I am very excited to announce this is my 100th blog post! This month also marks the third anniversary of this blog, which I started in December, 2016.
When I started out, my goal was simple: to publish at least one blog per week for one year. Once I achieved that, I gave myself permission to blog when the mood struck, but I’ve continued to post fairly frequently over the last two years. Part of my reason for blogging was to get myself writing regularly and sharing more of my work with the world. I really enjoy choosing topics and writing about them, although sometimes time is short and I don’t get to blog as much as I want to.
Travel blogging is a way for me to remember and record my thoughts and adventures. I must admit, I do go back and reread my old blogs to relive those memories.
I want to thank all of you for reading this blog. You’ve travelled with me to Nova Scotia, Thailand, Cambodia, California, Hawaii, Arizona, Louisiana, New York, Washington State, England, Wales, Ecuador, Yemen, Costa Rica, Australia, South Africa, Namibia, Germany, the Yucatan, Panama, and cruising the Caribbean. You’ve met members of my family and suffered through my opinions on a variety of topics. You’ve seen more photos of birds than you probably ever wanted to see.
I hope you’ve been intrigued, had a laugh, learned something, or mulled over an idea you hadn’t previously considered, and I sincerely hope you’ll continue to read along as I indulge my wanderlust.
This is really a bit of a shaggy dog story but perfectly
illustrates the challenges of navigating the confusing rules and contradictory
information that often surrounds tourist sites, especially when one doesn’t
speak the local language.
We figured we couldn’t visit Panama without seeing its most
famous site, the canal, so I researched the options. Although the official
websites are not very useful, offering only the most basic info, I found online
reviews that provided better. The Miraflores
Locks Visitors’ Center seemed like a good choice: it was reported that you
could go in and eat in their restaurant overlooking the locks. With luck, a
ship would come through the locks while you were there. One review mentioned
that the visitor center posts the times that ships will pass through each day,
so you can plan accordingly. Great.
We plan to visit the center on a Sunday and drop by in the
late morning to find out when ships will be coming through. The center is
large, modern, and seemingly well-organized. Air conditioning, escalators,
lovely clean restrooms (always on the hunt for those when I’m travelling!) and
lots of info about pricing for the exhibits and the giant Imax theatre.
There’s a pleasant young man fronting the entrance and I ask
him about the restaurant: Do we need a reservation? Can we go inside to make
the reservation in person for later today? (I’m cowardly about trying to
communicate on the telephone in Spanish, so I figure a face-to-face with the
restaurant maitre’d is a safer bet.)
Yes, we need a reservation. No, we can’t go in to make the
Next, we check the “ships transiting” board. It hasn’t been
updated for two days (a concern) and it indicates that there will be no ships
going through between 9 am and 4 pm. Is that info accurate for today? We have
no way of knowing.
Mark, the practical one in this duo, suggests we forget
making a reservation and we simply return around 4 pm to dine. It’s unlikely to
be full. We’ll have to take our chances on seeing a ship transit the locks.
Skip ahead a few hours and we return just after 4 pm. Mark
approaches the ticket booth and asks if we need to pay the admission fee if we
just want to go to the restaurant. She says no, just go upstairs to the fourth
We start making our way up various stairways and ramps until
we’re stopped by a couple of uniformed security guys who want to see our
tickets. We don’t have any, we explain, we’re just going to the restaurant. No,
apparently we do need tickets, and
the guards send us to a kiosk. But as we’re walking away, one of them says,
ticket is free. Sure enough, when we explain once again that we only want to go
to the restaurant, the kiosk lady gives us free admission.
Now sporting our neon green wristbands, we are finally legit
and we smugly ride the elevator to the fourth floor.
By this time, it’s 4:20. We enter the restaurant, a nice
one, not a cafeteria or snack bar, but a sit-down place with linen tablecloths
and actual servers. We tell the server who approaches us that we’d like dinner.
So sorry, restaurant is closing in 10 minutes.
What?! How can a restaurant that serves dinner close at
4:30? Besides, I remember some online reviews mentioning that they ate dinner
at sunset while viewing the locks. Sunset in Panama is always around 6 pm (it
doesn’t change much, unlike in our temperate zone).
It’s a mystery.
We’re very disappointed and the server can tell. He kindly
suggests we could have a cold drink (always a welcome idea in the tropics) on
the balcony. I jump on this, as it will at least give us a chance to see the
locks, even though there is no ship at the moment.
He seats us on a small side balcony with a narrow view. Oh
well, better than nothing. We linger over our drinks as long as possible, but
eventually, we pay and start to leave. Then I see that there’s a much larger
balcony that actually overlooks the locks. Ah, that’s where we really wanted to be. There are people wandering
around out there.
Oh, I say to the maitre’d wistfully, could we possibly just
pop out to the balcony for a moment?
“Of course,” she beams.
Out on the balcony, as we gaze at our much-expanded view up
and down the canal, we can now spot a tanker just coming into the locks. That
settles it: we’re out there for the long haul now.
Over the next hour, we get front-row views of the entire process as the locks fill/empty and the ship is towed through. The sun sets gloriously in the background. I keep throwing furtive glances at the restaurant inside as they shut it down, thinking any moment they will come and tell us to leave. But they don’t. There are lots of other people on the balcony and they obviously have no intention of leaving until the ship is through, so I guess the staff just don’t bother trying to clear the place.
And that’s how we got a perfect view of a ship transiting the locks without paying the admission fee or buying dinner. We had just the right combination of foreign cluelessness and naïve brashness. Sometimes—if you’re lucky—that works.
With our recent three-week trip to Panama still fresh on my mind, I am sorting through some 1,500 photos. The best part about travel photos is that they remind you of moments from your trip that you might otherwise forget, and so I’m recalling the day-by-day highlights (and a few lowlights).
Howler monkeys waking us at dawn with their whoops and roars.
Plunging into the gorgeous pool at the Gamboa Rainforest Resort after a long, sweaty hike.
Watching a stately tall ship sailing up the canal.
Awe-inspiring tropical rainstorms that pound the roof and create torrents on the streets.
Feeling the whoosh of a hummingbird’s wings as it flies by your ear.
Bobbing in the warm waves off your own deserted beach at Playa Blanca.
A long, slender, brilliantly green snake visiting us on our hotel balcony at Morillo Beach.
Cheering for tiny baby turtles as they struggle across the sand to reach the sea.
Ripe papayas, bananas, pineapple, and passionfruit for breakfast.
Hiking jungle trails at dawn when everything is still dark and silent and the bugs haven’t yet arrived.
Nutella cheesecake and glorious local Kotowa chocolates in Boquete.
Seeing the flashes and rumbles of distant thunderstorms in the surrounding hills as you lounge in the mountainside pool at La Brisa del Diablo.
Superb dinners at La Brisa prepared by Olga.
Stripping down to your underwear to swim in an emerald crystal river because you didn’t bring a swimsuit and it’s so incredibly hot and you can’t resist and there’s no one else there anyway, so why not?
Witnessing the life-and-death battle of a hawk and black snake played out just a few feet from the road.
Tiny frog on the path, smaller than my pinkie fingernail, and giant cane toads bigger than grapefruits sharing our pool at The Golden Frog Inn.
The excited nightwatchman at our inn calling us over to show us a sloth climbing (very slowly) along the power lines.
French pastries at the St Honore bakery near Gamboa.
Flocks of gregarious and noisy parrots and parakeets congregating at their night roosts each evening.
Enjoying the technological majesty of the Panama Canal locks at close quarters.
Not stepping on a miniscule snake along the trail, a snake that I first thought was a big worm until it slithered away rapidly in typically snake style.
Mosquito bites on top of “chagira” bites on top of other bites. I don’t know what those chagiras are, but despite their size (a pinprick), they bite like horseflies and leave blood, swelling, and maddening itchiness behind. Oh, and did I mention the ticks? Yes, it’s a jungle out there.
Traffic around Panama City. Unbelievable. Multiple lines of cars, buses, taxis, trucks, and motorcycles fighting to move forward a few feet. The only guidelines seem to be: try not to hit anything or anyone. Beyond that, anything goes.
Potholes. The main roads are mostly good, with just the occasional pit to keep you on your toes, but some of the side roads are more holes than flat surfaces.
Losing my monopod. Sigh. In the excitement of trying to photograph a mixed flock of birds, I must have dropped my monopod and forgot to pick it up. It’s probably still lying in the grass at the road side.
Mexico City airport security confiscating the tiny Allen wrench from my photography kit. This was a piece of metal about two inches long and half as thick as a pencil. It has passed through many previous security scans without comment. “No pasa,” the guard said sternly. Mark commented later that they were clearly afraid I was going to attempt to disassemble the plane.
traveling are two of my favourite things, so it’s a joy to combine the two.
Aside from being a voracious reader of travel guides, I also love to read
novels written by authors from places that I visit, or set in those countries.
In Calidris Reads, I will briefly introduce you to these books
and provide my personal rating from 1 to 5 knots (Terrible to Must-read).
Andrew Sean Greer
Read for: A quick and pleasant break from a round of historic novels I’d been ploughing through.
First sentence: “From where I sit, the story of Arthur Less is not so bad.”
A while back, I wrote about books that found me on my travels. As a
perfect example of this, picture me and my stalwart companion noshing down at a
trendy café during a recent trip to Lynnwood, Washington. One wall of the
restaurant was covered with shelves and a couple of those shelves housed books,
the kind of random mix of used volumes that usually signals a take one/leave
one collection. I wasn’t really looking for anything, but as I gazed idly from
my table, one book caught my eye.
Only the spine was visible, but it called to me from across the room, seducing me with its soft, retro-turquoise colour and enormous letters L-E-S-S.
Look at me, it whispered. I am beautiful. I am mysterious. I am intriguing. You will love me.
Resistance is futile. Drawn to the shelf like a puppet on a string, I pull down the book. Am I influenced by cover, celebrity endorsements, awards won? Yes (a clearly comical drawing of a man falling through the air while scribbling on paper), yes (Ann Patchett, author of Bel Canto and The Magician’s Assistant, whose work I admire, says she recommends it), and yes (Winner of the Pulitzer Prize. Wow.).
Good comic novels are hard to find and this one is about a
writer who goes travelling. Too perfect, eh? Picaresque is the word that springs to mind (defined by Wikipedia
as “an episodic recounting of the adventures of an anti-hero on the
road.”) There are brief but evocative descriptions of the places Arthur Less
visits, including Mexico City, Paris, Berlin, Italy, Morocco, India, and Japan,
as well as accompanying transport: airports, airplanes, buses, and camels.
It struck me mid-way through the book that this might be the
first book I’ve read about a gay main character where that is not the central
feature of the book. Certainly, Less is gay and has homosexual romantic/sexual
adventures throughout, but that’s just one facet of his character among many.
In other words, he is a character who is a writer and a traveller and a person
turning 50 and a man who believes himself fluent in German when he is not, who
also happens to be gay. At least that’s the way I see him. I’d be curious to
know what a gay reader would say.
There wasn’t anything about this book I didn’t like. Less
the character grows on you: the more you get to know him, the more you like
him. His foibles become endearing rather than pompous. I enjoyed the travel
tales and I found the writing both clever and engaging.
A good read, whether you’re on a journey or in your own
comfy chair at home.
5 knots: Highly recommended (I’m sure the Pulitzer Committee is relieved to know that I agree with their decision.)
Are you familiar with the famous “blanket run”
that opens the Vancouver Folk Music Festival each year? When the official gate barriers
come down, thousands of crazed music fans race to the main stage area to lay
down blankets and claim a prime spot for the evening concert. Within minutes,
every patch of grass within a hundred metres of the stage is guarded by tarps,
towels, hampers, coolers, sleeping bags, beach chairs. I haven’t yet seen razor
wire go up or chained hounds employed, but the possibility exists.
Gamble Maritime Music Festival in Washington State does not have a blanket
run. To be honest, it does not have a gate or barriers, because it is free. The
festival music starts at noon and when we arrived at 11:55, there were two
people in camp chairs lording it over the entire site, a small, grassy hillside
tucked between two historic buildings.
We considered our options. The Camp Chair People were
clearly canny veterans, having chosen the best spot on a tiny level area
halfway up the hill. We had to settle for second-best, about ten metres directly
in front of the stage and higher up the hill.
By showtime, another dozen people had added themselves to the throng. At mid-afternoon, I counted about 40 audience members. Passersby, hearing the music, wandered in and stayed. It was, shall we say, an intimate festival.
I loved it.
We did not need binoculars to see the performers. We did not
need to stand in a half-hour line to use a smelly port-a-potty. When nature
called, we ambled across the street (which was inevitably free of traffic) to
the post office to use the restroom. If we wanted a hot or cold drink or ice
cream, one of the buildings flanking the site sold those things. If further
nourishment was required, a few steps down was the town’s restaurant.
Apparently, organizers had a contingency plan to move indoors to the local
theatre (also across the street) in case of inclement weather. Fortunately,
despite continuous rain throughout the morning, promptly at 11:00, the showers
ceased, the clouds began to dissipate, and blue skies prevailed.
It was a bit of a festival miracle and just one more thing
that made the day a delight.
Admittedly, getting to Port Gamble is a challenge. Unless you live on the Kitsap Peninsula, you will likely have to take a ferry. Coming down from British Columbia, we stayed overnight in Lynnwood to facilitate an early start on festival Saturday. Next morning, we lined up for the Edmonds-Kingston ferry just as the 7:55 am sailing chugged off. By the next sailing at 8:50, the line-up behind us was impressive.
Once you make it to Kingston, however, it’s only a 12-minute drive to Port Gamble, and—Be still, my beating heart!—there’s lots of free parking in town.
Wiki tells us that: “The Port Gamble Historic District, a U.S. National Historic Landmark, covers one of the nation’s best-preserved western lumber towns.” As we sauntered around that morning, we noted the many historic plaques on buildings dating from the mid- to late nineteenth century. We dropped in on the friendly quilting shop, where I managed to resist the urge to buy a quilt pattern simply to maintain the pleasant fiction that I might actually sew one someday. We ate a late breakfast at the Scratch Kitchen, by a window overlooking the bay, then walked the few metres back to the festival site.
The music runs from noon until 5 pm, with four feature acts plus presentation of the songwriting contest winners and a grand finale that brings all the performers back on stage leading singalong sea shanties. Oh, the harmonies! It appeared that all the performers were more or less local and most seemed to know each other, judging by the joking and camaraderie during the finale. I was impressed that all the performers stayed 99% on the maritime theme, albeit with occasional dashes of Bluegrass and pop styles to keep things lively.
From our perch on the hillside, we looked down past the
stage to the sparkling water of the ocean and the serene forests of the opposite
shore. A variety of birds put on an aerial show: gulls soaring, kingfishers
diving, eagles hunting, Canada geese arriving en flock to rest on the beach
As the final strains of the last shanty—“It’s time for us to
leave her”—were carried away by a fresh breeze, we headed for the ferry. Luck
stayed with us and we were one of the last cars to make that sailing, arriving back
at our snug anchorage in Lynnwood in time for a tasty Japanese dinner at Wild Wasabi.
Verdict: Live, local, accessible folk music FOUND in Port Gamble. Thanks, folks!
The Port Gamble Maritime Music Festival takes place in August. Admission is free but donations are gratefully accepted. This year’s performers included Spanaway Bay, the Northshore Ramblers, the Whateverly Brothers, and Curlew’s Call.
I finally laid my greedy hands on some ruby chocolate. At $9 for a large bar, it’s about twice the price of decent Belgian chocolate. I imagine that’s the novelty factor and the price will come down over time.
It was a beautiful, deep pink colour, pretty close to the photo (that’s my own photo). Light fruity fragrance, nice snap and bite to the bar. Mouth feel was similar to good quality white chocolate.
The taste was very distinctive: not at all “chocolaty,” but, rather, like tangy berries or perhaps a bit of citrus. As such, to me, it was more like candy than my beloved chocolate. I could only take a small amount at a time. Maybe that’s a good thing!
In any case, well worth trying out. It’s not my new favourite, but it might be yours.
The Salton Sea is a strange and disquieting place located in the arid Colorado Desert of southern California. It is a lake, not a sea, and its surface currently lies about 71.9 m (236.0 ft) below sea level. The “sea” was formed in 1905 when engineers mucking around with the Colorado River and irrigation issues made a boo-boo that resulted in the river flowing into the Salton Basin for two years. Since there was no outflow, a large freshwater lake formed.
Lying in the midst of a desert climate with warmth and
sunshine much of the year, the Salton Sea, as it came to be known, became a
magnet for funseekers. Resort towns popped up along its shores, hitting their
heyday in the 1950s.
Over the years, however, as the lake evaporated, turned more
and more salty, and became increasingly polluted from agricultural runoff, the
resorts faded away.
“Many of the species of fish that lived in the sea have been killed off by the combination of pollutants, salt levels, and algal blooms. Dead fish have been known to wash up in mass quantities on the beaches. The smell of the lake, combined with the stench of the decaying fish, also contributed to the decline of the tourist industry around the Salton Sea.” (Wikipedia)
Today, the area is scattered with the remnants of abandoned settlements.
It is the closest thing to an apocalyptic landscape that I’ve ever seen.
Recently, the US House of Representatives passed a bill in
support of allotting $30 million “for projects that would address the
environmental and health crisis at the Salton Sea.”
The question is, what are they going to do with that money?
I wonder if they even have a clue.
It’s a tricky situation. Technically, the lake doesn’t belong there at all. It’s the result of an environmental catastrophe. However, it has now been there for over a hundred years and nature abhors a vacuum, so it has become a vital resource for birds in an otherwise waterless landscape. Amazingly, birds can survive in this bleak habitat; so much so that the Salton Sea is internationally recognized as an Important Bird Area (IBA). Which is how I came to be there, checking out the burrowing owls and other intriguing species. People also continue to live around the lake.
If the powers that be allow things to continue as they are
going—“let nature take its course”—the lake will eventually become so poisonous
that nothing will be able to live there. Millions of birds will lose their
resting, feeding, and breeding grounds. After that, it will dry up completely,
forming a toxic dust bowl that could sicken anything that stills lives in the
vicinity, animal or human.
If, on the other hand, they decide to preserve the lake, it
would be a massive undertaking. California already has chronic water shortages.
Where would the water to save the lake come from? And if they somehow found
that water, how would they solve the problem of pollution from agricultural
What would be the ultimate goal? To recreate the Salton
Sea’s glory days, when tourists water skied and swam, and a commercial fishery
existed? Or to maintain the area as a nature park, inhospitable to humans, but
a haven for wildlife? Do they turn the clock back 10 years? 20? 60?
What should be done for the people who live there?
Relocation? Welfare? Publicly funded communities?
How do you “fix” something when you know it’s definitely
“wrong,” but you don’t know what “right” is?
There are several documentaries on the Salton Sea but I’ve only seen one of them: Bombay Beach (2011), an experimental style film heavy on the bizarre ambience of the place.
In the category of Who knew?! I offer this tidbit: Panama hats are not from Panama. The materials used to make them do not come from Panama. They are not made in Panama. They are, in fact, made in Ecuador.
“A Panama hat, also known as an Ecuadorian hat or a toquilla straw hat, is a traditional brimmed straw hat of Ecuadorian origin.” (Wikipedia)
My Fodor’s Panama guidebook reads: “Any such headwear you do
find for sale here [in Panama] should be labeled ‘Genuine Panama Hat Made in
Ecuador.’” I’m glad that’s clear.
How did the straw hats wind up with a false identity?
“Straw hats woven in Ecuador, like many other 19th and early
20th century South American goods, were shipped first to the Isthmus of Panama
before sailing for their destinations [worldwide], subsequently acquiring a
name that reflected their point of international sale—‘Panama hats’—rather than
their place of domestic origin.” (Wikipedia)
In 1906, when celebrity president Teddy Roosevelt made a
stopover at the construction site of the Panama Canal, he was photographed
wearing one of the hats, cementing its connection—in the buying public’s mind—with
the Central American country.
All this must drive Ecuadorians to distraction. (I recall
one of our guides ranting about how Ecuador gets no credit for all its
accomplishments. “Who do you think of when you think bananas? Costa Rica! But
Ecuador is the largest exporter of bananas in the world.* Who do you think of
for roses? Holland? Ecuador grows the most and best roses,** but no one knows!”
I had never thought of where roses come from, so I couldn’t argue.)
Perhaps it’s time for nations to trademark their names to
avoid this kind of confusion.
For example, how often in my travels have I heard people refer to Canadian bacon, which has nothing to do with Canada? In the United States, they mean “a form of back bacon that is cured, smoked and fully cooked, trimmed into cylindrical medallions, and thickly sliced.” (Wikipedia)
Huh? Having been born in Canada and lived my entire life here, I’ve never eaten such a thing.
You could be forgiven for assuming the Australian shepherd
dog came from the land down under, but the breed was actually developed on
American ranches in the 19th century. No one knows how the Aussie got its name.
One theory is that Basque sheep herders from Europe took their dogs to
Australia and later, when they moved on to California, again, with faithful
dogs in tow, Americans assumed the dogs were an Australian breed.
The devastating 1918 influenza pandemic that killed between
50 and 100 million people worldwide was often called the “Spanish flu,”
although it almost certainly did not originate in Spain. Current hypotheses favour
the United States, France, or China as the culprit.
So why “Spanish flu”? When the new and deadly influenza
strain first appeared in January 1918, it was what would be final year of the
First World War. The United States and much of Europe were under censorship,
neither side wanting to show signs of weakness, so reports of the flu were
suppressed. In Spain, which was neutral in the war, there was no such
censorship, so the horrifying reality of the sickness was widely published both
locally and internationally, especially after the Spanish king fell ill. Because
of this, people outside of Spain thought of it as the “Spanish” flu, while the
Spanish themselves sometimes referred to it as the “French flu.”
With Irish stew and Danish pastries, we can at least say the
foods did originate in those countries, but what do they mean today? Danish
pastries can be the sorriest, soggiest, amalgams of cardboard-like dough and
gooey-sweet fruit-flavoured glop found in the bake section of many grocery
stores, while Irish stew might be any bland, chewy, mash-up of meat and tubers
a restaurant chooses to slap the name on. Can Danes be proud of their pastries
now? Can the Irish hold up their heads in the international culinary arena
based on the “Irish” stew of today?
I say it is time for a moratorium on inauthentic, inaccurate,
nation-based nomenclature. Let the Ecuadorians reclaim the brimmed hats that
pair so fashionably with light-coloured and linen suits. Give the Basques back
their bob-tailed sheepdogs. Relieve the Spaniards of the burden of one of the
deadliest viruses known to humanity. Require restaurants to rename their dish
as “a meat and veg stew of indeterminate origin and ingredients” and demand
that stores sell “round, fake-fruit pastries” without blaming the Danes.
America, we Canadians give you back your bacon. Please rename it after your local pigs, who richly deserve the credit.
I don’t generally use this blog to slag products or businesses. My mother’s angelic form tends to be perched on my shoulder, reminding me “If you can’t say something nice….” And I know a bad review can hurt a small business, so I try to be kind—or, at least, silent.
But when it comes to a giant like famous chocolate maker Ghirardelli, the gloves come off.
On a recent trip to San Francisco, I visited Ghirardelli Square, the 1893 headquarters of the chocolate company. It’s a pleasant place that is, according their website, “considered the first successful adaptive reuse project in the country.” It’s on the National Historic Register. There are pricey shops and places to sit and play. All good.
It’s also home to the original Ghirardelli ice cream and chocolate shop, where they scoop notoriously decadent hot fudge sundaes. Yum. For a chocolate worshipper such as myself, a pilgrimage was definitely called for.
Sadly, the experience was a disappointment from beginning to end. You start by standing in line to order and pay at a busy and indifferent cashier. No smile or greeting sets the tone for your visit. State your choice, hand over the cash (ka-ching: Cdn$18!) and move on through, clutching a number.
Now you must find a place to sit. Although it is a weekday afternoon, the cafe is jammed with people. All tables in sight are claimed and there is no one to help you locate a seat. Hmm…perhaps if one knew that before ordering, one would demur. But, of course, now you’ve paid, you’re on the hook.
My companion and I wander through into what appears to be the party room, as it’s a screaming, chaotic space of bouncing children at a ratio of ten to each harassed adult guardian. Ah, but there’s a table! Grab it with relief.
As we wait for our order, I am reminded of the stanza in Dr. Seuss’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas:
All the Who girls and boys Would wake bright and early. They’d rush for their toys! And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
The sound level is deafening. I watch the servers moving between the tables, searching for those identifying numbers, carrying ice cream creations that are supposed to be finely balanced combinations of hot and cold ingredients. But the longer it takes for them to find you, the slushier your sundae will be. I knew America prides itself on being a melting pot, but this is ridiculous.
I observe that about 95% of the diners are white, while 95% of the servers are not. I wonder if the white kids will grow up thinking brown people serve.
At last! My sundae has arrived, somewhat liquidy. Another literary tidbit leaps to mind, referring to Boxer the horse from Orwell’s Animal Farm: “His answer to every problem, every setback, was ‘I will work harder!’”
Or, as in the current
crisis: “I will eat faster!”
Within a few bites, the hot fudge is exhausted, leaving a naked mound of plain vanilla ice cream to finish. After all that I’ve gone through—not to mention the $18 price tag—I expected a superlative treat. This was a true letdown.
I know, I know: first-world problems, right?
My excuse for whining is that I want to save others from what I see as a ripoff. Personally, I won’t be buying another Ghirardelli sundae. And I don’t think their chocolate is so special, either.
PS If you want a better hot fudge sundae, try this time-tested recipe from our kitchen:
250 ml half-and-half (about 10% milk fat) cream 300 g semi-sweet pure chocolate chips (we use Chipits) 1 tbsp corn syrup (optional; we use white corn syrup)
Place all ingredients in the top part of a double boiler with an inch of lightly simmering water in the bottom. Slowly melt and stir until sauce is smooth and thick. Do not overheat or the sauce will seize.
Pour over good-quality vanilla ice cream; add peanuts, bananas, whipped cream, and a cherry, if desired.
Tired of blogs about chocolate? I’ll try to find another topic. Meanwhile, let me know what you think about Ghirardelli’s products. Do you stand with me or agin me?
It’s obviously time for this dedicated traveller-journalist to return to Ecuador for an on-the-spot, in-the-field report on a breaking story of massive international importance: a new type of chocolate has been developed.
This is not just a flavoured, coloured chocolate derivative. Apparently, the rosy confection actually originates with a new type of cocoa bean, which, from the photos, is also pretty in pink.
According to the Callebaut website: “Ruby offers an intense sensorial delight, a totally new taste experience: neither bitter, milky or sweet, but a tension of fresh berry fruitiness and luscious smoothness….Ruby chocolate contains no berries, berry flavor or colorings.”
The special beans are currently being grown in Ivory Coast, Brazil, and Ecuador. Sounds like a good excuse for a trip.