Food for thought

Some people think the only reason I travel is for the food. And what’s wrong with that? Food is culture and by focusing on the food, I’m embracing the culture. Most of the time I don’t think about it and just enjoy the experience of shopping, cooking and eating the food where ever I am, although it is a harder argument to make when I am only hundred miles from home.

Food markets, particularly outdoor farmers markets have always captivated me. Going through my old slides, or more recently my digital pictures, ripe tomatoes, unique fruits and vegetables, bright-eyed fish dominate. The green cauliflower in Sicily, the maroon mangosteens in Kauai, stall after stall of mushrooms in Provence, demanded to be carried back to our temporary home and served for dinner.

My motivation to cook is not inspired only by the beauty of the food markets. I do get tired of restaurant food (even when it is good) and the whole restaurant scene. “How are your first bites?” from my server totally annoys me. Plus there are rarely enough vegetables and too often they’re just boring. My motto has always been that life is too short for bad food and too often touristy places offer beautiful views but just so-so food.

So we choose whenever possible to rent a place with a kitchen for at least part of our trip. And that often comes with its own set of problems. Rental unit kitchens usually have a weird collection of dishes and cookware. Knives are often mismatched or are a very poor quality set and always dull. My other favorite tools — a micro plane, garlic press, good set of tongs — rarely are included. So I’ve learned to bring my own or improvise.

For long weekend trips to the ocean or mountains I pack a travel set of good knives I gave Peter as a Christmas present years ago. (They go in checked bags when we fly). Worth every penny I spent. We sometimes even bring our espresso machine which we bought on eBay for $25. Okay, that is over the top…but in Kauai for a month, it saved us several hundred dollars and we had better lattes. I also bring my favorite spices — cumin seed, star anise, herb d’provence, smokey paprika — or which ones will match the local cuisine. Although when going on longer trips with limited luggage space my spices may get left at home.

And then I buy staples the first day I get into a supermarket. Olive oil, smallest amount of butter I can find, pepper in a grinder, a good quality salt (local if possible). Depending upon where I am and what I anticipate cooking the list grows from there, focusing on small sizes . Chicken broth concentrate, flour, sugar, soy sauce, mayonnaise, good quality red wine vinegar, plus the paper goods I’ll need and zip lock plastic bags.

Once in my temporary kitchen I know I’ll have to make some adjustments. If I have a cheese grater, but no garlic press, I rub my garlic cloves across fine section of the grater. A crummy pair of tongs? Wrap the gripping end with rubber bands. It’s harder to deal with the flimsy pots and pans.

And if there is a thrift shop close by, I always check it out for additional kitchen towels (can never have enough), glassware (surprisingly often rental kitchens don’t have wine glasses) and serving pieces. Guess most visitors aren’t there to cook three course meals. Or I cruise local flea markets or the inexpensive street markets often attached to farmers markets. My favorite casual tablecloths and the best travel souvenir I have cost about 10 Euros each at one of those markets in Provence. Just wish I had bought more.

When we are in a foodie’s heaven like Umbria, or Provence, of course we eat out and often a lot, particularly for lunch. We tend to cook more when staying in the countryside to avoid driving after enjoying some wine. And we eat out in the cities where restaurants within walking or subway distance are plentiful. And when we don’t take our own espresso machine we have to locate a good coffee joint to start the day. In between these restaurant stops, we still try to buy food for picnic breakfasts and lunches so we get to play with the local cheeses, cured meats and bread that tantalize us. Eggs and toast in a cottage near Loch Ness where our landlady gave us farm fresh eggs. Take-out roast chicken in Cefalu from a shop the local haunt.

Buying our food also brings us into closer contact with the locals. Our butcher in Apt, Provence who explained in detailed French how to cook a roast we purchased. The young bread peddler in Lourmarin, an underemployed college graduate, helping out her immigrant father. The shop merchant in Croatia shared her truffle recipes with us.

Food is the one piece of cultural heritage that seems to hang on from our immigrant past long after the language and other customs have faded away. Why else do I cook krumkake and meatballs at Christmas based upon a recipe from a Swedish grandmother I never met?