Lost and Found in D.C.

Lucky me—on my Labor Day weekend jaunt to Washington, D.C. I got a behind-the-scenes tour of the House and Senate. Back in the day either I zoned out during Social Studies or décor wasn’t mentioned because I didn’t anticipate the magnificence of the decoration throughout, especially the elaborately tiled floors and painted ceilings.  The Brumidi Corridors are particularly terrific as is the Old Senate Room which is a good bit more somber.  My experience was marvelous but I’m pretty sure the public tours are also

Old Senate Room


When Julia Child was televised dropping a chicken on the floor, casually picking it up and plunking it on a platter, she won my permanent adoration. Her kitchen, in the National Museum of American History, was removed from her house in Cambridge, MA and given to the Smithsonian. It’s huge as is her batterie de

The one and only Julia Child

cuisine—more pots and pans than several ordinary households put together.  The exhibit includes photos, recipes, kitchen tools and lots more—the First Ladies’ gowns pale beside it.

I continued the food motif at Eastern Market at lunch with a new friend.  The Market, completed in 1873  had a fire in 2007 that damaged the main space but didn’t stop activities.  There are vendors inside and out depending on days of the week as well as many restaurants and the complex hosts numerous community activities.

The morning of my departure I visited several of the big deal monuments exploring FDR, Martin Luther King, Vietnam and the Lincoln Memorial.  FDR’s space is composed of several separate “rooms” with the third one featuring  a statue of Roosevelt next to his dog, Fala who seems a little too big in relation to his master. The MLK memorial occupies less

Fala and FDR

ground space but is, to my mind, more imposing.  Although I’d been in Washington before, this was the first time I had climbed the stairs to see Abe up close and personal. The steps are a little daunting but are well worth negotiating.  Lincoln is larger than life in every sense.

Overall I found getting around DC confusing, odd considering I have no trouble in other cities worldwide.  In Washington-speak, “three blocks away” is far. The Metro is dandy but stops are spread out so a hike to the station is often in order. When people describe Washington as a “walking city” they aren’t kidding.

In homage to the great Julia, this is–more or less–her recipe for ratatouille. It looks  lot more difficult than it is.

Julia’s Ratatouille

Ratatouille Julia Child

1 lb. eggplant:

1 lb zucchini or summer squash

4-6 Tbsp. olive oil (love to think what Julia would have made of today’s EVO shorthand)

1 tsp. salt

2 cloves garlic, mashed

About 1 1/2 cups yellow onions, thinly sliced

Salt & pepper to taste

2 green peppers (about 1 cup) sliced

3 Tbls minced parsley

1 lb ripe tomatoes.  Julia wants them peeled, seeded and juiced. I might forgo this. Just saying.

Note: Per Julia, you can use canned tomatoes. If so it’s about 1 1/2 cups.


Peel and cut eggplant into lengthwise slices about 3 inches long and 3/8-inches thick. Scrub summer squash and cut into pieces the same size as eggplant. Put veggies into a bowl, toss with 1 tsp salt and set aside for 30 minutes. Then drain slices and dry with a towel.

Put four tablespoons olive oil in skillet.  Sauté summer squash and eggplant, one layer at a time, for about one minute until slightly browned. Transfer to a dish.

Cook pepper and onions in the same skillet, adding a little olive oil if needed, for 10 minutes or until tender. Add garlic and season the mixture with salt and pepper.

Slice tomatoes and layer them over pepper and onions, seasoning with salt and pepper. Cover skillet and let the vegetables cook for about 5 minutes on a low heat until the tomatoes start to render juice. Check the seasoning and raise the heat. Cook until juice evaporates entirely.

In a deep casserole put in 1/3 of the tomato mixture. Sprinkle minced parsley over tomatoes. Arrange half of the summer squash and eggplant on top. Layer the remaining tomatoes and parsley with remaining summer squash and eggplant trying to finish with  tomatoes and parsley.

Cover casserole and put it on a low heat. Let everything simmer for about 10 minutes. After 10 minutes, raise the heat a little and cook everything for 15 minutes uncovered. Cook until all the juices evaporate. Throughout, be careful with heat so vegetables at the bottom don’t scorch. Serve hot or at room temperature (my preference.)

Like most of Julia’s recipes, this has several steps and ingredients but the end result is worth it. You can make a whole meal of ratatouille, embroider with cheese or serve as a side dish. It keeps well and seems to go on forever.   Bon appétit!

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Back to Wonderful Vermont

To paraphrase Garrison Keillor, it’s been a not- so- quiet few weeks in Manchester, VT where I rented a house. The place is incredibly comfortable but has the look of “designed by the cat, built by Grandma”—eight chairs where four would suffice, thousands of throw pillows, multiple cabinets of knick-knacks. However, the hot water is plentiful, the location great and everything functions– putting away some of the stuff and adding fresh flowers has done a lot.

Caught the last few concerts at the Manchester Music Festival including the final Young Artists offering.   The program is a full scholarship, six-week intensive chamber music offering for string players and pianists, ages 18-26.  These young musicians are truly world class. The second concert I went to, an Evening at the Opera, was marred by a screechy, overly mannered soprano and a bass with clenched diction. On the plus side, the other soprano was excellent as was the magnificent tenor, Gerard Schneider, who sang brilliantly even though scuttlebutt had it he was getting over food poisoning.

One night at the wonderful Northshire Bookstore, filmmaker Jay Craven talked about  of writer Howard Frank Mosher and screened the film he (Jay) made, Where the Rivers Flow North starring Rip Torn, playing a logger, and Tantoo Cardinal, a native American playing Torn’s live-in companion, Bangor. Michael J. Fox had a small role as well. The picture, made in 1993, is set in 1927 in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. The story revolves around a big company that wants to flood the land belonging to Torn’s character to build a dam—overall, it’s beautiful and very moving. Craven told some hilarious anecdotes about working with Torn who gives a fine performance but sounds like he was a bit challenging to work with.

Jay Craven

A writing workshop, watercolor lesson, several hikes including one  not- quite- to Lye Brook Falls,  and many visits to Farmer’s Markets have added to the fun as have delightful guests.   At the Dorset Farmer’s Market I bought potatoes from farmers I’ve shopped from for years. They grow several varieties;  I especially like the German Butterball, a small, light skinned potato that is perfect for this:


French Potato Salad


Serves 4


2 lbs potatoes

¼ c. dry white wine

1 Tbls. White wine vinegar

1 Tbls. fresh lemon juice

1 tsp. Dijon mustard

¼ tsp white pepper

Pinch of coarse salt

¼ cup olive oil

2 tbls. chopped green onions

2 tbls chopped parsley


Scrub potatoes and drop into pot of enough salted boiling water to cover. Boil until tender when stuck with point of knife. (I steamed because rented house has a steamer. Took about 20 minutes but depends on how small—or large– your potatoes are. I tend to go for smallish ones.)

Cut into ¼ “slices. Place in a single layer in shallow dish. Pour the wine over the warm slices and toss very gently. Set aside so they absorb the wine. (Note: The recipe says do this and wait several hours before adding dressing. I added it right away and it was just fine.)

Beat vinegar, lemon juice, mustard, salt and pepper in small bowl. Add the oil a bit at a time and whisk until it thickens. Sprinkle green onions over potatoes. Pour dressing over all and add parsley. Serve as a side dish with meat, chicken or what you will. Non-mayo eaters will be thrilled.

You opened wine for the potatoes so just pour and drink up.  When I do, I toast the magnificent mountains of one of my favorite states.




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Archibald Gracie

New Yorkers to the core, a friend and I went on a tour of Gracie Mansion, home of NYC’s Mayor. Too bad that the docent shepherding us was both uninformed and so dull she could have made being inside a Spitfire during the Battle of Britain boring. However, what we saw of the house (partly off-limits as Mayor DeBlasio was “at home” hosting meetings) was dandy.

The house was built in 1799 by Scottish merchant Archibald Gracie, as a country abode; Gracie then fell on hard financial times and sold it. The house changed hands many times before Parks Commissioner Robert Moses, a man who usually got his way, decided it should be the official residence of the city’s mayor. In 1942 Mayor Fiorella La Guardia and his family moved in. The property is now run by the Gracie Mansion Conservancy and was elaborately restored and renovated starting in 2002 when Mayor Michael Bloomberg elected to live in his own wonderful house on East 79th Street. (It’s widely thought that Bloomberg paid for the renovations himself but this is neither confirmed nor denied.)

The current exhibition is called 1942 to honor the 75th anniversary of the Mansion serving as the Mayor’s official residence and it’s a bit of a mish-mash. A photo of Martha Graham; a white metal civil defense hat (like what my father wore as a WWII air raid warden); costume sketches for the Broadway show, On the Town; a Philco Radio and a quartet of works by Norman Rockwell do not exactly a cohesive exhibition make.

Gracie Mansion foyer

The most striking part of the Mansion is the entrance foyer where the floor is painted to resemble marble; in it is striped wallpaper, a wonderful chandelier and a few elegant pieces of furniture. During the (long) time I worked for the NYC Health and Hospitals Corporation, I once went to a luncheon at Gracie Mansion.  Held on the lawn, the lunch was followed by a photo session (known in the trade as a “grip and grin) where I had my photo taken with my boss, the then- head of HHC, Ben Chu M.D., and our super-boss, Mayor Bloomberg. The photo still hangs in my office.

L to R: Ben Chu, me, Bloomberg

As to food, in 1942 we were in the middle of a war with serious rationing. Sugar, butter, meat and lots else was either hard or impossible to get so there was a lot of make-do.  This is a recipe for sugarless cake. Anyone who watches historic drama will recognize it or, at least, the concept.

Wartime Sugarless Cake

3 cups sifted cake flour
4 tsps. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 cup shortening
1 1/2 cups corn syrup
3 egg yolks
2 tsps. grated orange rind
1 cup milk
3 egg whites

Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together. Stir shortening until creamy and add one cup of the corn syrup slowly until it becomes fluffy. Add egg yolks and beat well. Take turns alternating adding the dry ingredients and milk, stirring between each addition, then add the orange rind.

Beat the egg whites until stiff and add to the rest of the corn syrup gradually, beating until there are stiff peaks. Fold the batter until completely mixed. Bake in a greased cake pan at about 375 °F for 25 to 30 minutes.

Most wartime cakes had no icing since there was almost no sugar available. I’m unclear about how delicious this cake would be but back then people were both very good at improvising and relatively uncomplaining. Three cheers for them.


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As in St. Vincent Millay who called herself Vincent. She would have turned 125 last February 22nd; it’s also the 100th anniversary of her graduation from Vassar College, my alma mater.

I was invited to a celebration of her life and works at the New York Historical Society. Also present and among those delivering remarks was Elizabeth Bradley, Vassar’s brand-new president, and Tyne Daly, a trustee of the Millay Society, sporting bright pink socks beneath her black dress.

Tyne Daly as she looks today

Many photographs were shown including those of Millay’s home, Steepletop, in Austerlitz, NY. I remember visiting the house a few years ago and finding it dark and cramped. Apparently Norma, Millay’s sister, lived there after Vincent’s death, keeping the house exactly as it was as a shrine to her sister.

President Bradley told a great story about a run- in Vincent had with the then-Vassar president, Henry Noble MacCracken.  Vincent, who considered herself except from college rules and regs, had cut classes saying she was ill but had actually been away from campus—a big no-no. Vassar wasn’t going to permit her to graduate with her class, (although, in response to a petition from the class, they did.) Vincent called MacCracken “Prexy” which probably wasn’t as rude as it sounds, and told him she’d been absent from class “in great pain from a poem.” Far as I know he didn’t flip her the bird. Why her talent should enable her to act outside the regulations beats me.

Vincent was openly bi-sexual and flaunted it. When she married, both parties had relationships with many people—a very open marriage albeit a long one. The feature I liked best at Steepletop was the pool that pre-dates today’s infinity pools with tall grasses

Pool at Steepletop

around it. Millay and Eugen Boissevain, her husband, loved hosting pool parties where bathing suits were rarely worn. (Not shocking today but back then?) She was beautiful, talented, won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923 and sounds like a difficult person all around. I admire her abilities but wonder if I would have enjoyed her company.

It’s not easy finding a food recipe for Vincent’s period—everything focuses on alcohol. Here is a little gem theoretically for breakfast:

Ham for Breakfast


Chop 1 cup cold boiled ham very fine. Heat together the ham, about 1 Tsp butter, 2 Tbls water, ½ tsp mustard.

Make toast and butter. Put spoonful of the hot ham mixture on each slice of toast spreading evenly and serve hot.

The logical beverage would be gin but even Prexy would approve of coffee.

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Visit Venice on the Cheap(ish)

Published in The Vacation Times

To see the rest of the article go to : www.thevacationtimes.com/2017/07/visit-venice-on-the-cheap
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Too Kew(t) for Words

From London I took the train to Kew, site of the famed Royal Botanical Gardens. After a very short walk I joined the queue at Kew which took about ten minutes to get to the ticket seller.

My visit coincided with a hot spell in London so the world had come to Kew including numerous school groups, each group  with kids in identical clothing making it easier for the  keepers to be sure they left with the same number of small people they arrived with.

More than just a pretty face, Kew Gardens has more than 30,000 kinds of plants and zillions of preserved specimens. It comprises 300 acres; has its own police force and includes the herbarium containing more than seven million preserved plant specimens.

The Princess of Wales Conservatory is named after Augusta, Princess of Wales from 1736 to 1751 who founded the Gardens; a  small area of it honors Princess Diana. Inside the Conservatory, besides humidity, are little acquaria with various marine species and plants.

The Hive

Another structure, The Hive, is a large, modern, metal honey-comb-shaped structure. At the bottom are poles into which one sticks a long “toothpick” to hear bee sounds including tootling and quaking (news to me—I thought bees buzzed.)  Walking further into the park are many places to eat. At noon despite the heat, easily eighty-five degrees, people were happily tucking into shepherd’s pie and the like. For me, the idea of cold water and a salad was more than I could manage.

Kew Palace, off to one side of the grounds is where King George III was, um, sequestered when one of his fits of madness came upon him. His strange behavior, (today thought to have

King George lll

been  because he was bipolar), began in 1788 and had more than a little to do with his letting go of the colonies. Among the treatments used in attempts to restore his sanity were freezing cold baths in a separate building called the Royal Kitchens—more like the Royal Freezer. The palace entrance is manned by young women in period costume who search your bag and beg for donations. Inside the doll house is worth a look; the paintings are in such dim light they are hard to see.

After two and a half hours in the heat and sun I bid Kew Gardens farewell and walked into the cute village where I had a lovely lunch of Scottish oysters and white wine at Ma Cuisine. After a brief shoe buying spree (Kew shoe?) I returned to London.

The Georgian (Hanoverian) period featured large, heavy meals. Some scholars note that wealthy Georgians had weight problems—no surprise as butter, cream and sugar feature in many recipes. This, for Lemon Syllabub, is a lovely dessert (or pudding if you’re a Brit) that is a cousin of our lemon mousse.

Lemon Syllabub courtesy History Cookbook online

1/2 a lemon

1/8 pint apple juice

1-2 oz caster (superfine) sugar

1/4 pint double cream

10-12 strawberries

4 small glasses to serve this in.


Zest half the peel of the lemon and squeeze the juice.  Place the apple juice, grated peel, lemon juice and sugar in bowl and soak for 30 minutes.

Whip the cream until semi-stiff, adding apple mixture gradually. Wash and remove the stalks from the strawberries and cut them into large  pieces

Put the strawberries into the bottom of the glasses and spoon on the whipped cream

Chill in the fridge. Serve the same day with something regal like Champagne, okay?


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Listening from Head to Foot


Currently I don’t practice yoga but regardless, I’m a fan of things Om-related.  The whole Tibetan/mystical/artistic and, for some, spiritual gamut is brilliantly presented at the new Rubin Museum exhibition, The World of Sound.  (The Rubin itself is often overlooked among NYC museums as it’s on West 17th Street in the space that once was Barney’s, neither part of the uptown Museum Mile grouping nor downtown like the Whitney).

The show is a stunner—elegant and absorbing for eyes, ears and total body (sounds like one of those immersion tanks but trust me, it’s not.) Works of art from the Rubin’s permanent collection are displayed like the small, gold Milarepa, a statue of someone

Milarepa–listening to own singing

listening to himself while singing, from 15th-16th century Tibet as well as painted mandalas and the sound of OM made visible. Everywhere you turn is sound; walking up or down the spiral staircase where “drone” (not the aircraft) sounds wax and wane; inside smaller spaces and even in the restrooms.  The experience is soothing and pleasant, a sort of inside- your- head white noise. Quoting Risha Lee, the exhibition curator, “sound is not limited to what we hear with our ears. It is composed of vibrations that resonate in our body…” Yes indeed, Risha.

Couch trumpet

The leg bone trumpet is pretty cool as are the sounds it makes which are heard via headphones. Next to it are other kinds of trumpets with their own headphones and their own, distinctive sounds. There is a space devoted to “Deep Listening” and an area where visitors can lie on a leather sofa and take in sounds.  I wish the entire experience could be transported to my living room or, better yet, to a bubble I could carry around as I walk through noisy New York.

The only food with sound that came immediately to mind is Snap—Crackle—Pop and somehow Rice Crispies are too banal to go with such a beautiful exhibit.  Instead, here is a recipe for Curried Potato Salad said to be positively Himalayan.  Stay tuned because I’m going that way in very late autumn.


Curried Potato Salad- Saveur Magazine


2 lb. Yukon gold potatoes

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

13 cup olive oil

4 fresh small red Thai chiles, roughly chopped

34 cup plain Greek yogurt

12 cup tahini

12 tbsp. curry powder

Zest and juice of 1 lemon

13 cup roughly chopped cilantro (I omit as I don’t like it)

2 scallions, thinly sliced


Boil the potatoes in a 6-qt. saucepan of salted water until tender, about 45 minutes; drain and chill. Peel and roughly chop the potatoes; place in a large bowl and set aside.


Heat oil in a 10″ skillet over medium-high heat. Add chiles and cook until golden, about 1 minute; let cool. Transfer oil and chiles to a blender with the yogurt, tahini, curry powder, zest, juice, salt, and pepper; purée until smooth. Pour dressing over potatoes and stir in half each of the cilantro and scallions. Garnish with remaining cilantro and scallions.


I’m betting beer is a good drink with this and more appealing than  that Himalayan fave, yak butter tea.



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Oh to Be in England

Bet I’m one of a small group of people who returned from London and parts of SW England with a sunburn. The first few days of the trip were cool; then temperatures soared into the mid- and upper- 70s—a situation that this land of fog and gray skies doesn’t experience often.

The Penn Club

My abode in London was the Penn Club, a well-located spot in Bloomsbury frequented by academics (it’s close to the British Museum) that serves a great breakfast and makes one think Miss Marple is about to pop around a corner. Unless you’re a slave to elegant digs, the place is highly recommended.

Also commendable: the tube. It’s fast, quiet and efficient. Note to New York’s MTA: why not install, as the London tube does, a barrier separating people walking in one direction from those going in the other? It is, as the Brits say, brilliant. And pretty simple. When I think of the melee at Union Square here… well, I try not to.

The trains are also terrific. I bought a Brit Rail Pass before leaving  which saves money and time. True, the train returning to London from Hampton Court was delayed due to a switching problem but on all other trips everything worked exactly as it should.

En route to Chawton, Jane Austen’s home, my companion and I hopped off the train in Winchester, walked a short distance to the bus station, got on and went…into the town of Alton having overshot the stop.  Blame the bus station that gave us misleading info. Back we went to the correct stop, crossed over the “dual carriageway” and arrived at Chawton where Jane lived her last eight years. Some items in the house are “similar to those Jane would have worn/used/known” but most are the real thing including her (tiny) writing desk;

Jane’s writing “desk”

turquoise and gold ring, muslin shawl she embroidered with itsy-bitsy, beautiful stitches and a stunning quilt she made that’s still in remarkable condition. Any Austen fan (or even a casual reader) would be rewarded by visiting here.

Earlier, as part of my “author’s tour,” was a lovely lunch at Charles Dickens’ London home—he lived here from 1837 to 1839 while writing Oliver Twist, The Pickwick Papers and Nicholas Nickleby.

I found some British food carb-heavy although there are zillions of ethnic restaurants and takeaways that can balance this. High- end food is stylish and much lighter. Pub grub is delicious but of the carby fish-and chips nature. Scones, often eaten with clotted cream and fabulous raspberry jam are TDF and round, not triangular like their American cousins. So…

Proper Scones (say ‘scon’)

scone (with clotted cream and jam)

2 cups cake flour, more as needed

½ teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking powder

3 tablespoons sugar

5 tablespoons cold butter, cut into pieces

1 egg

½ to ¾ cup heavy cream, more for brushing


  1. Heat the oven to 450 degrees. Put the flour, salt, baking powder and 2 tablespoons of the sugar in a food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture resembles cornmeal.
  2. Add the egg and just enough cream to form a slightly sticky dough. If it’s too sticky, add a little flour, but very little; it should still stick a little to your hands.
  3. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead once or twice, then press it into a 3/4-inch-thick circle and cut into 2-inch rounds with a biscuit cutter or glass. Put the rounds on an ungreased baking sheet. Gently reshape the leftover dough and cut again. Brush the top of each scone with a bit of cream and sprinkle with a little of the remaining sugar.
  4. Bake for 9 to 11 minutes, or until the scones are golden brown.

I like scones so well I could  eat one anytime. Brits usually reserve them for afternoon tea, made with leaves not a tea bag. Use a strainer. Pour the milk into your cup first. You don’t take milk? Clearly not British.

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Briefly in Bosnia


Crossing the border between Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, (the crossing a non-event), is like going from the dazzle of Tiffany’s into a dark dumpster.  The countryside gets less lovely.  Once in Mostar, the difference between countries is marked by greater poverty (there are kids begging on the famous Stari Most Bridge)

Stari Most Bridge

and many signs of the 1990s war including buildings with highly visible holes from mortar shells.   Apparently there is a coffee culture and various local foods but the lunch we had (sausages and chopped meat, presumably beef,  shaped like a cigar) was greasy and heavy although the grilled sort- of- pita bread that came with it was marvelous.

The interior of the rebuilt 1618 Koski Mehmed Paša Mosque is crude although the fountain outside and the setting right on the river’s edge is lovely. Back in the day the gardens must have been delightful.  For me, the highlight was visiting the Turkish House (Kajtaz’s House) in the Muslim quarter where a bell summons the woman next door who is wildly enthusiastic about the property and has a personal connection which I didn’t fully grasp.

The house was built in the late 16th century and belonged to the Turkish Governor who lived there with his four wives. Outside is a high wall, both to keep out the intense summer sun and to ensure that men couldn’t see in. Color is everywhere—on kilim rungs, pillows, table cloths and hangings –along with examples of clothing of the period.  Our guide relayed several charming anecdotes including one about the husband leaving a rose outside wife #1’s door—only if she accepted it was he permitted to enter her room while the other wives accepted the signal to mind the kids.  The small, low dining table encourages family closeness (small is an understatement); sitting around it with crossed legs beneath you encourages moderate eating as one feels replete early on –Weight Watchers take note.

The famous bridge was blown up in 1993 and rebuilt using mostly the original limestone dredged from the river.  In warm weather young men dive off the bridge into the cold water beneath—it’s dangerous and must be frightening to even watch. The river’s edge is lined with restaurants and cafes making it a nice spot for a meal or drink. The lead up to the bridge is lined with shops selling cheap scarves, carvings and every imaginable souvenir, sort of a gauntlet you have to run to get to the bridge itself, now a UNESCO site.

There are other parts of BH that attract visitors and it’s unfair of me to judge the country on a one-day, one-city visit. However, I’d say don’t rush to this part of the world for Mostar alone but, if you’re in the area and can spare the time, a visit here is a great way to see another culture.

Having already dissed the food, this is a fallback to hummus, served here as an appetizer. Trust me, homemade hummus is a different beast than the stuff in the plastic container at the store.

Hummus and Pita Chips

1 (15-ounce) can chickpeas

1/4 cup fresh lemon juice (1 large lemon)

1/4 cup well-stirred tahini (you can omit this but it adds a deep note I like)

1 small garlic clove, minced

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

Salt to taste

2 to 3 tablespoons water

Dash ground paprika, for serving

Get out the trusty food processor and put the lemon juice and tahini in; blend. Add the other ingredients, ½ the chickpeas at a time. Scrape down bowl sides a few times to be sure everything is smoothly incorporated. And voila. Serve with pita chips (whole wheat pita cut into triangles and toasted.) Find BH on the map. Yes, there next to Croatia.


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Zesty, Zippy Zagreb and Zadar

Awoke in Zagreb and stepped outside into the daily market right outside our door, bursting with fruit, flowers and all manner of Easter decorations, presided over by this statue of woman carrying bread on her head. Like Italians, (not surprising since Croatia and Italy are next door neighbors), Croatians drink strong dark coffee in tiny cups. Zagreb has a real city feel with bustling shops, people on bikes and immense energy.  As is true all over Croatia, good design is appreciated and nurtured with small shops devoted to the work of local artisans. (As is also true, there is a wealth of kitsch especially small red hearts initially crafted of gingerbread, today many are plastic.)

Zagreb is divided into an upper and lower section accessible by funicular which was temporarily out of commission so we walked up. The upper town is straight out of a 19th century operetta with cobbled streets and St. Mark’s Church with blazing mosaic roof. Upper is where you find the Museum of Broken Relationships, better in the idea than the reality as most of the stories told and depicted with one “telling” artifact are depressing whether they deal with romance or family.


One night we went to the opera in the Rococo cream puff of a theater where Verdi’s Don Carlos was playing. Surprisingly, there were supertitles but as the English was in tiny yellow type on black, I gave up trying to read and just enjoyed the music—all four and a half hours of it. The Hemmingway Bar,  across the street from the theater, pays tribute to Papa with a rhino head over the bar and French-ish art.

Zadar is a totally different experience. A Roman city with very modern touches, one of the highlights is the Sea Organ, an art installation at the water’s edge that uses a system of pipes to make music from waves and wind. Very cool. Also terrific: the Museum of Ancient Glass, housed in the 19th century Cosmacendi Palace with a very recent modern addition and a fantastic, multi-media exhibit of glassware from today and ancient Rome, especially containers ladies of that period used to store cosmetics. Estee Lauder couldn’t improve on them.


Throughout Croatia food is delicious and relatively cheap, even in good restaurants. Wine, very good, is almost free.

First photo is smiling pickled onions from the Zagreb food market, too cute to pass up. Second is Dalmatian prosciutto, known as prsut, very close to its Italian cousin.


To duplicate, buy prosciutto and drape it over good bread with a side of drained white beans and red peppers that you either char yourself or buy. A drizzle of top quality olive oil and you have a great first course or light lunch. No idea how to say ‘cheers’ in Croatian but you get the idea.






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