes and surprises that moving to the UAE has brought to our lives without sounding cliched, materialistic or even downright presumptuous. It is a unique place full of money, and oil, and definitely lots of bling bling - but that's not all there is to it.

Abu Dhabi is a place of contrast and extremity and even, to a certain degree, of ordered confusion. To the Western eye, largely untrained in the ways of the Middle East, there are many things that seem vastly different but actually aren't, and many things that seem exactly the same but actually aren't either.

While I don't think it would be prudent to go into every single one of those impressions today, I would like to share information on one of the biggest sources of surprise and shock to me: the Emirati National Dress. It is exemplary of so much about Emirati culture in that what we see is not always what it seems.

* * *

Dishdashas and Abayas: A Black and White Way of Life
But not so much.

Dish-dashas and Abayas: Real Culture Shock.

Proud of their dishdashas.
image credit

It is a hot topic everywhere - extremist Islam and women's rights therein. I wasn't sure how I, a generally pretty sassy Western woman, would take to being in a "male dominated" society where women are "required to cover everything but their eyes."

Luckily for me, most of the caveats and "facts" I was given regarding Islamic practices and requirements in clothing a) don't apply to me in the UAE and b) are not anywhere near as extreme as people would have you think, in Abu Dhabi and Dubai at least. I was shocked to see people walking around in what I had always assumed was "extremist Islamic" dress at the mall, supermarket and even in luxury hotels; happily, I soon realized that their clothes were as commonplace and un-extremist as jeans and a t-shirt are to you and me.

National dress or National Threat?

Male dishdashas (or thawbs) and female Abayas are the National Dress in the UAE, loosely comparable to wearing a Kimono in Japan, but far more common. Contrary to paranoid Western opinion, both men and women wear them everywhere. They are both long-sleeved, neck-high, floor-length robes. The male version is white and the female version is black. They are both accompanied by traditional, long headscarfs: a white ghutra and black igal for men, and a black niqāb for women. None of these things cover the face, hands or eyes and any further covering is simply dictated by the degree to which that family considers itself "conservative."

Men wearing Traditional Thawbs or Dishdashas
image credit

While I have seen women with fully covered faces (even their eyes!), on the whole, most Emirati women I see do not have their faces covered at all and it is generally Muslims from different countries who require this (Pakistan, Afghanistan, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, etc.). Most Emirati women sport immaculate mani-pedis, designer handbags, and are incredibly friendly toward non-Abaya'd Westerners.

A fashionable Abaya.

image credit

The biggest culture shock to me was my revelation that Abayas are beautiful. I was shocked to find myself aesthetically thrilled by them, to the degree that I began window-shopping at Abaya stores, curiously, wishing it wouldn't be culturally inappropriate for me to go in and try them on.

They have beautiful, colorful embellishments (despite the fact that Abayas only come in black) and are not cut like the dreaded and taboo burqas, straight down and matronly. Many of them are made of satin, chiffon or other beautiful materials and are cut with curves, flounces and even ruffle-y edges. The way women drape them over their hair (for the most part) is feminine, flattering, and even reminiscent of haute-couture. And most amazingly, underneath the black Abaya they are wearing the latest fashions, sometimes giving away their predilection for one brand or another through their exposed designer heels and sandals.

The male headdress can either be white or red/white checkered and can be worn hanging straight down or with the sides folded over the head in the "cobra fashion." If they are not wearing their headscarf they will often wear a small cap called a kufi or even just a baseball cap (generally designer too).

Another fashionable Abaya.
Image credit

While I do not mean to underplay or deny the existence of oppression, lack of rights or forced traditions anywhere in the world, I do wish to state that for my part and in my limited experience in the UAE, I think thawbs and abayas are a colorful cultural tradition that enriches a place that has tried so hard to make itself Western. They are, it seems, a source of national pride and identity, more than a political statement, and defining them as such (in this case anyway) would make me ethnocentric and, frankly, a little too black and white in my view of the world.

* * *

Informative & Interesting Links

Abayas as Haute Couture: An article that came out today!

Abaya-Jubah Blog: Pictures of Haute Couture Abayas & Modern Abayas for Sale!

Arabmania Blog: More Pictures of Haute Couture Abayas

Clothing in Arabia: A brief overview of male national dress

List of types of Sartorial hijab (Islamic dress)

Malta: My Own Personal Benidorm

My Beloved Kinnie:
Bittersweetness in a sad, disgusting world of Maltese Benidorminess.

I'm not going to lie - I've seriously been avoiding posting my thoughts on our trip to Malta last October. Not that we had a bad time, but, well, the food was just terrible and to me that kind of taints the whole experience. Yes, I do realize it's been like 5 months, but it's such a dreary day outside, and if nothing else, we had great weather in Malta, so here's to the memory of that!

* * *

Have you ever seen the show "Benidorm?" If you haven't, you're not missing much. Well, ok, you are. because it's a comedic show that exploits the natural hilarity and inherent grotesque quality that is the reality of the used-to-be-quaint-village turned skyscraper-hotel-package-holiday-hell in the south of Spain called Benidorm.

Benidorm (the show) cleverly draws out and makes fun of the stereotypical (can't emphasize that word enough here!), working-class, Northern-European (read: British) tourist. It points out their quirks, annoying habits, and inevitably-familiar preferences. To them a vacation is an all-inclusive package of nothing but British food (English breakfast every morning!), bad cabaret shows put on by dolled-up locals who treat the tourists like the idiots they are, and days spent sunning (burning?) at the pool, critiquing the other "stupider" tourists and / or conspicuously flirting / making out by said poolside.

It hurts a little bit to watch shows like this because probably every single one of us either knows someone like the characters or has to admit to wanting their "eggs and bacon" breakfast everywhere they go. But it is hilarious because, in the end - whether it touches something personal or not - we all know exactly what they're talking about, and can laugh our haughty that-will-never-be-me-laugh from the comfort of our (my British) living rooms.

The Family: single-mother-daughter with token-interracial-baby, annoying brother, overweight dad, clueless mom. Mel & Madge, the feisty grandmother with the saggy-perma-tan and her (not-so) beau.

I did say grotesque.

But returning to the point of this post, I'm still not quite sure how Matt and I ended up in the real-life Maltese version of Benidorm in early October, but we did.

We were at a really nice hotel in the off-season in what was advertised as a "quaint village" north of Valletta in Malta. Numerous people on Trip Advisor had specifically commented on how great the buffet breakfast was --

* Small Note on Buffet Breakfasts *

I do not hold my nose up at buffet breakfasts. I am a fan of the buffet concept as a general rule, as long as it is done well. For example, the hotel we stayed at in Thailand had a buffet breakfast that rivaled many a la carte restaurants I've been to. Grilled fish, fresh tropical fruits, complimentary champagne...on the other hand, I've had my fair share of crappy Chinese buffets and so I do know the dangers that can and often do lurk beneath the stainless steal lids...

* end small note on Buffet Breakfasts*

-- and frankly, I was looking forward to my all-included gluttonous morning feastivities. The hotel had three pools (a must with the Master in tow), was in walking-distance from the beach, and offered easy access to both Valletta and Gozo. Great? Not so great.

* * *

My Top 5 Stories, Thoughts, Musings on the Maltese Experience
or, why Mellieha is Benidorm

5. Guido the Cab Driver
As is often the case, our first introduction to Malta came via our cab driver from the airport. Unlike in Brussels, the guy we got was about as close to the stereotypical idea of a sleaze-bucket-douche-bag as one man can get. His name was Guido (I won't get into the ironically appropriate implications there) and he knew everything there was to know on any subject worth knowing - and better than anybody else (especially women).

We weren't paying him to drive us, he was doing us a favor. He escorted us to the car by clicking his mouth to signal he was ready to go after leaving us to wait (me, seething) for five minutes while he chatted in Maltese with a fellow cabby, all the while lifting his shirt half-way to rub his nasty middle-aged belly, the way sleaze-buckets are wont to do. (This was at 2 in the morning, mind you.) He would only address Matt ("stupid women don't understand") and he claimed to speak four languages and assumed we only spoke one ("stupid Americans don't understand") even after we'd told him several times that wasn't the case (still seething).

He gave Matt a lecture on driving on the left-side of the road (even though he has done it pretty consistently for the three years we've lived in the UK, which we mentioned to Guido), told us to check "on top of [our] heads" whenever we park somewhere to see if there is a no-parking sign, told me that all women are after men's money and possessions and that's why he'd never married (apologizing the whole time for saying so but that it was true, "so, sorry") and was back in Malta living with his mother (silent internal screaming fit in Brenda's head start NOW.).

When we asked if there were any good restaurants in Mellieha (his hometown apparently), he patronizingly said, "well, none of them are bad - you'll get food no problem. It's not tough - just check the menu to see what they have and how much it costs before you go in or you might end up somewhere you don't want to be."

Thank you Guido. Seeing as the stupid American woman has never been to a restaurant, other country, or outside of the kitchen (where she permanently resides, barefoot and sometimes pregnant, scheming for her husband's money and possessions) frankly, it is a good thing we got you as our cabby.

Once we'd arrived, he then proceeded to say he didn't have change (in order to "con" the stupid American man out of an extra large tip) but quickly changed his tune when Matt said he had no problem waiting for him to go into the hotel lobby to get change from the concierge. Bastard Guido. At least now we knew where we stood as American tourists.


4. The Food Dilemma
The buffet breakfast was up to snuff...if you're a character in Benidorm. It consisted of a continental breakfast (not my bag) and a British breakfast, complete with badly cooked sausages, soggy bacon, baked beans, and copious amounts of ketchup and brown sauce available. In fact, probably the best things they had were the fresh rye bread loafs (which I could only snag on the days we were early) and the fried eggs (and even those were sometimes really bad). Oh and the little foil-wrapped cheese wedges you get at all European hotels. I'm a fan of those.

Thinking breakfast was an anomaly, we decided to try out the hotel's really well furnished pizzeria downstairs. It offered really basic fair that it would take a decidedly, determinedly bad chef to mess up: pizza, spaghetti, salads. Guess what, they had a decidedly - triumphantly, even! - bad chef.

The experience at every other place we ate was the same. The menu looked good, the place looked good, the food was horrendous, even their "typical Maltese dishes" which were generally "rabbit in a white wine sauce" (oh it sounds good, but oh it isn't!) or some horrific variance thereof.

To put it in black and white for you: Matt and I ended up eating at the local Chinese Restaurant 3 out of 5 nights we were there. Desperate times call for desperate measures (and fried ice cream).


3. Another Douche Bag and his Famiglia
When you're at a medium-sized hotel it's inevitable to run into other guests on a repeated basis. I actually find that charming about certain travel experiences - getting to know others on a basic, acquaintance level, so that you have someone to nod or smile to every morning at breakfast, at the pool, or even a new friend. Sadly, the only people (besides several German, senior citizen couples) this happened to us with was a douchey Italian power-couple and their catamite (as Matt shamelessly dubbed him) son.

I wish with every fiber in my being that I had mustered up the courage to take a picture of these people. You probably won't believe me when I describe them. Then again, if you've ever been to an Italian city or beach you are likely to have run into them or one of their many followers: Hands flying, chins jutting out and shoulders raising, they walk and talk as if they were being followed by an entourage of paparazzi at all times. After all, they are too cool with their curly hair stiff with too much product, a generous whiff of spray-on deodorant, skin-tight clothing and permanent sunglasses - at breakfast, lunch, dinner, while swimming, while coffeeing, day or night, inside or outside. Oh, and they all seem to possess an unshakable conviction that they can convince anyone of anything anywhere (I like to call this the "veni, vidi, vici complex"), just because they deserve to get their way.

Matt, Roman and I were lucky enough to see them everywhere every single day of our vacation. We breakfasted at the same times, swam at the same times (their 6 year old, for the record, swam entirely naked in the pool and I am compelled to comment here that I really think that age is a little past the cutoff where kids are "cute" when naked in public places), asked questions (well, demanded things) at reception at the same time, we arrived the same day and left the same day, and we even decided to take a day trip to Gozo and eat and play at the same beach the same day. It was funny in a "why the hell is this happening to us?" kind of way.


2. Gozo & Jeffrey's Restaurant
Gozo: If you don't plan to go(zo) there, you better not go(zo) to Malta. :) Ok, enough with the cheesy gozo jokes, and enough with the exaggeration: there were other nice places in Malta. Valletta was very pretty, actually, and has lots of amazing history. But Gozo is stunning. Stunn-ing. And if we hadn't gone there, I probably would have left Malta feeling really cheated because my favorite place we'd have gone would have been the indoor pool at our hotel. (Enough with the exaggeration, Brenda!)

But of course there was a catch: Jeffrey's Restaurant almost ruined Gozo for me.

We spent the day lounging on beaches, seeing Calypso's disappointingly small cave, and driving through beautiful little villages. The island itself is the picture of rusticity and untouched beauty with only one small "town" on the harbor for the large ferries that are constantly coming and going, and even that is very pretty. The most amazing thing we saw while there was what is sold to tourists as the "azure window." It is a rock formation that dramatically juts out onto the ocean on the wilder side of Gozo and one of the most beautifully wondrous places to see a sunset. Being there on the off-season, it was only lightly sprinkled with other sunset seekers. But it is awkward climbing on spiky eroded rock, and the light goes quickly, so if you do go, make sure you're not carrying a baby, or bring a flashlight. Or both. :)

After a small transcendentalist moment at the azure window, we, famished, headed out to find a restaurant that was open nearly 9pm, which in Gozo is much harder than one would imagine. Given that there are literally probably under 5 ATMs for the entire island, Matt and I jumped at the first half-decent place we saw that wasn't fast food and ended up at Jeffrey's Restaurant.
So quaint, so cute, and so jam-packed full of happy looking people, I sighed a great relief when Roman fell asleep and the women gave me a table despite not having a reservation (several people came through the door and were turned away after us). How could we go wrong? The menu was full of local dishes as well as international cuisine and had some decent sounding seafood. Matt and I felt happy to have finally found Malta's culinary redemption in an off-the-beaten-path little family joint such as this.

But then we got our food. Seafood soup - more unopened mussels and clams than open ones. Shady fish, and crappy broth. I ordered a filet mignon steak (mistake 1), then asked for it medium (mistake 2). What I got was something approximating leather in the form of a salisbury steak - so dry and old I almost threw up the moment I tasted it. Then Matt thought I was exaggerating (mistake 3) so he tasted it (mistake 4) and also almost threw up. I tried to compose myself as I gagged into my napkin and realized the maitre d' / owner had seen the whole thing. He brought the chef over who insisted on giving me a new steak. ONLY in order not to make a scene did I accept the second steak which was slightly less old but equally disgusting. I couldn't eat more than 2 bites. We paid and left as soon as we finished the "on the house" dessert we got to compensate us for the rotten 40Euro steak they had given us, TWICE.

Ah, we had a good time anyway. But if you like food and depend on it as a big part of your vacations - take it from us, don't go to Malta.


1. How Kinnie Saved the Trip
One out of two of the only truly and uniquely Maltese things that I found redeeming about this trip was, amazingly, a soda.

I don't drink much soda and therefore I'd never heard of Kinnie until this trip to Malta. I've still never seen it sold here in the UK, and think it would probably be hard to find almost anywhere. But I dream about it - oh how I dream about it.

Kinnie is like coca-cola with a few drops of orange bitters thrown in. It's like a grown-up version of a soft drink minus the alcohol. A campari and soda with the sweetness of pop. It's tasty, refreshing and comes in an awesome orange can reminiscent of the only other uniquely Maltese thing I found redeeming of Malta: its really cool retro orangey-yellow public buses.

GO KINNIE! At the end of the day, I took refuge in you, knowing that I would one day get back to my own kitchen again and eat normal food, but just a little bit the sadder also knowing that you would not be there to share it with me!

* * *

Some fun Maltese Moments


Roman at Ramla Beach;
still young (and cute) enough to go naked at the beach.


Fried Ice Cream at the local Chinese in Mellieha


The Azure Window: worth the trip to Gozo.


Maltese Public Buses - super retro, super cool.


So happy to be here.

Douchebaggery abounds.

Thanks Perez Hilton via Beckers.

Three words, my friends, three words: Gucci Tennis Shoes.
(Or should I say "Kate Plus 8"?)

No, I don't take the high road and look away when I see a nasty accident.
Is that so wrong? :)

Why do all the work when somebody else has already done it for you?

In Hopes of Spring.

the bulbs are finally breaking free from the last vestiges of fall

This weekend in London, which alternated between dapper sunshine and whipping rain, I was happily reminded of exactly why we have the seasons. Entering the March-May stretch once more, I am sure now that there is nothing more rejuvenating and exhilarating than watching the world transform and regrow every single year, again and again, against all odds.

When I first moved away from home in Texas to live in Italy for two years, one of the first things I noticed were the dramatic seasons. Northeast Italy is a place of extreme climate - bitter cold and searing heat, mitigated only by a vibrant, verdant, irrepressible springtime that makes you want to cry it's so beautiful.

That middle-season, with its childlike wonder and serendipity, seemed to entrance everyone - young and old - every year, without fail. And while the pruned branches grew buds which became flowers which bore fruits, a million loves and interactions unfolded joyously again: walks outside, running races, ocean swimming, Al Fresco eating. Hidden gardens carefully rearranged themselves, dusted off the brown, downy coverings of winter and fluffed up the most striking of plumages. And even on the streets, the asphalt gave way to incorrigible little flowers who, determined to break free of the most unrelenting of confines, grew in pot holes, cracks in stones, and sides of walls.

flowers budding and blooming all around

It was clear something was in the air when I was woken up at 3am on Saturday night to the sound of two Nightingales. Perched in the trees directly outside our bedroom window, the two birds seemed to be having a singing contest to announce the coming of beautiful things, of Spring. The next day, Matt and I took a walk through the park - in part to make sure I don't sink entirely into the involuntary sloth of late pregnancy, but mostly to see if the Nightingales were right, if our neighborhood had yet been transformed.

Living close to a park which follows the river Thames and boasts two impressive strolling paths lined with what appear to be highly ancient London Plane Trees (or what I like to call "the knobby trees"), has great perks, especially in the Spring. A soothing combination of open fields, water, paths and seemingly ad hoc gatherings of wild and not-so-wild flowering plants and bushes, our park is exactly everything a British neighborhood park should be. It even has a small cafe which opens based entirely on good weather conditions and which serves tea and scones (I'll be back with Ludovictus, mark my words :) ).

a perfect stroll among the Planes...

The British are particularly adept at creating beautiful strolling parks. Matt and I both commented how so few American parks are as relaxing as most British ones we've seen. American parks, it seems, are created for exercise and active recreations, while British parks are meant for strolling, wandering, and picnicking in that very British Jane Austen sort of way that Americans are generally in far too much of a rush to replicate. So we strolled, and all along the way I found a million things to be glad about, not least of which was the constant rumbling in my tummy reminding me that I too would soon partake in one of the most amazing, transformative, and life-giving rituals known to all living things.

Here are just a few of the aesthetically pleasing springtime creations Matt and I observed on our walk this weekend. Consider it the official primer for the series of culinary and cultural posts to follow, all, of course, In Hopes of Spring.

* * *

* * *

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

  e.e.cummings

We got our stroller! --err, pram! um, buggy, puschair thing?!

And they drink "latte" too. :)

Once I figured out the whole healthcare aspect of being pregnant, everything else seemed like it would be pretty straightforward. It's easy to buy baby clothes, easy to choose the crib (cot?!) you like, easy to pluck freakish little stuffed animals from every child's store you wander into. But there was one thing I found particularly stressful - especially in the London culture of "Yummy Mummies" and "latte-drinking-black-wearing-uber-chic-urban-babies," which is fierce and eagle-eyed enough to make even me cower a little bit - : choosing a stroller.

Or pram.

Or buggy.

Or pushchair.

Whatever the heck they call them here, I'm sticking with stroller. It just makes more sense to me (I'm a strollin' kinda gal) and doesn't sound like something you'd need to use in an insane asylum (please see the last alternative name above). I think these little miniature, manually operated, luxury transportation devices deserve their own post for a couple of reasons, but mostly because they took me on the longest, bumpiest non-mobile ride of my life with regards to baby purchases.

* * *

My Long Long (SatNav-less) Ride Through the Land of Strollers

this is probably way too opinionated to be at all helpful

5. Which one is this again?
From what I can tell, since the time Matt and I were children, the number, types, styles and varieties of strollers out there and available to the common parent has more than exponentially grown. (It's just not bad enough that you have to choose between 10 different diaper brands, or 6 different burp cloth types.) In plain English: there are so freakin' many of them it makes your head spin.

At first I was naive enough to try looking online to get a sense of what was out there. What a joke! Not only do you not get a good sense of size, smoothness, ease of folding, etc. - you can't see what color the thing really is. Not to mention, it's hard to decipher which brand provides quality vs. which brand provides bragging rights without seeing the other people looking at the things.

In a futile attempt to be politically correct and modern, I asked (well, technically "demanded"), that Matt make this his one task to decide on. I wanted him to choose the "travel system," having convinced myself it would appeal to his manly sense of practicality, that he would be just as concerned as me with finding the perfect, light-weight, fashionable stroller to push his baby boy in. Let me tell you, even if he had been (which I don't think he was), I wouldn't have let him.

The moment my mom and I walked into the stroller section at Peter Jones (one of my favorite places in London), nobody was making the decision but me. Sadly, even then, I was still too overwhelmed by all the choices to really make up my mind for another 4-5 months.


4. Logistically speaking, a nightmare.
Let's see, after I'd decided I did NOT want a Graco, Silver Cross, Quinny, Stokke, Combi, Phil & Ted's or Mamas and Papas, the pram department was a little easier to navigate. But before I could navigate the store, I had to figure out how to navigate my own house and neighborhood.

We have three flights of stairs inside our flat, and approximately 6-8 extremely steep stone steps leading up to our front door. Plus we live a little over 1/2 mile from the nearest tube stop.

Imagine, if you will, a pleasantly plump, recently un-pregnant Brenda, standing at the front steps, trying to hold a newborn baby, a diaper bag, a purse AND a stroller while climbing the aforementioned 6-8 extremely steep stone steps leading up to the inconveniently narrow landing to enter the house. Not a pretty picture for anyone, especially not the man-child, but definitely not for any of the many valuable objects also held in her two hands either.

If it isn't going up the stairs, then it's going down: getting on the Tube, leaving the house, etc.. And if it isn't stairs, it's narrow people-filled corridors in shops, supermarkets, and buses, not to mention the Tube, once you've actually managed to get to the train.

Many of my suburban American friends (and family members) looked at me slightly confused when I tried to explain this dilemma.

"But the so-and-so stroller rides like a dream."
"But the so-and-so stroller isn't really THAT heavy."
"But the so-and-so stroller folds up really easily once you take the wheel off!"

Yeah, that's all really, really great...when you have a car! Because when you have a car, you don't have to carry crap everywhere. You have a place to leave your child while you fold the stroller (as opposed to, well, the floor, which would be my only option). You also have this really great thing called a "trunk" (or "boot" if you're British), where you can fold and put the stroller without having to lug it up even ONE flight of stairs. Not to mention, you don't have to deal (most of the time) with the exciting travails of public transport.

Public Transport-Related Mini-rant: Last week I actually saw a fat, crochety, old woman curse at a new mother on the bus because of her "stupid giant pram" getting in the way of the aforementioned fat butt's sitting space. I was beyond myself. It was all I could do to stop myself from saying: Gee, Ma'am, couldn't it be that she ALSO has a right to take up a little (albeit LESS THAN YOU) space on this here public bus? Or is your butt just contributing that much more to the world than her un-obese-we-are-the- world-we-are-the-children human child?
I didn't say it. But I wanted to.

More to the point: I needed something light, bright, easy to fold, long lasting, manoeuvreable - svelte.

Everything fat-butt lady wasn't, my stroller needed to be.


3. The "Poshness" Factor (a.k.a. "Why aren't you getting a Bugaboo?").
I didn't realize how oblivious to my surroundings I'd been until I became pregnant.

Suddenly, everyone has a baby. Everyone has this brand or that of this gadget or those things. Take a walk down King's Rd. in Chelsea one day and you'll be shocked at the amount of new, high-tech and really, ridiculously expensive kid gear you'll see. Everything from designer baby clothes to designer diaper bags, to more full-time nannies than you can imagine.

Happily, the proverbial rat race for coolest urban baby doesn't really interest me. (Ludo's already got that won, hands down anyway. :)) But seriously, though, especially once you start meeting other pregnant women your age (or slightly older, as is usually the case with me - I am, of course you know, a child bride and child mother compared to most big city dwelling females), it's hard not to get roped into the "what kind of ____ are you getting?" game.

After about the 27.39th time someone asked me why I didn't want to get a Bugaboo, I decided to just start acting like I hadn't heard them. It's much easier that way, because explaining practical reasons doesn't seem to get you anywhere.

It's just a fact of life, so you move on and try to keep perspective on the things that really matter.


2. And then there were two: Maclaren and Bugaboo.
Not that there's an outright rivalry between the two brands, but they sure do seem to compete head-to-head for the top position as "Posh Pram" in London.

You can't avoid crashing into at least two of them at any major department store in the middle of the day. You can't walk by John Lewis without seeing someone propping a Cameleon or Bee into a cab. And you can't really miss some of Maclaren's more artsy-fartsy print designs, even if you wanted to.

Yikes.

I had eliminated most of the other brands based on the non-fatt-butt-lady criteria listed above. And when it came down to it, both of these brands offer beautiful, light-weight, long-lasting strollers, but they were still extremely different in my mind:

One of them seemed to fall into the camp of the understated. It reasonably, and in a British accent said to me, "I work well. I'm kind of expensive, but not so much that you'll have to take out a second mortgage. And I have the test of time on my side because people keep me - for years and children to come."

The other seemed to scream, well, everything. "Look at me! I'm expensive! I'm really bright! I'm the coolest new-mom toy out there right now! And I'm Dutch - which by default makes me cooler than some stuffy English brand! Buy me or you're a real loser!"

And generally, my advice would be that if a stroller screams at you in any way, but especially a self-absorbed snooty way, you'd better not buy it.

Well that and if it's like twice as expensive as the other one, requires two hands to fold, is relatively bulky in comparison, and seems to constantly be listed on second-hand stroller sites, proving (in my mind) that it really isn't that long-lasting (not in a material sense) because people generally seem to want to get rid of it the moment they have a second child. The other, by comparison, is rarely being resold, sells-out online and at department stores immediately, and is good until the kid is like 4 years old.

My mind was made up. "Posh," or not.


1. "Our child is not a frog, Brenda."
Ah, the Maclaren Techno XLR. The new dream. My child's first form of non-human transportation.

I felt like I was buying a car for the first time (maybe because I've never done it?). But seriously, this thing is a sweet, sweet ride. What other vehicle automatically comes with not one but two complimentary, fully, lifetime guaranteed dedicated chauffeurs who will also feed and love you unconditionally as well as push you anywhere you need to go? Granted, there's no leather seats on this one, but suede and a sun-roof ought to be good enough for a newborn, right?

From the moment we chose it, I became obsessed with finding the right color. Sadly, in this regard, the XLR is limited.

But I narrowed it down to two at first:

soft blue and coffee brown or soft blue and navy;
not the most exciting of choices, but somehow aesthetically pleasing

Until, of course, I came across this:

This picture does not do the green justice;
think lily-pad mixed with sweet peas mixed with crazy one-eyed monster

While I have mentioned my penchant for green before, I think pregnancy has exacerbated the obsession. My child already owns more green clothing and stuffed animals than humanly necessary or appropriate. And when I showed this picture to Matt, he repeated what he's been saying for the past four or five months already: "Brenda, our child is not a frog."

It's now sitting in all its green and brown glory in our hallway, where I stare at it, mess with it and stroke it lovingly, in turns.

Well, so what? :)