Ms Sancoche

Spreading the word. Buy local!

2012-01-22T10:01:00.000-08:00

This morning I've been lolling around at home, reading the Guardian UK online and ruminating on various things, including, just what a delight it is reading British newspapers. It's a different experience to reading them in the flesh, as it were (I mean holding a newspaper and turning its pages; spreading the whole lot out on your bed and having a cup of tea while you spend hours mulling over the different articles) but, as I've just discovered, different can be good. For one things, lots of articles have hyperlinked keywords to allow readers to delve into a subject in greater depth.

So, while reading design-related articles celebrating the various works of designers I've never heard of, I was able to click on their names and immediately be directed to their websites. And gosh, what delightful finds was I able to discover! It made me realise that I don't do enough to spread the word. I have two blogs now, and really should use them as a platform for sharing work I admire. So I will be doing more of this in the future. The thing is, we all need to take it a step further - especially in Trinidad.

We've got one of the largest per capita populations on facebook. Fully a quarter of Trinbagonians subscribe to facebook. Which is brilliant when you think that we're able to share what's going on about the place so easily. But we need to go a step further - instead of just clicking 'like' when someone posts a showtime for a movie or creates a craft fair event, we need to consume - go out and spend some of our hard-earned money supporting local! (And on the web, you don't even have to go out, half the time!)

One of the most memorable ad-campaigns for me as a teenager in Trinidad was Hi-Lo's buy local drive. We were in recession, loads of products were on the negative list, and we had little choice but to support local. Local manufacturing really thrived during this period. But then, as we came out of recession and moved into a period of boom once again, I was dismayed to notice that local products were being sidelined in favour of foreign - pushed to the back of the supermarket shelves. It's as though what Hi-Lo meant was, buy local because we have no choice, but as soon as we have a choice, buy foreign!! In truth, this seems to apply to all service-related industries in Trinidad. In video, for example, local ad agencies will gladly employ local production companies to produce commercials. But as soon as we went into boom, like clockwork, the foreign production companies and directors were brought in. This is demoralising and insulting, and proof to me of just how little self-respect we actually have.

There are gorgeous things being made here - good products that can stand up. Certainly, if I wanted to buy some olive oil, I'd buy an Italian or Spanish brand. They are delicious and we don't produce that here. Nor am I suggesting that we buy sub-standard brands simply because they are local. But when I tell you it irks me when I go to the supermarket and can't find locally-made pita bread, which is just as good, if not better than foreign. Instead of buying the sugar coated Kellog's Raisin Brand, try the Sunshine Raisn Oat Bran. It's just as good, if not better - I promise.

And too, it irks me that shops like DH Gift, Rituals and others don't seek out quality local products. My friend, designer Marlon Darbeau, has been designing some exquisite products. He's soon to launch some beautiful salad servers and other things he's designed. It was a real delight to me to get Marlon's things for my mum at Christmas - not only because they were local, they were also truly gorgeous, good quality, and the work of a friend and fellow Trinidadian. Yes, it's great to 'like' something on facebook, and to share a link with your networks (which is something we should all make a habit of doing) but we must also take the next step - we must become our own best consumers.

Here are Marlon's beautiful salad servers! And while you're at it, check out these brilliant things:
Arc Magazine, The Caribbean Review of Books, Trinidad Lookbook, The Cloth, Draconian Switch, Del Mano, Janice Derrick Jewellery, Jasmine Girvan Jewellery, Barbara Jardine's jewellery, Lupe Leonard and her delightful delices as well as her Niysa line of accessories. You see? Not bad, eh?

Review of Chaud Cafe

2011-10-29T21:35:00.000-07:00


Chaud Cafe at One Woodbrook Place in Port of Spain, Trinidad.

To my mind, Khalid Mohammed is the best chef in Trinidad. With his interesting fusion of Caribbean and European foods, he packed in the customers when he was head chef at Batimamselle restaurant, disproving the notion that no restaurant in St Anns can succeed. With his ultra luxurious, Chaud, at the top of Dundonald Street, he broke a vicious blight cycle on a building in which every business that has made its home had failed. Chaud is incredibly successful, and despite its prohibitive prices, it always seems to be full or nearly there.

Mohammed has been growing his sophisticated food empire, and now in addition to Chaud, there's Chaud Creole and Chaud Cafe - the latter of which I went to for the first time tonight. I went with my high school friend, Radha. We've not seen each other in over a year, and I decided the event was special enough to warrant a trip to the cafe, which, could have been very expensive.

My partner doesn't like going to restaurants with me anymore. I'm super critical, and I know this. I look at the service, at the food at the prices. But it's the price you pay for being a good cook. When you can make delicious food yourself, it can often be frustrating and disappointing to go out to a restaurant and pay good money for a meal you could have made better. But I have always relished the rare opportunities for going to Khalid's restaurants, as the food is always delicious and often adventurous. The service is good but borders a bit on the maniacal as uber efficient waiters whisk your plates away too soon and top up the water in your glass before you've had a chance to ask for anything. That said, it's a refreshing change from what often prevails in restaurants here where one is ignored. Anyhoo! I'm rambling.

Chaud Cafe is nicely designed, and has a large external dining area which I appreciated. The service is not as efficient as it is at Chaud, but actually, given the afore-mentioned gestapo-type service at Chaud, it's nice to be in a place that in its decor, food and service is a bit more laid back.

Onto the food. I found the menu overly pretentious. Why would you, in Trinidad, write "garbanzo beans" on the menu, when EVERYONE says channa? Even if you're concerned that your ex-pat clientele might not know what channa is, this can easily be clarified by some brackets. And then, why would you call a banana fritter a beignet? Again, not necessary. I don't think calling a fritter a beignet makes it any more interesting, especially when what you end up with is a fritter.

I ordered toast with mushrooms and spinach, Radha ordered chicken liver pate and the two of us shared an order of fried squid. All of these, by the way, came under their 'small plates' section, and cost between $40 - $80 each. We ordered exactly the right amount of food. The portions weren't massive but were ample, and given the prices at Chaud, I was happily surprised by the cost of things.

I'm not a fan of soggy bread. I struggle with trifles and can only just about manage tiramisu. So I was a bit disheartened by the utterly soggy slice of bread that arrived in front of me. That said, the mushrooms and spinach were completely delicious, and I was able to forget about the bread. Radha's pate was velvety and smooth, with a sweet red onion relish that I enjoyed. I would have liked it if there had been some slices of fresh tomato on the plate, as I love that combination. The squid was good but unremarkable.

In terms of dessert, my beignets were ever so slightly burnt and quite lack-lustre. Radha had a chocolate and coffee mousse which was creamy, light, airy and thoroughly yummy!

All in all, I enjoyed the Chaud Cafe experience, and I'd suggest it to anyone. I'd also happily go back there again.

Yumminess at La Cantina in Tobago

2011-10-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

Okay - I have to admit that despite my lifetime of going there, I don't know Tobago very well. I mean, I know the beaches I like, and I know Pennysaver's, but, I suppose because I find so much of Tobago geared towards tourism, I rarely eat out when I go there as it's just too expensive.

But for years, friends have been telling me about "this fantastic pizza place". It's called La Cantina, and it's in the Royal Bank plaza right outside of Crown Point. I've tried to go there a couple of times over the years, but somehow my timing has always been wrong - closed for renovations, or closed on the specific night I went. But on my most recent trip to Tobago - a speedy three-day sojourn with my great friend, Rachel - the stars aligned, and I was able to finally sample La Cantina's fantastic brick-oven baked, thin crust pizza.

So of course, this is one of the things that makes the pizza so good - it's baked in a proper brick oven. Then there's the fact that the crust is rolled nice and thin, so it gets crispy when it's cooked. Then too, this place actually serves pizza with anchovies - one of my favourite toppings. The portions are handsome and sharable; by Tobago standards, the prices are reasonable (upwards of TT$70 for a pizza that was more than adequate for me and Rachel) and the service is spot-on: informal and efficient. The location is the only downer - it's hardly what one would call, "idyllic"! And diners look out onto the scenic view of a car park backed by a busy main road. But these notwithstanding, La Cantina served up probably the best pizza I have ever eaten in Trinidad and Tobago, and is definitely a place I will visit whenever I'm in the sister isle!

An i-pod snap of Rachel at La Cantina.

Pretty spot but junky food

2011-09-21T22:49:00.000-07:00

So, I have been meaning to go to this new spot on Ana Street in Woodbrook, Maria's Bakery. I've driven past it many times, and been really pleased by the appearance of the place - welcoming and unpretentious. I was in the wine shop around the corner last week, picked up a flier for Maria's and headed over to the relatively new bakery/ cafe. First impression was really good. Pretty interiors, with lots of fresh baked bread, which was covered in a light, mesh fabric to ensure the warm bread doesn't sweat. There's a take-away bakery on one side of the space, and a small sit-down cafe on the other side. The menu in the cafe comprises various simple salads and sandwiches (made with fresh hops - a definite plus for me) at prices that, although a little on the high side, are by no extortionate. The servers were friendly enough and fairly efficient. But alas, this is where the problems begin.I've been to Maria's twice in the past week and tried two different things. I'm always excited by a new place where I can eat good food that's affordable, hence my giving the bakery two chances.

First order - fresh zeppole-type donuts dusted with sugar. I love a donut. Having lived in England as a teenager, on a high street in south west London with a decent little bakery, and consumed there umpteen jam donuts, I also think of myself as a bit of an afficionado. But you know, I tend to believe that you don't have to be a specialist to know what you like. But I'm digressing. I purchase my donut for six dollars, leap in my car and head off to the office. I bite into the donut and it's delicious. Not too sweet, not too light. Bite number two... yuk! Raw dough in the middle. Completely raw. Okay. Everyone makes mistakes. I turn the car around and return to the bakery. Now - this is where I lose patience. As a customer, if I tell you that the donut is raw on the inside, your job as a server is to a. apologise, b. offer to refund my money or give me another donut, c. apologise again and thank me for coming back. You're not supposed to eye me with deep suspicion, mutter to yourself, head off to talk to the manager (you'd think I was returning a Tag Heuer watch!), and then, the worst part of it, the manager is not supposed to come and correct me, insisting that it's not in fact raw, and that's how the donuts are "supposed" to be cooked. Bear in mind, it's still a $6 donut we're talking about. Harumph. Eventually, I get my replacement donut, which is pretty good.

Experience number two: the sad hops. Oh, the dying art of baking hops bread! As I've already mentioned, there was a beautiful bread display covered in fine mesh fabric. Lots of hops breads. I was excited! Among the sandwich options was one made with coronation chicken: an old favourite of my Granny's. So, for sentimental reasons, and because it's been years since I had it, I ordered a coronation chicken hops to go. It was about $22, again, on the expensive side, but, I've been searching for good hops experiences, so I was prepared to pay a little more to insure it. Arrive at the office with my lunch of coronation chicken hops and bite into it with great eagerness. The chicken is delish - creamy and mild curry taste. The hops, a total disappointment. To me, the perfect hops is as good as, if not better than, a baguette. It's crispy on the outside and soft and airy on the inside. Maria's hops was soft on the outside and heavy and dense on the inside. Ack! Such a disappointment. That's it for me and Maria's for now, I'm afraid.

A Room with a View

2011-05-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

I can sit here and look at my aunt's garden for hours. Her dining table, which is where I have set up my computer, looks out onto her patio and the garden beyond. It's early summer here, so the roses and peonies are in bloom; violet irises and lavender-coloured clematis, which creep their way up and along a wooden trelis. There are large trees at the back of the garden which sweep and swoop in the breeze, and a little ornate bird bath, into which all sorts of birds splash around with gay abandon. A couple of days ago, a giant, pale pink poppy opened and soon others will follow. Like I said, I could look at her garden for hours.

I remember in E.M. Forster's "A Room with a View" being amused by the fuss at the beginning of the movie (saw the film before I read the book) over Lucy and her chaperone's not being given a room with a view at their little pensione in Italy. There was one helluva kerfuffle (and that's when Lucy ended up meeting George, her love to be) over the fact that they had been promised a room with a view - a promise which had been reneged on.

But now I understand what all the commotion was about. A view is everything. It's what liberates us from the smallness of the spaces we inhabit (both physically and mentally). A view is full of possibilities for lives going on out there - where there's room to move and to breathe. Everyday, I look at at my aunt's view and it both calms and inspires me.

There was a house my sister and I lived in, as adults, in Jamaica with our father. It was a tiny house with only two bedrooms. But it had two magnificent silk cotton trees in the front garden (I actually angled my bed and kept the curtains open, so that when I opened my eyes in the morning, I did so to the dappled green light of the silk cottons) and a wonderful view across the valley on the other side of the house. This was probably the first house I can remember my father not having a room called his "study" in, because the room didn't exist. So he set up his work place on the dining table. My sister and I set up his computer so it faced the kitchen, he changed the whole arrangement so that he could work at his computer and look out at the view across the valley. Again, I was both amused and a little irritated by the kerfuffle. "What difference does it make?" I thought. But now I know.

Slowing Down....

2011-05-10T06:21:00.001-07:00

I remember. I was about sixteen, and Daddy had taken me out on the Lisa for a sail. It would have been unusual for just the two of us to be sailing, but I can't remember anyone else being on the boat. And even though the Lisa didn't have an engine, we had grown so adept at sailing in and out of the mooring that it presented little challenge.

It was to be a short sail. Dad always checked the tides in the newspapers before we left, so today we would sail in the gulf towards Port of Spain, rather than west towards Gasparee, because the currents would have been against us in both directions (death to a boat without an engine). And considering it was just the two of us, we would probably have been under mainsail alone: more manageable for the two of us.

It was a quiet afternoon. The sky was slightly overcast and it was cool. The wind was just strong enough for the Lisa to enjoy - no chop in the sea, and for her, a little lean. Dad was at the tiller, and I was sitting in the cockpit - quiet, just looking out and listening to the sound of the wind.

He said to me then, "One of the things I like about you is that you can appreciate silence." I smiled when he said that. It was nice to get such a compliment from him. And what he said was true. I understood then how to be still; how to enjoy beauty and nature and the sometimes solitude of such things. Although I had very close friends at high school and university, I was fine just on my own too. Fine to be a little different, quirky even. I was someone who could happily be in a room full of people, and just as happily be in a room on by myself.

But somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to be still; to enjoy the silence. I think, for me, the perpetual motion started in earnest in 2007. I was in England at the time, working on a project, and a quasi-love-affair had gone so horribly wrong I stood up in the bathroom one night and chopped all my hair off, just to be sure that I was still there, underneath, somewhere. I think that's when I started to run, really. Partly, it was to dodge the bullet that he was. But also because I thought, if I can move fast enough, I'll be able to outrun this thing which I brought on myself - which had been, every step of the way, my choosing. I thought if I moved fast enough, I could forget just how reckless I had been with myself.

And the moving just got faster. The following year, my mother broke her hip. This amazonian woman who could rearrange an entire house by herself fell at Gatwick airport and couldn't get up. And in a way that so epitomises my mother, she told the doctor at the hospital to which she had been taken, with a fair amount of surprise, "But I don't know why I have been brought here; I'm fine." To which he responded, "Yes Madam, you're perfectly fine, except that you can't walk."

My godmother, Auntie Gay, described to me a few years ago that she fell down the steps at her house one day, and unknowingly broke her leg. She was in pain, so she found an old broom, turned it over so it formed a crutch, and walked around propped on it for the next couple of weeks. You see, it hadn't occurred to her that something might actually be wrong. That she needed to stop, to take care of herself. How could it be? We (and I include myself in this) are people who forge ahead, regardless. The important thing here is the forward momentum. Good grief, I come from a family of pioneers - people who were missionaries in China at the turn of the century, and who started sheep stations in New Zealand. Facing adversity and moving on in spite of it is part of my tribal memory!

The way I ate had become the ultimate metaphor for how I was living. I had become a food gobbler - someone who just shovels food in their mouths with little regard for the hours of preparation or the flavour; as though the food were simply something to be consumed quickly so that the next activity could commence. And so I would start on the next thing: washing the clothes, taking the clothes off the line, watching TV, chatting to a friend on the phone, having dinner parties for 20 people for which I would start doing the cooking 2 hours before people were due to arrive, doing whatever it was that simply HAD to be done right then, right after I'd finished eating. It's no wonder I developed acid reflux! I wasn't giving my stomach enough time to digest my food, far less my brain to digest my day to day life. In truth, I imagined myself invincible. In much the same way as I imagined my father and my sister and mother. I was genuinely shocked that my mother broke her hip and needed help. And I still haven't been able to get over the fact that the colossus that was my father has fallen forever.

And so, for what has seemed like years, I would go from one crappy situation to another to another. Of course, there has been a lot of joy in my life too, but I started to see the glass as half empty - when I'd always been the kind of person who would see it half full. For goodness sake - I am an independent television producer in Trinidad and Tobago. I better bloody well be an optimist! I described it to my friend as a crisis cycle - that somehow, for too long now, I had been barreling from crisis to crisis without pause - no moment to reflect or catch my breath. Because to reflect would mean stopping; to acknowledge that things have been going wrong; to grieve; to allow the tears to come without worrying about when they would stop. To allow myself to feel sad for a day, or a week, or weeks even. But that's not really allowed, is it? What we're sold everyday is this idea that continual happiness is within our reach and what's more, that we are obliged to be reaching for it. Well how do you appreciate, or even notice, the happiness unless you have been sad.

So now, I have stopped. My body forced me to. For the first time in years, I have time on my hands (not forever, just for the next few weeks). And I have no big plans, no agendas, no things that I simply HAVE to do. And it feels real nice. Strange, but nice. I've no idea what the next few weeks will bring, but I'm hoping for some peace. I know I'm lucky, I have people in my life who will allow me to stop. And I am glad for them. Just like I'm glad for this time. Let's see what it brings.

The photos are of me taking a walk on a sunny day. No particular destination, and no frenetic pace. Just a walk in the sunshine among the trees. It was lovely.

When your cup is empty

2011-04-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about writing this post for a long time. But I've procrastinated. I've always thought of blogs as places where people share happy things, cheery things. Certainly not places where people share sadness. And so, even though this has been circling around my mind in various permutations for over a month now, I've been putting it off. (Please, don't feel compelled to read further, if what you're looking for is something cheery and happy - but then, sad has its place too, in the scheme of things.)

Six years separate these two moments on Lady Chancellor hill. For those who don't know Trinidad, Lady Chancellor is a beautiful road that rises close to the crest of a hill and looks out over most of Port of Spain. I have lived there at various points in my life and come to know its twists and turns quite intimately. I also know its seasons very well - that raunchy smell of cedar coming into leaf that means the rainy season has just about started. The red Imortelles that could mean it's going to be a short dry season, or a long, parched and burning dry season. The growing numbers of walkers, pushing their ways frenetically up and down the hill, which means that carnival is on its way. And of course, the arrival of the magnificent pink and yellow Poui trees which always make me smile.

Although at times the hill rises gradually, it can surprise you with a steep twist that gets your heart pumping. And if you decide to walk up and down it all the way, it can take you upwards of an hour and a half.

In 2005, my family was in Trinidad for Christmas - including my father. That Daddy had joined us was a rare treat. Since my parents divorced when I was five, I could probably count on one hand the number of times we'd got together as a family for Christmas. Daddy was staying downstairs with me in my apartment, and Saffrey, Mum and Auntie Libby were in Mum's apartment directly upstairs.

Daddy was in a good place. Four years earlier he'd had triple bypass surgery and in 2005 he was truly well - and he looked it. He was eating well, exercising regularly, and he wasn't smoking at the time. (His love-life, if I remember correctly, was a bit tormented, but then that was often the case with Dad.) Because he was a competitive person by nature, he had got into the habit of timing his walks in Jamaica (where he walked around the Mona campus) each time challenging himself to go a little faster. I remember he had even gone so far as to measure, with the odometer in his car, a distance of two miles exactly, and that was what he would walk. At some point during his stay in Trinidad, he had determined that he qould conquer Lady Chancellor. Now, like me, it was a hill that he knew well. In his youth he would take his dog, Mac, for walks through the Botanic Gardens (which was very close to where he lived) and up Lady Chancellor. But I suspect it had been a good 45 years since he had last attempted the hill.

I think the day was overcast. But he put on his sneakers and socks and an orange t-shirt and declared that he was going. I must have asked if he was sure that was such a good idea (you can always see the approaching weather from Lady Chancellor) but as I said, he was resolved; he was ready to tackle the hill. So he set off. I must have checked my watch to guesstimate when he would be back. If he went all the way to the Savannah, it could have been an hour and a half. I carried on about my puttering, and surely as I predicted, it started to rain. I mean heavy, torrential rain. I thought that Dad would certainly turn around and come back. He would be soaked through in a matter of minutes, and an hour is a long time to be completely soaked. But my watch ticked and ticked and still no Daddy.

About half an hour later, I decided to rescue him. So I threw a large towel into the back seat and tore off down the hill in search of him. Surely enough, there he was - about 25 minutes walking distance from home - pounding the asphalt road toward me. He had a sort of grimace on his face, coupled with the smallest of grins and a twinkle in his eye. The look that said, I'm doing it - soaked as he was, rain still coming down in sheets. I pulled up alongside him expecting him to jump in the car. But he didn't. He shook his head and kept walking up the hill. He arrived home about half an hour later - drenched and so proud. He had conquered the hill - in every way. I still wear that orange t-shirt today, to remind me of him and that moment.

Saffrey and Daddy at Maracas Beach, Christmas 2005

As I mentioned earlier - six years separate these two moments on the hill. About three weeks ago, I went walking on Lady Chancellor. For months now, maybe even years, my personal resources of strength, courage and even happiness have been depleting, and I have been struggling; no, fighting, to find a way to put something into the cup that is my life. On this day, I was sitting in a chair at my mother's apartment thinking nothing. Blank. Empty. Staring. To try to lift myself out of the moment, I put on my sneakers and walked up the hill, determined to flee that void of feeling. But as I walked, I found I couldn't. Because there was still nothing. I sat on a wall beneath a cedar tree and wondered how I would get back to Mummy's, even though I was only five minutes away.

And two angels walked up to me.

"Ain't you is the lady who does make that show Sancoche?"
"Yes," weak smile.
"Like I ain't see you in a while."
"I know - sorry, the show stopped a couple of years ago."
Then, "Keep going, dahlin'," one of the ladies said. "You almost reach."

I smiled at her and thanked her. It was a slightly stronger smile. And like Daddy, I got up and walked down the hill - further than I had done in years. And then I walked back up again. I think I poured a few drops into my cup that day.

None of these days - possibly not since my father died - has been easy. Surprisingly. they seem to get harder. But I am finally beginning to understand this thing my father seemed to know - you have to have something in the cup. For him, solace could be found in sailing, in reading, in his dogs, in his lifelong friendships, in his time at Leslie, in his workshop sessions. We all have to find places of solace in our lives... somewhere where we can rest. My father's house was one of those places for me, but there are others, and I must make use of them.

As for you Dad, I don't know when the pain of your death will ever pass or ease, but what I do know, is that as much as you would empathise with me, you would insist that I live - that I walk the hill, that I earn my place, "through this sometimes vale of tears". (Those were his words.)

Sorrel year round?

2011-01-29T17:09:00.000-08:00

I've made a wonderful discovery. (Well actually I've known about this for years but only recently acted on it.) You can buy bags of dried sorrel in the supermarket year round; you don't have to wait till December when the mountains of fresh flowers start appearing in old pick-up trucks by the side of the highway to make the sorrel drink! Yay!

Sorrel just happens to be one of my favourite things, and a couple of weeks ago, on one of my so numerous trips to hi-lo, I discovered "Value Packs" of dried sorrel stuck among the onions and potatoes (of all places)! So I bought a package and brought it home. I soon realised that inside the package, in among the dried sorrel flowers, was another small packet - this time, of cinnamon sticks, bay leaves and cloves - everything one needs to make sorrel (well, apart from the sugar).

So I made a massive batch, adding some additional things I like such as cardamom pods and a few juniper berries. It was super easy without having to go through the laborious process of cleaning the fresh sorrel, and it was delicious. So much so that Richard has insisted I make it more often. So, I suspect it's going to replace cranberry juice at our house, and let me tell you, it's a whole lot cheaper!

Simple Niçoise Salad

2011-01-23T10:47:00.000-08:00

I'm obsessed with salads. And not for health reasons either! I love their freshness and crunchiness, and the zillions of permutations that are salads, not to mention all the dressings! (As my friend Nicola would say, "What's the point of salad without dressing?") These days I'm also trying to eat healthier - make sure I got those five recommended portions of vegetables into my daily eating. I realised that days would pass without a single vegetable passing my lips, and that just doesn't feel good to me. So today I made a personal favourite - a classic. The Niçoise. A healthy a filling salad - on account of the potatoes and hard boiled eggs. Even Richard, who often complains of my love for bush, enjoyed it!

For the salad:
6-8 big leaves of lettuce washed and roughly chopped
3 tomatoes cut into quarters
2 young cucumbers peeled and cut into large chunks
3 or 4 sprigs of chive chopped
2 potatoes boiled, cooled and cut into large chunks
a handful of fresh green beans, blanched and cooled
2 hard boiled eggs cut in half
1 tin of tuna in water

This salad is loosely "arranged" in a large, wide bowl, adding all the ingredients by scattering them around the bowl. Plonk the eggs on last.

My dressing:
Equal parts lemon juice and olive oil (about 2 tbsp of each)
2 teaspoons of good grainy mustard
2 or 3 of minced anchovies
2 teaspoons chopped olives or olive paste
a healthy pinch of sea salt

Mix everything up in a bottle and sprinkle liberally on your salad.

Not just an ordinary tea!

2011-01-19T12:17:00.000-08:00

So, I recently made the decision to cut caffeine out of my life. It may just end up being a temporary measure to detoxify, or I may decide to stick with it - I haven't made up my mind just yet. But the frustration of drinking non-caffeinated beverage is dreadful! What follows is a series of posts on my facebook page about my woes. I hope my friends won't mind that they are re-produced here, but I think some of the tea recipes sound delicious!

Two weeks without tea or coffee is manageable, but only if you don't have that gorgeous smell of a fresh cup of coffee confronting you as you walk into the office!!
5 hours ago · Privacy:Friends only · LikeUnlike · Comment

*
*
*
o
Tillah i lasted a few days and then went back to my java ways :(

o
Lorraine s can you have herbal tea?

o
Mariel I'm doing peppermint and ginger teas - but frankly, they're just not the same as caffeine!!

o
Lisa green tea. enough caffeine for a slight buzz but all the medicinal benefits of the anti-oxidants. jasmine flavoured is the most palatable without sugar to me.

o
Mariel Thanks guys. Lisa, I hear you're opening Caribbean Tales Film Fest. Congrats, Missy!

o
Lorraine Try making Indian masala tea but use fresh ingredients...fresh ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, cardamon with lots of milk and honey...yummy!!!
e
o
Mariel Brown Oooh! That sounds sensational, Lorraine.

o
Lorraine It's honsetly amazing....had one after dinner tonight. Also discovered this gorgeous ginger and tulsi tea in India.

o
Mary Not sure who you are. But while in India, I had the pleasure of that gorgeous tulsi tea. I am looking for it here so I can continue enjoying.

o
Lorraine C Mary, the first time I had it was when a friend brought some for me as a pressie. I was recently in India and bought loads...No idea where to get it outside of India, sorry. Try ordering online?

o
Ira Mariel, ( and friends) finally a recipe this non cook can give you: Mix low fat milk and water. Add five cardimoms, several cloves, a dash of giner, bring to a gentle boil. Add teabags of your choice. Mix them up. (I like to mix Earl Grey with the Indian variety). Take off the stove. Let it simmer for a couple fo minutes, ( Dont let the bags soak in too much or it gets too strong-get the colour you like) . Add honey or brown sugar. Serve with something savory like samosas :)

o
Ira do add a pinch of nutmet and cinnamon. Too much overpowers the tea

o
Mariel I'm loving this foody series! Thanks Ira - I will definitely try your recipe as I think I've got all the components at home. Sounds completely yummy!

The trailer for my documentary!

2010-10-19T16:30:00.000-07:00

Although it's not at all food related, I couldn't resist the temptation to post my just-completed trailer to the blog!

The Solitary Alchemist, Trailer from Mariel Brown on Vimeo.

At the farmers market in Elora

2010-09-21T18:56:00.001-07:00

My friend Shivaun took me on my first trek out of Toronto. We went to the enchanting town of Elora, which is just outside of Guelph. While we were driving in, she spotted a farmers market and declared excitedly that we had to go. I was all for it. Although there was no need for me to buy anything, I've always been impressed by the idea of these informal gatherings of people who grow and make things for the purposes of selling.

One of the very exciting things that's been happening in North America recently, is a shift towards buying local produce. I think the idea is to buy fruit and vegetables that have been grown within 100 miles of where you live. And farmers markets are an ideal place for making such purchases. They seem to be run by people who are either farmers for real, or people who love to grow things. The market in Elora was nothing fancy - just a few temporary tents with about 10 to 15 people selling seasonal fruit and vegetables, honey, home made sausage and a variety of baked goods. Shoppers and their children browsed the stalls. Shivaun bought a huge selection of gorgeous looking fruit and vegetables.

It's the sort of thing I wish we could really get off the ground in Trinidad. Both because it's great to support the idea of local growing and consuming, and because we are such food lovers in this country. Although the Central Market, and other markets like it, continue to be huge hubs for the selling of fresh produce, it's becoming increasingly difficult to guarantee the provenance of a lot of it. Plus there's the problem of vast quantities of pesticides that many farmers here use. And while there are one or two places where it's possible to buy a limited amount of organic local stuff, it's prohibitively expensive, and remains, by and large, the realm of the upper middle class and ex-pat community.

So for now, I'll continue to buy veggies from my local stall and hope that one day the idea of the farmers market will truly take root here.

A neighbourhood coffee shop

2010-09-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

I have to reveal one of my dreams: to own a small restaurant or coffee shop; something that's affordable and friendly; a place where people can hang out with their friends and families where the food and service are excellent but unpretentious.

I'm in Toronto at the moment, staying with my friend, Sharon. She lives close to Greek Town and on Saturday we went for one of those lovely, long, city walks. It was a gorgeous, balmy day. Our walk took us to one of her neighbourhood coffee shops - a really cool little place where people from the area gather to catch up, drink some great coffee and lime. It's called the Rooster Coffee Shop. It's my dream made real! Here are some photos:

Glorious Bamboo!

2010-08-24T07:21:00.000-07:00

I have always loved bamboo. A few years ago I did a writer's workshop in Grande Riviere during which I spent hours by the river everyday, listening to the bamboo swish and groan in the afternoon breeze. In Jamaica, the hillsides are covered in huge bamboo patches that look lacy and feminine from afar.

This weekend I went with my friend, Michele, on a trek to the three pools in Blanchisseuse. She was taking a group of boys that had been participating in the YMCA programme, Shoot to Live, and the idea was that we'd hike and take photos. Well, it's been raining very heavily recently, so we didn't get very far. But I was still able to take some photos I really like - of the glorious bamboo!

Review of Taryn's: The Panyol Place

2010-08-23T15:38:00.000-07:00

A plate of pulled beef with white rice and black beans, fried plantain and avocado pear.

A couple of months ago, Richard brought some arepas home for me to try. They weren't what I was accustomed to: these were round instead of crescent shaped, and the corn patty had been sliced open and filled with various things. Then my friend, Chris, mentioned it to me. He said they served proper milky coffee and real rice and beans from Venezuela. So I decided to give it a try myself.

Taryn's has a fairly unprepossessing facade on Mucarapo Road (opposite Hotte Shoppe and next to Creole Cuisine), which is a shame, because it means that if you're walking along the street, you're likely to pass it straight (as I have been doing for several years now). But, if you make it through the door, you'll be pleasantly surprised. It's a bright eating spot, decorated unpretentiously with bits of Venezuelan bric-a-brac and a handful of dining tables, which are generally decorated with little vases of fresh-cut flowers (score big points from me!).

Taryn's serves a variety of simple South American eats including empanadas, arepas, rice and beans, fried plantain, pulled beef and flan (the ubiquitous creme caramelesque desert). The first time I went, I ordered coffee and an arepa with crispy pork. The arepa was made out of white corn - it was firm and creamy, and the crispy pork wasn't bad at all - a little dry, but tasty none-the-less. Of course, what made me very happy were the two thin slices of avocado pear Taryn added! Yum! And Chris was right - the coffee was great - fresh, strong and milky (far superior to, say, Rituals).

Taryn herself was a delight. It seemed to me that this was her passion - that she enjoyed looking after people and feeding them. She greeted everyone with a smile of welcome which was very endearing.

I've been back to the Panyol Place a couple of times now - each time I've tried something different, and been generally pleased with the results. I do have a few critiques, though. When Taryn is not there, the service doesn't match up. The rest of the staff aren't as warm or friendly and it can take much longer to be served. I also find the price point generally on the high side. When I consider that the dining experience is not too far off what pertains at the Breakfast Shed, I'd say you pay at least $15 more per plate at Taryn's. For example, my lunch of rice and black beans, pulled beef, fried plantain and avocado was $60, when a similar lunch would have been $45 at the Breakfast Shed.

But I'd definitely go back - if for the coffee alone.

Review of new roti shop: Hurry Kurry

2010-07-05T15:56:00.000-07:00

The ubiquitous roti is something I’ve steered clear of writing about since I started this blog. Like shark-and-bake or doubles, it’s something every self-respecting Trinidadian has an opinion on – who sells the best version of the said delicacies. But, given that the opening of a new roti shop in Port of Spain is such a rare thing, I decided to delve into the partisan world of our country’s favourite portable, eat-on-the-go, lip-licking curry wrap.

For every roti shop there is in Trinidad, there’s a gaggle of people that rambunctiously and defiantly swears it’s the best! People who love Shiann’s, for example, will almost never go anywhere else, they doh care if they have to stand doggedly in line for 45 minutes while ten people in front of them whip out their lists and recite 15 different combinations of ingredients that their entire office has ordered to the weary girls behind the counter. Other long-time favourites are: Don’s roti in Diego Martin (which, by the way, I didn’t get at all), a place in Boissiere village my friend Chris took me to (again, another huge disappointment, perhaps Chris has a nostalgic connection to the place he’s been going to all his life, so he can’t taste, in the now, how non-descript the roti is), Patraj or Hosein’s, Wings in Tunapuna, the little hole-in-the-wall shop on Belmont Circular Road that I go to for the cheapest goat roti with bhaggi, curry potato, baigan and slight pepper (no channa, mind-you, but the best $18 you’ll spend that day!), and the perennially popular and packed – though I still don’t understand why – Hotte Shoppe. (It was one of those coming-of-age experiences for me – the discovery of Dopson’s on Marli Street made me feel like I was more than just a middle class convent girl who’d gone to Bishops and thought the definition of roti was Hotte Shoppe. Once I tasted a real roti, ergo a Dopson’s roti, I understood how awful Hotte Shoppe’s version was with their insipid yellow and watery curry and perfectly white dhalpuri – not a brown spot to be found anywhere – which invariably bursts when you eat it, squirting the same watery curry all over your clean clothes, and I knew that I was one step closer to being a ‘real’ Trinidadian.) Even today, I maintain that the best paratha you can buy comes from Dopson’s (long-since relocated to the bottom of Maraval Road). It’s buttery, soft here and slightly crispy there, with lots of brown/ toasted patches. Yum!! And the best curry bodi comes from Shiann’s on Cipriani Boulevard: it’s never soggy or overcooked, and always treated like a vegetable that should require teeth and crunching to eat! As to curried meats, I’m not so polarised on the matter. I really like Wings by the highway side of Tunapuna for the fact that you can get huge portions of geera pork and paratha with a little curry pumpkin.

Anyway! I seem to have gone off on a tangent here. Back to the original subject of this post – the new roti shop, Hurry Kurry, in Royal Palm Plaza, Maraval. Firstly, it’s in a brilliant place. Considering that you can get seemingly every kind of fast food on the Saddle Road in Maraval, it took a LONG time for someone to figure out that a bright, clean and well-signed roti shop would be a good idea. So congratulations to the owners on that epiphany. (Hang-on, I’m having a vague memory that before there was Ellerslie Plaza or Mr Burger on the left, there was a roti shop. It’s way too fuzzy in my mind though!) Next, the staff are actually friendly – a kind of freakish thing when you think of the generally sullen, sour, and scowling people you normally find serving you at a roti shop. My third point is the reason I’ll go back to Hurry Kurry: it has the best relishes, pepper sauces and chutnies of any roti shop I’ve been to, AND slices of fresh cucumber with a little garlic to-boot! There’s regular pepper sauce, fresh kuchela, mother-in-law, and (the piece de resistence!) a scotch bonnet choka that is gorgeous! It’s smoky and mild when it first hits your palette, and has a wicked sting on the back end. Although neither the curry nor the dhalpuri was particularly noteworthy (still, in my mind, both were better than Hotte Shoppe) the complete package, along with cucumber slices, pepper choka and kuchela, was very satisfying. I happily recommend it.

A dollop of aioli

2010-06-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

I love that TV show, "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations". It's an unpretentious tour of the world of food and Bourdain is as likely to find himself at some dodgy street food joint as he is a 5-star Michelin restaurant. The other day I watched him visit Provence and eat some of the simplest yet most delicious-looking food. Fish or poultry with vegetables and a heavenly aioli (garlic mayonnaise) made by one of the town's grannies in a mortar and pestle. It reminded me that it's been years since I've made mayonnaise from scratch. Doing so requires patience and courage. Forcing egg yolk and olive oil to emulsify can be a tricky thing, particularly because the two elements just don't want to combine. Over the years I've had several disasters with the whole mixture separating.

So last night, when I started the process in my little mortar and pestle, Richard looked at me incredulous. "Why don't you just throw it in the blender," he asked. A good question that I really had no answer to, except to say that I felt like trying to make mayonnaise the way the Provençal granny had. A generous teaspoon of sea salt, a clove of garlic and an egg-yolk. And I start to pound and mix. I add the olive oil a few drops at a time and Richard is even more incredulous. A few more drops. Pound and mix. A little bit of nice mustard. Pound and mix. And more pounding and mixing. Nah boy - this thing hard! And tiring! And... lemme just use the whisk instead!

As I whisked I could see the mixture starting to emulsify and take shape. I tried to get Richard to taste it, but he declined, saying it was too yellow and mayonnaise is white. "It's only white if it's store bought," I told him. I'm using olive oil. It's always going to be yellow. I kept on though. Adding the olive oil more bravely by this point as I knew it would hold together. When I'd got the mixture to about a half-cup in volume I stopped adding oil and whisked until I was blue in the face. Then it was ready! I made salad with croutons, lettuce, parmesan and beefsteak tomatoes. And I stove-top grilled a piece of chicken for each of us.

A dollop of the creamy, glossy mayonnaise on each plate, along with the salad and chicken. It was delicious! So simple and so decadent. I almost licked the plate clean! Yum! Richard, by the way, nearly licked his plate too!

A potted garden of veggies and herbs

2010-05-10T12:49:00.000-07:00

In June 2009, I visited the inspiring eco-friendly country, Costa Rica. Coincidentally, I was reading Barbara Kingsolver's, "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" at the time. Some of the food I ate in Costa Rica was incredible, and utilised vegetables and products that are available in the Caribbean too, but which we would never choose to prepare in the way the Costa Ricans do. For example, peewah featured deliciously in dips and salads. Meanwhile, in her book, Kingsolver describes the choice her family made to eat only food they had grown or slaughtered, or that came from the immediate vicinity of their Virginia home. Although parts of the book were irritatingly earnest, in general, I was inspired to try, in some small way, to change some of my own food buying practices - to try making things from scratch, and to attempt to grow more or buy more that was grown locally. Hence the requests for a pasta-press and yogurt maker. And too my revived interest in growing herbs and vegetables.

I wouldn't say that I have a particularly green thumb. My grandmother and aunt in England both had gorgeous gardens which they tended with lots of love and attention. And although I enjoyed helping them when I was at their homes, I could never really muster the drive to create similar gardens where I've lived. And now I live in an apartment with no garden at all! But the good news is I have a roof "deck". It's really just a concrete square, but I've had friends over for dinner up there, and I decided to try some potted plants to see how they'd fare. The trouble is, it's a concrete roof, which means it gets super hot in the day. And with this dry season we've had, well, trying to keep any plants alive these last few months has been a huge challenge.

None-the-less, I bought a little ficus, and a miniature bamboo plant, which have already started providing some shade for less hardy plants. I planted a variety of seedlings: rosemary (in the direct sun, because it can take the jammin'); regular and purple basil (these can also handle lots of sun); dill (in the shade of the ficus); chives, mint and local lettuces. And you know, they're doing really well. I trim and harvest almost daily to add to my salads and cooking. And the thrill of picking your own freshly grown, pesticide-free herbs is quite something. And having the garden in pots means that it's much easier to tend - easy to weed and water and easy to access.

Next I'm going to try the pesky tomato and some wild rocket.

Some of the things I've had success growing are:
rocket
lettuce
basil (probably the easiest thing the grow!)
rosemary
chives
dill
mint

I still have had no success growing coriander - not even from seedlings. What am I doing wrong?

By the way, a really great place in Trinidad for buying seedlings is a little garden shop called Agriflora on Aranguez Main Road. They sell seedlings and more mature plants - lots of herbs and vegetables, and of course, flowering plants and shrubs.

Bromeliads

2010-04-21T13:49:00.000-07:00

I know this is a blog about food and related things, but I was going through my photo albums this afternoon, and I came across these photos of the sensational bromeliads I found in Costa Rica when I went there on holiday with my great friend, Rachel, last year.

We stayed all over the place, but our last day was spent in the city of Alijuela, at a beautiful guest house on top the hill. The view sort of reminded me of Port of Spain. And the gardens at the hotel were quite spectacular. Here are just a few of the photos I took:

Making soda bread with Pauline and Leah

2010-04-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

Baking bread is one of the great mysteries of life to me. In form one at high school, Mrs Cumberbatch tried to encourage us to make sweetbread, knotted bread and rock cakes. In retrospect, home economics class (taught at an all-girls school) seems like such a 1950s, sexist thing; a course to prepare us ladies to become heads of households and home-makers. But I digress.

Even way back in form one, I knew bread-baking was not for me. My dinner rolls came out like rocks that could give someone a buss-head if pelted hard enough. In my first season of Sancoche, I made the mistake of scheduling hot-cross-buns as a segment of a show. Well - after the kneading, raising, proofing, kneading and raising, it took us almost two days to shoot the damn segment. Never me and yeast-containing baked goods on tv again!

My great friend Michele's mum, Pauline, is from Ireland. Every time I go over to Pauline's house, I am plied with food and grog: "Oh come on, you must have a glass of wine!" And there is invariably a jug of milk going sour hanging around on the kitchen counter. This may seem a curious thing, but because Pauline habitually bakes soda bread, she's always in need of her home-made version of buttermilk (something it's impossible to buy in Trinidad.) She adds a little yogurt to a jug of milk, and leaves the milk out for 24 hours to sour and thicken.

Soda bread is so-called because it contains baking soda as a raising agent, rather than yeast. It's full of really good things like whole wheat flour, wheat germ and bran. You can also add dried fruit and nuts and a little sugar, if you like.

The other day I was liming by Pauline and noticed another jug of souring milk on the counter. She said she was going to be making a batch of soda bread and I asked if I could come over to help/ look on. She said yes, and we made a date for the following day.

By the time I arrived, Leah, Pauline's 3-year-old granddaughter, had already sifted all the flour, and with Granny's help, measured all the ingredients. She was determinedly mixing the whole wheat and white flours in a bowl. Pauline went about adding the balance of ingredients: salt, wheat germ, bran, olive oil, the soured milk, bicarb of soda and baking powder. She mixed everything up until it formed a fairly wet dough.

And then, without leaving anything to raise or proof or set, she divided the mixture up among three loaf tins which she put in the oven to bake. Punto finale!! Yay! And the smell! Wow, there's nothing like having the smell of baking bread in your home to make you feel completely safe and loved!

The bread was absolutely delicious. Heavy and toothsome - after eating a slice you felt full. Not at all like the store-bought breads you get here which are just like cardboard. Richard and I nearly came to blows over who would get the last piece. As it was, I carefully rationed the bread so that we could get two and a half days of enjoyment from it. I'm going to have to get the recipe from Pauline so that I can make it. It's too easy to make, and too delicious not to!

My father's books

2010-04-07T15:09:00.000-07:00

I miss my father's home. Although Daddy had lived in Jamaica from 1997 until he died, and I only lived with him there for a year, his home was always my home. It was unpretentious and very comfortable. There were always his hundreds of books on shelves scattered around the house and in his study. His copies of Nabokov and Naipaul novels, his collection of plays and poetry from Borges to Walcott, Tony Mc Neil to Robert Frost, his biographies of famous writers, thinkers and politicians; he had books on the Mayans and Greeks, the world wars and the Nazis. They lined the shelves of every book case of every home I've ever known him to live in. They were always organised by genre and then alphabetically by author. Just like a library, even though he would never have called what he had a library. He would have thought that pretentious. They were just his books which went with him wherever he went.

The bookshelf in my Dad's study.

When my sister and I were sorting through his books after he died, I started considering them a 'collection'. But then, that's not the right word. A 'collection' suggests something that's a deified entity, that is stored carefully and rarely touched - revered for what it represents rather than its actual content and meaning. Daddy's books were very much intrinsic to his creative life. He read constantly. His favourite novels he read several times. And most of his favourite poems he knew by heart. All of his books bore the signs of having been read - they had faded and curling pages, many of them were covered in his annotations and underlinings. Some of them had ancient library stamps and the names of other owners scribbled onto their pages.

Even though no doubt over the years he lent out many books that were never returned, he still lent his books to friends and students, often recommending a particular story or poem that would reveal some truth that was specific to the person to whom he was lending the book.

The way he was with his books was exactly how he how he approached his life. The books weren't precious objects to him. They were only useful in-so-far as they were well-written or interesting. He didn't care a fig if he owned books that were rare or autographed. They were what he used everyday, to learn, to relax, to delight, inspire and to educate.

When my father found out that he was dying, all he did differently was to eat more ice cream and cake. He was exactly himself - writing, reading, teaching, sailing when he could, laughing, agonising: living. He told my sister and I that until you die you're alive. I think his one indulgence was to tell someone, "Fuck you, I'm dying!" when they suggested he stop smoking. His life was not more precious to him than his ability to live it.

Dad's books are all over the place now. They will no longer line the bookshelves of his home. They belong to me and to Saffrey. To his dearest friends and to strangers. There's a part of me that's confused about the dilemma nostalgia creates. Do we keep everything because it belonged to him once? But then, that would be to make those things exactly what he never did: relics, 'libraries' and 'collections'. What's the point of keeping an autographed copy of a shitty book, when there would be less space for something you might actually want to read?

Pollo Tropical - Yuk!

2010-03-31T08:30:00.000-07:00

It's not a great feeling this. Knowing that the food was complete rubbish, it's hard to come up with a good thing to say about the new restaurant and drive through, Pollo Tropical, and that's hard for me. Let me think on it....

Oh yes, from the car the interior design of the new building on the south western side of the Savannah looked nice. Oh, and the food was reasonably priced. But the price doesn't really matter, nor the interiors, when you just wouldn't want to eat the food. Talk about bland, tasteless, non-descript!

Richard and I went to the drive-through to pick up food for us and his family. I wanted a combination of different sandwiches on the menu, they didn't have any sandwiches. So I ordered variations on their roasted chicken: with cassava in garlic; rice and beans; yellow rice with veggies; caesar salad; black beans.

It ALL tasted yuk! Bland chicken; soggy and wilted caesar salad (at least the croutons were crispy!); bland yellow rice; mushy boiled cassava with no butter, no garlic, no salt, no flavour! What a disappointment! I can't imagine that I'll be going there anytime soon. Nor would I recommend it to anyone.

A pasta adventure!

2010-03-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

My Mum gave me a pasta pressing gadget for christmas. I'd been wanting one forever, and I'd finally remembered to ask. The wrapped present was surprisingly small - for some reason I'd been expecting a food-processor sized box - but heavy. I unwrapped the shiny new thing an put it away in the cupboard behind my blender and cheese toastie grill (never to be seen again, you might think!)

I'd actually seen Jamie Oliver make pasta once on the Martha Stewart show, and there was something about his assertions that it was dead easy that made me think, nah. That looks hard! So the pasta press was languishing in the darkness of my cupboard next to the kitchen aid mixer that I haven't used in 10 years! It was in grave danger of suffering the same fate as the mixer. Until my friend, Franka, posted a pasta recipe on Facebook. I knew it was the signal I'd been unconsciously waiting for, so I printed the recipe and sent an email to five foodie friends, inviting them to come over for a pasta-making lime. (hey - if the pasta tasted like rubbish or didn't do what it was meant to, at least I'd have had a good time with friends!)

My mum arrives first, and I realise I haven't even made up the first batch of dough (which, by the way, is meant to sit and chill in the fridge for at least an hour - crapadoodle!) Having never tried to make pasta in my life, I decide to change the recipe - 4 eggs, 300 gms all purpose flour, 100 gms spelt flour, salt and olive oil all mixed into a dough which you're meant to knead until it's smooth and pliable (it's meant to be quite elastic) and then, like I said, wrap in plastic wrap and leave it to chill in the fridge for an hour.

Be warned, whenever you see the pros mixing everything on a table top and creating a well in the flour into which easily (and neatly) fit the eggs, it's like that because they've practiced loads. On my first attempt, one of the walls of the well caved in and egg quickly ran out all over the counter while I tried desperately to contain it with my hands! The tirck is to start bringing the flour in from the outside to the egg very quickly, mixing all the while with your fork! (My mum, by the way, eyed with with suspicion and amusement as I went through this rigmarole: she, clean as a whistle, me, covered in raw egg!)

Once I knead the dough for a good 10 minutes I put it in the fridge to chill and make another batch, this time using 400 gms of all purpose flour. The women arrive and we spend forever chatting about what we're going to make. The consensus is ravioli in different shapes - circles or triangles depending on whether we're stuffing them with meat or vegetables. We settle on our stuffings. Mine: home made pesto with ricotta and bacon. Nicola's: bhaggi and ricotta. Michele: some exotic asian something with shrimp and water chestnuts.

Lupe assembles the pasta gadget (the only one among us with the good sense to look at the manual!). I get the spelt dough from the fridge (chilling for 45 mins) and we start.

Guess what. It works!! Plenty hands on deck gently cradle the pasta as we roll it through the press, one notch at a time. Lupe, Mum and Miche are in charge of the pressing, me and Nicola the stuffing, and Gabby is making the tomato and mushroom sauce. We giggle and chuckle and talk rubbish and squeal excitedly: "We makin' PASTA!".

I boil the delicate (somewhat lopsided) raviolis for about 5 minutes each. And mummy samples. We're in shock. They're delicious. We cook and eat and chat for the next several hours. Richard arrives and beats a hasty retreat to the bedroom (muttering something about Lilith fair)! And the women are completely thrilled at the Lillith Food Fair! Will I be making pasta from scratch anytime soon? Probably not. Was it a brilliant way to spend a night with friends? Absolutely!

Trying something new.

2010-03-05T08:52:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to write about this creation since I made it for Christmas dinner. But I forgot that I'd taken a photo of it (what's the point of recipes without photos?) and only just discovered it a couple of days ago.

In my family, we always make a first course for Christmas dinner, which, more often than not, is a seafood dish. My auntie's favourite such dish is shrimps in marie rose sauce in half an avocado. So I knew I wanted to do something with fish, and had asked my sister to bring some sliced smoked marlin from Jamaica (better than smoked salmon, I swear!) for whatever it was I as going to make. I wanted it to be interesting in terms of eating and beautiful to look at. I'd also spent anarmandaleg buying some smoked salmon here and some white fish. I looked through my recipe books for inspiration and found a smoked salmon terrine.

When sliced it was beautiful, because there were layers of colour: the pink of the salmon, white fish, dotted here and there with green capers and peppercorns.

So I set about making my terrine with caution and trepidation. For some reason, anything that looks like it could have come out of a Cordon Bleu cookery book absolutely terrifies me! Completely intimidating! Instead of using only smoked salmon for the outer layer, I added also my precious smoked marlin, and some inexpensive white fish formed the bulk of the internal layers. The dish was set in a custard of eggs, cream and creme fraiche (just add a teaspoon of yogurt to a cup of fresh cream, leave it to sit at room temperature for an hour or two, and you'll have creme fraiche) and a sprinkling of chopped capers and brine-soaked green peppercorns.

The whole dish was baked in the oven, then left outside to cool. I put two heavy tins of tomatoes or beans on top the terrine and then left it to chill in the fridge until I was ready to serve it. A day later, and I still didn't know how the terrine looked! You have to wait to cut it until you're ready to serve it and waiting is not something I do so well! So I was completely excited when it was time to serve it. With a very sharp knife, I carefully cut slices at maybe 2 inches wide, and the beauty of the terrine was revealed!

It was also, by the way, quite delicious. A good combination of textures and colours and tastes. Not so scary after all, and a definite crowd-pleaser!

JK Rowling: The fringe benefits of failure | Video on TED.com

2010-02-15T19:26:00.000-08:00

JK Rowling: The fringe benefits of failure | Video on TED.com

Photos from Butternut Farm

2010-01-30T14:10:00.000-08:00

Okay - so I had enormous problems with the second Butternut Farm post, so I decided to create a little album of pictures separately.

Enjoy!

Don Reid, me and Irving Hopkins.

Happy hens make delicious eggs

2010-01-30T13:54:00.000-08:00

"Breakfast is at 8:30 in the morning," Don said as we were telling him goodnight. Hmmm. 8:30. That might be a bit of a stretch for me considering I'd been waking up routinely at 10-10:30 every day since the start of our holiday. But I resolved to try my best.

It was a cold morning with a bright blue sky. Because we'd arrived in the dark, it was the first chance for me and Richard to take a look around. He got dressed, put on his boots and headed out into the garden early. We were both excited. The snow lay on the grounds of the farm, white and glistening in the sunshine. I could hear people moving around through the wooden house, which creaked and groaned with every step.

The house, the living quarters of Butternut Farm, was built in 1720 by Jonathon Hale. Don Reid bought the property in the early 1970s and immediately set about restoring the building. Reid, a graduate of Harvard, had previously worked for years in banking and then as a school teacher. But it quickly became obvious to me that Don was born to run a period bed and breakfast. He has a passion for collecting antiques - more like an obsession, he admits over breakfast - which he places in each room of the inn. The doors all hang on period hammered hinges; all the rooms are furnished with ancient rugs and beds, sliver and brass objets, antique books, drawings and paintings, and a decanter of sherry, two glasses and little pile of chocolates. Two Abysinnian cats wander freely through the house, and there's a huge variety of stuffed animals and fox pelts leaping off of walls and strewn over the backs of chairs.

I went downstairs to the dining room for breakfast. Richard had come back in, and we were joined by Don and Irving and two other guests - a mother and her toddler. The table was set beautifully with silver cutlery, home made raspberry jam, toast, yogurt, cheese and an enormous yellow omelette.

"Happy hens make the best eggs!" declared Don, and so I tucked in to test his theory myself. There's something truly special about a fresh egg - I mean one that's been gathered and cooked in the same day, as our eggs had been. Their colour is magnificent; taste rich and decadent.

Don - like me - was a bit of a foodie. He'd even cooked for the famous Jullia Child and her husband, Paul, in the mid-70s. When I asked him about it, he was sufficiently vague. "You run a bed and breakfast for long enough and all kinds of people will come through your door." I liked his quiet humility. Both he and Iriving had a grace about them that made it easy to spend time with them. They spoke easily and without guile about their lives. They were curious about me and what I did and where I came from, but somehow managed, without any apparent effort, to not seem intrusive or prying.

Over the next couple of days, Richard and I would explore Glastonbury and go to Real Art Ways. Whenever we returned to the farm, we were greeted by Don or Irving or both. We ate fresh eggs every morning for breakfast and noted that the snow on the lawn had started to melt. We were at the end of our holiday, and on our final day we packed our things into the jeep and readied to leave for the airport. Don gave me a jar of home made jam. I said I'd better pay you now, lest I forget. "I feel so comfortable here, I might just walk out the door and forget all about money. Don felt similarly - that it was strange to be accepting money from friends. I was happy to pay him, though. It had been such a special few days, due in no small part, to the place itself and to its gracious proprietors.

Don't judge a place by its website

2010-01-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

"You decide where we stay and make the arrangements," Richard said when I started to get excited about our trip to New York. We were going to be heading to Connecticut for a screening of my film at the Rockstone a nd Bootheel exhibition and I'd decided that it would be a gentle denouement to our New York trip, if we spent some time at a cozy inn or bed and breakfast. I got to searching on the internet - Bed and Breakfasts, Connecticut - and almost immediately came upon Butternut Farm. Here's one example of not judging a place by its website! The site was fairly dreadful - low-res photos, badly laid out. But I read through the entire site, realising that it was still run by owner, Don Reid; it was full of antiques, had been lovingly restored, was affordable and within 15 minutes drive of Hartford.

There wasn't an e mail address for making contact, so I called instead. Don answered the phone - the quiet voice of an older man. I told him who I was and where I was calling from. I gave him the dates I'd like to come. He asked why I was coming and I explained my film was going to be screened etc. I told him my boyfriend was a designer whose work was part of the exhibition. He seemed interested to learn more about us, but explained that he hadn't decided if he was going to be in the US in January, so could I call back in mid-December? I have to admit: I was a bit irritated by his request. Didn't he want my business? Why did I have to call him back, why couldn't he call me? Didn't he know there were a million other places I could stay instead of his?

"Okay," I said. "But could you make a note of my name and the dates?"

"Sure," he said. I gave him my information and decided I would wait till December to call him back, rather than search out other accommodations. I can be very impatient when I feel like it, so accepting the delay was a leap for me. But there was something about the dated website, the grainy photos and the reticent Don on the other end of the phone that made me decide - paradoxically - that this was the place for us.

And let me tell you - I was absolutely right! When I called back in December, Don answered the phone with, "Hello Mariel!" He'd remembered me and kept my number. He'd decided not to go anywhere in January (by this time it had become abundantly clear that it was going to be a hard winter) and he'd be delighted to welcome Richard and I on the 15th. Every time I called him after that, he spoke to me with a gentle familiarity, as though we'd known each other for years. So much so, that when Richard and I ended up staying longer in Salem than I'd expected, I called Don to let him know we'd be late - just in case he had errands he wanted to do.

It was cold and dark when we arrived at the farm. The settled snow was a strange pale blue in the night, and it muffled the sounds of Main Street just beyond the garden. Don and Irving greeted us warmly at the door, and we walked into probably the loveliest guest house I've ever had the pleasure to visit.

Photos taken by Richard Rawlins and Mariel Brown, with the permission of Don Reid.

The Drive

2010-01-15T19:06:00.000-08:00

It was perhaps the perfect drive.

When Richard and I arrived at the Hertz centre in Manhattan, it was with the understanding that we were to collect a Hyundai accent for our trip to Boston and Connecticut. I'd made the booking on line, and being the budget traveller that I am, had decided we should go for the economy car. Imagine our surprise and delight when instead of the tiny accent, we were offered a comfortable (and very stable-looking) Jeep.

Richard and I had searched our route on google maps and written out a 28-point list of directions that would take us from Rachel's apartment in Harlem, to Christina's house in Roslindale - just outside of Boston. We were heading up there for a Memorial in honour of my father. The university at which he used to teach - Lesley - would be celebrating his contributions as a writer and teacher of writing.

Leaving Manhattan was simple enough. It only took a minute or two to get used to driving on the right side of the road. And our directions seemed to be spot-on.

Within a few minutes, we were heading north along the banks of the Hudson River - miles of bare trees to our right, the cold and quiet Hudson on our left. White snow glistened and sparkled on the banks and fields, and we drove past frozen lakes that were like magic to me. Although I've lived through many winters in England, I've never really experienced the expanses of frozen water that we drove past.

I threatened to start singing, and Richard turned on the radio! He found exactly the right music - mellow and easy to listen to: familiar but not distracting. And we sang, or sometimes just sat in a sort of quiet elation at this perfect moment that lasted for hours. Until we got to Boston and got lost! Alas... such is life. But I'm certain to never forget that drive.

(MB)

Decadent hot chocolate on a wintry night!

2010-01-05T19:59:00.000-08:00

If you look closely at the menu, you'll see one of the hot chocolates is made with cocoa from Trinidad!

The mug is called a 'hug' - you're meant to cup it in both of your hands and get comfy - which Richard and I did!

Talk about indulgence!!! Have you ever seen a chocolate pizza?

We just happened upon the place after we left the Strand and bought tickets to see AVATAR in 3d (that was something!). We had about an hour to kill and it was freezing cold - the kind of cold that makes your teeth hurt! The restaurant was glowing gold and yellow and was irresistible.

What we drank was easily the most indulgent thing we've had so far - the most decadent hot chocolate you could possibly imagine! Richard's was a thick Italian hot chocolate with hints of vanilla. I promise you you could almost stand a spoon in it, it was that thick!

I had a simpler, dark hot chocolate that was quite perfect - with the heart-shaped design in my froth.

It's on Broadway and 13th Street, and I suspect we're gonna go back!

Let's start at the very beginning...

2010-01-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

I realise I went about this the wrong way - starting with my little review of the Strand, without first explaining that Richard and I are on holiday (yay!) in New York for the next two weeks. It's as cold as hell, but really wonderful. With the year I've had, I desperately needed a break, and he's been working flat out too, so the timing is perfect.

Anyhoo, I'll be sharing some food experiences and other New York gems while I'm here.

One of my favourite things to do in a new place is go to the supermarket. I try to do this wherever I go. I remember being completely bowled over by a supermarket in Salamanca, Spain. The seafood counter was out of this world - every kind of thing you could imagine. I love a Whole Foods - even though I find it quite overwhelming! And don't talk for Zabar's! Supermarkets, markets and delis give you a first-hand introduction to the food culture of a place, and, if you're adventurous about food, they give you the opportunity to try new ingredients too.

So as I mentioned, I'm in New York. Staying with my friend Rachel in Harlem. On my 2nd day here, Richard and I braved the icy wind to trek over to the local supermarket. It had a wonderful vegetable s

ection, and I couldn't resist a dazzling bunch of chard - all magenta stems and green leaves! I've never cooked chard before, so I looked on the internet for inspiration, and here's what I came up with:

You'll need a fresh bunch of chard (chop off and discard the bottom third of the stems as they're tough and fibrous, and then give everything else a 1-inch chop); 4 or 5 rashers of streaky bacon, chopped; an onion, diced; 2 or 3 cloves of garlic, minced; salt and pepper.

Cook the bacon for a minute or two on a medium heat in a large frying pan (one that has a lid). (By the way, you don't need to put any oil in the pan, as the bacon will spring its own fat.) Once the bacon has cooked for a couple of minutes, add your onions and garlic and cook them until the onions are translucent. Throw in the chard with a little salt and pepper. Give everything a stir and put the lid on. Continue to cook on a medium heat for another 2 or 3 minutes, and serve immediately.

The STRAND BOOKSTORE in NYC!

2010-01-05T09:24:00.000-08:00

(Photo by Richard Rawlins)
18 miles of books.

This is just about my favourite bookstore in Manhattan. And I was very excited to share it with Richard. It's on the corner of 12th Street and Broadway, and like the caption says, it boasts 18 miles of books! The books are all discounted (some, heavily) and there's an incredible range of subjects and genres. However (and it was our second such encounter of the day) the staff are that particular breed of snooty Manhattan intelligentsia - no-doubt very knowledgeable about books, but covetous of their knowledge and ridiculously condescending. But the books are worth the staff minefield!

The good, the bad and the burnt!

2009-12-28T16:41:00.000-08:00

Okay - so the Christmas day madness has passed. Thank God! It was a lovely day - don't get me wrong, but the stress of the dinner almost got the better of me. It seemed to be going okay. I stuffed the turkey with my Mum's sage and sausage stuffing, and popped it in the oven at 4pm. It was a small turkey so I was planning on 3 hours cooking time. My Mum was going to be bringing the ham to bake and glaze; I'd made the red cabbage the day before, and the stewed pigeon peas were ready thanks to Mum. The desserts (creme brulee and grape dessert) were happily chilling in my stuffed fridge. Cool. I was on top of things. All I needed to do was cook the veggies, set the table and relax. I wish!

My mum overslept in the afternoon, so she got to me (with the uncooked ham) when my turkey was cooked, which set everything back. Then I forgot the pigeon peas and red cabbage heating up in the oven. (This I didn't discover until both dishes were burnt black and crispy!) The turkey, I could tell, was overcooked and a little dried out. My kitchen was hot as hell and I was ratty and frazzled. At one point I looked pleadingly at my family and asked if they'd mind if we just had my special seafood terrine and dessert! But they seemed content with the chaos and culinary disasters, encouraging me to press on. So I did.

We eventually ate dinner at about 9pm. And it was great! With so many disasters, everyone relaxed and laughed. The creme brulee I made was easily the best dessert I have ever made. The turkey wasn't as terrible as I'd feared it would be, and the brussel sprouts were perfectly cooked. Thank goodness for my forgiving family - they absolutely made the day Christmas for me!

Here I am with Richard, in the heat of the dishing up!

Granny's red cabbage - with alterations and adaptations

2009-12-24T08:31:00.000-08:00

My Granny made this red cabbage dish all my life. I love it, and started making it myself a few years ago. But I've changed a few things out of necessity (for example, Gran's recipe calls for cooking apples, which we don't get in Trinidad, so I just use the extra-tart granny smiths) and added a few things that I think add to the flavour of the dish.

You'll need a heavy cast iron pot to cook it in.

1 small red cabbage (sliced as thinly as you can manage)

2 granny smith apples (peeled and chopped into 1/2-inch pieces)

1 red onion sliced in thin circles

quarter cup of balsamic vinegar

3 tablespoons of cider or red-wine vinegar

quarter cup of maple syrup

1 bay leaf

3 cardamom pods

5 or 6 cracked allspice corns

2 star anise

1 cinnamon stick

salt and pepper (as you like it)

Put everything in the cast iron pot. Cover it tightly and let the ingredients cook gently on a very low heat for about 45 minutes. (The cabbage will spring its own juice.)

Cranberry and sorrel coulis

2009-12-23T12:40:00.000-08:00

half a cup each of dried cranberries and dried sorrel

a large pinch each of dried ginger, ground allspice, ground cinnamon

3 or 4 cardamom pods (cracked)

the zest and juice of one orange

3 tablespoons of rum

2 tablespoon of brown sugar

Put all the ingredients in a saucepan and pour in enough water to cover them. Cover the pan and cook everything on a slow simmer for 30 minutes (by which time the cranberries will have plumped, and a syrup will have formed).

Leave the mixture to cool for a while. Remove the cardamom pods and then put everything in a blender and blend the mixture until smooth (or a little chunky - whichever way you like it).

You can store it in the fridge for two or three weeks. I'm going to use it as chutney for my turkey, and I think I'll put a little in the bottom of my creme brulee.

Let the cooking adventure commence!

2009-12-23T12:04:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting at my Dad's desk. It's in my study now, because the things he left for me arrived in Trinidad this week. It's the strangest feeling - sitting here to write: the place he sat at to write for some 30 years. But it feels correct.

So I'm starting to get excited about the cooking for Christmas. I know what I'm going to make; I bought all the ingredients this afternoon (please let me not have to go back to Hi-Lo before Christmas!) and I'm going to begin the process today with the grape dessert, the sorrel and cranberry coulis and the creme brulee.

So wish me luck, as this is all stuff that's either just been invented, or that I am trying for the first time!

Christmas panic stations!

2009-12-22T15:36:00.001-08:00

I don't know how it happened. A couple of weeks ago it was august, and now it's december... the 22nd!!! Christmas is in 3 days (actually, more like 2 and a half) and I'm making Christmas dinner, and all I've managed to organise is the buying of brussel sprouts and potatoes! That's ALL! Granted my Mum has bought the turkey and ham, and she'll bake the ham, but that still leaves a zillion things for me left to do: put out slices of bread to dry for breadcrumbs for stuffing buy bacon eggs herbs carrots sorrel cranberries cream butter pork sausages brown bread grapes yogurt brown sugar tomatoes lettuce red cabbage red onions... and because I haven't yet figured out what I'm cooking, the list could get a lot longer!

Then of course there's the new website I have to finish for a client to go online December 31st the alterations I have to make to my film by December 31st the packing I have to do by December 31st and the plane I have to catch with my boyfriend December 31st! Yikes! I was almost hyperventilating today!

I haven't even figured out what I'm cooking on Christmas day! There are the obligatory things: the afore mentioned ham and turkey, the stuffing with lots of herbs and bacon, the fresh pigeon peas stewed in coconut milk, English-style roast potatoes, my granny's red cabbage (with apples and maple syrup - yum!), then I think we'll have brussel sprouts, and candied carrots. I want to make some sort of salad. I bought a massive pack of smoked salmon in Price Smart, so I'd like to make a first course with that. Then I was thinking of making creme brulee with some sort of fruit base - maybe a sorrel and cranberry coulis. For my sister, I'll do my granny's famous grape dessert.

But wait! Look at that - it's a christmas menu! Yay! But daz a lotta food... to make! No doubt, by the time I've cooked everything I'll be a catatonic blob sitting at the dinner table - but there you go, at least the christmas panic will have passed!

Bean Salad recipe

2009-12-12T09:15:00.000-08:00

I got a request for the recipe, so here goes:

1 tin each of black beans, channa and kidney beans (drained, rinsed in fresh water and drained again)

2 small onions (red or white - whatever you prefer) finely diced

1 cup of frozen corn kernels (defrosted and drained)

2 cups of fresh bean sprouts (lightly scalded and drained)

2 stalks of celery chopped

a sprinkling of fresh parsley and cilanthro

The dressing:

equal parts olive oil and cider vinegar (say, half-cup each)

about a tablespoon of good grainy mustard (or dijon)

half teaspoon each of salt and black pepper

1 tablespoon of brown sugar (or honey)

2 or 3 cloves of fresh garlic

Combine all the dressing ingredients in a bottle and shake well. (Whatever is leftover should be kept in your fridge.)

Gently combine all the salad ingredients so as not to mash any of the beans. Drizzle over your dressing. Plonk it in the fridge for a couple of hours and serve.

A dinner do

2009-12-06T08:07:00.001-08:00

I was a little girl when I discovered my passion for cooking. I was always engaged in failed attempts at making bright blue soupies, fried chicken and cheese sauce (try mixing milk and grated cheese and see how well that works!) In my early twenties, I discovered that having dinner parties was a fantastic excuse for spending money on ingredients and trying new dishes. Yes, I'm one of those people who experiments with dishes when she's serving them - for the first time - to a room full of expectant people! (I took this to a ridiculous degree when I made sushi rolls for 40 people last year! By the time guests started arriving, I was a shattered bundle of nerves!)

So I decided to have my first little dinner party in the new apartment. I'd already organised a small girl's lime, but that was quite impromptu, so it doesn't really count.

I think the dinner party is a dying art in Trinidad. I can count on one hand the people who invite me over to their homes to eat food that they have prepared. I don't know why, but everyone seems to prefer to meet for drinks or go out liming. I love to stay in to lime - to invite people into my home; to share food with people I love; to go through the stress of planning and cooking and then the dishes afterward - these seem correct to me; a good way to honour my friends and family. (I always remember my friend, Angela Cropper, telling me that inviting people over to eat is a gift, and washing up is just part of that gift. I have to consciously bring this to mind whenever I'm faced with a post-party MOUNTAIN of dishes. Of course, I'd never serve food on a paper plate (sacrilege!) so no doubt I'm my own worst enemy.)

Having decided to have people over, I had consider who I'd invite. I've been trying to invite new people to my get-togethers, as well as long-established friends. But that's a bit dicey - you know what you're gonna get with the ole timers, but you've no idea what the newbies will bring to the table. So I try to compensate - this one is a great story-teller, that one is an excellent conversationalist, this one will give me a hand in the kitchen if it all goes awry, and so on. I put together a pretty decent guest list - small, just 10 people including me and my boyfriend.

What to cook? Hmmm. Ordinarily, I'd use the opportunity of having people over to cook something new and exciting, but for some reason, I'd lost my nerve. So I decided to do an old favourite - something I hadn't cooked in years, but feel very comfortable with: lamb shanks stewed with tomatoes and mint (lamb shanks are a really affordable option for dinner parties - you just have to cook them in the pressure cooker as they're tough as old boots otherwise!), basmati rice with toasted almonds, a greek salad and a bean salad. (Those pesky vegetarians who always pop up out of the woodwork! I WISH vegetarians, non-shellfish eaters, and non-dairy eaters would tell you, when you call them to invite them over, by the way, I don't eat meat! I've been mortified too many times, when I cook a meal that's all shellfish, and then someone tells me they're allergic! It's a horrible feeling - that you've not catered to the needs of all your guests, so someone is going to end up with rice and two lettuce leaves! So please, let your host or hostess know if you have any particular food issues... in advance!) So I made the bean salad for my vegetarian friends.

The trick with bean salad is to make a really tart salad dressing (with cider vinegar), and then add some fresh celery, bean sprouts and sweet corn to the mix of beans - that way there are a variety of tastes and textures to experience.

The appointed night arrives, and my boyfriend is laughing at me - I'm nervous. Will everyone I've invited come? Will they get along well? Will they like the food? Will there be enough food? (I once ran out of food - it was awful! Painfully embarrassing.)

Everyone comes. We sit on my roof under the full moon and talk, and laugh, and eat. There's enough food. It tastes pretty good. People leave having had a good night - with a smile. And Richard and I face the mountain of dishes with a sort-of-smile too!

The secret gem

2009-12-01T03:42:00.000-08:00

During the film festival madness, a couple of the girls who work for the festival arrived at the office bearing sushi.... FOR $25!!!! (I'm not normally one for the multiple exclamation marks, but $25 sushi deserves them!) "My God! Where'd you get it?" I asked. "That little place on Marli Street... the Golden Bell." "Where?" And that's what everyone I tell about one of the happiest food discoveries for me in the last few months asks: where?

It's an almost invisible little place on Marli Street, a couple of buildings west of the American Embassy. I noticed yesterday that there was a number on the building: 10A. The Golden Bell is a Korean fast food restaurant that also sells an odd assortment of pantry things like ground coffee, japanese noodle soup base and various kinds of dried seaweed. There are tables and chairs inside if you'd like to dine in, and - get this - a free karaoke machine, just in case you want to sing out loud to your favourite tune while you're waiting for your Bi Bim Bab! (And let me tell you, yesterday two girls were taking full advantage - one of them (perhaps with a recent tabanca) was belting out a soulful rendition of John Legend's "Ordinary people"!)

The place is delightful! It's utterly unpretentious and the food is delicious and decently priced. A sushi roll (remember, it's budget sushi, so you won't get wasabi or pickled ginger, and you might even have sushi made of tinned tuna) which is perfectly tasty might cost you $25. Boxed meals cost between $35 and $55 depending on what you're having. For vegetarians (and for meat-eaters too) I'd recommend the Jackson Bi Bim Bab. It's made with sticky rice, different stir-fried vegetables, with a great big fried egg on the top! The other dishes I've particularly enjoyed are the Papa chicken and the chilli chicken - both of which come with sweet and sour, spicy sauce, sticky rice with sprinkles of black sesame seeds and sweet corn, and a green salad.

One of the loveliest things about the food there is the final flourishes - the cooks always sprinkle a little sauce of some kind; they'll invariably add sesame seeds or chopped peanuts or walnuts. Ask to try some of their Korean pickles (they do a spicy cabbage something) and sample the Korean pepper sauce. The food is lovingly prepared fresh and I think it's the best value for money around. You might have to wait a few minutes to get what you order (and speak clearly, because the proprietor's english isn't the best) but then you can sing a song while you wait - you won't regret it.

Give us a biscuit then!

2009-11-27T23:21:00.000-08:00

I'm not much of a chocolate lover. I mean, I like kit kat and twix, but I'm not one of those people who crave chocolate - have to have it. In fact, I can't really think of any foods that I am absolutely attached to (although the world would be unbearable without roast pork with crackling or crispy-skin pork from Kam Wah!) except of course for biscuits. I don't know why. I LOVE biscuits - would eat a whole pack of them without batting an eyelid (which is why I NEVER buy them at the supermarket!)

So when I walked into master control in the Media Centre at CHOGM (where I spent a hellish 12-hour shift from 8pm to 8am this morning, and where I am now) and got shown to the crew food table, I quickly scopsed out the variety of biscuits on offer: oreos, raisin shortbread, chips ahoy chocolate chip cookies, and a couple other kinds - I knew there would be trouble! Boredom + biscuits = trouble! I managed to resist (except for munching on a couple chocolate chip cookies last night. But then, who can blame me? Somehow, chocolate chip cookies always seem the most enticing; the most worthy of breaking the no-biscuit rule for.)

But I was caught off-guard tonight. I just happened to wander over to the couch (which is right next to the crew food table) with my book, Eat, Pray and Love. (Incidentally, I don't know why I'm stickin' with it - all this simi-dimi transcendental-search-for-God-and-love-in-an-Ashram rubbish is really starting to get to me!) I sat down to read, but got distracted (surprise surprise!) by the view just beyond the pages of my book: the chocolate burbon biscuits (another favourite of mine). I munched on one of those. It was okay. And for the heck of it, I grabbed the ginger snap biscuits and bit into one of them. It was a transcendental moment!!

I was immediately transported to my Granny's kitchen - the smell of it; the familiarity of it; the two tins of biscuits in the cupboard on the left above the glasses and soup bowls. My Grandmother's house was one place in England where I knew I was always welcome. It felt like home to me: I knew where everything was (including the biscuits); I knew what would be in the fridge; which chest-of-drawers the blue serviettes were in; which place mats to use to set the table; where Granny 'hid' the twiglets and bacon-flavoured crisps. Many months after my Grandmother died, when the things my Mum and I had inherited arrived in Trinidad and were unpacked, the most unsettling thing was that Mum's house smelt like Granny's house - like warmth and welcoming and ginger snaps with tea in the afternoon on Granny's ugly gold couch that I'd known all my life.

As I get older, I realise that the list of places that I know with certainty are mine is diminishing. My Granny's home in Godalming; my Dad's house high up in Stony Hill; Auntie Gay's crooked house in West Haddon. These certainties no longer exist, and I know the remaining ones will disappear in time. The day will come when my home, and my sister's home are all that are mine. I suppose that's the way it is meant to be - I'll be a full grown-up then. But those homes are with me always, and getting to them is as easy as biting into a ginger-snap, or hearing the sound of typing on a keyboard.

Simple pleasures, at home and away

2009-11-19T09:41:00.001-08:00

The snowcone. A combination of shaved ice, sickly sweet syrup and sweetened condensed milk. It's been part of my food landscape all my life. It was always my Dad who used to take my sister and I round the savannah for a snowcone. Guava syrup, pine syrup, milk, and if we were lucky, the vendor would put two little ears on either side of our snowcone globe. It was pure happiness: the first few sucks on the straw brought the sweetest, most concentrated mouthfulls of syrup. Then, as the ice melted, we would dig our straws down into our cups, trying to force the syrup into the ice to make the sweetness last longer. Saffrey, I think, was gifted at making the syrup last right to the very end - just like she was the only one at the table who would save her meat for last! Of course, me, with my inability to delay gratification, would always end up with a half-cup of bland and flavourless ice having sucked all the sweetness out of it. (For the first time in my life, I actually managed to keep a lot of my syrup for last, when I had a tamarind snowcone round the savannah last week. That's when I discovered that I preferred my way of doing it - sucking the ice dry of syrup. Because for me, the triumph of the syrup in the bottom of the cup was kind of ruined by the fact that I felt a little sick and there was no ice chaser left to balance off the sugar! Go figure, the grass is always greener...)

When I went to Costa Rica in June, my friend Rachel and I were amazed (although why we were, I'm not sure) to come across a snowcone vendor at one of the pretty green squares in San Jose. He didn't have a machine for shaving the ice. He used a little metal scraper attached to a box to catch the shaved ice. It was a pretty labour intensive activity for him. But the end result was much the same. A beautiful, sweet pleasure that makes you smile and never fails to remind you of simpler times, when a styrofoam cup of shaved ice with syrup and a trip to the savannah were such a source of happiness.

Here's Rachel just before she tucked into hers...

My favourite snowcone spot (and I'm sure it's predictable) Is Lil Prince on the western side of the savannah. And tamarind is my syrup of choice!

Tikka Masala: so-so

2009-11-17T18:36:00.000-08:00

I'm fairly sure that people are going to pelt me with stones (or tomatoes) for this one, because everyone's been raving about how fantastic the food at Tikka Masala (a stand in the food hall of Long Circular Mall) is. My boyfriend gets food from there a couple of times a week, and there was a good buzz about it on facebook. I'm a lover of Indian food - my mum makes really good curry and I lived in England for several years where 'an Indian' long ago overtook fish and chips as the most popular take-out food. So I made my way over to the mall a couple of weeks ago to check out this 'fantastic food'.

On first glimpse I was optimistic: really nice looking stand, great photographs of the food, good prices (everything seemed to be in the $30 range) and friendly service. On closer inspection, the menu combinations were a bit disappointing: no vegetable curries - this is a big problem for me as I get in a twitch if I eat a meal sans veggies. Only one real vegetarian option - very disappointing when you consider that Indian food is the one sure-fire cuisine for vegetarians. And then there are too many meat meat starch combos.

Anyways, I was there, and I love trying new places to eat, so I ordered tandoori chicken with aloo sag and naan bread. The food appeared quickly enough, was sealed with foil and I was given a small container of freshly sliced onions and coriander. All of this HAS to be good, I thought to myself as I wandered off to find a table at which I could eat.

And then... bitter disappointment. Overcooked, mushy potatoes, tasteless and non-descript chicken. They looked right. They just didn't taste right. Tandoori chicken has always been one of my favourite things, especially when it's cooked in a proper tandoor (a specially prepared clay oven). The combination of yogurt and citrus and then a million spices and the chargrilled meat makes for an exciting taste experience. In fact, to me, that's what makes all Indian curries good - the play of flavours exploding or melting into ones mouth at different points of the taste experience. But what I had at Tikka Masala that day was just kind of homogonised and (perish the thought!) bland.

The high point of that meal was the naan bread, which was delicious. And the little slices of onion mixed with fresh coriander was a nice touch in an altogether forgettable meal.

But hang on... because I needed to know if I was just unlucky that day, I went back yesterday. This time I ordered chicken korma and lamb rogan josh with naan. Again, delicious naan and slices of onion. This time the curries were a little better. But not substantially. In both cases there simply wasn't the intensity of flavour one expects from a good curry. I wondered if the cooks were chinxing on the spices to make them go further. Or maybe they were just adding too much liquid and not letting the food cook for long enough. Whatever the reason, both meals were disappointing, and although it's more expensive, I would sooner spend my money at that place in Shoppes of Maraval (is it called Tandoori Hut?) than Tikka Masala.

A little lime zest

2009-11-15T11:53:00.000-08:00

Until I moved into my new apartment (where I have no cable and no rabbit ears for my tv) I was an unabashed Food Network peong! I could sit and watch Ace of Cakes and Barefoot Contessa, not to mention Next Food Network Star (swearing all the time that that coulda be me!) and Secrets of a Restaurant Chef for hours at a time. Whole sundays would be given over to watching Guy Fieri drive from one diner to another eating the most fabulous and no doubt heartburn inducing things! There's something both sexy and comforting (an odd combination, I suppose) about watching other people cook.

In addition to watching the famous people, I've also been a food adventurer all my life. This has led to some unmitigated disasters (in which the only rational response would have been to throw the food in the bin) and some quite special and memorable concoctions. What I've learned about cooking food (from my own explorations, and from my hours of watching Food Network) is that good food starts with good ingredients and a knowledge of how those ingredients work. I think learning to cook is really about learning an ingredient - what it works with; what it's a disaster with; what makes it shine; whether it can stand alone or whether it provides good support to something else. It's the latter that I'm going to dwell on today - those special ingredients that move food from ordinary and okay, to special and interesting and exciting. They're things that all of us know about, yet few of us remember to buy, and use when we're cooking. Fresh herbs; ginger; different varieties of pepper (fresh peppers like seasoning peppers and scotch bonnet, jalapeño and chilli); nuts (pumpkin seeds, walnuts, almonds, pecans and sunflower seeds); peppercorns - green ones, red ones, black ones; different kinds of salt (taste salt - and you'll understand that there are different varieties) lemon and lime zests (or even grapefruit and orange).

Today I was making pancakes out of the box. I'm sorry, but I've never been able to make a pancake from scratch that's as good as a pancake made from Aunt Jemima's or bisquik pancake mix. And while I've always been quite content with following the instructions on the packet to the letter, today I decided to add some lime zest to the mixture. Not too much, just about a half teaspoon. And when I tell you, those little curls of zest elevated the packet pancake to something special and elegant. It wasn't overpowering. It just teased my taste buds: here a bit, there a bit - light citrus with good butter and runny maple syrup. Yum! (I'm threatening to have pancakes for dinner too!)

I've also taken to adding a little lime juice and zest to soups and salad dressings and those things are more special and interesting for the addition.

Not a happy Ritual

2009-11-09T16:38:00.001-08:00

Okay folks, so it's one of my biggest sources of frustration living in Trinidad: poor or non-existent customer service. I don't really suffer with road rage, but boy does an arrogant waitress drive me crazy! (I can even visualise my hand zinging towards the head of whomever has wronged me and slapping them on the forehead with a loud pax!) Or a server who will look you straight in the eye and tell you that full cream milk is cream, and then point the word 'cream' out to you on the label. (I kid you not - buy a bananaberry frost from that concession stand in the Movietowne food hall and although the sign clearly says bananas, strawberries and CREAM, what you'll get is bananas, strawberries and milk, and a really bad attitude when you ask, once you've watched the drink being prepared, "Where's the cream?"

To me, the worst example of shite customer service - I mean the kind that can have me seething with rage or reduced to tears (depending on my mood prior to entering the establishment) is the coffee chain Rituals. Here's the thing - I love a lil' cappucino or cafe latte and those fried apple fritter things. So there are times when I'll got to a Rituals once a day - especially if I've run out of my house in the morning sans coffee. I reckon I've been to maybe five or six different outlets of Rituals, and although the coffee is okay, the experience of being served there can ruin even the freshest apple fritter. I don't know - at times I try to be patient and find excuses for the junk and often belligerent service I get: these people just don't receive enough training; poor management; crappy salaries. But then I think this is just complete crap that there are no excuses for... because it's always the same, no matter what outlet of Rituals I go into. Perhaps the bosses and them just don't care to ensure their customers have a pleasurable experience.

Suggestion: train the staff to understand that their job is to SERVE customers, not steups at customers, ignore customers, roll their eyes when customers order, stroll to the coffee machine, stroll back to the customer, quarrel with other staffers when there are customers around, talk on their cellphones while customers are waiting to order, respond to customers with their backs turned. I mean!! Make it a happy Ritual nuh!

Oh - and on another note: why can't they serve some local coffee in Rituals? In Jamaica it's a source of pride (and too a higher price) that they can say at coffee shops, "Blue Mountain Coffee". I'd like to be able to buy some local coffee at Rituals. And some regular cakes that are made in Trinidad: sponge cake, for example, would be lovely. Really good coconut drops - hey, why not? A little rum cake. It doesn't ALL have to be foreign, does it?

Beetroot and ginger salad

2009-11-06T19:52:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was visiting my friend Ashley in Jamaica, and she introduced me to a roasted beet (marinated in ginger and balsamic vinegar) salad. The beets (which, by the way, have become one of my favourite things to eat) had a sweet, caramelised flavour, which worked really well with the zingy ginger. So I deided to give that recipe a try tonight. But here's the problem: I haven't been able to figure out how to light the oven of my new cooker (mentioned in earlier blog). It's a lame excuse, and a growing source of frustration because I love baking things in the oven. So I decided to do a raw version of the salad. And it was delicious and super easy to make.

So here's what you'll need:

1 large fresh beetroot (the size of a big clenched fist) - I use a mandolin to finely julienne the beet

2 inches of fresh ginger finely grated

2 tablespoons each balsamic vinegar and olive oil

a healthy pinch of salt

Make sure you thoroughly wash the beet. Thinly slice or julienne the beetroot (I leave the skin on, but if you'd prefer to peel it go ahead). In a bowl mix all the dressing ingredients together including the grated ginger, and toss the beetroot in the dressing. Serve it chilled.

Another thing to remember is to serve the beetroot salad in a separate bowl. I can't bear it when the pink juice of beets bleeds into other vegetables, so I always serve the salad separately.

I hope you like it.

Hey presto pesto

2009-11-05T07:26:00.000-08:00

Basil is one of the easiest herbs to grow here in Trinidad. And there are lots of places where you can find little basil plants - Agriflora in El Socorro, the plant shop on the highway, the plant shop by Chaconia Inn in Maraval. It can handle a lot of sun, but you mustn't let it go to seed. Anytime you see it start flowering, cut the flowers (gosh, that sounds brutal!). It also likes to be pruned often. I never pick individual leaves, but cut the stem just above new leaf growth, that way the plant continues to sprout. (I'm not sure that I'm using the correct horticultural terms her, but, you know what I mean!)

I love having fresh basil in the kitchen. I put it in salads, pasta sauces and in Thai food. I like the combination of basil, shaddo beni and fresh mint in a salad. And I especially love fresh pesto. So here's my latest successful version. (If you can find it, it's best to use parmesan cheese off the wedge rather than the pre-grated/ shredded kind. Hi-lo has Sargento parmesan wedges, and that works just fine in the pesto.)

So you'll need the following things (and a blender):

half a cup of olive oil (or you can mix olive oil and regular vegetable oil)

about 1 and a half ounces of parmesan cheese

a handful of nuts (either pine nuts, walnuts or pecans. I tried almonds once but they aren't flavourful enough to compete with the basil.)

4 fat cloves of garlic

half a teaspoon of sea salt

more basil than you can imagine - I reckon about 40 or 50 leaves

Put the olive oil in the blender first - followed by cheese, garlic, nuts and salt. Once those are nice and smooth (or a little chunky if you like) start adding the basil slowly, say ten leaves at a time until all the basil is in there. Keep blending until you've got a pesto.

You can use your pesto on pasta (I would reckon about one heaping tablespoon of pesto per person) or in salad dressings or sauces.

To store it in the fridge, put the pesto in a clean jar, and pour enough olive oil over it to cover it completely. And there you go!

The strange solace of my fridge

2009-11-04T12:24:00.000-08:00

I moved into a new apartment a couple of months ago. I HATE moving. Perhaps my loathing can be attributed to my childhood - I've moved house no fewer than 17 times in my life (sometimes this also involved moving country), and while my sister and mother seem to take to it like ducks to water, I go into an immediate decline now at the thought of having to pack anything. I can't stand the confusion and inconvenience of packing. It's a major frustration that for weeks both before and after one moves, one invariably can't find the thing one wants when one needs it. And, to add to the problems, I was moving into a smaller apartment and therefore needed to downsize!

My new apartment needed appliances, and that was another irritation. No fridge and no stove. So I went off to Courts to buy these necessities on hire purchase (Just as an aside, NEVER buy something at Courts on hire purchase unless you absolutely must! And if you do, pay off the loan in the shortest amount of time possible. I was stunned to learn that if I had chosen to pay off my appliances in 3 years, they would have ended up costing me nearly 3 times the original price!) and planned my moving day to coincide (roughly) with the arrival of said appliances.

Moving day arrives and it's hell. Whereas I'd been fooling myself into believing that I was organised and prepared, the movers arrived and it quickly became clear how not ready I was. Bits and pieces all over the place, not in boxes or bags. Chests of drawers not emptied; clothes everywhere! My boyfriend and I (with the help of the movers) loaded most of my possessions onto the truck (along with my brand-spanking new fridge and stove - well, at that point they really still belonged to Courts) and made several trips up and down to the new apartment, offloading and filling up, offloading and filling up, until the new place was a ram-packed shambles, and the old place a less ram-packed shambles.

The first things I unpacked were my fridge magnets and postcards. And with mountains of stuff everywhere I turned, I set about quietly arranging my magnets, pictures and postcards on my fridge. With everything else that needed to be done, I'm sure my boyfriend thought this a ridiculous indulgence. And he was probably right. But I needed to do it because it was the most direct and easy route to claiming the new apartment as my home that I could take. It would take me months to hang up the paintings, organise my books and move all my clothes in. I didn't actually cook anything in my kitchen for days. But every time I passed the fridge, with my collection of friends and memories, I smiled and knew that regardless of the shambles around me I was home.

So let me give you a tour of my fridge door.

There's the brilliant bottle opener shaped like a hippie flower my Mum gave me a few years ago. There's the invitation my boyfriend designed to an exhibition called "Rockstone and Bootheel" which opens in Connecticut in mid-November (contemporary Caribbean art - shameless plug!); there's a funny magnet my Mum got me in Paris - a bag of saucisson and baguette and a bottle of wine - a bit tacky, but there you go. I have pictures of my closest friends and family; Nicola just before she embarked on her life-changing trip to South America. There's a magnet of a Holland house (including tiny tulips) that I bought in Amsterdam when I went with my sister and her friend Susie and thanked the Gods that I never fell off the bike even though there were many times I could have and one time when Alan did! I also have on the fridge a little replica of a decorated wheelbarrow from Costa Rica, where I convinced myself to whizz down three kms of zip lines with my friend Rachel trying something I never imagined I would. There's an invitation to one of those seminal events that happened here in Trinidad: the series of contemporary art exhibitions and installations that comprised the very ambitious "Galvanise". And sundry shoe magnets that I was given during my reign as the Imelda Marcos of my family. (My sister recently usurped this position with her 20 pairs of flip-flops stored in order of colour!)

I moved into my new apartment in September. Within days I had released a film which won an award; within weeks my father died of lung cancer. In such dizzying and overwhelming times, my fridge was a strange source of solace to me - a collage of memories and loved-ones, and a promise of new experiences.

The best Gizzada ever!

2009-11-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

When a Jamaican says you must try a gizzada you experience first mild panic! (Some kind of chicken gizzard something??!!) You become even more suspicious when you are reassured: "Oh don't worry, it's delicious!" Yeah right! While the Jamaicans have the gift of naming some things beautifully: Orocabessa; Halfway Tree. There are some disasters: Bogwalk; Balaclava; Magotty!! I mean - talk about terrible names. And I just added Gizzada to the list and braced myself for some kind of culinary aberration!

So imagine my surprise when a little coconut tart was presented to me. Phew! No chicken gizzard pie! But here's the problem - Gizzadas are like jaw breakers only sharper. The pastry is hard, the coconut centre is hard and likely to bruise up the inside of your mouth when you bite into it. EXCEPT, and it is a wondrous exception, for the Gizzadas that are sold at Cafe Blue at Sovereign Mall in Kingston.

My friend Shivaun and I met at Cafe Blue to have lunch and catch up. It had been three years since last we'd seen each other, and our lives had changed quite profoundly in the interim. We'd both lost a parent and got involved with men we loved. Yes, so like I said, it was a LOT to catch up on. And whatever we ate for lunch seemed completely inconsequential and quite forgettable. Then she said, "We must share a Gizzada!" "Really?" says I. "I'm not too sure about that." "No," says she. "This is the best Gizzada ever!"

And you know... it was. What a thing of beauty! It required that Shivaun and I stop our talking and eat small pieces of the tart in a reverential silence. It was a delicate, crunchy tart that nearly melted in my mouth. And then the gorgeous macaroon-like centre of the finely shredded coconut, baked to a light golden-brown. It was slightly sticky, sweet, chewy and crunchy. And yes, you HAVE to try one!

Pelican Bar, Treasure Beach, Jamaica

2009-11-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

Earlier this year, I was in Jamaica for a protracted period of time. I had been working hard and was tired and quite worn down. My sister, who lives in Jamaica and is a lover of all things from the land of wood and water (Usain Bolt especially) invited me to spend a weekend in Treasure Beach with her with a couple of her friends. Saffrey had been doing a job in Treasure Beach and had come to know it quite well. So I borrowed my Dad's car, and set off from Kingston through the shockigly unsigned wilds of Clarendon and Mandeville.

Saffrey was staying in a cottage on the beach, and after some hesitation on my part, she managed to convince me to take a pirogue out to Pelican Bar with her and her friends. We were to have lunch there, and really, I just HAD to see it.

Treasure Beach is a strange sort of place. There's the gorgeous hotel, Jake's, run by the Henzell Family, and from what I could tell, not a whole lot more. It's at the bottom of a very steep and precipitous hill. In places it drops sharply into the sea over craggy rocks, and in other spots there's sandy beaches that slope gently into that archetypal blue Caribbean Sea.

It was a gorgeous day - the sea so blue, the sky so blue. Saffrey in a good mood, me - kind of waiting to be impressed; Kimmy and her boys in a state of excitement. And soon I understood why. It seemed that it was impossible to go to Pelican Bar without coming upon a school of dolphins. Now, to me, dolphins are like fireworks and steelpan - I never tire of experiencing that giggly grinning and skinning thrill of being in the midst of squeaking, speeding school of dolphins! They stayed with us for several miles, I think. And then there, off in the distance, in the middle of the sea (as far as I could tell) appeared some sort of shack - the kind of thing you would have seen on "The Blue Lagoon", or some Hollywood movie about castaways or shipwrecked sailors.

As we got closer, I realised the structure wasn't quite in the middle of the sea - it was in a sort of shallow area that extended like a sea peninsula out from the mainland behind a reef. But that notwithstanding, it was still magical. Very Robinson Crusoe.

Truth be told, though, the food was kind of junky. Regular Jamaican by-the-sea fare. Brown stews, steamed or eshoveitched fish and lobster with rice. Red stripes and tings and pepsis. I wouldn't bother to go there for the food. It was more expensive than I would want if you factor in the cost of the boat ride (nearly an hour each way). But you know, you just can't beat the novelty of the whole experience - the blue sea, the sky, the dolphins, the Robinson Crusoe shack in the middle of the sea. Make a day of it and pretend you're a castaway living in a rickety driftwood shack lapped by the waters of the Caribbean Sea!

Day one in this new world!

2009-11-02T13:12:00.000-08:00

I know this business of blogging has been going on for years now, and I find myself arriving very late to the party. But over the weekend, I decided I'd like to start writing about something I love dearly, and know a couple of things about - food!

Over the past several years, I've been the producer and host of a popular cooking television show here in Trinidad, and I've met some wonderful cooks, eaten amazingly well and had plenty laughs. I've also learnt a lot about food.

I live in Trinidad and Tobago, and there's no where that you can find an honest restaurant review, fast food review, discussion of favourite street foods, or even best recipes. So I thought I'd start my own foodie blog, for anyone, who, like me, is a lover of things that make you lick your lips and salivate! (And I'll also be honest about the things you should just avoid completely!)