Philadelphia Magazine |
Trips That Will Change Your Life: Be The Next Rachael Ray
A demonstration, a massage, a hike, another demonstration … wow, cooking’s a breeze
By Caroline Tiger
- Photo courtesy of Red Mountain Spa
Still Hungry?
IT WAS AT my first dinner at Red Mountain Spa — a nutrition-focused luxury retreat plunked down in the majestic crimson mountains of southern Utah — that I came clean. I had joined a handful of fellow spa-goers at the community table, a spot for solo travelers who preferred to dine with people rather than just a book or their thoughts. Forking up bites of Pacific snapper, we bonded over a table-wide interest in Oprah (love her!) and Eat, Pray, Love (love it!), and chatted about what brought us to Red Mountain. One 50-something woman from Alaska had been 15 times, addicted to the hikes. A chirpy mother of two from Minneapolis who suffered various maladies was here to detox her way back to health. When it came to me, I was prepared to give the short answer: “To take a few cooking lessons.” But, fueled by sisterhood and sauvignon blanc, I added, “My boyfriend gave me a really nice pan.” They nodded. “For Hanukkah,” I said. And then: “I’d been hinting for a watch.” And, finally: “I didn’t want to do anything with that pan except maybe hit him with it.”
But, I told my new friends, I tried to consider his perspective. I suppose I am someone who might seem like she would enjoy getting fancy kitchen gear. I like cooking — or at least, the idea of cooking. Yes, I had gotten into a rut as frozen as my Trader Joe’s suppers, but I TiVo every episode of Top Chef. I read cookbooks. Occasionally I whip up my signature chicken scaloppine (“signature” meaning the only recipe I know by heart). And before the holidays, I had, on a whim, signed up for a trip to Red Mountain Spa, complete with a five-day “Eat Well, Feel Well” culinary seminar that would include cooking lessons. To my boyfriend, the pan was like the leather briefcase you give the new MBA with no job yet: a show of optimism, a vote of confidence. So on my trip, I had decided, I would let go of the gift angst and strive to really learn a few things — to live up to the pan, in all its shiny ceramic-titanium glory.
Red Mountain is a place for release, and for resolve. What with the genial warmth of the community table, the striking serenity of the sandstone cliffs and lava fields, and the cool, clean air, the place feels exactly like what it’s meant to be: a spot to recharge, then start over. The vibe is high-end holistic summer camp. The uniform: yoga pants and hiking boots. And the lodgings (based on my own room) are modest in size but generous where it counts: an enormous tub and a cloud-like king-size bed. From sunrise until 10 at night, campers trot from spa treatments to fitness classes to life-coaching seminars to hikes and horseback rides through the nearby canyons.
My cooking classes would consist of two-hour lessons each afternoon, leaving plenty of time for sightseeing, massages, and my favorite stretching class, wherein we spent an hour in a high-ceilinged studio flooded with light, wrapping our bodies in various ways around a giant FitBall. It was easy to contemplate a few days filled with nothing but this bliss and some girl-talk at the community table, but I had signed up to learn how to cook healthy, tasty meals — and that meant finally changing out of my Prana pants, tying my hair back, and reporting to class ready to get my hands dirty.
But, I told my new friends, I tried to consider his perspective. I suppose I am someone who might seem like she would enjoy getting fancy kitchen gear. I like cooking — or at least, the idea of cooking. Yes, I had gotten into a rut as frozen as my Trader Joe’s suppers, but I TiVo every episode of Top Chef. I read cookbooks. Occasionally I whip up my signature chicken scaloppine (“signature” meaning the only recipe I know by heart). And before the holidays, I had, on a whim, signed up for a trip to Red Mountain Spa, complete with a five-day “Eat Well, Feel Well” culinary seminar that would include cooking lessons. To my boyfriend, the pan was like the leather briefcase you give the new MBA with no job yet: a show of optimism, a vote of confidence. So on my trip, I had decided, I would let go of the gift angst and strive to really learn a few things — to live up to the pan, in all its shiny ceramic-titanium glory.
Red Mountain is a place for release, and for resolve. What with the genial warmth of the community table, the striking serenity of the sandstone cliffs and lava fields, and the cool, clean air, the place feels exactly like what it’s meant to be: a spot to recharge, then start over. The vibe is high-end holistic summer camp. The uniform: yoga pants and hiking boots. And the lodgings (based on my own room) are modest in size but generous where it counts: an enormous tub and a cloud-like king-size bed. From sunrise until 10 at night, campers trot from spa treatments to fitness classes to life-coaching seminars to hikes and horseback rides through the nearby canyons.
My cooking classes would consist of two-hour lessons each afternoon, leaving plenty of time for sightseeing, massages, and my favorite stretching class, wherein we spent an hour in a high-ceilinged studio flooded with light, wrapping our bodies in various ways around a giant FitBall. It was easy to contemplate a few days filled with nothing but this bliss and some girl-talk at the community table, but I had signed up to learn how to cook healthy, tasty meals — and that meant finally changing out of my Prana pants, tying my hair back, and reporting to class ready to get my hands dirty.
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