Pure Magic

Memorable experiences have been the rule rather than the exception this year.  The day I will never forget however, is the one I lived rather than photographed. 

"Liberating" a pair of dark green Hunters from outside the pub and a pair of his stepdaughter's overalls - Tim deposited me in front of the calf barn at Eastbrook Farm one bright sunny morning. From 8am til 8pm, I shadowed Lesley, a truly remarkable homeopathic farmer.

Originally from Holland, she rediscovered a love of organic farming and animals and left her job at KLM behind without regrets. Tall, lean and incredibly strong, she pilots a beat-up land rover around the 1400 acre farm with her scruffy Jack Russell, Barry, (dubbed "tripod" in the village due to the fact he lost a leg) in her lap at all times. This isn't just a job to her - it's a calling. Frustration shows readily in her voice when she asks how people can go home for dinner when something's gone wrong and the animals haven't been fed yet. There is genuine love and affection for the animals she cares for, clearly visible in the way she cheerfully greets her girls and boys and talks gently to them all day long.

We visited every cow on the farm to feed them and check them over, lugging hay bales in and out of the back of the land rover. We helped some of the other workers herd sheep down a long country road between fields, and treated several calves with worms and eye problems - typical of the breed. We fed the chickens and set up a fence around their pen so lazy Basil, a true black sheep, couldn't steal their food. All the while she told me all about the breeds, treatment, and her views on farming. 

I couldn't stop laughing  over the human antics of the animals we worked with - the gangly calves who leapt out from their pens to get better access to hay, looking back gleefully over their shoulders at us, proud of their daring.  Or the methods Basil used to bend the other sheep to his will to form a live battering ram at the fence around the chicken coop.  Or the bull strutting around the yard eyeing the females proudly, having just finished "servicing" them.

But two experiences stood out the most. A proactive measure, vitamin pellets (boluses) are given to cows on organic farms. Cows are herded through a narrow passageway with a gate on the end that closes around their neck to hold them in place to administer the bolus. The rowdy calves who rushed furiously through bellowed loudly (although unhurt) at the loud clanking sound. The mellow ones sauntered along and received a gentle closing that merely made them blink. We had 80 cows to weigh and treat that afternoon, and many of them needed urging of the flank-slapping variety to walk through.

Now, the bolus pellets are placed two-deep in a narrow "gun" apparatus that James would then place in the frothing mouth of the cow, pull the trigger, and release the pellets into the cow's stomach. But frothing would be an understatement. Cow drool is long and slimy and oozed all down the handle of the gun. When James in fact opened his overall pocket later to check on the pay stubs inside, they were soaked beyond recognition - from cow saliva.

"Why," he moaned, "do I always get stuck with this job!!"

"Because you're the new lad!" shot back Clive from across the pen.

My job? To load the pellets into the slimy, cow-drooled gun. Clive's eyes twinkled as he watched me gingerly try to place them without getting covered in sticky saliva, all the while trying not to seem girly.  Fail.

The other highlight was also drooly, but a little like a chick lit novel. Two of the newborn calves weren't feeding properly, so we went to the dairy, filled two litre bottles with fresh warm milk . . . and then I settled in the straw and laughingly fed baby cows with huge eyes. They guzzled so greedily, that when they let go of the bottle to get air, there wasn't enough time to get the teat back in their mouths before they latched onto the next closest thing. Apparently, my knee looks like a suitable subsitute.

But the peace that crept over me feeding the calves while their mothers looked patiently on was priceless. If only I had pictures...

Movin' to the Country

Smack in the middle of my internship, I found a week scheduled at the Royal Oak in Bishopstone, a Wiltshire village of 600 people more or less.  A week living on Eastbrook Farm, cavorting with sheep, pigs, "veal", and "beef" . . . and working in the kitchen of a gastropub with current head chef, Barny Haughton.

Okay, so I was a lot nervous.  I'm a competent home cook - sometimes even a very good one.  I've learned a tremendous amount this year about skills, techniques and "off-roading" - what I call cooking without a recipe and being inspired by seasonal offerings.  But working in a proper restaurant kitchen?  With an award-winning chef?  I think not.

And yet, the week has to rate as one of the biggest highlights of the year.  Helen & Tim's big brick farmhouse where I stayed was so quintessentially English and unpretentious - shelves stuffed with books every which way, kitchen Aga, complete with rather moody dog, Gracie, and wellies and farm overalls piled on hooks outside the side door.  The main door, of course, is rarely used. 


My little blue room looked out onto thatched roof cottages and I could hear irritated cows when their breakfast was too long in coming.  As for my breakfast, the lady of the house left out fresh squeezed orange, carrot and ginger juice daily.

My walk down to the pub in the crisp mornings, and again in the late afternoon for dinner service, wound through back lanes and fields of daffodils.

 

And the pub itself was the best kind of education.  A patient teacher, whose "barking" delivered in the Queen's English made me smile even in the midst of a stressful dinner rush, threw me into the thick of everything and I learned fast.  My first day there, it was only the two of us on.  I may have butchered the pork loin a second time while preparing it, but I was plating starters and pork belly mains by supper.  The cast of local characters wandered by the kitchen often to check in, and Nick, the lovely KP, kept spirits high and dishes clean.  But wow - I have so much respect for anyone who chooses a chef's life.  Every night I collapsed in exhaustion - after Montepulciano and long talks around the pub fireplace that is.

Life as an Intern

"So glad you're here!  It's pastry class tonight and we need to measure out 13 sets of ingredients for the following 3 recipes.  Kelly will show you where to find the supplies in the downstairs kitchen when she has a minute."

And so began my initiation as "intern". 

Bordeaux Quay is a landmark brasserie, bar, deli, restaurant and cookery school on the riverfront in Bristol.  Started by Barny Haughton in 2006, it was the first restaurant and food initiative in Europe to embrace sustainable gastronomy on every level including food sourcing, water, energy, recycling, waste and staff education.  It was even the first restaurant to win the Soil Association's Gold Award.  While Barny is no longer involved in the restaurant and some elements have changed, the Cookery School is still very much his project and a continuation of his previous work, Quartier Vert, with over 20 years of organic and sustainable practices behind it. 

Barny's approach to education and his particular passion for reaching youth resonated with me during his lecture series at UNISG last Fall.  Although I toyed with other options, BQ was where I most wanted to be for this 6 week research and internship period.  However, despite the flurry of emails prior to my arrival here, I didn't know exactly what my work would entail.

It's actually quite simple.  I help with cookery classes.  I'm the slow(er) one in the corner, too timid at first to answer serious cooking questions but there to prep recipe ingredients in organized ways, clear away messy dishes, label baking trays with names and fetch last minute ingredients from unknown locations around the facility.   My uniform of chef's whites, striped apron and ubiquitous blue checkered pants marks me out as I traipse up and down the large wooden staircase in the centre of Bordeaux Quay, throwing myself on the mercy of the harried kitchen staff to track down unknown winter vegetables like swede, or fresh yeast hidden by temperamental bakers. 

I've learned how to get the stern Ukrainian bartender to smile (sometimes) while he makes our much-needed coffees on morning shifts, how to coax already prepared ingredients from the sometimes moody kitchen crew and I'm always able to find soft butter, dariole molds and a good chat from the resident pastry chef.  After several early morning preps for mobile classes in local primary schools, I've even discovered that the deli's cheese and pickle sandwiches are perfect mid-morning pick-me-ups. 

With a full schedule of long-term courses to one-off workshops, I've been able to work at every time of day with almost every member of the staff and every type of group imaginable. From corporate adults, teen moms, university first years, private high schoolers learning skills for their gap year, children with Down's syndrome - this school does so much more than just teach the local middle to upper class how to cook with confidence, important as those classes are.  Despite the redundancy of my daily tasks, I absolutely love my work.

And in the end, it's people who are most important no matter where you are and what you're doing.  In every class, connecting to students even when I had no clue what I was doing has made each day worthwhile.  Like teaching knife skills to a little girl with Down's Syndrome whose accent was so thick I could barely understand her constant chatter except when she told me she had to fart - again.  Or commiserating with a teenager who squealed at the sight of a fresh mackerel - but tried it and liked it once cooked.  Or destroying my first ever batch of pastry dough with too-hot hands while chatting with the gorgeous guy next to me who executed his perfectly and proceeded to tease me the rest of class.  Or discussing why parmigiano is so expensive and how it's made to a group of kids who kept peppering me with questions.  Or even encouraging a frustated twelve year old to try just one more time to put his pasta dough through the machine - to perfect results. 

Drawing deep breaths of clean air as I walk along the river back towards home every day, I leave tired but satisfied.

Getting to Know Bristol

Some places (and people, for that matter) just feel like home from your very first introduction: Bristol is one of them for me.  Full of avid cyclists and outdoorsy people, a vibrant food, arts and music scene, intriguing history, great neighbourhoods - from posh Clifton Village to Montpelier's street art (I'm completely enthralled by Banksy) to the riverfront Quays, hole-in-the-wall bookshops, quintessentially British architecture, soaring churches, secret garden attached to my flat block and hill after hill to climb - I couldn't have found a better place to hang out in for two months.

And for the first time in almost a year, I can understand and be understood EVERYWHERE.  Even if I didn't love my "work", flat, neighbourhood, new friends (which I most emphatically do), that might just be enough for me right now.  Only half kidding...

So I spend my days off wandering, camera in hand, chatting to the incredibly friendly locals, indulging in the occasional pint of lager or cider and savouring the absolutely Spring glorious weather that belies all British whinging. 

From Bra to Bristol

 The sun was golden, reflecting off the buildings as the airport bus wound its way through the streets of Milan.  Not quite the same blazing light as last May, but a similar warm, uniquely Italian summer feel.  Having flown in and out of Milan's three airports these past 10 months more than I'd like to admit given the ensuing hideous carbon footprint, there was a strong sense of deja vu. 

But this was different.  It suddenly hit me that it's over.  Sure, I'll be returning to Italy in May to defend my thesis and graduate.  But school is done.  Some of my classmates are flying home, not to return for graduation.  Others are jetting off to a pizzeria in Naples, a design studio in Florence, a winery in Umbria, free-lance food and travel writing in Berlin, to hug pigs and hairy coos in the Scottish highlands, to work in an organic vegetarian restaurant in Seville.  After months of sardine-like social conditions, we will no longer be privy to everyone's daily moods or share common frustrations over impromptu gourmet potlucks and 4 euro bottles of good Nebbiolo.  It's a little unsettling.

As for me, my jet plane was bound for Bristol in the UK to an unseen flat, an unknown flatmate (albeit a friend of a friend) and an "internship" of undetermined tasks at The Cookery School at Bordeaux Quay.  You never know what will happen when inviting a favourite instructor for dinner, but that meal back in September paid off in spades.

A short verbal tussle with the young customs officer ("no sir, it's more a research project than an internship"), a bus ride through rolling green hills dotted with thatched cottages and a village called "Downside", a rapid cab ride through steep streets lined with brightly-doored row houses, and I was lugging my suitcases up 4 flights of stairs to the top floor flat.




Toasting my new adventure tonight with wine and spicy curry prepared by my new flatmate, Italy already seems like a distant memory.

Deep Fry Your Soul

The email invite was short, direct and to the point, reminiscient of the Epic Meal Time show that inspired the event.  In essence, show up with all cupboard remnants and be prepared - the Cacciatores are going to deep-fry your soul.  Only fitting that the guys who brought us our first full-class aperitivo of unsurpassed rowdiness would finish out the year.

It was loud.  It was messy.  It was hot.  It was sweaty.  It was greasy and obscene.

It was perfect.

Let's start at the very beginning . . .

Yes!  J. Dart's sacred KD contribution
(I did a little joy dance)

Toasting with the mother of all Swiss beer . . .

Deep-fried veal testicles.  Surprisingly tasty

The deep-fry / pork god of MFCC Section B

Liz' Pork Pasta Pork
Imagine pork meatballs stuffed with cheese, nestled in
a pasta shell, wrapped in pancetta THEN deep-fried.

Ale likes it!

Now THIS is what I call aftermath!

Last Class

The whirlwind of final papers, presentations, surprise birthday parties, "clearing out the cupboard" dinners and one extremely late night dancing like an undergrad at the Bra train station and suddenly it was March 4th.  Last day of class.

Film-making seemed a rather anti-climatic way to end the year, but then the whole day smacked of surrealism.  After an interesting morning lecture on techniques and styles, we reconvened after lunch with a challenge: create a 30 second film highlighting the crispness and freshness of a salad.

Thus Sex and the Salad was born.  It might not have been the most originial concept, but the uproarious laughter that marked our planning and filming was a fitting end to the year.  From the simple slow chopping building to the final "crunch" and flying tossed salad set to Prince's "Kiss", our faces hurt from grinning.

In the end, if you can't have fun with food studies, what's the point?

Take 2: Writing about Ghiomo Wine

For comparison to the original form of the journalism assignment, check out the Only in Italy post.

When the pinball machine of clanging thoughts renders studying hopeless, respite is best found at the local wine bar. It may be the soothing familiarity of the battered tables, the slightly musty chill of ancient stone walls or the random Italian rap soundtrack. A more likely answer for some of my classmates is the flirtatious brown-eyed bartender who delivers drinks with a saucy wink. For me however, his value lies not in his admittedly charming appearance but in his uncanny ability to recommend my next favourite wine: bold, distinctive and friendly to a student budget. In a recent bout of procrastination, my classmates and I tasted a breathtaking glass of a local Barbera-Nebbiolo blend, its mysterious label displaying only the name Ghiomo and a deconstructed sketch of a sundial. Days later, we were still discussing the wine with moans of appreciation. Clearly it was time to take this relationship to the next level and visit the winery itself.

Tucked off a narrow country lane outside of Guarene d'Alba, Ghiomo was marked only by a gravel driveway surrounded by rolling vineyards. A penned-up dalmation barked wildly at our tentative approach, provoking the subtle twitch of a curtain as a nonna peered suspiciously out a window. Within seconds, an animated Giuseppino Anfossi stepped outside and greeted his unexpected visitors with great enthusiasm. He quickly ushered us into a large but cluttered office doubling as a tasting room. Gingerly stepping over the scattered toy cars and tricycles that alerted us to the presence of small boys, we took our places with anticipation at the long wooden tasting table.

Regaling us with stories of the family history, Anfossi, a second generation wine-maker deftly opened a series of wines and placed them on the table. Glasses swiftly appeared in front of us, an Arneis poured with one hand as the other wind-milled, emphasizing his exuberant nature. Our eyes widened at the first scents released as we swirled the pale-lemon liquid. Pear, honeysuckle, citrus, spice, lilac all flooded the nose. The aroma was so heady, so fresh, that we allowed the fragrance to develop, savouring the moment before tasting.

In the meantime, Anfossi pointed out the simple cream label, the name Ghiomo embossed at the top in gold cursive with two hands reaching to clasp each other below. As a labour of love, he and a friend blended the Arneis from their two best vineyards to create this wine.

Enough anticipation. The first sip was clean, cool and even a little oily as it coated the mouth. Crisp tang of just-ripe pear melded with floral honey, but with a sharp burst of acidity to cut the sweetness. This was no lacklustre canned fruit salad abandoned on the breakfast table in favour of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. The combination of refreshing bite and robust fruit so ripe its scent rises from the skin was an intoxicating reminder of summers past, never mind our current swaddling of wool coats. We stealthily finished our glasses, loath to waste even a drop.

Anfossi’s eyes glowed as he described the inspiration for each wine he generously poured. His hands flew through the air, punctuating his ready laughter and wit. At least, I’ll have to assume it was wit as he spoke only Italian and I, alas, speak almost none. But his constant smile, intensely passionate commentary and proud display of each bottle as we continued to taste were eloquent enough. And then, he slowly poured the wine that started it all, produced as a fundraiser to restore the ancient village sundial depicted in the simple label.

Bursting on the senses in a blaze of ruby-red, it tasted of slightly smashed, summer-drenched raspberries, warm juices oozing in the bottom of a plastic U-pick pail. Followed immediately by a sucker-punch of cinnamon and spice, fresh-split oak trailed shyly behind. Smooth warmth with no marring bitterness slid down the throat. All that remained was a lingering scuff of sandpaper tannins in the mouth, reminiscent of a lover’s unshaven cheek just before the brush of a kiss.

As we steadily drained our glasses of sundial wine, sun-scorched green pepper and baked earth joined the fray, paying tribute to the growing season of the grapes. With every drop, fresh nuances unfolded. How could one glass ever be enough?

Lessons From a Writer

The workshops we'd dreaded all year had arrived: food journalism.  Section A shuddered whenever the lecturer's name was mentioned.  Harsh.  Humiliating.  Horrible.  Reads papers out loud and highlights all the faults. All words muttered under their breaths about the experience.  Never mind that he's an extremely well-regarded writer and editor in the US, nerves battled with frustration over the writing assignment.

Food and wine are incredibly difficult concepts to write about: how do you convey taste through words without cliches?  There simply isn't an extensive or objective lexicon to express flavour without coming across like a grade two student writing in their journal about the "delicious" dinner they ate last night.  How the hell do you convey what "delicious" means in a way universally understood when taste is so highly subjective?

My decision to challenge myself by writing about wine backfired during my first meeting, which was almost at the end of day one.  "Wine?" he scoffed, "I don't get how to describe wine.  Compare it with another one you've tasted or something."  He tossed the paper back across the recycling counter in the hallway doubling as his temporary office.  I looked down at the pristine pages: he hadn't even read it  No comments, not even a scuff on the page.  Either it was just that bad, or he'd run out of time. 

So I rewrote.  Edited.  Attempted to let my voice shine through.  The entire process was invigorating in a way I haven't experienced academically in quite some time and I'm very proud of the finished product.  At my next meeting, he still hadn't read it, but at least took the time to go through the paper and edit it with me.  Many of the suggestions were excellent ones that streamlined the work.  Others didn't reflect the message I was trying to convey.  He talked throughout the three days about how important it is to discover our unique voice.  True, but I left with the impression that our voice only has real value when it speaks in the style he prefers. 

So C, I appreciate that you're not fond of my "writerly words" but I've spent my professional life simplifying language and concepts for my students.  My writing best expresses who I am when I use words longer than a syllable.  And for that, I make no apologies.

Faces

In the Gardens of Alcazar, Seville

As a typically solo traveler, it's frustrating to look through pictures of some of the most amazing experiences I've had and realize that there's no pictoral proof that I was there.  You'd think I would've learned by now, and yet at the end of every study trip there are next to no photographs of me and I have to rely on others.

This past Fall was a pitched battle for me emotionally and mentally.  Most days I found myself in the dark, clawing up the muddy slope out of the depths of my being, only to struggle over the same rocky ground all over again the next day.  In the bleakness of that place, it became all too apparent that the internal focus on me was doing more harm than good.

So I started turning the camera on my classmates and the people we met on stage: the expressiveness of their faces amplified my own experiences tenfold and brought what my mother calls "pockets of joy".  I have much to learn about photographing people.  One day I'd love to sit at the feet of my friend Sara Manning and soak in her eye and gift for capturing the essence of the people she photographs.  But here is a small representation of the final study trip, seen in the people with whom I shared that time.