Island...Tales of the Caribean

Time for 'I'.

And of course, 'I' must be Island.

Which means it's time for another Tale of the Caribbean...Island...

Most people experience the Caribbean on a cruise or an all-inclusive resort. Rob and I have never done anything the easy way.

 

Our destination on the first trip to the Caribbean was Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. The trip included in a small condo where we could cook breakfast and probably lunch or dinner each day, with a plan to rent a car to explore the island. Never mind that they drive American cars (steering wheel on the left) on the opposite side of the road from what we are accustomed.

That particular detail of the trip was parked after the open-air taxi ride to the rental place- on the WRONG side of the road, which was barely two lane in places and shouldered on one side by steep walls of dirt and vegetation and shouldered on the other by the ocean.

Literally.

Ocean spray would on occasion splash the front window and the passenger on the water side should you be in an open-air vehicle. 

This is an oil tanker. Taken from the passenger window as we sped 50kph around the island.

Oh, and the rental place was closed on Sunday afternoon.

As our drive said, "Welcome to the Caribbean!" He graciously drove us the rest of the way to our condo at Fort Recovery.

Now you would assume, being a taxi, that there would be no hesitation. However, Fort Recovery sits near the West end of the island which means chances of a fair back to the airport was slightly slim.

We figured out the nuances of cabs quickly.

As foreign cell phones can get sketchy coverage on the island, Fort Recovery provides local cell phones with around $5 worth of minutes available, renewable in the office. The phone is loaded with about two dozen taxi services. It took three calls to arrange a cab – the service on the West end really didn't want to drive all the way to the East end. The East end didn't really want to come West. The third dispatcher I spoke too, at a different number but sounding suspiciously like the first dispatcher I spoke with, finally agreed to send a car.

I got the distinct feeling these services are family run. More than once we were picked up in unmarked sedans.

Sounds safe, right?

Actually, it couldn't have been nicer.

Every driver, with the exception of one, was pleasant and helpful and told us all about the beautiful island. Even the cranky one warmed up when we asked his favorite local place for dinner – Fish and Lime at Soper's Hole.

Sunset at Fish and Lime. More on this in another post.

He was right – dinner was inexpensive and delicious.

Good thing. The taxi rides averaged around $20 - $30 one way.

Which brings me to the original idea of this story.

We have stayed in several condos on other vacations. They are economical, given that a kitchen – no matter how small – offers the opportunity to save money on meals. I generally plan to cook breakfast and stock the fridge with a fruit plate, veggie plate and some lunch meat from the local grocery. My vacation pantry includes coffee, tea, crackers, chips and something sweet.

Exactly how I intended to stock our kitchen in Tortola.

Our tiny, but well equipped kitchen. Of course the stove is on the WRONG side of the kitchen.

This was before I began to take an actual interest in island life. Had I read even one article on cooking on a sailboat I would have realized that grocery shopping on an island is...different.

Road Town, the largest town on Tortola, offers a couple of actual grocery stores.

Of course this would have meant another taxi ride to and from.

The kind folks at Fort Recovery told us there was a small grocery just down the road, about half a mile. Well within walking distance.

So we figured, on our first afternoon on the island, what better way to discover our new neighborhood than to walk to the store...on that narrow, two-lane road where everyone insists on driving on the WRONG side.

Or perhaps we were WALKING on the wrong side.

Either way, I never did get use to hearing a car approach only to be facing the approaching vehicle rather than having it come up from behind. We side stepped several times into driveways, dirt paths and once an honest to goodness palm tree jungle. 

You thought I was kidding, didn't you.

But as death defying walks go, it couldn't have been prettier or more interesting.

We listened to children at a day school singing songs.

We spied into the courtyard of a lovely, albeit forgotten, home. 

part of the gate

 

so inviting

And then we arrived at the grocery...

Or more specifically, the Tortola version of a QT.

Part gas station, part cell phone provider, part grocer.

All neighborhood hang-out.

Yes Big Ben. You are indeed a Super-ette!!

I could not have felt more like an outsider that Sunday afternoon as we wandered cautiously onto the parking lot. A couple of men sat on the concrete steps talking, a dog at their feet. A family, I assumed heading home from church, were piling back into their car. Each child with a treat in hand.

The interior of the small store felt a little more familiar. Dry goods on shelves. Produce in an open cooler at the back. A large freezer in the other corner.

There were a few familiar brands – Coke, Pepsi, Oreo, Campbells. But most everything had a slightly exotic tweak. The carrots were the size of watermelons. The juice and milk were un-refridgerated in vacuum sealed cartons.

And the meat?

All unlabeled and frozen.

And Unlabeled...

I was very cautious on our first trip to Big Ben's. I was also slightly travel shocked. We had to carry our purchases back to the condo and we didn't want to waste money or supplies so we tried to buy things that could do double duty. It seems like we wound up with some juice, a couple of apples, some lemons and limes, a zucchini, a 6-pack of soda, a bag of coffee, a stick of butter and a rice pilaf kit. And some sort of fish.

I am still not sure what sort, I think it may have been a red snapper. Given that whole 'unlabeled' issue I really just guessed according to color, thickness and smell. Or in this case, lack there of.

I also grabbed a package of locally baked raisin buns at the checkout.

The buns were great for breakfast, sliced and slightly toasted in a skillet with some melted butter.

The fish, sauteed in butter with salt and pepper and a little lemon tasted quite exotic.

As it turns out, unlabeled meat became a fun challenge.

By our last trip to the market, I was a pro at rummaging through the freezer. Tossing aside boring chicken and what looked to be pork, or goat, to score the coveted 'some sort of beef'.

Turns out it was a skirt steak.

And it was delicious, not just because of the Caribbean pepper blend sprinkled on top or the lime juice marinate.

It was most delicious because the clerk recognized us as the goofy couple who held a guessing game outside the meat freezer and debated over which ice cream treat to eat on the walk home. And she greeted us that day with a familiar 'hello'.

(Visiting local markets is one of my absolute favorite things to do when traveling – whether it is the SafeCo in Colorado, the Piggly Wiggly in Florida or the Mexican Walmart in Cabo. Big Ben's was my most challenging to date. And so worth the push past my comfort zone. Which is really the point of travel, in my opinion. As always, come back again. There will be many more Tales from the Caribbean.) 

For more info on Fort Recovery click here: http://fortrecoverytortola.com/

For more info on Fish and Lime click here: http://fishnlime.com/index-1.html

And Soper's Hole: http://www.b-v-i.com/sopers.htm

 

This post is part of the A-Z blogging challenge, where Monday -Saturday in April is dedicated to running the alphabet, using each day's letter as the inspiration. 

Hemingway. Buttered.

A moment of panic just set in.

I thought I had skipped the letter 'E' of the alphabet challenge. But after several minutes of repeating the alphabet in my head and under my breath, as well as questioning my mental capacity, I found it on my phone and not in my computer files because I wrote 'E' on my phone, on my way to work on the train while it was threatening to rain...

Which brings me to today's letter 'H' for Hemingway.

(Did you get the connection there? The lengthy, run on sentence with a reference to daily activities in bad weather with a constant threat of death? Fine, my train ride is pretty safe, but still.)

I became a fan of Hemingway my Junior year of high school.

Up until then my only exposure was a huge head shot poster of Ernie in a heavy turtleneck sweater staring off into the distance.The poster hung on my first high school American Literature class wall. I vaguely remember that teacher mentioning Hemingway but my biggest take-away from that class was reading The Bridge of San Luis Ray, and the accompanying poster of a bunch of Italians and a bridge on the opposite wall of the Hemingway poster.

Apparently Literature in the 1970's was anchored in graphic arts.

We moved to a much larger high school the end of my Junior year. (By much larger I mean the population of the TOWN I moved from was smaller than my graduating class of the new school.)

I spent four months feeling like the outsider I was, with the exception of art class and American Literature.

Art students are notoriously accepting.

But the American Literature teacher was handsome.

Oh, yeah, and I entered the class as they were just beginning the section on the Hemingway Hero. Nick Adams was a new type of character. He was flawed.

Up to that point my recreational reading was steeped in romantic novels and historical fiction. There were good guys and bad guys but no one was a combination of both.

Until Nick Adams, and by extension Ernest Hemingway.

We read a handful of Nick Adams stories and moved on to A Farewell to Arms and finished with The Sun Also Rises. And by the final day of that semester my thoughts on literature were changed forever.

I re-read The Sun Also Rises during summer break.

And I re-read it every summer after that.

Even though I knew I would be slightly confused by the story.

No matter how many times I read the story Jake and Brett would never make it work.

I tried to figure out why.

I would be angry at Jake. Then Brett.

And each time I read the book a little piece of my own personal philosophy formed.

Although at the time I had no idea.

I was too naive to understand the complexities of the relationships Hemingway described – between the characters and the bull fights or between the characters themselves.

I haven't read The Sun Also Rises in quite a few years. I have read so many more books by and about Hemingway since then. Garden of Eden was my favorite for a while, until A Moveable Feast replaced it. Last summer, under the insistence of my husband, I read A Dangerous Summer – the real accounts of bullfighting in Spain.

I don't agree with the sport but I have to admit, the artistry involved is fascinating.

But it is more than the literature I have fallen in love with.

The lifestyle described in these books – travel, food, drink, friends. It is the life I imagine living.

Who wouldn't want a fresh caught trout roasted over an open flame? Can anything be better than an afternoon at an outside cafe with friends discussing current events, literature and where to get the best cigar. Belmonte is fighting in Pamplona? Hotch has a car? Lets go!

Sure, my life is a little less free-form, what with the full-time job and all. That doesn't stop me from allowing the idea of that lifestyle into my real existence. Not literally. I have never been to a bullfight, nor do I want to go and our group discussions tend to focus more on kids and parents and basketball* (which is pretty much a constant current affair).

It is more an idea.

A feeling.

That anything can be fresh, exciting. And if it has become tired and dull, looking for a new way to make the everyday intriguing again.

Embracing life for what it is.

Fleeting.

And to be relished and savored.

For the good and the bad.

And now we drink..

Because one of my other favorite discoveries is the Hemingway Daiquiri.

And while that recipe is pretty simple I learned a way to make it a little more complicated without ruining the simplicity.

I give you the Browned Butter Hemingway Daiquiri!

while not necessary, these taste so much better in very fragile antique glasses, which I only use for photos

 Browned Butter Rum

2 sticks of butter

2 cups white, dark or a mix of both Rum

Melt the butter in a skillet and let simmer for about 5 minutes until the butter begins to brown.

Remove from the heat and SLOWLY stir in the rum.

Cover and let sit in the fridge for two days.

(preferably in a ceramic bowl. Plastic is okay. NO METAL)

After two days remove from the fridge.

Skim off the top layer of butter solids.

Rum butter!

(sounds gross and delish at the same time)

Strain the rum through a coffee filter or cheesecloth and store in the fridge for up to one week.

my makeshift straining device.

Hemingway Daiquiri

2 ounces brown butter rum

1 ounce simple syrup

1 ounce lime juice

1/4 ounce maraschino liquor

1/4 ounce grapefruit juice

shake over ice

strain into a chilled cocktail glass

Enjoy on the deck as Belmonte regales you with his exploits in the ring and Hotch passes out Cuban cigars.

*This reference is for Craig. Did you see it Craig?

Interested in learning more about Belmonte? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juan_Belmonte

How about A. E. 'Hotch' Hotchner (born and raised in St Louis!): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A._E._Hotchner

Gilda, Gellhorn and Me

In the word association game that has become my A-Z challenge go to, when I got to 'G' my mind went immediately to Gilda Radner.

And then it went to Guidance Counselor.

And WHY didn't MY Guidance Counselor tell me about jobs in Comedienne?

Or New York Single Gal who Writes and Looks Fabulous?

Shoot.

He didn't even suggest Barrista. Although to be fair, I am not sure those existed back in the mid-70's. At least not in the Midwest.

All I wanted was to be a world-traveling, adventure journalist. 

As I recall, my guidance counselor didn't suggest much of anything past college prep. I still have the distinct impression that this guy felt the best he could achieve with me was a solid two years of state college followed by marriage to a middle class, employed guy who would relocate to a different school district so he, the counselor, wouldn't have to deal with MY offspring and their ridiculous career goals.

Lucky for you, Mr. Davis, that I had not heard of Martha Gellhorn .

Ah Martha – writer, journalist, war correspondent, contemporary/colleague/lover of Hemingway. And all while looking awesomely 1940's chic. 

I didn't discover Martha Gellhorn or learn of her amazing life until recently. 

Had I had Gellhorn in my fantasy life all bets would have been off. She was the real deal and just the push my less than brave teen/twenty-something brain needed.

Actually, as I am writing this post, I have realized something. I actually am somewhat of an adventurer. I do write. And I married a guy with a mustache...not unlike Hemingway's.

Plus, I look fabulous in a trench coat.

Well played, Guidance Counselor. Well played.

(Me, pre Gelhorn, circa 1986, in Grindlewald Switzerland. The beginning of my true adventures.)

To learn more about Gellhorn (from St. Louis!) click here:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martha_Gellhorn

A F-ING COMMENTARY

I have been doing a sort of word association during this challenge. I am not sure what it says about me that there was only ONE word I could think of for the letter 'F'.

I hate to break it to everyone but, not only is the world on the verge of economic Armageddon, but the language is losing one of its strongest members. That’s right. That curse word to end all curses. The one word saved for the most heinous of misdeeds. The one word that ignites the swiftest and cleanest (read-soapiest) punishments of all time. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the misused and overused king of the expletives: may I present the act, the curse, the word – F$%K.

I ate lunch with a friend today and in the course of our lunch she used the word

f$%k and its more colorful derivative ‘f-ing’ at least twenty four times. She spoke of the ‘f-ing bills’ – sounds like an awful lot of paper cuts to me – the ‘f-ing dog’ – either a behavior problem or quite possibly an illegal act – and her ‘f-ing husband’ – not sure what the problem is there, from all the erectile dysfunction advertisements on television, I would think she would be celebrating. By the end of our lunch I just wanted to scream

“F-it”! But I am more of the type to swear in the key of ‘shit’ so I just shook my head and told her she had broken one of my cardinal rules: you may use a foul word up to three times after which you must find a different one. To be unable to do so just shows an extreme lack of imagination, or education.

For some reason, the word ‘f$%k’ has become a popular, everyday expletive and I am unsure why. It is not a phrase that is pleasing to the ear like say, ‘damn it’. Now there is a phrase that rolls nicely off the tongue where as ‘f$%k’ just spits itself out of the curser’s mouth with the same melodic quality of a first year German student reciting her vocabulary list. Nor is it really honest with its meaning. Take for instance, if you say to someone ‘to hell with you’ you may rest assured that they know exactly where you wish them to go. But, if you heatedly reply ‘F$%K you’ by definition wouldn’t the person assume that you wished to have sexual relations with them? I have had this phrase offered up to me on a few occasions and I can tell you quite pointedly that I would not like to be ‘F-ed’ by the person proposing this activity and I am relatively positive that they did not want to actually be intimate with me.

It was not that long ago that the word ‘f$%k’ guaranteed a pretty stringent movie rating. The producers would ponder long and hard over whether inclusion was worth the alienation of much of the viewing audience. ‘F$%k’ is still not allowed to be spoken over the airwaves of television or radio without a hefty fine-unless you are cable. In fact, use of this particular word by underage children is still considered grounds for oral cleansing of the most anti-bacterial kind in many of the contiguous forty-eight states, as well as Alaska and Hawaii. Now, some will make the case for vocabulary stimulation among the young that attempt to cover up their use of ‘f$%k’ with such delightful terms as ‘fudge’, ‘flip’, ‘fleck’, something about the 'front door' and (my personal favorite) ‘freaking’. But when it comes down to brass tacks, ‘f$%k’ has out lived its shock value.

To illustrate my point, allow me to share a true story. One night, while working in the emergency room of a small inner city hospital, my partner and I were delighted (and by delighted I mean annoyed) to be placed in the company of a large, strung out inebriated professor of our favorite expletive. He wanted to F$%K everything – the hospital, the gown, the ambulance that brought him there. He propositioned me and my partner by the endearing request to ‘get f-ed’. When it came time for refreshment he demanded some F-ing water. Loudly. And repeatedly. ‘Give me some F-ing water’ was his credo, his mantra, his Hallelujah chorus.

My partner had been in the emergency medicine field for a long, long time. It was three in the morning and this guy was our only patient. There is nothing we wanted more than to see him ambulate in a linear direction towards home or at least pass out asleep. So as he shouted once more “give me some F-ing water” my partner very calmly offered two large cups of water and replied, “I’m sorry, we don’t have any F-ing water here. All we have is regular water, will that do?”

That was the end of his F-ing tirade. The bloom was off the rose. He had lost the will to 'F' anything. He drank the water and went to sleep. The drunk on his ass junkie goliath had been felled by the well slung word of a fifty year old, one hundred twenty pound woman.

So, my point is this. When a middle age woman can use what was once considered the verbiage of teamsters and merchant marines the jig is up. 

The word ‘f$%k’ has seen its glory day. Its power to shock is gone. We have become desensitized to the meaning if not the sound of those four letters being used to describe everything from a bad piece of fruit to an expensive and well cared for car. It is time for ‘f$%k’ to go the way of BetaMax tapes and Mickey Roarke (before The Wrestler). R.I.P. f-$-%-k.

It is time to find a new word.

(I actually wrote this in 2009, but technically it is Throwback Thursday, which I observe when convenient and I did have to do some editing to make this moderately family friendly.  Besides, this Alphabet Challenge is F-ing hard.)

Oh, and FLOWERS!

Napoleon despises the allergies from these F$%king tulips! 

More info on the A to Z challenge: 
  http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/a-z-challenge-sign-up-list-2016.html?m=1

 

Life. Exaggerated.

I am going to share something here which I haven't really expressed aloud to anyone. 

I am slightly obsessed with everyday sounds. 

Not birds chirping or kids laughing or the clunk if the trash truck as pulls the cable wire off the side of our house on its rumbly drive down our street. 

No. 

I am obsessed with the sounds of everyday tasks - the exaggerated sounds you notice in movies or TV shows- the crumpled of a paper bag, the swish of a page being turned, the click of a knife on a cutting board. 

There are times when, left alone in the house, I will purposely listen as I do my everyday chores for just one of those sounds to come into uber-sharp auditory focus. 

I wish I could explain why I love those sounds so much. There is something familiar and comforting to them. I feel connected to anyone else in the world who might, at any given moment, noticed the chink of one plate against the other as they did the morning dishes, or casually turned a newspaper page. 

But my absolute favorite exaggerated sound is the sound of coffee being poured into a cup. On the big or little screen the coffee is usually flowing into a slightly Greek looking blue paper cup or a white China mug.

My favorite oddball show is Jerry Seinfeld's Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee (Crackle). Sure the interviews are fun and interesting, the scenery is beautiful and the cars are...spectacular. But the very best part  is the coffee. Shots of coffee dripping from a brewer and pouring into mugs, espresso shushing into a cup, milk frothing and then gliding into a cappuccino-over and over these segue between scenes.

My husband calls it my caffeine porn. 

But it is something more...holy. 

Putting this everyday task under the microscope of a camera lense just reaffirms to me the significance of regular everyday things. 

Seeking them out in my everyday reminds me that even the most insignificant task can have an ethereal quality. 

Life. 

Exaggerated. 

Of course, I couldn't just leave you with the thought. Plus, I just discovered the slo-mo button on my phone so allow me to present: Cup 'o Joe, slo-mo!

(E-for Exagerated. Day 5, alphabet challenge.) 

And from my sister- can you tell the difference between Hot and Cold?

http://www.npr.org/2014/07/05/328842704/what-does-cold-sound-like

Dinner, Deck, Disclosure...

Well, today's post was suppose to be about the first Deck Dinner of Spring.

And while I was actually home in time to fix a quick dinner and it was still light enough to enjoy the outside, it was so windy that you would have thought I was in the ocean on a boat trying to learn a new skill, but really only succeeding in throwing up over the side.*

(Rob has informed me that, should I manage to vomit on this years vacation I will have, in fact, created the Regurgitation equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. He is thoughtful that way. I do not think the map with push pins and yarn boundaries is necessary.)

But back to the letter D.

Work night dinners are pretty hit or miss around here, as I am sure they are in most working households. Still, when I do fix my dinner I like it to be warm, tasty and look nice.

I have taken a lot of grief over the years from certain family members for having the ability to make even a grilled cheese sandwich look appealing.

Presentation, People.

For my preempted dinner I fixed my new favorite fancy food – Louisa's Ravioli.**

Boiled, mushroom and cheese tossed in a butter and garlic sauce – 10 minutes.

And

Toasted, meat stuffed with a red sauce to dip – 15 minutes.

That's right. Toasted. The East Coast may have lobster rolls and the West Coast may have...California Rolls. Chicago has steaks. New Orleans has gumbo. But here in the Midwest we have deep fryers.

We tossed some leftover roasted veggies and olives on the side.

And ate in the kitchen, looking out over the deck.

Speaking of Deck...

(That alphabet challenge, which I am feeling pretty psyched about at present, Day two and all)

I, and by 'I' I mean Rob, drug my palm trees out onto the deck over the weekend, mostly because the weatherman promised mild temps but also because Robert Palm tree and Alicia Trees were both looking faint. They manage pretty good through the winter but beginning to droop when April hits, desiring nothing more than a peaceful sunny afternoon on the deck with a magazine and a boat drink.

          (Robert Palm Tree)

Of course, the weatherman reneged and last nights temps got dangerously into the artic circle so both trees got the beach towels around the base treatment. I am pretty sure I heard Robert Palm Tree scratching at our bedroom window, begging to be let back in.

             (Alicia Trees)

Stick around until 'P' and we will all see how this palm tree saga shakes out.

*Click here: http://www.coastofillinois.com/2015/02/the-first-rule-of-sailing-school.html

or here: http://www.coastofillinois.com/2016/01/well-played-neptunewell-played.html

**We are very lucky, here on the Coast of Illinois, to have a strong Italian background with the delicious restaurants and foods to support that claim. Louisa's is a local company and her ravioli is the best, in my opinion. As always, NOT a paid opinion.

Yum!

Challenge Accepted

It has come to my attention that April is A-Z blog writing month. Monday through Saturday I am to post a new blog with the corresponding letter as inspiration. 

Today, April 4, is brought to you by the letter C. 

(You finished that with 'and the number ...' didn't you.)

'C' for me is 'challenge'. 

I am terrible at them. 

Well, not terrible at starting challenges. I excell at starting. I sort of lose steam about a third of the way in and by, oh...week two....have gotten so far behind it is time for the next challenge.

I have tried weightloss challenges-gained 5 pounds.

Workout challenges-made it to 20 second plank but never got past 3 push-ups. Girl push-ups...

I actually did write 50,000 words for a novel contest. Not the National one in November. I did a questionable January event where the topic was chosen by a cat. 

Which also begins with 'C'.

This is easier than I thought....

Actually, I am on day 4 of a 30 day yoga challenge. Of course, by admitting to the world, I have just jinxed my participation. 

I have a real problem with publicly committing. 

Hey! 

Another 'C'!

I do have an underlying motive for this blog challenge. I hope to get back into the habit of writing daily. And hopefully, entertaining you in the process. 

Wow. Two more public declarations. 

Prepare yourselves for an intermittent month of disappointment. 

And now a random pic from my phone. As that is where I am beginning this challenging month of writing.

Clocks. Found at a flea market and purchased for a friend whose daughter will use them as table decor for her New Years Eve wedding. Cute! 

And YES. I realize the alphabet begins with A and then B and it is April FOUR. 

So here-A is for apathy. Which prevents me from doing a whole lot of stuff. 

And B is for Berber. Which spellcheck likes better than 'neener'.

Neener.

Here is the blog which inspired me. Check it out!

http://www.jinglejanglejungle.net/2016/04/colbie-caillat.html?m=1