From Hollywood to Ibiza, adapting to an organic lifestyle

When I was about 4, we left Los Angeles, and moved to London. After a year, mom was fed up with the city and booked a flight back to California. However, she thought she would make a quick stop a visit the then little known island of Ibiza. The trip turned into a 12 year lay-over.

By the early 1970’s we are living out in deep country and growing our own food and raising chickens, a pig as in keeping with tradition, and I had some ducks. Which incidentally, one of our eight dogs ate Sally, so my mom figured we might as well eat Oscar. Trauma is plucking and eating your pet duck. Woody Allen. Move over.

Along with assorted farm animals, we planted vegetables for all seasons. Cooking was not mom’s forté. However, everything we ate was fresh. She baked delicious rock hard whole-wheat bread, made fresh preserves, and our own yogurt. We dried our own figs and apricots. She grilled fresh squid, entrails and all. Not because it was better for you. She was very surprised to learn they had any. We had tasty roasted free range chicken, served with all the quills and baby feathers thrown in a pot with garlic and baby potatoes. She never quite mastered the art of chicken plucking. It’s just not a skill you pick up in The Village or swinging Hollywood in the1960’s.

One dish my mom excelled at was making salads. It was one dish we could safely eat. It was always a race to the salad. One night, one of us had reached our gross-out limit. There was a huge clump of snail pooh smack at middle of a crunchy part of a piece of carelessly torn lettuce. Mom leaned over, flicked the offending matter with her thumb and forefinger “what’s all the fuss about? A little snail shit won’t kill you!”

Now that—is organic.