OTBT: Mesa Verde

By Jenni Gate

Cliff Palace - one of the largest dwellings in Mesa Verde

Tower in Cliff Palace

These days, Mesa Verde National Park is not too far off the beaten path. It has a rich and mysterious history, a setting high on the mesa cliffs of southwest Colorado with deep canyons and expansive vistas. The Anasazi (ancestral Puebloans) lived on top of the mesas about 2,000 years ago, farming the fertile soils at about 7,000 to 8,000 feet in altitude. The area was most likely settled around 400 AD. By around 1100 AD, resources on the mesa tops were being depleted, and a lengthy drought forced people to the cliffs where water seeped through the sandstone until it hit bedrock, pooling and seeping into springs within caverns. The Anasazi built homes, towers, and kiva structures right in the arched caverns that were cut into the cliff face by erosion. They only lived in these cliff dwellings for about 200 years, and then they disappeared. Modern Puebloan people believe the Anasazi are their ancestors, that the drought drove these ancient people from the mesa and into more fertile parts of the Southwest.

Painting inside Cliff Palace 2-story dwelling

The Anasazi kept dogs and domesticated turkeys. They farmed corn, beans, and squash. The mesa forests provided pinyon and juniper trees.  Various berries were abundant. They traded with other Southwest people for cotton, and they developed unique pottery designs.

Some of the dwellings are decorated with paintings on the walls and hand prints. One of the popular hikes in the park meanders along a boulder=strewn cliff path to a wall of petroglyphs. The petroglyphs throughout the South West only intensify the curiosity about the way people lived, their struggle for survival, and their life in the cliff dwellings. 

30' ladder entry to Balcony House

Through a tunnel & up a cliff face to exit

View from Balcony House

Cougar & Kachina whip petroglyphs

My husband and I went in late April this year, which is a good time to go because temperatures soar into triple digits in the summer, and the altitude takes a toll. Bring plenty of water. The highest point in the park, near the guest lodge, is about 9,000 ft. Most of the sites can be seen from overlooks and drive-to vista points, but if you hike the trails or take the ranger guided tours, be prepared to climb ladders, crawl through tunnels, climb rock faces, clamber over rocks, and be awed by the beauty of this national treasure.

Petroglyph wall

Everybody’s Talking about It

By Patricia Winton

A television repairman on my street befriended me soon after I moved here about ten years ago. For some reason, he thought my name was Gabriella and that I came from London. I corrected him many times, but he never remembered. I finally started answering to “Gabriella” when he greeted me. He’d ask me, “Have you been to London?” and I’d say “Yes. It was raining.”

First Courses

Until he closed down recently, he would pop out of his shop as I headed home at mid-day. “What are you eating for lunch?” He really wanted to know my dietary habits. Sometimes, when I faced just a ham sandwich or a carton of yogurt, I invented a menu. “Oh, I’m eating pennette al pomodoro and insalata.” That satisfied him. “Are you eating your fruit?” he’d ask. Another time, a Thursday, he called out, “In Rome we eat gnocchi on Thursday and cod with chickpeas on Friday.” I came to  learn this came from a traditional Roman saying, "gnocchi Thursday, chickpeas and cod Friday, and tripe Saturday. 

He always stood very close to me and shook his finger in my face as he lectured me. Once, he raced out of his shop, waving his hand to stop me, “Gabriella, you must try the new tavola calda (hot table, a type of cafeteria) across from the fire station. They have an excellent lunch menu. For just six euro, you get a first course, a main dish, vegetables and bread. It’s a good value, and you get lots of choices. Delizioso!” I followed his advice, and he was right.

Second Courses

My pal’s conversation mirrors that of many other Italian people. They are known for being a chatty race, and food ranks up there with travel, politics, and football as a favorite topic. At the market, for example, a stall keeper might ask a customer buying a head of escarole, “What are you going to do with it?” The reply would be detailed. “I’m going to sauté some garlic and mash in some anchovies,” she might say, “then add the escarole and sauté a bit more. I’ll serve it with short pasta and lots of Parmesan.” Other customers might kibitz. “Add some hot pepper.” Or, “Use pecorino instead of Parmesan.”

Conversations can become intense. “I love torta di patate (potato cake—not a sweet),” someone might say. Her companion might close her eyes and respond, “Oh, yes. Potatoes, onions, cream.” The first might object, “Oh, no, no onions.” La Mamma is always the ultimate authority. Everybody’s mamma. “My mother always uses ham and no onions.” Depending on how many people are involved, the argument could continue for some time. Should the potatoes be sliced or grated? Should you use béchamel or cream? Opinions are strong and passionately expressed.

Vegetables

People often seek ways to bolster their authority when debating Italian cuisine. In an exercise I often use in my English language classes, a British guy presents a recipe for Ragù Bolognese. It’s a horrible recipe, including tomato ketchup and “any kind of cheese.” The exercise sparks spirited debates among Italians. In one memorable discussion, various members of the class—all men—offered their take on the right way to make this sauce. Finally, one guy said, “My relatives are from Emilia-Romagna (the region where Bologna is located), so I know the best way to make this sauce.” He wasn’t from the region, you understand, but he put his family behind him to reinforce his opinion.

My TV repair friend has gone, and nobody calls me Gabriella any more, but I still listen closely to people talking about food. Where they’ll drive in the fall to get the best olive oil. What private producer makes the best Parmesan. How to cook the squid. When to prepare the walnut cordial. Who makes the best bread in the neighborhood.

 I blog on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues where, next week, I'm writing about the world class chef who's preparing Italian cuisine for the International Space Station. You can read more about me on my website www.PatriciaWinton.com

Love Food

By Leslie Hsu Oh

Lulled to sleep in the backseat of the car, I woke as Bà Ba swerved across five freeway lanes and exited on one of Arcadia's busiest streets. Chinese characters in neon lights blazed on a number of establishments populating strip malls. Bà Ba pulled into one of these where fans crowded in front of Din Tai Fung Dumpling House as if in anticipation of a rock concert.

Bà Ba’s ninety-five-year-old mother grumbled in the front seat. She had refused to ride in a wheelchair, even though her bound feet forced her to teeter precariously. I offered her my arm and she patted it, saying in Chinese that Bà Ba must love me very much to endure this hassle. She nodded at Bà Ba's wife and my half-brother, who both disappeared into the crowd, and whispered that Bà Ba rarely came here.

The wait for a table could be nearly two hours long. Nonetheless, this annual holiday tradition of eating at Din Tai Fung was perhaps one of the few things we agreed upon.

I lived in Alaska, while he lived in Southern California. We rarely spoke on the phone and I visited him only once a year, usually at Christmas. Mainly, I disagreed with the way Bà Ba grieved. After Mā Ma and Jon-Jon died, he immediately sold our house. He donated the cherry wood bedroom set that Mā Ma promised I would inherit. He replaced Jon-Jon as soon as he could with another son.

The more I wanted to preserve everything, hoarding boxes and boxes of Mā Ma  and Jon-Jon's belongings, the more he seemed to erase them from his life, gifting Mā Ma 's paintings to close friends, asking me to hold onto their wedding album, and mailing all of Jon-Jon’s toys to me. Sometimes I hated him for moving on, when I could not.

Bà Ba's wife pushed her way through a mass of bodies and returned with a ticket and a menu snapped to a clipboard. We browsed through 79 different kinds of dumplings and noodle soups printed in Chinese and English. The star of the lineup was Juicy Pork/Crab Dumplings, which failed to adequately capture the elegance of their Chinese name: Shea Fun Xiao Long Bao, Crab Powder Little Dragon Bun.

About the size of a dollar coin at its base, a translucent wonton-like skin kneaded into a twist at the top contained a bite-sized morsel of pork swimming in a pool of soup. A dash of crab powder to tease your senses. Served on a spread of lettuce in a bamboo basket, it arrived steaming at the table beside a dish containing strings of ginger soaked in black vinegar. Although other restaurants on occasion served this dish, Din Tai Fung (the only branch to open in the United States) in our opinion, made the best Shea Fun Xiao Long Bao. Perhaps it was because you could see the dumplings being made with metronomic precision. In tall white chef hats, one man spun a rolling pin, tossing rounded flour medallions to another, who twisted the dough, and laid them gently like jewels within bamboo baskets.

The cooks were so quick that I never saw them stuff each dumpling. I suppose that made the dumplings taste even better, especially after Bà Ba taught me the art of savoring them. He said the first challenge in enjoying Shea Fun Xiao Long Bao is to pick it up gently with a pair of chopsticks without poking holes in its paper-thin skin. Place a few strands of vinegar-soaked ginger on top, perhaps to cool it down or enhance the flavor of the soup sliding like silk down your throat. Then, patience is required. You must know exactly when to pop the dumpling in your mouth. The soup has to be at the right temperature; otherwise, like a dragon's fiery breath it could sear tongue and throat, stripping away a complexity of salt, sweet, and sour flavors rippling across taste buds.

***

Photo credit: http://travelerfolio.com/yue-fei-hangzhou/

Bà Ba and I pulled apart a pair of deep-fried You Tiaos, a deep fried Chinese breadstick that is served only on weekends and sells out by eleven a.m. in select Shanghainese restaurants. He folded his You Tiao into a Sao Bien, a flaky sesame seed sprinkled pita. I dipped mine directly into soy sauce.

We listened to the crunch of You Tiaos between our teeth. We welcomed Chinese chatter from neighboring tables because there was nothing easy to discuss this Saturday morning. My grandma was not sitting at her usual place beside Bà Ba. She had died several days earlier at ninety-six. 

Sipping some tea and smoothing my long black hair in place, I swooshed the grease down my throat and began, “How are you doing?”

Bà Ba seemed to age within the wool red and black checkered shirt Mā Ma bought before I was born.

“When they dig my mom's grave, I think that it might be a good thing if they cover up Mā Ma and Jon-Jon’s tombstones.” Bà Ba had slimmed down over the years, maybe for his young wife, whom he’d started dating not more than a few months after we buried Mā Ma. I could see the hard lines of his bones.

“I think that would be disrespectful. We should make sure that the gravediggers don't do that. For some of our relatives, it will be the first time they have ever visited Mā Ma and Jon-Jon's resting place."

Bà Ba finished his Sao Bien You Tiao sandwich before explaining to me something that I never understood and still don’t. Bà Ba had asked me years ago not to tell his son, my half brother, about Mā Ma and Jon-Jon. Now, he admitted that this had always been his wife’s request. He felt that obscuring Mā Ma and Jon-Jon’s tombstones might not be such a bad idea, for her sake.

Photo credit: http://thehealthygourmet.wordpress.com

I balanced my You Tiao on my plate, deliberately wiped my mouth, folded the napkin neatly on my lap, and told him calmly that last year his son asked me whether we shared the same mother, and I couldn’t lie.

Bà Ba swore at me. And I swore back. Our meal ended in a torrent of words we will try hard to forget. I had always thought You Tiaos were comfort food, meant to be shared with a loved one. Recently, I discovered that they originated from a legend about a corrupt official and his wife, and that some Chinese folks believe You Tiaos represent a tool in expressing contempt.

Over the years, I’m learning there’s an art to understanding Bà Ba. I saw a man who grieved in a way that insulted me. In refusing to tell my half-brother about Mā Ma and Jon-Jon, I felt he preferred if I disappeared too. But maybe, our grief stemmed from the same source. One person found it too painful to see them as part of his life. The other found it equally agonizing not to see them as part of her life.

Adapted from "Love Food,” originally published in Rosebud Magazine, Spring 2009, and soon to appear in the Tao of Parenthood anthology.

Confessions of a Travelling Foodie

By Alli Sinclair

There are two factors that determine my affection for a country:

1/ The attitude of the people

2/ The quality of the food

I’ve been very fortunate to have had a 99% success rate with the countries I’ve visited (only one country has disappointed me, and no, I won’t share!). As a self-confessed foodie, I keep a “food diary” when abroad. It’s full of recipes I’ve collected from chefs and new-found friends, and every recipe has an entry about where I first tried a particular dish, my first impressions of the place, and the people I shared the meal with.

On top of my food adventures list is Ushuaia, Argentina. Situated on Tierra del Fuego, Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world (although the Chileans will dispute this—don’t get them started). Located on the icy shores of the Beagle Channel and surrounded by the Martial chain of mountains, Ushuaia could easily be mistaken as a seaside town in Scandinavia. It’s now a stepping off point for boat trips to Antarctica, but for me, Ushuaia is where I had one of the most wonderful experiences in my life—even though I didn’t know it at the time.

Somehow I’d stumbled upon a hostel owned by a couple who looked like they’d just stepped out of a hippie commune. My gentle hosts knew little English, but smiled and made me feel welcome the minute I knocked on their door. Although the hostel rooms were small, the communal living area had a massive floor-to-ceiling window with some of the most magnificent views of Ushuaia. Snow-capped mountains framed the steely gray waters of the port where yachts bobbed up and down. Off in the distance were penguin colonies, and some of the world’s most remote ranches. My planned stay of a week stretched into a month.

In the back of the hostel was a shiny, stainless steel kitchen. Guests had access to the fridge, ovens, and cooking utensils, and most nights a cook-off would take place. Travelers from all over the world made their favorite recipes to ward off homesickness, and it was a delight to try out meals from far-flung locales. But things changed dramatically when Rosa and Paulo from Mendoza, Argentina, arrived.

I’d only been in Argentina a short time so I was still testing the waters with my rudimentary Spanish. A trip to the supermarket that should have taken 10 minutes would drag into an hour because I had to pull out my dictionary every time I read a label or needed to ask for something. It hadn’t worried me, but Rosa decided to take me under her wing, and I quickly became her pet project. Determined for me to get a grasp on the language, Rosa dragged me to the markets, confiscated my Spanish/English dictionary, and made me memorize words and phrases. This curvy, pint-size woman with red, frizzy hair scared the crap out of me. She smiled as she barked orders, and I obeyed by reciting my fruits and veggies, hoping this tough love would pay off. Either that, or very shortly, Rosa would jump onto a plane back to Mendoza.

After a few days, Rosa handed me a piece of paper written in her cursive script, with her g’s and y’s dropping down two lines. Of course, the note was in Spanish. She told me she’d organized for a feast at the hostel that night, and I was going to be in charge of the empanadas. That’s when I tried out some choice Spanish phrases. She shrugged, handed me a plastic bag of ingredients, and said she’d be back shortly.  

The view from the hostel window in Ushuaia

I peered into the bag, found the empanada ingredients, and stared at the note. Mierda. I could barely boil water without burning the bottom of the pot; how on earth was I going to make empanadas and feed the hungry hordes? Everyone else was out on excursions or at a bar that afternoon, so I was alone in the large, cold kitchen and felt very, very lonely. The door banged open, I looked up, and Rosa waddled in clasping a couple of bottles of fine Mendocino Malbec.

She pulled out a couple of juice glasses, cracked open the bottle, poured the dark red liquid, and handed me a glass. We toasted to our health, I made a silent wish that I wouldn’t kill anyone with my cooking, and we set to work. That rainy afternoon, I learnt some Mendocino slang and what it’s like to like to grow up in Mendoza. I also increased my Spanish vocabulary ten-fold. Rosa showed me how to lovingly make the dough and filling, and how to shape these delights into little half moons, complete with swirly patterns. Little did I know, this experience was the start of my life-long love for the city that eventually became my home—Mendoza.

That night, we pushed the tables together, sat our 20+ guests down, and fed them some of the most delicious empanadas I’ve ever tasted (yes, I say so myself!). These pastries were made with love, laughter, and friendship and that flowed through to the group gorging themselves between animated conversations and taking large gulps of wine.

Months later I met up with Rosa and her husband in Mendoza, and we shared more cooking adventures. Her passion for her country’s food and love of people rubbed off on me, and now I enjoy introducing new dishes to friends and family. Although occasionally I still burn the pot that’s supposed to boil water.

And here’s the delicious empanada recipe:

Filling:

1 tbs olive oil

1 onion, finely chopped

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp paprika

Large pinch of ground nutmeg

Large pinch of ground cloves

3 hard-boiled eggs, peeled, coarsely chopped

15 pitted black olives

Melted butter, to brush

Pastry:

3 cups of plain flour

100 grams of chilled butter

1 tsp salt

1 egg yolk, lightly whisked

5 tbs chilled water

Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the onion, stir until it is clear and soft. Add the ground beef, stirring with a wooden spoon until brown and cooked through. Add the cumin, cinnamon, paprika, nutmeg, and cloves. Stir again and transfer to a large heatproof bowl. Leave in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. 

Make the pastry by placing the flour, butter and salt in a blender. Process until it looks like breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and water and process again until the dough starts to cling. Take out and place on a floured surface and knead the dough until all lumps are removed. Wrap in plastic and place in the refrigerator for about 20 minutes.

Line 2 large baking trays with baking paper. Turn on oven to 200C. Roll out the pastry until it is around 3 millimetres thick. Cut the pastry into 15 discs, 12 centimetres in diameter. 

Stir the egg into the ground beef and mix with the seasonings. Place a heaped tablespoon of ground beef in the centre of the pastry disc. Top with 1 or 2 olives and brush the edges of the pastry with water. Fold so it is in the shape of a half moon. Press the edges together and use a fork to crimp the edge. Place on a lined tray and repeat this until all the empanadas have been made. Put it in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Brush the empanadas with melted butter, bake in the over until golden (around 25 minutes). Eat and enjoy!

OTBT: Beginning a Literary Journal for an International Audience

We're pleased to host Kulpreet Yadav as our guest this week. Kulpreet answers our questions about how he came to start the Open Road Review, which he calls "a literary journal with a global soul."

Kulpreet is the founder-editor of Open Road Review. His creative work has appeared in numerous literary journals. Kulpreet’s latest book, a short story collection, ‘INDIA UNLIMITED – STORIES FROM A NATION CAUGHT BETWEEN HYPE AND HOPE,’ was released on Feb. 4, 2013 at the World Book Fair in New Delhi. More at www.kulpreetyadav.in.

Novel Adventurers: How did you start the journal?

Kulpreet Yadav: Open Road Review literary journal was founded in 2011 and the first issue was published on the first of May 2012. We had earlier planned to publish the maiden issue on the first of February, but couldn’t attract enough good submissions. I wanted the first issue to be special and we remained patient for another quarter while we reached out to writing groups and the writers themselves through word of mouth, social media, university circulars etc. By mid-April we had a good number of submissions to choose from.

NA: What are some of the challenges you’ve faced?

KY: For the team of Open Road Review this has been the first experience as editors. While it has been rewarding in terms of righting our individual literary careers, we have lost a few friends. The trouble with being an editor is that your friends expect you to accept their works. And when you tell them that you can’t, careful in putting it across – no writer wants to disappoint another one – that you can’t publish his work, you lose years of friendship. As an editor of Open Road Review now I know why editors of big publishing houses remain away from struggling writers, not hanging out with them, or turning their offers to share a drink.   

Shanti Perez, the fiction editor of Open Road Review, has been a part of our team from the beginning. Her commitment and editorial skills has played a crucial role in the journal’s popularity. Leah McMenamin, the poetry editor of Open Road Review, has been with us since issue 3. The poetry section of the journal is hugely popular among readers and poets and it shows the seriousness with which Leah selects her works.  

NA: Did you create the journal mostly for Indian writers and readers?

The Open Road Review's home page.

KY: Open Road Review continues to thrive among the readers from India and the rest of the world. This is not an India-focused-journal as one would assume. I feel the time has come for the world to see itself as a unified entity rather than a divided one. Indian writing, without a doubt, has its own distinctive flavour. But flavours are best served along with other flavours. Therefore, at Open Road Review we publish the best of Indian writing alongside international writing.

Open Road Review has a dedicated webmaster who likes to keep the website interactive. Readers can send their feedback, there are audio links for most of the stories, a blog section to understand the editors better, and the website is optimized for smart phones and tablets. The social media pages are part of the website and a visitor can download any work to read offline later.

NA: What would you like to add?

KY: Keep reading Open Road Review and sending us your best. The editors would love to hear from you. Remember, we exist for you, the writer and the reader.