I often dream of a fictional land. Actually it’s a tiny island. For centuries the inhabitants of the island have lived what seems to me as perfectly as one can. Spring is nothing short of heaven. Summer sizzles, but makes it all the more delightful to wile away the days in the cool beach waters. Fall is sweet surrender when the final days of Summer become unbearable. Winter is pleasantly mild, but cold enough so that the breaking of Spring is quietly anticipated.

Although the island’s climes provide a wonderful backdrop, it is simply the musical score to its rich history and culture of gastronomy. To the islanders, food is far more than sustenance. Food is a means to celebrate life. Food is respected and taken seriously—from the ritual of its preparation to the china upon which it is served. Meals are regarded for their pleasure and importance and most often taken outdoors, not far from the gardens from whence they came. No matter what ills the islanders are dealt, the promise of a lusty meal and indulgent libations is never far away, and ultimately the body and soul are restored.
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