He’s so vanilla, she said. She meant he was plain and simple, an accountant type with no spark, not an artist. She meant he was boring and uninventive, without passion and not worth my time. But when food is your language, definitions begin to skew. I understood her to mean he was delicious and seductive in ancient and darkly mysterious ways. That he remained unique while cultivating a universal appeal, worldly yet homey. That he was an artist and could show me the sweet nuances of life, all the while smelling like freshly baked cookies. If he truly was vanilla, he was certainly worth my time.
In point of fact, it’s hard to find anyone who truly doesn’t like vanilla. Some of us (although not the majority) go for the zanier ice cream flavors, but that’s hardly a full rejection of vanilla itself. Have you ever come across anyone on a strict vanilla-free regimen? On the contrary, vanilla seems to be doing a bit of a spotlight dance lately. Witness the vanilla flavoring in high-end vodkas, leading to vanilla martinis in fashionable hands across the land. Vanilla Coke, while marketing to a new generation, is really reviving an old classic, though I think it tastes like liquid frosting. And in the past decade vanilla has become a signature scent among marketers who peddle candles and perfumes for enticing the opposite sex. All this from a “plain and simple” plant?
The Totonaca people of the Vera Cruz region of Mexico have long known the divine properties of vanilla. Their ancestors were the first to cultivate the crop. They believed it to be a gift from the gods, with a mythology surrounding a pair of fallen lovers whose sacred blood marked the spot where a strong vine and beautiful flower grew to fill the air with the aroma of true love and beauty.
The lovely flower is what links vanilla to the vast family of orchids, of which vanilla is the only edible fruit produced. It starts with the climbing vine that is pruned and trained to keep within reach of workers. After three years, the vine is ready to bear the small, trumpet-shaped celadon orchids. These temperamental flowers bloom for one day and must be fertilized in order to produce vanilla beans. Fortunately not all the flowers open on the same day, but over a period of a few months. In Mexico, the native Melipone bee took on the Herculean task of pollination—creating a 300-year monopoly on its home turf. It wasn’t until the 1800s that hand pollination took over and opened up markets all around the world. The plant is sustainable within a 20-degree band around the equator. Today Madagascar and Indonesia grow the best and the most vanilla, with Tahiti following close behind.
The vanilla pods are ready for harvesting six to nine months after pollination. Growers need to have a bit of a gambling soul, because the longer they leave the bean on the vine, the bigger the pod and the more valuable the crop. But they risk that pesky old burr in the behind, vanilla rustlers! Somebody might sneak into camp and liberate those pods before you wake up. Robbery was so bad in Madagascar that growers began to brand the green pods with markings that survived the curing process.
It’s only after the curing process that the beans take on distinct flavors and aromas that differ so greatly among varieties. Like wine, vanilla nuances are affected by climatic differences, soil composition, and processing techniques. Mexican vanilla comes from indigenous plant stock and has a very smooth and creamy flavor. Bourbon vanilla originated from the same plant stock of Mexico, but was cultivated in the Bourbon Islands off Africa; this is the familiar and the most commonly used vanilla in extracts. Indonesia is the second largest producer of vanilla, with a vanilla that is woody, astringent and phenolic. Tahitian vanilla comes from the same Mexican stock, but has mutated over time into a separate species that is distinct in its own right. Tahitian vanilla tends to be sweeter and fruitier with a fatter bean and more floral fragrance than the other vanillas.
This worldly vision of vanilla might be shocking to those who know it only as the small brown extract bottle nestled in the cupboard between the baking powder and the cinnamon. But originally, it was all about the bean—extracts have only been available for the last 100 years. The first vanilla extracts were made by pharmacists searching for stomach soothers. Variations on the bean now include vanilla flavoring, imitation vanilla, vanilla paste, vanilla powder, double strength extract, etc.
But people these days are looking back to the bean. Definitely more expensive than the extract, the long dried pods look like something out of a voodoo recipe. To get at the good stuff you must delicately slice open the dried pod and scrape out the seeds into whatever concoction you choose. The sweet, damp darkness holds much of the flavor, but the pod still embraces its own fragrances and can be used for many more infusions.
Vanilla sugar is one of those rare treats from the bean. Chopped vanilla infuses granulated sugar with the mellow and soft tones of the pod, making your morning coffee and cereal a divine revelation. The locally made Golden Fig’s version seems perfectly balanced and can be used in baking and cooking, or dabbed behind the ear.
In past years, Mexican vanilla has fallen on hard times, with much of the former growing region dedicated to oil wells and orange groves. But a group of growers are working to re-establish ancient land rights and ritual techniques. These boutique vanillas are aiming to re-educate the world about the story of vanilla and many of them offer a unique vacation opportunity to witness firsthand the production of the sweet nectar of the gods.
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