My Basil Hates Me

Basil and I usually have an ongoing love affair. I buy it fancy fertilizer and see to it that we have some quality happy hour time together. In return, it gives me big, shiny, green leaves that make me gaze lovingly at the fluffy Chiffonade on my cutting board. This year — bad news folks, the love affair is over, my basil hates me! It’s been playing hard-to-get all summer and no amount of purebred, exotic animal dung, nor Miracle Grow cocktails, seem to be able to bring it out of its funk. So my garden hose and I took a break, only showing up about every other night.  Basil barely noticed. 



Pineapple Sage & Clementines-so happy together!



Then I saw my sage. It was over in the corner, nursing the last of its watered down drink. It called my name, asked me my sign and may have even winked at me, so I said, "Whatcha doing later tonight?" “What you dewin?” it said. Good God! My sage is from Jersey?!? Talk about being put on the spot! This was not just your basic fuzzy, Thanksgiving variety that-you-put-in-the-stuffing-sage. Nope, for some crazy reason, this year I planted pineapple sage, so now I had to ask myself, what does one do with pineapple sage? 
     Not about to be intimidated by a little herb (unless that little herb is basil), I picked a handful of the stuff and then rummaged through the pantry and freezer until I came up with the idea of Macadamia Nut Crusted Mahi-Mahi with Clementine Salsa and…wait for it….Pineapple Sage Orzo. Genius, I know! Cooking note here: Just between you and me, I would have preferred to do a pineapple salsa, but I had some Clementines that were nearing their 'use me or lose me' date, and I hate throwing out food that talks to me, so I had no choice but to comply.

     We were pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be a wonderful combination! My official life-long taste tester declared that "it didn’t suck", which is code at our table for, "pass the plate, I'll have a second helping, please". 

     And by the way, if basil and pineapple sage ever decide to get in the dirt together, my money says pineapple sage will kick basil's butt!

Macadamia Nut Crusted Mahi-Mahi with Clementine Salsa & Pineapple Sage Orzo

I know pineapple sage isn't likely to be in your grocery store, so if I was to make this dish again (and if my sage was past its prime) I would substitute regular sage and cook the orzo with some pineapple juice added to the water; or add a little of the juice after you pull it off the heat. I think some crushed pineapple added to the orzo would also work. The nice surprise for me was that pineapple and sage make a lovely couple! (Note about the jalapeno oil in this recipe...getcha some! It's delish in a salsa or in mashed potatoes.) Go to the "Seafood" tab at the top of this page to view it. Let me know if like it! 

Dear Paisley,

I was in the room when you entered this world; raw, shocked, screaming bloody murder and completely unaware that those witnessing your arrival were already madly in love with you. Your first cries were matched by my own; sounds that escaped from somewhere south of my soul, about a half a second after I heard your first cry. Both of us, making sounds that were completely involuntary and foreign to our own ears. Mine came with an intensity that matched yours, only less shrill. 

    Your beautiful mothers’ weeping was barely audible in a room that was suddenly filled with chaos and joy. Three generations of us cried for a hundred different reasons. The pain of child birth was overshadowed by the fear of the unknown, and the fear of the unknown was overshadowed by the amazement of bringing life into the world, which was overshadowed by loving you so much that it hurt. And on it went; a merry-go-round of emotions that started and ended with love, but included the ups and downs of fear, elation, uncertainty, joy, trepidation and happiness.  

    My world, as I knew it, was knocked it off its axis with your arrival. From that moment on I knew that I would live my life with your well-being in mind. Now, when I lay awake at night I wonder if you are sleeping. When I close my eyes I see your face and I dream of your future and pray for your safety.  

   I anticipate your accomplishments, dread your heartaches and promise to keep your secrets. I look forward to the day when you say my name, the day when you run to me and wrap your little arms around my neck, and the day that you climb up the leg of a horse and ride into an arena all by yourself.

    I want to share sticky bites of candy with you and laugh at our own private jokes...and cry with you over booboos, broken toys and broken hearts. The thought of feeling my hand wrapped around yours as we hold onto a wooden spoon together and go around a bowl, makes this big, bad world feel like a safer place. The truth is, I am terrified of the world that you will grow up in because I know that it will be cruel and that it hurt you. 

  Just watching you sleeping in your mothers arms causes me to make promises to you that I will die trying to keep. 

   Paisley, of this one thing I am certain: I promise to cherish every moment that God gives me with you.

   Love always, 

   Your Grandma Tammi       

She May Be Wright, We May Be Crazy

Sierra has finally found Mr. Wright. No joke, after all these years she is finally Wright…Mrs. Wright to be exact, and she has the papers to prove it. If you know Sierra, you know that she would never have settled for anything less. 

Heidi Klum, Big & me  

On August 22nd at Della Terra Mountain Chateau in Estes Park, Sierra and Aaron stood before God and their family and friends and committed their lives to each other. The ceremony was short and sweet and the prayers for no rain were answered, even though the evening sky threatened otherwise. The setting was straight out of a storybook and I can honestly say that I have never seen Sierra look more beautiful, or as happy as she did on that day.

     The Big Guy was looking pretty darn good himself, in that tux, and he was just a wee bit emotional as he walked her down the aisle. Sierra was absolutely stunning in her gown and Aaron coulda/shoulda been arrested for looking so darn handsome. Had there been any cops on hand (ahem) I’m sure he would have been!

Sierra & her Uncle Saul

I’m thankful that our families and friends from all across the country were there to share in this celebration, and even our adopted German daughter, Heidi Klum (who went by the alias of “Julia”, while in the U.S.) came from across the pond to get down with us country folks! Speaking of, we had way too much fun at the reception, and P.S.…my crazy relatives know how to par-tay! The photo booth was a definite hit, and had we not all been related, I would have had blackmail worthy pictures of most of the guests, because there was a whole lotta kissin going on behind that curtain!

Sierra & Grandma Shirley

     Big and I were a little choked up to see our baby girl all grown up and looking so….married. Had we not shanghaied her (read: OUR) American Express card earlier, we would have been ever more choked up. In all honesty, we are very happy for Sierra and Aaron and Eliza; they are a  beautiful family and we wish them a lifetime of love and happiness! 

Click on this link to see a video of the wedding. To see all the pictures from the wedding and reception, click on this one. You may have to create a user name and password and/or enter the date (August 22, 2010) and their names.

Now, about that blackmail—if you're not a kissin cousin, you may receive a cryptic letter in a plain white envelope with no return address, call me…we’ll set up a meeting…bring bills... big ones...no cops...    

                                              

Pimp My Burger

The lovely Bride-To-Be

The truth is that I am not a purest when it comes to burgers. Yes, I want the meat to be sensational and I’ll smack anyone with a spatula if they attempt to flatten, poke or overcook my fat and happy burger, but in my opinion a burger is not a burger without a piece of cheese, a sauce, and two or three vegetables on top of it. In other words, I like my burger pimped out.  

Wagyu Gold

     When The Bride To Be, (aka  Daughter #1) said she thought that we should do something easy, like grill some burgers, for the 40 or so guests that would be at the Rehearsal Dinner, all I heard were the words "Gourmet Burger Bar”, going ding, ding, ding, in my head. I can hear you now, asking, why on earth would the mother-of-the-bride want to spend the day before THE BIG DAY cooking? Well, I can give you three good reasons: 1. I love to cook for a party, 2. I am an over achiever and 3. I was over budget, so having it catered was out of the question. Pssshhh…I can do this in my sleep, I told The Bride To Be.

     First off, we had to have some killer sauces. I made a chimichurri—full of fresh parsley, oregano, a little cilantro, a lot of garlic, some lemon juice and olive oil. Then my favorite— roasted tomato ketchup, which consists of roasted Roma tomatoes, jalapeno, cilantro, red onion, and some other secret ingredients. I also made a pesto aioli (with homemade pesto, mind you), and a chili aioli (the “chili” being Sambal Oelek), which in my house for the last 15 years or so, we have referred to as “Snakebite Sauce.” It’s simple and wicked good on everything from burgers to potatoes to deep fried anything to straight off your finger. I also doctored up a store bought BBQ sauce with some celery seed, white wine vinegar, and liquid smoke and finally a Marinara sauce, courtesy of Emeril.

Rubbertoe, working it

     The toppings tray was filled with sautéed garlic mushrooms, caramelized onions, bacon, pepperoni, avocado, plus the traditional stuff like lettuce, tomato, onion and mustards.

     And then there were the cheeses—oh Lordy the cheeses! Co-jack, smoked Gouda, Provolone, Swiss, Sharp Cheddar, Pepper Jack, and Blue.  And finally, the star of the Gourmet Burger Bar was 15 pounds of Wagyu ground beef that I lovingly formed into big fat beautiful patties that were grilled just until the juices started to run.

    Most of the guests had never had Wagyu beef before and they couldn’t stop raving about it! I took the opportunity to wallow in the fact that my freezer is full of 100% Wagyu gold. Everyone with a heartbeat noted the finer texture, the deeper flavor (oh my God the flavor!), and those juices! These beauties were perfectly cooked by the tag team of Rubbertoe and The Baby Daddy, and then dressed up to the hilt. Pimped out or not, these lovely patties are better than any meat that you will find on any corner. 

I usually make this chimichurri and roasted tomato ketchup to go with a marintated and grilled flank steak.  According to me and the 40 or so burger connoisseurs at the Rehearsal Dinner, these sauces were just as yummy on a burger. Go to the "Misc. Recipes" tab at the top of this page to view the recipes for these two sauces.  If you want the recipe for my Snakebite sauce, contact me and I'll give it to you.

    

Sturgis ~ Been There, Done That

     I am usually a been there, done that kind of gal, especially when it comes to things that I don’t really want to go and do again, like the Sturgis Bike Rally. No matter, I have let myself get talked into going at least 3 times in the past 25 years.

     Unless you have been living under a rock for most of this past century, you know about Bike Week in Sturgis, SD. This year marks the 70th year that scooter trash from around the world will make the pilgrimage to the Black Hills.

     The first time I went, I went willingly. The Big Guy had ridden his Harley to Sturgis, and a few days later I drove myself over. We had plans to meet up at the McDonalds and then go from there. Before you take away my certified food snob card, I'll tell you it was NOT to eat, it was just the “meeting” place. Anyway, I’m usually not one to be intimidated by big guys with tattoos wearing Harley shirts, mostly because I’m married to one, but let me just say that I was scared shitless. McDonalds was full of bad-ass looking hombres, and not one of them was my hombre. I looked very un-bikerish in my casual, cute, going-to-a-BBQ clothes—or maybe I just looked like I was from another planet, I’m not sure, but guys wearing vests and do-rags were staring. My biker man finally showed up and if I hadn’t have been so glad to see him, I would have killed him for making me wait for 30 minutes, while I felt like bear bait. Besides my clothes not fitting in, (mostly because I was wearing some) I went ahead and demonstrated the classic, novice biker, uncool move, by immediately burning my calf on the tailpipe as I got on the back of Big’s bike, which caused me to perform the next uncool biker move—scream like a girl. I don’t remember much else about that trip, but I still have the burn scar as a souvenir.

     It was 5 or 6 years later before my biker man talked me into going again. He also talked me into camping at Hog Heaven…in a tent and you know I hate camping! All night long music blared and Hell’s Angel wanna-be’s revved their engines. As if that wasn’t enough to make me want to slit my wrists, he dumped his bike over and ejected me off it. We were barely moving, so it was no big deal, but I still put a knot on his head just for the principle of it. He promised to never drink beer and ride the Harley at the same time again and I promised to stop using my brand new, pink helmet for head butting. Besides the pink helmet, I came home with chaps and a tattoo, but overall I still thought Sturgis sucked.

Sturgis finest

     It should be noted here that The Big Guy has gone to the Rally every year since 1987, with the exception of 1994, 2007, and 2009. He's a die-hard and he loves Sturgis for the Indian Tacos almost as much as he loves it for the drags (races, not queens) and for the great bands that play every night at the Buffalo Chip. Right about now you must be thinking I’m clueless to make such an idiotic statement, because Sturgis is as much about the chicks as it is the bikes. It’s kind of like saying you buy Playboy for the articles. Well, if you’ve seen one Miss Buffalo Chip, you’ve seen em all and what I learned about Sturgis after my first trip is that the girls not wearing clothes are the ones who really should be. I’ve seen better looking ladies on Hollywood Boulevard…oh wait…they were drag queens. Don’t get me wrong, there are beautiful women there, like there are everywhere, just not as many.

Yes, he is getting a tattoo

     So, every year he invites me to ride along and every year I decline. The last time I manged to hold out for about 10 years before I finally agreed to go, mostly because he promised me a hotel room and something besides an Indian Taco to eat. The Road Kill Café was not exactly what I had in mind, but hey, I can be bikerish when I have to be, so I bellied up.

Our friend, Dennis,
 riding the Needles Highway

     Truthfully, Sturgis is much more than the greatest freak show on earth. Yes you will see a lot of big, hairy guys walking around noshing on turkey legs and there are bound to be some big hairy woman street fighting. But there are also beautiful custom bikes with unbelievable paint jobs, the best rock bands in the world, and even some Playboy worthy girls. If you haven’t been there, you should go—at least once. The best part and the real reason that I have been there at least three times, is for the ride on the scenic Needles Highway and through beautiful Custer State Park. The trip wouldn’t be complete with out a ride past Mt Rushmore and Crazy Horse.

     This last time I went I got a sunburn and a fake ponytail. I was even, sorta-kinda starting to look the part. I won't admit it in a court of law, but I may have even liked Sturgis, but no need to go there this year. Been there, done that.

Grilled corn with Green Goddess Butter
and with Parm-Herb Butter

I'm not a real street food lover (unless it's from an authentic roach coach), but if I was going to do food for bikers, and sell it at Sturgis, I would make corn on the cob, with gourmet butters. Two of my favorites are Green Godess Butter (from Cuisine Magazine) and Parmesan-Herb Butter (from my own kitchen). Corn is in season now, so try it. You may never go back to plain old butter! Go to the "Soups-Salads-Sides" tab at the top of this page to view it. 

My Daughter Is A Triathlete ~ Call 911

She did it!

So—my daughter—the one who is prone to having seizures on the treadmill, tells me that she is “training for a triathlon”. There is nothing like those four words to strike fear in the heart of a mother who has a daughter with a seizure disorder. It’s not the running or biking that scares me, it’s the swimming. Minor road rash isn’t likely to be fatal, but have a seizure in a lake and it isn’t going to be pretty. Needless to say, I was less than thrilled with this news.

     First off, I have never understood why people run. I mean, for no reason. I’m not stupid, I can see running if someone is chasing you…with a gun. But if no one is, then c’mon, seriously people, why would you run??? I’m not knocking it without having tried it. I did it once when no gun was even involved and I’m here to tell you that my knees and my boobs didn’t like it one little bit. The truth is I have no desire to break a sweat unless Macy’s is having a clearance sale. 

After the bike race

     So let’s talk about biking—the kind you pedal. I love biking—just not the kind you pedal. The Big Guy has a Harley, so I can honesty say that I have actual biking credentials, such as a helmet. The down side to my kind of biking? A bad hair day. The up side? No spandex shorts with a maxi pad sewn in the crotch. Nuff said?

     Swimming. Ahhh, yes, at last a sport that I can get into! I happen to have my very own personal flotation devices and am quite comfortable in the water. Especially if the cabana boy brings drinks around every hour or so.

     So, when Sierra told me that she WANTED to do a triathlon and there was no gun or blackmail involved, I could only assume that her last fall off the treadmill had caused a head injury.

     Before I went into panic mode, I decided to assess the situation and see what I could do to put the brakes on it. The short answer—not a damn thing. 1. she is too big to spank; 2. I can’t take away the keys to her car (something about the title being in her name); and 3. because she is 27, the statutes of limitations for grounding have run out. So I did what all desperate mothers do—I cried. Then I suggested shopping, cooking and wine tasting as a nice alternative to triathlons. I mean there is some running, lifting, and discipline involved. Still, she wasn’t having any of it. I got the memo…shut up mom, take a valium and just show up to cheer me on.

That's her, in the purple cap

IT'S THE BIG DAY! Sierra is ready, looking all fit and triathlonish. I discretely try to get the attention, by wolf whistling at one of the kayakers (aka spotters) in Lake Loveland, to let him know that he should keep an eye on my daughter; the one in the purple swim cap and unflattering black wet suit. In doing so, I just described approximately 100 other women in the third heat. Ruh-roh. I’ll just have to watch her myself, I decide. And I do, for about three strokes…then I lose sight of her. All those flapping purple headed women look a lot like ducks having grand-mal-seizures, so I just keep my thumb on the 911 speed dial for the next twenty minutes. My heart is racing and I want to throw up as I watch purple caps coming out of the lake…waiting…watching…praying that the next purple head will be Sierra’s. And finally there she is, looking like she wants to throw up too.                                             

Sierra, 2nd from left, no, 3rd
 from center, wait, 4th from
right, uhhh, in there somewhere... 

 She then has to run a ¼ mile to the transition area where she  put on the aforementioned maxi-pad shorts and some funny little shoes that hook into her bike pedals. I can’t imagine who the boy genius is who came up with that design, but talk about a face plant waiting to happen. (and see it happen I did-twice) Off she goes, looking like clamping your feet to your bike pedals and riding down the highway makes good sense. She knocks out 14 miles before I can finish doing the mental math to figure out if a bicycle can fit into an ambulance. I needn’t have worried—that girl can peddle her moneymaker with the best of them!

     Back to the transition area we go to change clothes and shoes again. (Come to think of it, this triathlon business is a lot like shopping—you change into several outfits, most of which you find unbecoming.) So, she shucks the uncool shoes, laces up the tennys and puts 4 miles behind her in less time then it takes me to decide what to fix for dinner.

     I am one proud, nervous, wreck when she crosses the finish line for the final time, completing the triathlon in 1 hour and 44 minutes, which is well under the 2 hour time limit that she had set for herself! No paramedics, no ambulance ride and no CAT scans were necessary! I’m happy to report that I made it through the entire race without needing any of that.

A few hours after the triathlon

     Now I’m just hoping that she has this triathlon nonsense out of her system because just thinking about her doing another one causes me to break out in a rash. So...I’m pulling out the big guns. I’m putting a bow on Mastering the Art of French Cooking, grabbing a nice bottle of wine and a hefty gift certificate to Macy's and then I am going to try my best to sell her on my idea of a triathlon. Girlfriends, arm yourselves with credit cards and stand by—I may need to call for back-up!

This is a recipe for a Tri-Color Pate. (get it? "tri") It's a fabby little appetizer to take to a dinner party or prepare for a crowd. This pate comes together fast, (no ducks were harmed in it's making) and it can be made ahead of time.  Any home cook worth her sea salt will have all the ingredients on hand. Go to the "Appetizers" tab at the top of this page to view it.

Free Ingwe: The What's Not To ♥ Boat!

It was raining, I was tired and The Big Guy said, "watch your step honey,” which immediately put a hex on me. I swear that I wasn't drinking (well, maybe one); I just didn’t have my sea legs yet. Anyhow, I slipped and fell on my keester as I was getting off the ferry in St.John. Mr. Big and I, the Lexuses and the Langfield’s had barely stepped off the red-eye from Denver, when I decided to show a bunch of strangers just how uncool I am. Hey, I didn’t really need that tailbone anyway. I picked up what was left of my dignity, my dog and my Bushwacker and headed off in the general direction of the Tamarind Court. Because my honey and my friends love me, they fussed over my aching butt and grimaced appropriately over the bruise that was definitely going to interfere with my tan lines. We took the edge off my hurt with a Painkiller before we headed to Rhumb Lines to have dinner. (order the Pad Thai or the salmon)

    The next day was the beginning of our week long charter on board Free Ingwe, a 45' catamaran, owned and operated by Matt and Mel Neidlinger, THEE best Captain and Chef in the entire Virgin Islands. We know this to be a fact, because The Big Guy said so. We settled in, then had a tasty lunch of tropical chicken salad, before going to Tortola to clear customs. The Brits had been forewarned that Elvis was "in the building" and for ten bucks, Matt bought their silence. We then had a nice, relaxing sail to Norman Island, where we tied up for the night and enjoyed Mels to-freaking-die-for Coconut Crusted Basa with Mango-Lime Ailoi.

Matt wanted to see what we were made of, so he took us to Willy T’s, a floating bar forever moored in a cove known as The Bight. Island music blared; white dudes bit their lower lips and mimicked the moves of the brothers, who grinded up against the whites dude’s women. We learned about “the posh-in” from a local, who was channeling Dr. Phil, and who definitely was not practicing what he preached. Being the fun-haters that our men are, they declined to partake in the body shots, which looked more like a free-for-all-booby-buffet. To whoops and hollers, us girls may/or may not have hiked up our skirts and/or pulled down our tops for a pirate tattoo, given by the bartender. We partied like rock stars on that rickety old boat! Thank God the kids (what kids?) were home in bed. 

    The next morning, as we were headed to Angelfish Reef for a dive, we got into an actual game of chicken with another boat that was trying to take a mooring ball that we had been waiting on. As we both raced towards it, it became clear that we were on a collision course. Our Captain was ready to open up a can of whoop-ass, as he told the other guy, in no uncertain terms, exactly where he was going to put that boat hook if he tried to steal our mooring ball! We cheered Matt on, and I can say that I personally shot my best stink eye at the Losers while the rest of the Free Ingwe crew smugly gave their adult best, “Our Captain Can Beat Up Your Captain” look. This exciting encounter gave new meaning to “Chicken of the Seas”!

    After all this excitement we just needed to do some chillin. A spa treatment at Peter Island Resort was just what the doctor ordered, so Mrs. Lexus, the Langfields and I had a relaxing afternoon being rubbed, scrubbed and wrapped. Big, Dr. Lexus, Elvis, Matt and Mel, all sailed over to Trellis Bay to look at a catamaran that was for sale. It was more than our combined credit card limit, so at the end of the day, we were still all one, big happy family on Free Ingwe.

    The next day Matt took us on a dive of the RMS Rhone, a 310’ mail steam ship that sank during a hurricane in 1867. It was a thrilling dive with stunning sea life and abundant coral. As we entered the hull of the ship a giant sea turtle swam right past each one of us, and inside, schools of fish danced to the rhythm of our flashlights. We saw Fang, the giant killer barracuda (you shhhish, Matt) who lives on the Rhone, and finally we rubbed the porthole of the stateroom of the only surviving passenger. That afternoon we sailed to Virgin Gorda, where we snorkeled and hiked The Baths.

    The next day we dropped anchor at Great Camanoe and dingy-ed over to Litttle Camanoe Island where the Langfield’s became unlawfully wedded by Captain Matt. Big and I stood beside the happy couple and served as Matron of Honor and Best Man. Mr. Lexus wore a smart twinset (and was dapper, I might add—in an Old-Folks-Home-kind-of-way) when he walked the bride down the sandy isle. And speaking of the bride—she was positively pure looking (wink, wink) in white. The groom was handsome in a white linen shirt and bright red sunburn. Mrs. Lexus, always a bridesmaid and always a fashionista, was stylish as ever in her floral cover up and a 1980's sun visor. Mel snapped pictures and popped open the bubbly. We left the newlyweds to, ahem, honeymoon and us old folks went back to the boat where Mrs. Lexus wowed us with her water skiing abilities. Who knew? We had her pegged for a snow bunny.

    The rest of our week was filled with more great food and wine, picture postcard sunsets, awesome diving, smooth sailing, fun in the sun, and relaxing with great friends. Matt and Mel spoiled us in a manner that we could have become accustomed to! Mel put her Dive Instructor skills to good use and got the Langfields certified while on the trip, allowing us all to do a dive together at The Playground, a site just off Jost Van Dyke. It was a spectacular dive and we saw a huge shark! (Mel-you shhhish!)

     And speaking of JVD, we had lunch at Foxy's, a Painkiller at the Soggy Dollar Bar, and then spent the evening sipping one of Matt's famous concoctions while in absolute heaven over Mel’s dinner of Pork Tenderloin with Sweet Potato and Plantain Mash. (This trip she had the foresight to hide the plantains from The Big Guy, lest he mistake them for bad bananas again.)
    On our final night we had a drinks and dinner at Havana Blue on St.Thomas, one of my favorite dining spots in the Caribbean.

     The following day we were sad to leave Free Ingwe, but we were taking with us memories that would last a lifetime. As we walked out on the tarmac at the St.Thomas airport and began to board the plane, I was feeling pretty good. I mean, I had a decent tan, a cute sundress, new earrings from H. Stern and barely a bruise left on my butt. Feeling pretty good about myself that is, until The Big Guy said, “honey, watch your step.”

This is part 2 of 2, of a post about Free Ingwe--the trip of a lifetime. So, what are you waiting for? Book a trip with Matt & Mel this fall. The offer for the free Willy T tattoo is still good, if you drop my name (see Part 1). And just to tempt you, Mel is sharing her recipe for Coconut Crusted Basa with Mango-Lime Aioli. Go to the "Seafood" tab at the top of this page to view it, then go directly to the Free Ingwe website to book your trip. You'll thank me later! 
(Above right: Elvis, looking longingly at Free Ingwe)