Author: leahlarkin

The vintage van struggled up a steep road in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains en route from Taroudant to Ouarzazate. The slow pace allowed us, 16 passengers stuffed into the non-too-comfortable vehicle, plenty of time to admire the striking brown, barren, rough mountain scenery all around.  Suddenly smoke, great clouds of gray, spewed from the aged Mercedes.  The driver stopped.  We piled out while he made an inspection, then started the engine again.  More smoke.  It was clear we could go no farther, and we were many, many miles from a town.

This was just one of several misadventures on my three-day journey through southern Morocco following the ski meet (see previous blog entry).  But, this turned into a delightful break from the discomforts of the trip.

While our guide, Khalil Zeguendi, made calls to line up alternate transportation, we took photos.  Soon a crowd of women, heads wrapped in scarves, and children surrounded us. They were all smiles, and motioned for us to follow them into their “kasbah,” a collection of coral colored buildings around an open space.  They ushered us into the “living room” of a home, a large room with cushioned benches all around and a table in the center.  We learned the benches became beds at night.

 

They seemed elated to welcome us.  They sprinkled us with rose water – a Moroccan tradition.  They served us the traditional mint tea and nuts.  They dressed one of our group in a fancy Moroccan headdress.  They laughed when we showed them their photos on the camera screens.

We were having a joyous time when Khalil came to find us, upset that he had to look for us.  A new “old” van had arrived so we could continue.  It was even smaller than the original one, so Khalil had to fold himself up over the luggage in the back.

The trip had begun the previous day with departure from Marrakech. The first stop was Essaouira, an ancient fishing village of white buildings with bright blue fishing boats tied up at its harbor. It’s a windy place with hundreds of sea gulls soaring above. Khalil called it a “city of celebrities” as it was popular with musicians such as Jimi Hendrix and the Beatles in the ‘60s.

We wandered through the souks, crammed with shops selling everything from carpets to ceramics, slippers to jewelry. Lunch at chez Sam, a harbor fish restaurant, was a treat.  We lingered too long over bounteous platters of fish and seafood, and were running late. Khalil announced we would take a “shorter” inland route to our next destination, Taroudant.

The trip was endless.  The road was narrow and not in great shape.  It was also the truck route.  The procession of monsters crept up the long hills like a parade of snails.  Passing was out of the question.  It grew dark. We were hungry. I longed to stretch my legs, also out of the question. We were in the wilderness. There was no where to stop.

It was after 11 p.m. when we arrived at the hotel in Taroudant where they had held dinner for us. We ate quickly and fell into bed.

Next morning, Sunday, we were supposed to have a carriage ride around the town’s well-preserved red mud walls, then time to browse the souks, said to be among the best in Morocco. The carriages never arrived.  We set off to the souks on foot, only to learn that the shops did not open until much later.  So much for Taroudant.

Next stop Ouarzazate.  It was on this journey that the aged Mercedes gave up. At least we were traveling by day and could admire the starkly majestic scenery.  Before the disaster, we stopped to photograph goats who climb argan trees to feed on the fruit.  We made another stop at a co-op where we were supposed to learn about saffron production.  Alas, it was closed.  Khalil rounded up sandwiches at a local grocery.  While we were picnicking, someone came to open the shop where at least we could buy saffron, Morocco’s famous and pricey spice. An enterprising young boy, arms laded with necklaces of pungent smelling eucalyptus seeds, suddenly appeared. He offered three strands for just two euro.  Everyone made a purchase.

It was dinner time when we arrived in Ouarzazate, a town where numerous movies, including Lawrence of Arabia and Jewel of the Nile, have been made. 
To make up for the traumas of the day, we opted to splurge at an excellent restaurant in the town, Relais Saint Exupery.  I tried the Moroccan specialty, pastilla de pigeon, a sweet pigeon pie made with pastry layers stuffed with pigeon morsels, ground almonds and dusted with sugar. Proprietor Jean Pierre entertained us with stories about famous customers, including Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie who, while on site making a movie, ate there “at least 20 times.”

After the disappointments of  Sunday, Monday in Ouarzazate was glorious. We toured the town’s kasbah, Taorit, then drove – at last in a newer model, roomy van — outside town to visit two other kasbahs. Ait Benhaddou, a UNESCO world heritage site, is “the largest complex of packed earth buildings in Morocco,” according to my guidebook.

The pile of beige/pink buildings is clustered on a hill above a river. Rather than wade through the shallow water, some of us paid a euro to hop on a donkey for the trip across.  Steps and narrow passageways between the buildings climb the hill, leading to openings, rooms to explore, then up and up to the summit for an amazing view.

The trip back to Marrakech over the mountains offered more incredible scenery. Marrakech is a lively, booming metropolis.  It’s easy to get lost in the huge labyrinth of souks where I weakened to sales pressure and made a major purchase, a lovely rug. 

Marrakech’s heart,  Jemaa -l-Fina, is a circus to be experienced both day and night.  Story tellers, musicians, snake charmers, women who body paint henna on customers, and other entertainers congregate in the large space, hoping to earn from tourists who must pay to take photos.  At night, food vendors set up stands offering an amazing variety of grilled meats and other treats.

Away from the crazy, pulsating throng of people and action is a haven of peace and old world grandeur, the La Mamounia Hotel, a Moroccan institution where the rich and famous hang out.  From Charlie Chaplain and Winston Churchill to Nelson Mandela and Tom Cruise, the guest list is impressive. The gardens, lobby, pool, terraces and fountains – all are stunning.  It’s a tourist attraction, and you can visit.  A guide book advises being well dressed

This trip did have its “moments.”  But I’d be happy to go back and see more of Morocco anytime.

For more photos, click on "More Morocco" under Photo Album in center column.

 

When some 180 skiing journalists from 33 different countries met to ski and compete in Morocco’s High Atlas mountains recently, it was declared a “miracle.”  The organizers (Belgian and Moroccan) had to overcome monumental difficulties, including a dearth of snow, to host this unique event.

The Journalists’ International Ski Club (S.C.I.J.) www.scij.info (sceej)  holds a meet in a different country every year attended by members — professional journalists — often as many as 300, who ski for fun, race for more fun, attend interesting and lively round table discussions on timely issues, visit nearby sights and savor the best of local cuisine. This was the first time the group met to ski in Africa.

I’ve been a member of this amazing organization since 1978, attended 19 different meets skiing in 16 different countries, from Spain to Japan, Bulgaria to Argentina. The Moroccan meet on the slopes of Oukaimeden, about 70 kilometers from Marrakech, was definitely different.

No snow-making equipment, no gondolas or fast six-passenger chair lifts, no cozy mountain restaurants, Oukaimeden is a step back in time.  Skiing here may not be much different than it was back in 1937 when the first poma lift was installed.  Today there are six of those, plus a chair lift which accesses the peak at 3,269 meters.  The views from the top are awesome, and the run down is challenging.  Riding the poma lift to the top of the main intermediate slope was no less a challenge.  At the start, it jerks you up in the air. No complaints, however, as an all-day lift ticket costs just 10 euro.

Where else can you ride a donkey to the slopes?  Enterprising Moroccans were on hand with their beasts to offer transport to the slopes for a mere euro. As racing is de rigueur for SCIJ, by the grace of Allah snow fell the night before the giant slalom race adding enough extra white stuff so a professional crew from the Sierra Nevada mountains in Spain could prepare the slopes and set the gates.

SCIJ races follow professional standards, and many members (those who are fast) take the course very seriously.  In the past (when I was younger), I did on occasion win medals and prizes. It was a thrill, but those days are over for me. 

In addition to slalom, there is a cross country competition.  The Scandinavians usually capture the prizes in this race.  At “Ouka” there was serious concern that there would not be enough snow for the cross country event, alas another miracle. Those wizards from Spain did it yet again, and prepared a course.  It was shorter than usual, just one kilometer for women, but at the high altitude, most felt that was enough.  This was the first time there had ever been  cross country competition at Ouka.

Members of the Dutch team always serve their traditional pea soup at the end of the cross country race.  Enjoying the warm and tasty soup with us were members of the Moroccan army who were on hand to help with the races.  One kind soldier even helped me up after I fell on the track.

SCIJ meets usually attract local media.  The Moroccan event seemed to be a sensation for  press and television crews who were always on hand to publicize our doings.

Off the slopes at Ouka, many indulged in a “hamman,” – a Moroccan steamy bath and scrub down.  I tried it.  Stretched out on hot tiles, a pretty woman doused my body with warm water, lathered me with black, sudsy soap, then scrubbed and scrubbed with a rough mitt.  I was wiped out after the treatment, but definitely felt clean.  Many also took advantage of massages offered at bargain prices. There were more bargains in souvenirs.  Berber jewelry was a special hit. Moroccans, arms loaded with necklaces, followed us, offering their treasures.  As this was Morocco, it became a game – to see how much you could get the seller to lower his price.  My Irish friend Isabel was a pro at this and ended up with more than a dozen necklaces, some for as little as 2 and 3 euro each.  

Another interesting après-ski activity was a short hike in the surroundings to see ancient (1,500 BC) etchings in the red-brown sandstone.   But, the most après-ski fun was on the disco floor.  One evening the party even moved to the hotel pool (indoors) with a group deciding to jump in, fully clothed.  

As Morocco is not a typical ski destination and the skiing is limited, several days of our week in the country involved other activities.  We toured Marrakech where we were overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and smells in its labyrinth of souks. The day we set off for the mountains (a caravan of 36 four-wheel drive Toyota land cruisers), we stopped at a “Kasbah” nearing completion as a luxury resort,  were welcomed by dignitaries at a town en route with a reception, then had a lunch stop at an eco-resort in the mountains.  At all these stops, as well as wherever we went, a Moroccan band was on hand to welcome us with traditional sounds – mainly drums and a type of shouting song.

Meals were tasty, often the Moroccan standard, tagine (stew with meat and sometimes fruit and nuts) and/or gilled meats, usually preceded by a buffet of a variety of salads.  The concoction with cumin-spiced eggplant was my favorite.  These repasts in Marrakech were held at lavish hotels richly decorated with colorful tiles and marble.

On the serious side, during the meet there were conferences on the economy of Morocco, the role of women in modern Morocco and freedom of the press in the country.  The session on women generated lots of questions and discussion.

Since I have been attending SCIJ annual meetings for so many years, I have made numerous friends from numerous countries. I look forward to seeing and skiing with them each year.  Coming up are a meet in Argentina in late August, and one on the slopes of Banff, Canada, in Feb. 2011.   I hope I can join the fun.

(For more photos, click on the photo gallery, center column.  After the week's ski meet, I joined a post tour to see more of Morocco  Read about it in my next blog.)    

 

Helen Geneva Theresa Cecila Keefe Koester, Aug. 7, 1918 – Jan. 3, 2010. My mother, a remarkable woman with a contagious passion for life, died at the age of 91 in a nursing home in Louisville, Kentucky. It’s not just my three brothers and I who will miss her.   She had many friends and fans and seemed to touch the hearts of whomever she met.

“She was a delightful lady.  We’re better off for knowing her.”  “She was a sweet heart.” – comments from the staff in the homes where she recently resided.

She loved to talk, socialize and make new friends. She was quick to praise and compliment, often telling those she met that they had beautiful eyes, a lovely dress, a nice smile…She made people feel good.

Helen was a classy lady who loved clothes, jewels, furs, pretty things – and chocolate.  Her numerous collections included Hummels, madonnas, miniature turtles, silver spoons, and ceramic Bourbon bottles (although she was a teetotaler).  But chocolate was her passion.  She used to hide Hershey bars and Oreo cookies in secret places for her chocolate fix.  Growing up, we’d beg her to make her famous chocolate cake.  She claimed my father proposed after tasting it.  Whenever we visited in recent years, we’d take her to Graeter’s, her favorite ice cream shop, for a chocolate cone.  I sent frequent care packages from Europe with quality chocolate.  (I figured she deserved better than Hershey bars).

She was also an animal lover – a trait she passed on to all her offspring. We always had a dog, at least one cat, as well as fish, chameleons, mice, birds,– even a pet crow.  In recent years her constant companion was Brandie, a cream-colored toy poodle who clung to her like Velcro. 

But, her children were her life.  She showered us with love and attention.  Not just us.  Ours was the house in the neighborhood where all the kids would congregate.  She was fun to be around.  As children, she made sure we all learned to swim – summer swimming lessons at a nearby pool were a must.

She loved fun and adventure.  When she was in her ’70s we took her on a thrilling white water rafting trip in Colorado. She often came to visit me in Europe and was the perfect traveling companion on our numerous treks to different countries. She was thrilled with new sights and experiences.  However, I went too far when I took her on a Greek cruise – not the luxury kind.  It was a small boat in July.  The sea was rough. The tiny cabin was scorching – no air conditioning.  She got terribly sea sick, but did not complain, although she said she’d never get on another boat after that.

Helen considered herself “Irish,” as her distant ancestors hailed from the Emerald Isle.  I insisted she was “American” to no avail.  On St. Patrick’s Day we were awakened with “When Irish eyes are smiling,” blasting from the hi fi. She made sure we wore green on March 17.  She was proud of her beautiful hair, “good Irish stock,” she called it, and told me I was lucky that I inherited it.

Of course, she was not perfect.  She could be very stubborn, and her temper was not one to reckon with.  We had our share of mother – daughter fights. 

But, dear Helen, you were fantastic and incredible and wonderful.  I miss you. I treasure the memories you’ve provided.

This will be our sixth Christmas in Provence.  Hard to believe!   We always miss Germany at this time of the year.  No one does Christmas like the Germans with Advent wreaths, sparkling, tasteful decorations and those fabulous Christmas markets with hot mulled wine, tasty sausages, spicy cookies and delicious Stollen.  But, we've come to appreciate Provencal Christmas.

In these parts the big celebration is Christmas Eve with a grand meal amongst family.  If children are involved, Santa usually makes an appearance after the meal to distribute gifts to all.  We've been honored to share the festivities with the family of a former neighbor, Veronique, on two occasions.   Her sisters, their families, mother, grandchildren — all gathered at her home and all contributed something to the meal.

The Reveillon (Christmas Eve) meal is a very special feast of numerous courses.  Champagne and hors d'oeuvres mark the start, usually at 9 p.m. or later.  Then there's  a seafood course with oysters, as well as other delicacies such as shrimp and smoked salmon.  Foie gras is another favorite (more on that later).  At Veronique's one year we had a stew of wild boar for the main course.  Pere Noel (Santa)  arrived shortly after midnight.  After the gifts, eating resumed with dessert, and the party continued until 3 a.m.

In Provence, it's a tradition to have 13 desserts, symbolizing Christ and the 12 apostles, following the Reveillon meal. Dates, figs, raisins, hazelnuts, almonds, nougat, fresh and crystallized fruit and fougasse (a type of flat bread) are among the selections, usually accompanied by a sweet wine.

Two years ago British friends invited us to celebrate on Christmas Day following British traditions.There  were 10 of us for an extraordinary multi-course meal with, in deference to the French, foie gras, followed by  roast beef, numerous vegetables and that fantastic British Christmas pudding. The Brits put fun into Christmas with "crackers" — everyone gets one at his/her plate.  You pop the ends of your firecracker-like cracker to find a prize inside — a tiny toy, pen, mini note pad.  And, to add to the fun at that party, we all were given Santa hats to wear.  A jolly good Christmas. 

Last year I invited French and British friends for a Reveillon chez nous.  They all arrived with contributions.  I special ordered a large turkey  – a la Americain  – 18 pounds.  French turkeys are usually much smaller.  They were all impressed.

I also prepared foie gras (oversized liver from a duck or goose that has been force fed).  This is a very controversial subject as many contend the poor birds suffer during the last weeks of their lives when tubes of corn are put down their throats.  As an animal lover I feel guilty, but foie gras is a wonderfully sinful pleasure — smooth, silky, rich and exquisite in taste.  As it is such a staple in the French diet, at least at festive meals,  years ago I worked for a weekend at a foie gras farm in the Dordogne in western France to learn more about the delicacy.  The geese led happy outdoor lives until they were brought indoors for the period of forced eating, but they did not resist the feeding, and they did not seem tortured. They were humanely butchered and every part of the carcass, not just the enormous liver, was put to culinary use. 

 Is this any worse than stuffing American cattle, which are grass-eating animals, with corn in disgusting feed lots?  Or crowding  thousands of chickens in dark pens and fast feeding them to the point that many are unable to move their fat bodies more than a few steps. See the documentary "Food," then decide. 

French love to discuss food.  Everyone is eager to give tips on foie gras preparation which is very tricky lest the liver get too hot and melt. Even my veterinarian felt obligated to relate his method  The recipe I followed last year called for the addition of Calvados and apples.  Everyone was pleased.

New Year's Eve means another Reveillon feast.  The menu may be similar to Christmas Eve.  This year we've been invited to celebrate with French friends. As food is foremost,  we even had a pre-party meeting to decide who would bring what, which wines would be needed, etc.  I just completed a foie gras cooking course, so I'm bringing the foie gras with two wines, Sauterne, a sweet golden wine which is recommended with the rich liver, and a dry Jurancon.

Wishing all a joyous holiday season and a very prosperous 2010 — and Bon Appetit!

Many, many years ago when I lived in Germany a French friend honored me with the privilege of accompanying him and his friends on a truffle hunt.  I had been intrigued by the mystery and mystique surrounding this prized and elusive fungus which grows underground.  After years of pestering him to join a hunt, he finally issued an invitation, but only on the condition that I would tell no one of the location where we would conduct the secret search.

We were in  northern France near the River Meuse where Regis, my friend, had a friend who supposedly frequently found truffles in the forest.  We set off into the woods, basket and a tool for digging in hand.  It was snowing.  It was freezing cold. Truffle season is from November through March. 

We started in an area of thick brush at the edge of the forest where a type of nut tree grew. We were told to look for a patch under the tree with no vegetation.  Truffles grow near the roots, depleting the soil of nourishment so other plants cannot grow on the spot.  We found many such spots and began digging, combing, sifting through the icy ground. 

And so it went, for hours it seemed.  I kept unearthing blackened, semi-decayed acorns, worms and roots — but nary a "black diamond," as truffles are called.  None of the others hit pay dirt either. Darkness approached.  The cold pierced my fingers like tiny needles. I was beginning to think it was all a hoax. 

The hunt ended sans truffles, but to reassure me that they really do find truffles, Regis' friend invited us back to his home where he proudly displayed a large jar filled with the knobby fungi.  And, his wife prepared  a delicious chicken dinner with truffles.

I am still in awe of truffle mystique, and now I live in southern France where precious truffles are big business.  Truffle markets and truffle festivals abound. There are even truffle masses where the earth's sacred treasure is blessed. Those in the truffle business belong to an exclusive "confrerie."  They turn up at festivities wearing their "uniform"– long black robes with huge medallions hanging from yellow ribbons around their necks topped off with broad rimmed black hats.  Consumers spend lavishly on the cherished delicacy, and restaurants charge dearly for dishes graced with this culinary gem.

I  was  thrilled with a recent invitation to join a truffle weekend with French journalists in Richerenches, a small town known to have the largest truffle market in the country.

Truffles have traditionally been associated with Perigord in southwest France, but we were in southeast France.  In fact the Porsche of truffles (there are several varieties) is known as the Perigord truffle, but it is cultivated in these parts where farmers plant acres of oak trees which are excellent truffle hosts.

Our truffle weekend got off to a tasty start with a Friday evening four-course meal, each course prepared with truffles. The first course was "brouillade," soft scrambled eggs with truffles.  This dish is rated as being the best for appreciating the earthy truffle taste. Presentation — served in an egg shell — also got high marks.  The journalists, mainly food writers, were critical of the main course — chicken, cabbage and risotto all prepared with truffles.  They detected little truffle taste.  I had to concur. The reason: it's' too early in the season as truffles don't mature until Christmas, they concluded

Nonetheless the next day at the truffle market there was plenty of buying and selling of black diamonds.  This market is primarily for professionals.  Growers come with sacks of the treasure and  make the rounds of the buyers to see who will offer the best price. The latter set up shop under their car trunk hoods or the back of vans where they have a small scale to weigh the merchandise.  They hold the truffles up to their nose for a whiff of the strong scent, examine the fungi carefully, often scratching the surface to check the interior color.  The darker the color, the more flavor the truffle will have.  It's all shrouded in secrecy. The buyers and sellers want no photographs.  Most did not want to talk to journalists.  It is said they fear thieves. No doubt that's not all they fear.

A sizeable quantity of truffles is worth thousands of euros, and truffle theft is a big problem.  At this market the going rate was between 150 and 230 euros ($225 – $345) per kilo (2.2 lbs.), but throughout the season the price will fluctuate depending on quantity and quality of available truffles.

After lunch in a crowded community hall — truffle omelet — we set off to a truffle farm where we accompanied Christian Allegre and his dog Chou Chou, a small, sleek, speedy black Labrador, into the fields where oak trees grew. "The dog is the master.  We follow him," Allegre said.

Chou Chou went crazy, running madly from tree to tree, sniffing the ground, then often furiously digging.  Allegre was quick on the spot, rewarding Chou Chou with a treat. The lively canine let him take over the digging with his truffle tool. He did uncover truffles, not on every spot, but frequently.

Allegre told us about the trees, truffles, dogs — and thieves. The latter are known to come to truffle farms at night early in the season after a rain, marking bare spots where the earth is raised indicating a truffle is growing underneath.  They return later — also at night — to  unearth and carry off the riches.

The best and biggest truffles are found after a full moon, Allegre said.  Labradors make excellent truffle dogs because they are "calm, gourmands and attached to their master," he explained.  Pigs were once used to sniff out the fungi, but they are too big and they can be mean. As to the trees, they must grow for eight years before their roots  will nourish truffles.

Why he is enamored of the black diamond?  "It's magic.  It's mysterious. It's a product of deception."

Our truffle ramblings ended with a taste of truffle ice cream prepared by a noted pastry chef: creamy vanilla with black specks of truffle that was surprisingly good.

Click on the photo of truffles in the Photo Album for more photos.