Coconut crème caramel with glazed physalis

Would you buy a fruit that sounds like a disease?

•  Physalis grow wild around the world and may have originated in South America. South Africans adopted it more than a century ago and named it Cape gooseberry.
• Its name comes from the Greek word “physa”, meaning bladder, the airy calyx or husk that surrounds the berry. The family includes green tomatillos and the inedible red Chinese lantern in your garden.

Buy & Store

•  In supermarkets, look for a small 100-gram basket lightly covered with plastic. I paid $1.99 at No Frills, but saw others for $3.99.
• Choose firm berries with a crisp calyx and no sign of mould.
• Let sit at room temperature a day or two or refrigerate for several weeks.
• Don’t wash or remove the calyx until ready to use or berries will deteriorate rapidly.
• Berries may have a bit of sticky resin that’s easily wiped or washed off.

Prep

Ivan and Blackie

Radmila Karlic with black truffles

truffle-flecked cheese and sausage

On our last full day in Croatia, we set off south from the hilltop  town of Buzet to the heart of Istria to hunt for truffles.

Both black and prized white truffles are plentiful in the triangle between Pazin, Buje and Buzet, especially in the valley of the river Mirna and in the lush Motovun forest we’d passed.

I figured the hunt would be staged for tourists. Boy, was I wrong.

As our host Radmila Karlic showed off a massive platter of fresh hard black truffles, along with a few pricey white truffles she’d flash-frozen from last fall’s harvest, her son Ivan appeared with Blackie, one of eight trained dogs the family owns, to take our group and a few more visitors out to the woods.

We sauntered past a grove of 1,200 young oak trees purchased from nurseries in Italy and France. The roots of each tree were inoculated with truffle spores, and should start producing black truffles in 2016, a decade after planting.

You can already see a grass-free ring forming around the base of each tree, indicating that something is happening below ground.

A few steps more and we were in the woods, following a path through one of four “good” spots where the family finds black truffles year after year.

Ivan let go of Blackie’s leash and the seven-year-old terrier went to work, running back and forth through the damp leaves, head down, sniffing for truffles.

“Shu Shu,” Ivan called softly: “Go! Go!” while keeping a watchful eye on his favourite dog.

Suddenly, Blackie stopped and began digging furiously with his front paws. Ivan raced to his side – determined to get the truffle before the dog sank his teeth in it.

I suppose I expected the gnarled shroom to suddenly appear when the dog moved away. Wrong again! In fact, I couldn’t even see it at first. Ivan knelt down, face close to the ground, and began brushing the black dirt away with his finger like an archeologist unearthing a rare bone. Slowly a round black shape appeared, snuggled against the root that gave it nourishment.

Blacks grow closer to the surface than white truffles, so they’re easier to dig, Ivan said. The softer (and more fragrant) whites can grow between 4 inches (10 cm) and a metre deep, he said. They’re never found in the same place twice, and if they break while being dug up the price drops 50%.

For every 10 forays between September and the frost, he might find whites three times, he said.

Realizing he wasn’t getting any of his prize, Blackie turned away, bored. But he did perk up for a dog treat.

Now that we’d found our truffle, I figured the hunt was over. But Blackie had other ideas, and as we approached a slope near the edge of the woods, he again began madly pawing the ground.

Ivan ran and knelt down, shooing him away. As he began to dig, the pawing began again nearby. This dog was on a roll!

Before investigating the latest find, Ivan asked Cam to put her hand over the hole in case the dog returned for a snack. Stefani was pressed into service at another hole when Blackie again struck gold.

We returned to the house with four black truffles, ready for our truffle lunch.

Radmila set out a platter of truffle-infused cheese and salami, both made by neighbours, and another plate of crostini topped with truffle-infused cream cheese. An intense, earthy scent rose from the table and lingered in our mouths for hours.

While we snacked, she set to work in her outdoor kitchen whisking eggs with a little truffle-olive oil salsa and grating cleaned black truffles into a heap of black dust for the main event – scrambled eggs with truffles.

It was just a taste of the giant truffle omelet prepared every September in Buzet. According to tradition, an egg is cracked for every year AD, which means this year’s feast will require 2,013 eggs and 10 kg of truffles.

After lunch, we bid a fond farewell to Istria and headed back to the highway toward Zagreb (did I mention the highways here are all in excellent shape?). With the sun shining and the day warm, it seemed a shame to rush back, so we turned off at the exit to Skrad for one last adventure, a hike through the Devil’s Passage, or Vrajži prolaz, a narrow forested canyon

Vrajži prolaz canyon walk

800 metres long.

I suppose we cheated by driving the van down to the start of the trial, near a power station, but it made the walk short and sweet. Up stone steps we walked, past slopes of wild onions, announcing their presence with a strong scent even before their lily-like leaves came into view.

Our guide led us to the entrance of a dark cave created, surely, when a giant moved the massive layered rock above it and replaced it on an angle. Beside it flowed a long skinny waterfall – you had to look way, way up to see where it began.

We returned to the power station and started up another path, which took us deep into the dark canyon filled with rushing water. Since my mountain-goat colleagues were once again far ahead – Cam sat this one out – I didn’t have to confess my fear of heights to anyone as I held tight to the metal railings on the bridges and navigated the metal steps without looking down. That didn’t work when I reached a wooden bridge, slimy from the constant dampness and missing the odd board.

On the way back through the forest, thick braided metal ropes pierced the rock to make the trail’s slippery bits manageable. We celebrated our final adventure in the park’s restaurant with a local specialty, blueberry strudel.

Returning to Zagreb was bittersweet. First we dropped off Mia, whose parents live in a lively town outside the capital. She offered to take us to a bakery to sample her town’s famous cream cake, but we were too full and tired to accept. Then we were four.

Once I’d settled into my beautiful room at the Hotel Dubrovnik, overlooking Zagreb’s main square, my plan to eat out at a nice restaurant down the street evaporated. The others were too tired and just wanted to pack and get to bed early. I didn’t feel like eating alone, and it was my last chance to talk to Cam, who was leaving early for Spokane.

Our adventure-filled week was quietly winding down.

Alez preparing bikes in Roc

fuze with black truffle

downtown Hum

world’s smallest town ahead

Kotle, Croatia

Terrasse in Motovun

Our second last day dawned grey with the promise of warm sun. Surely nothing could interfere with today’s 30- km bike ride.

We arrived in Istria’s medieval town of Roc, with its flower boxes and thick limestone walls. Between the 12th and 20th century it was the centre of Croatian publishing, based on the Glagolitic alphabet. The letters remind me of Elven runes from Lord of the Rings.

Our guide Alez awaited, ready to ride in his Tour de France-type gear. He and Mia had the usual impenetrable conversation in Croatian. Oh no, the afternoon portion of our ride was cancelled because the road by the river was too wet and muddy!

I was disappointed, but figured one 90-minute ride would do me just fine.

In the next breath, Mia announced she, Alez and the tourist board rep would look for an alternate road so we wouldn’t be deprived of our full three hours of cycling. While they consulted a map, we each chose a mountain bike and headed to the nearby parking lot to practice.

I got on my black steed and immediately wobbled around as if I’d never been on a bike. I hoped Alez wasn’t too alarmed. Once I got the thing steady, I wished I’d paid more attention to the gears during the previous ride, since this time I’d need to do more than brake and panic.

The saddles were hard as ironing boards, but surely 90 minutes wouldn’t cripple me for life.

We set off on lovely asphalt roads about three metres wide. In minutes the experienced riders had disappeared, flying down the first hill in formation like a flock of Canada geese.

It was hard to take in the view as I concentrated on keeping wheels, gears and handlebars aimed in the right direction. But I did have the wonderful sensation of being alone under a big blue sky, surrounded by green trees that arched toward the centre of the road and breathing fresh air scented with wildflowers. The wind in my ears almost drowned out the birds.

Riding on smooth pavement proved much more relaxing than riding on mountain trails, and sailing downhill was exhilarating, though we did hit the odd patch of bone-rattling gravel. Twice we stopped to let giant tour buses pass since there wasn’t room for them and us on the narrow road.

Our first stop was Kotle, a village beside a rushing stream with the remains of an old mill. It’s been abandoned for 30 years, but Mia said some homes have been restored as summer cottages.

I hoped we’d continue on our mostly downhill trek to Hum, the world’s smallest town, but no. I was soon huffing and puffing up a baby hill while trying every gear combination possible. Giving up, I dismounted and walked the heavy bike to the top.

No guide, no signs, but I was pretty sure I was going in the right direction. The road passed monuments devoted to the mysterious alphabet, including one Stonehenge-type circle that spells out Istria.

Soon afterward, I came across a welcome sign: Hum. Five minutes later, the first grey limestone houses came into view.

We gathered on the terrace of Humska Konoba, probably the village’s only restaurant, and ordered two Istrian specialties — scrambled eggs with bits of flavourful wild asparagus and fuze, pale hand-rolled pasta tubes warmed in butter and topped with finely grated black truffle.

The pasta looked like garganelli from Emilia Romagna without the eggs to make it yellow. We were hoping for more truffle flavour, but I've often been disappointed by truffles so wasn’t surprised.

For dessert, crisp light pieces of deep-fried dough dusted with icing sugar called krostule, or angel wings.

Conversation turned to the afternoon’s program. We could retrieve our bikes and head back to Roc by an alternate route (with more hills), or drive to a famous hilltop town and drink wine.

You can probably guess which route I chose.

We drove past Buzet, the town where we would spend the night, and continued through miles of dense forest famous for truffles. Then up and up to the top of tourist mecca Motovun, where we walked the ramparts and popped into tiny wine and souvenir shops. When we’d seen everything, we sat on a terrasse with a bottle of Istria’s refreshing white malvasia and admired the panoramic view of the rich agricultural land below, dotted with vineyards and olive trees. It could have been Tuscany or Umbria, at a fraction of the price!

Back in Buzet, we stayed at the funky-elegant boutique hotel Vela Vrata beside the well-stocked tourist office. Renovated in 2010, the hotel has rejuvenated the ancient town, forgotten since the 70s as locals began congregating in the sprawling new town below.

The three-storey climb with heavy bag was worth it — I loved my garret room with its flamboyant bathroom.

Dinner, served by the doorman/reception desk clerk/host, consisted of truffled cheese, leek and potato soup and nicely cooked chicken. Not sure about the asparagus ice cream, but happy to see they’re using local, seasonal ingredients in creative ways.

At breakfast, always bread, cheese and ham with the promise of hot eggs, I followed Cam’s lead and tried the chocolate croissant, a mouth-happy match with a cappuccino made with Franck coffee, a Croatian favourite.

After a quick tour of the old town, we set off in the van to hunt for truffles.

Vid Arbanas, Lokve, with herbal brandy

Hotel Bristol Opatija

Lokvarka Cave Croatia

I’d been mentally preparing for this day for a month. Yes, you will climb Croatia’s highest mountain, where lunch awaited, and perhaps even make the “hard” climb to the top.

After we left Zagreb, Mia learned that 10 cm of snow had fallen on the mountain three days before. This morning it was pouring rain outside our hotel in the Plitvice Lakes National Park. We ate breakfast in silence, wondering what the verdict would be as Mia consulted the experts.

She met us in the lobby with the bad news. Not only had it snowed again on Mt. Risnjak, but there was more snow in the forecast in the national park surrounding the mountain with a chance of freezing rain. The road we were planning to take was also snowed in (and driver Marko had only summer tires on the van) and apparently all the park rangers had been pulled from the peak. As a final blow, even if we did get up to the top, it was so cloudy we wouldn’t see anything of the world-famous view.

We were all disappointed, but a few of us were secretly relieved not to be slip-sliding up a snowy mountain in summer clothes.

The New Yorkers, however, did their best to salvage the expedition, insisting there MUST be a way to make it happen. Mia held firm, but she did get on the phone to every tourist board representative in the area to determine if there was another mountain we could climb instead. Turned out there was snow everywhere and it was NOT SAFE.

So ended my  mountaineering career.

Our carefully planned schedule was now in tatters, but the show must go on!

After several phone calls and several hours of driving, which most of us slept through, we emerged from a mountain tunnel to find ourselves in a winter wonderland. Not only were the mountains white, but the residents of Lokve had awakened to snow on the ground, which was quickly melting.

A local guide named Andrea met us at the entrance of the Lokvarka cave, where water was pouring in from the roof. More fantastic rock formations awaited as we walked a metal stairway 75 metres down into the earth in dim light.

We emerged an hour later to sunshine. The NYers immediately asked if we could now go and hike up a mountain. Poor Mia – which part of NO don’t you understand?

On to the Kotac Nature House, where a dashing showman named Vid Arbanas produces herb-based brandies, a specialty of the region. He led us through a tasting, beginning with the San Hubert, a grape brandy infused with 57 medicinal herbs and seven wild fruits – from strawberries and blueberries to apples and pears. He and his wife forage the ingredients from the wilderness surrounding their home.

By the fourth brandy a few of us were nodding off. Since it was already 2 p.m, we headed for the nearest restaurant, which just happened to be beside a man-made lake.

The elite NYC athlete immediately lobbied for a hike around the lake to replace the hike up the mountain. We could actually see Mt. Risnjak in the distance, its majestic peak covered in snow.

The restaurant was dark and forbidding inside, but the menu had photos and it was translated into English (and German and Italian, and it will soon need to include Japanese and Chinese to accommodate the new wave of Asian tourists), so it was easy to order.

Jayne and I ordered the mushroom soup, which arrived in a bowl big enough to feed all seven of us. Mia ordered venison stew with gnocchi, the most delicious stew I’ve EVER tasted, and James ordered the region’s specialty – frog’s legs – served atop a pile of French fries. They were actually the smallest frog’s legs any of us had seen, and tasted just like sweet, tender chicken.

By now we were thoroughly sick of rain and cold, and gladly headed south to Istria. It was 10 degrees warmer when we arrived at Opatija on the coast, an elegant resort town of grand Austro-Hungarian style hotels and villas built up the slope of a hill overlooking the sea and punctuated by gardens and palm trees. The Hotel Bristol, where we stayed, was one of the loveliest.

Restaurants and caffes lined the seaside promenade, the lungomare, which stretches for 12 kilometres. I walked along the path for awhile, then headed to the road above the town. I spent the next hour looking for narrow stairways that would take me down to the next level rather than into someone’s driveway or tiny backyard.

I caught the last few minutes of Sunday mass at the surprisingly modern cathedral. By the time I reached sea level and the Bristol, across from the beautiful Angiolini Gardens, it was 7:30 and time to meet Washington Jayne for dinner.

I had great hopes for a four-star dinner, but all elegance vanished in the hotel’s sterile, near-empty dining room. The dinner buffet was equally disappointing, though you can always count on the salads! I was hoping the rest of the group had found a pizzeria or seafood restaurant by the water to dine in but no luck – in they came with tales of the fishing village they’d walked to, which I’m sorry I missed. Back to my room to pack and prepare for tomorrow’s adventure, the Great Bike Hike.

Electric boats in national park

waterfall Plitvice Park

Orphan 3-yr old

Today was a walk in the park, literally! We drove a short way to Plitvice Lakes National Park, the largest in Croatia at 284.82 square kilometres, for a three-hour stroll.

Judging from the number of tour buses and the crowds from all over the world pouring through the gate, we were the only ones who’ve never heard of this recently proclaimed UNESCO world natural heritage site.

The weather decided to hold, perhaps because we stopped to buy umbrellas before entering the park. We met our VIP guide, Helena, who explained the intricate way Nature created the various lakes and waterfalls in this unique place. I’m afraid I still don’t understand it, but it has something to do with the calcium carbonate in the water and sediment from plants forming hard barriers over the centuries that diverted the water into bright green pools and thousands of waterfalls.

The air is filled with the roar of rushing water, clean enough to drink, and you can’t pass a waterfall without having your face misted with (so they say) wrinkle-reducing spray.

To preserve the park’s natural habitat yet give visitors a feel of being in nature, the Croatians have built miles of wooden walkways through the water and forest, nailed together one narrow plank at a time, They’re really comfortable to walk on.

Three hours was barely enough time to explore all the water features, and we didn’t check out the park’s hiking trails and meadows. To save time we took an electric boat across one lake, a shuttle bus from one station to the next and another shuttle back to the main entrance, otherwise we’d still be there!

You could really spend days here. Helena said most people take a three-hour bus ride from their cruise ship in Istria and end up spending only two hours in the park. Please don’t do this.

Retro food Plitvice Hotel

After saying goodbye to Helena, we checked into the Hotel Plitvice, one of the old hotels within the park. I kept having flashbacks to our hotel at the Grand Canyon, another national park, with its utilitarian rooms. Even the restaurant was a blast from the past.

We started with a dollop of Russian salad and a few slices of cheese and ham, then a bowl of greasy beef consommé. When did you last even hear the word consommé? The main course was a slab of cooked turkey breast smothered with a thick pale yellow sauce, accompanied by water-logged baby carrots, canned green beans and potato croquettes.

After lunch it was back on the bus for a tour of a cave called Samograd, featuring spectacular stalactites and cathedral ceilings formed by water over millions of years.

The bear refuge left us all uncomfortable, though the nine orphaned bears in their big open enclosures full of trees were having a great time. The volunteer staff of young hippies, don’t know what else to call them, come from all over the world to join the cause, and stay a few weeks or a few years to feed the bears, mend fences and forage for wild food for the animals among other tasks – a young French woman assured us there’s always something to do.

The “owner”, an older Croatian man who’d been a social worker and worked in Germany for awhile before starting the refuge, introduced us to another woman who works in Zagreb but spends every minute she can at the refuge. Another woman, a teacher, spends part of the year in North Carolina and volunteers at a bear refuge there.

Six to 12 of the volunteers live in a tiny house left to them by a family that once owned the land. There’s no heat or running water and they seem to live on air and donations. Some pay their own way to be there.

We left feeling that we hadn’t got the whole story, but we wished the young people well. I suppose we admire them for following their dream of a better society, but worry about what will become of them.

In between all these visits, we’re driving through the most spectacular countryside – hills covered with thick green forests swoop down into wide valleys where sheep graze and gardens grow – onions seem to be a popular crop. There’s an occasional sprinkling of Austrian-style chalets, but I think we’ve seen more sheep than people.

We got back to the hotel around 9 and had another set meal, this time pork schnitzel with the same canned vegetables. Great green salad, though!

Tomorrow’s mountain hike is still up in the air – we’ll have to wait until breakfast to hear our fate.

The colonel

Rastoke potatoes and polenta

Another day, another test – a 2-hour kayak tour of the Mreznica River in rubber canoes. I had a feeling it was not going to be a gentle trip down a calm river!

We met our guide, Mario, at the Museum of Croatian Independence War, an outdoor collection of WW2 tanks and guns and more recent “tanks” fashioned from tractors and vans during the Croatian war of independence from 1990 to 1995. He introduced us to a former Yugoslav colonel in full camouflage fatigues — a fine beer belly hanging over his belt.

I still haven’t a clue what happened, but the phrase Serbian oppression came up several times. Karlovac, where we stopped, was apparently ground zero, and the site was surrounded by the remains of brick houses. As we drove through the area, bullet holes were still visible in the stone facades.

There were also photos of a gorgeous modern museum the locals hope to build one day – though at the rate donations are coming in it may take awhile.

Mario, with his big barrel chest and massive shoulders from 20 years of paddling, led us to Rastoke, a water-logged village of waterfalls and grain mills where all the tour buses stop. Young “fairy” girls in flowing robes and flowered crowns greet every group and offer tours. At a restaurant where grilled trout is the specialty, we sat down for coffee and a “snack.”

The best part was a basket of dense brown bread made by a villager from grains milled in the village. The crust was gritty with cornmeal. It arrived with little triangles of smoked cheese and goat cheese. Then came the hot food – a plate of fried polenta triangles and thin oval slices of grilled potatoes, another local specialty. Oh, if only every potato had this much flavour.

As we drove toward the river, the rain began. Not enough to take seriously, but it wasn’t quite the hot sunny day we’d hoped for.  Mario’s team was waiting with the boats. They handed us neoprene wetsuits to put on in the van – it was like putting on a thick, heavy bodysuit – followed by neoprene socks, to go under my brand new water shoes. We had to leave the warmth of the car to put on helmets and waterproof jackets. A woman on the team strapped me into my life jacket. Can you breathe? she asked, pulling the straps tight. We could hear the roar of rapids below us. It was now or ever!

First step, dragging the long heavy rubber canoes down a rocky hill to the water’s edge. I’m not sure why the strapping young guys didn’t do this while waiting for us, but I suppose it’s all part of the Experience.

By now it was pouring rain, but since we were about to get wet, it really didn’t matter anymore. The boys slid the canoes in the water and we slid down the side of the waterfall to get into them. I was paired with a cute young guy named Gelvik or some such – honestly this language!

As we started down the river, me at the front doing my best imitation of paddling and G at the back, steering, it began to thunder. Surely not a good sign.  About 5 minutes later we made our first stop, just before a bigger waterfall. One by one, they asked us to walk in the water, holding onto the rock when necessary to avoid being swept into the current, to a point overlooking the falls. Which we did, feeling each stone with our shoes before taking a step.

When we all reached the lookout point, the conversation began in earnest. Stay or go? Even Mario admitted it wasn’t wise to paddle down a river with metal paddles, soaking wet, in the middle of a thunderstorm. The sky was leaden and the rain showed no sign of letting up.

Though I hated the thought of giving up after we’d driven all the way there and gone to the trouble of suiting up, (and I still have to produce an Adventure Travel story!) I was rather relieved when Mia, who’s responsible for our safety,  agreed that we should turn back. Jayne, Cheryl and I, immediately complied, feeling our way once more through the water until we reached the beached canoes.

But things had changed again. Apparently the two intrepid New Yorkers, one an ultra-elite athlete, decided they weren’t going to let a little rain stop them, and insisted on continuing. Mia had to go with them, and Mario left us with Bruno, who was charged with taking us to a nearby farmhouse where we could wait for the others to finish.

As we reached the top of the hill, we realized our secret fantasy of retrieving warm, dry clothes from the van was not to be. The van was gone! We had no choice but to trudge up the hill in our wetsuits. By then the rain had slowed and it actually looked brighter, making us feel even more like wimps.

The howling of nine big furry dogs greeted us at the farmhouse. Fortunately the owners, Anita and Branko, speak English well and know Mario’s crew, and they immediately welcomed us into their old one-room stone house, not much bigger than a garage.  They’d turned it into a kitchen, dining area with picnic area and sitting room, where we sat in front of an upright oil drum turned into a wood stove to warm up.

Anita said they own a bigger house in the village but they prefer living here, closer to their sheep, cows and horses. And dogs. She made tea in a big saucepan, and Branko, tall and handsome with bright wild eyes, urged us to add a shot of probably home-made brandy in brown beer bottles. We declined.

Since we were probably their only visitors that day, and North Americans to boot, Branko launched into his thoughts on global warning (rubbish, he says, it’s all to do with the magnetic pole changing) and used old American movies we’d never heard of starring Bruce Willis and Al Pacino, to advance his conspiracy theories. Jayne and I let Cam talk to him, while we chatted with Anita, who has a sister in Ohio, and petted her two “inside” dogs as the storm raged outside, with more thunder and lashing rain.

Two hours later – I had no clue what time it was since I’d left my watch in the van – our saviours arrived with the van. By the time we met the others, freezing cold but exhilarated by their trip, we were dressed and feeling human again. It was now 4 p.m. and time for lunch!

By the time we drove to the hut where a group of hippie kids was grilling fresh whole trout for us, the weather had changed again. Blue skies with warm, bright sunshine. Aargh!

fresh grilled trout

We started with homemade bread and two dips, a trout pate and foraged wild leek pesto. They served the trout with roast potatoes, cabbage slaw and zucchini salad. Four hours later we were dining again, this time at our new hotel. T. C. Marko. Another feast, this one a platter of spit-roasted lamb cut into chunks with more great potatoes and bread and a delicious soup flecked with bits of lamb liver.

After a few beers, Mario just happened to mention that our new friend Branko was a former mafia boss, one reason why he lived in such an isolated place. We asked for details but he wouldn’t say anymore, perhaps fearing he might get his legs broken?

We went to bed at midnight in our frigid rooms, exhausted but not hungry.

Riding Segways in Zagreb

Breakfast at Zagreb’s Hotel Esplanade is a splendid affair. Every uniformed staff member in the dining room says hello amid a sea of white tablecloths under chandeliers. There’s sparkling wine and fresh-squeezed orange juice chilling at the buffet if you care to start the day with a mimosa.

Out on the terrace on an unusually cool grey day, guide Marco awaited to take us on a city tour via Segway. We’d all seen the battery powered stick on two wheels but never tried them. After a few minutes’ practice we were zooming up hills with ease, threading our way between people on the sidewalk and gliding between the tram tracks in the middle of the street. It’s easy peasy … stand up straight, lean forward to go (up to 20 km), lean back to stop and move the handlebar slightly to turn left or right. Five hidden gyroscopes under your feet constantly “read” your body weight and keep you upright.

The tour ended in a chic coffee shop where we had to taste the cakes! Like the Viennese who once ruled them, Croatians have a sweet tooth and are magnificent bakers. Wedges of double chocolate torte, almond cream, chocolate raspberry and cheesecake soon filled the table. The cappuccinos here are strong!

Back at the hotel, Mia gave us 30 minutes for lunch. Cam from Spokane needed money so I showed her the underground shopping centre next door where she found an ATM and I found a bakery – there’s one on every corner – where we bought ham and cheese baguette sandwiches to munch. The crusty bread was sooo good.

Time to hit the mountain for our 20 km downhill bike tour, the one I’d worried about since receiving the “soft adventure” schedule a month ago. After a long, winding car ride up the mountain, we met our guide from Blue Bike tours. As I wobbled around trying out the jumpy brakes of the mountain bike I’d chosen, I told him I don’t own a bike and haven’t been on one for years.

His response: “You don’t have a bike? So you will be killed by the end of this day?”

Well, yes, something like that. But I’m happy to report that I did survive … barely.

As we hit the forest trail I hit the brakes – as softly as I could – and kept them there for most of the downhill runs. Rocks and sticks became my enemy, and I tried to steer my beast around them as delicately as I could. Then there were the many deep muddy trenches left by three-wheeled ATV machines, which left us manoeuvring on a narrow track. When that failed I learned that it’s perfectly okay to get off the bike and walk. Man, those bikes are heavy when you have to push them! They also have a mind of their own. So many times, no matter how well I steered the wheels headed toward the rut, or toward the edge of the trail where even the trees hung on for dear life.

Occasionally, after turning a corner and finding myself facing yet another steep descent with no end in sight, I froze with fear and had to stop and convince myself that I really could do it. Another big breath (there was much exhaling through ballooned cheeks and many variations of GRRRRR) and on I went.

The guide at one point advised me to put all my weight on the handlebars for maximum stability, which is probably the source of my sore shoulders today. And here I’d been worried about my knees!

I never did learn to properly use the gears on both handlebars, though Mia tried valiantly to teach me, and ended up gliding most of the way down instead of pedaling. By the last hour I was walking the bike uphill rather than struggling with pedals, but turned into quite the daredevil on smooth downhill runs, almost daring sticks to get in my way! I can’t tell you anything about the terrain, since I spent the entire trip focussed on the trail a few feet ahead.

Nearly two hours later, we reached the rest stop at Glavica, where we gratefully took off our helmets and rested our beasts before heading inside for bottles of water. My cami, polar fleece top and jacket were almost wringing wet! From fear, I suspect.

A few steps from the hut lay the entrance to a famous cave. Trading our bike helmets for construction helmets, we followed a new guide, who’d appeared with a key to the wrought iron gate in front. He was very enthusiastic about his subject but I’m afraid I spent more time trying not to bump my head on the ceiling than listening to him.

Since it was getting dark, our hosts decided not to make us cycle the rest of the way into town. Instead, they called taxis to return us to the hotel. We didn’t get back to the Esplanade until 8:30 and it was close to 10 when we finished our first course in the elegant dining room … the famous cottage-cheese filled strudel-like Stuckli doused with cream. There was nettle and green tea soup, a square of perfectly cooked sea bass in a savoury broth and a strawberry mille feuille for dessert. The local wines were the evening’s stars, though the only name I remember is something like plavics mali. Yes, language is still proving to be a problem.

I left the restaurant at midnight and don’t know when the New Yorkers called it quits – they were both pretty quiet this morning. I took an extra-strength Advil as a precaution and finally turned off the light at 1:30 after a few more chapters of Dan Brown’s Inferno, which I proceeded to dream about for hours. Calm sleep finally came between 4:30 and the 7:30 alarm.

Zagreb symbol

Ribice dinner Zagreb

Greetings from Zagreb, Croatia, first leg in this week’s Survivor-meets-Amazing-Race press trip.

The first test was the night flight over. No more business class for me … it was back of the Air Canada bus with mystery beef, a lousy selection of movies we couldn’t hear through the earphones provided and a truly uncomfortable seat for the 7 hour flight to Munich.

The highlight of that long night was being moved to an exit row seat beside a wonderful accountant from Newmarket. She was heading to the south of France for a hiking expedition and, like me, hadn’t trained for it at all though we both bought nearly the same Merrell hiking shoes!

We plan to compare notes when we get home. We ended up having lunch together during a four-hour layover in Munich after she missed her connecting flight by minutes.

It was wet, cold and windy when I left Munich, yet an hour later – a hop over the mountains – Zagreb was gloriously green and a sunny 22C. A lovely sweaty guy whose name I can’t pronounce drove me to the Hotel Esplanade, built in 1925 for passengers of the Orient Express. Though I was tempted to lounge in the vast five-star room with a marble bathroom the size of my living room at home, I forced myself out for a walk to celebrate my only few hours of free time for the next week.

I love Zagreb! It’s laid out in a grid, which makes it hard to get lost, and the downtown is the perfect size for a few hours’ walk. Like so many great European cities, the buildings are massive and grand, some a whole block long, with sculpted edges and ochre facades. Yet when you walk north into the old town, the scale shrinks to quaint little two-storey businesses on pedestrian-only streets filled with umbrellas and tables. Every one was filled with locals and tourists enjoying a coffee or beer. The cafes were still full around 7:30 when I got serious about finding some dinner, so I figure Zagrebians/Zagrebites? must eat late.

I sought restaurant advice from a lovely local named Marta who’d opened a fine food shop called Pantry just three weeks before. She said expats are thrilled to find Heinz beans and cheddar cheese, and she sells beautifully-packaged truffle products if I need something to take home.

Though it’s impossible to decipher written Croatian, especially on the first day, everyone speaks wonderful English. Marta gave me a few names of restaurants serving fresh seafood, and we found them on the map which made things really easy. I didn’t even mind that the fish dishes at Ribice i tri tockice all came with English translations – when you’re about to be seriously jet-lagged in a new country, a restaurant catering to tourists is welcome!

The tall waiter in the flowing white shirt, a burgundy sash around his waist, offered to speak English, French, Italian or German, whatever I wanted. When I told him I was from Canada he said Kitchener? Montreal? Toronto?

With his help I chose grilled orata and a plate of grilled vegetables. He cleaned the fish at the table so I didn’t have to deal with bones, and brought a little sauceboat of minced garlic in olive oil to sprinkle over top. I have to say it was the Best Fish Ever. Pure white and almost fluffy, mild and sweet. I even ate the skin, crisp and sweet as candy.

I still don’t know how much 65 kunas is – haven’t done the math – but it was worth every one, and went well with the chilled glass of whatever red wine he brought. I tipped 20 kunas on the 107 kn bill, not knowing if I was being generous or cheap! Guess I’d better get that straightened out pretty quick.

I’m trying not to look at the corner of my screen, which says it’s 5:43 p.m in Toronto while my watch says 11:45 p.m. Croatia time. With a gruelling press trip about to officially begin in a few hours, I definitely need my beauty sleep!

Shrimp and fava salad

If there were a design award for legumes, the fava bean would win hands down.

Crack open a shiny green pod and you’ll understand why. Each bean is nestled in a velvety white bed attached to a jaunty nightcap that snaps off when you release the bean from its cosy nook.

Favas also win the award for the most time-consuming preparation since they’re peeled twice. Europeans may nibble raw baby favas as an appetizer, but the fresh beans we get from California or closer to home have a tough skin that benefits from a quick blanch in boiling water before use.

Nick the skin and pop out the brilliant green inner bean for an instant hit of spring.

Fresh favas lend a nutty, slightly bitter goodness to spring salads and pasta, and they love splashing around in olive oil with other fleeting edibles, from asparagus and morels to baby artichokes.

These buttery beauties are only around for a few weeks, so if you spy an overflowing bushel at a fruit and vegetable store, be sure to grab some.

Fresh favas lend a nutty, slightly bitter goodness to spring salads and pasta, and they love splashing around in olive oil with other fleeting edibles, from asparagus (now in season) and morels to baby artichokes.

International starThe Chinese have been eating favas for 5,000 years, fresh or fried and salted like peanuts. Romans serve fresh faba, meaning bean, in a classic spring dish with artichokes. The Brits call them broad beans and the French gourganes.

My first lunch in Apulia, in the heel of Italy’s boot, was a puddle of warm beige purée of dried split favas served with a tangle of boiled bitter greens — the famous fave e cicoria. Egyptians use super-nutritious dried favas in their national dish ful medames.

Buy

Look for plump shiny green pods. Since 90 per cent of each one will go to compost, buy lots.

Run your thumb down the leathery pod to ensure it’s full of beans and not blanks.

A hint of rusty colouring is fine, but the “rustier” the pod gets the older the bean will be.

Prep

Cut off the top and bottom of each pod and pull down any strings.

Press the seam from top to bottom and open pod to remove beans.

Cook beans in lots of boiling water for 1 minute. Drain in colander and rinse under cold water to stop the cooking.

Pinch off a bit of skin at the bottom of each bean and gently squeeze out the inner bean. Round up kids or friends to help, or shell favas while chatting on the phone or watching TV.

Store

Refrigerate whole pods in a bag for several days.

Blanch and peel favas one day ahead and refrigerate in a zipper bag.

To store longer, freeze blanched favas in a small plastic container.

Snack-It
High in protein and fibre and low in fat and calories, fresh favas make a perfect snack.

For a delicious dip, purée 1 cup (250 mL) blanched, shelled fava beans with 3 tbsp (45 mL) olive oil, a squeeze of lemon juice and a dash of salt and pepper. Thin with water.

Serve
Sprinkle blanched, skinned favas as an accent with any lamb dish.

Add to a spring salad dressed with olive oil and lemon juice and top with shaved pecorino or Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

Stir into pasta or risotto.

Gently simmer fresh beans in a little butter, cream or olive oil. Season with fresh herbs such as mint, savory, thyme or sage.

Go wild with a ragout of wild leeks, morels and blanched, peeled pearl onions.

Soak and use dried favas in falafels in place of or in addition to dried chickpeas.

Shrimp and Fava Salad
Add some spring to your long weekend with this spectacular green-on-green salad adapted from Epicurious.com. I found fresh favas on the Danforth, a container of mâche salad mix at Loblaws, Compliments frozen Pacific white shrimp at Sobeys and superb oil at the Olive Oil Emporium, 1707 Bayview Ave.

1 tsp (5 mL) honey

1/2 tsp (2 mL) Dijon mustard

2 tbsp (30 mL) fresh lime juice

1 tbsp (15 mL) chopped fresh tarragon leaves

1/3 cup (75 mL) extra-virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

1.5 lb. (675 g) fresh fava beans, shelled (about 11/2 cups/375 mL)

1/2 lb. (250 g) asparagus, trimmed and cut diagonally into 2-inch (5 cm.) pieces

20 medium shrimp, thawed if frozen

6 cups (1.5 L) pre-washed mâche (lamb’s lettuce) or blend of greens

Garnish:
1 tbsp (15 mL) finely chopped fresh chives

For the dressing, in small bowl whisk together honey, mustard, lime juice and tarragon. Whisk in oil slowly until thick and season with salt and pepper. May be prepared one day ahead and refrigerated. Bring to room temperature to serve.

For the salad, fill large bowl with ice and cold water. Bring large saucepan of salted water to a boil on high heat. Add favas and cook 2 minutes. With slotted spoon, transfer to ice water to stop cooking. Drain favas and pinch to remove outer skin. Transfer bright green beans to large serving bowl; discard skins.

Add more ice to bowl. Bring cooking water back to boil and cook asparagus 2 minutes or until crisp-tender. Transfer to ice water with slotted spoon. Drain and pat dry with paper towels.

Return water to a boil and cook shrimp until just pink and curled, about 2 minutes. Drain and cool on paper towels. Shell and devein if necessary.

In bowl with favas, toss asparagus, shrimp and greens with just enough dressing to coat everything. Garnish with chives and serve immediately with remaining dressing on the side.

Makes 4 servings.

emerging fiddleheads

fiddlehead frittata

Move over broccoli, it’s fiddlehead season!

These tightly coiled fronds, wrapped in copper-coloured kerchiefs that glint in the sun, are a sure sign of spring.

Leave them a day or two and they’ll unfurl into an elegant fern any shade garden would love if they weren’t so invasive.

Nick Secord, president of NorCliff Farms Inc., has transplanted more than 300,000 ostrich ferns (Matteuccia Struthiopteris) in the damp woods surrounding his palatial home outside Port Colborne, on Lake Erie.

The farm, fed by artificial ponds, is a showcase for chefs and prospective buyers who come from around the world to see how the wild plants grow and perhaps harvest a few pounds to take home.

It’s a smart business move, since much of Secord’s hand-picked crop is accessible only by canoe and requires crawling through the bush on your knees.

Close to 500 pickers fan out over low-lying areas of the Ottawa Valley, New Brunswick and Quebec, harvesting up to 40,000 pounds (18,000 kg) of dark green fiddleheads on a good day. Their catch is trucked to NorCliff’s modern plant northeast of Montreal to be cleaned, washed and graded.

Harvesting in different areas gives Secord a six-week season for his precious crop, available in supermarkets across North America.

Our late spring has delayed the season, but on a visit last week we could clearly see nubbles of emerald green fern emerging from the stumps of last year’s plants.

Look for fresh fiddleheads in Toronto stores next week.

Nutrition plus

Canada’s fiddlehead expert, Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada scientist Dr. John DeLong, says this wild green vegetable contains omega-3 fatty acids and twice the disease-fighting antioxidants of blueberries.

Fiddleheads are also a good source of dietary fibre and contain iron, Vitamin A and Vitamin C, says DeLong, based in Kentville, N.S.

Naming rights

Long enjoyed by First Nations people and Maritimers, fiddleheads resemble the curved neck of a violin, or fiddle. They’re also native to parts of B.C., Ontario and Quebec.

Taste

I find fiddleheads have a strong spinach taste. Secord likens them to asparagus or broccoli when boiled and to more bitter spinach or rapini when steamed. Others taste a hint of artichoke.

Prep
•Serve cooked fiddleheads hot with a drizzle of melted butter or olive oil and a squeeze of lemon.

•For brunch, add to a frittata, omelette or quiche, or make delicious soup.

•Try fiddlehead salad with diced tomatoes and a lemon- garlic vinaigrette.

•Power up your smoothie with the fruity recipe from NorCliff’s website.

•To freeze, clean fiddleheads and blanch for two minutes in boiling water. Plunge into cold water to stop cooking. Drain and pack in freezer containers or bags for up to one year. Cook from frozen.

Health alert
Like morels and other wild foods, fiddleheads should never be eaten raw. Wash them well and cook them properly to prevent possible stomach upset. Health Canada recommends boiling them 15 minutes or steaming 10 to 12 minutes before eating. Secord cooks his 8 to 10 minutes, until tender.

Know your ferns

Don’t be fooled by the many types of ferns. The cinnamon fern, with its pale white or creamy fuzz, could make you sick. DeLong recommends picking ostrich fern tops when they’re tightly-curled and under 10 to 12 cm. (5 to 6 inches) high. Don’t be greedy — pick three heads from each plant so there will be plenty for next year.

Shake’em!
Cleaning foraged fiddleheads is a pain. The easiest way to remove the papery husk is to place dry fiddleheads in a sieve or in an apron outdoors and give them a good shake. Pick off the rest by hand and trim the woody stem before washing under cold water. NorCliff uses an elaborate system of fans and sprays to ensure they’re sold ready to cook.

Fiddlehead Frittata
Fiddleheads and eggs are a natural for a spring brunch. Impatient for the start of foraging season, I threw in handful of dried morels from last year, reconstituting them in hot water 30 minutes before sautéing.

1 cup (250 mL) fiddleheads, cleaned and trimmed

1 tbsp (15 mL) butter

1 tbsp (15 mL) olive oil

1 shallot, minced

1 cup (250 mL) sliced cremini mushrooms or cleaned, halved fresh morels

1/2 tsp (2 mL) salt

1/4 tsp (1 mL) freshly ground pepper

1 tbsp (15 mL) freshly chopped parsley

6 eggs

1/4 to 1/2 cup (60-125 mL) soft goat cheese, crumbled

Bring water to a boil and cook fiddleheads 10 minutes, until tender. Drain.

Heat butter and olive oil in a 10-inch (25 cm.) non-stick skillet on medium heat. Sauté shallots 2 minutes, until limp. Add mushrooms, salt and pepper and sauté 5 minutes, stirring constantly, until tender. Add parsley.

Position rack in upper third of oven; preheat broiler to high.

Beat eggs in medium bowl. Pour over fiddlehead mixture and cook 2 to 3 minutes — lifting edges gently to let the uncooked egg to flow underneath — until bottom is golden.

Crumble goat cheese on top and transfer pan to oven (cover handle with foil if not ovenproof). Broil just until set and golden on top, 2 to 3 minutes. Watch carefully. Let sit 3 minutes before serving.

Makes 2 servings.