The Life of Pie

Spicy Cole Slaw with a Lime-Cilantro Vinaigrette
Roasted Sweet Potato Fries
Spice Rubbed, Mesqiuite Grilled Flank Steak with Salsa Verde
Corn Bread with Basil and Fresh Corn
Corn on the Cob
Homemade Blueberry Pie with Almond Crumble Topping and Whipped Cream
Homemade Raspberry Sorbet with U-Pick Raspberries from Pond Hill Farms

“What IS this?” she said, standing over the platter, two quivering pieces of meat hanging precariously off of one tong on the oversized serving fork. My stomach rolled into a knot, every molecule of my being wanted to duck behind the counter. I wanted to stick my thumb in my mouth for security and cry.

“What IS THIS?” her voice commanded again as she peered at me over her John Lennon glasses. I could see it, the meat wasn’t cut all the way through. The two paper thin slices bound together by a stringy piece of flesh. Like Siamese twins, they wanted to live separate lives but couldn’t escape each other. An ounce more pressure of the knife and they could’ve been free! It could’ve been perfect. But no, not this time…

Flashback to January 2002, I was cooking at Julia’s Kitchen at Copia in the Napa Valley. Alain Ducasse came in for dinner that night and when he walked into the restaurant, it was as if Jesus Christ himself had walked into your living room; everything came to a screeching halt and all eyes were expectantly on him. Food stopped sizzling in its pan out of reverence. The hoods above the stove fell silent out of humility. Even the water at the dishwasher’s station seemed to fall from the spout noiselessly. In fact, the only sound to be heard where the pearls of sweat forming upon our chef’s brow, rolling down his face and splashing on the rubber mats. Alain and his entourage were seated at the best seats in the house overlooking 150-year-old olive trees and acres of organic gardens. Before we knew it, our chef was bounding down the line, taking steps so long it was as if he was gliding on water. Barking orders, he swooped in and began pillaging the most perfect bits of the kitchen crews prep. Every single table in the restaurant would be put on hold and remain waiting for the next 45 minutes as we focused on our dishes for Alain Ducasse.

I had moved up to the hot appetizers station only a few days earlier, but was now temporarily demoted to prepare Alains salad as the new salad girl stood off to the sidelines and watched, not even permitted to touch his food. I was instructed to put together the best baby salad greens we had in house, the best baby edible flowers, the best baby vegetables and put aside the herbal vinaigrette and have everything ready and waiting for when the chef told me to plate. I stood at rapt attention. “Cristina, plate it”, the chef hollered. Hands trembling, I reached for my vinaigrette and put the poppy-seed vinaigrette on my ever-so-perfect salad greens. “Huh”, I gasped. Deeply. My heart leapt into my throat. “Sh**, shi**, wrong vinaigrette! The chef is going to kill me!” (truth be told, he probably wouldn’t have noticed). I ran to the walk-in to grab more greens, came out and ran smack into the chef. "Cristina, why aren’t you ready?” he bellowed, his eyes piercing me like daggers.

“Chef, I… I… I…”.

“For Christ sake Cristina. When Alain Ducasse comes into the restaurant everything else STOPS”.

“Yes chef. But I… I…”, my knees were quaking.

“I TOLD YOU TO BE READY, WHY AREN’T YOU READY? Give me that”, he said, as he snatched the bowl of greens out of my hands. I followed him back to the salad station, “but chef I… I…”.

“You can’t even make a F****ing salad Cristina? What’s the matter with you?”

“but chef, I… “. WHACK! He slammed the metal bowl on the counter top, “now get this salad out and it had better be perfect”

“Yes chef”

By now my nose, fingertips and toes were beginning to go numb from hyperventilating. The server came and picked up the salad. The whole line was at a standstill awaiting the chefs commands. I retreated to the prep kitchen and sat in a corner and breathing heavily until I almost passed out, a stream of hot tears cascading down my cheeks, “I’ll never be a chef, I can’t even get a salad right. Oh God, LIFE IS TERRIBLE! I’M SUCH A FAILURE!”

“WHAT IS THIS?” she said once again. I was instantly snapped back to the present. I looked her in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t cut it all the way through”. “No Cristina, what is it?”. “Ohhhh that! It’s mesquite grilled, thinly sliced flank steak, rubbed with cumin, smoked paprika, black pepper, chilli powder and oregano. And that’s a salsa verde on the side. A little bit spicy, if you’d like to try.” “Mmmm, sounds dee-lish”, she said as she plunked the two pieces of steak on her plate and reached for two more. “Golly Cristina, what kind of mean people have you been working for that you’d think we’d be upset over one tiny piece of steak not being sliced all the way through?”. Oh thank god, because my life just passed before my eye …

That morning, I’d chased the crows off of the blueberry bushes just outside my bedroom door and was able to pick about a quarts worth. Then I spent the afternoon with two friends at Pond Hill Farm on M-119 (5 miles North of Harbor Springs, MI) picking raspberries. Pound Hill is an amazing little family owned farm offering all organic beef, lamb, pork and chicken as well as beautiful produce. They also allow you to pet and feed the baby animals (before you eat them!). Today was “pick your own” day so my frends and I wandered up and down the rows of raspberry bushes. “One for the container, two for me” was my motto as I ate my way through the patch. Even the two year old I was with had more raspberries in his container than me! What can I say though, raspberry picking is my weakness. I cherished my summers in my grandparent’s backyard in Oregon – picking raspberries and eating half before they even made it back to the kitchen…

It’s berry season here in Northern Michigan and I can’t imagine a better time of year! Mr. X had asked yesterday if I knew how to make a blueberry pie. Do I know how to make a blueberry pie? Of course! Never mind that I’d never done it before… After reading several recipes for blueberry pie, I decided on a hybrid of a few different recipes. At first I was tempted not to cook the blueberries before putting them into the pie, but every recipe called for at least some cooking of the berries. So, I went half way. With three pounds of berries, I cooked about one pound of them in a pot with a cup and a half of water. When they came to a simmer and the berries began to burst, I added a slurry of corn starch, plus some sugar and lemon juice and brought it all to a boil until it was nice and thick. I added some lemon zest and then gently folded the warm berry mixture into my remaining two pounds of fresh berries. I poured this into my prepared pie crust (unbaked – and yes, I made the crust) but rather than a lattice crust I made a topping of roasted, ground almonds, ap flour, sugar and butter (blended in the food processor until it just came together) and crumbled it on. I churned the raspberries into fresh raspberry and chocolate sorbet for a lactose intolerant guest at that nights dinner party.

After dinner, it was practical joke time again. Mr. X has been complaining that my desserts are making his waistline grow. But then, when I go out of town for a few days, I return and he says to me, “oh man, now I have to go back to eating healthy. I was really enjoying eating pizza and hotdogs while you were gone”. He and Mrs. X are both avid bikers and serious athletes (and they’ve gotten me REALLY into cycling as well). Neither of them has an inch of fat on their bodies, nor do they believe in dieting. So, I told Mr. X that he couldn’t have dessert until he got his butt onto his bike and peddled out to Legs Inn and back (about 30 miles away – a beautiful ride, I did it two days ago). So, when it was time for dessert, as generous pieces of warm pie heaped with whipped cream were served to each guest and Mr. X bounced in his chair like a hyper-active third grader awaiting his turn, I sent out a special plate just for him: a bite of pie the size of a pea, with a tiny dollop of whipped cream and one, lone blueberry.

“Better get on your bike and start peddling, boss”…

Wayward Blueberry Pie
Makes filling for two 9-inch pies

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

You will need 2 unbaked 9-inch pie crusts
(I did not supply a recipe for pie crust – do a search on the web, there are plenty out there!).

You will also need a food processor.

FILLING
3 pounds fresh blueberries (4 to 5 quarts, give or take)
1 cup sugar
1 cup water, plus 3 tablespoons (divided)
3 tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest

Measure 1 pound of blueberries into a medium sauce pan. To this, add 1 cup of water. Bring to a simmer, just until blueberries begin to burst and release their juices. Stir together cornstarch and 3 tablespoons water to make a slurry. While stirring berry mixture, add slurry, sugar and lemon juice and bring to a boil. Cook until thick (about 2 minutes). When berry mixture is thick, remove from heat and gently fold into fresh berries, adding lemon zest. Allow to cool before pouring into prepared pie crust.

ALMOND CRUMB TOPPING
12 oz. Almonds, toasted
2 cups flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
3/4 cup unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes and chilled (or frozen)
pinch of salt

Place almonds in food processor and process until finely ground, add flour, butter, sugar and salt and process until topping just comes together. Topping should be a bit clumpy and moist, not powdery and dry. If it is too dry and not coming together, add more butter.

ASSEMBLY
Divide filling between two unbaked pie crusts. Crumble almond topping over filling and bake at 375 for 50 minutes, or until filling is bubbling, topping is well browned and crusts are done. Or, as a chef I worked with said to me once when I asked how long I should bake something, “until it’s done Cristina. Until it’s done.”

A beautiful thing...

Herbed Cream Puffs Filled with Smoked Whitefish Mousse

Vegetarian Sushi with Marinated Vegetables

Sesame Crusted Crab Cakes with Wasabi Aioli

Tuna Tartar on a Rice Cracker with Avocado Cream and Caviar

Mini Pita Sandwiches with Curried Chicken Salad and Water Cress

Deviled Eggs Piped into Veggie Cups and Garnished with Spanish White Anchovies, Capers and Cornichon

Cheeze Whiz on Ritz Crackers Garnished with Fresh Chives ala Mr. X

The fundraiser kicked off swimmingly, with donations reaching nearly a half-million dollars for new cancer screening equipment for the local hospital. A string quartet played softly in a corner underneath a floating staircase and next to a Buddha sculpture dating back several thousands of years. Servers bustled around the growing crowd with trays of champagne and filed out of the kitchen with platters of tuna tartar and caviar, crab cakes, smoked whitefish mousse and sushi.

My new boss (the male half) looking stoic and serious in pressed khakis and a gold-buttoned, blue blazer stood talking to a group of other stoic and serious looking men and having what looked like a very serious, deeply engrossing, ever so important conversation. Meanwhile, I prepared a special horsdeouvre platter just for him – Ritz Crackers with Cheese Whiz, on a green glass tray with a garnish of chopped chives and and an arrangement of fresh flowers as the center piece.

“Bring this straight to Mr. X”, I told the server and watched him as he breezed across the room, parting the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea, making a B-line to my new boss. Mr. X reached blindly over to the tray, then looked at what he had in his hand and then at the tray and burst out laughing, “Cristina, this is perfect!” he shouted from across the room and let out a roar of laughter, grabbing the tray from the server and passing them to everyone around. Soon he was in the kitchen, group of Cheese Whiz mongers in tow and with the empty tray in his hand, “See? It’s empty! Everyone loves Cheese Whiz! Got any more?”. Then he and the others made themselves comfortable at the counter squirting fluorescent yellow, processed cheese "product" onto Ritz crackers and popping them into their mouths… ACK!

As unlikely as it may sound, my new bosses are actually really into food, the “Mrs.” half of the equation was formerly a professional restaurant cook herself! But the Mr. warned me shortly after I started that although he loves good food, he too loves his Cheese Whiz, and his Redi Whip (and the Redi Whip was a whole other joke that lead to there now being 18 cans of Redi-Whip in the damn refrigerator! Where am I supposed to put the REAL food?). I told him that his obsession with spray food was fine as long as I didn’t find him huffing the cans in the back pantry… And ever since then, I have been finding every way possible to tease him about it.

Last week, in celebration of my accepting the position with them, Mr. and Mrs. X took me to lunch at their country club. And as we sat in the shade of the bright yellow umbrellas, overlooking Lake Michigan, eating club sandwiches and drinking Arnold Palmers, I pulled from my purse a can of Cheese Whiz and a package of Ritz Crackers and handed them to my new boss, telling him, “here, in case you aren’t happy with your lunch.”, which sent the table into a fit of hysterics – his family thoroughly appreciated my chiding.

But the fun will not stop here… When that yacht is launched, dear Mr. X will be finding Cheese Whiz in every conceivable place on the yacht; his medicine cabinet, next to his pillow at night, in the Emergency Overboard Bag… And I know they’ll laugh – because that’s just the kind of people they are. They appreciate a good smart-ass, which is great because I can be an excellent one. Like I said, I have THE BEST JOB EVER. I have every kitchen toy conceivable, can cook whatever my heart desires, and my employers are the nicest, most fun employers anyone could have. HA! I’m so lucky! I knew it would all work out…

Ok, soon, I will get back to some real writing… I have had a ton of fun making a real bread starter with wild yeast, making an excellent soft-serve Mexican chocolate ice-cream, cooking for some great parties and shopping at some amazing local farmers markets. Oh, and overseeing the design and build of the yachts galley of course…

More to come. Much, much more to come…

It's official...

I have the BEST. JOB. EVER.

Before today, people just thought I had the best job ever. But now, I really do....

After eight years of pimping myself out to the gluttonous masses, I have FINALLY landed my dream job. And, I do mean DREAM JOB!

My trial period was supposed to last 2 weeks, but on the 3rd day my soon-to-be new boss came into the kitchen beaming like a ray of sunlight, gave me a big hug and said, “would you like to work for us? We’d just love to have you. We love your cooking, you have great energy, you’re so free spirited. We like having you around. What do you say?”.

And so, over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, I said, “ok, but I need a month off every 4 months so that I can throw a backpack on and go trekking across the globe”. No problem. “And I need a sous-chef on the yacht”. No problem. “And I need to be paid well”. No problem. “And I need this whole list of kitchen equipment.” No problem. “But I have to go back to New York for a friends wedding”, No problem, the jet will take you. “you make it really hard to say no”.

I’ll be spending the remainder of the summer at their house on Lake Michigan – with my very own vegetable garden and the biggest, most abundant herb garden I’ve ever seen, much less had use of!

And when I ask for anything whether it be a car to get around in, a bike to go exploring, or a day off, it’s always “no problem". And when I wake in the morning, I go swimming in the 30 meter salt-water lap pool. And I can work on my menus sitting in the Japanese gardens outside the kitchen, among the ponds and a stone fountain and with a giant Buddha looking over my shoulder. And there are farms everywhere brimming with sweet Michigan cherry’s (which made a great compote for my lemon cheesecake), baby vegetables the size of my thumb nail, local organic beef, lamb and pork, smoked whitefish from the lake, and so on and so forth. And every person I have met in town that knows my new boss says, “oh, you’re very lucky. That’s a dream job. They're great people to work for.” And every person I’ve met that works for them says, “oh, you’re very lucky. That’s a dream job. They're great people to work for”.

My new bosses are very happy people, very creative and fun. Unassuming, and a bit eccentric, nice as can be, in that mid-western way – which is totally cool (I’ve completely underestimated the mid-west). If I had written a list of what my dream job would be, who the ideal people to work for would be – it could not have been any better than the people I am cooking for now. They know and love food, aren’t dieters, love to talk about food and are always happy to try something new.

In my first week we took a culinary trip around the world. I did a big Indian dinner one night with chicken in a curry-yoghurt sauce, halibut vindaloo, spicy green beans, fresh coriander chutney, fresh mango chutney, na’an bread and pappadamns. The next night I made fresh pasta and pesto with basil from their herb garden and the next night Mexican with a chorizo stuffed pork tenderloin (the chorizo is locally made) with tomatillo sauce and goat cheese stuffed chilli releano’s to start. Even their 3 year old grandson who is just the cutest thing in the world, came bounding down the steps while I cooked Indian food and said, “mmmm, something smells good!”. He also ate my fresh pasta, loaded with vegetables – which made mom proud.

So, life is good. Life is great actually. And when my feet are back on the ground I’ll get back into more food blogging.

Oh yeah, and theirs lots of talk of doing a circumnavigation of the globe once the yacht is launched. But really, the itinerary is just the icing on the cake.

Someone pinch me.

It's Always Something.

At this particular moment in time, my life is feeling a lot like the 9th Ward in New Orleans. The levy has broken and the waters are flooding in...

A health predicament, a glitch in the system as I like to refer to it (the details of which I prefer not to delve into), has yet again put a damper on my dreams of doing a season in the Mediterranean. I’m not sure why it is the Universe keeps signalling to me that it’s not my time to go – “signalling me”, you know, like a kick in the head… But what is life if not to grow, change and become a more compassionate and understanding human being from each new experience; "character building", as my father would say (don't I have enough character yet?!). For instance, over the past few weeks I’ve become intimately familiar with what it must be like to be a fish at the Fulton Fish Market; wrapped in paper, jabbed, prodded, weighed and manhandled, quite an experience I tell you. I feel much more compassion for my aquatic friends already – so much in fact that I’ve decided to prepare some for dinner; herb stuffed, whole grilled, land-locked, fresh caught Chinook salmon, compliments of a family friend. Accompanied by some grilled bok choy, a soba noodle sesame salad and a lovely Schmidt Family Syrah from the Applegate Valley in Southern Oregon. And soon, for me as well, I’ll be filleted, snipped, re-arranged, stuffed and sowed shut. Karma’s a bitch.

Another funny thing has happened since I’ve been home with this “glitch”. Unknowingly, I’ve discovered the benefits of being patient (God knows, if patience is a virtue, I am completely virtue-less). Somewhere further back in this blog, some time ago, I scribbled something about having interviews lined up in Mexico and Italy. Both interviews I decided to cancel because although they sounded wonderful and glamorous, there were some major pitfalls; cheap owners, extremely picky eaters, not enough closet space for my shoe collection, etc. I also wanted to work on a yacht of 150 feet or bigger – and neither of the interviews were for yachts of that size. But after I turned down those interviews, even more offers came along and still the yachts weren’t the "right" size, or something else was just amiss. But the more offers I refused, the more offers came along, on bigger and better yachts. And then came this little health "glitch", and I had to kiss those offers goodbye too, which was really upsetting to feel as though my hopes and dreams were being dashed away. I fell into a pit of despair and threw myself a pity party – complete with chamomile tea and butter cookies (Walkers Shortbread Cookies - I was too depressed to make my own).

While I licked my wounds, sulked, bitched and moaned about ‘why me’ and became intimately acquainted with the cracks in the sidewalk, fallen leaves, dog turds and the chipped polish on my imperfect toes – a conversation was being had, emails were being exchanged, my blog was being read and someone was deciding whether to hire me. And on a dark and miserable afternoon (80 degrees and sunny) an email popped into my box and read something like, “heard about you through Captain Kirk from the Star Ship Enterprise. We chartered the Enterprise several times, captain raves about you and we love him. We read your blog, you’re our kind of gal. We’re building a 156 ft. Motor Yacht being launched in the spring of ’08 and circumnavigating the globe. Would you be interested in coming on as our chef, and overseeing the design and build of the galley?”.

With hardly a moment to pick myself up, I was being whisked away in a private jet heading to the shipyard to meet the owners and see the yacht where it is being built. I left the yard with a smile on my face, the scent of epoxy tickling my nose and a giant set of plans rolled up under my arm detailing the design of galley. And since, I’ve been swapping emails with the owners and designers making suggestions for changes and additions. Dashed were my chances of prolonging my pity party. Oh darn.

Just a wee-little yacht...

Next Saturday I’ll be forced, yet again, to join the private jet and fly halfway across the country in rock star style to cook for the owners at their vacation home for two weeks. Assuming I don’t poison them with my cooking or burn down their house in those weeks, they’ve offered to work around my surgery and recovery schedule before coming to work for them.

My insurance company is refusing to cover my medical expenses. I had to have a wisdom tooth pulled. My favorite family cat that we’ve had since I was 13 had to be put down. I’m staying with my mother (I haven’t lived at home since I was 16) and very soon I’ll be down to my last few dollars in my bank account. And, my first two literary agents rejected me in my (first of many) attempts to get this culinary adventure story turned into a book. But somehow or another, I think everything is going to be alright... Character building, right?! Yeah life, I love a good challenge!

Now if you’ll excuse me, my limo awaits… Will somebody make sure there’s a bottle of bubbly chilled when I wake from the anaesthesia?

A brief pause...

The season has finally come to an end and I'm back in NYC - thoroughly indulging in long, hot showers paying no mind to how much hot water I use, enjoying sleeping in a full-size bed without having to endure other crew members snoring, appreciating being able to walk on land again, and actually wear something other than board-shorts and flip flops, not that I mind that - but it's great wearing high heels again! Whoopie!

It's lovely here in New York, trees and flowers blossoming everywhere - although 62 degrees feels frigid to me...


Anyway, I'm taking a break from blogging for a little while while I eat my way through New York, California and Oregon - then it's off to the Mediterranean! But not until early June...

Ciao,
Cristina

Mango Mania

We took off out of the Pitons in St. Lucia, cruising across the smooth as glass waters and as I looked up at the beautiful conical mountains I thought to myself, this day is like no other, there will never again be a day like this, I should appreciate it. I don’t know why this thought went through my mind, but after an extremely trying week, it seamed like a good thing to focus on; all the possibilities that lay ahead... We pulled into Soufrere, a tiny, French fishing village with storybook architecture and winding streets – it looked like a movie set, or a lost town in the South of France. A rasta on shore helped lift my bags out of the tender and grabbed his friend, Raymond, to take me to the airport.

The taxi wound through the mountainous rainforest en route to the capital city of Castries. We passed through amazing little towns that although run down, were full of life and color. Street vendors with mountains of banana’s and alien looking local produce, women carried bags of laundry on their heads, little children in their Sunday best walking down the street, and brightly colored houses pocked the mountainside – it was just what I always imagined the Caribbean to be. As we wound through the hills, I couldn’t help but notice everywhere I looked were enormous, bushy mango trees bursting with the largest, most plump mangoes begging to be picked, and bigger than any I’d seen on the islands so far. I hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning, or even had a proper cup of tea so I was lusting over the thought of just being able to pick and eat. My lucky moment came when the taxi ground to a halt in front of a Rastafarian on the side of the road selling coconuts and mangoes and with a live boa constrictor in his hands. The taxi driver and the rasta chatted away in their thick accents in island Creole and soon we were parked. I hadn’t made any mention of being breakfast-deprived, but the taxi driver must’ve read my thoughts for as soon as we were parked the rasta wielded his giant machete and lobbed off the top of two coconuts and handed them to us to drink, and when we finished, he hacked them in half, creating a spoon out of a piece of husk and showed me how to scoop out the young, sweet flesh to eat, all the while playing with the wild boa he had in his hand. As we all stood around chatting, the rasta and the taxi driver were friends and somehow in the course of conversation the boa (named “Daniel”, by the rasta) ended up wrapped around my neck as I held its head at a safe distance. After some joking and picture taking, he handed me a mango and said, “dis is for you, lovely lady”. Then, it was time to continue our journey to the airport….

As we made our way around the mountains and through banana plantations, I studied my mango and thought about how I should go about eating it. “Peel it wit’ your teeth, mon” and so I did, biting through the skin and then ripping the peel away with my fingers. The fruit inside was bright gold and juicy and the pulp was like custard. I gnawed and chewed at the pit and the fiber to get every last ounce of fruit. Like a four-year-old, I had juice running down my chin and my fingers were a goopy, sticky mess – which I vowed to lick clean so not one drop would go to waste. As I slurped away at my fingers, the drivers friend who was travelling with us looked back at me and laughed, and thankfully handed me a towel. “That was the best mango I’ve ever had”, “there are 52 different varieties of mangoes on St. Lucia”, the driver declared, “Great, I’ll have to come back to try them all!”. This was living…

Earthly Delights

The aroma of ganja and garlic filled the air. “five more minutes, mon”, he inhaled deeply off a joint as thick as his thumb, and easily four inches long. “D’er baking right now, all da garlic is infusin’ in dem”. His eyes were like slits, his hair pulled into a fluffly little ball atop his head, sun glasses balanced precariously above his eyebrows, long forgotten, as if they’d been resting there forever. Offenbach’s “Orpheaus in the Underworld” (the ‘can-can’ as you and I know it) played incessantly on the cell phone in his pocket.

We’d pulled into the cul de sac on Union Island that afternoon with the intention of digging a pit and making our own barbeque. But when we arrived to the beach, a man who called himself “Shark Attack” was set up with everything for barbequing, including dishes, silverware and a hot grill. We chatted over rum punch and planned out the evening. I brought him a sack full of lobster and watched in awe as he pulled out an enormous specimen of a machete and proceeded to split 4 lobsters clean in half – like a hot knife thru butter - right down the center. He nestled the lobsters into a cozy bed of hot embers and slathered them with a thick layer of “Shark Attacks” homemade garlic sauce. I was able to procure a recipe from him – lots of grated fresh garlic and ginger, the venerable ‘all purpose ‘Green Seasoning’ found throughout the Grenadines and butter. Honestly, I was distracted. Yes, by the smell of the ganja – but also by the irrepressible concern that the lobsters were being overcooked. I’d done everything right thus far with the guests and I couldn’t screw up now by having the lobsters overcooked!

I returned to the table, took a sip of my Planters rum punch – sweet and strong, walked back to the bbq and in my most calm, collected voice said, “hey man, you sure they need 5 more minutes”? “ya mon – 5 more minutes”. I stood by and watched and now I just figured the man must know what he’s doing. The smell of roasting garlic filled my senses and put me at ease. Intuition, that’s how I know how my cooking is coming along and I had to pay Shark Attack my respect and know that he uses his senses too, and knows how to cook a lobster.

“You’re a popular man” I joked with him, as the can-can number played on his cell phone over and over again. He took a rip from his never ending joint, “ya mon, but I have the choice not to answer it”. He smiled and laughed and one by one, pulled the lobsters off of the bbq and piled them onto a platter. I ferried the platters to the table and served the enormous half tails to the guests, as well as to myself, and to our first mate.

I took my first stab at the half-lobster in front of me, it that was the length and width of my forearm. For one more brief moment I was skeptical, but my taste buds rejected my fear as the buttery, garlicky sweetness of lobster, tinged with smoke, melted in my mouth. You couldn’t have bought a better dinner at the finest restaurant in Manhattan – to say the least about the ambiance. An almost full moon, casting a magical glow across the mountainous landscape of Union Island, lighted the sky. The white, sandy beach shined, the stars sparkled, the ocean provided the background music of its gentle waves crashing upon the shore, and the finest earthly aromas filled the air.

Wine flowed like water, and soon – and completely unexpectedly - the ganja did as well among this group of guests whose identity I have sworn to complete and total secrecy. The lobsters were spectacular and soon after the lobsters came a plate of bonito, heavily spiced and bbq’d. We’d brought along a crock of foie gras, German potato salad, mixed greens with local tomatoes and a cheese platter of raw milk camembert, Roquefort and Chaumes, all perfectly aged, fresh baguette and several bottles of Geourge De Boufs Boujaleaise. It was feast fit for the Crown.

I could’ve shoved all the dished to the ground, cleared the table, climbed on top and fallen asleep in a state of gluttonous satisfaction – but that would’ve been totally inappropriate in front of our guests. Instead, our first mate and I cleared the table of the glassware that belonged to the boat, left everything else and went to fetch the tender. I’d say, our BBQ on the beach was a complete and utter success.

Rasta pasta...

All was not lost on the charter with the bonafide movie star and malfunctioning galley. When it got to the point where I could only use the stovetop, I decided to bust out the pasta maker and spent an afternoon in the galley making fresh linguine – for which I was accused by said movie star of showing off. But from her, I will take that as a compliment.

I had found two bags of Italian semolina pasta flour in one of the cupboards. The flour was from Italy and based on that fact alone, I assumed it must be good. Not having a pasta recipe, I decided to wing it. There’s one great thing that I love about homemade pasta, even if it’s not perfect, it’s still heaps better than any dried pasta from the grocery store… So, with that, I piled the soft, yellow flour into a mound on the counter top adding a bit of wheat flour, as I’ve found that straight semolina flour can sometimes be a bit more fragile to work with as it doesn’t have the glutens that wheat flour has. I created a well in the center of the flour and added 4 egg yolks and two whole eggs – for no other reason other than the fact that I couldn’t recall whether pasta is usually made with whole eggs or yolks – then, a pinch of salt and some olive oil and proceeded to smoosh it around until I had a nice, soft, kneadable dough. I kneeded and kneaded until the dough was smooth and pliable, soft, but not tacky.

I started to set up the pasta maker on the tiny counter. But this was a little sailing yacht (my mom always laughs when I say “little” – 80 ft., that’s little by mega yacht standards) and there was a lip around the counter tip which created a challenge using the vice grip that secured the past maker to the counter… but with extra cutting boards, lots of non-skid, and a little patients I made it work and set to the task of cranking 2 heaping trays of linguine.

I made a sauce of local Caribbean lobsters, porcini mushrooms, leeks, white wine, cognac and a bit of cream one of the best sauces I think I’ve ever made. I served a half lobster tail atop the pasta, which was greeted with a boisterous round of applause. The guests departed early the next morning, I immediately went to the dive shop and signed up for a few dives in Antigua – then it was off to join another yacht…

Buffalo Mozzarella Napoleons to Start


Gold Plated Chocolate Mousse for Dessert