The Runaway Cook

A diary of culinary adventures

A Picnic Through Austria with Mr. Australia

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, July 12, 2011 comments (2)

Goodbye Italy. I already miss the golden sheen of your ever flowing olive oil and the seductive swirl your red wine makes in my glass. What will I do without your markets and men who truly believe they are irresistible when they utter the word “Bella”?  Absence shall only make me grow fonder of your every curve and crazy cabby that drives upon it. Ciao my darling country. 
The long journey to Germany has begun. I have not slept for over 24 hours now. Going to the Opera In Verona made for a late night. Too late to catch the last train so I had to wait for the first train of the new day. This meant again “sleeping” in the station at Verona. Fortunately, this time I was nearly a seasoned train station dozer and almost literally rested with one eye open. When I did almost fall asleep, I had the pleasant surprise of loud Italian cursing. Pulling an all-nighter here was cake!  
I thought that there was a train that went straight to Munich from Venice. The truth is that the train to Munich leaves from Verona. Wouldn’t that have been nice to know before this whole fiasco. I would have willingly slept in a bed instead of cuddling up on that dirty bench. 
Despite my sleepless night, things seem to have a way of working out. Serendipitously, I am now seated next to a fine Australian man, whom I met at my hostel in Venice, and is now enduring this 7-hour train ride with me. 
The sun has been relentless today and being without air conditioning in this metal box is a bit challenging for us. Luckily, I have packed refreshments. Within my never ending bag-lady-like backpack is a picnic filled with my last bits of Italy. One perfectly ripe nectarine, a crisp pink apple, two strange but delicious oblong yellow plums, an apricot, soft camembert cheese, slices of salami, the end of a baguette, and half a plastic bottle of pinot gris that is quickly turning sour in this heat. 
I have to say, this train ride picnics could be the best I’ve ever had. I shared my food with Mr. Australia and in return, he bought us coffees to keep us awake.
I love to eat soft cheeses like Camembert with apples and salami is perfect with stone fruits. I told this to my friend and he gave me a kind of are-you-serious look mixed with a dash of try-not-to-look-alarmed-or-you-will-insult-her grin. He braved my advice and found my combinations of fruit, cheese, and meat to be a good match. His eyebrows raised as he swallowed, “Wow! I would have never thought to put those things together. I figured I wouldn’t like it when you told me to eat that together, but I do.” 
As we munched and crunched our way through our simple dinner, the scenery changed from terra cotta to gingerbread. Signs no longer read of Italian words with too many L’s and O’s, but rather with very long foreign German words with far too many S’s. Intensely green mountains have appeared where flat pastures had once been adding a mystic feeling to the already surreal change. The sun has now dulled just but and the breeze seems to be getting cooler with every kilometer forward. 
I can’t help but shiver with goosebumps from the chill and excitement. What new exotic adventures will you provide Munich? I can hardly wait know.

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Heaven

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, July 5, 2011 comments (0)

Have you ever tasted heaven . . . Just a taste, one glorious bite of those golden sunny beams streaming through the clouds?   That flavor is like nothing else!  Warm, exciting, and refreshing, it’s like eating all the best parts of summer in one single mouthful.

Disguised in a red dress, the celestial essence becomes a seductive kiss of color among a crowd green with envy.  Each emerald limb reaches for the rouge beauty with hair standing on end.  Alas, only the very ends of strained stems are permitted to grace her taught skin with their fingertips. Her firm flesh is veiled by a glossy film that seduces even the most upright.  She calls to me with siren voice, singing of her supernatural sweetness.  I can stand the temptation no longer! Her perfection is too much resist.  My hand reaches for the plump jewel, to release her from the jealous hands that had held on for so long. 

Ripe and engorged with elixir of pure summer sun, I stare at the orb enamored by her simple charm.  Her vivacious scent overwhelms my reality, and I consume the luscious fruit.  Pow!  The burst of pressure is an explosion in my mouth, precipitating in gushes of flavor running down my lips and cheeks.  So rich and sweet, yet so light and mouthwatering, how can it be? It just can be I tell you! 

 The tomato is the pure, untouched embodiment of bliss.  Possessing the sun in her flesh, the power of cosmic tears in her blush wine, the perfection of paradise in her taste, and eternal life of yearly regeneration . . . she is heaven. 

http://lakehouse-garden.blogspot.com/



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A Tip For Saving CA$H

Posted by Elizabeth Sunday, March 20, 2011 comments (0)

Note to all travelers staying in hostels. It is no longer the flirtatious smile and innocent giggle that can save you money at your next point of rest. Rather it is bringing lost travelers to your host who end up staying where you were that please him enough to take 23 Euro off your bill. That's right folks. I happened to meet four young travelers on the train from Verona to Venice in the wee hours of the morning and told them about the superb location and bathrooms of my hostel. They needed a place to stay and I brought them back with me. After a short conversation with the owner he decided to knock off a night from my bill. YES!

So what have we learned my friend. That even at 4am it is vital to talk to the traveler next to you, they just might get you where you need to go or save you a few bucks!

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Italian Men 101: IV PISS OFF!

Posted by Elizabeth comments (0)

I stare at the fountain in it's grey granger simplistic beauty of providing a steady stream of water. Why is it that Italians are so obsessed with fountains I wonder. CRRRUNCH! I pause, slurp, wipe the sticky-sweet juice off my chin, and chew my apple as I ponder this question. Hmmmmm, maybe italians constantly fine themselves parched and decided to remedy this problem with a fountain round every corner instead of a starbucks or dunkin dounuts . . . Nope! There are cafes in every piazza. Ok, how about for the beauty of it? Italians love beautiful architecture don't they? I mean Rome is full of big beautiful fountains, but then again Venice is full of ugly little water squirting fountains that will never be photographed by a tourist.

Well whatever the reason is, I don't really care just as long as I can just sit here and enjoy my evening snack in peace. It sure is beautiful tonight. I'd hate to waste the my time waiting for the train when it's such a warm clear night. I think I'll just sit here and watch the bubble of life around me and maybe go for a moonlit tour of Romeo and Juliet's special places on my own. After all, this piazza is still pretty busy at 11pm. 

I see loves engrosed in eachother across from me, ha I think they will soon fall off that bench at that rate. In fact, I'm not really sure how they are staying on it in that position anyway. Oh goodness, time to look somewhere else this is getting a little too heated for my eyes. Wait! Maybe that's why there are so many fountains. The Italian obsession of love led to a need for inconspicuous landmarks that lovers could meet at. 

Mom: "Hey Marcello, where are you going?"
Marcello: "We are running a little low on water, mom. I thought I'd just go for a stroll and get some from the fountain in the Piazza."
Mom: "Oh, alright then be sure to get enough for my soup tomorrow."

Yeah, haha maybe that's it. . .or maybe not. 

Everything and everyone seem to blend together into this postcard-like evening view. the golden glow of street lamps seem to make it all seem like a painting, green, gold, taupe, black, blue and the flecks of color from the pretty dresses here and there. Holy Toledo! What the? To my left is a guy who really doesn't seem to fit in. Goodness, I pray he is a tourist. Khaki shorts and a short-sleeved, blue button up with an obnoxious red hibiscus print. Lord he can't be Italian. Oh shoot! He caught me staring. Look away and just keep chewing, Elizabeth. Don't look back, oh shoot he caught me again. Ok I'm getting up now and pulling out my map for that sight seeing.

First stop, ha-ba-ba-baaaa, AH yes castle bridge that's not far from here at all. I set out and notice that hawaiian man is now behind me about a block. Ok, think fast. Walk into that little restaurant and wait until he passes then go. 


Ok he is gone, I think. Onward to the castle, my friends!

The bridge walls are illuminated by dim yellow bulbs giving the sandy stones a Thomas Kinkade kind of glow.  It's almost erie out here, so quiet and still. I guess this kind of tourist hot spot becomes a lonely stop for staring after dark.







I stood at the edge of the wall here for several minutes simply absorbing the stillness and breathing. It's amazing how a small breeze can cradle a whole body with peace and how rippled bit of light on small waves can suck you into their small world with no troubles. The next 24 hours are going to be rough and sleepless so escaping all that if only for a few minutes is lovely.

What was that?! It sounded like scraping or shuffling along stone and I think it came from behind me. I turn quickly, and shaken out of that quiet peaceful place to see that the man from earlier has followed me and is coming my direction. Think, Elizabeth. Just get down off of this pier and walk toward a busy place. Ok, well, that means walking towards that guy. Ohhhh man! Be strong and don't seem frightened. You know this is more annoying that it is scary. Right . . . the damn jerk trying to get with me! What and annoying little poop!!!

A walk towards him and he begins to cross the street and walk to my side. He says "excuse me miss" in the sappy Italian accent. I keep walking and look at him with a perturbed kind of stare then say nothing. He says it again as he continues to walk toward me.  I shift my body weight and turn toward his direction and yell, "PISS OFF!" accompanied by a large whip of my hand in the air and a heavy next step forward. Then I hear a whiny "Hey" escape his lips as he stops walking. I don't look and he seems stunned by my outburst. Thank goodness.

I think I will return to the fountain to collect myself and see how to get to the train station from here. Perhaps that's what all these streams of water are for, collecting ones thoughts in a place that is somewhat normal to stop at and have whatever expression you want without getting funny stares. . . . ahhh probably wrong again, but for now that purpose works for me. I just hope that this time I don't happen to get pegged as fresh meat by another creepy guy in a Hawaiian shirt. 

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Madame Butterfly

Posted by Elizabeth Monday, February 21, 2011 comments (2)


I have just tussled and twisted my locks on top of my head in a combination of curls and braids with the few bobby pins I have left and a couple rubber bands. My cheeks are dusted with rosy blush and my lips look wet from the multiple layers of gloss. I think I am abut ready. All that's left now is to gently pack my red satin pumps and red dress into my giant purse and take off for the train station.

Why am I all gussied up and about stuff a gorgeous outfit in my purse? I'm off to see the Opera in Verona. I'm so excited. I've bought my tickets about three months ago and I've been anticipating watching my first opera in the city of Romeo and Juliet seated in a stone arena that's hundreds of years old.

I am here! The train ride was smooth and I think I was smiling the whole time. I probably freaked out the guy next to me, hehe. Oh well.  I have just gone into a fast food joint equivalent to a Pappa John's, found the bathroom and transformed myself into a classy-looking lady rather than a khakhi-wearing tourist. I'm pretty sure I got a double take from the people working there who were certain nobody in a red dress entered their establishment, but was now leaving.

Before I see this fantastic Puccini-written Opera, I have got to spoil myself with my last dinner in Italy. It's bittersweet to be heading to Germany tomorrow, and I have to make the most of these last few hours here.

I walk the cobblestone streets in my five in heels passing one fancy restaurant after another. The Verona Arena is surrounded by large piazza bordered by restaurant after restaurant. The menus here are pretty pricy, but I settle on a fancy al fresco seat just outside the pizza. The tables look nice, the plates of food look better and the menu has some items that sound to-die-for.

I received a pretty smooth invitation from a handsome waiter and well that was the figurative light to the sign telling me "EAT (blink) HERE (blink)." He hands me the menu and says hello. As he delicately pours me a glass of water, he asks, "So, what are you doing out all by yourself is such a beautiful dress?"

I sure that I'm blushing and as I look at the clear glass Of water I answer smothered giggle, "Oh . . .I am going to the Opera tonight."

"Ah, I see. Have you been to the opera in Verona before?"

"No, I've never seen an opera anywhere before. I am so excited!" he smiles at me and preceeds to take my order with a wink.

I ask or gnocci with porchini mushrooms.  What arrived to my table was beyond my expectations. the gnoccies were perfectly shaped and glisten with the sauce that just couldn't let go of them. The mushrooms are meaty and definitely fresh.  The herbs and mushrooms are so aromatic that part of me wants to just bend my head toward the bowl and breathe in deeply. Out of the fear that doing this may cause strange looks from my hot waiter, I restrain myself.



My first bite is pure heaven. This is the best gnocci I've ever had. The starch pillow resists my bite and yet slowly melts on my tongue. The buttery potato taste is distinct and not covered up by the rich earthy sauce but enhanced. The mushrooms are nutty and have a fleshy texture that is far to luscious for me to keep my eyes open while eating them.

Sadly, my bowl is now empty, and I'm wishing for just another delectable bite. As my handsome man, grabs my plates, he looks and me with a grin and sighs. "I wish I did no't have to work tonight."

"Oh? Why?" What a strange thing to confess to me right now. I am a little confused

"Well If I was not working, I could take you to the opera tonight." He looks away and smiles. I am silent, and smile as well. I'm not sure what to say to this charmer. He's probably just another Italian man who feels like the ultimate man since he is from Verona, Italy.  Yet, this is a nice compliment. I mean he could have just said nothing since he knew there was no way to go with me . . . then again, he could have thought I'd just give him more than the required gratuity if he flattered me. Either way, I have blushing cheeks and a smile that's hurting from overuse and I'm pleased to be having been complimented and even bamboozled.

The walk up the exceptionally steep steps of the Arena is a bit much for my 4 inch heels but I make it. Seating is by section here so one can sit anywhere that there's an empty slab of stone. The sun begins to set just as the performance begins. A tradition here in Verona is to light small candles and hold them once twilight hits making the curved stone structure twinkle as the orchestra begins to play.

I'm definitely in the nosebleed section here, but I can still hear the music as if I were on the floor. The violin section must be huge, but it sounds ad if only one is playing. Amazingly, I can see all five harps from up here. They looks so small next to what must be a stage the size of my town hall.  On top of that the stage is filled with fantastic costumed singers with flowing fabric as lovely as their strong voices.

Although I barely speak the necessities of Italian, I am able to follow the story quite well. A geisha falls in love with a military man. However, thier love is challenged and . . . I'll leave out the ending so I don't spoil it for you.

I do wish that I could have known the words the lovers sang back and forth to each other. It must have been beautiful. by the end of the night, I was all mushy inside. I guess love is a language that need not be restricted by words. . . .Now I'm getting sappy.

On more every-day type side note, I have just realized that I have gum all over the back of my dress. Apparently, someone placed a bit of gum on the stones directly behind me just before I sat down. Now from my leaning forward and back it has been smudged into a gum-tastrophy encompassing my entire back. How this is possible, I have no idea. I guess that's why people in the cheap seats don't dress up like people on the ground floor. . .another tidbit that would have been good to know before this evening. Ugg, thank goodness I have other clothing in my purse fro the ride home.


I'm so happy I did this, dinner was perfect, and well my life wouldn't be mine if some strange something hadn't have been part of tonight. We will see what the rest of this evening brings. It's only 11-something and my train isn't until 4:30am so this should be an interesting evening.

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PAUSE: A Look Within

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, February 8, 2011 comments (0)


I well know that only the best stews and soups can be made when the beginning is nothing but bones, parsley stems, sprigs of thyme, dried bay leaves, and a few choice vegetables. But do any of those things sound pleasant? Do I look at a giant chink of beef bone and think to myself, “now that looks delicious!” NO! Instead I glance at the ridged thing and try to ignore the obvious blotches of blood and hanging flesh while coating them with oil and find myself wondering why the hell I thought this would be something you wanted to eat. Yet I press on, knowing that only this strange and awkward item can make a dark rich beef stock that will be the backbone of my stew. 
Even after the bones are roasted, they force the cook to doubt. No aromas of roasted meat or beefy richness. No golden seared edges or lovely brown bits in the pan.  Instead it smells more like a baked cow hide or a barn that’s burned down with the animals inside. And the color, brown and with unappetizing baked blood all just sitting in a pool of melted fat. Delicious is far from what one thinks in a moment like this. Perhaps airline barf bag is a more accurate thought description. 
Despite my every sense screaming “Aaaa-wooooo-ga! Abandon ship” and “Dump those disgusting chunk before this gets worse”  I know from many pots past that this is the right thing. My stew will turn out, and once I flood this caldron of stems, stick, dried leaves, bones and vegetation with water a supernatural transformation will begin. 
It’s hard to believe that such strange beginnings can give rise to what I really want. When you think about it, time is really the most important ingredient  . . .or well maybe it’s faith. I guess that’s debatable...
In the end, I just want my stew and not the bloody bones and unwanted botanical trimmings. Why is the beginning so far from the ending that they don’t even resemble one another?

The only thing I have to go on is that someone told me this will work. Either by written recipe or the holler of a large French man that believes himself to be the God of all kitchens. I just have to believe that what I begin with will somehow transform after the assistance of time. Patience is the key . . .and yet that idea is still incomplete. One can’t just stand there and hope that time will do everything for them. Patience is active, laziness is passive. Rather, one must prepare for the next step: place the strainer over the holding container, chop the next set of vegetables, dry the meat for searing, wash the dishes, and so on. Not all tasks seems pertinent or vital but they are necessary for reaching the goal. Delicate care must be given to each moment for a cook to reach a triumphant ending. Focus must be on the present or the details may be forgotten. Whoever said it’s the “big picture” that counts forgot that it was the fine lines of the painting that turned the big blob into the big picture.
Skipping that whole first part would be a disaster . . but jumping in after the tedious part is over sometimes sounds like a good idea. It’s just hard to believe that something so rich, delicious, and satisfying can come from such meager beginnings. It’s not logical to believe that those unpleasant parts led to the pleasure . . or is it? 
Sometimes I wonder if all of life can be paralleled by food or if only the most meaningful lessons are hidden within the makings of deliciousness.


photo by: http://sassandveracity.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452fd3369e20111685bb074970c-500wi

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Wine From a Hose Anyone?

Posted by Elizabeth Wednesday, February 2, 2011 comments (0)

Wandering on my own today has brought me to some interesting places. Today, I'd have to say was one for the books. Believe it or not I found a small wine shop that sells wine by the liter or half-liter from a large bottle with a hose in it. All the wine is from a local mainland winery and they don't just sell to tourists, the local venetians fill up their bottles here. It's like pumping gas in a way. Just come with your vessel and the guy will bill you for whatever it holds. HA! And if you don't have something to put the wine in, they'll put it in one of their many plastic bottles.

I hot half a liter of pinot grigio and half a liter of a red blend. Two very easy drinking wines. but worth the 4 Euros I they cost me.

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