The dead body in the pool is putting a serious dent in Geoffs morning. An ex-pat property manager on the Caribbean island of Bequia, Geoff doesnt want a spotlight shone on the secret past he left behind in Canada, but now hes the suspect in a brutal murder. With no help from the inept local police force, hes drawn into investigating the murder himself, to clear his name. As Geoff finds out more about the circumstances surrounding the killing, and he and his loved ones find themselves in danger, he begins to see a very dark underbelly of the place some people call paradise…
Part travelogue, part mystery, Island in the Clouds takes a long, hard look at the reality of living in a place that seems perfect…from the outside, anyway.
Island in the Clouds, the debut murder mystery (first in a trilogy) by my fellow-Humber grad Susan M. Toy, is fun in the sun. With shady characters, some murders, and an island that refuses to be what it seems.
In honour of her first book, Susan has allowed me to host a contest and give away a signed copy of Island in the Clouds. All you have to do it comment and tell me about your favourite vacation meal. It doesn’t have to be from a trip to the Caribbean, or an island destination. Just wherever you went and found an amazing, unforgettable dish, whether in a restaurant, from a food truck, on the docks…
For more on Island in the Clouds and the origins of this contest, check out this week’s food column in Kamloops This Week (also being published in the Okanagan Sunday and Prairie Post). But you don’t have to be a subscriber to enter the contest. Just sit back, have a read, then tell me about something you ate.
The best travel/food story wins!
If yours isn’t the winning entry, however, Island in the Clouds is available in print and as an e-book. For how to purchase, click on THIS LINK.
And enjoy!
(Contest closes July 16.)
nice fat gurdie 
Received by email yesterday, the first entry for the giveaway contest comes from Kamloops, B.C.:
“I think it is marvellous to travel and get cooking ideas from where you have been.
Recently I was in London where my granddaughter treated us to English Tea at St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a wonderful experience and I laughingly say that “We had tea in the crypt”, because that is where the tearoom is.
So I learned what a “tea” consists of and so on my return I have been able to treat my friends to cucumber, salmon and egg salad sandwiches (with the crusts removed), scones with strawberry jam and double Devon cream and meringues and cupcakes.I was delighted to find that I could buy the cream at Safeway that is actually from Devon.
I was very surprised at how extremely delighted and thankful everyone was with the event. I actually made tea with loose tea and I think that it does make superior tea.
So I told my friends that that was my souvenir for them as everything in England I found very costly.And, a gift that they do not have to put on a shelf and dust! It is when you go away that you realize how fortunate one is to live in Canada!
The husband of one of my friends commented, “You are going to an English Tea at the home of a Japanese woman?” I am Canadian but my ancestry is Japanese.
I have enjoyed your column and many of your recipes and stories of Mennonite life.
Thank you,” (name withheld)
*posted by Darcie*
Another entry!
Marion Soames writes:
We were sitting at a rustic picnic table enjoying first of the season radishes. I went to take a second bite of my radish and half (yes half) a worm was wiggling back at me. Never took a bite of a radish for the rest of the trip. Marion
And another by email!
“Hi Darcie
Well! Today’s Courier article whipped me back to the summer of 1994 at whip-lash speed! Six of us had picked up a 45′ sloop in St. Lucia and began a month long sail along the fragrant Windward Islands (St. Vincent, Granada, Cariacou, etc.) of the Caribbean. After an especially hard day of sailing, we found our anchorage for the night in the stunning little harbour of Bequia. I can still easily recall the brightly painted cottages along the shore, the warm humid tropical air, and steel drums easing the soft evening breezes.
As it turned out our boat had some mechanical issues (as they always do), and we were obligated to spend several days at this anchorage. (Shucks!) Taking our little dinghy ashore we were accosted with the mouth watering scents of street food! Well, these tired, hungry salty dawgs could hardly restrain ourselves. After a saunter around the harbour, we all converged at the Roti stand. We discovered three types of rotis:
1. Local (i.e. with bones – chicken necks, backs, and bits of dark meat
2. Goat
3. Boneless (for the “softies” i.e. tourists)
I’ll admit we all opted for the third kind and all became Chicken Roti affectionados on the spot. Over the next couple of days, we seemed to find our way back to that Roti stand several more times – our on-board galley got little use at that anchorage.
I’ve never tried to make roti back home, but you’ve inspired me to try, so this July, when some of the ship-mates from that trip come to town, I’ll surprise them (or try to!).
So, Darcie, thanks for the memory, and the inspiration!”
(name withheld)
I should preface this anecdote with the comment that my husband and I have fairly eclectic and adventurous palates. In fact, my husband has stated that the only food he will not try is tripe.
Some years ago we were travelling by car through Germany to Provence, France. Along the way we were enjoying the local foods and wines of the regions we passed through. With my Mennonite background I found my German was good enough to make pretty good choices in the restaurants. We entered France from Strasbourg and our first stop was the lovely city of Dijon.
It was mid-afternoon, so we decided to stop for a snack and our first French wine at a lovely sun-dappled restaurant patio. “Leave it to me, “ I said when we were handed an all-French menu. After all, I had had one year of College French. With some confidence I selected a couple of “small plates” that I thought would go nicely with the red wine my husband ordered.
When the first dish arrived – you guessed it! – it was a plate of tripe, beautifully napped in a golden Dijon sauce. Oh my! What a dilemma for the husband: abandon this incredibly delicious smelling tripe dish, or abandon his aversion? Well, we are foodies after all, and yes, we did hold our breaths and dip into this amazingly redolent dish. And yes, it was amazing! We tucked right in and then cleaned up the sauce with our crusty bread so there was nary a smear left on the plate.
“Delicious”, we both sighed.
Interestingly though, we have never eaten tripe since, and we never travel without our trusty IPod dictionary either!
Hi Darcie,
While recently on a Disney Cruise, my husband, brother-in-law, sister-in-law and I spent an evening dining at the adult-only restaurant aboard the DISNEY MAGIC. I enjoyed a meal of roast beef, cooked to perfection and steamed vegetables that were delightful; but the best part of all was dessert. It was the most delicious, sweet and gooey, chocolate-filled tart I have ever devoured.
Keri Michaud
[…] has been running a contest in her food column and over at her blogsite, Nice Fat Gurdie and there’s still another day to enter! You’ll win a copy of my book! Go to […]
Lynda Noppe writes (and beautifully!)…
An Amish Dinner by Lynda Lapp Noppe
“Come in,” David said, shaking our hands. “I’m Lynda Lapp,” I said, entering the kitchen. I knew I could have been Lynda Mcguillicuddy for all that being a Lapp meant if you weren’t one of them. For the Amish, everyone not within the Amish fold is ‘English’ no matter the surname. A small son tugged at his father’s suspenders. I glanced around the large open concept room, the kitchen with its table set for six with fine bone china, the solid oak cupboards. I peeked around a corner into the large living room, its sofa and a few hard backed chairs lining the wall. There were no rugs, no magazines, no books and no toys. The hardwood floors shone.
David’s wife, Rebecca, said, “Welcome. Please find yourself a place at our table.” I smiled at the three daughters hovering in the background; one fingering the tie of her white cap. Another boy stood by the stove. They smiled back. Five children and the house so quiet and peaceful.
“Your house is beautiful. It’s so big,” I said, hoping I hadn’t been too forward. But I knew that most visitors are interested in the Amish, that they are Lancaster County’s greatest tourist attraction and also that David and Rebecca had opened their home to our curious eyes.
“I built it myself,” David said with obvious pride. “Except for the plumbing, dry walling, wiring and kitchen cabinets. Other Amish men helped me with those. We use gas instead of electricity, though, and the phone is in the barn.” A barefoot daughter ran in the front door and over to the fridge with a bag of vegetables from the garden. Rebecca looked at the fridge. “Yes, everything is run by gas, the fridge, the stove, even the lights and my sewing machine.”
Bob, my husband, and I had gone to Pennsylvania on a whim, had found a resort near Treasure Lake Du Bois. “We can canoe and hike there,” he had said. “The resort is on 9 000 acres of forest.” I packed my hiking poles and boots. At check in, the receptionist said, “Hiking trails? Well you can check out the state parks and national forests. There aren’t any trails here.” So we sat outside that first night, flipping the pages of guide books, listening to the crack of golf balls on trees at the deck’s edge.
Out of sorts, we dropped by the marina the next morning. In my mind’s eye, I saw water lapping the shores of lakes at home in Ontario. “Where’s the nearest place to hike around here?” I asked Damian, the marina employee as we dragged our canoe into the water.
“Well a state park about an hour’s drive. But you’ve got to watch for ticks. They carry Lyme’s Disease.” Geez, I thought, remembering the tick bite and bull’s eye rash I’d gotten in the Niagara Peninsula two years earlier. We paddled for an hour threading our way through the wakes of powerful motor boats. Large homes lined the shores with no spare land in between for a quick stop. Our picnic lunch sat in the bottom of the canoe. That night we walked on asphalt golf cart trails, watching the rays of the setting sun slant across the greens.
“Let’s go to the Lapp Valley Farm today,” Bob said the next morning. “It’s only three hours from here in Lancaster County. Maybe we can find out who your ancestors are.” Later that day, the guide at the Mennonite Visitor Center in Lancaster City had said, “There are lots of Lapps around here. They’re mostly Amish. Your best bet are the archives at National Mennonite Historical Society.”
And so, while Bob read a book in a nearby Starbucks, I lost myself in names, charts, photos and a labyrinth of people with names like Jeremiah, Mary, Samuel, Jacob, Anna, Rudolph.
Then eureka! Three hours later, I found the records of the Pink Ship Mary and the signature of my paternal great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Johannes Lap (the spelling of our name has changed) who arrived in Philadelphia in 1733 from what is now Germany. He was a Quaker. But until the mid 1800s or so the Lapps had switched back and forth between Amish and Mennonite. What a surreal discovery.
That night, Dolores the owner of Richmond House B & B in New Holland had said, “Would you like have dinner in an Amish home tonight?” Would we! And so that is how we found ourselves with David and Rebecca Zoot and their five children. I was on my best behaviour. “Would someone say grace, please?” Rebecca asked. I’m usually the first to volunteer for things. But I knew that a long lapsed Catholic, even one with a good memory of the “Hail Mary” wouldn’t go over well in this home. During another guest’s long and careful grace, I realized I was amongst believers and better watch myself.
For the next hour and a half, our dinner was served and plates cleared away like a well choreographed drama. The eldest daughter placed a platter piled high with sausages onto the table followed by a large plate of chicken. The sausages melted in my mouth.
“They’re baked for three hours in the oven with pineapple juice, ginger ale, ketchup, mustard, vinegar and brown sugar,” Rebecca said. “And the chicken is coated with corn flakes, range dressing and parmesan cheese.” The food tasted almost loved and cared for.
We passed around homemade whole wheat bread, jam and peanut butter, a huge bowl of broccoli and cabbage salad and a large platter of beans. “They’re fresh from the garden,” Rebecca said, her arms around two of her daughters. I glanced over to the kitchen sink where David was washing dishes, sharing a joke with his middle daughter.
Rebecca noticed me watching David. “He’s my Maytag,” she said laughing. Rebecca was lovely. The real deal, with a genuine smile that lit up the room. This family is perfect I thought. The house is perfect, the gardens are perfect. This is an Amish version of “The Truman Story.”
The cuckoo clock chimed in the living room. “It was a wedding gift,” David said, as one of the young boys, his hair flopping, sprinted from the kitchen, jumped onto a chair and changed the song. “We have some music even for Christmas,” he said.
“For dessert we have raspberry crumble or chocolate brownies. You can choose or try a little of each.” Rebecca said while the girls served and she and David replaced the main course dishes in the cupboard. “This set of china was my wedding gift from David,” she said turning over one of the plates to show us the gold handwritten inscription of their names on each plate. We’ve only broken one so far!
“How do you do all this? Rebecca, I asked.
“Well the girls help, she said. “We started to prepare this meal around noon today. There is a Bible school of forty coming this weekend. The community helps too. I felt nostalgia and some sadness. What would our world be if we lived like the Zoots with obvious love and affection and a tangible community that wasn’t on Facebook? I asked myself.
“The girls would like to sing a song for you,” Rebecca said. I looked over at David leaning against the sink, the youngest boy in his arms. Rebecca stood holding hands with their other son. The girls, stood in front of us, a small choir with their long mauve dresses and black aprons, their hair parted in the middle and tucked under their caps. The boys joined in when they could —
“There’ll be no Band-aids in Heaven, No emergency medical care, There’ll be no skinned knees, No stings from the bees, They’ll be no Band-aids up there.”
The girls smiled shyly at our applause. “You’re welcome to visit the barn. We have a new pony and a three week old goat.” Rebecca said and the kids bolted out the door to barn, happy to be released, I suppose.
I walked into the barn, which was perfect too, of course. You could have eaten from the floor. Even the animals looked polished. The eldest daughter, Sarah, stood next to me. “May I see inside your buggy?” I asked. “Sure,” she said walking over to the grey closed-in carriage. “Do you get cold in the winter? I asked, standing next to the waist high steel-rimmed wheels. “Oh no,” she said. “There are seven of us and we keep each other warm. See how soft the seats are. Here are the holes where the horse’s reins come in through the front.” She raised the window.
“It all looks like new.” I said.
“New?” she laughed. “Hardly. It’s near done. My Dad’s had this buggy since he was sixteen.”
I thanked Sarah, patted one of the horses and walked over to our car feeling transformed somehow by this gracious, gentle family and their Amish ways.
[…] on July 1, 2012 at 1:00 pm | Replywhatlooksin […]