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Confessions of an Unlikely Chocolate Maker
The origins of chocolate are at least 3000 years old
and steeped in blood. The blood of human sacrifice, made to appease
the insatiable gods of the Aztec and Mayan people of Central and
South America. Here, in dense tropical forests, the cacao tree grew
wild and then was cultivated; its bean-filled fruit used as
currency, and the rich, bitter drink - made with roasted and pounded
cocoa-bean powder whisked up in water with sacred utensils - was
reserved, probably on pain of death, for the ruling caste. The
history of how chocolate was introduced to
Europe
in the 1500's is also steeped in blood - this time that of the
Aztecs themselves during the Spanish Conquest. In 1520, Hernando
Cortes noted during his treacherous dealings with Montezuma, that
the Aztec emperor and his court at Tenochtitlan (modern-day Mexico
City) consumed 50 large jars of chocolate drink a day. Not for
nothing did the conquistadors and other European 'discoverers' of
America and its boundless resources, take samples of the cocoa bean
back home…European botanists promptly named the cacao tree 'Theobroma'
- this being Greek for “Food of The Gods”
The evolution of chocolate from a frothy libation for
bloodthirsty Aztecs (or their Gods); to the way it was first served
in Spain, as a sort of savoury soup, flavoured with chilli and other
inflammatory spices; and then into the relatively benign bar of
Swiss and Dutch invented Sweet Milk Chocolate that we know and love
today, took 350 years. In Elizabethan England, the story of
chocolate got off to a shaky start when Drake's sailors - upon
capturing a Spanish ship (in the name of the Queen naturally) -
chucked the entire cargo of cocoa beans overboard believing it was
worthless. In the meantime, Spanish and Portuguese traders intent on
cornering the Spice Market, and who recognised a Growth Industry
when they saw one, established cocoa plantations in America as well
as closer to home and in colonies where they could control
production and prices - in Africa and the Philippines. By the time
George Cadbury came onto the scene in the late 1800's in Queen
Victoria's reign, and offered only one brand of eating chocolate in
his confectionery catalogue, British traders had decided to boycott
all Portuguese sources of the valuable commodity - citing “repugnant
labour conditions” on Portuguese plantations (I suspect their
motives were not entirely altruistic, as imported cocoa attracted
high rates of duty in England); and “kinder” plantations were
quickly established in Anglo-American controlled Ghana on the Gold
Coast of Africa.
Today, the Cocoa Wars continue to rage between
Africa's West Coast and America (mainly Brazil) over the lucrative
markets of the Northern Hemisphere. The peasant cultivator of the
“divine” tree is still at the mercy of overseas middlemen and
traders. But chocolate, in its many forms, and available around the
globe from almost every corner stall or shop or in fancy,
air-conditioned boutiques - and as any “chocoholic” will confirm -
retains its original, sacred qualities. Sweetening the palate,
charging the blood, lifting the spirit and soothing the mind.
That I presently have, in my storeroom, here in
Chisamba; a tiny farming district slap bang in the middle of
Zambia: itself a landlocked country slap bang in the centre of
Sub-Saharan Africa, two 25 kg boxes containing Cadbury's best 'couverture'
chocolate (printed in purple on the cartons), is, if not quite a
miracle, considering its original provenance, then at least
something of a divine joke. (I question if the Aztec gods who fed
on still-beating human hearts had a sense of humour.)
Furthermore, that as soon as this typing is done, my
cook, Mr. Samilan Phiri and I will transform these giant slabs of
compressed cocoa into hundreds of handmade, individually-wrapped and
boxed “Cilla's Completely Nuts” Macadamia and chocolate “bonbons”-
as if by magic (no secrets revealed here!) and to the accompaniment
of Eric Clapton rather than Pan Pipes - has to have the hand of
Aztec gods in it or possibly some of their less violent African
counterparts?
After all, the stars and the moon I see from the
front verandah - which Zambezi peoples believe are torches carried
by the “Vadzimu” (Good Spirits) - are the same stars and moon Aztec
astronomers followed avidly from their temple tops:
“Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli” the Venus God and “Tecciztecatl” the Moon
God born of a Sea Snail. (I pause here and beg the reader's
indulgence, to make a small offering of tobacco - yes in the form of
a cigarette - to those easily-offended Aztec deities. Though I have
not yet come across any specific record of punishment for mis-pronouncing
their names - there being more than a fair share of consonants and
not enough vowels for my limited articulation - I have a strong
suspicion such punishment had to do with a sharp, obsidian knife
being thrust into the chest cavity of tongue-tied offenders…Tobacco
also comes to us via the Americas, so there's a chance that
“Quetzalcoatl” the Feathered Serpent and head honcho in the Aztec
pantheon may recognize the aroma of my Dunhill Lights - and forgive
me. I take the opportunity to thank them solemnly for the gift of
chocolate and for allowing us to amend its spelling from the
original 'tzchocltl”.)
Back to the mystery of chocolate and me, if some
ancient and probably bored Gods (since the arrival of monotheistic
missionaries in Africa and America) do not have a hand in such an
unlikely collaboration, then who's laughter do I hear in my old
farmhouse kitchen when I'm rehearsing or inventing a new recipe?
(Chocolate Nougat being the most recent and stickiest one so far).
It could, of course, be the snickering of Samilan the Cook, “He of
the Permanent Matchstick in his Front Teeth.” The very same who,
observing my handiwork at the Sacred Hearth i.e. the alcove housing
my temperamental electric stove, often wears a patronising and
profane grin. For there, above our heads, stenciled boldly in black
lettering on the whitewashed lintel, is transcribed the following,
hard-won Truth - revealed to me a couple of years after my second
divorce in a moment of sober but inspired revelation:
“ KISSING DON'T LAST. COOKERY DO.”
So, under the auspices of such wisdom, and in an
atmosphere of bemused insubordination (which my colonial, pioneer
forbears would have little tolerated), that, after what some might
call a “chequered career”, spanning 3 continents and as many
metamorphoses, I became a maker of luxury confectioneries and
chocolates. Or what the French call, with their reverence for all
things gastronomical: “une chocolatiere” ( I use the feminine
version for obvious, personal reasons.)
The surprising fact that my passport proclaims me as
a French national is another story. Suffice to say that it lends a
certain panache to my new profession; and allows me access to
ancient and obscure recipes, wherein no short cuts in the way of
electric gadgetry were admitted (nor yet invented) and which suit
the rather rustic conditions in which I create nutty stuff -
adhering to the very Gallic notion that all food is sacred and
chocolate divine.
Before becoming French, I was a third generation,
“white African” farm girl of distant, all-dead English ancestors.
That my great, great grandparents were Cornish only hit home when I
learned these people were/are anarchists by nature - “fiercely
independent” in P.C. speak, and I could no longer deny this trait in
my character. Otherwise, I am African - more particularly Zambian -
born and bred and proud of it.
This leads onto why I am an unlikely chocolatiere.
The thing is, what with being born and raised on a farm in Chisamba,
domesticity did not feature much in my education. My mother,
Goddesses Rest Her Soul, was a teacher of Domestic Science no less.
She tried, she really did, to pass onto her only daughter the
Mysteries of the Kitchen, Knitting and whatnot. But these lessons -
when she could catch me - almost always ended in blows (hers) or
tears (mine). While I could and still can, shoot the eye out of a
Boomslang at 20 paces with a pellet-gun; turn 4 summersaults in a
row in the pool without taking a breath; repair a tractor bearing,
I cannot claim ever to have successfully darned a sock, knitted
anything or imaginatively produced 3 meals a day for more than the
day in question. Latterly, thank Heavens, this is where Samilan the
Cook comes into his own. Fortunately, after a decade in France, I
learned - more or less by osmosis - the rudiments of the culinary
arts and thesedays can produce a palatable meal to share with
friends. However, the sharing and the friends remain far more
alluring than the actual cooking if you know what I mean.
How then, could I have the bare-faced (and mostly
bare foot) audacity to set myself up as a maker of fine chocolates
and other delicacies in an obscure part of Africa not known for its
culinary excellence? Maize porridge or Mealy Meal, is the staple
food. (For this too we have those incredible American Indians to
thank!) It all began with my somewhat impulsive return from France
in 1995 to take over the family farm in Zambia. And, with a tree my
mother had planted on the Western boundary of the garden. This
tree, I noticed, without any human help and intervention, every year
almost bends itself double with the weight of a crop of squashball-size
nuts. These nuts, I keenly observed, are enveloped in a soft, green
husk which is easily peeled off with a thumbnail. Underneath the
husk is a granite-hard, caramel coloured shell. The shell could
only be cracked by the jaws of my Bull Terrier and he evidently
thrived on what was inside, growing fatter and shinier by the day.
Unlike the legendary, truffle-hunting pigs of Perigord (in France,
naturellement), my Bull Terrier did not take kindly to cracking nuts
open for someone else's benefit. I finally broke one myself in the
workshop vice and got a taste of the kernel. Bliss!
By a process of elimination, I identified the nut
tree in our garden as a Macadamia - native to Australia.
Co-incidentally, while rifling through my grandfather's old papers,
I came across letters written in the 1920's, inquiring of the then
Northern Rhodesian Department of Agriculture as to the feasibility
of growing, on a commercial scale, under temperate climatic
conditions, of something he called the “Queensland Nut”. The answer
was positive.
“Et voila!” I said to myself , “Eureka!” When I
ceased muttering in this way, frightening my staff, I calmly plotted
the following Cunning Plan: Macadamia Nuts are known as The King of
Nuts. Highly valued for their creamy richness and delectable taste
by confectioners and gourmets worldwide. My mother's tree proved
they not only grow but thrive in Chisamba…Ergo, I would establish
forthwith the first Macadamia Nut Plantation in Zambia. Moreover, I
would not only produce and sell the nuts, but I'd also make high
quality goodies with them - thereby Adding Value. (This is what
happens when you read too many old Economists). Am I not a farmer's
daughter? And, what better way to restore the farm and recycle
myself: one, slightly used, ex-Parisian journalist and author?
I beg the reader's indulgence once again to
fast-forward the story at this juncture. Glossing over the general
incredulity of friends and farm staff and the derision of my
all-male, extremely conservative, maize growing neighbours. Sparing
you the gruesome details of digging 3000 holes; importing the
precious saplings from South Africa via the killing heat of the
Zambezi Valley; learning that Macadamia Nut trees only bear nuts in
their 5th to 7th year and the consequent Cash Flow Crises; losing
32 almost mature trees to my resident herd of Zebra who became
addicted to scratching their rumps on the stems; a moody Chinese
tractor; months of nougat and chocolate making nightmares (in
French) followed by daylight disasters in the kitchen; the
“meltability” of chocolate in October….But, also out of more than 8
years of anguish and adventure came many joys: the brandname for my
confectionery enterprise - “Cilla's Completely Nuts” ; the first,
jasmine-scented flowers on mature trees and my first “real” crop of
nuts; the invention in my very unsophisticated kitchen of 5
uniquely nutty products which people love and will pay for: Nougat,
Nirvana, Swedish Toffee, Chocolates and Pesto. Most importantly, my
family's help and encouragement. It is gratifying that I am now
considered slightly less nutty than before…In the meantime, I ask
that you keep to yourself the intervention I obtained (and still
pray fervently for) of a whole host of exotic, pagan Gods and
Goddesses. If, by chance, you come across the name and title of the
Australian Aborigine deity in charge of Macadamia Nuts, I'd be most
grateful for it.
Cilla’s Completely Nuts are available from Douglas &
Tate, Spar, Le Bistro, The Bakery, Cascades or directly from Cilla
at Associated Printers. |
August 2004