Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

The Best Meal in Morocco

Today's NYT article about communal ovens in Morocco brought back fond memories of my trip to Morocco in January, and especially of a meal we ate at a nondescript roadside stand on our way to Marrakech.

The stand was set behind a gas station, of all things. Imagine walking into a Chevron station in the middle of... say, Nevada... and instead of being greeted with sickly-pink hot dogs rotating inside a Plexiglas case, you find a butcher stand and a wood-burning oven, and people standing at the ready to cook your order as soon as you decide what you want.

We felt like we'd walked into an alternate universe. There we were, smack in the middle of the desert, tired and hungry, and minutes later we were sitting down to roasted lamb and hot, char-flecked bread, breathing in the heady scents of cumin and mint and hot, sharp peppers. To say that it was a restorative experience wouldn't do it justice.

I blogged about it then, but since I had so much fun going back through my pictures, I thought you might enjoy another peek as well.

P.S. I unwittingly had my camera on the wrong setting for most of the trip (grrr!), and many of the pictures came out grainy. Sigh. Guess that means I'll have to go back...?

J'Adore Le Sanctuaire

Say yes!

Taste3: Tell Me a Story

One of my grandfathers was a consummate storyteller. He alternately raised and lowered his voice as he spun a yarn, and his eyebrows wriggled across his forehead as he spoke. We hung on his every word. 

Preachers are good storytellers; so are insurance salesmen and actors and successful real estate agents. Farmers? Scientists? Usually not such great storytellers - or if they are, their story hasn't been getting out.

For the past few decades, farmers have been delivering their onions and apples to the back doors of vast supermarkets; we walk in the front doors and select our produce from gleaming, shiny heaps without any knowledge of the farmer, or the farm, or the people who harvested our food. Scientists bend over lab benches and discover amazing things, but their findings are usually printed in obscure journals that no one reads.

Thankfully, that's changing. We're starting to hear stories from farmers and scientists, and real, measurable change is occuring as a result. Case in point: Al Gore turned global warming into a gripping story, and it spread like wildfire. A good story turns facts and figures into meaningful components of the human experience. When we know what happened to the cow we're about to eat, or we know where our carrots came from, or when someone takes the time to explain what genetic recombination in soy beans really means, it changes the whole dynamic of our experience as consumers.

One of the Taste3 sessions was called Storytellers, but it was immediately clear to me that the whole conference was about the art of telling a story. The presenters who knew how to communicate their passions in the form of a story had me on the edge of my seat. 

These were some of my favorites:

Jeffery Henderson. I met Jeffery, otherwise known as “Chef Jeff” in the hallway between sessions, and got to hear his story before he delivered it onstage. A striking man, Jeff grew up in a poor neighborhood, and began dealing drugs while he was still a teen. He spent 19 years in prison, and afterwards turned to cooking as a way out. His is a riveting story about redemption, determination, and the power of a dream. Will Smith has already purchased the rights to this tale; I’ll be first in line for a movie ticket. But first, I’m ordering Cooked: From the Streets to the Stove, From Cocaine to Foie Gras.

Dennis Van Engelsdorp. I’ve never met a bee expert before, but listening to Dennis made me want to don a jumpsuit and a faceguard and walk amongst the bees. He was witty and gregarious, while making it clear that the recent mass bee deaths are more than just a random occurrence; they’re a tragedy that will ultimately affect all of us. Are the bees the canaries in the coal mine? he asked. That's the million-dollar question...

The Thistle on the Roof

While perusing the Chronicle over the weekend, I noticed this intriguing article about the not-yet-open California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park. Before they closed a few years ago, the Academy was one of my favorite places to while away a few hours. Packed with preserved animals and compelling exhibits, it always made my science-loving heart go pitter-patter.

Now I have one more reason to anticipate its re-opening next year: a living roof. While the old Academy rooftop was simply a guard against the elements, the new rooftop will combine gardens, walkways and solar panels to become an integral part of the new building. According to the article, the roof's plants will attract butterflies, bumblebees and hummingbirds. It will grow poppies and lupine and beach strawberries.

Do you think they'll let me pitch a tent?

I forgot to mention, in my post on Quixote Winery, that their roof is also alive. From my spot on the ground, I didn't have enough altitude to capture the waving grasses that grace the rooftop, so you'll have to trust me that just behind those bricks, tufty green things are swaying in the breeze.

I can't imagine that the living roof will hit the mainstream anytime soon, what with the necessary complications of adequate structural supports and drainage issues, but still: it's a pretty thought to imagine looking down from an airplane to see buildings with living tops, of previously blank roofs transformed into fields of poppies opening their orange faces to the sun.

Taste3: Quixote Winery

My Taste3 experience began early last Sunday morning, when Margrit Biever Mondavi bought me a cappuccino. We were standing at the cafe counter inside Copia, looking for a caffeine fix to start the day. The woman behind the counter explained that they weren't open yet, but that she would make the drinks for us anyway. Margrit handed her a bill, waving aside my money with a shake of her regal head. We huddled over our cups with Katrina Markoff and Alex and Aki, chatting about which tours we were taking later that morning.

Magrit was leading a tour inside the studios of several Napa Valley artists; Katrina, Alex and Aki were all going on a tour of the French Laundry; I was headed to Quixote Winery.

As we went our separate ways a few minutes later, I thought: this is going to be an amazing three days.

Out in the parking lot, I climbed into a small van along with several other people, thrilled to see the friendly face of Elise from Simply Recipes, and we set off for Quixote. A man in a Panama Jack hat sat to my right; as the bus hummed along, he occasionally pointed to a building and made a comment about something that was happening there - a new owner, a feud, an interesting wine. When I finally asked his name, he introduced himself as Paul Franson, writer and author of NapaLife. I wished I could have sat beside him longer and listened to some of his insider stories. 

Situated on a narrow winding road off of the Silverado Trail, Quixote Winery suddenly appears around a bend like a child's fantasy drawing come to life. The walls curve and dip; colorful tiles meander across the adobe-colored walls. At the far right, a gold onion dome winks beneath the sunlight. Most strikingly, the building seems to grow out of the landscape; the Stags Leap Palisades rise up in the background like a natural cradle, creating a visual feast of sumptuous curves and random  textures.

Nopales from 200 miles away

When I saw these bright green nopales this morning at the farmer's market, I had to buy them, even though they stabbed me repeatedly as I tried to put them into my bag. My thumb is still smarting.

The man at the booth told me they were from Fresno, and I have to admit: I wasn't sure whether Fresno was more or less than 100 miles away. I've never been there, and have never wanted to go, but seriously, how embarassing.

So now I have these pretty, prickly paddle-shaped things; five of them only set me back $1.45.

Whatever shall I do with them?

The Morocco Journals: Ksar Char-Bagh

We found Ksar Char-Bagh on the recommendation of a friend who is building an enormous maison just outside Marrakech.

“This place is something to see,” she told us, describing a small, exclusive palace outside Marrakech that functions as both hotel and restaurant. “You must go.” We agreed, and she made dinner reservations for the following night. When we asked for directions, she narrowed her eyes. “What kind of car do you have?”

A Clio, we told her. She shook her head dismissively. “You’ll never make it in that. You need a quatre quatre.” She explained that only way to get there was an unpaved dirt road, with no streetlights or signs to guide the way. She was adamant that we couldn’t make it on our own, and arranged to have her driver pick us up.

The next evening, the driver picked us up from our hotel, as arranged. Safely ensconced in the 4x4, we quickly left the paved streets for a pitted, dusty track that led straight into the desert. The headlights revealed the ridged trunks of palm trees all around us; small rocks pinged the windshield. I gripped my jaw to keep my teeth from clacking.

"Just you wait," the driver told us as we bounced about. "Next time you come to visit, this track will be paved, and all this land will have houses on it."

Twenty minutes later, reached a high wall lit with lanterns. A guard opened the enormous wooden door, and we stepped through onto sand-colored gravel that crunched beneath our feet. A small grove of olive trees led to a series of broad stone steps lit with candles. We walked up the steps to another door, this one made of dark wood decorated with silver studs. The door swung open just seconds before we reached it, this time by a man dressed in a flowing white jellaba and a red cap.

After the Suitcases are Unpacked

Travel stirs up my insides. When I am completely and utterly outside of my element, I find that aspects of my life – my habits and thought patterns, even my conscious and unconscious beliefs - become clear to me in ways that they otherwise would not.

I usually discover the most startling insights during the low points: after three flights in one day, after running out of clean underwear, after a night of tossing and turning in a too-soft bed with a lumpy pillow, while being utterly frustrated by my lack of agility with languages: these uncomfortable moments reveal parts of me to myself. Kind and selfish, smooth and warty, flexible and unyielding: it all rises to the surface.

This trip taught me many things – some of them new, some of them reminders of things I knew once but forgot along the way.

Among them:

The most universal language is neither written nor spoken. We are a culture that leads with our heads, that will happily tear someone apart based on an ill-spoken phrase or a poorly written sentence. We forget – I forget – that the most authentic communication is non-verbal. I noticed in Morocco that the people there are skilled at reading faces, motions, body language. They’re adept at reading situations before a single word is spoken. It made me realize that words are a kind of shield for me, a cover that I frequently hide behind. When I don’t have them – that is, when I can’t speak the language – all I have is who I am.

If I had no way to explain myself, would it change the way I live?

On the Way to Marrakech

We've been on a whirlwind tour of Morocco. We're only halfway through, and already I'm sorting through so many thoughts and impressions that I can't possibly sum them all up just yet.  The juxtaposition of past and present here is so intense as to be almost painful. We've spent the past couple of days in Casablanca, where the streets are a chaotic tangle of cars, bicycles, motorcycles and people, with the occasional burro thrown in for good measure. I saw a man balancing a crate full of live chickens on his moped yesterday morning.

The air is thick as chowder with diesel fumes and smoke - this in January, when the temperatures are still relatively cool. I can't imagine how it must be in the summertime. Traffic lights and street dividers are mere suggestions. There is no such thing as a pedestrian crosswalk; people stream across the streets at random, playing cat and mouse with the vehicles. Several times, I had the urge to fish my sleeping mask out of my bag and strap it on so as not to keep clutching the armrest in abject terror.

And yet, amid the mayhem, there is great beauty. We toured the jewel of the city, the  Hassan II mosque, built literally over the top of the Atlantic Ocean. Gorgeous. I wished, yet again, that I was a better photographer. We left Casablanca around noon today and began the drive to Marrakech, about 210 kilometers south.

It was quite a drive.

Waking from an Arctic Dream

I’m about to gush about the Ice Hotel, and I’m finding it somewhat difficult to begin. I don’t often gush about places I go or meals I eat. I’m not sure why; perhaps I like to keep my peak experiences to myself, to reflect upon in quiet moments. Perhaps I feel like the best things should be kept under wraps, in order to keep them special. It's silly, I know. The best things should be shared, not kept secret.

But the Ice Hotel isn’t a secret. It has been covered in documentaries and written about in destination magazines so many times that it has long ceased to be news. Everyone has heard of it. Been there, done that.

Perhaps that’s why I was so blown away; I honestly did not expect it to be so exceptional. I thought it would be like so many other things: overrated.

Only it wasn’t. It was a sumptuous feast for the senses, from start to finish. Taste, touch, sight, smell… the Ice Hotel engaged my entire body, and I was dazzled on every count.

For the sake of brevity (ha!), I'll just list three: