In Search of Perfect Gelato-Serious Business

I love ice cream. Chocolate. Dark. Sweet. Rich. I love ice cream so much that I never buy it at home. I wait for special occasions. How special? Trips back to Jamaica or to Italy. And I say this not to insult any other countries and their ice cream offerings but to give myself boundaries. I have a simple rule of thumb. If I am going to ingest 1000 calories at one go they had better be worth it. Of course I could have ice cream from the store and it will be adequate but the real question is will it be worth it? When I have to tack on an extra three kilometers to my morning run Brand X does not qualify.

Until I went to Italy I thought the best ice cream in the world could be found at Devon House, Kingston Jamaica. I am a patriot but Italian gelato in Italy is a world of wonder. I try the gelato in every Italian city or town. I have to. And I am going to rank my top five. In doing this I rely on two criteria; taste and did it warrant a repeat visit. I ignored the brusqueness or friendliness of service, the miserliness of portions or whether I was offered a taste beforehand.

Number 5. Perugia. Simple and lovely.

Number 4. Bologna. I walked for what felt like miles. Castiglione is a long road and this was almost at the end. Always a good sign when Bolognese are breaking the queue to get at this goodness.

Number 3. Verona. The city was so hot that anything cool would do but somehow the gelato makers of Verona take their jobs seriously.

Number 2. Positano. The little tabacchi at the bus stop on the main road. Every mid-morning for five mornings = five pounds. But worth it.

Number 1. Parma Per Sempre. I could write reams about the goodness of the gelato sold in a chain called Emilia. As fortune would have it not more than 30 feet across the street from my hotel was my personal branch. These people are so beautiful, they allow you to choose between light and dark chocolate sauce to go down the funnel of your cone before they scoop and serve. They serve with such care and precision and I for one am grateful.

Someone tried to explain to me why the gelato is so good. Something about air whipped in and cream and blah, blah, blah. I have no questions, just hand me another cone this time with dark chocolate in the tip.

Where's your favourite ice cream? Are you a gelato purist? Tell me.

A Brixton Food Crawl

I love a day like Saturday. Spring 101.

When winter's grasp is no longer a mauling but the tenuous clasp of an aneamic kitten hold no further threat and her captives bound outdoors chasing a teasing spring. Emancipated from boots and woolen scarves, quadruple layers and down-filled duvets. We look out the window, open it and sniff the air and run outside like too long caged animals. With the imagined strains of Creedence cranked loud on our internal soundtracks we go on the prowl London village style.

Down the hill to Brixton Village. First stop. The Provincial. Breakfast of scrambled eggs hollandaise for me and mini-Full English for the lady. Really how do you have a mini-full anything? Yup small amount of baked beans, sausage, one hash brown, slice of toast, eggs. Served at a tiny table, perched on tiny Alice in Wonderland sized chairs, squeezed in beside the table full of fresh fruit with a manual juicer. Turns out the chef is our juicer is our comic relief. After the hollandaise I propose marriage. He brays an incongruous laugh which I interpret as demurring and we pay the man and head down the passage and out on Atlantic.

No longer hungry but greedy. Less for food and more for experiences we stop at Mama Lan, my chef has a serious dumpling jones. King prawn and something, pork and something, mushroom and something. All good. The market is heaving. Every stall has a queue and everyone wants to sit outside. Tip though tables for one or two are easier to come by ( and faster) than triples and quadruples, let go of the Sex & the City quartet girls, foursomes are unwieldy and the last to be seated. But hey your friends are worth all the dumplings in the world and don't you forget it I think as we pay our bill and make our way across to Etta's Seafood Kitchen.

Etta is phenomenal. Absolutely, positively amazing. She is not about dreams and thoughts. "Talk is cheap" she says, "money buys houses" as she climbs up a ladder to do some kind of D.I.Y. Cause sometimes you really do have to do it for yourself. She tells me to stop talking and get to doing or no one will take me seriously. Move over Oprah, Etta deserves a hashtag of her own. #ettawisdom

We can't leave until I take the chef down to Fish, Wings & Tings, the other West Indian joint in the Village helmed by the wonderful Brian Danclair. His is the space we inhabit the longest. And he makes the difference. He is attentive to customers, sits and has a chat and a smile and is not bad on the eyes or as a friend of mine would say "Him don't stay no way". A prawn roti, codfish balls with lime and garlic aoli, shandy for the chef and a glass of deep regret at my Lenten avoidance of alcohol take our caloric budgets way over the limit. But the music is perfect, the sun is shining just so and we are talking and feeling like if we smile hard enough we could be on a beach in Maracas or Negril. Some place where there is no thought of four seasons. Until then we will make that spring work. Better run through the jungle.

How Not To Make An Omlette

Because we are here to make observations not ruin people's businesses thus causing additional unemployment, add to the already woeful economic figures and  plunge Britain into a triple dip recession the name of the guilty will not be mentioned but there is a restaurant in Notting Hill filled with earnest staff who are on the bad side of a hot mess. Let's call it X. It all started with a brunch date with two girlfriends. Being London, last week's blazing sunshine ( see reminder below) had been replaced by grey skies and chilly temperatures so al fresco was not an option.

Restaurant X started well, beautifully appointed on the corner of a Notting Hill Mews and toasty and loving like the embrace of a doting grandmother when you stepped in from the cold. Jackets dropped, scarves unwrapped, trying to catch up before one girlfriend grabbed a plane to Madrid and ready discussions about wine or tea ( both) meant the food order was going to be delayed. The menu proudly trumpeted its British credentials. Everything was either "from British shores, farms or fields". In hindsight I can hear my friend questioning my decision to order an omlette. Yes it is true the omlette is a French concoction but I thought how to make an omlette even an egg white one must have been lesson one at cookery school.

Thirty minutes later our orders are still not on the table. I presumed it was the other ladies' pies, what with all the baking and crusting and so on. It was long past two and I was ravenous. Eyes hungrily chasing every wait staff with a plate and trying to keep your mind on good quality conversation is a not an easy game, someone always loses. Perhaps sensing our desperation ( or seeing us panting like Pavlov's dog) our waitress came over and told us our meal will be there shortly but confided that the chef was having a problem with the omlette. RINNNNGGGG! Alarm bells. Problem? Omlette? Is it not stuff in a pan folded into an egg blanket then decorated with some herbs? Perhaps omlettes from British kitchens are different. Ten or so minutes later their pies came. Ten minutes beyond that my omlette was still to arrive and I had already tasted the crusts of the pies.

As soon as I saw our waitress bearing down on the table with a bowl I knew no good could come of this but let me not leap hastily to conclusions. Have a look and you be the judge. And remember I said omlette and bowl in the same sentence.

I have no words, neither did the waitress who was now pink-faced nor my girlfriends. I laughed at the obvious joke for this is not "Tilley’s Farm duck egg omelette with Golden Elegance tomatoes,wild garlic, soft goat’s cheese, Shetland Black potatoes and English truffle (v)". My friend ordered me a full English vegetarian. "Hold the eggs!" I chirped. I didn't want any more eggs to give their lives for me. But cue the previously mentioned earnestness or maybe it was chef pride. Whatever the motivation ten more minutes later another "omlette" was presented to me. Again I will present this picture to you and ask for your verdict.

I could not eat them and most importantly I could not pay for them. Soon the manager was at our table, there were apologies, shamed faces ( he was cute though), all I wanted was some bread, olive oil, salt and balsamic. I had forgotten about the English vegetarian until he told me they had run out of gas but they had a back up kitchen upstairs. Too funny. In the end even after the late beans, toast and mushrooms this was my breakfast

And this

Let it not be said there is no balm in Gilead. Wine and girlfriends make everything better. And this pudding was divine. Divine enough for redemption? Perhaps not. An omlette is basic and I am afraid the beauty of London with its surfeit of dining options is a knife that cuts both ways you never have to go to a bad restaurant twice so you must impress immediately. If not, as they would say from British streets "I'm not havin' it bruv!"

Sunday's Children

A Sunday in Jamaica is a lazy day. Breakfast is late and unhurried. Then maybe back to bed. Dinner is early and unhurried. And early to bed. Not this Sunday. On this Sunday I get to meet the reason for Mangia876. At 5 p.m. I went to meet the girls of the St. Andrew Parish Church Girl's Home. And I was so excited. We had already done all the work, raised an amazing amount of money and now I was back in Jamaica ready to give it away. And so armed with money, muffins and a laptop full of Mangia876 event pictures me and four amazing friends  members headed out.

When I got there I confirmed what I had long since suspected. It isn't about the money. It is about the children.

Most of them are wary at the start. Not everyone greeted me with smiles. But the youngest one did. She is absolutely beautiful and her smile is wide and welcoming. She is going to be a doctor. Some walk by and I know they are pretending that they don't see me, know who I am or why I am here. And I wonder whether I would not have done the same if I were living here too. Here is clean. There is a huge tv room with a number of long sofas and a large screen tv now loudly playing that American perennial Seventh Heaven but here is home while not being home. And I get the feeling that they might feel I am just one more in another line of strangers who will parachute into their lives for a day, leave my cheque then disappear. I know I am not that but I want them to feel that.

So I tease, cajole and we talk or sometimes just sit together so we can get to know each other. And I saw simple generosity. One friend wanted pomegranates and climbed up to pick a few but they were only dried husks. Her disappointment didn't last as one of the girls went and climbed another tree and brought back four lovely specimens.

We talked. About the careers they are going to have.  And I could see personalities, even the twins who look somewhat alike are unique in expression. I have no doubt the funniest girl in the room will be the actress she has set her heart on becoming. When two told me they wanted to be executive chefs I could see them working with our own Chef Sabrina Gidda creating wonderful recipes at Mangia876 and in their own restaurants. I can see their futures. But I know all futures are only possibilities until they become real.

But I could also see that I was wrong about what I said at the start the work has only just begun. It is going to take work to make all our dreams real. Will you help?

Mangia876 - Launching the way Forward

Last Saturday Mangia876 had its first event and it was perfect. Don't get me wrong there was a whole lot happening under the surface but like swans we glided serenely through the evening while paddling furiously. We were able to serve up a magnificent evening.

It was perfect because we were able to do what said we would do. We wanted to create a network which represented the international nature of our lives here. Check.

We wanted people in that network to meet one more person they hadn't known before and learn something new about anything. Jamaican, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Ghanaian, Indian, South African, British ( and the list is by no means exhaustive) culture, food, attitude. Anything. Check

We wanted you to taste the wonderful blend of particular cuisines; Jamaican & Italian fused dishes cooked by our amazing British-born Indian chef. And love it. The food was amazing, so much so we had to upgrade rankings from Mangia Irie to Mangia Wicked. Check.

We wanted more than anything to raise funds for the benefit of our first project: the St Andrew Parish Church Girls' Home. We wanted you to see that there are no problems too large to tackle if we acknowledge that the tiniest contribution can make a huge difference and if we do it as a community. The accounts are in and from ticket sales, donations leading up to the night and donations and pledges on the night itself we made£4,944.52. Check.

This means we are already near that five thousand pound threshold which will allow us to become registered with the UK Charities Commission. Check.

And we wanted to move forward with you as a community. At the first event we started our £5.00 per month fund. Five pounds per month might not do much in London town. But each five pounds added to another one makes our pool deeper and our reach longer. And each five pounds can and will go a far way in Jamaica.We are almost complete with our HMRC registration which will allow us to maximise the value of each pound by attaching the Gift Aid tag. Do read about Gift Aid here. Thirteen people signed up for this commitment. We are overwhelmed and grateful. Check.

And next we will head to Jamaica to hand over proceeds, meet the wonderful girls and administrators of the Home and make more connections as we look to expand to other girls' homes. We have only just begun.

The night could not have been a success without the whole community pulling together. Without the Mangia876 project team to whom you were already introduced here and an amazing set of volunteers some of whom were pressed into service on the night but did so with grace and with a smile. Without the extended Mangia876 family in England, Jamaica and Italy who introduced us to their networks, or who was able to track down the Living Legend Mr. Bolt so we could have a signed copy of his biography for auction,or  who provided the perfect mix for the evening with what is now the patented Mangia876 soundtrack nor without the magic spark of the wonderful Skamonics ( we have already liked them on Facebook). Without the amazing sponsorship and donations from Grace Foods which provided the flavour on every dish and National Bakery who provided that special hardo bread base for our bruschetta. Without the warm cooperation of the Jamaican High Commission in London. Nothing works without community.

There is no doubt though that the most important element was you. You ate our food, you danced, you talked, you sang. You went into your pockets and filled our bowl. We owe you everything. And though thank you does not seem to be enough, grazie mille is perfect.

A Simple Mangia 876 Vision

When I was a child my world was books. We were poor but my mother always made sure I had books. Books by the score. I loved books so much that I would sometimes lay them out like a giant puzzle and look at their colourful covers. This happened more often than not after assorted major or minor flooding catastrophes which forced me to take them outside to get sun-dried. I lived Andrew Salkey's Hurricane on those days.

In this world of books there were other worlds, other countries, other lives. Rarely were there other little girls like me. And somewhere in that young me a kernel formed which would eventually push me out of Jamaica and into those worlds of imagination.I had seen the world ofJjean DaCosta's Escape to Last Man's Peak and I knew all about Miguel Street and Cricket in the Road, I lived them. I wanted to see those other worlds, the heaths the Famous Five solved mysteries on ( avoiding coves for fear of smugglers though). Tea, scones, jam, treacle were familiar tastes for me long before I had my first cream tea in Kensington. The Count of Monte Cristo and the Three Musketeers made France a must, Dickens' London, Shakespeare's Italy. I had to see them all and be there. I had to be the little girl that looked like me that I never saw in those landscapes.

Seeing real the places in my imagination have changed me. Walking along roads  on which gods would have rained down vengeance have made me different. I see the wide expanse of humanity and I feel my connection to it. I am Jamaican, always will be but I am also

more. I am human and that is who I am first and last.

With Mangia 876 I want to have a chance to help other children see more, so that they can be more. See more worlds through books and opportunity. Through travel and cultural connection. To know that their own worlds are never as small as they think they are and that anything and every thing is possible for you. Your only bar is your imagination. And if you broaden your imagination exploration is the natural result. That they are a part of this wonderful, crazy sea of humanity, they are connected and no less important than any one else.

Mangia 876 will grow because it has an imagination which is many times the size of mine. It will grow with more support, more supporters and as it grows it will help others grow.  Mangia will grow because it is not about me, it is about a community which recognises that there is nothing greater than the community and nothing works unless everybody gets it.

There is no accounting for the impact of one act, one book, one trip, one shared interaction, one discussion, one meal. It can change the course of a life. And with the recognition of that responsibility I consider it Mangia's duty to make all actions acts of truth and integrity.

Always.

Positano By Bus

Positano is magnificent.

Literally magnificent. Since it is on the lower reaches of a mountain. And the only way to get there is by sea, air or torturous road. Since I have neither helicopter nor jetfoil the choice of Positano by bus was made for me. All the better to behold its majesty.

When my train pulled into Sorrento I thought getting to Positano would be more of same. It wasn't.

It started with asking a man near the information kiosk where to find the bus stop, having already bought my ticket. This lead to a great opportunity for him to try to arrange for me to hire a car. A car is so much nicer and easier he said. "Why you take the bus?" he said scrunching up his shoulders, his eyebrows and every other visible part capable of being scrunched. "You will get a better ride this way" he said. Until I said "Cuanto?" Only 60 euros. To be clear, this was almost a 600% markup on the price of the bus ticket. But when I said "The bus is cheaper." He shrugged and said "Well come with other people" and started looking around for other people to make it a group outing. I kept smiling until he yielded and pointed to the bus stop which was just across the street. No harm meant.

Coming as I was from London where the culture of queuing has been spliced onto my DNA I assessed the direction of the line and joined it. I soon realised this wasn't that kind of queue. This was more the get yourself in position when the bus comes to get on first and Devil take the hindmost version. And here is what I love about being an international citizen with basic Jamaican wiring. I was able to override London queue command and call on my first two decades of Spanish Town/Portmore/Kingston bus taking. This means elbows out and hold your ground. For by this point two things were clear, the Positano buses were not frequent and I was getting on the next one.

Leaving aside the gorier details I was soon Positano bound. And there are two ways of viewing the almost hour long ride the the town. All views are either the best you have ever seen or the worst. These perspectives differ depending entirely on your feelings about height, mortality and cliff diving magnificence. I found myself coming to terms with myself on all three and it seems I am not the moderate I pretend to be. Heights terrify me and I am not ready to die. Being on that large bus as it navigates the narrow roads on its descent into Positano was scary.

And in a bus mixed with tourists and Italians it seemed from the tight, tense silence I wasn't the only one. There was a reverential silence on these buses ( I had to take it again when I went to Pompeii and to leave on the last day)  that I have never heard on public transportation anywhere. Conversation when it commences is hushed and just a way to escape looking down the cliff face to death.Your inner voice questions the floss like barriers on the side of the road I like to call the Naked Fear. But one other tourist drily pointed out that you don't see wrecks or other evidence of accidents on these roads and I concede while comforting myself that the driver is in no sooner hurry to meet his Maker than I.

In the end it is magnificent. It is majestic. The town honey combed into the rock face. Looking up and seeing the top of the mountain wreathed in clouds. Positano is breathtaking but I am going to have to find another way to get there. Possibly sedated.

Mangia 876 is Community

Nothing works without community.

Not noble ideals (such as raising funds for the girls home whose picture is displayed above), not amazing inventions, not movements to change the way we think about anything. Anything which stays in your head is just a thought and it may be a great one but in there it is worth nothing. The minute you take it out of that exclusive, rarified environment and spread it around you will be amazed at how it grows and moves beyond the thing in your head into something magnificent. Mangia 876 will be magnificent because of the members of this community.

Yes I can cook but seriously I do not think of the possibilites and the magic of food in the way that our super amazing Chef Sabrina does. This woman having never cooked Jamaican food before put her foot in an assortment of Jamaican staples, particularly some jerked chicken wings. When she was done I saw Jamaicans take to the gristle of bones just trying to get the last of the meaty goodness. IN PUBLIC!! I was afraid there was going to be some bone cracking, phew! chrisis averted

Or there are some who are numerate ( and I count myself among that number)but the ability to count to 100 or even 1,000,000 is not the skill set one needs when considering budgets and bank accounts and how numbers really work. This man taught me in an afternoon bank reconcilliation and great deal of other important accounting functions that I promptly forgot after doing the exam. Perhaps aware even then that I knew where to find an abacus when I needed one. All that and with a Sidney Poiter-like demeanour that makes me call him "Sir" but always with Love.

And why would I have to be in Jamaica if this lady is there? Best friend, prayer warrior, personal stand-up comedienne, "tell me and I will get it done" and possessed of an ability to charm locks off doors and donations out of pockets. Guard your purses but never too closely.

Mangia 876's head fits under the able cap of Andre. His calm presence never fails to remind me that age is nothing but a number. He has an awareness and assuredness which doesn't manifest in persons twice his age or at all. He can plan a project, create a project map and close off actions and timelines like a soldier. His commitment is complete.

Then along comes Sireita who brings her art and her heart to her work. Our logo is her creation. Giving us an identity and the fusion we were looking for. She also has a nose for connecting people and for limoncello. I think she should be our limon-sommelier as well. In fact there are some Positano lemons waiting right here for the appropriate experiment.

St. Paul is his name and he has some of the qualities of that other famous gatekeeper except he is not looking for a tally of your good deeds. He knows how to get ideas out of your head onto a page and from that page into action. His history with fundraising is phenomenal.

And then there is you. All of you who take action; by listening, offering an idea, a tin of ackee, purchasing a ticket, making a donation, retweeting a tweet, hitting a "like" button or hopefully being inspired and going out into your own comnunities and doing something which in turn inspires us and helps all our communities grow

Real Hope in Anzio

I woke at 5:30 to finish packing my bags and to catch the first bus heading North out of Positano to Sorrento. I then caught a train from Sorrento to Naples, only 34 stops and then another ( only 35 minutes late) onward to Rome, then a five minute dash across the platform at Termini to get the hourly train to Anzio. Why would I do this you ask? A friend had introduced me by email to her friend, a Jamaican living in Anzio. I did this for a possibility.

Seven hours after I woke up I was giving her the two kisses European style of greeting and feeling the possibility of friendship in an instant. Twenty-four hours later that possibility was made real.

It was made real by the warmth and generosity of her family. Her Italian husband who asked whether I had eaten and rustled up the freshest, tastiest tuna salad I had ever had. Olive oil, olives, sweet pomadorinos and a balsamic glaze that I could not rest until I had found and secured for myself two bottles for my already over burdened suitcase.

It was made real by his mother making a seafood pasta, from shrimp, calamari, mussels in a simple white sauce made of olive oil, achovies and parsley that saw me making that primi my secondi twice over. Washed down with ice cold rose that went down too easy for someone taking a flight in less than three hours. When I said I didn't need another mozzarella ball since I had already had two before lunch, she only smiled her beautiful but insistent smile then sliced off a few more knots. And God help me and my cholesterol but I ate them all. They were heavenly, the milk oozing onto my tongue as I chewed. And then another glass of wine. I could have become delirious. In fact I am sure I was since I can't recall now whether I licked the plate, to my mind the ultimate compliment to a chef, to others a source of effrontery. Oh well.

It was made real by their daughter, a beauty destined to have the world fall at her feet. Who captivates you with deep brown eyes and a lips pursed into a permanent pout. But who stalks along Nero's Beach as if instinctively knowing that long dead dictator would be hard pressed to withstand her strength of personality. All this at the ripe old age of 17 months.

And here was water so beautiful, so inviting and surprisingly so warm I went in and submerged myself in the sea for the first time in two years.

It was made real by Hope, a fellow Jamaican with an Italian complex. We sat on that verandah in Anzio and shared stories and laughter as if we had been sitting together in a twenty year friendship on a verandah in Jamaica. The journies that have taken us both here are different but intersect at the usual crossroads of pain, dreams, love and destiny. I sipped from the last of her stock of perfectly chilled, sufficiently strong homemade limoncello and raised a mental toast to our common friend who made this possible and to Hope herself who shared her family and provided another chapter for my book.

When we heard a car roar by with dancehall artist Beenie Man's "Rum & Red Bull" blaring from the radio we laughed but I knew my Jamaican and Italian worlds were truly collapsed. For me there is only one world. And when I left the Lanzoni's I also learned that Italians have a similar phrase to the Jamaican "Soon Come".

Luigi's Limoncello & Pizza Positano

While it is true that there is a wedding ( my cousin's not mine, stay with me) and a dress made from unforgiving fabric ( mine not my cousin's, don't go anywhere) in my near future I cannot be in Italy and not have more white flour than I would have in a year of London living. The perfect pizza is always the next restaurant away.

In this case the next restaurant was a 45 minute wait for a bus, which in turn climbed for 20 minutes up another of those steep Positano hills heading to Montepertuso, 10 of those same minutes were spent in a traffic jam trying not to but the time was worth it.

To get seated at a window table with a magnificent view and to be served by an unhurried, shuffling septugenarian when you yourself are in no hurry is fine. Then the yummy goodness of your pizza with anchovies pales into insignificance when your nephew's rocket, cherry tomatoes with shards of parmesan sends you deep into pizza envy and you thank the stars his parents taught him how to share.

It only gets more worth it as you get regaled with tales from Luigi the owner about the years when he lived in London with his friend, also called Luigi and then you linger long enough to see that Luigi walk in and sit down to what will be a long and very late lunch with his wife. And then he told us how to make limoncello. Hmm wonder if I can do it with white rum? Will advise.

Praiano On A Prayer

Some days dawn, grey and grim. And no I don't mean every day in London. Nope sunny Positano can have a bad day too. Saturday was such a one. Angry clouds and spitting sky did not make for holiday bonhomie. So I did what I would never have done in Kingston. I went for a walk, then I got on a bus. As I waited for the bus I had flashbacks.

Not wake up sweaty, trembling, on the verge of an anxiety attack flashback. Just a "man I remember when I used to wait forty-five minutes for the bus", then get on and it would be full, then find a place to lean until a seat frees up kind of reverie reminiscent of almost twenty years ago in my pre-car owning days. Even London where I am a firm supporter and active cheerleader for mass transit doesn't have the same earthiness to its public transportation that I have found in Jamaica and Italy.

On the way to Praiano just to see what's there was to see more of what was Positano, high cliffs, narrow winding roads, endless kilometers of unbroken white lines and dizzying views not for the faint hearted. These drivers are my heroes. There is no grinding of gears as they engage their transmissions for precipitious climbs and nose-bleed inducing descents. They drive with an equanimity which is unshaken by nerveless drivers overtaking on hairpin corners while myself and fellow passengers look at each other, look back at the road behind us and the car ahead to make sure that our eyes really saw what our brains are saying that some crazy fool just came around the bus as if we are on a flat stretch of highway.

My only meal for the day was 66 cubic litres of Peroni and perhaps it was just as well. I was as mellow as I had ever been.

The drive there and back was more exciting than the contents of the village but I am glad I did it. I had another reminder that Jamaica's reach far extends its grasp. Seven years ago on my first visit, my hosts took me up a mountain into a national park and I bumped into someone who had recently been there. Then it was all about Bob Marley. Now I cannot open my mouth before they remind me of Usain Bolt or call us the country of runners. I didn't have a problem with Bob and I certainly don't have one with Bolt. I just love being reminded that we are not as far apart as we like to pretend we are, music, physical achievement, awesome views and beer that tastes just like Red Stripe are just a few of the things that unite us.

Italy is Never Too Much

Italy does it to me everytime. And each time it is no different. I want to do everything, go everywhere. However until the vision of reality as embodied in Star Trek  Next Generation ( hey Picard's my man, bald trumps Kirk's brylcreemed barnet any day of the time space-continuum) actually becomes real I am stuck with the inability to teleport myself from Sorrento, to Sicily with stop-overs in Capri and Naples and so here is the analog version I have fashioned.

My cousin is getting married in Positano. So ever clever I am flying into Naples first and this seeing Naples and dying is not a part of my plan. I am just trying to get to the source of pizza to see whether the original is still the best Then bus, boat, train or donkey along the Amalfi. That promises to be epic. Likely to be epic too are the celebrations of his nuptials since we all seem to feel compelled to top the fantastic time we had at his sister's wedding some 13 years ago.

Positano to Pompeii and all points in between is all well and good but what about Capri & Sicily and do you think it's going to be too hard to do all that then come back across and up the shin of Italy's boot to Florence? At 1 a.m. when I have eight tabs open showing me momondo.com, the man in seat61, British Airways and last minute.com plus my Lonely Planet Italy guide book cracked at the spine I realise it is too much and it might be too late in more ways than one. So I settle it and my sanity at 1:22. Let's stay in the South and exit via Rome. Click. Confirmed. Done.

And seriously you would not believe this but I haven't even packed yet.

Why Mangia 876?

As I type this post I am lying in my apartment in Clapham, London. My uncle and aunt visiting from Toronto are in the next room, sleeping late after another great vacation day last night. London on August 18th was absolutely beautiful, clear blue sky, yellow sun, happy people in shorts and flip-flops and cold fruity drinks. This was not the vision I had for my life. This was not the picture, for my imagination though vast was still limited. However reality has overwhelmed all my dreams. I would have nothing but this reality now. And I did not get here on my own. I have had women who have stepped onto the road of my life and caused a shift, opening up new pathways through their love, guidance and friendship. Mangia 876 is my way of thanking all those women by being one of those women. Mangia 876 is the next wonderful addition to my life. Fusing Italian and Jamaican cuisines and culture at a fundraising food event. All proceeds ( after expenses) will benefit the St. Andrew Parish Church Girls Home in Kingston. My involvement in the Home is no accident. It was a special interest of one of those women in my life. My friend Grace Duncan was convinced that there was a basic goodness in humanity and that what we needed was dialogue, communication, good food and action. She was a tireless volunteer and committed to nation building through service. She gently tried to encourage the generations after her to become a part of action but I was more committed to pontificating, preaching against what was clearly wrong and stridently proclaiming what was right. And besides I thought she would always be here to help us make taking action easier. She isn't. She died in September 2010 and sometimes her loss is a dull throbbing thing shrouded in disbelief.

She turned me on to cooking but never without a twist. Long before I dreamed I would ever get to Italy she had me frying up bammy soaked in milk, garlic and parsley at her annual Christmas morning breakfast, which fed upwards of fifty people each year. I saw my first set of La Creuset pots in her kitchen. When I said I was leaving Jamaica for England, she took me for lunch in Hope Gardens and over lentil stew and brown rice we spoke of the impetus which was propelling me outward and the centrifugal force which she did not doubt would eventually pull me inexorably home. But she blessed me. She knew I had to search. One seeker always knows another.

And oh what I have found. Worlds within worlds, different cultures and tongues but always common humanity. And common suffering too. The pain of loss and difference looks the same everywhere. Just as the commitment to help crosses borders and colours. For me it is time to help. I am answering her call to action. She would have loved this idea of breaking bread with a twist and sharing in our common humanity and spreading our Jamaican culture across another landscape, of knowing who we are but sharing it and becoming a part of something bigger. If the funds we raise can help one girl in her quest to be who she dreams she can be then it will be enough.

Mangia876!!

The best experiences in my life have had food at their center. From curry chicken lymes at University in Barbados to fried fish and festival beach outings to Hellshire good food is synonymous with family, friends and a good time.

Jamaican food is what I know and it has always been my first love. I love the earthy, basic goodness of Jamaican cooking. I like that we cook everything on the bone and even though I don't eat meat anymore I will cook animals for friends. I like our style of cooking, where we soak our meats in their seasonings overnight even, none of that fresh out the packet onto the grill stuff for us. I even like the way that we eat, sometimes straight from the pot or everything in a bowl.

I love that we have taken other cultures and cuisines and made them our own. Jamaican Chinese food is like no Chinese you have had from any Chinese province. Our world reknowned curried anything is the direct inheritance of the Indo-Jamaican legacy. A full Jamaican Sunday dinner represents our motto "Out of Many One People" in every bite.

While away at school in Belgium in 2004-2005 I made my first trip to Italy and I fell in love with that country, its people and its food. Like us there is a way they have about food that is welcoming, they are quick to invite you to share a taste of what's cooking or to have a meal with other friends and family. I love that.  Their manner of cooking is also similar to ours, very flavourful, freshly seasoned, cooking on the bone that makes you lick your lips at the scent of it and your fingers at the end of it. And there is room for vegetarianism too.

My idea is that kind calls to kind. And so this space and others are where I propose my marriage of Italian and Jamaican cooking. Mangia is Italian for eat, 876 is Jamaica's area code and I am ready to cook up a JamItalian storm. Would you like a taste?