Whisper n Thunder

The Whisper of Native American stories, the Thunder of stories that demand to be told.

A Culinary Journey

A Culinary Journey

~ Shalta Peshlakai Gerber

My name is Shalta Peshlakai Gerber. I’m from the Wupaki area North East of Flagstaff, Arizona. My grandmother is Katherine Peshlakai. I never knew my grandfather Clyde Peshlakai; he was the caretaker at Wupaki up into his death in 1970. My family didn’t leave Wupaki till 1978 or 1979. I didn’t know at the time but my family was forced onto the reservation when I was 3 by the rangers at Wupaki.

One day we packed our things and my dad and aunt took our sheep across the Little Colorado River. My sister and I were told that we were not going back. I live in Navajo Country, the Painted Desert at my front door and when I was 15 we moved to Cameron, Arizona and there the South Rim of the Grand Canyon was my backyard.

When my family moved to Cameron life was very different. Electricity had changed every thing. Cooking was made easy. Turning the knob on the stove was all it took to get dinner going. Gone were the days of chopping wood. Turning the shining new knobs on the faucet, you had hot water and cold water. Driving across the road to the store to buy a bag of charcoal for the beef we got in Flagstaff was how we grilled now. Before, earth oven cooking was a huge production. Digging a pit, building a huge fire in the hole to heat the ground, then wrapping whole sides of beef and lowering the massive aluminum pan with the meat inside down in the pit covering it with wet burlap. Then finally covering it earth then more fire. This was earth oven cooking. Navajo style. Now the oven was all we needed.

There had never been a time in my life that cooking was not a part of my memories. My sister and I had always been at my side. We would be fighting over who would use the peeler and who would get the knife to peel potatoes or digging up the biggest wild onions while herding sheep. Large family cook outs were always a big deal. Bread would be grilled on open fires, a sheep would be butchered and my aunties were always trying to see who brought the best dish. Or at Grandma Peshlakai’s eating a 2^nd breakfast, of corn kneel down bread and hot Navajo tea. I learned to make bread by watching my mom and grandmothers. How to place dough over the fire on the open grill or how to put the dough into the oil so not to be splashed by it on yourself. The teaching was by observance, grilling mutton ribs, or what cut of beef used for stew, how long to boil horse meat, and even how long to bake the prairie dog in the oven. It was watch and learn. Do as I do and when you did something wrong it was ‘I told you so’ or “do it again, next time see if you can cut off your finger.’ Know now a days it’s called tough love. Back then it was ‘Dii gis’. Navajo readers will understand this meaning.

I went to school at Scottsdale Culinary Institute back in the late 1990’s. There I learned the classic French technique of Auguste Escoffier. I had always grown up respecting tradition. Cooking especially, as my dad would always say ‘Navajos’ are funny people’. We have funny ways of doing things. One of the ‘funny’ things we do is how we handle foods. Most people don’t know but there are traditions that we have about food. I grew up with these teachings. I just thought they were commonly known. Like never making round dumplings or salting meat on the fire. When I was in culinary school I loved the ideas of the European traditions. One of the French traditions was to never whistle in the kitchen, which I do to this day. Story goes ~ Back in the day when monks would bake their bread there would be a monk with his prayer beads. The bakers would time their breads by the different prayers, and if someone whistled and the monk reciting would lose his place, bread would be burnt and all hell would break loose. This is the story told by my Chef. I never did find out if it was true or not but I would like it to be true.

What made me decide on going to Italy to cook? Well, when I turned 34 and my children were all in school and could talk full sentences and could tell me if Grandma and Grandpa Pesh were staying out of trouble. I wanted to see the places I had read about and eat the stuff I had seen on the cooking shows. You see, I grew up in a desert and far away places were always described as rolling green hills - a sheep herd’s paradise. I read the stories of Roman Gods, the death of Julius Caesar, and the love story of Marc Anthony and Cleopatra. I wanted to see the history of these great people because the history was so different to my own. And at the same time I wanted to see if Italians had their own 'funny ways' of doing things. I also wanted to do the most simple of things, like to have a great cup of cappuccino, to have dinner at a café with the Colosseo as my view, eat real Tuscan bread and olive oil, have a glass of wine made from Tuscany’s famous Brunello di Montalcino grape. I wanted to do as my mother ‘the world traveler’ did; she had already gone to Australia, France, Mexico City, Hawaii, and the moon…. My mom, the little Navajo woman that showed me you could go anywhere and experience the world. She had gone almost around the world and she did it all by her lonesome. She made great new friends on all her travels so she never was truly alone. She would always say to me ‘My Baby, Do It.’

When Travis and I landed at Leonardo De Vinci Airport just outside of Rome, we were so clueless yet confident we could find our way around. We were in a foreign land... non-speakers of the indigenous language. Hoping and praying that Travis’s freshman Spanish and dictionary definition of Latin would get us through our trip. Our friend and host Daniela later corrected him that Spanish and Italian were two different languages and was offended when we were using our best ‘Jersey Shore’ accents to “blend in.” She quickly snapped at us “THEY ARE NOT ITALIAN!!” Even in Italia, MTV’s Jersey Shore was a sore spot.

We hopped on the train to head into Rome; we got on the wrong train and ended up in the village of Orte, about 45 kilometers north of Rome. We had lunch there and I was hooked. The kababas (gyros) were so good and the Italian Coke drinks were more cokey then the cokes here in the states. We are now connoisseurs of Gyro (kabobs); we’re keeping our eyes peeled for the taste of real Euro Gyros here in Phoenix and surrounding areas.

One of our walks led us to Vatican City, which was a very moving experience for me. As a Navajo I know the stories of Church’s history to convert Navajos to Christianity. But I was focused on Faith and not religion. I sat at the steps of St. Peter Square and prayed for my people, my family, and my dad. I hoped all the people who made their pilgrimage to Vatican City would help piggy back my prayers to heaven. I had the honor to use the Vatican’s public bathroom and just across the way I spotted a little spigot with water flowing from it. I was so happy. I dumped out the water from a water bottle and filled it with Vatican water. Being Navajo we hold water very sacred. When we pray we pass a cup of water and bless ourselves with it. So imagine my good luck to collect water from one of the world's most Holy sites. The faith of millions bottled in my water bottle. In my mind I was counting the ounces how many family members I would give to. So they would bless their houses, livestock, replenish my Christian relatives beliefs. I was smiling all day.

We got back to our room; finally sitting and rubbing my feet, hurting from walking on Rome’s ancient streets. I looked up to see Travis chugging down the last of my Vatican water. I just told myself I have to have faith, I will be back to Rome for its holy water.

In Tuscany I took a course in Italian cooking at Torre del Tartufo near Arezzo, Italy. The class was made up of North Americans from Vancouver, Maine, and a lot of Texans. Travis and I were the youngest of the group by 25 years and the only Arizonans. I was glad that they knew what a Navajo was and I didn’t have to explain my Indian existence to them. When learning about Tuscans I was finding they were not so different from Navajos. They were hunters; they hunted wild boars. They were gatherers; they gathered chestnuts and truffles. They were farmers; they grew beans, melons, and squash. They were cattle and sheep and goat people. We went to an olive oil company that has been making olive oil since 1421, sipped award winning wine at a home that was hundreds of years old, ate homemade cheese, dinner of wild boar killed locally, truffles that were dug up by ‘Billy Boy’ a dog from a local truffle hunter. I learned to cook in one of the most beautiful places on earth. The rolling hills of Tuscany were just like the movies. I couldn’t help but think of the evolution in food. Just give Navajos time and we could have made that evolutionary jump in food too. Maybe even mastered the art of sheep and goat cheese making. Or even made our own extra virgin pinion oil. We already rocked it in silversmithing and rug weaving. Why not food??

I’m so happy that I got the chance to go to Italy and meet people different from myself. To make pizza the way Italians make it. To eat foods and drink wines that were made with such passion. To see history carved out of rock. One way that Navajos and Italians are alike is that we just want to eat good food. Maybe they are more Navajo then we think?

I came back home to Mesa and worked at one of the best Italian restaurants in the valley, VinciTorio's. I loved being able to use my new teachings in a real working kitchen. My employer was a real foodie. Mario Vincitorio is from Southern Italy. He took a chance and hired me I think mainly because of my mad dough flinging skills. I was the pizziola. I knew making fry bread for the last 200 years would pay off. My short time there was one the best work experiences ever. Mario being a very understanding family man him self, let me go to take care of my young family and I am so grateful to him that I was able to get into a kitchen and cook.

As for my future? I would like go back home to Navajo Country and open my own restaurant. Hey, I made my dream of going to Italy come true. As for going back to Italy, a big YES! There was so much I didn’t get to see. So yes I will be going back.

I tell my family, friends, and strangers about my time in Italy and I always tell them, 'You simply just have to go.' It is so worth going. Take a carry- on and just do it. Trust me you don’t want to take a huge suit case.

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