SMOOTHIE RITUAL

I was in bustling downtown Uvita early this afternoon, dodging semi's in the Costanera and hailing my neighbors in the Corona parking lot. I was doing some final banking and turning the key to my mail box in at the Uvita Information Center when I ran into a friend who asked me, "What are you going to miss most about being here?"

My initial answer to her was that I would miss my friends, that I would miss the small town-ness of where we live. I went on to say that I would really, really miss the cooking I had been doing at La Cusinga and had been, in fact, missing cooking quite a bit over this last four weeks of idleness. But while I was answering her, I wasn't really sure if I was being all that sincere about my answer and that I knew deep in my heart of hearts that there was another answer; the real answer.

What I will really miss, what I will miss deeply, mournfully and significantly is my morning smoothie. I have become a virtual prisoner to the mix of tropical fruits and yogurt that I place reverently into my blender each and every morning. My whole morning used to revolve around the tea ritual. The steeping of the strong black tea and intensely flavored local honey was a huge focal point of my early day but something happened, something changed.

And what happened was that I was becoming much more greatly attuned to the transcendent quality of the fruits I was peeling each day. I was paying more attention to the subtle bite of the goat's milk yogurt I got from the Mennonites. I was turning my morning ritual toward the cutting of the fruit and the layering of the yogurt. Putting tea bags and honey into a tea pot was child's play compared to this, this construction of something so much greater than the sum of its parts.

Did it happen when the passion fruit came into season and I could pull them off the vines in the back yard? Was it when I discovered Irwins, the world's sexiest and most glorious mango, oozing honey from every drop? Or was it perhaps when I started buying a "hand" of sweet bananas at the busy Feria each week from the lovely Tica girl who smiled shyly at me when her father was looking away?

I don't know, I can't say when it turned; that moment when the making of the smoothie became the apex of my morning ritual. Those who know me, my lovely fiancee, Kathy, particularly, will tell you that I am a creature who adores, no, that's inaccurate, demands a morning ritual. The rising, the opening of the doors and windows, flipping on the computer, the first glass of cold mint/green tea to ease down the ibuprofin and fish oil, those are mechanical, yet ritualistic. The tea kettle is filled with water and the flame is lit, the tea bags and honey go into the teapot; ritual.

Everything that follows is ritual as well. I get on the floor to stretch and meditate, I pour the first cup of tea, I read emails, Facebook, SF Gate and the NY Times. I begin the crossword puzzle but I don't finish it; yes, ritual. But I now realize, that all these are just small steps on the path to the true ritual. I know they are because now I am starting to delay the rising from the chair, to savor the moments, the building up to that series of steps that makes, yes makes, the morning.

On the counter are the bananas, the sweet ripe bananas. They are the foundation, the staple and the body of the smoothie. If everyday were a perfect day, next to them would be four or five gold and red oblong Irwin mangos. The Irwin is majestic, soulful, succulent and downright sexual. To me, it is the mango of my dreams, culinary, erotic and otherwise. I worked for a fine, fine produce company my last two years in San Francisco and never once did I taste either bananas or (particularly) mangos that came remotely close to this amazing fruit.

I choose the two ripest bananas and after squeezing the mangos and then passing each of them in front of my twitching nose, I choose today's participant. I lay these on the cutting board and saunter out the back door toward the maracuya bush; home of passion fruit. If I am lucky, there will be a perfect speciman, gold not green, and with that perfect amount of "give". And yes, there is.

The bananas are peeled, broken into chunks and fed into the blender bottom. The mango ritual is next and I love the way the little Wusthof paring knife slides the skins off the tender fruit. I work my way around the seed, cutting off moist sticky slabs of the golden fruit. The mango joins the banana and greedily I suck the mango peels like artichoke leaves so that none of that heavenly flesh goes to waste. I cut the maracuya in half and admire its perfectly formed seed sac and the tiny seeds inside. It is quite a sensual sight. I don't want the passionfruit's acid to spoil the sweetness so only the seedsac from one side of the fruit goes in. There will be more for tomorrow.

I have pulled the yogurt container from the refrigerator along with a bowl of tiny ice cubes (because that's the kind of ice cube trays I have). The container is shaken and the thick white goat's milk yogurt joins the fruits. The flavor of this yogurt is so goaty and distinct, almost a bit much by itself, but oh, the harmony it creates. A handful of ice cubes go in, both for chill and to cut the richness just a bit. I sigh and turn the blender on to 7. Always to 7 and only to 7.

This is a ritual.

I am beginning to salivate and I rock the whirring blender to make sure all the yogurt slides down into the golden mix. When I can no longer hear the ice cubes I know. I know the moment that this has all been building to is approaching. And better yet, I know that this mix will make exactly two, not one, but two glasses of that which makes it possible for me to leave the house, to go forward with my day, to achieve greatness, to deal with challenge, to be the man I know I can be.

The glass is brought forth and the glass mixer is leaned forward for the pour. The smoothie nearly walks out of the mixer, thick, viscous and oh, so golden. It layers itself into the glass as if it knows that this is its sole purpose in life. I sigh with contentment, cover the mixer and hastily put it in the refrigerator. I take my glass to the counter and standing behind it I take that first gulp. And yes, it is the perfect smoothie. It is rich, it is fruity and it is the stuff of dreams. There is a sense and a purpose in going on. This is what ritual is all about, and yes, this is definitely what I will miss the most.

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THE ROAST CHICKEN MEDITATIONS

The Roast Chicken Meditations

It has often been said that if you have a house you want to sell you should bake cookies to entice prospective buyers. I have a deep belief that they would be even further seduced by the scents arising from a chicken roasting to a crackle skinned doneness in the oven. There are few things that I do in my kitchen at home that speak to my basic cooking instincts like roasting a chicken.

There is something so entirely satisfying about readying the bird for the oven; anointing it with a bit of butter, or olive oil or a simple squeeze of lemon; filling it's innards with that same split lemon, or sprigs of fresh rosemary and/or thyme, or several cloves of partially crushed garlic, or, all of the above. I forego the roasting rack that goes beneath the bird and instead build a celebratory pyre of sliced carrots, wedges of onion and more peeled garlic cloves. The bird goes on top and then into the hot oven.

And then, for that proscribed amount of time, perhaps 45 minutes for a smaller specimen, perhaps up to an hour and twenty minutes for a four and a half pound bird, your time is your own. It is just you and that book, or some perfect chicken roasting music (or for me, both) and the smells that begin to waft from the oven. There is of course, the interruption about twenty minutes into the process for the opening of the over door (ahh, more lovely smells) and the placing of the halved or quartered small potatoes around the bird, but it is, if well planned, brief.

The bird is in the oven, the book is in the lap, Bill Frisell is noodling exquisitely on his guitar and all is right with the world. If this isn't cheap and significant therapy, I'm not sure what to recommend that would be. It works wonderfully if it is cold and rainy outside, but I found out yesterday, it works just as well on a tropical late afternoon in Costa Rica. I sat on the back patio, and the book, the music and the smells were all just as they should have been.

It was clear that the climate has no influence on the effect of the roasting chicken on the psyche and the soul when I suddenly looked down and realized I hadn't read a page in several minutes and had not been aware that the cd had moved right on to the next one in the shuffle. I stretched out on the chair behind me and put my feet back up on the chair in front of me. The cicadas were clicking madly and a few goofy "gallinas de la montana" were warbling their insane warble. The sun had slid down behind the coconut trees and the air was rich with the smell of a deeply burnished bird.

So yes, one must arise to rescue the bird, but there is security in knowing that it must, as the French say, "repose" for several minutes before it falls prey to the carving knife. A salad might be made at this point, a simple salad; tomatoes sliced, even an avocado broken into and mixed with a dash of "jugo de mandarina", but this is lazy work, work done at a restful and serene pace. Don't make a dressing, just splash some olive oil and citrus juice on the greens; sea salt and a few grinds of black pepper. The salad will far better accompany the simple flavors of the chicken dressed this way.

It's all ready. Cut the bird anyway you like. I like to start with a leg, but then, I am a "leg man". Grab a few crispy potato pieces, a hunk of two of browned carrot and some of the fallen apart but caramelized wedges of onion. The garlic cloves, roasted to perfection; grab a few of those, too.

Load the plate up and push some of that simply dressed salad on there. Tilt up the roasting pan and pour some of those chicken-y fatty juices over the whole damn thing. Perfect, just perfect.

Eat. And enjoy.

ADIOS FOR NOW

These two pieces will make up my final contribution to Dominical Days, at least for a while. But fear not, blog fans, the blog will live on.

ADIOS FOR NOW

Sadly, loyal readers, that this will be my final column for Dominical Days, at least this time through, I want to express my gratitude to Marcel for offering me this space as well as to those of you who have suffered through these 18 or so months with me.

I am leaving La Cusinga after two years and the reasons are the usual culprits in my industry; money and trust. I’ve had a good two years there and am grateful for the opportunity, the freedom and the beautiful environment. I got a little off track for a while, but in these two years I feel as if I’ve gotten my “Chef” back. My mission was to show the area that we could cook world class cuisine using all local ingredients and I feel as if I’ve accomplished that.

I’ve had thanks a plenty, but as we used to say in the kitchens when I was a drinking man, “Thanks doesn’t buy the beer”. Now that I’m sober I find that it doesn’t help with the rent, the dentist or at the taller either. I suppose in every work situation there are promises made as to the future but when they are denied and two years of loyalty is rewarded with mistrust, it is time to move on.

In this time here I have made some amazing friends and have developed some of the world’s most loyal eaters. Chefs thrive on seeing people eating and happy, and I have seen some awfully happy faces these last two years. It took us a while to get the word our into this community, but in January we had the largest number of “non-hotel guest” diners that La Cusinga had ever had..

I will miss you all, I will miss the amazing local ingredients and I will miss this coastal paradise for whatever length of time I am gone. Pura Vida.

RECIPES FOR LIVING THE LIFE

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write in this, my last recipe column, but when my good friend Richard suggested to me that I write an entry in my blog (www.chefofthejungle.blogspot.com) about sourcing the ingredients I cook with, it seemed like it matched up perfectly.

I buy all local organic produce and get most it from Mauren and Ademar (Finca Coreotos) at the Uvita Feria on Saturdays and at the Feria de San Isidro on Thursdays. They are also at Citrus in Ojochal on Tuesday mornings. I buy specialty items from Marjorie and Bolivar at Diamante Organico in the San Salvador valley. They deliver to Maractu in Dominical on Thursdays, so perhaps an arrangement could be made for delivery there.

I have been buying whole fish from Victoriano in Playa Tortuga and filets from Jose who has the stand at the Uvita Feria. If you stay on top of Jose the quality is usually excellent.

My delicious organic chickens and eggs also come from Mauren and Ademar at the Uvita Feria.

I use a lot of specialty items and get many of them at the big Feria in San Isidro. The Mennonites sell excellent goat cheese as well as sweet butter and goat’s milk yogurt.

There is an older Tico right next to Mauren and Ademar’s table in the organic section who sells the best honey I have tasted here. There is also a smiling shortish man at that end, but one row over who sells a nice selection of frijoles tiernos (fresh shelling beans).

Mario (in his white straw hat) has organic portobellos and other mushrooms, but get there early.

Elena’s table is at the far end of the market and she has a wealth of wonderful things. I get organic brown rice, black and white sesame seeds, organic mustards and more. You can find her at chayotevine@gmail.com.

Adios y pura vida, Chef Dave