Marco Polo Returns

The Kid Squid is back from Venice, where he had a tempo meraviglioso strolling along the canals, exposing himself to art, and soaking up all the delights that La Serenissima has to offer.

Chief among these, of course, was gluten.

It was with a look of some guilt and disquiet that he addressed my usual question to a returning traveller, 'What was the best thing you ate?' At first he skirted the issue with the excuse that it was difficult to choose just one dish - or even one particular meal - since they were all so perfectly prepared, delicious, and memorable, etc. etc. Ever persistent, I finally winkled the truth out of him - he did nothing for a week but gorge himself on tortellini, lasagne, pizza, sweet breakfast pastries and his new favorite food of all time, gnocchi (the potato ones that look like little kidneys, rather than the Roman ones made with semolina - not that that it makes a difference, since both varieties are loaded with gluten).

Apologizing for his disloyalty and allowing that I would have an emotionally difficult time in Venice these days, he added that he did notice a few allowances were made for gluten guerillas vacationing in the centro storico. The Squid even took a picture to prove that a) he was not insensitive to my plight and b) he was thinking of me while he was away.

Isn't that sweet?

I think later this week I'll make him gnocchi for dinner.

Gluten-Free in the Kitchin

On our last night in Edinburgh, I abandoned Sir and the Kid Squid and skipped off for a Fabulous Facebook Foodie Fandango at one of Scotland's finest restaurants. Joining me for an evening of gossip, catching-up, political debate and locally-sourced sustainable fare were the Good [Scotch] Egg and the IWOM, recently arrived from Cairo and visibly suffering from the rainy chill that characterizes August above the 55th parallel north.

Our meal was punctuated by rich sauces, deep flavours, and unctuous textures - although her choice of roasted bone marrow followed by a variety of lambs' innards proved too much for the IWOM's delicate sensibilities, these days more accustomed to Mediterranean simplicity than offal-centered northern European cuisine. Though I myself was a bit leery of dishes such as boned-and-rolled pig's head with crispy ear salad, I happily snarfed my bone marrow with snails and girolles followed by saddle of rabbit stuffed with foie gras and spinach. Of gluten-free desserts on the menu there were none (may I point out to carte-composers everywhere that descriptors such as Delice of Blackcurrant are completely unhelpful to gluten guerillas such as myself?), but chef cheerfully put together a poached peach, raspberry, soft meringue and ice cream arrangement that compensated admirably for this deficiency.

We chatted agreeably about this and that, eyeing the large windows at the front of the restaurant and keeping watch for masked brick-throwing looters (none appeared, thankfully - Scots are far too sensible to riot in the rain). We discussed likely outcomes of the revolution in Egypt and the flammability of houseboats on the Nile; the efficacy of rolling pins when repelling would-be boarders; the difficulties of acculturation in foreign parts; and northern Scotland's woeful lack of broadband internet access.

Since in a few days' time the G[S]E and IWOM were due to depart on a road trip to a Highland village somewhere near the Arctic Circle, I presented them with a jar of my home-made blueberry jelly for self-catering breakfast purposes. Tragically, the preserve appeared to have suffered disturbing transmogrifications during its travels: inside its airtight Weck jar was no longer a firm, set, wobbly mass but rather a pool of purple syrup with a blob of jelly floating in the center.

Although my companions accepted my less-than-perfect cadeau with good grace, I was deeply concerned by this turn of events. Before leaving for our vacation I had committed a sample of my crystal clear conserve to the Jelly [Other] category of comestibles for judging at the Great Allentown Fair on Labor Day weekend. Would I get back to sunny Pennsylvania only to discover that all my jelly had separated, thus disqualifying me from Blue Ribbon Glory?

Upon arriving home yesterday, the first thing I did was scurry to the green corner cabinet where I keep my hundreds of jars of precious preserves. I dug out the blueberry jelly and tipped the glasses on their sides, shaking them slightly to assess their condition. Thankfully, they were all still set and potentially prize-worthy - which leads me to wonder what happened to the jar I schlepped across the ocean. Does pectin suffer some sort of reversal in planes' cargo holds? I know that if you cook jams at high altitudes allowances must be made, but I cannot imagine why they would experience any sort of retroactive effect.

I shall be investigating this matter in due course but am in the meantime reassured that I will have something to present for scrutiny in a few weeks.

As for the jar currently making its way north to Gairloch, I assume that a quick stir with a spurtle will restore it to rights - that is, if it hasn't already been frozen solid by the Atlantic's howling gales.

Either way, it's nice to think that I've left a little something behind in Scotland.

Until next time.

Morning Coffee

As buona fortuna would have it, the world's best Italian deli is right around the corner from our home-away-from-home whilst we are in Edinburgh.

Requiring fortification for a day of intensive activity, we presented ourselves at the establishment's wonderful cafe and ordered three cappuccini - just to hold us over until lunch, you understand. Then I spotted a crystal bowl full of meringues as big as my head and ordered one, reasoning that a meringue is low-fat and mostly air, anyway (I didn't realize it would come to the table smeared with Nutella and served with a small jug of heavy cream - a presentation I myself shall be adopting henceforward). The boys decided I would feel lonely eating by myself and ordered two huge bombolini - as a sort of solidarity gesture, I guess. Subsequently, I espied in the glass case something called 'orange polenta cake' that turned out, upon enquiry, to be gluten-free. Well, I had to try a slice, didn't I? It turned out to be syrup-soaked and delicious.

I think the lovely young Scottish waitresses were a bit nonplussed by my greediness.

An hour later, waddling somewhat but duly energized, Sir went off to subject himself to some experimental theatre on the Fringe while the Kid Squid and I climbed Arthur's Seat to admire the view.

I'm afraid only two-thirds of the group worked off the morning's calories.

Up North

Today the family decamped from London and took the train from King's Cross to Edinburgh - famed as the city where Sir and I met and - many, many years later - where the Kid Squid was born.

It's always wonderful returning to Scotland and within a few hours of our arrival I experienced three gluten-free triumphs of note, which taken together serve as excellent omens for the days to come.

First Triumph
Our hostess, the Most Wonderful Landlady in the World, informed me (with no prior notice from me, I might add) that she had gluten-free sausages on hand for breakfast. Such delight! Such excitement! I have not eaten a sausage this whole vacation and have been feeling the sacrifice keenly. I will be leaping out of bed and roaring downstairs tomorrow morning with rare alacrity.

Second Triumph
I paid a visit to the Most Amazing Italian Deli This Side of Rome, where I discovered a jar of banana chutney that I just had to buy. Never having seen such a product outside the kitchen a chez Fractured Amy, I am looking forward to getting my treasure home for a taste comparison. And it's Scottish, too!

Third Triumph
We ate an incredible dinner down by the waters of Leith in the latest One of My Favorite Restaurants of All Time. Mere words cannot do the meal justice - suffice it to say, we were all weeping with gratitude and joy by the time the dessert wine rolled around.

While the boys ate haggis with neeps and tatties, oysters, and banoffee pie, I enjoyed ...

cod wrapped in smoked bacon with sweet potato puree,

puy lentil/herb vinaigrette, and a balsamic reduction

loin of venison with savoy cabbage, venison chorizo,

peppered potato wedges, and cider gravy

(broccoli, carrots, and haricots verts off camera)

raspberry and bramble jelly with

mascarpone ice cream

And to cap off the evening, the Kid Squid discovered a pub around the corner doling out his tipples of choice, Castle and Windhoek lagers all the way from Southern Africa.

It really is good to be back.

Down South

With north London going *phoom* and the cold rain unremitting, we decided to head for sunny Portsmouth for the day. We reasoned that, being closer to the equator, we might perhaps find a ray of sunshine and temperatures hovering somewhere above, oh, 60 deg F (I knew my coats, hats, and gloves would come in handy). Also, the good citizens thereabouts did not seem to be setting any police cars on fire, which is always a desirable state of affairs when one is holiday.

Sure enough, the sun was shining; the brass on HMS Warrior was polished to mirror brightness; Victory was done up shipshape and Bristol fashion; the RN's jolly tars were back from Libya; and the harbour was full of pleasure craft and ferries coming in from the Isle of Wight.

Best of all, there was risotto to be had - liquid as the ocean, wavy as the waters off Selsey Bill, lapping against the sides of the bowl like a high tide. The dish was flavored with pumpkin, pancetta, sage, and creme fraiche and eaten with as agreeable a view as one could wish for.

Yo ho ho - a gluten-free life for me!

Devotion

As we ambled along Fleet Street and the Strand during our explorations of City streets, we passed St. Clement Danes (church of the Royal Air Force), St. Bride's (journalists and printers), St. Andrew's (trade guilds), St. Stephen Walbrook (the Samaritans), St. Mary-le-Bow (true Londoners), and St. Margaret Pattens (shoemakers).

I feel compelled to add my own shrine to this illustrious list - an altar before which I would happily bow down and worship, if it didn't mean kneeling in the gutters and getting my knees muddy:

Falling Behind

Whilst we are visiting London, our home-away-from-home is just near the Fulham Road.

Near the tube station may be found ...

They claim to have lots of British cheese for sale ...

... and they do! Their collection is jaw-droppingly awe-inspiring.

But as I - in dreamy wonderment - admired all those creamy, semi-soft, and aged beauties, I was reminded of a sobering fact: the only English varieties of cheese currently slumbering in my own Pennsylvanian cave are cheddar and Wensleydale.

I have some catching up to do when I get home.

Out of the Rain

We took in the sights of London today during the worst downpour in the city's recent memory.

We saw the Tower ...

... and St. Paul's ...

... and afterwards enjoyed a fine lunch.

Since the chicken accompanying my curry rice was plainly grilled and not fried in a panko crust, I boldly decided to believe that it was gluten free.

Not Good for What Ales You

Campers, I know you are all concerned that there is nothing for a gluten freedom fighter to eat whilst holidaying in Yorkshire.

Let me hasten to add that there is also nothing to drink!

Judge and Jury

To those readers who are of the opinion that I am exaggerating about the dire gluten situation here in the Vale, I submit the following evidence. These photos were taken during a short walk in the centre of York.

I rest my case.

Heartbreak House

Tea-time at England's stately homes can be particularly difficult for gluten guerrillas such as myself.

Behold the spread at Castle Howard's lakeside cafe yesterday afternoon:

How glad I was to find a basket of crisps off to the side. Look how posh they were, too - no ordinary snacks allowed at an aristocratic pile so closely associated with Evelyn Waugh and Anthony Andrews!

As is now my habit, I turned the bag over to examine the fine print on the back. Packet blurbs are so much cleverer on this side of the pond!

Both lactose and gluten? Another cynical betrayal by the ruling classes!

Gluten freedom-fighters of the world unite!

We have nothing to lose but our protein chains.

Superpowers

As I have faithfully recorded elsewhere, I generally do not leave the house without backup provisions in the eventuality that I am stranded in a part of the world where the only food available is loaded with gluten. My rations of choice are Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! doesn't taste like packing material!), an entire box of which I purchased in anticipation of my trip to the UK.

For two reasons, it never made it into my suitcase.

• This holiday involves several train journeys and I wanted to pack as little as possible. Of course, since I like to be prepared for any and all eventualities, my idea of 'packing light' makes most seasoned travellers guffaw with disbelief. A sudden blizzard in August? No worries - I've got gloves, hats and scarves at the ready. We receive an unexpected invitation to a fancy dinner right after taking a 5-mile walk in the rain? I have four pairs of shoes standing by. Snake bite? Covered! But at least I saved a bit of room by leaving my cereal bars behind.
• I considered that the UK is civilized place where g/f snacks must be easily available, rendering my packing of same a bit redundant. Anyway, I love grocery shopping when abroad. How else would I know that there's such a thing as kipper-flavored potato chips?

During my introductory trip to Sainsbury's for holiday staples, I found an admirable substitute:

Sadly, my discovery is lacking in certain essential characteristics. Whereas I rely on my Kind bars to provide innumerable health benefits - including life eternal and riches beyond my wildest imaginings - their Brit equivalents are rather more modest in their claims:

I hope I don't regret leaving my trusted standbys at home.

It has always been my plan, after all, to live forever.

Time for Tea

Campers, you will recall that one of my formerly favorite English tea-time bites was a cherry bakewell. The more curious Yanks amongst you might have been tempted to wonder, 'What on earth is one of those?'

Well, I will tell you. A cherry bakewell (not to be confused with a traditional Bakewell tart, an olde English delicacy from, I believe, Shropshire) is the most excellent of the many little cakes produced by the estimable firm of Mr. Kipling, supplier of sweet factory-made goodies to the masses. Each one consists of an aluminum pie plate roughly 1.75 inches in diameter, filled to the brim with five luscious layers of complex almondy goodness. From bottom to top, the strata are composed as follows:

1. shortcrust pastry base
2. raspberry jam
3. frangipane
4. fondant icing
5. glace cherry (one-half)

They are awesome things and I love them very much. In my previously gluten-filled days, whenever I returned to Blighty I always made a beeline to the supermarket in order to purchase a box of six. I rationed myself to one a day and was utterly content.

Shortly after we arrived in Yorkshire yesterday, we embarked on an expedition to Sainsbury's supermarket in Pocklington (trivia alert for history buffs and Ioan 
Gruffudd fans: Pocklington is where William Wilberforce went to school) to stock up on the various delicacies of which we are deprived for much of the year: Walker's cheese and onion crisps; J20 (the Squid's exotic fruit-juice drink of choice); McVities chocolate digestive biscuits (for the others, of course); and a variety of English cheeses.

My sterling SiL, who had previously researched the g/f situation in preparation for my visit, led me to the appropriate aisle to see if any additional temptations might be found there. And what did I see, about a third of the way down on the right-hand side?

What joy! What excitement! They weren't Mr. Kipling's, but who was I to argue with a box of gluten-free cherry bakewells, whatever their provenance?

I noted on the back of the box that British regulations require rather more information than is required or, possibly, desired by the average American gluten guerrilla:

I am still not sure how I feel about the proviso 'suitable for coeliacs' rather than the less judgemental 'gluten-free' assurance to be found on many American products, but at that moment I decided to let it slide. I was too pleased by my new found treasures and too eager to get them back to the house to fret overmuch about such linguistic subtleties!

I organized a family tasting project during afternoon tea: present were Sir, SiL, BiL (aka 'The Knees'), and myself. The Kid Squid is now boycotting all g/f sampling experiments and refused to participate, so I was additionally gratified by the willingness of the others to serve a guinea pigs.

I sliced two of the cakes into halves, carefully ensuring that each contained a sliver of cherry. I was immediately dismayed by the bakewells' crumbly texture and too-thick layer of fondant:

Persevering, I presented each victim (sorry, I mean taster, of course) with a portion. BiL, foreseeing disaster in an uncanny display of prescience, requested that his half be cut into quarters and I dutifully complied.

We all took a bite of cake and chewed thoughtfully. The taste wasn't bad: a quick check of the label revealed no untoward substances such as lentil powder or bamboo fiber but rather more conventional ingredients such as tapioca starch, rice flour, and a touch of xanthan gum for its adhesive qualities.

Clearly, the xanthan wasn't up to the task - or possibly Sainsbury's inattentive food scientists had misjudged the quantities required. Somehow, the tarts were both too dry and too gummy at the same time - a combination I would not previously have thought possible. BiL was of the opinion that the frangipane lacked the necessary binding to hold it together while SiL declared the tarts 'dry' and 'heavy'. Our jaws and molars received an undeniably vigorous workout, as we chewed and chewed and chewed to aid what would no doubt be a challenging digestion situation later on. The fondant layer, earlier judged too thick, was also too sweet: presumably, posited BiL, to distract the consumer's attention from the unappetizing textures beneath. I myself was moved to brush my teeth shortly afterwards.

The remaining half (I consumed BiL's rejected quarter) was eventually consigned to the compost bin, since no one found the tarts to be worth the 245 calories contained within each. The uneaten two (unlike my adored Mr. Kipling's, Sainsbury's tarts come in boxes of four) are even now sitting in their box on the kitchen counter, somewhat lonely and forlorn, surrounded by more popular goodies such as Tunnock's caramel wafers and sweets from the Hotel Chocolat in York.

Thus ended my first experience of gluten-free products here in Jolly Olde. I am trying to remain upbeat and positive, an effort greatly aided by liberal applications of salted caramels and chocolate-covered sticky toffees.

But nothing will ever quite supplant the place in my heart occupied by the fond memory of Mr. Kipling's cherry bakewells.

Blighty Bound

Tomorrow the family is gallivanting off for two weeks of fun and sun (well, 63 deg F drizzle, anyway) in Jolly Olde Englande and Scotlande.

There is lots of gluten in the UK and I shall be watching sadly as my companions indulge. Here follows a list of my favorite British delicacies, every single one of which is completely jam-packed with the forbidden ingredient:

• Breakfast: fried bread, cereal-filled Wall's sausages, toast and marmalade
• Morning coffee: shortbread
• Lunch: prawn mayonnaise sandwiches, egg mayonnaise and bacon sandwiches, scampi in a basket, a good plowman's, Scotch eggs, pork pies
• Tea: scones (plain or fruit, I don't care); Bakewell tarts; anything from Betty's in York
• Dinner: steak pie, fish and chips, crispy duck with pancakes from a Chinese takeaway, the Fiorentina from Pizza Express 
• Dessert: any pud you care to name, including treacle sponge; sticky toffee pudding; vanilla slices with fondant icing; clootie dumplings; and syrup tarts

The rels have reliably informed me, however, that the anti-gluten leagues are alive, well, and fighting the good fight on their side of the Pond so it is unlikely that I will be able to find nothing at all to eat.

I will not be accompanying the Squid on his onward journey to Venice, thankfully, where I think starvation could be a very real possibility. Poor lamb - to languish in a place where they eat nothing but pasta all day!

This is Fractured Amy signing off for a fortnight while she seeks culture and the good life in the Yorkshire Wolds, London, and Edinburgh.

Of course, I may post from time to time if the gluten situation becomes intolerable.

After all, whingeing is one of the things I enjoy most in this crazy old world ... and isn't enjoying oneself what a holiday is all about?

Lusty Tarts

Campers, I have a confession to make.

On my last morning in South Africa I undeniably, unashamedly, unabashedly, unpardonably, and without remorse drank a whole glass of lactose and ate a whole plateful of gluten.

I do not apologize for my lapse or feel the overwhelming need to defend myself, but I do believe that in the interest of full disclosure my transgression deserves an explanation. It is important, after all, that individuals in the spotlight admit their human frailties and allow the public to judge for themselves the degree to which they are in a position to cast stones.

I hope readers will understand that sometimes, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 

As I have already argued, I have been extremely diligent in my quest for gluten freedom and have - apart from the two minor accidents of which I am aware - been 100% successful since September 12 of last year. I continued to maintain my perfect record throughout our two weeks in the Western Cape and felt none the worse for it (despite a close call with brownies and something called 'jungle oats' offered up tantalizingly at The Power & The Glory, Cape Town's hippest coffee joint). As the end of the holiday approached I felt neither deprived nor tempted, since (as I have been faithfully recording) I had spent the previous fortnight eating the finest food the locals had to offer.

But DMR and I had an hour to kill before we were due to climb into our Toyota for the drive to Cape Town Airport and the beginning of our long trip home. We decided to while away the time having morning coffee at the jocularly-named wine estate of Vrede en Lust, through the gates of which we had driven every day to gain access to the wonderful country inn we were calling home. I think you'll agree that Vrede en Lust is picture-perfect in every way:

As we sat down in the farm's lovely cafe, surrounded by happy families enjoying breakfast and lone intellectuals perusing the morning's paper for election results and analysis, we decided a latte was in order. Who could resist such creamy, foamy transcendence? The espresso was served separately in little pitchers, for extra innovative fanciness. It was dreamy.

Having just eaten breakfast, I was not in the mood for eggs or protein - but I did feel the need for a bite to accompany the caffeinated bliss. What imp of the perverse caused me to request the dessert menu at 10:30 in the morning? I'm not sure - fickle fate, I suppose, because that is the only explanation for the two slices of warm fig tart with Chantilly cream that materialized on our table a few minutes later.

I seem to remember that my logic went something like this:

1. I have been a very, very good girl and I deserve a treat.
2. I am on vacation.
3. If I can't have a treat on vacation, I might as well curl up my toes heavenwards and bid this vale of tears farewell.
4. Speaking of which, if my SAA Airbus goes down in a flaming ball over the mid-Atlantic in a few hours' time, do I really want my last thought to be, 'Oh wow, I'm so glad I denied myself pastry this morning' ?
5. QED: it's perfectly all right to indulge in a slice of gluten-filled goodness, just this once.

The tart turned out to be more spectacular than would have been possible in my wildest imaginings. Warm and almondy, with a flaky crust and exotic-tasting fig quarters concealed within, it was enrobed in lightly-sweetened citrus-scented cream. I savored every bite and washed each one down with a sip of divine milky coffee.

Was it worth it?

Hell yes.

And I'd do it again.

Snack Attack

How does the intrepid gluten-freedom fighter keep up her strength when driving over heuwel and veldt, exploring the highways and byways of Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch?

By ensuring she consumes a proper balance of vitamins, minerals, and other important nutrients, of course!

After painstaking research, I hit upon a winning combination of locally-produced, tasty, good-for-me nibbles: Safari-brand fruit-flavored blokkies for fiber and vitamin C; South African nougat with roasted almonds for manganese and iron; Amarula-filled chocolate bars for calcium and vitamin D; and peppadews® for vitamin E and magnesium.

Biltong and droewors provide much-needed protein, sodium, and fat ... 

... although these specimens went untasted.

Why? Because they had been carefully packaged for smuggling past inquisitive customs inspectors! The diligence of these otherwise irreproachable public servants, who are often distressingly single-minded in their search for confiscationable foodstuffs, is the reason why the gods invented vacuum-sealers, dirty laundry, and plastic luggage-wrap - judicious use of which renders such delectable contraband undetectable to the CBP's state-of-the-art hell-hound sniffer dogs.

Most of the time.

Place Settings

As DMR and I toured the Western Cape and South African winelands, I was lucky enough to partake of several memorable gluten-free meals in highly picturesque surroundings.

I ate scrambled ostrich eggs down on the farm ...

... Cape Malay chicken curry on the veranda at Laborie, the restaurant at KWV (Kooperatiewe Wijnbouwers Vereeniging), home of the famous Cathedral Cellar ...

... and an incredible fyndraai (food of origin) lunch at Solms-Delta, an innovative estate in Franschoek dedicated to the uplifting of local residents. There I enjoyed braised blesbok with gestoofde rooikool (red cabbage), witwortel (parsnip) and soetpetat (sweet potato) emulsions, roasted apricots and a green peppercorn gemoedsrus (fortified Shiraz) ...

... followed by lavender and boegoe (an indigenous Khoe herb)-flavored creme brulee with chilli and klapper (coconut) chocolate mousse and lemmetjie (lime) sorbet.

In order to study the glossary thoughtfully provided by my hosts I was required to don my reading glasses - but I didn't need them to see that I was in the midst of some of the most breathtaking vinicultural scenery on the planet.