 Sushi roll Sushi? Japanese, of course. Well, yes... but sushi’s history is more complex than that. The origins of sushi can be traced back to the second century B.C., to the rice fields of-- not Japan-- China.
Nearly 2,000 years before refrigerators, Chinese people needed a way to preserve fish. So they salted it and wrapped it in fermented rice and called it narezushi. The salt prevented the growth of microorganisms and bacteria; the rice was used to further preserve the fish and was thrown out before eating. It wasn’t until the 8th century that the dish spread to Japan, with the first known reference of sushi there occurring in 718 A.D. The dish evolved through the following centuries. By the 18th century, sushi had made it to Edo, Japan-- now known as Tokyo. Three famous sushi restaurants opened and claimed their place in history, followed by thousands more by the end of the century. The fish at restaurants was commonly cooked, not raw, due to a lack of refrigeration. Sushi evolved once again when a chef named Hanaya Yohei realized the rice, instead of being thrown away, could be tossed with vinegar and included to form a convenient and more affordable dish. And there it was-- the sushi we know and love today. It didn’t take long for sushi to spread to other countries, and by the 1900s it entered western culture. Sushi’s popularity in the West was dominated by the upper class until the 1960s, when the American middle class started trying it for themselves. Sushi restaurants popped up throughout the country, and chefs started dabbling with new flavors and combinations to target the taste buds of hesitant diners. The popular California roll was born, with cucumber, real or imitation crab meat, and avocado. Now sushi can be found all over the globe, including in Mexico. In addition to offering the traditional take on the dish, Mexico has developed its own brand of sushi, not surprisingly, with ingredients like cooked shrimp, cilantro, bacon, and cheese. In Mexico City, sushi has been known to be wrapped in food like mango or plantain slices, opening up a whole new world for this classically Asian food. For the truly adventurous at-home chefs, sushi is easy to recreate at home. (See recipe below). Get creative, make it true to your own palette. The combinations of what you can roll up in vinegar-laced sticky rice are endless.
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 The sun sets on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico All-inclusive resorts: They reel you in with their lavish, drool-worthy images of food and poolside cabanas, beaches and translucent, turquoise water. They tell you you’ll escape normal life for a week, that you’ll drown your worries in infinity pools and piña coladas and leave your cares on the mainland. They don’t tell you to watch what you eat or end up wishing your king-sized bed came with an attached throne. My husband and I are adventurers at heart and love piecing together an a la carte voyage that surprises and delights. But we also enjoy a calm, relaxing break, one where we don’t have to worry about much and can just let our minds do the wandering instead. We had been to the breathtaking Riviera Maya region in eastern Mexico and the striking snorkeling haven of Cozumel, so one February we headed west instead, where the waves would be more dramatic and the ocean darker. We flew to Puerto Vallarta, on mainland Mexico across from Baja California. It was dazzling; we could see the navy waves of the Pacific crashing roughly on the beach from our hotel balcony, and we sat mesmerized as we watched beast-like cruise ships come and go from the main port just a few kilometers away. There was nothing to complain about (there rarely is on vacation, when you stop and put everything in perspective); it was paradise. At most all-inclusive resorts, there are a few types of restaurants where you can forage for your next meal: The main buffet, an a la carte restaurant, or a more casual snack bar. I’m a sucker for a relaxing spot near the beach with a nice view, regardless of the cuisine, so one of our favorite spots at this resort became the snack bar down by the water: A sushi bar. It was Tuesday-- way too early in the week for any incident that could spoil a vacation-- when we spent a solid few hours at that sushi bar soaking in the sun, the cervezas, and the raw fish. Raw fish in a region where foreigners are warned not to drink the tap water-- you know, a smart choice. The sushi tasted just like it did at home-- salty, savory, the seaweed and fish getting an extra punch with a dollop of wasabi. We were famished after an afternoon of letting the waves abuse us, so Patrick and I indulged in plate after plate of hand rolls. It didn’t seem like a lot because the plates were small, but there were a lot of small plates. After all, endless was the name of the game here. An hour or so into our sushi soiree, Patrick left to use the bathroom in our hotel room. I continued eating the raw fish while he was gone; it was in front of me, after all. Several minutes went by, which eventually turned into 40. I thought, after our cervezas, that perhaps Patrick had laid down on the bed and fallen asleep. I considered packing up our things and heading up to the room, but instead I set my eyes on the dark blue ocean, popped in another eighth of a hand roll with my chopsticks, and focused on the sound of the surf. WhhhooOOOOOOSHHHHH. Silent undertow. WhhhooOOOOOSHHHHH. Piece of delicious sushi. Repeat. Suddenly there was a voice behind me. It was Patrick, looking a quarter miffed and three-quarters amused. “I got stuck in the elevator.” “You what?” “On my way back down from our room, the elevator stopped between floors. It was stuck!” he said. “And I couldn’t communicate with anyone!” When Patrick and I visit Spanish-speaking countries together, I am our translator, having learned enough of the language in school and during our travels to get by. I allowed myself to laugh at the image of Patrick and the elevator maintenance people trying unsuccessfully to communicate with each other through a metal wall; after all, the ordeal ended painlessly. I was glad I hadn’t gone looking for him, but not so glad I ate all that raw fish, because that night it happened. We continued with our evening, and then around 2 a.m., the wave of nausea took over in bed, in a way no ocean wave ever could. All of that delicious sushi-- of course it was too good to be true. What was I thinking? I asked myself as I stumbled to the bathroom, Patrick barely twitching as I let myself fall out of the bed. My usual hope during food illnesses is that all the toxins can exit my system at once, and I can just move on and continue being the indulgent pig I set out to be. But that’s not how it ever works. I spent the entire night sick, finally falling back asleep as the sun started rising and the giant steel beasts started leaving the port for another warm day at sea. I could sense around 10 a.m. that Patrick was waking up, and I rolled over to tell him my miserable news. I was sick. And, as usual, my stomach was the great informant-- it gave my taste buds the now-disgusting flavor of what was making me so ill. It tasted like sushi. Patrick wasn’t sick, only me. Maybe he had already been given his punishment for overindulging-- being trapped alone in a hot elevator for over a half hour. I’d take that over vomiting any day. I was unable to leave the room (and, basically, the bed), all day Wednesday. As Patrick headed to the beach and promised to check on me frequently, I squinted out the window to see a slice of paradise from my stationary spot on the sheets. In the background was the sparkling ocean, and in the foreground, I saw the sun shining glaringly on the thatched roof of the snack bar, under which I knew the raw fish flowed. I turned over and stared at the wall instead.  Sushi with Smoked SalmonPrep: 30 minutes
Servings: 6 Yield: 6 rolls Ingredients: 2 cups Japanese sushi rice 6 tablespoons rice wine vinegar 6 sheets nori (dry seaweed) 1 avocado -- peeled, pitted, and sliced into strips 1 cucumber, peeled and sliced into matchsticks or julienned 8 ounces smoked salmon, cut into long strips 2 tablespoons wasabi paste (optional) Directions: Rinse rice to remove excess starch. Cook rice in a rice cooker with 2 cups of water. (Don’t add additional water; it’s good for the rice to be slightly dry, as vinegar will also be added.) Immediately after rice is cooked, mix in 6 tbsp. rice wine vinegar to the hot rice. Spread rice on a plate until completely cool. Place 1 sheet of seaweed on a bamboo mat; press a thin layer of cool rice on the seaweed. (If you don’t have a bamboo mat; that’s fine; simply do your best to roll the seaweed evenly when assembled). Leave at least 1/2 inch on the top and bottom edges of the seaweed uncovered. This is for easier sealing later. Dot some wasabi on the rice (optional). Spread the cucumber, avocado and smoked salmon evenly on top of the rice. Position them about 1 inch away from the bottom edge of the seaweed. Slightly wet the top edge of the seaweed. Roll from the bottom to the top edge with the help of the bamboo mat at first, tightly, pressing edges to seal once rolled. Cut roll into 8 equal pieces and serve. Repeat for other rolls. Recipe adapted from allrecipes.com
Every once in a while, I'm going to pop up a fun crossword puzzle that relates to the most recent blog posts... because, why not? You should be able to solve the puzzle below right here on the blog. Don't forget to scroll down, both on the puzzle and on the clues, to see everything. Enjoy!
 Endless gondolas line up to take tourists on rides through the Venetian canals. As Venice allows visitors to enjoy its endlessly quaint bridges, charmingly claustrophobic alleys, and romantic canals, it’s only right for us to get to know the area for what it truly is-- an incredibly delicate place at large peril of losing itself.
It’s easy for the ecological details of Venice to float over our heads as we immerse ourselves in the history and beauty of this cultural capital, but Venice’s future depends on knowing what it confronts. Venice resides in a lagoon, called, not surprisingly, the Venice Lagoon. The very word lagoon originates from Venice, where the 212-square-mile wetland was originally dubbed Laguna Veneta. It’s 8% land, 11% open water, and about 80% tidal shallows, salt marshes, and mud flats. It may be where my mussels came from that night when one or more of the molluscs on my plate decided to revolt against me. Or the mussels may have come from the Adriatic Sea, a finger-like offshoot of the Mediterranean on the east coast of Italy, where fishermen have harvested hundreds of species of sea life for centuries, including sea bass, mackerel, scorpion fish, monkfish, and, of course, mussels. But both areas-- the lagoon and the sea itself--are being affected by people like me every second of the day, people who want to see this place and bring with it a car’s emissions, a cruise ship’s oil, or an airplane’s carbon dioxide. The city of Venice was built miraculously on water: Early settlers drained areas of the lagoon, dug canals, and strengthened the existing islands to prepare them for structures. And now it exists as an incredibly fragile area vulnerable to the rising tides that threaten it. In November 2019, over 6-foot-high tides breached the barrier island of Pellestrina, washing over the embankments, and flooding Venice-- its worst flood since 1966. The acqua alta (high water) overtook Venice’s squares and alleys, causing mass destruction and a heightened sense of fragility for the community. The flooding is largely thought to be caused by climate change. And climate change relates directly to Venice’s other tremendous struggle-- stifling, overpowering tourism. This city of around 50,000 residents sees cruise ships spilling out onto its cobbled streets 30 million people a year, day trippers who aren’t spending money on lodging and often only buy cheap trinkets as souvenirs, majorly affecting the city’s atmosphere and livability and not contributing much money to the economy. These huge levels of tourism in the Adriatic have also put my Venice nemesis on an endangered list in Croatia, across the Adriatic from Italy: Creatures such as fan mussels, date mussels, sea cucumbers, dolphin, whales and sea turtles are only some of the ocean life on the country’s endangered list, due in part to fishing, incidental killing, and pollution. Did the recent coronavirus outbreak change any of this, the tremendous rate of tourism to this seaside city, and the effects of the tourism as a result? Yes, somewhat. Venice was hit hard by the pandemic, and the lack of tourists improved air quality in northern Italy significantly. And it will take time for the tourists to return, but they will. This is a special place. Some say the ancient Venetians who built the city worked in harmony with nature, not against it; that will likely be what it takes to keep it alive.  Venice's Grand Canal It was day five of our trip to Italy. We were immersed in it fully by now, soaking in the Italian sun, people, culture, and, of course, the food, without a single thought of what the weather might be at home or what socks we forgot to pack. It was blissful. My husband Patrick and I arrived in Venice from Lake Como on a warm July evening in our rented black Fiat, eager to see what this historically rich, famously charming city was all about. We weren’t going to need a car to traverse the vast system of dark blue canals that Venice calls its roadways, so we said goodbye to the Fiat forever with plans to rent a different appropriately tiny vehicle after our stay in the Floating City. After the water taxi spit us out onto the cobblestones, it didn’t take us long to realize the alleys in Venice are a perfect conundrum to a foreigner who squints hopefully up at the tiled signs on each corner, trying to match the alley’s name with the long Italian word on her paper hotel reservation. Finally, we found our quarters-- as usual, behind a nondescript door with a tiny sign, as if they didn’t need to publicize that their rooms are available to be rented. Just how we liked it. Key in doorknob, and ahhhh, we flopped onto the bed. After gazing forever out our screenless window, enjoying the sounds and smells of Venice with shutters open to a nearby square reminiscent of the 1600s, our next task, of course, was dinner. Patrick and I wandered and weaved and got ourselves lost in the maze of alleyways and canals, not minding, becoming numb to menu after menu with their similar columns of touristy Italian food. We knew that the names of restaurants with more authentic cuisine would be buried inside the recommendations of our guide book, but we would save those places for the next night. We would be simple tourists tonight, prioritizing the best view of a romantic canal over finding Italian food that wasn’t crafted blandly for the non-discerning American tourist to consume. We found a beautiful outdoor table right along a canal at a restaurant that had warm, red-checkered tablecloths and male waiters running around harried. Patrick and I are adaptable at foreign restaurants; we eat what they put on the table and assume if it isn’t placed in front of us, it’s not meant to be consumed. But that evening, with more tourists around us than at the Eiffel Tower on Valentine’s Day, other patrons were having trouble letting go of their perceptions of how an Italian meal should be presented. They wanted olive oil and parmesan cheese with their Italian bread, damnit, and their demands were heard. Patrick and I watched with awkward embarrassment as the bustling waiters turned into frustrated men, leading one to finally lose his cool. With a thick accent, the server suddenly stopped in his tracks and announced loudly to the hungry tourists: “We do not dip our bread in oil in Italy! So we will not be serving oil for you to dip your bread into! You use your bread to clean up your plate at the end, for the sauce!” The waiter, in black and white attire, adjusted the stained towel that hung over his shoulder. “Please, stop asking us for oil!” After he spoke, we could almost hear the footsteps of the pigeons scrounging for crumbs. “Wow,” I smiled at Patrick. “Good to know.” And then our beautiful food came, for anything appeared appetizing at that hour, after a long day of traveling. Indeed, it looked delicious, Patrick’s pasta bolognese and my spaghetti with red sauce and mussels. We ate leisurely, watching the gondolas float almost silently past us in the canal, with families, lovers, tourists eager to do what has become synonymous with a visit to this Renaissance city. It was too late for our gondola ride that night-- we would try tomorrow. We meandered back to our hotel after our meal and fell asleep almost instantly. I wish I could have stayed asleep. In the middle of the night, I felt it-- that awful sensation of illness that creeps into your dreams and becomes part of the plot before it finally wakes you up and whispers that it’s real, not a dream, and you had better get up, fast. Every time I fall ill from food, my stomach manages to tell me what the culprit was, planting the taste squarely in my mouth of what I ate and how it’s now coming back to haunt me. This time, it was the mussels. I lay in bed awake for most of the night, except for the frequent trips to the bathroom, turning over and then over again, hoping that the twisting, wrenching feeling would go away by morning. But it never does. In the morning light, I told Patrick with disappointment about my overnight illness. “Did they harvest the mussels from right next to our table?” I said. “The canals are pretty to look at, but I’m sure any seafood that comes out of them is disgusting.” “No, I’m sure they came from the ocean,” Patrick said. “Not so sure.” Having purged most of the mussels already, I got dressed and tried hard to be a person on our only full day in this culturally amorous city. We picked up some Gingerino for my stomach at a nearby market and found some pizza at a casual spot in the middle of the maze of alleyways. I managed to eat most of one slice, and then it wasn’t long before the walk back to our hotel became too much. I was blindly following Patrick, but he had gotten lost in the entanglement of brick walkways and concrete sidewalks, thinking he knew the way but being tricked repeatedly by the Venetian jungle. I couldn’t stand up straight and wait for him to figure out in which direction to walk, so I put my back against a brick wall and slowly lowered myself to the stones below, inches from the high heeled sandals and brown boat shoes that stepped indifferently past me, as if I was just another Roman beggar. We finally found our hotel. I went right to bed and stayed there, hoping to have some energy for dinner later. Patrick ventured out and saw St. Mark’s cathedral, just a few alleys away, taking pictures for me of relics that I’ll never be able to put into context. But now I know they’re there. Later that night, somehow, I mustered up the queasy energy for the nice dinner we’d planned. Putting mind over stomach, I pulled on my dress and stepped into the water ferry, as it continued its loop around the inside and outside edges of the city. I promptly fell asleep, waking to Patrick’s prodding: It was time to climb back onto land for our dinner across a large canal from where we were staying, with the cathedrals in the main squares silhouetted blackly against the red sky. Dinner was delicious, albeit simple; like a picky three-year-old, I had ordered plain pasta with butter. No need to risk it, right? Luck was with us after our meal: On our second and last night in Venice, we found a gondolier to take us on a ride at 10 p.m., right before he tied up his ropes and counted his cash for the night. He sang to us as he ducked under bridges in his classic black and white ensemble, the red bandana around his neck differentiating him from a common jailbird. I sighed with exhaustion as the boat floated stealthily along; it had been a wonderful night, all things considered. In the battle of Natalie versus the toxic mussels, I had reigned supreme.  Mussels ItalianoReady in: 1 hour
Serves: 2 Ingredients: 1 ¼ lbs. mussels 2 tbsp. butter 1 ½ tbsp. onions, minced 1 garlic clove, minced ¼ tsp. oregano 1 small tomato, chopped Salt and freshly ground black pepper (to taste) ¼ cup dry white wine Directions: Sort the mussels and discard any that are broken, chipped or otherwise damaged. Also discard any mussel that is open. If you need to store the mussels for a while, cover with damp paper towels in a container that can be tightly closed, and store in the refrigerator. Just before cooking, wash the mussels thoroughly in plenty of cold water. Remove the beards by pulling out toward the hinged side of the mussel, using a small knife or dry towel. Soak mussels for about 30 minutes in cold water containing a handful of salt and a handful of flour to remove any remaining sand. Using a firm brush, remove any barnacles from the mussels before placing them into another bowl of clear water. Melt butter in a medium-sized pot; sauté onions until they are transparent. Add garlic; stir for a minute longer. Add oregano, tomato, salt, and pepper, and cook until tomato is soft. Add wine; bring to a slow boil. Dry the mussels and place into the pot. Cover and steam for four minutes; remove the lid and stir. Most of the mussels should now be open; replace the lid and steam for another two to four minutes. Discard any mussels that don't open. Divide into serving bowls and cover with broth. Note: If you increase the serving size for this recipe, don't add too many mussels to the pot at once or stack the mussels on top of each other, as the added weight will make it difficult for the mussels to open. Recipe adapted from Food.com |
AuthorHi there. I'm Natalie, and I love to travel and eat. And sometimes, especially when I combine those two activities, Montezuma's revenge joins as an unwanted guest on the trip. (Look it up if you're not familiar with the term). And thus my stories begin... Archives
November 2021
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