That is indeed a pretty white glass of milk surrounded by the lovely green leaves of cannabis sativa. Marijuana milk. Pot juice. Call it what you will, but it won’t make you high. Though hemp milk is made from the pulverized seeds of the same family of plants that addle the brain and alter consciousness, the seeds have no psychoactive power. The milk could, however, make you very healthy (it has the grassy, pasty taste of something that must be horribly good for you). Studies confirm the drink is a reliable source of protein, fatty acids, calcium and various vitamins. Plus, people don’t seem to be allergic to hemp milk in the way that many are to cow, soy or nut milk. It’s actually illegal to grow hemp (and thus the seeds) in the United States, but it’s legal to buy the milk. (Most American sellers import the seeds from Canada.)
This particular glass, however, I sipped in the cool shade of an open-air dining room in northern Vietnam. Remember Shu? She’s started Sapa’s first Hmong-owned homestay and restaurant in Lao Chai village near Sapa. Her little place is ringed by tall, bushy cannabis swaying in the breeze. Its wispy clumps of leaves almost reminded me of the desert willow growing in our New Mexico yard. Shu brought out a glass of the milk, which was earthy and herbal and contained little brown flecks of seed. She said the plant has long served as an important part of the Hmong diet, particularly because of the nutritious oil that emerges when the seeds are heated. “If you cook, you see a lot of oil coming,” Shu said. “In the past, people were very poor, and people used to cook like this for tofu.”
We have much to celebrate and even more to ponder this weekend, as many happenings converge. So pull up a chair and pour yourself a glass of this: nimbu pani, an Indian “lime and pepper refresher,” with recipe courtesy of Christine McFadden and her book, appropriately named, Pepper (wonderful book, and I can’t wait to try her recipe for homemade peppery truffles—yes, the chocolate kind). This simple drink is relished as a perfect antidote to hot weather. Though Jerry and I didn’t drink this nimbu pani in India and Sri Lanka, we downed myriad spice-infused beverages revolving around a sour/tart base. The combination quenches the thirst while cooling the body with a zippy kick.
Just four or five small-ish limes, a tablespoon or two of sugar, a pinch of salt, lots and lots of freshly ground black pepper, a bit of chilled water and ice—that’s all you need to serve two. Squeeze the limes, mix with the rest, pour over ice and top with water. Add more pepper if you like. This is one helluva zinger drink.
I served this to a couple of friends last week. Usually, when the four of us gather, we dive straight into a barrel of adult content—no non-alcoholic drinks in our little crowd. But I wanted them to savor this—and savor we did, smacking our lips at the hot limey goodness.
And then we got to thinking.
Tequila.
Oh yes.
Oh yes, yes, yes!
Add a jigger of tequila to the above recipe and you have what the four of us believe to be the best summer creation so far—perhaps of all time. So pull up that chair and take a swig.
Now, then, what are we celebrating? And pondering?
Saturday is the 65th birthday of Burma’s most famous lady, whose name is least uttered within her country. (She’ll spend the day in detention, as she has many birthdays before.) Sunday, in these parts, is Father’s Day. It’s also World Refugee Day. And Monday is the official start to summer, the Solstice. I’m not sure how these events need or need not intertwine for everyone. But I’ll raise my glass in praise of dads, and this wonderful universe that gives us summer every year. And I’ll wish for a world of calm, with peaceful homes and happy birthdays for all.
This week, we’re drinking the last of the coffee I brought back from Costa Rica. I returned last summer with bags and boxes and tins of dark roast, light roast, decaf (for my mother-in-law), eco-friendly organic, shade-grown, ground and whole bean. For months, we’d simply head to the freezer after finishing a package. But it’s gone now.
I’m remembering the day I visited Coopeldos, a little coffee cooperative in a green valley far from the noise of any town. I almost missed it. I was on my own, lingering in Costa Rica a few days beyond my companions. I was all set to board a bus and head north until a little pamphlet changed my day….
*Please note: the photos in this story are taken by yours truly. Professional photo hubby was not along for this journey.
*****
Some days happen, just like magic. I’m packed and ready for a bus to Cañas when I find the pamphlet for Coopeldos. The coop sits halfway to Monteverde, less than 30 kilometers from my guesthouse in Tilaran, but an hour by bus—so bad and bumpy is the road. I’ve wanted to see a coffee plantation. I must go.
The bus drops me at an L in the road in a tiny village with a church, a minimart, a restaurant and a cluster of homes set among emerald Kentucky-like hills. Everywhere, green. And today: mist and clouds, alternating breezes and cruel humidity. But the walk is nothing short of splendid.
It’s a steep, rocky 3-kilometer path downhill from the bus stop. I follow the signs and trace the edge of a hill with gifted views. The pastures are mostly shorn, grazed, planted. Small patches of jungle trees sprout from fields of pineapple and grasses that feed goats and cattle. The air is thick, sweet, dense. Birds perch in the trees around me.
I reach the coffee when I reach the oranges. Shade-grown organic beans grow on small plants beneath towering citrus, bananas, laurel, cedar, corn, beans—anything. My guide, Hairo, later tells me the trees are good in every conceivable way. They prevent erosion, protect the coffee and welcome the animals—all of which help Costa Rica’s ecosystems to thrive.
This time of year, Coopeldos slumbers quietly through the off-season. Hairo, the only front-room employee on duty, seems a bit perplexed by my solitary presence—but no problem. He’ll give me a solo guided tour, which begins with an informative video on the coop’s history and the steps to processing coffee beans. I learn that Coopeldos, established in 1971, has more than 500 members who give a percentage of their profits to various social projects in education, forestation and health care.
Hairo leads me through rows of coffee, showing me the tiny berries that will be ripe and ready for harvest in fall. Each plant produces more than 6 kilograms of fruit in season. The ripened fruits should carry rich flavors and an aroma like chocolate, he says. Then he points to a leaf with tiny yellow spots, which he calls golden dust. It’s evidence of coffee leaf rust, one of the industry’s most menacing enemies.
I follow Hairo to the factory, where giant vats collect bushels and bushels and bushels of berries until the vats fill, the floors open and the tonnage drops into massive white-tiled bins below. At least, that’s the way he describes the process. Everything is quiet now. A catwalk gives us an overhead view to the empty bins below.
Hairo guides me through a series of machines that sort, rinse and dry. All we want in our coffee is the bean—the seed—from within the berry. The unused pulp is removed from the beans and shot through pipes into a giant compost bin. This all-natural fertilizer is spread around the plants from which it came. Not only is this good for the environment, Hairo says, compost is cheaper than nitrogen fertilizer.
The beans are fermented for 10 hours, then washed and dried by machines fueled by firewood and other organic matter. Anything else, Hairo says, and “the coffee just tastes like highway, pavement, smog.”
He shows me the “inferior” patio, to which reject beans are brought. These beans, he says, are sold locally, roasted and mixed with palatable additions such as vanilla, which makes for a spicier drink.
He takes me to a sheltered area, where the coop’s organic beans are dried naturally in the country’s intense sunlight. Workers rake the beans every few hours. Only 1 percent of this coffee stays within Costa Rica, Hairo says. The majority is exported to countries with higher demand (and, presumably, deeper pockets).
The only other workers on duty today are packers. One man packages individual bags of coffee and places them into a giant box, to be shipped to Alberta. Two women patiently clip dozens of distribution labels. Each bag is given an expiration date one year after packaging. All of this is done by hand.
The beans, of course, are roasted before shipment. But Hairo takes me upstairs to the tasting room, where I can watch a tiny black roaster (it looks like an air popper) turning green beans into varying shades of chocolate brown within four minutes. The beans pop and crack as they roast. Hairo says it’s critical to stop the process before the beans burn.
Tasting requires more nose than throat. We begin by breathing in the aromas of five little cups filled with different types of dry, ground coffee. What do I smell? Chocolate, toast, citrus, vinegar and nothing at all.
Next, Hairo pours boiled water into each cup. The coffees steep, then we stir and smell again. We “feel the aroma,” which differs from the first round. Before tasting, we “clean the top,” skimming foam from each sample. When we finally taste, we do not swallow. We dunk a spoon into each variety, noisily slurp the coffee, then spit it out. Three or four times, and we can really feel the acid and understand the flavor, Hairo says.
What do I taste? The first es perfecto. The second has a deeper roast. The third reminds me of an awful truck-stop coffee in the middle of Nowhere, USA. The fourth is burnt and acidic. The fifth tastes like a pot of coffee heated all day, with water added as the hours grow long. “Old-age coffee,” Hairo calls it.
He confirms my nose. The first two coffees are fresh; the remaining three are old, bad roasts. “Some people love it,” he says. “Not for me.” Those old roasts remind me of grandma’s percolator gone bad.
At the end of all that tasting, I get to choose a good cup to drink in the lounge, with wide windows overlooking a verdant garden. I ask for a light roast of the freshest variety, a little milk, no sugar. “You are a good coffee drinker,” Hairo says.
Several days later, I’m on my way home. I’m stuck for a few hours in the Atlanta airport, where a perky, polite waitress repeatedly calls me “Miss Pretty.” She serves a terrible cup of an abhorrent roast. I know what’s wrong with it—or at least the possibilities: old grounds, perhaps a fungus on the beans. It’s a dark roast, probably beyond the point of no return—the point at which Hairo says nothing is left but “charcoal.”
Thanks to everyone who has sent good vibes and healthy wishes this way. If all goes as planned, in a few hours we’ll be on a long-haul plane, leaving Thailand to its messy future. No one predicts an easy recovery from yesterday’s bloodshed and the weeks of protests leading up to it. In fact, I doubt this is an end at all—but merely a beginning. Too much anger remains in the burnt, bitter ashes of yesterday’s clashes. The history runs long and deep.
For four days preceding the worst of Bangkok’s violence, we escaped. We flew north to Chiang Rai and rented a car. We traveled the serpentine roads to Mae Salong, a little town high in the mountains of Thailand’s tea country. It’s a fascinating history that led former Kuomintang soldiers into these hills. No longer fighters, they’re farmers growing some of the world’s most renowned oolong tea from Taiwan. Culturally, Mae Salong is Thailand’s Little Taiwan.
We rented a lovely bungalow perched on a hillside overlooking miles of tea plantations. Nothing but chatty birds and happy insects disturbed our peace and quiet. By day, we made the rounds of the many many Mae Salong tea shops, sampling dozens of varieties. You’ll have the opportunity to read more about this in the future.
For sampling, oolong tea is poured first into an elongated cup with a small round cup placed on top. The ensemble is flipped and the longer cup removed. It’s rolled between the hands and lifted to the nose for the full scent of that particular tea. And then, the cup is lifted to the eyes in order to steam them with fragrance and heat. (Next, of course, you can drink the tea.)
This was new to me, the eye maneuver. But once I started doing it, I couldn’t stop! Almost an addiction, I kept wanting to steam my eyes for clarity and life. I’m sure I must have imagined these effects (at least in part), but the steam seemed to cleanse my vision and lift the weight from my lids.
As I prepare to leave this country (for now), I wish its people a future of peace and clarity.
Village kids share lao hai during an annual festival honoring the spirits in Sophoon, Laos
Sabaidee Pimai! Happy Lao New Year (and Khmer and Thai and Burmese and, and, and…) Much of Southeast Asia is sweating and celebrating in this hottest, most festive of seasons. Here in Laos, it’s drinking time. In the northern villages, it’s lao hai time.
Lao hai is fermented rice wine, the elixir of choice in rural lands, especially on holidays. It’s sweet on the intake (Jerry thinks it tastes like Sprite) but harsh on the uptake—with a quick kick to the skull. It’s a communal affair, drunk through long, curved bamboo straws that stretch inside one giant jar of frothy, bubbling alcohol with a powerful scent. When a party happens (as it did above–pig boil in the forest, an annual shindig honoring the local spirits) each player takes a turn at the straw. Elders and honored guests are first in line, followed by the younger generations. There’s no such thing as a drinking age in rural Laos; every man and child had his swig (yes his–I was the only female aside from a few giggly little girls).
No offense to my village friends, but I’m more than a big squeamish about lao hai. It’s not the alcohol, but the water routinely poured atop the jar that has me scared. The water in this case came straight from the river, poured from an old plastic bucket, which had first been used to transport the blood and intestines of the slaughtered pig. When the elders called me to the front line, I politely declined and made motions to indicate that a delicate woman such as I couldn’t possibly handle the strong man’s lao hai.
Jerry drank. Just a few sips (delicious, he said) before the water had time to reach his straw (and before the straws had been passed among so many lips). I stuck to the other alcohol on offer, lao lao, a wicked moonshine served in tiny blue cups. One sip set my insides on fire.
Happy Easter, everyone. I know it’s technically spring, and many of you are just waking to the season’s first blossoms, the mercury’s first climb toward warmer temps. But here in Vientiane, it’s summer through and through. It’s an Easter skillet—and we’re frying in the middle of it. By 9 a.m. the sun’s too strong to face. A walk around the block makes the body a salt lick. The only reasonable action: drink another lime juice (as I am right now at Joma). Call it nam manao, nuoc chanh da or tuk kro’chma—it’s Southeast Asia’s answer to lemonade, made with little limes. I’ve been loving the stuff ever since my long-ago semester in Hanoi. I remember that first broiling afternoon, and my introduction to Co Phuong, who ran the drink shop on the ground floor of the Ministry of Education Hotel (my four-month home away from home). She served me that first sugary glass of fresh lime over ice, and thereby taught me the key to battling intense tropical heat.
Lately, I’m finding more and more Asian menus offering lime juice (or lime freezies) blended with mint—so much mint, the drink comes speckled with garden green dots and a big, fresh sprig at the top. Brilliant. It’s so simple, such an obvious thing—yet I’m not sure I’ve ever served this to friends back home on a hot summer day. Rest assured, you will find this drink at the Redcoates hacienda, come June!
Even if your Easter is battered with wicked spring winds (or, heaven forbid, snow), tuck this one away for a sunnier day. When the flowers bloom, the birds sing and you prepare for summer’s first barbecue, remember to quench your guests’ thirst with this:
*fresh squeezed lime
*crushed ice
*sugar to taste
*a bunch of mint
Simply blend and enjoy—and embellish, if you like. A little gin? Vodka? Perhaps rum? Or SAKE!
Cambodia drives me to drink. Picture: riverfront sunsets with amber rays, light grazing across cocktail-hour boats and the saffron folds of a monk’s robe. Warm breeze, jasmine air. Pedicabs and pushcarts, buzzing mopeds, rumbling trucks. Kids selling postcards and photocopied books, and a seat at the sidewalk where I can watch it all (this can be said of just about any Khmer riverside town). I sit and sip a $1 draft. It’s not the beer that draws me (the alcohol? yes… Southeast Asian beer? no). Mostly, it’s the scene.
And the peanuts.
Many regional bars and restaurants offer peanuts with drinks. Not just ordinary nuts, but snacks with pizzazz – roasted or fried with crispy garlic, whole red chiles and shreds of ginger (try making a batch the next time you entertain guests!). Sometimes a dab of sugar, always a pinch of salt. In all my years of Asian cocktails, I’ve decided I most admire the way Cambodians do their peanuts. For free.
Then again, last year I ate freebie salted peanuts with wedges of dried, crushed soybean cake at a Chinese restaurant in Myanmar’s Shan State. Those were tasty, those were different.
And I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for the Drunken Flower, a longtime Chiang Mai hangout with decent tunes and plates of peanuts with chile, salt and a heap of fresh green onion. Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum. Those nuts are on the menu, and they aren’t free, but I’ll gladly spend a few baht on them.
We’ve had nuts galore on the brain lately. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be able to read all about the Angkor Peanut Family and their little operation. And then I’ll tell you about an exciting new Rambling Spoon venture.
But first, we must head to the hinterlands, in search of ancient iron workers. Meanwhile, take a seat and drink up!
A cool afternoon tea in a remodeled stone home at Castleton, Derbyshire.
When Condé Nast shuttered Gourmet last month, the move actually opened a drawerful of opportunity for me—entire files and folders of material left undone, unpublished, unseen by readers. As with any magazine, articles and ideas get stashed in mysterious corners, some never to surface again. It’s just the way this business goes. Ever since Gourmet.com appeared online, it was part of my job to feed the site. Sometimes I’d send my editor a list of ideas; other times, when I felt a deep-down urge, I’d scribble something from the moment and send it off, straight away. And sometimes, I’d hold an idea for a time more appropriate. Some such pieces would never run, for reasons of timing or space or mood (all magazines are moody: sometimes something works, sometimes something doesn’t, and sometimes something doesn’t today—though it might tomorrow). None of this necessarily detracts from a narrative’s merit.
What I’m saying is this: I have on my desktop a big, fat package of ideas that were, at one time, intended for other places. But now, periodically, I’ll be posting those narratives right here. Let us begin in Derbyshire:
How to handle a whistle-stop tour of England’s Peak District
First, get yourself an A and G, distant cousins who double as the dandiest of tour guides. They greet you at the Derby Railway Station, stuff you into their little black car, and whisk you to a countryside literary barn. It’s known as Brierlow Bar, advertised as England’s biggest bargain bookstore—and its highest, at 1,075 feet in elevation.
Get your books, then head to nearby Buxton, on old spa town built by the Romans just after Jesus’s time. Healing waters spurt from St. Anne’s Well, where believers gather with plastic bottles.
Moving along, through a misty mountainous drive, Castleton beckons just as hunger riles your stomach and goosebumps prickle your skin. Skip the hilltop castle and choose instead a warm seat inside The George, a homey little inn offering watercress soup, steamy and predictably green. Still chilled? Try a half pint of John Smith’s Extra Smooth. It will put you in the perfect mood for a walk along a babbling brook, past stone-walled cottages toward the mouth of the Devil’s Arse (it’s a cave).
Taking an afternoon stroll past the old stone homes of Castleton, leading toward the Devil’s Arse.
Not much time to linger, though. You’re off to the “Plague Village” of Eyam, to which the dreaded disease arrived in a bundle of cloth in 1665. Pay your respects at the church, then wander the town, where buildings bear signs with the names of the dead and the dates they succumbed: “John Torre died here 29th July 1666. Godfrey, his son, aged 8 months died 3rd Aug 1666. His wife, Joan, survived.”
Eyam, infamous for its plague history and stories from the 17th century, today is a quiet village, perfect for wandering.
Choose dinner in Derby to escape the gloom. La Tasca’s wine and lively décor soon remove all memory of the grim reaper (just don’t tell A and G the paella could do better). Afterward, stroll the ancient sidewalks and acquaint yourself with the local ghosts. Catch last call at The Brunswick, and be sure to try the porter. Then head to bed, for morning shall arrive early.
British breakfast served overlooking a typically British garden on a typically misty Derby morning.
If you’re lucky, the sun shines and it’s a pleasant drive to Calke Abbey, through a pretty oak-lined passage, past a rare breed of longhorn cattle grazing in the dewy grass. Eventually you hit Ashby de la Zouch, where the remnants of a massive medieval kitchen occupy your imagination for an hour, as does a climb to the old castle lookout. (Hint: rent the audio guide. It’s entertaining and informative.)
You’re hungry again, and your guides insist on dinner, a Sunday afternoon tradition. Your destination: The Rose & Crown in Brailsford, a cheery affair serving hearty classics such as beef roast, Yorkshire pudding and steak-and-mushroom pie. Ask the server a question, any question, (“Where’s the bathroom?” or “What, exactly, is Yorkshire pudding?”) and he’ll quip, “Ah, right, so you’re a foreigner.”
OK, so it’s true, I’ve been hiding out in one of the world’s greatest places: Missoula, Montana. I adore this town and I’m ashamed to say how many years have passed since last visit. I’m hitting the market tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you about that as well as other intriguing finds. Meanwhile, have a glass of juice.
Our pomegranates have arrived. Just before we left home, I picked an armful of fruits, split down the middle, bursting with seeds. When a pomegranate cracks, it’s time to eat. I knew we’d be leaving for a week, so I juiced them.
How to separate seeds from all those membranes? It’s simple. Fill a bowl of cold water, submerge the fruit and dismantle it with your fingers. The seeds will sink, the membranes will float. Once you’ve discarded all the gunk, all you have to do is run those seeds through a juicer and you’re left with all that tart, nutritious goodness.
If you prefer to cook with your pomegranates rather than drink them, I highly recommend a trip through Laura Kelley’s new book, The Silk Road Gourmet, which offers plenty of tantalizing recipes that call for pomegranates.
Doesn’t it look inviting? It’s after noon on a Saturday. You can go ahead and have one, if you’d like. My mother, the martini traditionalist, would say this is adulterated. But it tastes as gorgeous as it looks. This is Jerry’s creation: start with gin and dry vermouth, at a ratio of 3 to 1/2. Gather one clove of pickled garlic, one black olive and one sprig of fresh dill. Shake the gin and vermouth with some ice cubes, then pour over garlic and olive. Add dill and drink. As the mixologist says, “The dill fluffs your nose and gives a lovely scent as you imbibe.”
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Welcome to my ramblings on food, drink, travel, politics, history and all the other avenues that converge in life. I’m a journalist, author and media trainer; and for five years I was Gourmet's Asia correspondent until the magazine's recent closure. I’m a bit obsessive in the kitchen. Much like my mother, I start thinking about dinner well before breakfast….
My books:
