The truth is I had already made my own exploratory visit to Hog Island. A week earlier I stopped by on my way to the city (a BIG detour) and took the plunge. The farm is nestled against the shores of Tomales Bay, an anomalous finger of Pacific water following a trench formed by the San Andreas fault. It was Friday, and things were pretty slow around the picnic area. The place is primarily a processing facility and there are great tanks of recirculating seawater in which bags of oysters and manila clams (another farm specialty) are stored to purge and stay clean before sale. The picnicking area itself is a bit of genius — a few tables and benches right on the water and a funky old boat sticking up vertically to form the bar. I met Garrett, a recent grad from St. John’s College in Santa Fe, and got the run down on how things worked at Hog Island. He loaded up a plastic tray with ice and oysters and showed me the basic technique for getting the good stuff out of the shell. The primal tool of oyster opening is the shucking knife, and what Garrett had done effortlessly with a flick of the wrist took me much wiggling and prying and pushing. But as I worked my way through the first dozen I got the feel for cutting through the hinge and finessing the twist-and-slide motion needed to pop the top open and cut through the adductor (the muscle that closes the shell). And with each successful opening I was rewarded with a taste that was so refreshing (ice cold), so evocative of the sea (brine and mineral), and so tangy with Hogwash (a seasoned vinegar or mignonette) that I could barely open the next fast enough. By the second dozen I was hooked. I would be back in barely a week.

When Sage and I arrived it was midday on a Saturday and the picnic area was packed. Sage took to playing on a nearby gravel pile and I haggled for a corner at one of the benches. The wonderful cowboy-hatted woman working the bar saw what I was about and got us squared away with a tray, a knife, and some Hogwash. Jose at the tanks hooked us up with a nice selection of kumamotos and extra-small Pacifics (these are varieties of oysters). Sage was, of course, fascinated by the icy mollusc heap. And to make matters more interesting Jose and one of the other guys were showing off a HUGE oyster they had just pulled from the bay – haggling over who would get to open and eat the giant. As we settled into our wooden bench the moment of truth was at hand – what would the “good lovin’ farmer Sage” (his own self-assigned moniker) make of raw oysters. As the lid popped off the first extra-small I cut the oyster in two, reserving the big, soft, meaty bit for Sage and keeping the chewy, frilly stuff for myself. Accidentally I slipped the whole thing into the Hogwash (rice wine vinegar, cilantro, shallots and other goodness) but Sage quickly grabbed his nibble out and popped it in his mouth. I could see the instant pucker from the vinegar, and then a scrunched up pause of textural uncertainty. But in the end the proclamation was made — “Mmmmm, I like oysters!” — followed by urgings to get busy shucking the next. We polished off a dozen together and I figured that was enough for Sage’s first round – even though I was tempted to keep going. We also had some nice Wild Flour bread from the bakery in Freestone, and a bit of chocolate. With this gift of good food in our bellies we headed out for the tidepools, where we fed sea anemones on bits of busted up blue mussel and watched the waves roll out with the low tide. I wish my parenting was always this good!

Postscript: I revisited my friends at Hog Island yesterday (after one of the best road rides of my life) for a light lunch and a look out over the bay. I discovered another little gem that you should all know about — their little links of homestyle Spanish chorizo. The rich, meaty-spicy taste of the sausage paired with the bright, briny taste of the oysters was just about perfect. If only I had saved some of that bread from Della Fattoria in Petaluma! If you live anywhere near Marin County go visit the Hog Island Oyster Farm. I am sure oysters in restaurants are nice.  But oysters, like most great food, come from some place outside – someplace where there is wind and salt and mud. They have a natural heritage generally at odds with fine tableware and fancy napkins. For us the place to taste that heritage is Tomales Bay, sitting at a weathered picnic table, watching the shorebirds fly in over the tidal flats.  I can’t wait for the next visit.

Boiled meal. Whether corn or buckwheat or some other ground nut or grain, there can’t be a more primal, more rustic culinary preparation than boiled meal. (Meal is simply a coarse grained flour.) But somehow in the west we have come to think of polenta (the Italian name for boiled cornmeal) as a gourmet dish. But this only because of the garnishes we lavish on “gourmet polenta” — fine cheeses, meats, and sauces. At its heart polenta is boiled meal — one of humanity’s oldest and simplest culinary staples. Peasant food.

Here in Nepal boiled meal goes by the name “dhido” (something like dhee-dough). It is traditionally made with native buckwheat, but today is made with cornmeal as well. It is usually eaten with a spicy soup and with one or more achars (savory and spicy salsas). It may also simply replace rice in the otherwise typical Nepali meal of dal (lentil soup) and tarkari (curried vegetables). Keep in mind that rice, while ubiquitous in the Himalaya, is a lowland import. Dhido, and higher up tsampa (toasted barley flour) are the more traditional (and less costly) starches of mountain folk. I was first introduced to Dhido by my good friend Indra Rai, a Nepali mountain guide, while trekking in the Annapurna Region. Indra is a tiny man from the Solu-Khumbu region with a huge heart and an even bigger appetite. And Indra loves dhido. I noticed on that trek back in 2001 that Indra rarely ate with us in the tiny restaurants, called tea houses, along the route. He would make sure we were all settled with our typical rice, soup, and vegetables and then he would disappear into the smoky kitchen of the local family. One day, in a town called Kagbeni in the Trans-Himalayan landscape of Mustang, I asked him what he was up to everyday in the kitchen. “Dhido.” “I am up to dhido.” And of course I was invited to join him and that was the beginning of my interest in Himalayan mush.

There is nothing too special about the taste of boiled meal. It has a taste — anyone that has had polenta or good grits knows this is true. But dhido, like polenta, is really a neutral carbohydrate canvas on which one can layer an infinite variety of more assertive flavors. And in the Nepali context, where everyone eats with their hands, it is much easier to manage than rice. You tear off little balls of the dhido, dip them into the sauces, and pop them into your mouth. If the dhido is hot and properly prepared it is really quite a nice, light, soft thing to eat. So on subsequent visits to Nepal I have always looked for opportunities to eat dhido – where ever it could be found.

Which brings me to my present trip and my most recent dhido-eating experience. I was teaching a workshop in a small, Inner Terai town called Hetauda and I asked my hosts if we could eat dhido for dinner one night. A couple of them lit up at the idea and a plan was quickly devised for the following night. The next day was extremely hot and humid, and after several hours roasting in a concrete meeting hall I was thrilled to load into the jeep and hit the road for the dinner “restaurant.” As we drove along the mighty Rapti River the rushing air and sunset drama refreshed us all. I fell into wondering about the rhinos and other animals that I knew lay just across the water in Chitwan National Park. But after 15 minutes of driving I realized that we were long past the outskirts of town and still headed west. Where were we going? Where was this restaurant? My friends Abadhesh and Balram assured me that good dhido was simply not to be found in town. We were headed to a family run joint along the river that was well known locally for their corn dhido and accompaniments.

After another 10 minutes or so we pulled off at a small collection of roadside shacks and parked. Perhaps three families were living in tiny, makeshift houses, each with a thatched veranda, and there were trucks and cars parked here and there in the lot. “Here we are!” Here? I asked for clarification. This was indeed a truck stop of sorts – a roadhouse – a place where drivers and other hungry travelers stopped for generous, cheap and tasty servings of Nepali comfort food. The proprietors were likely immigrants from the nearby hills, displaced perhaps by the violence of the Maoist insurgency that ended only a year or two ago.

We sat down around a picnic table under one of the thatched roofs and placed our orders. To accommodate our group of 8 a large wok was produced and the fire was stoked inside the earthen oven. The woman of the house – a plump, happy gal of about 45 – brought some water to a boil then poured in long streams cornmeal. There were no measurements, no fussing over the process. She had been doing this for a lifetime. No other tools were needed. After a few stirs with a big spoon Pop took over with a wooden paddle. It was still very hot and humid, and the fire was blazing in the stove. This combined with the physical exertion of stirring and turning the thickening mass of dhido must have been REALLY hot! His casual, chatty manner belied the fact that he was a master at this process – every turn and fold with the paddle brought the still soupy cornmeal right to the edge of the wok – but none was ever spilled. While he stirred his wife, their son and daughter-in-law, and a few neighbors passed around a couple of new babies. I could never tell who belonged to whom, such was the affection showed by all.

It began pouring rain, and eventually the cooking was finished. Large thali-style silver plates were served – a big mound of dhido in the middle surrounded by small dollops of curried vegetables and very piquant achars. There was also a small dish of spicy chicken soup for dunking the dhido. No formalities here. Without a word the family and neighbors went back to doting on the babies and we tucked in. At some point one of them offered seconds around the table and more eating ensued. After the meal some of our group retired to the roadside and mixed with the family. What an unexpected oasis was this roadhouse/truckstop/squatter’s camp in the middle of the jungle!

I asked for the tab and settled up. The damage? A couple of bucks a person. This is peasant food after all…

A 12 hour layover is a fine thing if that layover happens to be in Hong Kong. It is one of the few cities in the world where you can actually escape the terminal for no cost and no paperwork. And the excellent train system takes you directly to the heart of downtown in 25 minutes! Not only do you get to muse at what must be one of the most internationally eclectic cities in the world, you also get eat dim sum – and you know how I feel about dim sum (see my post from February). But on this day, as I walked off my hefty lunch in the sanctuary of an underground mall (a typhoon brewing and spewing rain outside), I encountered the most amazing grocery store I have ever seen. Ever. Why? Let us consider the meat counter.

The meat counter at C!tySuper looks, at first glance, like that of any other gourmet food shop — beautifully cut chops and steaks, Maine lobsters and Scottish salmon — exotic for this corner of the planet but not shocking. Then your eye hones in on the special Wagyu beef display — check out the marbling in that ribeye — and your jetlagged mental calculator starts converting the pricetag from HK$ into USD. Slowly the words “whoa Bessie” come to mind as you realize that this rare gem will set you back $100 PER STEAK! That’s $400 bucks on the grill for a family BBQ! But let’s not stop with the Japanese beef. At the end of the deli counter there is a display of fine looking hams hanging in a glass case. Fine Spanish hams. Fine Spanish hams that run about $200/lb. I get a hunch that some of those haunches fetch close to $2000 apiece. I’ll take two – grams that is. Moving further along in the store I found $2000 bottles of French champagne and $200 bottles of olive oil. At least the gummy bears and the rice crackers were affordable.

The item that impressed me most however was a small bottle of vinegar. The contents of this bottle, “Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena,” is perhaps one of the finest, most precious foodstuffs in the world. Crafted from trebbiano grapes in the Po River Valley of northern Italy and aged in barrels of varying wood types, traditional balsamic (as opposed to the generic balsamic vinegars of the American supermarket) is truly more an elixir than a condiment. I once tasted some 30 year old traditional balsamic at a friend’s house, first on a spoon then over a small scoop of good vanilla ice cream. Viscous like maple syrup and intensely concentrated — earthy and ethereal at the same time. I don’t really know how to use wine lingo, but great balsamic must be the very definition of flavor complexity. And while I have never purchased any myself, it was one of those tasting experiences that sticks in the mind for a very long time. It is not surprising, then, that it should show up here in this Asian gourmet shop. But what really struck me about this particular little bottle, tagged at nearly $1000, was the age. 100 years. A portion of the liquid gold in this bottle started as grapes harvested in the early 1900′s. The Italians that put that juice into its first barrels are surely long gone from this earth. Those barrels somehow survived World War I and the reign of Mussolini – carefully tended by the skilled hands of two or three generations of Modenisi. In the early 1900′s the natives of Hong Kong were subjects of the British Empire — small cogs in a very large eurocentric machine. But somehow, through the stranger than fiction flow of human history, this small Italian amulet has come to rest here in a Hong Kong market. Waiting for some affluent Chinese family to pick it up, take it home, and savor those drops of liquid history on a fresh Asian pear.   

This morning I joined my good friend Martin and his mom for a trip to Cusco’s largest farmer’s market — Mercado San Jeronimo — to buy flowers and vegetables and to admire the festivities associated with Dia de las Madres. Martin’s mother has been coming here to the Sunday market for more than 40 years and today was special — it was the first time she had visited the market in many months, owing to a debilitating health condition. I could sense her nostalgia and anticipation as we entered the big metal gates. For her this place is hard-wired into the DNA of her home and family, it is the literal flesh and bones of her three adult children and an integral part of who she is as a woman and mother living in this high Andean city. What a great privilege to be here with them on Mother’s Day!

Despite the recent rise of supermarkets in Peru, farmer’s markets are still the place to go for foodstuffs, flowers, and many other household goods. Every pueblo has a weekly market, and larger cities have several operating throughout the week. Here at San Jeronimo there are fruits and vegetables trucked in from all over the country as well as Andean staples like potatoes, oca tubers, and quinoa from Cusco’s nearby mountain communities. These markets are filled with color and conversation and they serve as a meeting, eating and greeting place for farmers, vendors, and all the neighborhood people who depend on them.

One of my tasks today was to buy flowers for our student’s homestay mothers. It was fun to be celebrating so many mothers at once, and it certainly gave me pause for gratitude for all the motherly influences in my own life. We made our way to the flower section of the market, and struck a deal with a mother/daughter team for 9 bouquets. They were surrounded by buckets of roses, gladiolas, alstroemeria, carnations, and a wild assortment of leafy greens. (Interestingly I learned that alstroemeria is native to Peru, and is often referred to as “flor de los Incas” in recognition of their likely domesticators.) The daughter made us simple but lovely arrangements, carefully tying each one and finally wrapping the whole lot in newspaper. It was a beautiful process to behold — smiling customers with armloads of flowers, the chatter of nearby vendors calling out their prices, and a girl working elbow to elbow with her mother on Mother’s Day. As she handed me the big bundle she added a few extra carnation stems — an indication that we had established a relationship and that I should look for their family booth the next time I visited the market. Martin’s mother explained that this custom of establishing personal relationships with buyers is a very typical and traditional part of the market. Martin added that their family has been buying certain things from the same vendors for decades.

One of those time-honored vendors is a woman named Paulina. According to Martin and his mom she prepares the finest lechon in Cusco. Lechon is roasted sucking pig, and Paulina has a secret recipe that draws people from all over the city. Before we left the market we had to stop by for a taste. The pig was stuffed with onions, rocoto (a peruvian chile), and any number of other seasonings. The mahogany skin was crusty with salt and had the scent of fresh lime juice. Martin asked for three portions from the “costillas,” the meaty ribs, and purchased three sweet corn tamales as well. I was instructed that the best way to eat lechon was by alternating bites with the tamales. What flavors! The pork was incredibly juicy and tender in the way that only slow, whole roasting can achieve. Each bite was delicately infused with Paulina’s culinary secrets, and the cakey tamale was a perfect complement. All around us families were devouring paper-plated portions of lechon and tamale, all showing similar expressions of gastronomic euphoria. Apparently the only thing missing was a shot of anis liquor to wash it all down. What a great way to spend a Sunday morning! Happy Mother’s Day!

I arrived in Cusco yesterday — here once again to work, learn and play with another fine group of students from Principia College. The flight into this area is always beautiful but yesterday it was stunning. After takeoff “La Garua,” the thick coastal fog that shrouds Lima for much of the winter, quickly gave way to a sky completely washed of dust, haze, and pollution. The slopes of the Andes, green from heavy El Nino rainfall, shimmered in the extreme clarity. Higher up on the peaks fine geomorphic details were sharply outlined — the old paths of retreating glaciers, knife-edged moraines, talus cones, and innumerable webs of stream networks. Views like this remind me why I am in love with mountain places, and why I hope to keep coming home to them.

Most of you probably know that Cusco was the capital of the Incan Empire and the epicenter of their cultural and architectural accomplishments. Today it is a rich blend of the ancient, the colonial and the modern. And because of its proximity to Machu Picchu it is purported to be the most visited city in South America, which adds a very international twist as well. Each time I come here I am surprised that such a large city can thrive at such a high elevation (nearly 12,000ft above sea level). But thrive it does, despite all the uncertainties of tectonics, climate, and politics.

Stay tuned for more updates!

After 15 hours of trans Pacific hang time we needed to walk and we wanted to eat. Nathaniel Wilder and I were en route to Nepal but faced with an epic layover in Hong Hong. So we stashed our gear and hopped a ferry to Hong Kong’s Central Terminal– gateway to Victoria Peak and some the best dim sum eateries in the known universe. From the terminal we made our way cross town to the venerable City Hall Maxim’s and queued up for a table. Yum Cha is Cantonese for drinking tea but implies much more. Yum Cha means to enjoy tea, and usually to enjoy sweet and savory snacks — dim sum — as well. We ordered a pot of good oolong tea and began watching for our first round of goodies. You don’t usually order dim sum from a menu, you make selections (or point emphatically in our case) from trolley carts pushed around the room by the restaurant staff. Many selections are served in bamboo steaming baskets, and by the end of the meal we had sampled at least a dozen items ranging from BBQ pork buns to shrimp dumplings, steamed greens, and mango pastry. The table was piled high with baskets and plates! And all this washed down with cup after cup of green oolong, perhaps the most refreshing and food-compatible tea on the planet! Dim Sum? Get some!

December was cold, and Big John had been keeping the llamas close to the barns (and the chicken yard) rather than turning then out into an icy pasture. But on New Year’s Eve he let them out for a few hours, and the bobcat made her move. After months of watching our layers cluck and strut about she hopped the fence and wreaked havoc. Four of the more level-headed birds huddled into a corner, and by luck, Providence, or proximity they were spared. But that bobcat was hungry, and she made short work of the others. A Buff Orpington head served as an appetizer, followed by quick killing bites to the other three. She probably would have gotten them all but Big John was coming out for the llamas and must have spooked her. When he walked past the yard he noticed the four survivors, still paralyzed in the corner. And when he stopped to investigate he found three of the others (including the headless one). But the cat had already made off with one of her victims. Interestingly she selected the biggest Brahma hen in the flock, a bird that weighed close to 8 pounds. The average female bobcat tips the scales at a mere 20 pounds, and our raider needed to make a 4 foot vertical jump up and out of the enclosure with that lunker in her mouth. That is a hell of a jump! Imagine yourself leaping straight up 12 feet with a 70 pound emu in your mouth and you’ll see my point.

We kept the four survivors locked in their coop the next day but we could see bobcat tracks all over the surrounding snow. Our tawny cat friend now had a taste for chicken. It was time to find the survivors a new home and reassess our fortifications for next year. Surprisingly all four of the gals laid eggs that next morning. I had assumed the stress of the day before would set them back a few days, but no. And there were four more the next day as well. Not bad for mid-winter with wild predators! In the end our friend Jim in town adopted them into his backyard flock. He already has 8 layers AND he has a St. Bernard/Akita mix that protects the flock day and night. (Don’t ask me why the dog doesn’t eat the birds like jalapeno poppers– but he doesn’t.) After a couple of days of social revisioning a new pecking order was established and the gals are happily laying away in their new home. As a bonus, Jim works at the local organic grocery and supplements them with surplus produce every few days.

We are sure going to miss those fresh eggs. The gals offered up 2-3 dozen a week, more than enough for our two households. And they were delicious eggs — eggs that taught us what real eggs should look and taste like. I’ll have to mooch off Jim and Seth and others for the rest of winter. And next summer I will endeavor to build a better enclosure for a new flock of hens. But I cannot resent the wild lesson we have received from our bobcat friend. Despite my attachment to those hens (my first) I love the bobcat too. Her stealthy dawn patrols, her incredible golden-russet coat, her agility and raw power — these things have inspired us since we moved into this place. And she too is a farm worker of sorts, keeping the rabbits and ground squirrels in check and thereby protecting our garden and the legs of our llamas. Losing the chickens was my fault, not hers. Afterall a chicken looks a lot like a grouse (albeit a huge, fat grouse) and bobcats certainly eat grouse! So in the end I say “buen provecho wild feline — I hope you enjoyed the meal.”

The Nature Conservancy is doing some great work in Baja, especially with the protection of Isla Espiritu Santo, the Loreto Bay Marine Park, and the Sierra la Laguna mountains.

Our home base on the Pacific side will be the funky little town of Todos Santos, part fishing village, part international artist’s colony, and home of the mythical Hotel California. Our hosts and organizers will be Sergio and Bryan, owners of Todos Santos Eco-adventures (TOSEA).