About the Author

Ann Vanderhoof

Books by this Author
An Embarrassment of Mangoes

The Five-Year Plan

Your courage is like a kite. Big wind raises it higher.
Fortune Cookie, Toronto, Canada;
November 1996

Relinquishing fears now allows you to succeed.
Fortune Cookie, Port of Spain, Trinidad;
November 1998

Perhaps the hardest thing, we realized in hindsight, was making the decision to go.

It had started as idle, dreamy chat in the bleak days of January and February, the time of year I detest in Toronto, when all the color is sucked out of the city, and even the snow looks gray and tired. As I do.

I left for work in the dark and returned home in the dark. On the rare days the sun bothered to show itself, it was a pale lemon pretender, offering little warmth and barely brightening the gunmetal surface of Lake Ontario. When I cooked dinner in the evening, Steve would catch me warming my hands over the stove, and, later, huddling over the heating vent in our bedroom while I read. It's a very sad sight, he would say. I looked like the little match girl rather than a successful magazine editor. I didn't care. I longed to be too hot.

Steve -- three years younger than me, all hard angles and sharp edges on the outside, a romantic softie within -- was my partner in work as well as life. A small-town Ontario boy, he'd relocated to the city to go to art college in the seventies and never left. For the past few years, we'd been working for the same magazine, and it was hard to tell most days where business ended and private life began. We operated in separate spaces: he, the freelance art director, from a crammed studio tucked into the back of the second floor of our house; me, the editor, at the magazine's main office, a fifteen-minute drive away. But we speed-dialed each other incessantly and flung e-mails and electronic story layouts back and forth all day long. When people asked how our relationship could survive our working together, I'd exclaim about the virtues. "How many people have a chance to see firsthand how really good their spouses are at what they do?" That was on the good days.

The rest of the time, I drove home in the cold at night, freezing and fuming, replaying the day, and arrived ready to rant: about the sloppy writers, the uninspired stories, the cheapskate publisher, the blown deadlines and, especially, the talented but unreasonable art director. "Turn it off, the office is closed," Steve would say. And I would -- for at least a full minute. Our work and our personal lives were inseparable.

And there never seemed to be enough hours for both. Every day required a battle plan. Besides the magazine, we squeezed in other publishing projects that we worked on together -- including a small ongoing series of guidebooks for boaters on the Great Lakes that Steve published himself. They took a backseat to the other stuff and were, like their publisher, often late. Meanwhile, I was ruled day and night by my watch and the to-do lists in my Day-Timer. "I can barely brush my teeth without a deadline," I joked to friends. But increasingly I didn't find it funny.

On the surface, Steve remained calm and unruffled, letting the pressure swirl around him, seemingly as casual about business deadlines as he was about his standard business attire (T-shirt and jeans no matter what, unless the weather permitted shorts or required a sweatshirt). "It will all get done," he'd tell me, "whether you stew about it or not." Yet I knew he was growing more and more resentful of the constant demands on his time and his perpetual state of overcommitment. Not to mention what he swore was "ten months of winter a year."

His solution was thrown out casually -- just another sensible suggestion, like telling me I should crank up the thermostat when I complained about the cold. "So let's take a break and sail south to the Caribbean for a couple of years," he said.

Right. Escaping work and winter for a couple of years sounded wonderful -- but escaping on a sailboat? Was he nuts? Sure, I needed a break -- we both did -- but did he think I had somehow been miraculously grafted onto someone else's sea legs?

I had never set foot on a sailboat until one of my first dates with him, and it was hardly an auspicious beginning to a relationship, let alone a sailing career. Having taught himself to sail and fallen in love with sailing a few years earlier, Steve had planned a romantic afternoon for two on his boat on the lake. In fact, we didn't even get away from the dock, after he backed over one of his mooring lines leaving the slip and wrapped it on the propeller. ("I was too busy trying to impress you," he told me later.) Our second sailing date wasn't much better: It was aborted at the marina's fuel dock, when he discovered one of the boat's hoses had become detached, filling the bilge with gasoline. I, meanwhile, had identified sailing as an activity where things frequently go wrong.

When he did eventually get me out on the lake, I loved the feeling of being propelled by the wind, the total quiet except for the water gurgling past, the sense of freedom that came with leaving land (and land-based concerns) behind. But I only loved it on days when the lake was flat and the breeze gentle. My nervousness increased in direct proportion to wind strength, and so did my tendency to seasickness. I was most definitely not a natural sailor. I didn't react instinctively to the wind -- or to the movement of the boat. "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," I'd mutter, lurching into the companionway and simultaneously barking a shin and a shoulder.

One August, several years after we had bought a house and moved in together, I had a routine checkup with my doctor. As she was examining me, she suddenly asked in all seriousness, "Is your husband beating you?" She was staring at my assortment of multicolored sailing bruises, which I'd become accustomed to having all summer long. I still had not developed anything that could remotely be called sea legs.

By the time Steve popped his "let's sail south" suggestion about five years later, I had fewer bruises and a few more basic skills, but not much else had changed in my relationship with sailing. Steve, meanwhile, had become an even more competent and confident sailor. He now raced the boat every Wednesday night in Toronto's harbor, and also entered longer weekend races on Lake Ontario when he could get crew. He knew better than to look to me to fill that role.

However, not wanting to focus on my personal shortcomings, I cleverly decided to point out a few other niggling drawbacks to his "let's sail south" idea instead. Like money. We were both self-employed; there was no company or educational institution offering sabbaticals, no family trust fund, no cash reserves or investments to help pay for a midlife break from the working world. So how were we going to finance this little adventure?

And that's how the Five-Year Plan was born: "Let's think about sailing south five years from now," Steve said, "and in the meantime we'll see if we can put together enough money." Mostly the Plan would involve paying down the mortgage on our house, which would involve the ever-popular concepts of fiscal restraint and concerted savings.

"Sure," I said to Steve. Stay calm, I said to myself. Five years is a long way off. This doesn't mean you're agreeing to sail into the sunset. We can always use the money to do something else. And I had to admit, in the short term, having the Plan would allow us to fantasize on the cold, tough days about making the great escape.

When we arrive at Smith Island on the Eastern Shore of Chesapeake Bay, it is just before dusk. Rakish clouds with underskirts of gray scuttle across the sky. The public dock at the island's main town of Ewell, where we tie Receta, is a mere six inches above water level, and it's still not high tide; the main street is already awash ankle-deep. Neat white clapboard houses with red or green shutters are scattered along both sides, but there's not a soul in sight -- and no other boats at the dock -- just a family of ducks paddling up the flooded roadway.

By far the most off-the-beaten-path spot we've stopped at since leaving Toronto two months ago, Smith Island, Maryland, is one of only two inhabited offshore islands in Chesapeake Bay. The other is Tangier Island, a little farther to the south and just across the Virginia state line. Isolated from the mainland 11 miles away, Smith's 400 or so residents make their living by crabbing and, in winter, oystering, as they always have. In fact, the current residents are direct descendants of the island's original settlers who came here in 1657. Almost half the population of Ewell has the same last name, Evans. "Visitors are well advised not to make jokes or ask too many questions about this," says William Warner, writing about Tangier and Smith in Beautiful Swimmers, his Pulitzer Prize-winning elegy to the watermen and crabs of Chesapeake Bay. I've been reading it at night, and annoyingly recounting snatches to Steve (since he's already read it himself) as we sail down the bay. I suspect Smith Island would be unusual at any time, but it is particularly unusual on this chill, blustery October weekday when we are the only visitors and an abnormally high tide laps across the carefully tended lawns.

We pull on our deck boots and wade up the deserted main street, eventually coming upon a lone crabber who, with the help of a young woman, is unloading the day's catch into the back of a pickup. Blue crabs have been constantly on our minds lately because the most common method of catching them commercially is the crab trap, and crab traps and boats don't mix. The traps lie on the bottom of the bay, the location of each one marked on the surface by a small round buoy about the size of an overgrown grapefruit, which is attached to the trap below by a rope. During the summer and early fall, Chesapeake Bay is positively littered with them. "Watermen who normally set out 200 crab pots in the 1970s now work with 500 to 1,000 to get approximately the same catch," Warner tells us. The last thing we want to do is run into one of those ropes and catch it on our prop, for an unpleasant reprise of our Toronto harbor date.

So one of us spots and one of us steers as we slalom from anchorage to anchorage down the bay. We're particularly fond of the crabbers with the blue buoys -- almost impossible to see in the waves until we're right on top of them, at which point we have to zigzag quickly away, the sails flapping inelegantly from the unplanned change in direction. Steve figures the only way to get even for the stress of constant crab-trap watch is to devour as many crabs as possible. There's no way we're going to walk by a truck full of them on Smith Island and not buy some to cook ourselves.

"How much are they?" I ask the young woman hefting traps. She relays the question to the man in oilskins in the bed of the pickup, who shouts back an incomprehensible answer. The island's isolation has allowed a distinctive dialect to survive, with outmoded words and grammatical constructions from seventeenth-century England. To our ears, it sounds like the crabber is gargling marbles with a Shakespearean southern drawl. "Thirty-five dollars for number one jimmies," the woman translates. Number one jimmies are the big fat prime male crabs, the ones served steamed in restaurants; but even given that, the price seems high for buying direct from the supplier -- higher, in fact, than we've sometimes paid when eating out. "Wannem?" The man in the pickup pushes a basket scrabbling with live crabs toward the pickup's rear gate.

It's only then that I realize the price isn't for a dozen -- our usual consumption -- but for an entire bushel basket. I'd be up all night steaming and picking the meat out of seventy or eighty crabs. And even Steve, whose lean build belies his near-legendary appetite, can't see devouring that many. "Can we buy just a dozen?" Nope, it's all or none. We politely decline and wade on.

Maybe it's a good thing. Friends had recounted the difficulty of steaming crabs in the small galley of a cruising boat; one of theirs had escaped on its way to the pot and disappeared behind the stove. "When we finally rooted him out, he had a death grip on our propane line," Wayne had told us.

A woman stands on her front porch, hands on hips, watching the egret that has abandoned the marshes to fish the main street. "Excuse me, is there a restaurant in town?"

She points down the street. "Ruke's Store, 'cept it's closed. He went home to have dinner."

That doesn't sound promising. "It's the only place; he'll be back 'fore long to open up."

We splash around the village some more, until we spot a wind-hardened man unlocking the store, then wander in behind him. As we slide into one of the old-fashioned booths that fill a corner of the general store, he tells us we still can't get dinner: The cook is trapped at home by the exceptionally high water.

"Happens three times a year or so now," he explains. "You have to wait 'til a nor'wester blows through and ends it." Some people blame global warming -- as the sea warms, it is rising and nibbling away at the land -- others say the island is sinking. Whichever, Smith is now just a foot above sea level, and the island's graveyard has been so badly flooded at times that coffins have been sent floating down the main street.

"There is little doubt that Smith Island is the champion of the Chesapeake in soft crab production," Beautiful Swimmers had informed us. To be here and not try one would be for Steve like being in Burgundy and not trying the local wine.

The joy of a softshell is eating the entire fried-crisp thing. But there's only about a one-day window between when a crab discards its old shell and when the new shell has hardened too much to eat, so the harvest has necessarily evolved into a precise science. With practiced eyes, the watermen cull the "busters," which have begun to shed, and the "peelers," which are just about to. And then they wait. The moment the crabs molt, they are put on ice and rushed to market.

The ones that arrive in front of Steve, once the tide turns and the cook arrives, are so perfect he has no intention of sharing more than one measly bite with me: dredged in flour and panfried gloriously crisp on the outside, yet soft and melting inside, with no trace of hardness from the start of a new shell. We end up ordering a platter of three additional softshells, and demolish every last buttery-sweet bite. Meanwhile, I have first inhaled my own crabcake dinner, giving up only the one requisite taste to Steve that fair trade requires. The cake is almost pure crab inside its golden exterior, held together by a bit of mayo, a wisp of seafood seasoning, and not much else. I'm determined to buy some crabmeat -- already steamed and out of the shell -- before Receta leaves the Chesapeake and replicate them onboard myself.
Pasta from Mr. Butters's Garden

Quick, easy and tasty. Serve the pasta with crusty bread and sliced tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with chopped basil. The tomatoes provide a lovely contrast to the green pasta sauce.

1/2 pound smoked sausage, sliced thin, or fresh sausage, casings removed
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 bunch escarole, roughly chopped (about 10 cups)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Splash white wine (optional)
1/2 pound penne or other pasta
Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

1. In a large frying pan, cook the smoked sausage for a few minutes until it releases its fat, or cook fresh sausage, breaking it up with a fork, until lightly browned. Removed meat from pan and set aside. Drain fat from pan.

2. In the same pan, heat olive oil and gently sauté garlic. Add the escarole a bit at a time, adding more as the first batch begins to wilt., and sauté until it is all wilted. Season with lots of black pepper and a little salt. Add a splash of wine or some of the pasta-cooking water if it seems dry and cook a minute or so longer. Return the sausage to the pan and toss all together.

3. Meanwhile, cook the penne and drain. Combine with the escarole mixture and serve with Parmesan sprinkled on top.

Serves 3 - 4, depending on how hungry the crew is.

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The Spice Necklace

The Spice Necklace

A Food-Lover's Caribbean Adventure
also available: Paperback
More Info

The Nutmeg Gatherers
. . . Grenada . . .
It’s a rampage, / The lands are savaged, / My Caribbean ruined,
Not a tree in sight, / That didn’t get hit outright;
It’s a rampage, / Ivan take we hostage . . .
See Barbados (stocking up) / Small Tobago (stocking up)
Poor Grenada, / Lord, what a plight;
After the storm, / All man in the same boat, / Yes, after the storm,
We ’ve got to help each other, / (After, after)
Because livestock (blow way) / Food crop (blow way)
Nutmeg (blow way) . . .
from “After the Storm,” composed by Christophe Grant, sung by Denyse Plummer
The village of Union sits about two inches south of the northern tip of Grenada on my big multi-fold government map— just above the spot where the capillary network of red roads thins out and then disappears. A few old cocoa and nutmeg estates are noted— Union Estate, Malagon Estate, Samaritan Estate— and a few lonely squares indicate buildings. But the map makes it clear this is the start of the island’s undeveloped, empty, mountainous middle.
So I shouldn’t be surprised by the road we’re walking (climbing, really), heading straight up from the village, but still it leaves me breathless, and not just from its steepness. Ahead of us, the road simply seems to end, swallowed up into lush mountains, painted thickly in a dozen shades of green. Around every bend, in every direction, is a postcard. “You see that one?” our old friend Dingis asks, puffing out the words as even she stops to rest. She points to the most imposing peak, where the white mist of a morning shower floats high up, encircling the green. “On deh other side was where all deh nutmeg trees were.”
Early in the morning, Dingis, her friend Gail, and Steve and I had set out from her house in Lower Woburn, on Grenada’s south coast, taking first one bus to St. George ’s, and then another, to travel up the leeward west coast— past Gouyave, known as the island’s fishing capital, though this makes it sound much grander than it is; past Victoria, an even smaller fishing village; to Industry, where the road curves inland. Dingis keeps up an excited commentary the whole way. Her highlights are not exactly the stuff of a standard tourist spiel. “Gail mother live here,” she exclaims at one point, knowing Gail is too shy to tell us herself. And a little farther along, at a spot where a cliff rises up on one side of the road and plunges into the Caribbean on the other: “Dis is where deh bus was hit by a falling boulder and everybody die.” This is not particularly what one wants to hear while shoehorned into the backseat of an overcrowded, overheated-by-the-squash-of-many-bodies minivan of a bus that careens aggressively around each curve. (A longtime resident once gave new-to-Grenada drivers this advice about the island’s bus drivers: “Give them a wide berth— if necessary, stop and let them pass. They are busy private entrepreneurs with an urgent appointment with death.”) By the time we reach Union and Dingis announces, “Dis is where we get off,” I am woozy, soggy with sweat and more than ready to continue on foot.
The bus deposits us across from a square wooden building that has seen better days. Its wide doors are pulled open, and a car sits out front, the driver hefting sacks out of the trunk. “My father used to bring our nutmegs here,” Dingis says. Sure enough, this building is labeled on my map—“Nutmeg Station”—one of a scant handful of government processing stations still operating around the island, where farmers come to sell their harvest. Dingis leads us inside. Near the door, a newly arrived sack of nutmegs has been dumped onto a sorting table, and a lone woman slowly picks through them. But the rest of the downstairs is quiet; and when Dingis takes us upstairs, where the nutmegs are left to dry naturally under the roof, in the hottest part of a hot building, the tiers of screened drying racks are mostly empty.
“Before Ivan, dey were fullll,” Dingis says, drawing out the word into a melancholy musical refrain. Grenadians refer to the hurricane that near-destroyed their island in September 2004 simply as “Ivan,” no need to include the “H” word. They have fully anthropomorphized the storm that eventually became a Category 5, top-of-the-charts hurricane. Though he was still a Category 3 when he crossed Grenada, Ivan killed at least forty-one of the island’s residents, damaged or destroyed 90 percent of its buildings and uprooted close to 90 percent of its nutmeg trees. “Ivan come lookin’ for his wife Janet,” Dingis had told us shortly afterward, describing the disaster. He had waited a long time: Janet, the previous hurricane to strike the island, had visited almost half a century earlier.
Back in Toronto after our first trip, we had kept in touch with Dingis, sharing from afar the milestones in her life and that of her teenage daughter, Gennel. Birthdays. Christmases. Illnesses. Funerals. And then the hurricane that “mash up” their house, and their island. “When you comin’ back?” Dingis had asked at the end of every long-distance conversation.
During that first stretch in Grenada, now almost a decade ago, she had always promised to take us to “deh country,” as she calls the part of the island we ’re now walking, where she grew up and where her father and two of her brothers still live. When we first met, her phrasing had made me laugh, since by my standards, Dingis herself lived solidly in “deh country.” Her Lower Woburn house was barely visible from the road behind a dense wall of tropical greenery— banana, breadfruit, mango and papaya trees; coconut palms; pigeon pea and pepper bushes. A few sheep and goats grazed on the steep hillside behind it, and a couple of clucking chickens pecked in the yard.
But now, up here, continuing on foot along the steep road from Union, I begin to understand. We pass only scattered houses, and are passed by only the very occasional car. This part of the island— more mountainous and with more rainfall than the south— has an all-pervasive greenness, a more intense lushness, and a coolness that is different from the other end. Thanks to the morning rain, the landscape seems freshly washed— glittering, even, where the sunlight splashes the still-wet foliage. “We would climb up and over deh mountain,” Dingis says, continuing her story as we walk, “to gather deh nutmegs, three hundred pounds in a day. My father had two donkeys— we would carry sacks of nutmegs partway down until we reach deh donkeys.”
A nutmeg tree yields two spices. Its plump, apricot-like, yellow-orange fruit bursts open when ripe to reveal a lacy, strawberryred corset wrapping a hard, glossy-brown shell. This delicate red lace is the spice mace; the polished shell underneath contains the nutmeg itself. When the donkeys reached their house, Dingis and her brothers would remove the mace from the nutmegs, slipping it off the shell with their fingers and sorting it into three grades, based on the size of the pieces: “deh pretty, deh not so pretty and deh broken bits”; three hundred to four hundred pounds of nutmegs are needed to yield a single pound of mace. (Even now, as we pass the occasional house along the road, we see various-sized pieces of mace drying on front porches, spread in wooden trays and on plastic tarps.) McDonald Ignatius Naryan, Dingis’s father— everyone but his family calls him “Mr. Mac”—would then deliver the nutmegs to the processing station in the village.
When Dingis had first talked about bringing us to the country, her mom was alive, but a few years ago the eighty-three-year-old suffered a fatal stroke. “She pass, from deh pressure,” Dingis told us in a long-distance phone call. But Mr. Mac still lives in the house where Dingis once helped with the spice harvest. Settled in a straight-backed chair, Pepsi ball cap pushed back on his head, smiling broadly at the arrival of his daughter and her friends, he looks easily a decade younger than his ninety years. Though we know Mr. Mac has had a stroke too, and has trouble getting around, it’s not obvious at first meeting. With his brown trousers rolled up at the bottom, his feet bare and his face stubbly, he still looks like the farmer he once was. He is hard to understand, but we chalk this up to our difficulty with Grenadian English— the accent and vocabulary of the island’s older generations, in particular, take some getting used to— rather than to infirmity.
“Why do you think he still so strong and still look so good?” his fifty-one-year-old daughter now asks us. “It’s deh mountains.” The bare-bones house— worn wooden floors, hot, galvanized metal roof exposed on the interior, curtains tacked across the door frames of the bedrooms, bare mattresses— has ropes strung throughout, so Mr. Mac can help himself maneuver through it. And one of Dingis’s brothers, Rovel (short for Roosevelt), lives here and helps. But otherwise, the two pieces of ragged foam that cushion one of Mr. Mac’s chairs are about the sum of his extra comforts.
Plastic chairs are pulled out for us, and Kimon, one of Mr. Mac’s great-grandsons, is sent to climb the guava tree behind the house to get us a snack. Curling, faded family photos are thumbtacked between the exposed joists of the stained aqua wall near one of the spots where Mr. Mac regularly sits, but the real art here is what’s framed by the unglazed windows: slices of tangled, jungly Rousseau-like landscape. The layered greens are punctuated with spatters of yellow, soft orange and wine red, the pods of the cocoa trees. Mr. Mac farmed cocoa in addition to nutmegs, and along the way today Dingis had picked one of the football-shaped pods. (Her eldest brother, whom we’d met briefly on our walk up the road, has taken over from their father and works the land.) Now, with the household cutlass, a wooden-handled machete with a 22-inch curving blade, she thwacks open the sunset-colored pod and offers us the beans. “Local M&M’s,” we’ve heard them called.
“Listen to me,” she says, as she always does when she wants us to pay attention to some piece of information she suspects we don’t know. “You don’t bite deh bean— just suck it and spit it out.”
I’d already learned the hard way: straight from the pod, cocoa beans are extremely bitter, lacking not only an appealing chocolate color but also any discernible chocolate taste. But they’re coated with a slippery, slimy white pulp that is sweet, vaguely fruity and very delicious. Once, on a hike in Trinidad that went hours longer than anyone expected, our guide found cocoa growing wild in the rain forest and kept the diabetic of the group going by having him suck the pulp from the beans; it did the trick.
Between the sugar hit from the cocoa and the one from the ripe guavas, eaten skin and all like apples, we’re ready for a hike ourselves, back into Dingis’s childhood. Young Kimon leads the way, in shorts, a new-looking basketball jersey with Michael Jordan’s number, and plastic thongs. Dingis has also donned a pair of flip-flops, changing out of the low-heeled “special occasion” sandals she wore (with the backs folded down under her heels) during the bus trip and walk up the road from the village. She’s dressed for the day in her usual attire: modest, below-the-knee print skirt and untucked, cap-sleeved, white blouse. Meanwhile, I’m in well-worn pants and hiking shoes, sure this is what a trip to “deh country” requires.
Our first stop is a spring that Dingis had told us about many times, where the water bubbles from a rock wall and is channeled within bucket reach via a scrap of plastic eavestrough laid across a bamboo pole. “Make us a cup,” Dingis instructs her grandnephew, and Kimon plucks an elephant ear–sized callaloo leaf that’s growing near the water. With a few deft folds of the leaf and a wrap of the stem, he turns it into a long-handled drinking cup from which we each sip cold spring water. He spots crayfish in a nearby stream— as Dingis had predicted—and captures one with his hands so we can get a closer look. (“One day we will have a crayfish cook-up,” she promises.) She then sends him a short distance into the forest to pick me a wild balisier, or heliconia, the giant red lobster claw of a flower that’s related to the banana and so brilliantly colored, so exotic, and so flawless it almost seems a fake.
The beauty of this land, overflowing with stuff growing, makes my heart catch— though Dingis keeps pointing out what isn’t here. “Before Ivan, we could have picked grapefruits and limes, but deh trees gone now.” She shakes her head, still aghast at the state of the nutmegs. To our eyes, however, there are so many nutmeg trees that it’s hard to imagine how many more there would have been before the hurricane. And the tourist board still trumpets that Grenada has more spices per square mile than any other place on the planet. Some of the trees are ready for harvesting, their ripe fruits (botanically, the pericarp) split open, revealing the glossy nutmeg with its lattice of mace (the aril) nestled inside: Deh lady in deh boat wit’ deh red petticoat, says an old Grenadian rhyme. The overwhelming smell here is of rich, fertile forest after a rain, overlaid with the barest hint of spice from the open fruits.
When Dingis was a girl, she and her brothers would beat the trees with long sticks to shake the fruits to the ground, then gather the nutmegs into large sacks. Nature has already done the work today, and the ground is littered with nutmegs tossed free of their boats but still dressed in scarlet lace. Dingis insists we scoop them up to replenish our onboard supply.
Mr. Mac has been growing nutmegs on this land for nearly half as long as nutmeg trees have existed on the island. “There are . . . some trees which I think bear nutmegs but at present no fruit,” wrote Dr. Diego Álvarez Chanca, physician to Christopher Columbus’s fleet during his second voyage to the West Indies (1493–96). “I say I think because the smell and taste of the bark is like that of nutmegs.” Whatever he smelled and tasted (he was on Hispaniola at the time), it was wishful thinking: nutmeg trees are only native to the Moluccas— the Spice Islands, in Indonesia— and didn’t arrive in the New World until the early years of the nineteenth century. The Dutch, who ruled the Spice Islands before that, were determined to keep their monopoly on nutmeg. To ensure the trees didn’t spread beyond lands they controlled, they washed the nutmegs in lime before shipping them so they couldn’t be propagated elsewhere. They also destroyed trees and even part of the nutmeg crop when necessary to control production and keep prices high. When the Spice Islands briefly came under British rule beginning in 1796, however, nutmeg seedlings were sent to other British colonies for planting, including St. Vincent in 1802. Grenada came later.
Around 1840, the long arm of the British Empire was further responsible for nutmeg’s spread, when successful sugar plantation managers in the British West Indies were sent to sugar plantations in the British East Indies to introduce their more efficient methods. When the Grenada-based sugarmen eventually returned home, they brought nutmegs with them. The island’s first nutmeg tree is said to have been grown from seed brought from the Banda Islands by Frank Gurney and planted, in 1843, at Belvidere Estate— less than 5 miles as the crow flies from where we’re walking.
Island lore doesn’t give a reason for Gurney’s desire for fresh nutmeg. But around the same time, Captain John Bell of the Royal Navy planted nutmeg seedlings on his Grenadian estate (which he called Penang, after his posting in Malaysia), apparently because he had become accustomed to having his rum punch with a sprinkling of the freshly grated spice on top. Steve and I can identify.
For the next two decades, nutmeg remained merely a curiosity in the Caribbean. But when a nocturnal worm took a huge bite out of the world supply of the spice in 1860, planters in Grenada jumped at the economic opportunity and started to grow nutmeg as a commercial crop. In the twentieth century, it surpassed sugar and cocoa as the island’s largest export, and Grenada became the world’s second-largest supplier (after Indonesia). Nutmeg remains so important to the Grenadian economy that “deh lady in deh boat wit’ deh red petticoat” is depicted on the national flag. Though the island has rebounded since Ivan, nutmeg farming will be one of the last sectors to recover fully: the shallow-rooted, easily toppled nutmeg trees were among the worst casualties of the hurricane-force winds—and new nutmeg seedlings take ten to fifteen years to bear fruit.
“When you comin’ back?” Rovel asks us repeatedly, as his sister Dingis used to. “You must come and spend deh night”—though the house, more than a little rustic, is unsuited to guests—“and deh next morning, I take you hiking in deh mountains.” Dingis conveniently sidesteps the invitation with a more immediate plan: a stop at Kimon’s house up the road to see his manicous—rough-haired, pointy-nosed, scaly-tailed, smallish, cat-sized things that are hunted (in season) for their meat.
Kimon scoops one out of a plastic barrel and sets it on the ground so we can get a good look. In the flash of an eye, one of the local mongrels lunges at it— these aren’t even “Riot-Wilder” pups, like the ones listed for sale in the Classified section of one of Grenada’s newspapers— and the next thing I know, the manicou is lying dead on the ground. I’m horrified—poor Kimon— and feel guilty that we ’re the cause of his pet being out where the dog could get it. But Kimon doesn’t seem upset and neither, for that matter, does anyone else. “A manicou is an opossum,” Steve whispers to me. “He ’s playing dead until the danger is over.”
When it’s time to leave, we catch a ride back to Union in a flatbed truck, Dingis and Gail sitting primly up front with the driver; Steve and I, sprawled in the back, clutching the sides and keeping low to avoid branches as we whip back down the mountain. I sleep most of the way on the two buses home, once again sandwiched into a rear seat. But this time, I’m surrounded on the first bus by the fumes of the local Rivers rum, thanks to the elderly Grenadian next to me, sleeping off his misspent afternoon.
“Listen to me,” Dingis says as we hug good night back in Lower Woburn and thank her for taking us to see where she grew up, “don’t forget to put deh nutmegs to dry. You know how to tell when they’re ready? You shake them, and you can hear deh nut rattle in deh shell.”
Sure enough, when I remember to check them a few weeks later, they click in my fingers like castanets. I put them in a jar carefully labeled Nutmegs from Dingis’s Family Land and tuck it into Receta’s spice cupboard.
By this point, we are already a year and a half into our second journey, and the spice cupboard is filled to overflowing with the herbs and spices we ’ve foraged, bought and been given along the way. Each time I open its door, some package, bottle, jar, box or bag inevitably spills out. Most are labeled with more than simply the name of a spice. Like the bag of nutmegs from Dingis’s family, each has a provenance, a link to the land, a connection to a place and its people. Each wafts a scent that tells an island story.

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