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| This Is Your Lucky Strike Extra | |
| Welcome to the World of Food & Travel See The World Thru Your Tastebuds! First, lets go to the US Virgin Islands for a Lucky Strike Extra. Growing up on a farm in Tennessee during the 1930’s our money crop was tobacco. Lucky Strike Cigarettes were a brand of the American Tobacco Company and advertised giving a little something extra with their cigarettes. One of our favorite saying was, ”It is a Lucky Strike Extra”, meaning we were getting a little something extra. Well here is your LUCKY STRIKE EXTRA! CARIBBEAN FISH FRUIT SALSA Ingredients: Note: These items to be chopped. ¾ Cup fresh pineapple ½ Cup Mango without pit (who would chop a pit?) ¼ Cup red onion ½ Cup red bell pepper ½ Cup seeded cucumber ½ Cup seeded tomato (we are anti seed) 2 Tablespoons lemon or lime juice Note: The following three items are to be minced 2 Tablespoons cilantro 1 Tablespoon mint 2 Tablespoons jalapeno chile (seeded) Preparation: Hang on, Hold it, look at the clock. If it is less than 4 hours till supper you are in trouble. Not my fault. Maybe you eat too early. Mix all 10 of the ingredients above in a bowl large enough to accommodate them. (Why not use a small bowl?) Season with salt. Put the bowl, including the mixture in it, into the fridge and leave it for 4 hours. Toss it around occasionally. Remember 4 hours is enough. All night and all day is too long. You now have 4 hours to catch a sea bass, fire up the grill, preheat the broiler, or warm up a big skillet. Other Ingredients: 4 Sea Bass fillets, 5 or 6oz. Each Olive oil Rub the fish with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook 4 or 5 minutes per side over/under medium high heat. Transfer to warm plates, top with the salsa and serve. Serves 4 |
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| Saturday Night Special | |
 Heather's Fishing Trip - Part 1 Heather waited for months for Jim to invite her for a long weekend of fishing at his lavish retreat on the banks of the mighty Zambezi River. "Abwabli will take care of you if I am away when you arrive," Jim told her. He should have told me to drive a dumptruck instead of my car, Heather thought. No roads, he failed to mention that. As her long black vehicle slid through the heavy gates she saw what she assumed to be Abwabli. He stood stiffly erect as he opened the door of the sleek black car, his eyes averted to take in the view of the azure river, ignoring the long blonde legs sliding out of the dark interior of the Jaguar. Thus he failed to notice the hesitation as the large blue eyes soaked up his features glistening in the tropical sunlight. A smothered gasp almost escaped her generous mouth before a jeweled hand covered her full red lips. She had not seen him before, Jim's latest addition to the river menagerie. His shaved head glistened in the sunlight like a freshly waxed ebony bowling ball yet only the upper half of it was round. The lower portion was long with high cheekbones, large jaws with the beginning of what would become heavy jowls but not yed hanging below the strong chin. Across his forehead, above where his eyebrows would have been, was a raised band of skin the sixe of one of Jim's cigars. It traversed his forehead from ear to ear, apparently carved from the ebony head. A trace of red and purple entwined the raised band like ivy growing on plaster. It was the cheeks that brought out the gasp. Intricately tattooed in muted colors of yellow, red, and either purple or blue, each dulled by the black of his skin; designs few white people had ever seen. His eyes remained discretely averted as he extended a huge hand to assist her exit from the auto. She stared at the hand before taking its offered assistance, taking in breath sharply at the sight of the almost white nails manicured and polished to a gloss. Each, it seemed, the size of a quarter. Out of the car she stood upright to her full five feet ten inches and looked him directly in the chest level with the center of his breastbone. He must, she thought, be seven feet tall and weigh twenty stone. He was not fat by any means but he was huge. She was never to learn why he had himself tattooed and carved to replicate the Godlike ancestral warriors in the dark interior of the Africa of the 1600 and 1700 hundreds. Those warriors seldom captured but always hunted by their black brothers for the high price they would fetch in the slave market in Zanzibar. Suddenly she noticed Abwabli waiting for her to follow him up the steps while she stood as in in a trance. Blinking herself back to life she followed him up the steps. "If that is Punjab," she whispered to herself, "I can't wait to meet the Asp." |
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