Food Fixes All

They say love conquers all. I am not too sure I believe in that because I sure have met an awful lot of very cranky people who I'm guessing love has never conquered, given their generally gloomy dispositions in life.

But if anyone amended the maxim to read "food fixes all" -- that is something with which I would heartily agree. Many things can happen to you. You could, for instance, fall down in heaps of fresh powder on a mountain in Tahoe when you're not actually even in motion and twist your knee all the way around, causing you an unGodly amount of pain. But then, hours later, you could be feeling just fine as you much on some perfectly cured bresaola followed up with all-day braised short ribs atop a creamy bed of polenta. Washed down by champagne. This, of course, is only a for instance, but I think it's a delightful illustrative of how a dose of good food can wipe your mental slate clean of negativity and introduce contentment and calm.

This is why it only makes sense to think about all that you must deal with in life (now, careful here, this is a grade-A run-on sentence approaching) -- 98 straight days of rain: enough to create at least 7 floods of the type that launched Noah's little Ark expedition; trying to figure out what it is you want to do in life and then when you think you find the right stepping-stones spending painstaking hours crafting witty cover letter that no one will ever read; riding public transportation to/from Haight-Ashbury twice daily -- and then reflect on how you manage through by finding solace in food.

This, friends, was my introductory statement.

And this, is the first instance I shall like to put forth. In early Feb, Max and I traveled to Barbados, the land of sea turtles, green monkeys, the Soup Bowl surf spot, and colorful locals known as the Bajans. We befriended Sea Cat (by the way, Bajans call baby octopi sea cats), who served us fresh coconut water. We met Hog Head, a once legendary but perhaps now washed-up (according to some sources) surfer. We chatted with Chicken, so-called because of his enviously skinny legs. And one morning, while going to check out the surf, Max met some guy whose name we never caught, so we'll just call him Papayas. I call him this because when Max came home 10 minutes later, he brought with him three papayas that he "purchased" (once Papayas had shoved the fruit into Max's arms he for the most part refused return of the fruit and suggested payment instead) from this fellow, who claimed he was the only organic fruit farmer in Barbados. I will here point out that picking fruit off indigenous trees does not classify as organic farming. But I digress.

Hours later, we were back at this surf spot once again (it still sucked I guess) and what do you know, Papayas is still there. Upon discovering that we were heading to a beach "near his house," he asked for a ride. Max graciously obliged and off we went. He repeatedly said he just wanted to go up to the "top of the hill." We went up one hill, another, and Papayas was still yammering in the back seat, "Little Sister" this, "Brother mon" that, "we're so close," etc. etc.. I fixed my jaw as I had made it non-verbally clear to Max from the get-go that I had no trust in Papayas. About 35 minutes later, Papayas at last jumped out. I could tell we were nowhere near our destination of Bottom Bay, but pulled out our map to see just how far off-course we were.

As you can see by the map, Papayas lived absolutely in the opposite direction of our end destination and is an utter scam artist. After threatening some very nasty things that he would do to Papayas should he ever see him again, Max drove us back on-course, and we arrived at Bottom Bay...where within 40 minutes the sun was setting.

We drove back, defeated and tricked, to Bathsheba and our quiet hotel, comforted somewhat by knowing dinner was in sight (and, I guess, any day vacationing on a tropical island really isn't that bad...). Soon, all worries were forgotten and the bad taste of Papaya had left our mouths, replaced by the sweet, malty flavor of icy-cold Banks Beers. As we sipped, we told fellow diners the tale of getting outwitted by the relatively dimwitted Papayas. Anger turned to laughter and good spirits as we munched on savory fish cakes, deep fried to a golden crisp and accompanied by the piquante, sweat-inducing Bajan hot sauce (a golden-yellow, perfectly balanced sauce of bonnet peppers). By the time the main dish came out -- freshly caught, mild steaks of mahi-mahi seared lightly in a delicate rum-butter sauce -- I was only thinking of the story potential Papayas had delivered. I savored every bite of that meal, that meal that fixed the day's trials, right down to the final bite of my frozen lime pie (the tang offset by the airy creaminess of the pie filling).

It is moments like this -- and given teh way I prefer to cook and eat -- they happen at least several times per week -- that fix all that could ail you.