The Runaway Cook

The morning is still young, my swim suit is on, map in my hand, Norwegian at my side and get with my backpack on his back. We are headed to the beach today, but not until we have picked up our breakfast and lunch at a market that is said to have exceptionally fresh fish and produce.

Just inside a large brick building with wide open walls, is a sea without water. My eyes can't stop staring at the glossy creatures laid out shaved ice. So many suction cups and so many scales! From prawns and shrimp to giant fish and octopus, there's so much of everything, even bins full of snails.  It's hard not to just buy a fish with the sound of the Grand Canal swishing next to us.

Our goal is to make a picnic today so we must press on to the produce. Every stone fruit you could imagine is here. Cherries, nectarines, round peaches, flat peaches, purple plums, and even these amazing little oblong yellow plums. All these Italian grown stone fruits are spectacularly delicious and my absolute weakness, even more than gelato and pasta. The hazy skin of a plum and the bright red of a nectarine beckon my euros and leave my fingers wet and sticky from their sweet juice. Needless to day my breakfast today was a peach.

Men behind the tables yell in multiple languages convincing locals and tourists alike that their food is the best. Remember no touching! Just tell the person behind the table "for today" or "for later" and they will give you what you need. But if you are eyeing what seems to be the perfect peach out in front they'll let you grab it.

Today I'm doing all the talking. Peter and I pick out fruits and I dig through out pooled euros and get what we need. Then the precious bags get slipped into the backpack and we move to the next table.  Everything is going pretty smoothly and then I see them, grape tomatoes on the vine. More red than a tub of grandma's lipstick these little orbs look fantastic. I ask to see them and am offered a taste. The skin taught skin popped from the pressure of my teeth. Sweet and sour juice explodes over my taste buds and I buy two bunches. More than I need but I just can't help myself. Indulging in tomatoes isn't really an indulgence is it?

Next we step into a cheese shop, Casa Del Parmigiano . Here cheese is practically a food group on its own. Hanging in the doorway are long plastic garlands to perhaps ward off pigeons. Two small graying men stand behind two conservative-looking, clear cases of cases filled with rows of cheese. Four bookshelves hold rounds of hard cheeses accompanied by a couple of prosciutto legs hanging from the ceiling. Today Camembert, Asiago, and salami are the winners. Sweet smiles come from behind the counter and accented laughs give way to a ciao as we step out the door.


Our pack is getting full but we have got to get some bread. I'm thinking focaccia or something with a crust that crackles. Just a few steps away is a little bakery with exactly what I want. Peter and I pick out bread perfectly crisp baguettes.


The backpack is full and now it's time for the beach. Until next time my friends! Now where are those tomatoes?

Why is it that every place in italy seems to have different plugs? I mean I purchased this big, heavy converter from Amazon.com that claimed to work for plugs across Italy and Germany, but apparently Italy as many shapes and sizes of outlets as they do kinds of pasta.

So my friends,  this evening I am out looking for a converter plug. I have left my hostel in Salerno (yes I'm back in Salerno but actually visiting this town rather that getting out as fast as possible) and am walking between skinny brick alleys crayoned dark on the edges by vespa fumes and dirt. The sunlight skips through the hanging laundry, open shutters, and little mettle balconies. I need a general store but, it's late tonight and many of the stores or closing or closed in the main square. To top that off it's the weekend tomorrow and many stores will be closed, so it's now or never.

After about 20 minutes of meandering, I happened upon this small square with a grocery store, deli, general store and a couple white tents in the center. Steam is rising underneath the pale canopies, creating a foggy haze around the lamps. Th salty aroma is flooding this small piazza and people take gray paper cones filled with crisp fish, skin still gleaming beneath the crunchy film of batter.

Behind these steaming tents are several very steep steps leading to the cramped doorway leading to a room filled with little boxes and bottles smooshed together on shelves that line every wall. I scan the shelves looking for anything that resembles a plug or a cord, but see nothing.  

The hefty, 5-ft, older woman  heads my direction and says "prego" (welcome) then asks me what I want. I can't understand her and ask if she speaks english. She says no and we try to sign to each other which really doesn't work. She gets louder, as if yelling in Italian will somehow help me understand her. I am about to leave when she makes me to follow her out to the stoop. She stands there next to me and hollers will all her might does anyone speak English? and continues hollering "English" over and over. I am mortified and everyone in this small pizza, including the people frying the fish, are all staring at me on this pedestal of old steps.

Just when I think, "God what is going to happen next?" an older gentleman  peeks out from the grocer's canopy. He motions me over and I step over the line of tile that marks the boarder of the piazza from the inside of his 7'x15' shop. flats of fruit and shelves of juice and water make me think there's probably not a plug here either.  I speak with the old man, whose kind eyes reassure my thoroughly embarrassed self and he explains that all the stores selling that item are closed and will be closed tomorrow.

My eyes let out the whimper that I make inside me. He smiles, and tells me to wait right there. He leaves to the back room and I decide to buy some peaches, oranges, and water while I wait.  Finally he comes back and in his hards are a few black converter plugs. he says he didn't know which plug was american so he just grabbed all he had hoping one would work. I am in awe at his sweetness. He indeed found an american plug. When I ask him how much I owe him. He wont take a cent. I insist but he also insists.

"When are you leaving Salerno?"
"Tuesday."
"Then just bring it back before you go. (Very big smile)"

Although some of them yell, curse at me in a foreign language, and scoff at my American tendencies and accent, there are some that make me shed tears from their kindness. But, I love them all anyway!

However, I have a feeling that the little, old man from Salerno will always have a special place in my heart.

Original photo from:http://www.landbigfish.com/images/recipes/BEER-BATTER-FRIED_SARDINES.jpg

There is a place where, when I cross the street, the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s as if I walk through this mystical barrier and every sense is awakened by the strong difference. The moist air feels thicker and the architecture changes from big modern Asian city to putty colored arches, small awnings, and skinny sidewalks. The women here a

re in full bloom wearing vibrantly colored, sequin-covered Sarees (traditional Indian dresses) that seem to dance to the perfect playlist of twanging exotic music escaping every window. Yet, the most intoxicating stimulus of all, the smell! Flowers and fruit line the streets, steeping in the heat to make a tea of aromas. As I walk by stall after stall I am overtaken by scents of jasmine, hot Ghee-laden flatbreads (clarified butter), sweet incense escaping the Hindu temple walls, and my favorite smell: the simple yet potent nuttiness of curry leaves. Sigh little India you are captivating.

This in one of the only place here in Singapore that makes me feel like I am far from home. The stark difference in culture is refreshing. And I seem to have fallen for this place. (to the left is a photo of the Hindu temple at night)

THE CLOTHES

After just and eight block walk from the YWCA i call home now, are the beginnings of little india.

As the streets change the shops do too. Thick glass panes are the only things that separate the black street from dazzling gowns made by skilled women who fold, tie, and pin and exceptionally long piece of fabric. The Saree, my new favorite fashion, is a traditional Indian garment for women, made by rolling one's self in fabric. My jaw must have unhinged to drop that low. So many stunning fabrics and they never seemed to end. After seeing hundreds of these pretty things my friend and I wanted to take a peek and try them out for ourselves.

After some searching and some tangent jewelry gawking, we found ourselves in one of the many clothing stalls above the wet market. Nothing in this store seemed quite right so we asked about a sarees. The gentleman there told us that he didn't sells those but he knew who did. He immediately jumped up out from behind the counter and smiled as he said, "This way." The three of us sprinted down this corridor of textiles made a sharp turn to the right and found ourselves at the foot of a small shop covered in hanging fabric.

Inside this dent-in-the-wall shop stood a coffee-skinned, chubby-cheeked woman just probably in her 40s, named Jeet. Her bouncy short curls were about as live as she was. After just 20seconds or so she grabbed me, spun me up in a saree and made

me feel as though I was a princess. Which was quite a feat since I was sweating on all sides, had no make up on, and my hair looked something like a drowned tumbleweed. Needless to say we both ended up buying a saree. And as the week progressed we conned all our friends into buying them too. haha To the left are three of us ladies in our Sarees at the graduation brunch at the Ritz.

THE MARKETS

Ok. Time to move on from textiles and on to food. Little india is filled with little stalls selling anything you can imagine that might in some way be related to Indian culture. It's pretty endless. And even though there are innum

erable vegetable stalls and random coconut sellers along the street, my favorite place to shop for food was at the wet market.

The wet market here is similar to the one in Chinatown, but cleaner and filled with more foods I am apt to like. As one meanders through this maze, little wooden boxes of shops are filled with fruits and vegetables, flowers, spices and spice blends, fresh meats- with the exception of beef of course, and the largest section, seafood.

This seafood section is not anything like the fish case and lobster tank at your local supermarket. NO WAY. Here the

word fresh means mostly alive. Rows and rows of shaved ice keep blue crab, sharks, eels, and multitudes of fish alive in the tropical heat. Every time I visited this market I stopped to admire the collage of sea creatures. And every time I was there I found fish that were still breathing! In fact, sometimes they would hop right off the table.

......TO BE CONTINUED

Today was AMAZING! We traveled to chinatown and experienced some culture there. I feel a little more like I'm actually out of the USA and just especially glad that we were able to escape the classroom.

It all started with our run to the wet market, which really is not wet. . .except for the cement under tables of fish and other edible sea creatures. Instead, it is filled with teeny tiny stalls each bursting with a selection of strange vegetables or exotic fruits. Each stall seemed to specialize in their own unique selection of goods, some dedicated to specialty dried items including dried squid and cuttlefish (used to make soups).

Although Singapore has no natural resources, due to it's small size and that the land they do have is mainly developed, they do have magnificent fruit and vegetable stands. The fruits here seem like some sort of Dr. Seuss drawing come to life. From the hot pink fin-like folds of dragon fruit peel or the Jurassic - size of the jackfruit, every fruit placed in the worn cardboard boxes is a natural wonder in every color imaginable. I went a little bonkers, I bought several fruits I had heard of like: rambutan, jackfruit, red dragon fruit, mangosteen, and lychee. . .and then I bought a few things that I didn't know what they were and still can't remember the names. Regardless, I was in heaven tasting all these sweet fleshy foods with their exotic floral and earthy flavors.

For the first time in my life I saw a stall dedicated purely to eggs, which are not refrigerated here. Eggs are seperated by size then by the strange action performed on them. For example century eggs. . . these babies are not 100 years old. No, they are preserved by an alkaline solution. Traditionally, the eggs wee left in a pile of hay and urinated on by the barnyard inhabitants to change the pH and preserve the eggs. However, today they use more cleanly means to turn the while black and make the feared food.

I tried a slice of a century egg thinking that is would be retched, but learning that it merely tasted like a slightly cooling hard boiled egg. (When I say cooling, I do not mean that is made me chilled but that it tingled and felt like mild mint, but not having the taste of mint. It was very strange.) Truthfully, This egg was almost normal, except for it's frightening color. I probably could have eaten a whole one inside a salad or something.

After the wet market we made our way through the many touristy stalls selling "fake"- handbags, souvenir fans and kimonos, and t-shirst with odd sayings. There was no blending in as 25 obvious americans waltzed through all in chef-whites. Shop keeps holle

red at us, "Hey chef" or "American" as an attempt to get us to stop and purchase something.

It was strange to get so much attention and how we seemed to stand out so much. In fact, none of us were prepared for how to purchase foods here and how different that method is from purchasing non-foods. For foods, first rule: NEVER TOUCH THE FOOD! Shop keepers proceeded to yell at us in Chinese and/or English with such a heavy accent that we could barely understand them. The good news, after just one mistake you know what to NEVER DO AGAIN. Also, there's no bartering on the price of foods, if the shop keeper likes you he/she will give you a few extra small fruits after weighing them just to say thank you. But if you're buying non-food stuffs then you must ask for lower prices. I actually got the price for and Item down 60% from the original price.

Wow... Sometimes I just can't believe that I'm doing this. I mean I can't believe that I'm able to tell you how to and how not to buy fruit in a foreign country. Sometimes life is amazing in even the simple things :)