From the Editor

This month the naples winter Wine Festival is flying in celebrity chefs and winemakers, but we already have a culinary star right here at home-Naples' Mary Randelman, whose Memories of a Cuban Kitchen is one of the top-selling cookbooks in the country. Locals also know Randelman for the parties she and her husband, Hal, host, often to benefit groups such as the Naples Players. As you'll see from "A Night in Havana" (page 122), Randelman serves her guests colorful feasts at tables where flickering candles set off her stunning collection of china. The "joyful" food and the events she creates, Randelman says, are "about recreating memories and giving people a window into a life."

I know exactly what she means, thanks to my boyfriend, George, who was born in St. Lucia, and his mother, Euphita. I was introduced to Euphita's cooking even before I met her; one of her sons works for the airlines, and she'd occasionally send us home-cooked meals by same-day service. Sometimes it would be a chicken curry, fragrant with cinnamon, cloves and other spices. Another time it might be silvery little flying fish, which she'd chosen from the fresh-caught piles at the outdoor market that morning and sautéed in a Creole sauce of onions, peppers, tomatoes and thyme.

When George and I made our first visit to St. Lucia together, she was standing at the door of her house to greet us, a broad smile on her face. At 76, she is a woman of immense dignity and vitality. Brought up in the country, she came to Castries as a young woman and got a job working at the only hotel in town, where she learned to prepare classic Eastern Caribbean cuisine, which combines the natural bounty of the islands with influences from India, China, England and more. In those days, many islanders didn't have indoor kitchens, and at home, she cooked outside on a brazier heated by burning coals. She raised George and two other children, imparting in them all her fierce conviction that hard work and education would lead to a better life. At one point, she worked at the hotel all day, came home to clean and cook for her own family, then went back out to prepare dinner for a wealthy couple, climbing the steep hill home by moonlight.

At first, I found her accent almost indecipherable, and she must have been just as mystified by me, a privileged American who clearly knew little about thrift, housekeeping or hard labor. But we shared a love for her son and for food, and over the next week, I sat in her tiny kitchen, where songbirds dart in and out and baskets are heaped with papayas and mangoes, watching her prepare one magical dish after another. As I helped chop vegetables, I peppered her with questions about the food-and her life. She was a vivid storyteller, quick witted and full of dramatic energy, and I was soon spellbound. We cried together as she recounted how she carried her sick baby daughter to the priest and begged for help just hours before the child died, and we laughed uncontrollably over island scamps and scandals. By the end of the week, we were family, part of the ever-evolving island stew of people, experiences and flavors.

She came up to see us last year, her suitcases stuffed with Caribbean vegetables, spices and an entire kingfish packed in ice, and we invited some friends for dinner. We spent two days in a frenzy of cooking, and George greeted the guests with rum punch while Euphita fried salted codfish cakes outside in a coal pot she'd managed to cram into her luggage. Then we loaded down a long table in the yard with dishes-pumpkin soup, stuffed plantains, baked fish, curried beef, beans and rice, "ground provisions," as the islanders call the various tubers that grow there, green banana salad and more. The stars blinked on and the moon came out as we savored each new dish, talking, laughing and toasting the chef. We were anything but elegant, sitting on lawn chairs and serving ourselves from mismatched platters. But the candles glowed, the banana trees rustled, and each new taste took us to a faraway island, fruitful, rich and joyously alive.

And that magical transformation, say Randelman and the visiting chefs we interviewed for this issue, is the essence of everything they do. "You brought these people together for this moment," says Randelman. "You created a memory that you will share. And really, this moment-and our memories-are all we have."

This month the naples winter Wine Festival is flying in celebrity chefs and winemakers, but we already have a culinary star right here at home-Naples' Mary Randelman, whose Memories of a Cuban Kitchen is one of the top-selling cookbooks in the country. Locals also know Randelman for the parties she and her husband, Hal, host, often to benefit groups such as the Naples Players. As you'll see from "A Night in Havana" (page 122), Randelman serves her guests colorful feasts at tables where flickering candles set off her stunning collection of china. The "joyful" food and the events she creates, Randelman says, are "about recreating memories and giving people a window into a life."

I know exactly what she means, thanks to my boyfriend, George, who was born in St. Lucia, and his mother, Euphita. I was introduced to Euphita's cooking even before I met her; one of her sons works for the airlines, and she'd occasionally send us home-cooked meals by same-day service. Sometimes it would be a chicken curry, fragrant with cinnamon, cloves and other spices. Another time it might be silvery little flying fish, which she'd chosen from the fresh-caught piles at the outdoor market that morning and sautéed in a Creole sauce of onions, peppers, tomatoes and thyme.

When George and I made our first visit to St. Lucia together, she was standing at the door of her house to greet us, a broad smile on her face. At 76, she is a woman of immense dignity and vitality. Brought up in the country, she came to Castries as a young woman and got a job working at the only hotel in town, where she learned to prepare classic Eastern Caribbean cuisine, which combines the natural bounty of the islands with influences from India, China, England and more. In those days, many islanders didn't have indoor kitchens, and at home, she cooked outside on a brazier heated by burning coals. She raised George and two other children, imparting in them all her fierce conviction that hard work and education would lead to a better life. At one point, she worked at the hotel all day, came home to clean and cook for her own family, then went back out to prepare dinner for a wealthy couple, climbing the steep hill home by moonlight.

At first, I found her accent almost indecipherable, and she must have been just as mystified by me, a privileged American who clearly knew little about thrift, housekeeping or hard labor. But we shared a love for her son and for food, and over the next week, I sat in her tiny kitchen, where songbirds dart in and out and baskets are heaped with papayas and mangoes, watching her prepare one magical dish after another. As I helped chop vegetables, I peppered her with questions about the food-and her life. She was a vivid storyteller, quick witted and full of dramatic energy, and I was soon spellbound. We cried together as she recounted how she carried her sick baby daughter to the priest and begged for help just hours before the child died, and we laughed uncontrollably over island scamps and scandals. By the end of the week, we were family, part of the ever-evolving island stew of people, experiences and flavors.

She came up to see us last year, her suitcases stuffed with Caribbean vegetables, spices and an entire kingfish packed in ice, and we invited some friends for dinner. We spent two days in a frenzy of cooking, and George greeted the guests with rum punch while Euphita fried salted codfish cakes outside in a coal pot she'd managed to cram into her luggage. Then we loaded down a long table in the yard with dishes-pumpkin soup, stuffed plantains, baked fish, curried beef, beans and rice, "ground provisions," as the islanders call the various tubers that grow there, green banana salad and more. The stars blinked on and the moon came out as we savored each new dish, talking, laughing and toasting the chef. We were anything but elegant, sitting on lawn chairs and serving ourselves from mismatched platters. But the candles glowed, the banana trees rustled, and each new taste took us to a faraway island, fruitful, rich and joyously alive.

And that magical transformation, say Randelman and the visiting chefs we interviewed for this issue, is the essence of everything they do. "You brought these people together for this moment," says Randelman. "You created a memory that you will share. And really, this moment-and our memories-are all we have."