Armenia. What a beauty. We’ve arrived in the south after getting a straight three-hour ride to a roadside in the middle of nowhere. The sun is shining, turning arid landscape golden. Some men sell potatoes. Me and my new travelling companion, Cina, are trying to get to a village, some three kilometres from here. We
Check out these walnuts! These are whole unshelled walnuts, soaked and cooked until the hard shell becomes soft and edible. Bite into one and you can see how the shell encases the whole walnut inside. Who knew? In Armenia, popoki murabba appears on the table with breakfast or a pot of tea; whole glistening black
Mornings in Svaneti, high up in the Georgian mountains, follow a slow rhythm. It’s a purposeful rhythm, but unhurried, methodical, each person with their job to do. Chabu chops wood, old Nora stokes the fire, Zaza brings in the eggs and a bucket of potatoes, the cows are milked, coffee made, the ducks and piglets
Steaming pans of scrambled eggs and fried chanterelles, piles of eggy bread with lashings of creamy cheese and ajvar, doughy bread fritters with sweet jam and – my favourite – oozy, rich cicvara (pronounced seets-vuh-ruh)… Bosnian breakfasts are meant to be approached with an empty stomach and the willingness to fill it. They are, much
I’ve fallen in love with Georgian khinkali. Soft, juicy, wonton-like dumplings, with a thick, doughy outer layer encasing herby ground meat, potato or cheese. It seems the entire Georgian population share this obsession. You can eat khinkali everywhere. But go into the northern mountains that surround the villages of Kazbegi and Pasanauri where they say they taste best. Probably because
There is more to this picture than what immediately meets the eye, and a rough reminder that not all is glossy in rural life. I’ve spent much of this week in Svaneti, a secluded region in the mountains of northernmost Georgia – a place that is truly untouched by the tramples of modern life. Villages
The first time I had ajvar (pronounced ayvar) it was dolloped on a plastic plate with a hunk of cold pork and white bread. I was in a Slovenian village at the local men’s club – essentially a community centre with a bar in it – where every Friday the village men came to play boules, drink Lasko
Pod beans, sip coffee, pod more beans, chit chat, sip more coffee, chit chat, coffee, chit chat. This week, I had the real pleasure of staying with this lovely woman, Mira, in the middle of the northern Bosnian countryside. We got up early, the air still cool and fresh and we sat down with a cup of coffee
My brief month in the Istrian region of Slovenia – the south-western part that borders Croatia and the sea – has been a good one. I’ve been busy eating to be honest, and for that reason, I’m sorry for not writing sooner. It’s a hard life! (sorry, someone shoot me). It’s tricky to pin Slovenia