WELCOME TO TAMARANGO!
A world of fine baking and the exploration of the baking world.
As I came breezing in from yet another international trip, my father said to me, “So, are you back from Tamarango?” I came ready to share two very important gifts from Edinburgh: shortbread wrapped in red plaid paper and stories of haunted castles. That day I gave my father gifts of buttery cookies, and he gave me mystery in a word. I love the word, Tamarango, and over the years every time I have stepped onto a tarmac, or gotten out a planning map, or practiced another travel language, it has run through my mind like a travel mantra.
Just last week, my father, who is now in his eighties, beamed a smile when I told him he had named my business. He shared that Tamarango was a little joke from his military days. As buddies returned from their various posts, friends would say, “Oh, are you back from Tamarango?” Back from the ends of the Earth. To me, Tamarango has come to mean: the exotic, the unknown, some far corner of the world holding the full promise of mystery.
Let’s explore the world of baking together. Recipes, techniques, stories.
A fine world indeed.
My father, second from left with several of his Army Air Corps (USAAC) buds, circa 1946.The Army Air Corps precedes the United States Air Force. It formerly was named Air Service in 1926, part of the U.S. Army. The Air Corps (AC) remained a branch of the Army until 1947. Yesterday my father told me that they wore the brown uniforms until they were deemed the Air Force, at which time, they got their new blue ones, and he said many were not happy about the change (some complained they looked like a bunch of bus drivers). My father proudly kept his last Air Force uniform. Whether outfitted in brown or blue or green or sand, we can be proud of all our fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters who have served, or who currently are serving our country. Thank you.
oh, and thanks to bus drivers everywhere who drive safely, who dispense direction info, and greet their fares with smiles and hellos. The kind man who drove my first grade school bus, and who used his handkerchief to stop a rivulet of blood streaming from my forehead after a tumble right in front of the bus steps. I remember his comforting words and concerned expression still. And to the fun, wild-haired driver who took my daughter and me across the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, giving us a running commentary about the area complete with directions and tickets for our return on the Sausalito Ferry, and to the truly craaazy bus driver who miraculously got us to our Mayan ruin destination in one piece. He flew down a dusty road in Belize swaying in his perch behind the wheel of an old school bus painted dark green, with a dashboard festooned with all manner of colorful artifacts, including beads, plastic Madonnas and silk flower leis, and he came within ten inches of the passing oncoming buses honking, laughing, and waving as our hearts lodged in our throats and hot dust swirled all around. On the outside of the bus, directly above the windshield, a hand-painted sign in big letters: F A I T H.