Duck Girl

Jade Drakes in her St James shop, Duck Girl

I've known Jade for a long time - since we were teenagers.  But it had been easily 15 years since last I'd seen her, when she popped in at the sale of a friend of ours.  She looked much the same - dressed quirkily, wearing a very interesting ring she'd made.  It was a clove of garlic, she'd said.  Something for her mum.  She also said she'd just come home to Trinidad after many years rambling around the world, learning to make things.  She'd opened on shop in St James and I should come by.

I did - a couple of weeks ago.  And it was enchanting.  Jade is the kind of person who really should have been born during the 19th Century!  She's a collector and maker of things.  Her shop, which is called Duck Girl, is a little gem of a place - full of things she loves and has made.  I was thrilled to find it.

Jade recently started making aprons, using lace she has collected from all over the world.  She showed me an gorgeous antique apron, made of satin with embroidered flowers.  She has pieces of furniture and light fixtures that she's found about the place; tiny rings and earrings that she's made with beads she's been collecting, and little objects for sale which she thinks are beautiful and interesting.

Going into Jade's shop is a bit of a Looking Glass experience.  I was carried into her world of beautiful things, lovingly and carefully created, and it was a delight.

Some of Jade's aprons

Plants and containers

A collection of buttons and rolls of antique ribbons

You can find Duck Girl on the Western Main Road, on the corner opposite George Cabral Street.

Feeling Crafty!

A few months ago, I was given a hand-me-down couch.  I was thrilled!  I've been wanting a couch for a couple of years now, but buying a new one seemed prohibitively expensive and then too, I needed a two-seater as my living room is small, and I couldn't really find anything I liked.  The trouble with the couch was the upholstery!  A huge plaid pattern printed on a very synthetic fabric!  And it was coming apart at the seams.

I knew I had to recover the couch - but again, I didn't want to go to a professional upholsterer as that would have been expensive.  So I searched online for several days, trying to find a decent how-to guide for making my own slip cover.  I couldn't really find one that made it look anything but very difficult and time-consuming.  So, I ditched the internet searches, went to the fabric shop and bought five yards of cloth, 90 inches wide.  In truth, having decided to make my own slip cover, I figured I could go a little more expensive on the fabric, so I what I ended up buying was TT$80/ yard.

I brought the fabric home, took it out of the bag, and started pinning it to the couch.  And really, that's how I was able to make the cover: pinning the fabric in place, lining up the woven stripe, cutting, sewing and pinning again.  I felt as though I were draping fabric on a mannequin and constantly adjusting.  It came together over a couple of days, and I can't tell you how happy I am with the results!  Oh, an added benefit - the lighter coloured fabric has helped to deal with a dreadful mosquito problem at our apartment!

Here are my before, during and after photos!

Spreading the word. Buy local!

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

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

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

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

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....

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

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?

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

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!

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

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

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Lorraine s can you have herbal tea?

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

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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.

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

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

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

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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.

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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?

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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 :)

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

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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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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.