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:
- I have been a very, very good girl and I deserve a treat.
- I am on vacation.
- 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.
- 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' ?
- 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.
Campers, I have safely returned from my awesome cheese-making adventure! The secrets of cheddar, camembert, vacha toscano, and cultured butter have been revealed to me by the cheese-meister himself, the redoubtable Jim Wallace, and I am all the better for it. There is so much to tell and so much wisdom to impart (none of it mine, I must hastily add) that it will take several days of scrupulous blogging to do the weekend justice.
I met the sorts of remarkable people that one might expect, given an enterprise such as this. There was Jim himself, of course, who (when not yomping around high Alpine meadows with artisanal Italian and French cheesy-types) lurks in his cave in Massachusetts, teaching professionals, serious amateurs, and enthusiastic suburban wannabes like me a thing or two about the alchemistical world of bacterial cultures; raw milk; coagulation, and affinage. Jim's long-suffering and very lovely wife Robin good-naturedly cooked delicious lunches for the crowd and allowed us the run of her beautiful home as we dripped whey everywhere and invaded her privacy for two days of dairy-related brouhaha.
The students this weekend included a pair of pizza entrepeneurs from Southern India who want to offer their customers home-made mozzarella with their pies; a cool and groovy cook-book author; a book-seller and his son all the way up from Oaxaca (which is in Mexico, I discovered); and a Swedish-descended shepherdess who sings to her goats (and already makes excellent cheese, to boot). There were enthusiasts from Calgary and Ohio and New York and other places far and wide - I even met a couple at my B&B who'd flown in from Nice (the one in France, I mean) for the privilege of attending another course. That people would come from France to Massachusetts to learn about cheese says something about the caliber of the expertise on offer. Although the pair were quick to point out that the South of France is not a region known for its frommage, I wasn't fooled. People make the pilgrimmage from around the globe to sit at the feet of Jim Wallace and Ricki Carroll, the Cheese Queen.
I will divulge more about their philosophies in the days to come - but first, a few words about where I spent my weekend.
A highlight of the experience was the crazy place I stayed, a gem that I believe could only exist in this little corner of the world - the Do-It-Yourself-Inn. That wasn't its real name, of course, but I'm concealing its identity and exact location for reasons that will become obvious (any readers desiring further information should contact me directly: only after they have convinced me of their seriousness and contributed a small honorarium to my camembert-production fund will I reveal further specifics about this remarkable place).
The Do-It-Yourself Inn is exactly that: a picture-perfect B&B that is completely and utterly without adult supervision: there is no lock on the door and no staff in sight. Guests show up, claim their room, and come and go as they please. There was a cosy living room full of books, a kitchen where we could cook meals (heaven for a gluten-freedom fighter such as myself, although my rapture was not uncomplicated, as I shall describe); and country walks and bucolic views whichever way we turned. There was even a general store across the street where we could present ourselves for breakfast if we so desired.
There was rumored to be an emergency number we could call if the place caught on fire; we became unaccountably trapped under a heavy object; or were attacked by bears; and elves came in at some point during the day to straighten the towels and make the beds, but apart from that my six companions and I were left to our own devices. It was beyond fabulous.
My joy was marred by only two rainclouds (loyal readers know there's nothing I love more than complaining about rainclouds on an otherwise perfect day). The first was the unfortunate fact that the kitchen of the Do-It-Yourself Inn also served as the bakery for the general store. If the big calendar on the wall marking off days with notations such as banana cake (Wednesday); walnut coffee cake (Saturday); Danielle's birthday: chocolate cake (next Friday); and pineapple upside-down cake (a week from now) hadn't been a sufficient clue, the well-used oven gloves and ginormous Hobart standmixer under the window would have given the game away. But worse - far, far worse - was the sweet aroma of baking that permeated every pore in the kitchen cabinetry and every molecule in the sitting room upholstery. Of the baker, there was no sign - but the olfactory evidence left behind by her activities was palpable and heart-wringing. Rarely have I more strongly longed to do anything more evil than present myself across the road for a sticky bun, a blueberry muffin, and a big slice of Black Forest cake.
The second rain cloud involved my precious Smartyphone. To my utter dismay and chagrin, it didn't work in the village.
In fact, Massachusetts' gloriously mysterious and picturesque Pioneer Valley seems to be nothing more than a big, extremely frustrating collection of dead zones. Rarely have you seen a more deflated group than me and my fellow B&Bers when we discovered we were Out of Contact with the Rest of the World. The folks at the general store told us there was sometimes reception on top of the hill behind the Inn, but in retrospect I think they made that up just to enjoy the sight of us city folk horsing up the road, waving our cell phones in the air in extravagant Figure Eights. It might have been my imagination, but I'm pretty sure I heard guffaws from behind the screen door as we peeled out of there in vain search of our little green bars. It probably counts as worthwhile Friday night entertainment for the locals - and who can blame them? We were ridiculous.
So I tried to remind myself of these deficits as I stood before the window of Coldwell Banker in Shelburne Falls yesterday morning, examining the converted churches, two-hundred-year-old clapboard houses, and 20-acre smallholdings (barn included in the sale!) offered up to those with sufficient means. 'I could do this!' I fantasized. 'I too could look after goats and keep exotic chickens and make cheese and preserves and say good-bye to the world of laboratory duties and the sorts of lawns that need mowing. Hello to dirt roads lined with maple-sugar bucket-laded trees; ice-covered ponds (in April!); and old forests as far as the eye can see.
But then I remembered my Smartyphone. Being without it might just be too high a price to pay for all that rural bliss.
Next up: Jim makes cheddar and I discover why I am very, very lucky to live in Pennsylvania after all.
