The Epicure Abroad

Photos: Cinque Terre

elena_valeriote — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 12:45:00 GMT

My experience as a Food Explorer on the Passport & Plate journey to Cinque Terre.

La Fine (e Il Vino)

elena_valeriote — Sun, 8 Jun 2014 08:16:00 GMT

The most perfect week of my life has come to a close and there’s a train ticket on my table with tomorrow’s date on it. I’m telling myself to get excited for Parma, my next travel destination and the beginning of my first ever solo backpacking trip, but leaving Cinque Terre feels like leaving home. In fact, departing from Manarola feels harder than leaving home because I don’t know when I’ll be back.

I’m afraid I’ll forget the little things. The way it smells here, like the sea, citrus, sun, soil – the same fragrances of California but a different perfume. The way people park their boats in front of their houses and hang their laundry out to dry. The way parents call their children amore, love, like a second name. The way gardeners leave the blossoms on the zucchini to sell at the market. The weight of the big, old-fashioned keys that open the wine cellar doors. The names of the wildflowers. The specific shade of pink paint on the houses.

Part of me wanted to wallow in my preemptive nostalgia and spend the day sitting on my balcony, staring out at my stunning view of Manarola until it was seared into my eyes, but luckily I had reason to be pleasantly distracted – a trip to Riomaggiore and a hike to the sanctuary of the Madonna of Montenero with a new guide, Chiara.

I’d seen Riomaggiore from atop the mountains while hiking and out in the ocean while boating, but this was my first trip into the center of the town. I found it was similar in size to Manarola and the community seemed just as tight-knit. Everyone smiled and stopped their work to talk with Chiara as we walked by. One woman even handed me a soft, fresh apricot she’d just picked.

Because everyone in Cinque Terre has known one another for decades, it can be easy to feel like an outsider here, but if you know one person, the entire town becomes your friend.

As a native of Riomaggiore and a guide by profession, Chiara is simultaneously rooted in the Cinque Terre tradition, while being subject daily to the tourism culture here. From this unique perspective, she had a lot to say about striking the right balance between the two.

We should all strive to leave a place better when we leave it – or at least to support the authentic heritage rather than just the tourist culture. Repeatedly throughout my time here, I’d been told the best way to support Cinque Terre is to drink Cinque Terre wine. Look for bottles of white wine made in one of the five towns, or perhaps La Coopertiva, a wine made with grapes from the entire Cinque Terre vintage each year. I highly recommend buying a bottle of the dry white wine called Costa da Posa. (If you happened to buy two and want to share… I’ll be there.)

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With my time in Cinque Terre already changing from the clarity of the present into a rosy pink and sparkling blue mosaic of memories, I'd like to once again thank World Nomads, Parco Natzionale delle Cinque Terre and Can't Forget Italy for the incredible experience they've given me. I plan to take everything that I have learned along with me as a traveler, a writer and a cook. I can only hope that my life will continue to be filled with as much adventure and good food as it has been this past week.

How to Spend a Day in Paradise

elena_valeriote — Sat, 7 Jun 2014 20:11:00 GMT

I’d been gazing at the beautiful terraced vineyards across from my hotel balcony all week, so when I woke up this morning to a wonderfully wide open blank on the schedule, I took my opportunity to go for a hike. After climbing the countless, jagged stone steps up and down there seemed to be only one obvious choice for how to spend my next free hour as the day got hotter: a swim in the Mediterranean Ocean. Though I’d seen it every day for a week and even skidded across it on small boats, I hadn’t had the chance to go for a dip.

With my swimsuit on, I walked down past the gathering of tourists at the water’s edge by the picturesque center of town and turned around the corner to a more secluded location I’d found earlier. From there, I dove straight into the water, which was so cold it stole my breath for a few moments. I swam until I warmed up and then floated on my back for a while, trying to believe this is my life.

In the afternoon, I headed to a local cafe, Aristide, to prepare a traditional Cinque Terre meal with three generations of female cooks: Grazia, the grandmother who had been at the restaurant from the start, her daughter Monica, and the youngest, Elena. When we realized we shared a name, we got to talking and I asked if she’d always known she wanted to work at her family’s restaurant. Yes, she responded, laughing. Her mother had tried to get her interested in other careers and sent her away for college to make sure she knew her options, but Elena had realized at a young age that she always wanted to be in the kitchen with her family. I can understand the feeling.

Focaccia and Cookies: A Day in the Kitchen

elena_valeriote — Fri, 6 Jun 2014 19:54:00 GMT

At 5:00 this morning another of my culinary dreams came true – I baked my first real focaccia. Though it was still dark out and I hadn’t quite yet rubbed the sleep from my eyes, the sight of several loaves baking already assured me that there was no place I’d rather be (not even my bed).

With the guidance of a local baker, I combined the traditional ingredients to make the dough, substituting olive oil where I would have used butter in my usual bread recipe and kneading it by hand rather than throwing it in my KitchenAid. Once the dough was prepared, I slathered on a layer of a creamy Italian cheese called Stracchino to make a simple pizza and popped it in the oven. After several long minutes of waiting as delicious smells emanated from the oven, the timer finally rang; while the foccacia was still hot, we took it down to enjoy by the ocean for a sunrise breakfast.

Keeping with the baking theme, I spent the late afternoon in another kitchen, this time baking lemon cookies. With a little lemon juice, some zest, flour and sugar, a batch of cookies was in the oven in a matter of minutes. I was having so much fun cooking with the baker (a delightful man named Fausto who whistled while he worked) that we decided to make some lattice-topped pies while the cookies baked.

When they came out of the oven, Fausto immediately handed me one to taste, which I was all too eager to do. The outside of the cookie was coated in sugar and lemon zest, forming a crisping exterior that crunched before giving way to a soft, warm center, pale yellow with bright specks of lemon zest. The flavor was subtle, the aroma fresh. It was one of the best things I’d ever eaten.

Apparently my feelings were obvious and moments later I was sent away with a white paper bag filled with a dozen of them. I took them with me to snack on by the water. Sitting there with the warm bag of cookies on my lap and the sound of the ocean hitting the rocks nearby, I realized I was in one of life’s perfect moments. It’s a memory I will hold on to forever.

It is impossible not to fall in love with Cinque Terre, but as a tourist, this sort of love is often one-sided. I am eternally grateful to the Parco Natzionale for enabling me to meet the people of Cinque Terre on this trip, especially to enter into their kitchens, where the heart of the culture lies. With the warmth of the oven, the comforting smell of yeast, the familiarity of forming dough with my hands, I’ve felt at home here making the ravioli, the focaccia and the cookies.

The kitchen is governed by a universal language and a desire to share. That these people have allowed me, a perfect stranger, to come into their homes and bakeries to cook with them and to taste the recipes that have been in their families for generations means more than any words can express. I can’t wait to bring these recipes home with me to share with my family.

Over the Mountain, Through the Garden and Off to a Wine Tasting

elena_valeriote — Thu, 5 Jun 2014 19:53:00 GMT

A trip to Cinque Terre isn’t complete without hiking from one town to another at some point. At home in California, I hike almost every month, sometimes every weekend if I can. I’d heard about the trails in Cinque Terre and had been eagerly looking forward to making the trek between villages. Today I hiked from Manarola to Corniglia and it was, without a doubt, the most beautiful hike I’ve ever experienced. In fact, it was not so much a hike as it was an afternoon of taking a few steps, stopping to stare in awe, taking a few more steps, stopping to take some photos, and so on for several hours in the same direction.

First the trail led us past Manarola’s gardens. It was still morning and we saw many people taking advantage of the beautiful weather to weed and water their land. I was surprised by the old age of the gardeners – they all seemed in perfect health and worked as though they’d tended to these lands for decades, which they probably had. It may be the wine, sunshine and seashore air, or maybe just their tenacity of spirit, but for the people of Cinque Terre, old age is no reason to stay at home and give up working.

Higher up, beyond the gardens, we came to olive groves and crumbling stone homes. Here the path was somewhat overgrown, with wildflowers sprouting up around the steps and wild asparagus at the edges. My guide, Daniel, picked a few and gave me one to try. It was skinny, bitter and unlike the ones back home, but it tasted fresh and green and I wished I could claim a small plot of land nearby to grow some of my own.

When the hill leveled out, we took a turn into a dense, verdant forest, which opened up moments later to a view of the ocean and a path between rows of vineyards. My coordination faltered due to my distraction – I was constantly turning my head to the right to inspect the curling green vines and miniature green beads of the plants, then outward to the sparkling blue water. (It’s a miracle I never fell off a cliff during my trip.)

Although I wasn’t ready for the hike to end, we finally came to the quaintly charming town called Corniglia. It seemed even smaller than Manarola, with fewer tourists, most likely because, at the top of a mountain, it is the only of the Cinque Terre towns not directly next to the ocean. We walked around a while before taking the train to Vernazza, Daniel’s home, where we visited his garden. I was happy to be let in through the gate of a local garden, but even more so to have a hand in tending it. We watered his basil and tied the tomato plants to their poles. Even though it was one afternoon, I like to think of Daniel eating a salad in Italy soon with the vegetables I played a small part in growing.

Although it seemed to me that everyone in Cinque Terre has their own plot of land for grapes, olives, citrus or vegetables, Daniel told me that he is perhaps the youngest man to continue gardening in the traditional way. It is heartbreaking to think of the old ways of living and the connection to nature being lost on the younger generation in Cinque Terre. I dream of one day having a garden like his, maybe a small vineyard, too.

Speaking of grapes… As the sun began to set, Daniel locked the gate to his garden and we headed back into the heart of Vernazza for a wine tasting. My interest in wine as an aspect of the culinary world and my Italian heritage has always been strong, but unquenched because I am (at twenty years old) still underage in the United States. This being my first opportunity to have a professional explain wine to me, I was very excited.

As we tasted – first two white wines, then a red – the sommelier guided us through the process of properly appreciating a wine. He instructed us to examine the color – was it pale yellow, a profound red? There were several steps, including smelling and swirling the liquid, before we tasted each wine. The last glass to be poured in front of me was a Cinque Terre specialty, a white dessert wine called Sciachettra. It is particular to the region, made with varying amounts of Bosco, Vermentino and Albarola varietals. The process differs from that of regular wine because it is made with dry grapes. It’s so sweet that when the glass is swirled clear droplets drip slowly like honey down the sides. When the locals speak of it, they adopt a reverent tone. Sciaccetra is too sweet for my taste, but I enjoy the fanfare and the passionate conversation that takes place whenever a bottle is presented.

I look forward to understanding more about the art of wine tasting, but of all that I learned so far, it’s the process – the building of anticipation and the mindful enjoyment – that seems most important. It is something I will always remember and try to recreate.

Two Fishermen Named Beppe and a Ride on the Monorail

elena_valeriote — Wed, 4 Jun 2014 19:29:00 GMT

I think that the only way to truly understand Cinque Terre is to spend a day out on a boat with a local fisherman. Luckily, I had the chance to do this. Unluckily, I tend to get seasick just looking at a boat. Nevertheless, I left Monterosso this morning on a fishing boat with two men named Beppe. They each looked the part of fishermen with their sea-worn, kind faces and soon I was dressed up in their waterproof fishing attire, wearing neon orange pants three times my size.

As we drove out into the ocean, the leading Beppe (the one who spoke a good amount of English) explained his history to me briefly and expressed his fears for the future. The government divides the sea around Cinque Terre and competition is fierce in certain areas. Beppe and his fellow fishermen struggle against the crews of larger fishing boats that are capable of catching more fish and selling them cheaply to the nearby restaurants.

Beppe’s major concern is not for his livelihood, but for the increasing unsustainability of the fishing industry. It is negatively impacting the marine life and ecosystem along the Cinque Terre coast and, furthermore, it’s destroying the local way of life. Beppe lamented that the younger generation of men would not pursue careers as fishermen, but he also expressed his understanding that these men would not want to be “losers”; they could not provide for themselves and their families in the way that their forefathers had and it was unfair to expect them to choose a doomed profession. From only an hour of speaking with Beppe, I could see that he is a wise and tenacious man; it saddens me to think that he has resigned himself to the idea that a Cinque Terre tradition will die with him.

Nonetheless, he showed me the ropes (literally) about how to fish. I’d naively imagined sitting with a fishing rod for several hours, but instead it was our job today to pull up huge nets that had hopefully collected sea creatures. It would be a good day, Beppe told me, if we could find some lobsters. We pulled up the net for a long time and several fish flopped out onto deck, but before long my seasickness overcame me and I passed the remainder of the excursion lying flat in the center of the boat.

In the afternoon, we headed to Vernazza to tour the Cheo vineyards with winemaker Bartolomeo Lercari. Like oversized baskets of grapes, Seth and I piled onto the back of the monorail, a small train-like vehicle that runs along a skinny rail up the hills of Cinque Terre’s larger vineyards to accelerate the harvesting process. Over the roar of the motor, Bartolomeo explained how technological advancements such as the monorail have aided wine production in the region, which has particularly difficult topographical features to overcome.

Bartolomeo looked straight forward as he operated the monorail, but I gazed in awe at the breathtaking view of Vernazza below us. The monorail climbed ever upwards, at sometimes nearly vertically so that I had to hang on tightly or else fall out. When the ride came to a halt, we hopped out and ventured deeper into the vineyards, where we met up with his wife and his small, scruffy black dog.

The Lercaris spoke about their vineyards as if they were unpredictable, but loveable children – they explained that the vineyards require constant attention, but there were high hopes for the future. After suffering a terrible flood in Vernazza in 2011 that damage their wine production facilities and several storms that had ruined their grapevines, it was easy to understand Bartolomeo’s anxiety about the current crop.

After speaking with the two producers at Cheo, I began to see a thread run through the stories I’d heard in Cinque Terre – a sense of passion, even without profit and persistence, even without reward. I have so much admiration for the people I’ve met so far.

What to see more of Elena's food adventure?

Lessons on Dry Stone Walls, Ravioli and Wine

Lemons & Anchovies

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Lemons & Anchovies

elena_valeriote — Tue, 3 Jun 2014 19:25:00 GMT

I’m starting to feel like a regular at the Aristide café in Manarola and, in fact, breakfast is something I look forward to every night as much for the food as for the experience. Sitting at my little table out front, I watch the people pass by and listen to the rolling r’s and long l’s of Italian floating along musically around me, punctuated softly by the clinks of spoons in espresso cups.

Unfortunately I revealed myself as American the first day by ordering an omelet and though I like to blend and adopt the local customs, old habits die hard. Coffee and a pastry might be how the Italians start the day, but I need a bit more substance.

After breakfast, we (me, Seth and Marzia) traveled to Monterosso by boat, which seemed the most appropriate way to get there considering its reputation as a fisherman’s village – not to mention it was a the perfect opportunity to get a seaside view of several other Cinque Terre towns along the way.

Monterosso is larger than Manarola, with a livelier atmosphere and evidence of Genovese influence in the way that some buildings, including the church, have black and white marble stripes. The warm weather called for a gelato, which we enjoyed as we wandered the streets on the way to our next outing.

Could there be a better way to spend the day than in a lemon grove with one of the locals? He led me around his land, between the trees spotted with bright yellow citrus fruits, past his chicken coop and basil garden. Along our walk he explained his passion for his work, both in a restaurant in town and in the lemon grove. His jobs were inextricably tied, in a traditional Italian manner; he tended to the lemons and brought them into town where he used them to produce limoncino or to garnish a plate of fresh fish.

Lemon is a key ingredient in many Cinque Terre dishes, from the antipasti to the dolce. Citrus trees flourish in the Mediterranean climate and the flavors pair well with seafood. I have a particular fondness for lemons, (they are, in fact, part of the reason I got to come on this trip) and because they thrive in California, too, I cook with them often. The scent always manages to bring me briefly home to my parent’s backyard where we dine on summer nights beneath our lemon tree.

After wandering through the lemon grove, it was time for a much less pleasant task – preparing anchovies to be salted and stored. A crate of dark, shimmering anchovies was set in front of me, their wide eyes staring blankly at me. I was instructed to push my thumb into their gill and, with a quick jerk, rip the head off, pulling the spine and organs out with it. I’ve never done anything like this before and, though slightly horrified, I was determined to give it my best.

I pretty much destroyed the first fish. The splinter-like bones stabbed into my thumb and blood dripped all over the table (most likely the fish’s, maybe mine too), but I had to get the first step right before I could move on, so I tried again. Once I did this, I had to use my thumbnail to slit the anchovy in half down its belly and then pick any bones out of the flayed body. Not quite like baking cupcakes, but I managed to prepare about 3, by which point my agile instructor had perfectly set out a dozen. Needless to say, I way relieved when he told me it was time for dinner.

What to see more of Elena's food adventure?

Lessons on Dry Stone Walls, Ravioli and Wine

Two Fisherman named Beppe and a Ride on the Monorail

Travel. Learn. Create.

And if you're lucky enough to be mentored by one of our industry professionals, it could kick start your career!

Lessons on Dry-Stone Walls, Ravioli and Wine

elena_valeriote — Mon, 2 Jun 2014 22:00:00 GMT

First, a bit of background…

All across Cinque Terre, the hills are lined with rows of short stonewalls – some are neat and orderly, others are overgrown with plants; in many places, the walls have crumbled into mere piles of rocks. Were I traveling here on my own, I might not have taken much note of the walls. They certainly make for an interesting landscape and some pretty pictures, but these structures (called dry-stone walls because they are built without cement) are integral to Cinque Terre’s heritage.

When the first people settled in Cinque Terre, they had to build these walls in order to cultivate the land because the hills are so steep. Long days were spent carrying heavy rocks up the hills and chipping away at the hard dirt to make terraces. The efforts of their labors – the kilometers of walls that wind along all of Cinque Terre’s landscape and rival the length of the Great Wall of China cumulatively – have withstood centuries, but they are more fragile than they seem. Without constant maintenance, plants begin to grow in the crevices and water can no longer stream between the rocks. The inventive design of the dry-stone walls is thus corrupted and when it rains, water floods behind the walls and the pressure causes them to collapse.

The art of building these walls – it truly is an art – rests on finding the right size stones to fit together, like a puzzle. Today, Cinque Terre’s youth isn’t very interested in learning how to build these walls and the older generation is concerned about who will continue to fortify the walls and create new ones after they’re gone.

To an outsider, the history of these walls and the current issues that revolve around them may not be apparent or important, but today I met with with Giampietro Ferri, a man who helped me not only to build a wall, but also to understand the significance of continuing the tradition.

We met up in the mountains where he keeps olive trees and honeycombs for the Busanco brand olive oil and honey that he produces. When I asked how he’d gotten to work in such a beautiful place, Giampietro explained that he had begun his career as a banker, but found that the work wasn’t meaningful enough to devote his life to it. His true passion was for the hard, rewarding labor of working the land.

Together, we reconstructed a section of one of the walls on his property. He was eager to teach me how to choose the correct stone to fit along the wall so that it would create an even line along the perimeter and a flat surface on top. When I got the hang out it, he would praise me with a hearty “brava!” His enthusiasm was contagious.

Building the wall was hard work, but seeing Giampietro out in the sunshine amongst his olive trees, surrounded by his sons (whom he proudly referred to as “the future,” stressing the importance of their role in the olive groves), I could see how worthwhile his life’s work was and I am proud to have played a part in it. I may be one American tourist in Cinque Terre, but I lent a hand in the reconstruction of a medieval wall that may remain for centuries.

After working outside all day, it was time to get my hands dirty in the kitchen. As an avid cook, I was delighted by the news that I was going to prepare dinner, but I was even happier to find out I’d be making ravioli with a true Italian women, Franca.

I grew up hearing stories from both my parents about how their mothers and grandmothers had spent Sundays in the kitchen preparing pastas for dinner. For years, I’d been meaning to try my hand at making pasta (particularly my favorite type, ravioli). It seemed to me incredibly important in accessing some lost part of my heritage and perhaps it was for this reason that making pasta seemed a little daunting and I’d never tried. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself in Italy having an apron put on me by a cheerful, sweet woman who spoke hardly any English but was set on teaching me her family recipe.

Though my Italian vocabulary for baking is fairly basic, cooking is universal and I immediately felt comfortable, as I always do in the kitchen. Franca poured a small mountain of flour onto the table and demonstrated how to crack an egg into the center of it. We took turns with the dough, kneading it until it was the perfect texture and ready to be fed through the pasta machine. I cranked the pieces through several times each until they were soft, thin ribbons a few inches thick. We laid them out and put dollops of filling (hers featured mortadella, parmesan and spinach) across. We tucked over the sides and pressed them into individual pockets with our fingers, then used the scalloped tool to cut the edges for the signature ravioli shape. By the time they were ready to plop into boiling water, I had fallen in love with the pasta-making process… and the fresh lemon marmalade that Franca let me taste as they cooked.

In the meantime, I had the pleasure of sharing my first batch of ravioli with about a half dozen of my new Italian friends. We carried the bowls of pasta downstairs to a nearby neighbor’s cantina. What could be more Italian than eating ravioli in a wine cellar.

Franca and her husband, Gianni, introduced me to Luccio, their neighbor, who just so happened to be a local wine connoisseur. When I expressed my admiration of his wine collection in the cellar and his impressive display of different-sized wine glasses, Luccio’s eyes lit up. It was all I needed to say for a spur-of-the-moment, private lesson on wine.

It was a perfect night of drinking wine, eating ravioli, and afterward, listening to one of the guests play guitar.

What to see more of Elena's food adventure?

Lemons & Anchovies

La Fine (e Il Vino)

Travel. Learn. Create.

And if you're lucky enough to be mentored by one of our industry professionals, it could kick start your career!

My First 24 Hours in Manarola

elena_valeriote — Sun, 1 Jun 2014 20:05:00 GMT

My life whole I have wanted to come down the stairs of an airport escalator and be greeted by someone holding a paper with my name printed on it. It seemed to me that this was the epitome of glamour, the indication of an exciting adventure. Yesterday, I found this out to be true. I met my Cinque Terre guide Marzia and her colleague Silvia at the airport in Genoa. I couldn't imagine a better set of people than Marzia, Silvia and the other Parco Natzionale delle Cinque Terre representatives to introduce me to Cinque Terre. Their love for the region is not only obvious, but also contagious.

My story begins in earnest in Manarola, which is to be my home for the next ten days. The town seems to consist of one main street with the typical rectangular houses bunched together and painted in various shades of pink and orange that I’ve seen on so many “Bucket List” Pinterest boards and tourism photography books.

Marzia knows everyone here and we are warmly welcomed wherever we go. Last night a large group of us dined at da Aristide, a small restaurant near the sea, which offers many Cinque Terre specialties. Our meal tasted of the ocean in the best possible way. Everything was fresh and prepared with a few, simple ingredients. Marzia told us that this is the food of the poor (called so because of its simplicity) but it seemed like a dinner for kings.

Upon first being seated, the conversation turned to the most serious matter at hand – which wine should we begin with? No menu was consulted, but opinions were given, suggestions made and eventually the waiter hurried off to bring us a bottle of a local white wine, Costa da Posa.

The meal began with several types of mussels - one bathed in flavorful tomato sauce; another was elegantly undressed, accompanied by only lemon slices. Anchovies followed, also prepared in many different ways. A plate of lavender-colored squid and a seafood salad came next; then the pastas: spaghetti with pesto, tagliatelle with seafood and spinach ravioli.

The waiter came out and presented us with a plate of raw, pink fish. Everyone nodded their heads and he left. I had not seen this customary exchange before, but Marzia claims it is common for diners to approve their fish before it is cooked. The fish reappeared at our table shortly after, now white and buttery.

Throughout the meal, the wine bottles were constantly replaced, always with a Ligurian wine. Each was crisp and white, but made distinctly different by floral notes, a citrus scent or some flavor redolent of the sea. After many courses and much indulgence, the waiter brought limoncino and espresso. Close to midnight, we were the last people to leave the restaurant.

Almost everyone imagines that the Italians are marathon eaters. In my college textbooks for my Italian courses there are charts for explaining the proper order: Apertivo (light drinks such as a Spritz or Proseco), Antipasti (starter plates with small servings), Primi (usually pasta, maybe risotto or soup), Secondi (meats and fish), Contorni (sides, salads and vegetables), Formaggi e Frutta (cheeses and fruit), Dolce (something sweet, a typical dessert), Caffè (an espresso) and a Digestivo (liquor). From my first true Italian dining experience, it seems I didn’t learn all these terms in vain… Yet, the books (and the stereotypes) never explained the difference between the way Italians and Americans eat. The portions of food are smaller, the time of consumption prolonged, the ideology based on sharing.

I could get used to this.

Today everyone from dinner last night rejoined to hike up the hills around Manarola, making our way to the house of Marzia’s friend GiGi, who, like several of Marzia’s other acquaintances, owns a small vineyard and presses his own wine. The steps to his house formed steep, narrow trails of winding flat rocks, but the view from his porch was well worth the climb. We sat down to lunch at a table on his patio with a wide expanse of the Mediterranean ocean and the other hillside homes in sight. Our meal consisted of sopressa, prosciutto, peppercini, focaccia, eggplant, cherries and red wine. At the end, we were given a very special treat – the opportunity to try a few bottles of homemade sciacettra, a dessert white wine that is unique to the region. It was sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. Above all, I enjoyed hearing them proudly explain their wine production process and later show me their cellars. Unfortunately Gigi’s cantina (the Italian name for wine cellar) was filled with only wooden barrels and glass jugs. The season for the vendemmia (the grape harvest) isn’t until autumn.

In the evening Seth, the filmmaker for the project, and I dined at the Trattoria da Billy. It was nearly 9:00, a time when the average Italian dinner is in full swing, so we had to wait several minutes for a table to open up, but we were amicably handed a glass of prosecco upon walking in and the time passed easily. Before I knew it, the antipasti was being set before us – in order to accommodate the impressive twelve plate seafood starter, a second small table had to be set up next to ours. Pink tuna tartar, anchovies in oil, croquettes in orange sauce, fried squid… a beautiful array of colors, textures and flavors. I wouldn’t have imagined I could still have room for my main dish afterward, but when Billy himself presented me with a magnificent, silver fish surrounded by roasted tomatoes and potatoes, I decided to channel my the American and eat it all.

Billy set the plate down and expertly deboned the fish for me. With just a few swift movements, the fish veritably melted into a puddle of soft white flesh. The waiters, always perfectly able to move a dinner along by a change of drinks, removed our empty wine glasses and replaced them with smaller ones of Grappa.

Be it the food or the jet lag but my mind and body were in two different places. I had the urge to wander the streets of Manarola in the dark, not wanting to waste a second of my time here, but ultimately my exhausted limbs made the decision to head towards home.

The Ticket

elena_valeriote — Fri, 30 May 2014 00:20:00 GMT

If someone had approached me a few months ago and asked:

If you could have one wish, one just-for-you, dream-come-true wish, what would it be?

I would’ve answered:

Travel the world on a journey solely devoted to eating.

Maybe you could narrow that down a bit? They might’ve replied.

Italy. I would’ve have responded immediately.

And here I sit today, waiting in the airport with a ticket to Italy and an itinerary centered on food.

I can’t really remember the Skype conversation that I shared with the World Nomads representative who told me that I had won the Passport & Plate Travel Writing contest. When she mentioned – in a tone that suggested nothing out of the ordinary – that I would be going to Cinque Terre in a matter of weeks, I sort of slipped into a state of shock. I went rapidly from an inability to process the news to the urge to jump up and down and hug her through the computer. The second the call was over, I burst into tears. Next, I terrified my parents (who universally never hope to receive a call from their crying daughter) and tried to explain how this wonderful thing had come to be. When I had assured them I wasn’t in the emergency room, I ran down the three flights of stairs in my apartment, literally burst through the door and sprinted several blocks down the street to tell one of my friends. She came out in the courtyard clothed only in a towel, wet hair stuck to her shoulders, apparently similarly concerned by my emotional phone call. As I told her, she started to cry and jump around, causing just the sort of scene I felt was appropriate.

I am so thankful for these fantastic people in my life and the unbelievably amazing opportunity World Nomads has given me with the aid of Can't Forget Italy and Parco Natzionale delle Cinque Terre. I don’t know how I’m going to sit still on the plane for the seemingly-endless hours between now and when I touch down in Genoa…

Photos: Passport & Plate - Meyer Lemon Bundt Cake

elena_valeriote — Sun, 9 Mar 2014 04:32:00 GMT

Ingredients: - 1/2 cup unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for muffin tin - 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for muffin tin - 2 teaspoons baking powder - 1/2 teaspoon salt - 1/2 cup low-fat buttermilk - 1 teaspoon vanilla extract - Zest of 1 lemon, finely grated, plus juice, plus 2 tablespoons more lemon juice for the glaze - 1 cup granulated sugar - 2 large eggs - 1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar How to prepare this recipe: STEP 1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a mini-bundt pan. In a medium bowl, whisk the flour with the baking powder and salt. In a small bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, vanilla, and zest and juice of 1 lemon. Set aside. STEP 2. With an electric mixer, cream butter and granulated sugar until light. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. With mixer on low speed, add flour mixture in three batches, alternating with two additions of buttermilk mixture. STEP 3. Divide batter evenly in the pan. Bake until a toothpick inserted in center of a cake comes out clean, 20 to 25 minutes. Cool 10 minutes in tin, then cool completely on a rack. STEP 4. Set rack over wax or parchment paper. In a small bowl, stir confectioners' sugar with remaining 2 tablespoons lemon juice until smooth. Pour over cakes and let set 30 minutes. The story behind this recipe: I had just returned to my apartment in Los Angeles after spending Christmas at home with my family in Northern California. Upon opening my suitcase, I found a note informing me that the TSA had checked my bag. I laughed – it must have looked very suspicious. If only I could have seen the serious face of a federal employee as he opened my suitcase filled with lemons. They weren’t just any ordinary citrus. They were Meyer lemons, but more than that, they were bright yellow, juicy capsules that tasted of home. In truth, “home” had not always been the house with the lemon tree. At the age of nine, when we moved from my childhood home, I was devastated and at first I refused to like our new residence, where I return nowadays to visit my parents. As I moped, my mom tried to point out the advantages of the new home to me. There’s a lemon tree out back! She had said. I didn’t yet understand what that meant – not until she brought in armfuls of the cheerful, little fruits and began preheating the oven. In the kitchen with the lemons, I stopped resenting my parents for making us move. Baking had always been something special that my mother and I shared; the warmth of the oven, our buttery fingers, the sweet aromas swirling around us – no one could be unhappy in a kitchen. Our culinary repertoire of lemon-inspired baked goods and savory dishes flourished, but nothing was ever so perfect as our Meyer Lemon Bundt Cakes. After moving to attend college, thoughts of these cakes hovered like pale yellow clouds in my mind. I found that store-bought citrus lacks an authenticity of flavor and so I packed a bag full of lemons to take to my apartment from home. An odd array of things have since filled my suitcase and I’m sure stranger things will occupy it in the future. My longing for the familiarity of my mother’s cake is now overcome with an insatiable wanderlust; I feel the emptiness of my suitcase and (though I may pack a lemon for comfort) I am ready to fill it anew. About Me Whenever I’m asked what I plan do to with my life, I answer (in all seriousness): eat, write and travel. The responses range from laughter to admonishment, usually accompanied by suggestions of “real” career paths; but just as any doctor prepares with med-school, I’ve been preparing my whole life for this sort of career. I was raised in a family that dearly understood the value of good food. As a poor Italian immigrant child, my grandfather nearly starved several times during his youth. He spent his adult life working to ensure his family would never know hunger and would appreciate food to its fullest. Each meal that we share is a sacred experience, an indulgence of the senses and a conveyance into the present. Before cooking a dish, I like to familiarize myself with its heritage and gather the advice of the culinary greats. Even the simplest dishes that I cook have a sprinkle of M.K. Fisher, a dash of Julia Child. My love of food is paralleled only by my love of language. I have studied Italian and French for several years so that I may fully embrace these foreign cultures when traveling, though I know I may always turn to the poetry of a fine meal as a universal means of communication. I connect with each food explorer category, but I feel compelled to take the journey as a Pilgrim, for I have been drawn to Italy as long as I can remember and I’m certain the experience will be redefining.