Category: #travel

On Perfect Quiche and a Virginia Visit

~ sub524 ~ Leave a comment

My love language wasn’t always feeding people. It developed over a long period of time watching my husband, an accomplished chef, feed people. Having athletic teen boys leant itself to learning to love cooking too, especially when they brought their friends home for dinner.

I loved being that house where the kids knew there would always be good food, and likely brownies for dessert.

Living in Tennessee for ten years also put a thumb on the scale. There are some flat-out brilliant cooks there, the kind that will, after a bit of begging, share their recipe for their cheesy onion tart, but only after swearing not to share it with anyone else. I swore, so you don’t get that one, unless you come to a holiday party. It’s about 100,000 calories a slice, and worth every one of them. It’s the thing I’ll bring to a potluck in wintertime.

Another friend, Kathy, said it was okay to share her wonderful quiche recipe, the basic form for which you’ll find below. I like how creative you can get with this one, and it really does turn out perfect every time. For example, I do love a ham and cheese quiche, but I usually add a bit of zing in the form of a quarter cup of chopped red onion. The other one was four cheese (the Quatro Formaggio packages you get from Trader Joes), tomato, fresh basil, and green onion. So basically, make the different ingredients add up to about two cups, and have a fun time being creative. Now, you can make things harder on yourself by making your own pie crust if you want, but the refrigerated Pillsbury ones work really well. I don’t recommend any other premade pastry, though.

Kathy pre bakes her pie shell, and I agree it makes this dish tastier, but you don’t have to. If you do, just heat oven to 425 degrees, in a 9” pan. Prick with fork and bake for about 5-6 minutes before you put in the rest of the ingredients.

If you’re using tomatoes, as I did in my last batch of these, make sure they are thoroughly seeded, and as much wetness removed as possible. That goes for any vegetable ingredient you decide to add. Extra moisture is the only way you can tank this recipe, so let’s avoid that, okay?

PERFECT HAM AND BROCCOLI QUICHE (Original Recipe courtesy of Kathy Hall)

1 refrigerated pie crust (the kind you roll out)
1 cup cooked ham, chopped (lunch meat is fine)
1 cup shredded Swiss cheese (or your choice, I prefer Sharp Cheddar)
1-1 ½ cups frozen broccoli, thawed (you have to make sure you get the moisture out)
4 eggs
1 cup milk or half and half (I use almond milk)
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
either 1 tablespoon of prepared mustard (I use Grey Poupon) or ½ teaspoon dry mustard
Pinch of cayenne if desired

*Preheat oven to 375.
*Layer ham, cheese, and broccoli in crust-lined pie pan. Mix the remaining ingredients, mix well, pour over. (It’s easier to get the Quiche in and out of the oven if you put the pie pan on a cookie sheet—no spills also.)
*Bake at 375 for 35-45 minutes or until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean. Half and half will cook more quickly than regular milk. Let stand at least 10 minutes before serving.

I like to make this a day ahead of time, and once it’s completely cool, I put in the fridge overnight.

The reason I paired this recipe with our recent visit to scope out Roanoke, Virginia is that when we went there, we were plunged right back into the delicious home cooking one finds throughout the Appalachian region. Like singing, the ability to cook heartily and well seems to be in the water here. Folks just cook brilliantly. I couldn’t help myself, and on the trip, I indulged in some sweet tea* and a fantastic fried green tomato sandwich that had pimento cheese on it. I know, maybe that doesn’t sound great to you, but that’s because you haven’t tried it yet.

The trip to Roanoke** started with flying into Charlotte airport. We’d been through the airport many times when we lived in Johnson City. It’s changed and grown, so it was a bit of an ordeal to find the rental car place there. We got a lot of steps in, though, so that was good.

The drive up to Roanoke from Charlotte was spectacular, even in the dead of winter. The roll of the mountains getting closer and closer, the climb into them, the views back down to the coastal plains below. I’d missed the mountains. Perhaps you know how that goes—you remember how beautiful something was but have forgotten that it’s awe-inducing until you’re confronted with it once again after an absence.

It’s like finding a twenty-dollar bill in a pair of pants, a tiny explosion of wonder followed by joy that makes your whole day feel magical.

As we drove, I realized I’d become inured to the beauty of the area when I was living there for ten years. The mountains became an attractive backdrop back then, just part of the scenery. I made a quiet vow to myself that if we move back into their proximity, I won’t take them for granted again. Coming from a five-year stint in the flats of Texas, they regained their proper breathtaking status in my mind, where they shall remain.

We stayed in an Airbnb, nearly our whole family under one roof, for a long weekend. It was nice to just sit in the living room and chat, but that wasn’t the real mission. Our real mission was to scope out the town and see if it was a place we, as a group, would be willing to relocate to.

So we drove around Roanoke and its sister city Salem for the better part of two days. We toured a few apartments. I checked out the YMCAs, as I cannot be anywhere that doesn’t have a pool. We ate out, poked around antique stores and bookstores. The area was a mix of run-down and lovely. Bigger than I’d imagined, too. I usually carry a sort of rolling map in my head when I visit somewhere but got turned around as we drove. I think it had to do with the fact that the city is nestled inside of a ring of mountains, rather than them being helpfully on one side for visual reference. Nestled is a good thing, when you get used to it.

For me, being back in the mountains and realizing that we could relocate here, our family all together, or at least in near proximity, resonated in a hopeful way. Moving is always tedious, of course, as is finding your way around yet another new city and finding friends without the bridge of kids in school to help the process. But sometimes, as Edward Albee said in his play “The Zoo Story,” sometimes you have to go a very long way around to come back a short way correctly.

*Sweet Tea is my kryptonite. The very first time I had it when we were looking to move into the Knoxville area was at a McDonalds. Resistance is futile when you have Sweet Tea on tap with free refills. I had to swear off of it completely, like an alcoholic when we lived in Tennessee.

**Not THAT Roanoke, where the people all disappeared from back in the 1580s, leaving only a cryptic “Croatan” carved into a tree. That one was on an island off the coast of North Carolina and predated the Jamestown colony by 17 years.

On Road Trips and Family Traditions

~ sub524 ~ Leave a comment

This past week we took a road trip up to Amarillo, Texas. It’s about a six-hour drive from Dallas, with stops, angling up the 287. The road is dotted with small towns, lots of fields with various crops, wind farms, cattle, and not much else.

My husband and I quite enjoy a good road trip. Usually we listen to a book, but the CD player got stuck, so we chatted about what we were seeing as we drove through the sprawl of Dallas and environs (which takes a good hour) out into the sometimes rolling but mostly flat vistas of western Texas. Or enjoyed the long, comfortable silences you can experience when you’re with someone you love.

You don’t realize you miss seeing horizons until you see them again after a long time. Growing up in Kansas, I had quick and easy access to vistas. Big skies with amazing cloud formations and below it, the stretch of land literally as far as your eye can see.

Color becomes important too, even as we descend (finally!) into colder weather here in Texas. The shadings of brown, the occasional pop of green. Of course, the ever-changing sky. It was mostly cloudy for our drive out, raining the entire way back, but even then the differentiation in grey tone was a marvel.

We saw tall grain silos, long trains, and fields of cotton. No, I didn’t know they grew cotton here, either. The fields look like a giant upended a popcorn bowl after their team scored a touchdown. I saw antelope too, a first for me. And tumbleweeds. Long, long trains, too. Double stacked with shipping containers, with three engines to pull it. Or, passing the other way, open cars filled with what we guessed was coal, but turns out is coke, a by-product of the oil industry.

The purpose for our road trip was to spend Thanksgiving with a bunch of folks who are pretty new to us. This is the gift your children give you as they grow up and have serious relationships. I love it, especially since we got to spend the day with 25 or so people. I say this as an only child. Most of my memories about Thanksgiving include having to dress up and then sit with just my parents and me at the dining room table, having stilted conversation or none at all. It didn’t generate warm feelings for the holiday. There, I’ve said it. Although I have always liked the pie.

This Thanksgiving changed all that. Our hosts could not have been friendlier or more accommodating. They went out of their way to welcome us, to fold us right in. And man, the food was great. Mac and cheese, green bean casserole, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and corn casserole on the island. Relish trays, Jell-O salad (a fave for me), deviled eggs, bread and rolls, cranberry sauce. Beef stew, ham, and turkey. The kitchen table was stacked with desserts. Pumpkin, pecan, and chocolate pies, cookies, strawberry cake, pumpkin and chocolate cheesecakes, a rice Krispie thing with chocolate and caramel, and more.

The meal started with a prayer from the oldest person there, the great grandpa to most of them, a wonderful man who’s seen a thing or two. And then the eating and talking. Four hours passed by in a flash. We weren’t in a big house, but somehow those lovely people rolled us up and included us in conversation and friendship. It made me truly thankful and blessed, and something else, too. It made me enjoy Thanksgiving.

It was like the vistas we saw on the drive. Sometimes you just don’t know what you’re missing until you see it.

On a Hammam Experience and Taking the Long Way Home

~ sub524 ~ Leave a comment

Leaving Loutro, and with it the calming swim-eat-sleep-repeat experience was bittersweet, as the endings of most wonderful long-awaited trips are. We start to turn our heads toward home, even though our feet are still on foreign soil. It’s not all bad, knowing you are returning to the familiar, to the loved ones. Yet the lingering thought remains; will I ever be in this place again?

I can only say, I hope I do.

After a quick ferry ride, three of my friends and I took a hired car back to Chania. I had planned a Cretan cooking experience, but just as I was leaving to meet up with the driver, it was cancelled. Ah well. I was not unhappy at the prospect of a couple of days on my own back in Chania.

Here is the stunning room in the old town of Chania that I got to stay in. The Boutique Hotel de Doge is housed in a 15th century restored Venetian villa. Yeah. Here is the street it is on. No, really. There were a lot of stairs to get to this room too, and one more time, I didn’t mind a bit. I grabbed some street food for dinner at a place near the bus station, where they cook your food right there in front of you on the grill. This chicken sandwich was absolutely delicious.

I mentioned last week that I swam in the Aegean as well as in the Mediterranean on this trip. I accomplished that early the next morning, having sussed out the journey (maybe fifteen minutes of walking) from the hotel. The way carved its way past narrow streets, even more ruins, and some cool graffiti then onto sandy Nea Chora beach. There were only a few other early swimmers. I felt pretty comfortable just leaving my things on the shore and popping in for a mile or so. The water was a bit cooler than the other side, and there was more chop, but checking off a thing I’d wanted to do for a long time made it all a delight.

Afterwards, I treated myself to a fancy breakfast at the Venetian harbor. I ordered in Greek and for the first and only time I didn’t get corrected, and I got everything I’d asked for. Score! I did my shopping for gifts in the busy old section and explored a few more ruins. As always, there were cats everywhere. They own the place. In one store, I got into a lovely conversation in half-Greek, half-English, and got directions to the new Archaeological Museum of Crete. She said it was a beautiful walk, maybe a mile or so, and gave me the directions. In Greek. I know I’ve been harping on being able to speak a little bit… and read most of the signs. I am going to put a plug in for Duolingo, the free version for giving me this bit of courage. It took me nearly two years, and turns out my accent was atrocious, but it made a big difference to me, especially when I was on my own, that I could communicate and find my way. And that I got my 61-year-old brain to learn a few new things.

Then it was time for my Hammam experience, which is a Turkish steam/bath/massage. I had booked it on a bit of a whim, lured by the fact I’d never experienced one, and this particular place was located in the same bathhouse that’s been there since the town has been there, so you know 600 or so years. They gave me a big cotton towel and non-skid slippers, and throwaway undies to change into. I spent a half hour in the marble-encased steam room (they had cold water to drink). Then my person came and got me. The bathing/massage part took place on a marble slab. There were two of these slabs in the room. It was connected to the steam room as well, so everything happened in a sort of dream-like water vapor arena of swirling white and heat. The process made me feel like a queen, which I didn’t see coming. I’m not one to go for “pampering,” ever, but this felt different from merely being indulgent. I’d frankly expected having someone bathe me as awkward, and perhaps slightly icky. Instead, it gave me a sense of power. The environment made me feel connected through the ages to all of those who’d stepped foot in this ancient place. One olive oil soap-warm, silky water lathed over me-olive oil massage-hair wash later, I emerged as clean as I’ve ever been, and utterly relaxed. I’d do it again and recommend it to anyone.

My friends from the trip were staying at the same hotel as I was but leaving early the next day. We had a final delicious meal together, which sported the best stuffed spinach leaves I’ve ever eaten, as well as stuffed artichoke flowers. There are no pictures. I ate them all before I remembered to take any. We wandered a bit and found this store that was built over the top of a church. Those are the (empty!) burial chambers from the catacombs beneath the store. We took a bit of a stroll at night. One of my pals took the pic of Chania at night that heads up today’s blog. Those buildings on the left have stood there for over 800 years.

The next day, I woke early, packed, and left my bag at the hotel with a note that I’d be back for it. Then stepped out in faith for the museum. I loved the walk that took me to a whole new section of Chania, and eventually to the museum, which I had to myself, as I got there right when it opened. So many brand new, thoughtful exhibits. Do you remember I told you the enterprising Minoans repurposed their bathtubs to be their sarcophagus? Here is an example of that. And here is a bowl with one of the earliest examples of Linear A writing — so cool! I had a perfect museum brunch on the patio that overlooked the Aegean. Then I stepped over the museum cat who had been laying in the entrance when I walked in. She was still there in the same spot when I came back out three hours later. I walked back to the old town, had a lemon gelato, and decided 18,000 steps in one morning and afternoon were enough, and that as much as I loved it, it was time to say goodbye to Chania and Crete.

I collected my bag and caught the bus to the airport. I was way too early, but I had just… had enough, you know that feeling? I’d seen everything I wanted to see, and anything else seemed too much. So I killed 6 hours in Chania airport. Lucky for me I struck up a conversation with the woman running the ticket counter, as there was a bit of an issue with my ticket as I tried to board – I was flying into Helsinki for a connection, but it was technically on the next day, so didn’t have the connecting boarding pass.

That meant the screen flashed RED when I scanned my pass, and (since I can read Greek) I could see the screen said DO NOT ALLOW THIS PERSON TO BOARD THE AIRCRAFT. Behind me, the other people in line shifted and grumbled. The men guarding the gate put their hands on their guns and SCRUTINIZED me.

Here is where some travelling mercy kicked in. While my stress level at that moment shot up to 110%, I called on every ounce of self-possession I had. Instead of pouting, yelling, or posturing, I smiled nicely at the woman who’d I’d been in conversation with, and trusted she’d fix it.

She said “Och ochi,” and started typing furiously. That means “Oh no.” I continued to smile, stepping to the side so the grumbly passengers behind me could go around. Yes, part of me wanted to just push past her, dash onto the tarmac and up the stairs of the waiting plane. Instead, I trusted.

She fixed it. The screen went from red to its normal grey. “You’ll need to talk to a person before you get to the gate in Helsinki,” she told me. I thanked her profusely, and moved on, just as if my heart rate wasn’t the highest it had been in years.

The plane was full of very tall people, who all had puffy jackets with them. I had my window seat, per usual. The sun had gone down, so we flew over pitch black for the most part. Every once in a while there were cities, the golden and white lights looking like the lit veins and arteries of a living thing. Finally, we landed in Helsinki at 12.30 at night. It was just over freezing, and I understood why they all had those puffy jackets.

I only had my sweater and a scarf. That airport was cold, compared to the temps I’d gotten used to on Crete. I’d known this part was coming though. My twelve-hour layover in the Helsinki airport. I did my best to get comfortable. The whole place is like Ikea, all blonde wood and chrome, just with planes outside. Yes, they had Christmas trees up. Maybe it is Christmas there all the time. Finally, at 4am the coffee shops opened. At eight, I talked to a very stern gate agent about my ticket issue. She also typed for a very long time before she could hand me a boarding pass. I smiled nicely at her too. I got through the passport check with no issues, then it was time to go to the lounge I’d paid an upgrade to get.

It was a great decision. As nice as Helsinki airport is, it was nicer in the private lounge, where it’s quiet and there’s free food and coffee and a place to put your feet up. I dozed here until it was time for me to make the next long-haul, 14 hours to DFW.

I got lucky and had an empty seat in the middle, and a very nice flight companion. I had opted for the dairy-free meal, and it was delicious. I’d travel Finnair again anytime. Two movies, a lot of pages of a book read, and a short nap later, I landed. It took a long time to get through customs at DFW, as about five planes came in at the same time, but finally I got through. My wonderful husband was there to meet me. I think I finally got to bed about 38 hours after I’d last slept, but my heart and soul were full, my skin tan, my muscles exercised, and my mind brimming with more new stories to tell. I truly am a #luckygal.

On African Swells and a Week of Mediterranean Swims

~ sub524 ~ Leave a comment

Crete is an island nation to the south of mainland Greece. It is quite a large island, much bigger than I originally thought. On the north side of the island is the Aegean Sea, while the south is the Mediterranean. Both are warm and lovely seas to swim in. I’ll tell you about my swim in the Aegean next week. During the week of swims, we all stayed in a little village called Loutro, that is only accessible by ferry or walking. I loved the hotel, Loutro on the Hill. This is the view down to the hotel patio from my room.

As a lifelong swimmer, I’ve spent a fair amount of time swimming in open water, particularly when we lived in Southern California. That water was cold, but it was fun once you got used to it. When we moved to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee, I did lake swims in some of the prettiest lakes I’ve ever seen. That water was also cold, but fun when you got used to it. Since living in Texas, I’ve not swum in open water. There are big alligators in the water here, not to mention water moccasins, a nasty, vicious sort of snake. It’s the one creature that truly terrifies me.

So, I trained for this trip by doing lots of laps in indoor pools. I was mostly confident that I’d be able to swim 2-4 miles a day. My friends who’d been on these trips before assured me that no one cares if you decide you’ve had enough and want to get back on the boat. As the swim trek guide said, “this isn’t boot camp.” The guides did a great job of finding water that was smooth, too. One day we had some pretty good rolling waves that I found rather fun, as I like waves. We were told they were swells that had come from Africa. It felt quite exotic, but then I realized Africa wasn’t all that far. This sunrise took my breath away.

It was heaven swimming for six days in a row. Salt water makes you buoyant, so I’d find myself going at an easy pace, stretching out my stroke while looking at fish and other things in crystal clear, warm water. I didn’t get any pictures of the fish, as my camera isn’t waterproof, sadly. There were large schools of small black fish and medium-size silver ones, and pretty blue ones. I even saw a large lionfish, and of course, lots of sea urchins. The sea floor is interesting too, moving from a jagged floor to smoothed stone. There were also sandy channels in spots where fresh, cold water pours down from the steep mountains. At one point, we needed to swim quite far out because the sea got a bit rough. We were swimming above a cliff-like drop off perhaps two hundred yards off the coast, and suddenly I was looking down into the deep, mysterious blue, the water so clear I could have been seeing nearly a half-mile down with no obstruction.

The picture heading up this blog is of my group of “pink hats” in front of a cool sea cave we’d explored. These caves are all over and range from small and dark to ones like that one in the “Goonies,” where you could hide an entire pirate ship. We floated on our backs, our limbs spread like stars, looking at the ceiling high above us. I cemented the moment in my brain as one of those peak moments you’re glad you had when you’re on your deathbed. I had a lot of those on this trip. Then we swam out. The light blue of the water coming out of the dim light of the cave was a color I don’t think I’ve ever seen before, a clear turquoise that sparkled white and green on the wavelets.

Being on the ocean for 6-8 hours a day, either on the boat, or in the water was utterly relaxing. The only drawback was that I definitely felt like I was still on the boat with its rocking motion any time I was in a small, enclosed space, like my bathroom. That lingered for several days. And my shoulders had that good ache you get when you’ve really used your muscles. I got super tan during this week of being on the water, too. I know I shouldn’t be happy about that, but my old school is showing. I loved getting bronzed. This snap is of me and Barbara, my lovely friend who told me about the trip in the first place.

The days were broken in half with lovely lunches in little towns along the coast, and dinners back at Loutro. Here are most of my pals at dinner on the balcony of our hotel. I don’t think I could ever tire of fresh bread dipped in olive oil, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, perfectly cured olives, and the goat cheese that is unique to this island. It’s creamy, more like chevre than feta, with a sweet tang. There were hikes, too, through steep ravines that slice through layers of golden stone, or along the coast. Sage is everywhere, scenting the air.

Early one morning, I did a solo hike to the incredible Venetian ruin that sat atop the hill behind our hotel. It had been calling to me ever since I saw the castle tower from our boat on the first day. It was a spiritual experience for me, that hike, seeing this ancient place, completely alone. There was no path, per se. It was quite the scramble in parts, and my knees complained about the extra bending, but it was worth every bit of it. The age of the place hit home to me when I saw this ancient tree growing right out of one of the remaining castle walls. There was an entire town there once. I was reminded of Tolkien’s words. I believe Gimli says this inside the mines of Moria: “High they builded us, deep they delved us, but they are gone, they are gone.”

This is the sun coming up that morning, as I stood on ruins that were over 500 years old. I felt embraced by time, sorrow, joy, and gratitude all at once. I hope you get moments like this in your life, too.