foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

Oh, yes, Ewok is doing fine after his little nip and tuck. No nuts and  no neuticles but still feisty as ever.

The stork clacked and clicked from its perch on the pole that brought electricity into the Skujas cabin. Our neighbor Petris, hands waving for emphasis, conversed with my husband under the electric wire.

As I hung wash on the line nearby, Paul explained the reason for Petris’s animation. He was trying to convince us of the abiding joy of installing a pump to bring water effortlessly the eighty meters from the well to the house. That way, we, too, could join the other nine residents of the hamlet and derive the benefits of a washing machine. I saw Paul get that gleam men get in their eyes when the mention of gadgets comes onto to the playing field. The two were diving into the specifics when I butted in with one of my truly useful Latvian words. “Nē.” Being polite, I added, “Paldies, Petris. Loti paldies bet nē.” I gave the two a big smile and trotted into the cabin. After a few minutes, Paul followed. “What’s the big deal with the nē business? I know Petris can do this and he gave me a good price.” “Remember my grandfather’s hat.” “Oh, no.” Paul blanched, sagged into a chair and pulled his hair back. “Please God. Not the hat again.” My grandfather’s hat was a legend on my father’s side of the family. One day in Eveleth, Minnesota, he was walking along with a friend when he tipped his cap back to scratch his head. The friend stopped and scowled. “Pietro. Look atta your hat. I ah want to tell you. That hat, she a, a, how you say? A vergogna.” “Giovanni. Dis a good hat, not a disgrace. Last for many year. New hat, she….” He rubbed the fingers of one hand against his thumb. “Much money, Pietro? You got money. Dynamiter in mine, he make a good money.” At this point, whoever telling the story always performed an elaborate exaggeration of the Italian shoulder shrug, palms up and eyes rolling heavenward to show Giovanni’s surprise at my grandfather’s refusal to buy a new hat. The way my grandfather had it figured was that once he bought that new hat, he’d need new clothes for himself and then the rest of the family. Walking around the neighborhood with all those new clothes, he figured the neighbors would snub him so they’d have to move to a better neighborhood. Of course, the new house would need new furniture, and since no one walked up there on Ariel Street, he’d have to buy a car. Once he showed up at the mines in his new clothes and fancy car, the foremen would take one look and lay him off, figuring he didn’t need the job. Since my grandfather couldn’t read or write and could barely speak English, he knew he’d never get another job. And all that because of a new hat. I figured my grandfather would have made a great financial advisor. We went back to Skujas water in its three familiar forms — from the well, from the church, and from the sky. The well, being eighty meters from the cabin provided lots of exercise without that pump and hosing mechanism Petris had so energetically proposed. The water also had a funky taste so we would get our drinking water from one of the six spigots at the spring to the side of Aglona’s sprawling white Basilica. www.speaklatvian.co.uk Locals called the church water blessed since years back it was known for its curative properties as well as its sulfur taste and peculiar green color. A bustling hospital thrived next to the spring until the sulfur taste and green color disappeared. But Pope John Paul II saved the day on his visit to the church in 1993, two years after Latvian independence from Soviet rule. After the high mass, he blessed the congregation and then walked over to bless the water. A large number of the 300,000 in attendance for the Pope’s visit carried containers to fill at the spring. The first waters from the spigots after the Pope’s blessing had the highest priority. It’s said in Skujas that bloody skirmishes broke out as the devotees fought for the privilege to be first in line. I’m more apt to call rain water blessed. Every foot in the rain barrel means one less trudge to the well. One day in 2010 I hauled twenty buckets the eighty meters to the house. In retrospect, I believe that was the day I turned mean. Anything that saves those in my vicinity from a Maria “mean” is blessed indeed. Water to wash dishes, take our Gypsy baths, wash floors, clothes, and hair has to be heated on the rickety two-burner Soviet-era stove. While hustling outside with a pot of boiling water to throw on the towels soaking in the wash tub, I fumbled with the door latch and sloshed scalding water on the fingers of both hands. After my initial scream, I ran to stick my fingers into the tiny wedge of freezer in our miniscule refrigerator. However, recollections of the lassie who one winter welded her tongue to the pump handle got me to reconsider my tactics. “Maybe you could go and ask the neighbors what they do for burns.” Paul started off down the road. I cradling my burning red fingers next to my stomach and followed. When I got to Valentina’s summer cabin, I saw Paul huddled in serious conference with Valentina over a tube of ointment. Valentina took one look at my hands while Paul translated. “She says this is going to blister bad and it’s not good at all. She keeps repeating ‘Not good.’ But she has this ointment.” “What’s it for?” “Well, she says it works for sunburn.” “Oh, yeah. That shuld do the trick.” Valentina gently took my hands and spread the ointment of my fingers shaking her head. “Nau labi. Nau labi.” We thanked her and turned toward the cabin. Valentina grabbed my arm, repeated nau labi, and motioned for Paul to translate. “What we do here in the country is….” Paul looked puzzled so Valentina went into a pantomime even I could understand. On the way back to the cabin, Paul darted looks at me, “You’re going to try it, aren’t you?” “You bet.” I went home and peed in a bucket, transferred the liquid to a big enameled tin cup and soaked my fingers in the warm urine. The pain eased and the next day, I only had two tiny blisters on one pinkie and they disappeared in no time. Now that was blessed water indeed. And no pump needed. Skujas wisdom strikes again.

]]> http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?feed=rss2&p=1769 9 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1730 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1730#comments Thu, 26 May 2011 00:49:25 +0000 maria altobelli http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1730

foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

May marks the eleventh anniversary for Solovino, our Mexican stray. Eleven years ago this month, he lost his nuts and almost lost his life.

Neutering a dog is not a simple operation in Mexico. The operation itself is simple enough if the vet knows what he/she’s doing, unfortunately, not always the case. In addition to lack of knowledge, machismo comes into play and does a mega appearance — to the point I have heard of some spay and neuter clinics that offer to attach artificial balls so the short-haired male can still swagger his stuff after the operation.

This is no joke. They’re called neuticles and come in three sizes and three degrees of firmness. And you thought you’d heard everything by now, right? Even the Pátzcuaro vet in 2000, reputed to know what he was doing, wondered why we wanted to “snip Solovino’s manhood.” I looked down at the dog I cradled in my arms. “No one wanted this dog in the first place. He was more than half dead when he showed up at our house. Look at him. What makes you think anyone will want his offspring?” The vet tried to repress a laugh. “Pick him up at four.” A little after four, we headed up the hill to our rental in Los Tanques. I sat in the back of the Econoline petting Solo when I pulled my hand away. “Viejo, you gotta turn around as soon as you can and get back to the vet in a hurry.” My hand was covered in blood. We jounced up and over the topes or speed bumps of Calle ­­Espejo. Paul slammed on the brakes in front of the vet and his assistant who stood smoking outside the clinic. The vet looked at his watch. “We’re ready to leave.” That inch of cigarette remaining was the only thing between Solovino and death. I tried to control my voice. “There’s a problem here.” The “problem” meant Solo had to be re-stitched and stayed a full week at the clinic. We shelled out ninety bucks to rescue him, a hefty price for a nip and tuck in Mexico in 2000. Monte, our Siberian cross, who immigrated with us was neutered in Minnesota for fifty — half of which was paid by the SPCA where we adopted him. And more importantly, there were no complications. Does this look like a dog with problems? However, in Mexico, the money issue is a big complication. Combine that problem with the fact many vets simply have not been trained to perform the operation, and it’s easy to see why Mexico has such a problem with stray dogs and homeless cats. My godson (I was madrina de secondaria so I’m not the head honcho madrina) graduates from Veterinary School in San Nicolas de Hidalgo in Morelia this August. His professors told him they did not teach students how to do sterilizations since the operation caused a variety of problems including ovarian cysts, cancer of the womb and tits and prostrate cancer in males. It’s a wonder they didn’t include venereal tumors to the list. All of the above are the very problems the procedure helps to eradicate. Why do I bring this up when I’ve been running cutesy photos and feel-good articles about Ewok, the rescue kitten who now has definitely grown beyond tea cup stage? Because in the next few months, Ewok will also face the knife — but under totally different circumstances and I think that bears mentioning. Yes, he’s cute as can be and strong and healthy and would, undoubtedly pass on those characteristics to his offspring. But “cute” didn’t save him from dumped on the road and abandoned. Only the off chance of a late-night walk with Kauks and his strong vocal chords saved him from the fate of an equally cute kitten found by my neighbor in Revolución as she walked down to Don Chu Chu’s. The woman thought the kitten was dead but on closer examination, saw that either an animal had mauled her or a human had used her as a kick ball. She had no use of her hind legs at all. Normally, an animal found like this would simply die of lack of food and water or be teased until it gave a last tortured gasp. But Augustina took the kitten home. Like Ewok, this kitten had to be bottle-fed and cuddled and manually stimulated to evacuate. Unlike Ewok, she could only urinate on her own. The vet in Revolución had to clean out the impacted fecal matter every few days. After months of care that would try the patience of most of us (the kitten couldn’t move on its own so had to be carried everywhere and needed to be held almost constantly to stop its plaintive cries) and frequent visits to the vet, she recovered. That cat was lucky. Unlike the “more than 3 million dogs and 5 million cats (that) are killed in the country each year.” (An interview with Gerardo Tristan and Ana Sofia Ponce Partida of GEPDA (Gente por la Defensa Animal) on www.all-creatures.org. We’re off to Latvia in a couple days — check out my webpage for an article our whereabouts for the next month. When we’re back in Pátzcuaro, Mutts in Mexico will have more of that vet in Revolución and his mission. Any vet who repeatedly cleans out a cat’s anus and doesn’t charge for it is someone you want to know. He wears surgical gloves for the procedure so you can feel free to shake his hand. The protection of animals forms an essential part of the moral and cultural aspects of civilized cultures. (Benito Juarez 1806-1872) Kauks, Solovino, and Monte. None the worse for wear for their neutering. Soon to be neutered Ewok. He has to play with those balls while he still can.

]]> http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?feed=rss2&p=1730 8 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1621 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1621#comments Tue, 12 Apr 2011 20:12:34 +0000 maria altobelli http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1621

foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

Mutts in Mexico revels in Pátzcuaro’s marvelous summer-like spring weather and continues the tale of Ewok.

Paul looked down at the elongated kitten with the scrawny neck and pushed his chair away from the table.  “We already have the blind, the deaf, and the lame. Now, we’ve got the ugly.” “C’mon. He’s not ugly. He’s just, ah, a bit strange.” It’s true Ewok had left his cute teacup look behind, both in appearance and temperament. Gone was the baby-bottle stage when he drank, burped, pooped, and slept. Of course, the only thing he could manage by himself then was sleep. After I saw Julie and Annie off in Mexico City, I got back home to face the “terrible twos.” Ewok reacted to his de-worming medicine by massive evacuation from all orifices. I figured he was a goner since he was so dehydrated his sides seemed to meet in the middle. As I wandered about the house muttering, “He’s gonna die. He’s gonna die,” Ewok decided he needed his momma and the only thing remotely close to a momma cat was Solovino. That would have been the blind dog. So he thought he’d give it a tentative try. The “mothering” did the trick, and Ewok was back to sucking away at the bottle by late evening. That left the skin condition that required a weekly bath with special soap. To think I had reached such a ripe age without knowing the pleasures of cat bathing, a pleasure that will only increase, I’m sure, as he gets older and bigger and possibly more hairless. I always figured the one advantage of babies was they slept a lot. Unfortunately, toddlers don’t. They toddle. Ewok abandoned his earlier gait which looked like an invisible thread held his tail erect and forced his already long hind legs up to full extension. This pulled his oversized butt way above his head and propelled him forward like a wind-up toy. His short spurts always garnered a good laugh. Now the spurts are more likely to elicit cries and/or curses as he zips in and out of doorways leaping at feet and often hooking an ankle with his front paws. Ewok must see invisible ankles since we often notice him leaping out to attack the air above shoes we’ve left on the floor. After entertaining himself for hours in hot pursuit of moving body parts and just before the “I’m gonna strangle that cat” stage, he gets all cutesy and cuddles up for a nap. Which only goes to show how far he’s honed his survival instincts from that time a little over a month ago when he caterwauled his tiny head off, a throw-away by the side of the road. Like the abandoned pit bull Patrick, some survivors just have a knack for, well, survival. After a harsh winter that killed off much of our garden, we have been pleased to see a number of horticultural survivors as well.

]]> http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?feed=rss2&p=1621 6 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1566 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1566#comments Thu, 17 Mar 2011 22:20:36 +0000 maria altobelli http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1566

foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

Ellie Mae

Twenty years later when Julie and Annie made their long-awaited Mexican trip, they sat in our Pátzcuaro kitchen as Julie nestled a four-week-old kitten in a baby blanket in her arms. The kitten’s paws grasped the sides of a tiny bottle as he sucked on the nipple. With each suck of kitty milk, his pointy ears twitched. Annie sat back in her chair. “Ewok.” I frowned. “What’s an Ewok.” Julie’s head snapped up as the bottle slipped from her fingers. “Maria! You’ve never heard of Ewok? Think Star Wars.” My blank stare never changed. Annie sighed. “Paul’s on the computer. Have him do a Google Image Search.” “Viejo, would you Google an Ewok for me?” “Okay. Got it. What for? I hustled over to the screen, came back to the kitchen and nodded. “Ewok it is.” What makes two people adopt an Ewok when we had long ago decided dogs would be the only four-legged inhabitants of our Mexican rental? Especially since the four-leggers had a tendency to grow in number of legs. We still have Monte from Minnesota but Solovino arrived a few months into our first rental. Then Kauks came and settled in. Kauks and Monte are huge and Solovino has always been blind so these are not the best surrogate parents for an animal that measured four inches. Some would say it was Fate. During the ten months we have been in our present rental, I would not be able to count on one hand the number of times I have taken the dogs for a walk at night. Sidewalks and streets in Pátzcuaro are notorious for surprises but the roads around our house go beyond surprise. I’ve taken a nasty fall in broad daylight so try to forego the pleasures of such an event in the dark. I guess I will never know why I decided to walk Kauks after eight the night of March 2. Not only that, but when we got back to the house, I decided to give him a few more blocks in the other direction. As I turned the corner of the first street, I heard a cry (more like a scream) of an animal in distress. I figured a cat had been hit by a car or mauled by a wild dog or some such thing so was totally unprepared to see a curled up ball of fur no bigger than a teacup trembling in the shadows of the one functioning street light. Back to the house. “Viejo. There’s a tiny kitten out by the abandoned house with the German Shepherd. It’s screaming like you wouldn’t believe.” “Probably thirsty. Bring it some water and some of the cat food we got for Alicia” I gathered my paraphernalia and Kauks and set out again. The teacup sat in the same place howling for all it was worth. I put down the water and food. What am I thinking? No way this thing can drink water by itself or eat dry cat kibble. It’s never going to last the night. A dog or a car will get it if it doesn’t die of hunger or cold beforehand. Back to the house. This time to fetch a cardboard box. Kauks thought it was a great deal, all these extra paseos but was getting tired of the same route. “I knew it. I knew you’d come back with a cat.” Paul shook his head at the teacup in the middle of the box. “What are we going to do with it?” I thought how we were leaving the next day to pick up Julie and Annie in Mexico City for their long-awaited visit. “We’ll figure something out.” Mutts in Mexico will keep you posted on the future of this critter in the following weeks.

foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

Mutts in Mexico, thanks to Victoria Allman, is running one more week of a special give-away. If you send me confirmation of your order of Female Nomad and Friends: Tales of Breaking Free and Breaking Bread Around the World, Victoria will send you absolutely free a copy of her first book, Sea Fare: A Culinary Odyssey: A Chef’s Journey Across the Ocean.

How did you get the idea for the book Sea Fare?

On my first trip aboard a yacht, to the Bahamas, a food magazine in Calgary, Canada asked to be sent a recipe and a short description of our trip.

catyb2008

I wrote something about the Bahamas and conch salad and sent it in.

A few weeks after the article appeared the editor wrote me to say she received a number of letters asking what it was like to work on a yacht and how other people could do it.  So, I started writing a series of articles that strung together, all focusing on the food of different regions.  Eventually, I wove a story into the articles and Sea Fare was born. Each chapter is a different destination, with a yachting narrative and a recipe from the area.

LonelyPlanet.com/the-bahamas images/

“Conch salad, made from conch, pepper, onion, tomato, chilli and citrus juice, is the most popular of the Bahamian dishes and is readily available from the many open-air conch stands.” (LonelyPlanet.com/the-bahamas images/)

To think that it all started with a conch shell. I’m wondering if all that fine black stuff is the pepper.

If you weren’t chef on a yacht, what would be your dream job?

Being paid to travel around the world, meeting people and discovering new recipes…oh wait, that is what I do!  I already have the best job in the world!

So Mutts in Mexico wants to thank Victoria for making this column so entertaining the last five weeks and wishes her all the best in the galley and with her continued book sales. May those romantic dinners with Patrick continue — on the coast of Sardinia or any other shore for that matter.

foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

Don’t forget Victoria’s new book SEAsoned: A Chef’s Journey with Her Captain and her web page at

www.victoriaallman.com

The sea can’t be as calm and inviting as the photo above all the time. Ever been seasick? Knock on wood, only once. We were in Sardinia when a mistral came up. Mistrals are crazy. There is no predicting them. One minute the sky was grey and the sea calm. In seconds, there were 10-ft waves and 40 knots of wind. We pitched in every direction and fell off the face of the waves as they came crashing down.

That was the only time I felt scared. Actually, that is not true. During sea sickness you don’t feel anything but sick. You don’t care what is happening. That is why it is so dangerous because you lose your will to fix problems that occur.

Because I was so seasick, I forgot to follow standard operating procedure on a boat — keeping all the cabinets locked and securing the oven door. Things were breaking all around me. Yet I still had to cook. It was miserable, but gave me a great story to tell Extreme Cooking I had not seen the ocean look that particular shade of grey before.  It was hard to discern where the steel grey waves stopped and the concrete grey sky began, especially when the boat heeled so suddenly to a 45-degree angle. Smash! The starboard cupboard flung open with a force that sent the glass bottles inside off their shelf like they had been thrown by a quarterback.  I had taped that particular cupboard myself and thought it was secure, but nothing in all my years of yachting had prepared me for the violence of this moment. I tried to gather the strength to clean up the shards of glass scattered over the floor.  I thought about pushing myself up off that same floor, but I could not summon enough emotion to care.  I just wanted to lie on that floor until it was over. Ella, our stewardess crawled into the galley, looking greener than the bowl of peas I served for dinner the night before.  “They are asking for dinner at seven.”  Her voice was a monotone of dullness. “In this?”  I asked as we careened off the next wave.  The boat shuddered like a death rattle as we impacted with the water below.  I felt myself become airborne and wondered how the food would stay on the plate. “I don’t know.  They’re crazy.”  Ella lay down beside me as I rose to clean up the mess and start dinner.  I grabbed at the counter while I was thrown into the corner with the force of another drop.  The oncoming slaughter of waves was relentless. I could already feel the bruise forming on my hip. Earlier in the day, I had planned to make an Indonesian fish curry to serve with spring rolls and stir-fried greens, but sambal olek, shrimp paste, and deep-frying didn’t sound like the best options right now.  Did they really want dinner? I thought.  Are they nuts? acooksjournal.blogspot.com floydthefoodguy.com www.kwongeats.blogspot.com But, they were the guests and technically were paying me to be in this situation, so if they wanted dinner at seven, then they would get dinner at seven.  But, it would be a much less formal dinner. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes sounded like about all I, or anyone else, could handle. I opened a cupboard.  Pots that had shifted in the storm, crashed to the floor, landing on my foot. “Ow,” I muttered. “Are you okay?” Ella asked from where she lay. “Is that a trick question?” I filled the pot with water, placed it on the stove to heat and turned to the refrigerator.  I used my body to block any stray containers that would rocket to the ground if they too had moved.  The last thing I wanted was to scramble the eggs on the floor instead of a pan. Slosh, slosh!  I hoped that was the sound of the water in the pot instead of the waves outside.  I secured the bars of the fiddley to be sure there was not a tidal wave of boiling water splashing me as I cooked. } I opened the oven and immediately burned myself when I lost my balance with the lurch of the boat.  I practically threw the chicken inside and slammed the door.  I resumed my position beside Ella on the floor, dreading when I would have to get up and baste the bird.  What were they thinking? We lay there, silent.  There wasn’t much to say.  The boat zigged and zagged while our stomachs tucked and rolled.  Ella dragged herself to check on the guests.  I lay hopeful that they would cancel dinner.  But, no.  We went back to hugging the hardwood. Half way through the cooking time, the boat rose out of the water to a particularly dizzying height. I could feel ourselves climbing and knew this would be bad. I spread my limbs out like a star to grip the floor as we pitched to the port and dropped.  The oven door flung open with the momentum.  The roasted chicken left the security of the pan and sailed across the galley.  Splat!  It landed on the floor just a few feet from where Ella and I lay.  Hot juice splattered.  The bones cracked and the bird lost its shape.  A wing tore off and landed in the corner. The flesh lay dismembered. Crash!  The heavy copper pan hit the ground and bounced onto the roast, squishing it even further into a dismembered mess. Ella and I just lay there staring. I couldn’t believe it.  That was dinner for the guests. Ella began to giggle.  “I guess I don’t have to carve tableside.” I, too, began laughing.  What else could I do? This would not be the artistic creation I usually strived for.  “Maybe you can see if they would mind something else for dinner?” I looked to the floor.  “Hopefully something with shredded chicken.” So what did you serve those stalwart guests that kept demanding to be fed? Actually, I didn’t have to make dinner for them that night as they ended too seasick to eat. I wouldn’t have served them shredded chicken off the floor, but to this day, I have no idea what I would have prepared if they had ended up with stronger sea legs than anyone else on the boat. Now that the seas are calm again, visit Victoria at www.victoriaallman.com and remember her new book, filled with hilarious tales of adventures on the high sea, although maybe not as high as in this story. And you don’t want to forget the delicious recipes that accompany those stories.

]]> http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?feed=rss2&p=1464 10 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1424 http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1424#comments Wed, 16 Feb 2011 21:52:42 +0000 maria altobelli http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?p=1424

foto courtesy of Judy Cameron

Hey, Victoria, Michelle Obama says she thinks the secret to a good marriage is being able to laugh together. Sounds good to me. The Fort Lauderdale Boat Show is quite the place from the looks of it.

thedailytruffle.com

And this excerpt from Victoria’s new book SEAsoned: A Chef’s Journey with Her Captain illustrates another occasion for laughter. Well, maybe not at the moment it happened but I bet you and Patrick have chuckled over it many times since. The First Impression The morning of the first trip finally came. We changed into our white uniforms and waited for the guests to arrive.  Patrick arranged for a car service to pick up them up at the airport and had gone to meet them.  Tom was on the dock, standing at military ease to help with luggage, while Katie and I lined up on the aft deck holding the trays of refreshments. “What are these called again?” Katie stared at the tall crystal glasses balanced precariously on her tray. “Strawberry rum sliders.” I said as I watched a long white limo approach the dock.  I balanced my tray of hors d’oeuvres on one arm and raised the other to my brow to shield the sun piercing through the sky.  I squinted, trying to catch the first glimpse of the people we would be catering to for the next week. Patrick jumped out of the car and held the door.  One toned and tanned leg swung out gracefully.  The woman wore six-inch heels with a satin ribbon winding up her calf like a vine.  She held out her hand for Patrick to help her from the limo.  A svelte figure in a lemon-meringue-pie colored sundress floated out of the back seat.  The brim of her straw hat was so large it barely made it through the opening.  In one smooth motion she removed the hat like a matador swirling his cape for display and slowly shook her shoulder-length blond locks off her shoulders. Tom’s jaw dropped.  Patrick just stared. She turned and was handed a melon-sized dog.  The beige and white shitzu had a pink ribbon in its hair like a ponytail and a diamond choker around its neck.  The woman cradled it in her arms like a newborn. Behind her, an offensive guard of a man in a tailored, navy blue jacket emerged.  His hair was slicked back off his forehead.  In one hand he held a half-smoked cigar, with the other he thrust his briefcase at Patrick.  He pulled a long draw off the cigar as he loosened his gold-striped tie. Who were these people? As they approached the gangway, I nudged Katie forward.  She held out her tray and smiled brightly. “Welcome,” she bubbled, holding her tray high.  “Would you like a cocktail?” The woman pushed her Prada sunglasses up, expertly pinning the curls off her face.  Her severely plucked right eyebrow raised in an arch as she looked down her nose at the fruity drinks with sliced pineapple garnishing the rim of the glass. She waved a slender hand in Katie’s direction as if she were shooing a fly.  The weight of a marble-sized diamond rotated to one side on her skeletal finger. “A white wine spritzer.”  At the same time she pushed the dog at Katie.  “Baby needs bottled water.” Katie, who wasn’t prepared to hold the squirming pup, reached out to grab him. The tray in her hand tipped to the left.  She realized the balance was off and over-corrected.  The strawberry smoothies swayed from one side of the rims to the other. Katie’s eyes went wide.  My eyes went wide.  I made a lunge for the tray.  Just as my hand grabbed hold, one of the tall glasses teetered on the side of the tray and toppled toward the woman. A wave of pink left the glass and floated through the air.  From where I stood, the pink of the drink was highlighted by the baby blue water in the background. The color was further complimented by the delicate yellow of the woman’s dress.  They really went well together. Once the first glass went over, the other followed. The woman’s mouth dropped open.  No words came out. She clamped her jaw shut and pursed her lips tight.  Her eyes narrowed to thin slits as she seethed. The dog leaped from Katie’s arms and jumped up on his hind legs.  His front paws planted in the woman’s skirt and his small pink tongue darted in and out, licking at the fruit oozing down the fabric. Her husband let out a loud guffaw and slapped one knee.  The muscles in the woman’s jaw clenched even tighter as she glared at her husband. Katie burst into tears. Patrick and I stared at each other, dumbfounded. I apologized profusely and dabbed at the fabric with a cloth soaked in soda water. Patrick offered to pick up the bill for the dress.  Katie left to regroup, while Tom hosed off the deck.  The whole time the husband chuckled and the dog bounced up and down with excitement.  This was not a good beginning to the trip. Strawberry Rum Sliders 1 ½ oz Malibu Rum 1 lime, juiced 6 strawberries 1 banana ¼ cup ice cubes Pour the rum and squeezed lime juice into a blender.  Add the strawberries, banana and ice cubes.  Blend until smooth.  Pour into tall glass and garnish with strawberries. Serve, repeat…possibly multiple times…. avalanchecocktails.com.au cocktails.eu Yum, interesting idea. Maybe readers will need a pitcher of these Strawberry Rum Sliders to go with this next question. How about something you tried and wished you hadn’t? thecookingphotographer.com Actually, I didn’t try this, but I wish I had. When I was in Vietnam, I was offered a shot of rice whiskey. The man held a cobra in hand and with one quick motion, whacked its head against the table, gutted it, and dropped its still beating heart into the shot glass.  The man got such pleasure out of holding the glass out to me and then laughing when I shook my head. joolsgallager.blogspot.com joolsgallager.blogspot.com Okay, I am still glad I didn’t try it.  But, it would have made a great story if I would have… Since we’re in Valentine’s Day week here, if you could plan the ultimate romantic meal for Patrick and yourself, what would it be? One of the first things Patrick and I ever did was pack a picnic of Idiazabel cheese (Spanish sheep’s milk), baguettes and Sangiovese wine. We sat on a hill in Sardinia, under a crescent moon, overlooking the harbor and ate, talked and ate some more. www.flickr.com/photos/macmir Twelve years later, it is still our favorite meal and we try to repeat the experience wherever we are Sounds mighty good to me. Any other romantic meals out there you readers would like to share with Mutts in Mexico? It would be fun to hear about them. Hard to get enough romance in these time. And be sure to tune in next week. Victoria plans a great give-away. Anyone who buys a copy of Female Nomad and Friends: Tales of Breaking Free and Breaking Bread Around the World will receive a copy of Victori’s first book, Sea Fare: A Chef’s Journey Across the Ocean.

Victoria Allman, one of the contributors to Female Nomad and Friends: Tales of Breaking Free and Breaking Bread Around the World, also provided the final step between our test kitchens and the book. As chef on the yacht, Cocoa Bean, she made and served the recipes Rita and I compiled to her crew and a number of the guests on the yacht.

Author of Sea Fare: A Chef’s Journey Across the Ocean, Victoria just released a new book, SEAsoned: A Chef’s Journey with Her Captain and Mutts in Mexico is happy to present a Victoria Allman month. SEAsoned is a delicious travel adventure that takes readers aboard a yacht into the heart of working for your husband and staying afloat during the first year of marriage.

The thirty second elevator pitch and the book blurb on the back cover are key elements to selling any book. Writers have been known to run for the Xanax bottle trying to compose the perfect pitch and blurb.

Try out Victoria’s for size.

Take two adventurous newlyweds, place them on a floundering yacht wrought with problems.  Make the husband the captain and boss of his wife the chef. Add two inexperienced crewmembers, an anorexic diva and her bully of a husband, a CEO who thinks he’s in charge, a randy wife who is bored of her own marriage and looking for a diversion and a drunken first mate. Stir it up with a violent storm and rapidly flooding engine room. Apply pressure and watch the situation simmer to a boil.
If Victoria didn’t have the rights to this one, an enterprising writer could take the blurb and go write the novel. More from the press release below.

“Sprinkled with over 30-mouthwatering recipes and spiced with tales of adventure, SEAsoned is the hilarious look at a yacht chef’s first year working for her husband while they cruise from the Bahamas to Italy, France, Greece and Spain; trying to stay afloat.”

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I’ve traveled and cooked most of my life but never been on a yacht so wondered how Victoria got started in this dream career?

In 1999, I had been a chef at River Cafe for three years and loved every minute of being there, but I was reading cookbooks from other countries.  I had a recipe for paella and made it, but I had never been to Spain to taste the authentic version.  I had no idea if what I was producing was anything like what it should taste like.  I felt like I was missing a big part of my culinary education.

So what was the impetus to get you going?

A friend of mine had just come back from a winter season in the Caribbean and started telling stories. She spoke about diving in the Cayman Islands and going to the fish market in Bequia.

At the time, I was in central Canada and had never been in more than a kayak.  I hadn’t ever seen or heard of a yacht let alone thought of working on one. But I was itching to travel and taste.

Central Canada is a long way from the Caribbean. What did you do?

I took a leave of absence the next day and drove down to Lauderdale for the boat show the following month.  I was lucky.  I interviewed on Wednesday and started work on Thursday.

Victoria, you definitely have a story of breaking free. How did you end up submitting to Female Nomad and Friends?

Rita and I connected when, like many of her readers, I used her e-mail address at the end of the book and looked up her web-site.  It just happened to be the same day she had posted about wanting to collect reader stories and recipes. We were on a boat in the Solomon Islands, after having just experienced this amazing meal on a remote island.  I sat down that very afternoon and started typing.

Victoria’s story Riding Out the Storm (page 279) introduces the reader to this captain featured in SEAsoned:  A Chef’s Journey With Her Captain. Except, at the time, he was just another crew member going bonkers while the yacht weathered a major storm before picking up the next load of guests. Here’s an excerpt:

“The clouds were still threatening to explode on us, but there was a least a little light peaking through. It was just enough encouragement to give Patrick and me the confidence to take a Wave Runner and go for lunch at Uepi Lodge, seven miles and three islands away. I didn’t care if we got rained on. I just wanted off that boat.

“Patrick is a blond, blue-eyed surfer and one of the happiest men I have ever known, but even he was showing signs of weariness and feeling a little batty from the storm.”

Patrick and Victoria but not on a Wave Runner.

Mutts in Mexico will be back next week for more on Victoria Allman and her book

SEAsoned: A Chef’s Journey With Her Captain, released by NorLightsPress, January 2011 and available through Amazon www.amazon.com and Barnes and Noble www.bn.com.
Victoria is available for interviews at victoriaallman@mac.com or through her web-site, www.victoriaallman.com. ]]> http://mexicoinsmallbytes.com/mexicoblog/?feed=rss2&p=1323 5