Good Food, Good Friends, Good Times

Gather Around

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of life is etched in the senses - when things are sweeter and simpler, when doors are always left unlocked, and people gather around food.

It is in this spirit that I share with you my top ten thoughts this Thanksgiving season.

1 When in doubt, bake cookies.

2 A party without cake is just a meeting. - Julia Child

3 People who love to eat are always the best people.

4 The best part of waking up is a mimosa in your cup.

5 I never met a meal I didn't like . - Miss Piggy

6 Chocolate is the answer. Who cares what the question is?

7 You only live once, lick the bowl.

8 Stressed is just desserts spelled backwards.

9 The only two certainties in life are: I'm going to get coffee, and I'm going to drink that coffee.

10 Oh, 'pilates?' I thought you said, 'pie and lattes.'

Life is about moments that whisper of times when you wake up in the middle of the night with a great ice cream sundae idea; of distance as you travel to the fridge to follow your dream.

And life like a rainbow of sprinkles arches between, connecting the melting
ganache to a pan of fudgy brownies.

In The Tshering Farmhouse

Gather Around

Bhutan, known as the Land of the Thunder Dragon, is a tiny and remote kingdom nestling in the Himalayas between India and China. The Tshering Farmhouse is a popular place to get a taste of traditional Bhutanese meal. 

Little moments make life big.

Take a different path. Find another way. Pick a road less traveled. That's exactly the plan for today, to proceed away from the city and out into the rustic Tshering farmhouse in Paro. 

Our local driver skillfully maneuvers the van, lurching over potholes and honking at groups of children playing on the dusty streets, warning them to get out of the way. At an intersection, a sturdy if stubborn cow blocks the way. We continue on off the main road, down a rutted, rocky lane. It ends at the start of the field of the Tshering farmhouse. Raising his eyebrows, our guide Kuenzang announces with childlike enthusiasm, Nalu! We're here! 

The flight up the narrow-treaded stairs leads to a curtained entry way. We are gently nudged to remove our shoes. Kuzoozangpo la, our host murmurs the appropriate welcome. 

Past the foyer, we peer through a second curtained doorway from where we are ushered into a squarish common room with uneven wood flooring. Along its three walls are long, thick blankets for seating. In the middle of the room is a wood furnace. We are gestured to squat and at once offered oja milk tea by our host. Smiling with eagerness, she holds up a bag of what looks like toasted buckwheat. We surmise her wordless gesture to mean that the crunchy grain will be delicious with the warm drink. She then meekly disappears behind the doorway.

Looking around, I see bits and pieces of the homeowners' lives in the neatly-folded quilts, soot-covered pots, sacks of barley and maize leaning against the wood cupboards, and the bright red and green chilis spread out to dry on a smallish table.

From a nearby room, I hear the occasional banging of pans. Food... I mumble. I'm hungry. The pungent aroma of freshly-ground spices that are familiar and yet cannot be readily named wafts in the air. 

Soon enough, dinner is served. Dishes come quickly. Small pots of steaming food, blurry with color and fragrant, are set on the floor. For starters, we're offered boiled red rice. It is a staple. I scoop a dollop on my plate. It's pale pink, soft and slightly sticky. 

Instinctively, we take out a small sanitizer bottle before proceeding further on but glancing sideways, I note our company each taking a pinch of the rice from their plate and rolling it between their palms into a small ball. I show a quizzical look and wonder, Is this the way to eat the rice? Perhaps sensing my quandary, Kuenzang explains with a gleam in his eyes, We clean our hands. Like this, then discards the rice ball.

Everyone starts to unceremoniously eat with their bare hands. Fun! I'm thinking, but our hosts have thoughtfully handed us a couple of spoons. According to Bhutanese etiquette, when offered food, one says, Meshu meshu, covering one's mouth with the hands in refusal and only giving in on the second or third offer. But I ignore protocol.

We ladle onto our plates a helping of the ubiquitous national dish, ema datshi, made from chili peppers and cheese. Our guide quickly explains, Ema means chili, and datshi means cheese. I give a soft grunt of approval after the first mouthful. The chilis give a wonderful bite. The potatoes, mushrooms, eggplant, and carrots organically grown in the farm, sauteed with dried beef in pork fat, are fresh on the tongue. The fried edible ferns are my favorite. Zhim bay. Delicious.

When all is finished, we are politely offered an after-dinner drink of ara, a homemade rice spirit. But what about dessert? Preferably exotic and sweet, has been the unspoken wish that keeps nagging in my ears. Our driver must have read my mind, for he casually comments, No need for dessert. 

He then retrieves a pouch from within the ample fold of his gho robe. This, he quips, with a glimmer of humor in his eyes, better than dessert. It is the seed of the betel palm, along with leaves of the betel pepper and slaked lime, which he offers. We politely decline, while everyone, our hosts included, proceeds to chew - their reddened lips curled in a wide, satisfied smile and a sense of well-being.

We talk about this night becoming just a dream. But tomorrow, the dream will be better. Because you can make the dream whatever you want it to be, I say softly. The conversation is animated. Hands wave through the air in a relaxed gesture with each remark, each joke, as the night lengthens. 

It makes me fantasize how I can retreat from the world and take up a solitary life in such company, in such a house, on such a piece of terrain.

Tea Time In A Yurt

Gather Around

Yurt is a portable, round tent covered with animal skin that is used as a dwelling by nomads in the steppes of Central Asia.

By offering hospitality, one participates in the endless reweaving
of a social fabric on which all can depend - thus the gift of sustenance
for the guest becomes a gift of hope for the host.- Parker Palmer

It is said that here, people drink three cups of tea. The first, you are a stranger. The second, you become a friend; and the third, you join the family. Our host is a yoruk nomadic family in Anatolia, Turkey.

Merhaba, our lady host greets us, her eyes peering from the slit of her face veil. She is dressed in brightly-colored and flower-patterned salvar trousers and a chemise that goes down to the ankle. She offers me my first cup of elma cayi apple tea. 

Seated on a kilim rug in a yurt, I cautiously take sips from the small tulip-shaped glass. It makes the loose tea glow like amber. The herbal drink is sweet, slightly tart, with a mild apple flavor. I survey the surroundings over the rim of my cup. The tent is black and rectangular. Made of woven black goat hair, our guide Mele says knowingly.

It feels cozy. Inside, the walls are lined with sheep's wool which is also used to make coats for the shepherds. It's a windowless all-purpose space for eating, sleeping, working, and other social activities, although an area on the side is used for cooking and food preparation. Weavings in subdued reds, browns, and yellows decorate the interior. Its door is oriented to the warmth and sunlight of the south. 

Our male host leans forward and sips his tea. He converses immediately, Mele readily translating for him. We have just migrated upland for the winter, and will stay here until the warmer months come. 

He nonchalantly muses on their long journey. It takes us two weeks or even a month! I listen attentively, even as I'm drawn to his attire, from the sarik covering on his head to the long robe neatly folded atop loose trousers and the yemeni sandals on his feet.

After slurping his drink, he continues, The clan slowly gets going. Children and the elderly go on horseback, as do the heads of families, but most travel on foot. The beasts of burden follow behind.

The grandmother lights a small fire, after which she brings over a fresh pot of tea. She tests its color and gives it a dissatisfied stir. Then she wobbles the spout against our cup rims and offers a second serving.

Her son tosses her a roguish wink, Cami yıkılmış ama mihrab yerinde. He manages an impish grin when she glances at him sharply. The mosque is a ruin but the mihrap is standing, our guide quips, smiling. She continues to explain, He has just given his mother a compliment, saying that despite being older, she has retained her charm. We nod in approval, giving a breathy chuckle. It’s like saying a church is in ruins but the pulpit is standing.

I inspect the motifs on the kilim with admiration, though my brows are wrinkled in thought. Mele explains before I can ask. A female figure symbolizes motherhood and fertility. Other designs like the wolf's foot is for the protection of flocks from wolves. Pointing to an eye encased in a blue circle, she adds with dramatic flourish, That is for protection against the evil eye.

The woman of the house pours us a third cup of tea. I can smell its strong, sweet aroma. Steam curls up from the hot liquid.

The chatter continues. I surmise that Turks love to converse, often at length, and about nothing in particular. More than that, I sense their innate respect for the rites of hospitality. As Mele explains in her characteristic nasal tone, The traditional nomadic tent is set up in readiness for company for one sole reason - because guests are sent by Allah and usually arrive without warning. 

Where I am, at the moment, seems strangely attractive. It is quiet and restful, yet cheery as well, where folk can stay to sit and drink tea and talk. I wish there were some way to stop the late afternoon light from traveling any further across the living area so we can go on, talking and listening to interpreted banter over an endless cup of apple cha, but we have to go.

We're sent off with a fond Güle güle gidin. May you go laughing. Water is thrown behind our vehicle as it pulls away. It is a wish for a smooth journey, as smooth as water.

I have forgotten my tiredness. At this moment, I don't have to wrestle with the question of how deep time is, or how much I have to understand what time is. Right now, I'm not thinking ahead in years and months but just about this hour, and maybe the next. 

Anything else is speculation.

Kain Na!

Gather Around

This series celebrates the season's spirit of community and gratitude, when friends and family - really everybody, and it doesn't matter where one is from - gather together, enjoying food and drink.

Luto-lutuan means play-cooking using a miniature clay set consisting of a palayok pot, frying pan, and stove. Kain na means Let's eat. Luto na - It's cooked. Saan yung tuyo? - Where's the dried fish?

The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.

- Carl Jung

I look at the blue sky and hear, Cheep-cheep, from the maya birds in the garden, and in the distance, the dogs. Everything has a Sunday calm. The day is clear and crisp, the air like polished crystal. A line of black ants is sorting through the ground, wrestling small mounds and piling leaves in a heap. On afternoons like this, lutu-lutuan is one of my favorite things to do. 

Over there! First Cousin Vicky says quickly. Running toward Grandfather Gorio's backyard, we stop and look for the place where the big spider has made its web right across the path. We don't want to break it, Youngest Cousin Dondi cautions. We go around and sit under the acacia tree. The branches hang very low, close to the ground, so we feel safe. 

We quickly set up our cooking implements. My palayok is unglazed, about four inches in diameter and a couple of inches deep. We line its bottom with banana leaf. Here's the rice, Vicky says, smiling broadly as she carefully pours a handful from a folded paper package into the pot.

Now the water, I say breezily. I pause, trying to remember how maid Binay does it. I stick my pointer and middle fingers into the mixture. Determining the proportion of wet to dry to be just right, I cap the cooking vessel and carefully set it on top of the stove. We gently shove a crumpled piece of paper topped of with various twigs and branches into its front opening.

Match, please, I ask in a low voice. As the tiny flame blazes merrily, I  continue confidently, Dondi, tend the pot so it doesn't overflow, will you? And keep the fire going by blowing through this bamboo straw. 

Folding his arms, he argues in a surly tone, Why do I always have to do this?

Well, I reason out, trying to sound self-assured, because today I am Mother, so you'll do as you're told. Next time, you can be Eldest Brother so you can do the cooking. He pouts but concedes.

It's boiling! Dondi announces vivaciously soon after. I simply grunt in response. Let the steam out. And be sure to tuck a pandan leaf among the grains. Then, cover it when the water has evaporated. After a few minutes we uncover the rice pot and take a small taste. We all nod in agreement that it's perfect. Luto na.

Saan yung tuyo? I hurriedly retrieve the dried salted herring from my pocket and dunk it into the curved bottom of the fry pan. Vicky is today's designated Eldest Sister, so she gets to do the frying. The warm, sweet smell of cooking drifts into the air. Then, all is done. 

Kain na! And mind your manners. I give table instructions, jutting my chin up, just like Mum does. And please leave some food for Voltaire! Voltaire is one of six dogs whom Mum always sees to it has enough leftover to eat, maybe because he's my Dadee's favorite. Voltaire grimaces upon hearing his name, but remains nonchalant. He doesn't seem to care for our food, neither for the pesky flies circling around, and glances away.

Vicky admonishes Dondi dramatically, Eat your meat. It will make what lies between your legs to grow large and firm. They're the very words that Uncle Yoyong always says to tease the boys. Dondi looks puzzled and ignores her.

We giggle as we eat, looking at each other, the sort of knowing glance between cousins, and bursting into laughter as we take turns savoring every little bite of our modest meal. Actually, the rice is undercooked. The fish is burnt. It will surely taste better with diced fresh tomatoes and a suka vinegar dip, but we're satisfied.

Rubbing my belly and stretching back with a lazy smile just like Dadee does after each meal, I whisper approvingly, This has been my best meal ever.