My husband and I were approaching a big anniversary and wanted to celebrate. As we considered lovely and exotic locales, we realized what we really wanted was a touch of wilderness and fresh air that involved no time changes from our California home. The Wickaninnish Inn, a straight shot north to British Columbia, bills itself as “rustic elegance on nature’s edge.” One look at the hotel’s web site, and we both sighed. It was perfect.
Wickaninnish was the name of an 18th century chief of the Tla-o-qui-aht band of First Nation people. First Nation band is in Canadian parlance what we Americans call a Native American tribe. Wickanninish means, “He who no one sits in front of in the canoe.” Based on our experience, the Wick, as it is called by the locals, clearly deserves the front seat among hotels. From our room, the windows looked out on one side to the Clayoquot Sound and Chesterman Beach and on the other side to volcanic rocks and rain forest. We woke to bald eagles flying by with prey in their talons. One sunny morning, a family of sea otters made their way down the rocks and flipped into the Pacific. A little brown marten emerged from the woods, looked all around and scooted among the rocks and disappeared. At breakfast, a gray whale on its annual migration to Mexico puffed out a big spout of water from its blowhole.
What does traditional Southern cooking, and traditional Jewish cooking have in common. One word. BEIGE!
Recently I was fortunate to journey to Florence, a Renaissance jewel. I caught an Alitalia flight from Birmingham airport that is most convenient for short journeys between the UK and European continent. Flying via Milan, I found the seating aboard this Italian airline very comfortable and enjoyed being bussed to and from the plane. The seats are of grey leather and, although an airbus, quite roomy and spotless unlike so many other airlines I have flown on.
It's not a common occurrence for me to be hit with something that rocks the fabric of my gastronomical universe so unbelievably hard that I'm forced to reassess all that I believed to know about food and my own taste buds. Quietly hiding in the heart of Ohio, I had come upon what I can only call a culinary A-bomb, and it came in the form of a deceivingly plain post dinner pie. Encased by a simple crust, peaches purchased from Amish neighbors lay nestled in gooey fruitiness, cold vanilla seeping in from the sides. It looked harmless enough.
One of the best things about Europeans is when they invite you to come visit them, they actually mean it. When a co-worker of my husband’s found out we were journeying across the pond, they not only let us stay in their London flat, they insisted we come stay with them at their house in Deia, Mallorca. I initially didn’t want to intrude, but once I saw pictures of this beautiful Mediterranean island, I changed my mind.