Aubergine: a food story

Winner takes all

2012-01-31T20:12:00.004-05:00

Solet's call a spade a spade: there's food, and then there's granola.

Beforeyou call me a tree-hugging hippie, allow me to convince you of granola's utterhipnocity. The lovely and talented Molly Wizenberg recently posted her fourth (!) granola recipe, one adapted from this one by Nekisia Davis featured overat Melissa Clark's love child, Food52 (if you haven't heard of thisbrilliant and engaging initiative, get on it quick.) It's up there right nowwith girl hunting, salted baked goods, and foraging for wild foods as aconversation du jour.

Also,this one uses brown butter, the ultimate "I ain't messing around"ingredient if you ask me. Mashed sweet potatoes and butter -- whatever. Butif suddenly you were to spike the silky concoction with a generous splash of beurre noisette, you'd witness people ooing and slobbering all over their keyboards. Cupcakes hadtheir day, but decorate them with a browned butter icing and see how long acouple dozen of them last. Oatmeal with browned butter elevates the dish fromwholesome country fare to something that might appear on the breakfast menu ofa a fine dining establishment. And rolled oats coated in warm spices, amberhoney, shredded coconut, torn dates, fine sea salt, and still-warm brownedbutter, baked until crisp, is decidedly urban (and addictive.) It's that sweet-salty thing.

Perhapsyou are one of those "not into granola" people. I've heard about yourtype and I don't understand you. You're one of life's great mysteries, likemacaroni and cheese loaf and buffalo wing-flavoured Doritos. I'll admit thatI'm not so much into storebought granola. It's overpoweringly sweet for mytaste. But homemade granola that fills your apartment, naturally, with thesmell of cinnamon, ginger and butter? It's a beautiful thing. And quitefrankly, as you wake slowly on a Tuesday morning, 6:45am, to Joni Mitchell,sunlight edging through your curtains, pouring a serving of this into a bowland topping it with plain, whole milk yogurt is akin to being the winner, taking all.

Indian-SpicedGranola with Browned Butter & Sea Salt

Yieldsabout 5 cups

4cups rolled oats
1stick of unsalted butter
2tbsp light brown sugar
1/2cup wild flower honey (or honey of choice)
1tbsp fine sea salt
2tsp garam masala
1.5tbsp ground cinnamon
½tbsp ground ginger
1cup unsweetened shredded coconut
20dates, torn or roughly chopped
1/2cup sliced almonds

Combine the oats with the spices and salt. Set aside.
Melt the butter until it browns and smells nutty. Watch closely so it doesn’t burn. It’ll be ready once all of the milk solids have separated and floated to the sides of the pan.
Carefully, combine the browned butter with the honey.
Using a spatula, mix the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.
Bake at 325 degrees for forty minutes, mixing the whole lot every ten to twelve minutes. The oats should be amber coloured. Mix in the dates, coconut and almonds. Let cool and store in an airtight container (I use mason jars.) Best used within two weeks.

The rules

2012-01-30T20:27:00.003-05:00

As I pagedthrough The Globe & Mail this Saturday morning over coffee andBillie Holliday, I got to wondering about limits. Articles weighing the prosand cons of open marriage. Teaching assistants developing brilliant syllabi,only to receive punishment for going outside the lines. Married graduatestudents sleeping with various department members, a final hurrah to theiryouth as their spouses foot the bills. Killings performed in the name of so-calledfamily honour.

Wefill our walls with insulation to keep the drafts out, coat our socialinteractions with regulations to ensure that we abide by our principles. Butcertainly theory often deviates from practice. How many of us have rules? Howmany of us follow them?
It'sa Wednesday night. I'm unwinding from the day over a glass of Chianti and acontainer of oversalted potato salad. Expansive conversations filter into thenight: I'm connecting with a couple friends of mine from the Sunshine State anda fellow co-worker who has been living in Montreal for the past four months."Come to Paris," she says. It's very 1920s, "LostGeneration" sounding, a couple of ex-pats getting their fill of cheese andchocolate in arguably one of the most vibrant cities in the world. “Maybe for avisit,” I say. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, this city has become home to me. Bloor St. to the North, Front to the South. These are my boundaries.

Asmy classmates and childhood friends marry off and grow their families, I dancealone in my kitchen, buy myself flowers and can barely keep my bamboo plantalive on a good day. My desire for space and independence defies thelimitations of “conventional partnership”, and the only thing I've given birthto in the past nine months fits in an 8 x 4 inch loaf pan and is commonlyreferred to as Banana Bread. It's not that I don't want to say those vowssomeday, even though I break out in hives at the thought of it. It's not thatI'm too picky, as my grandmother declares. It's that I want a partner. I wantsomeone who pushes me to my limits, who respects my boundaries, and who, atheart, possesses a bit of a rebel spirit.

"Are you a rules person?" I ask Jane.
"Like as in the rules?"
"Maybe. I mean, do you have rules in place that you abide by?"
"Yeah, I guess. I get to bed by ten every night. I allow myself one cigarette a week. And I won't date a convicted felon. People frown on that sort of thing for some reason," she says, chuckling.
"What about when it comes to cooking? Are you a recipe follower? You are, aren't you," I say, smiling wide.
"It's called remove from packaging. Place in pre-heated oven for 35 minutes. That's my style."
"Your 'food rules'?"
"You can tell Michael Pollan he can eat his words."

It'sa Sunday night and a group of co-workers gather 'round at a local bar fordrinks, dancing and conversation. The night starts off slowly: everyonemingling cautiously, sipping mixed drinks, beer and red wine. Hugs and handshakesare exchanged. Disco music blares. Everything is going well for a long while.There's a tall man there who arrives late to the party. He's had too much todrink; his cerulean blue eyes betray him. He approaches one of the girls, anacquaintance of his, and she smiles at him.

"Iwant to say something," he says to her. "There's a night -- Iremember. At the RCM. In the spring."

Shenods slowly, recollecting. It was a poetry function and the few of them sat aroundmost of the night talking. She couldn’t get the smell of the last Bar Mitzvahout of her shirt, French fries and chicken nuggets.

"Ireally flirted with you that night and I'm sorry. I don't know why. I mean, Ido know why. You are such a lovely person. That night, I envisioned you as my wife. Ididn't want something to happen only to take off. It's pathetic, but I'm awomanizer, I am, and.."

"Idon't even know what to say," she says, and this is the truth. Immediately, she feels horribly awkward. "Why are you telling me this?"
“Ithought you should know.”
“What,I like you, and by the way, I just can’t help myself from sleeping with halfthe city? Get away from me,” she says, walking back toward the dance floor.

Shemeets up with B., who has been waiting for her.

“Timeto blow this popsicle stand?” B. asks.
“I’vegot ten minutes before I turn into a pumpkin,” the girl answers.

I like cooking because it makes sense. If you whisk egg yolks with a bit of lemon juice and very slowly add a thin stream of oil, you will get mayonnaise. This is inevitable -- unless you break your sauce. If you cook tomatoes slow at low heat, you will whip the coconction into a silky sauce. It's comforting. Even if life throws you a curveball, you can always head into the kitchen, tie your apron strings around your neck and get to work on a cake or, say, a loaf of Banana Bread, and suddenly things make sense again. But some say that you really learn to cook when you can move away from a recipe and cook according to your five senses. That's when your culinary wings really take flight.

Whenit comes to cooks, there are those who follow recipes to the T and those whorepeatedly stray from them. Some of us take bits and pieces from one, and as ifdrafting the blueprint of some kind of culinary Frankenstein, go about meldingthe sections together. This is one of those recipes I've taken to dinner partiesthat everyone loves -- the chewiness of the rice, the toothsome lentils, the subtlehit of cumin, the sweet and addictive quality of the caramelized onions.Garnished with a spiced yogurt sauce and a few pomegranate aerils, it'scomforting, unusual, satisfying -- a dish that closes gaps. It's a dish sharedbetween friends over hard conversations; it's a dish eaten, lukewarm, overlaughter. A few humble, homely ingredients are tossed together and madeinfinitely better by the intermingling; each ingredient sings at its highestnote. Despite the fact that it doesn't look like much, the flavours will defy your expectations.

Mujaddarawith Spiced Yogurt & Pomegranate

Adaptedfrom Food52

Mujaddara:

1cup rice (I use a short-grain brown rice)

2 cups green or French lentils
3tbsp ground cumin
2onions, sliced thinly
2tbsp unsalted butter
Extra-virginolive oil
Salt

Yogurtsauce:

½cup Greek-style yogurt
2tbsp lemon juice
Zestof half a lemon
1tsp sea salt
1tsp ground cinnamon
1tsp cumin
½tsp cayenne pepper
2heaping tbsp chopped cilantro

Pomegranate seeds (optional)
1. Cook your lentils and rice. Lentils take about 20 minutes from dry -- bring to a boil and then reduce to a simmer, covered. The rice will depend on your variety. I cook exclusively with brown rice; I use a chewy, short-grain rice from California. French lentils will no doubt elevate this dish, but ordinary green lentils work just fine.
2. Add the butter to a large pan over medium-high and cook your onions. You're going to caramelize them. It takes a while to whip them into submission -- about 45 minutes or so -- but don't rush the process. You want the sugars to emerge slowly. The dish has so few ingredients that you want to make them shine as brightly as possible.
3. Assemble your yogurt sauce by combining all of the ingredients into a bowl and whisking. Refrigerate and let stand for at least 3 hours for the flavours to combine.
4. Once your onions have caramelized, your lentils have cooked and your rice is finished, mix in a little extra-virgin olive oil, if necessary, to loosen the grains. Add in the cumin and salt to taste. I'd recommend starting with about 1.5 tsps. You'll need more than you think, considering rice and lentils are exceptionally bland.
5. Serve warm or at room temperature garnished with yogurt sauce and a few pomegranate aerils, if desired.

A belly full of humble pie

2012-01-16T23:08:00.000-05:00

Albert Einsteinonce theorized that “the only reason for time is so that everything doesn’thappen at once”. Perhaps that's true – who am I to argue with so-called genius –but that hypothesis insists on time as linear. And on Saturday night, as Ipulled up my stockings and braved the freezing-cold weather in a woolpencil skirt for a dear friend's fiftieth birthday celebration, time didanything but stand still.
"This seatis so cold my thighs might fall off," I whined as I scooted into the frontseat of the car.
"That'swhat sucks about being a lady," the Bostonian answers.
"No, that'swhat sucks about being a man. If my legs fall off, you're carrying me. Or he’scarrying me,” I said, glancing over at my uncle, grinning wide.
Arriving at thehouse, I’m greeted first and foremost, as always, by a big, slobbery GoldenRetriever who kisses my face excitedly and never lets me go without a fight. “Isthat Sarah?” I hear, faintly, from upstairs. I hand R. his birthday present – a bottle ofunwrapped vodka – and soon enough we are sipping cocktails, the Golden Retriever resting at my feet.

Over a wooden platterof aged white cheddar and St. André and a couple signature caramel apple martinis, I meet Olive. She's well-dressed in her high-collared white shirtand elegant necklace, her hair cropped perfectly around her dainty ears. Ilearn that she’s from England, has never married and faithfully, unfailingly,mails birthday cards to friends and family every year. She was so distressed to find the post office closed this year while in Florida;instead, she has brought his card to him in person.
I meet theBostonian, my uncle's friend whom he met while on vacation, who tells me I mustvisit Provincetown; his arguments -- bargain outlet shopping, fabulous seafoodand fine New England scenery – have me convinced. And then there is R.'sbusiness partner, a lovely lady decked out in a shiny, sequin-studded cardiganwith an affinity for Apple products; R.'s sweet mother; and his step-father,who enjoys discussing Two and a Half Menand mortgage rates. There is more kick to this group than a package of cinnamonhearts.

I must have beenaround twenty when R. and I first met, which, as they say, feels like a millionyears ago. My family spent Thanksgiving weekend in Toronto, back when my unclelived with a ridiculously impractical set-up. The kitchen was on the secondfloor and the dining area was on the third or fourth, I can't remember, and weeach brought platters of food up. It was your typical fare: turkey, broccoli,squash, corn, stuffing. And then Robin set bowls down in front of us of bright,silky carrot soup, garnished with a modest swirl of sour cream and a snipping offresh dill. I think we listened to jazz.

Though Igenerally try to contain it in name of the big Debbie Downer, social propriety,my sassy self emerged one late summer night. I credit my feisty spirit to my great-aunt Louise, my namesake, who, legend has it, was an indominatable spitfire up until the day she died.
As R. prepped the BBQ and began togrill the steaks, I loudly piped up, "Are you going to ask us how we wouldlike our steaks cooked or are you going to cook them all to the same doneness?" That's notwhat I’d wanted to say at all. Immediately I turned beat red and tried tore-trace my steps to no avail. But to my surprise he laughed, and then Ilaughed, and we finished our gin martinis in jovial spirits. I like to think ofthat occasion as one of those tremendous growth opportunities – one whereeveryone eats steak and I dig my fork into yet another piece of humble pie.

Once when I wasup at my uncle's cottage, we were both up obscenely early. I prefer to riseearly when I’m there anyway to take advantage of the day, but I couldn’t sleepthis time. I read on the pull-out couch as the sun rose, sipped a cup of verystrong coffee. He came over and handed his MP3 player. I listened ironically toAdele's "Turning Tables," ironic only because collectively we’vespent far too many years working in the hospitality industry. And betweencaramel apple martinis and dirty gin martinis and various other concoctions, hehelped me – albeit unconsciously, I’m sure – to make sense of myself thatsummer when I couldn't make sense of myself; through my uncle's guidance and R.’scompassion, I dug out a place for myself in this city.

As I stood thereamong a hundred guests -- Olive, his mother, his step-father, my uncle, the Bostonian, family friends -- to celebrate his life of achievements – from a hockeyplayer with wacky hair to a self-made Broadway star to a successfulprofessional, I smiled. All of the hours collided in that moment, a mergerbetween the past and the present and bits of the future. And when he came overto our group, I looked at him and said in my favourite of tones, "It tookyou long enough."

Find the recipe for Roasted Carrot Soup over here at Food52.

Strong in the broken places

2012-01-13T18:39:00.002-05:00

Everything slowsdown come January, grinds to a near halt.

It's not thecruellest month of the year -- April still holds that position according to poet T. S. Eliot -- but it's close to the top. That is, at least, until itsnows.

I like the lingeringdays of this month, the way one evening drips into the next. With fewer plans,I take my time coming home, enter my apartment, pour myself a glass of wine,and listen to Billie Holliday sing her soul out, apron strings tied around myskirt as I pad around in my black nylons. The rain brings out two types ofpeople: the ones who are glad it isn't snow and those who wish it was. And whenthe snowfall finally hits, as it did in the wee hours of the morning, thedreary urban landscape meets with sweetness and romance.

I can't rememberwhere I read it, but recently I skimmed an article where a chef said thatfood's primary purpose isn't to impress, but to comfort. It's always a giftwhen a meal succeeds in tantalizing all five senses while satisfying a real,deep hunger, but satisfaction does take precedence, doesn't it? Maybe that'swhat lures us back to mashed potatoes and hearty beef stews, to braised lentilsor roast chicken. If we are what we eat -- oh, cliche of cliches! -- would youprefer to dazzle with your looks or your capacity to comfort?

When Amherstburgwas hit with a tremendous (and inordinate) amount of snow one year, my Dadshovelled it all to the side and made a fort for my sister and I. It was alarge fort, big enough to fit five or six small kids, and high. We played in itall winter long, hiding out from the world. That's how I think of my Dad: theman who unearths possibility from seemingly dead things, who offers security and comfortfrom nature's elements. In the years that followed, Laura and I wished forsnow, our hopes dashed repeatedly. That fort at the end of our driveway wasmagical and special, the front yard a canvas composed of indistinguishable snowangels.

Vulerabilityis generally met with a great deal of hesitation. We resist putting ourselvesout there; we could get hurt or injured, perhaps irreparably. We worry aboutslipping on black ice and being found by stray dogs (or, in the city, awandering bum more likely) because we live alone and have no one to worry aboutour whereabouts. Vulnerability means getting exposed to the elements and havingto cope with the backlash. It means not knowing what spices to add to whichdishes, doubting our ability to follow a recipe, second-guessing our choices.As independent as I am and as difficult as it is to write the followingsentence, I, too, need comfort at times. I'm not made of stone. As ErnestHemingway writes so elegantly in A Farewell to Arms, "The worldbreaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places." Andperhaps that is exactly as it should be.

Thefort, made of snow, dissolves; a great meal is eaten as quickly as it's made.Blankets and sheets wear thin. But the sense of warmth endures, no? Even in themidst of January lies the promise of spring and the heat of summer. If youallow yourself to stand out there -- unknowing and afraid -- yes, you riskbeing eaten by stray dogs. Or potentially Hanibal Lector. But you learn how torely on others. You learn that you have it in you to make a meal that comforts(and possibly dazzles, too). You learn how to breathe new life into the deadthings. You might learn that by letting others in you can build an army -- anarmy that won't fight against you, but for you, and never let you go it alone.And then you sit around the table and clang glasses, eating together andconversing together, warm on the inside.

Good luck pickles

2012-01-04T20:31:00.000-05:00

I spent a sizeable portion of my childhood in the house my great-grandfather built, where my Nan lived through the Depression, where my father grew up on sardine sandwiches. When my sister and I were young we'd sit by the window in the entryway and watch as the cargo ships moved like slugs across the river. I haven't stepped foot in that house in years, but I remember the noise the wooden floorboards made against every step, the roar of the furnace, the sound of the off-key grand piano.

It's the place where I learned to paint with watercolours, ran amok through the cornfields with a few stray cats and picked wild apples, inspecting each one for worms. I grew my imagination on a large collection of old books with dusty hardcovers, listened to classical music and ate bologna sandwiches on white bread with yellow mustard and pickles. I snacked on sun-ripened rhubarb straight from the garden and observed as the Queen Ann's Lace came up annually, covering the estate in white flecks.

My Nan was not a good cook, but there's three things she made well: sausage rolls, which my father and I still mention nostalgically with a twinkle in our eyes; fruit salad; and, in my opinion, a combination of sliced field cucumbers and onions, gently pickled in a water, vinegar and sugar solution.

I can't say I was wild for onions, but those cucumbers were delicious. Perfectly crisp and tangy, they satisfied my deep-seated obsession for all things acidic. Perhaps you grew up on moist blueberry pancakes or peanut butter and jelly, but for me, among other notable things, it was pickles and fermented foods. A plate of olives at Christmastime. Someone's homemade pickled purple beets. Sweet pickled cucumbers, pickled cauliflower, pickled pearl onions. Tangy sauerkraut piled atop the crisp casings of a smoked bratwurst.

My adventures in pickling came about by accident, though in retrospect it hardly seems that way. While living in Tallahassee, my partner at the time and I would make the trek to Plant City every so often and stop at a stand with the best, most ridiculously inexpensive produce. I remember the ten pound bags of oranges and grapefruit, still green, and eating the first strawberries of the season one late February day, juice running down my face. And I remember the cucumbers -- field, English, mini -- abundant and cheap.

At first I pickled them as my Nan had done, sans sugar and onions, and snacked on them in the afternoons as I read novels, wrote articles, scanned through volumes about wine, and waited for work. I decided that if I was going to live south of the Mason-Dixon, I'd learn how to cook up a pot of cheesy grits, gorge on peel and eat shrimp slathered in melted butter, beach-comb for the prettiest shells while dodging the jelly fish, make sun tea, and figure out how to pickle cucumbers.

I first made this recipe a couple of years ago for Canadian Thanksgiving while I was living in the south. I put out a dish on a whim -- I liked them well enough, and having no other pickles, decided they'd work. Suffice to say, the dish vanished almost as if by magic. What I love is that I made them, and then a boyfriend of a good friend of mine made them, experimenting with hot peppers. I brought a jar to a dinner party I attended on New Year's Eve, where the host asked for the recipe.

I don't know that food is the great equalizer as they say -- I think it illustrates economic divide awfully powerfully, to be honest. But I do believe in the power of a recipe to connect us, in the practices that have the ability to unite us. In that recipe there's the girl who ran through cornfields at eight years old, who boarded a plane for another country, who moved to a city hoping for change. My recommendation for 2012: go with the gusto. Move to the rhythm of your own life, especially when it scares you. Keep your heart open: no one can enter a locked door. Don't try to own or control people; not much that's alive thrives in captivity. Be good to people, especially to those who are good to you. Make time for dinner, wine and conversation with loved ones. Try the recipes you've been handed. Visit your Nan. Laugh until your face hurts.

Happy New Year, dear readers.

Refrigerator Dills
Yields approximately 2 quarts, or 4 pint-jars

Headnote: I use a vinegar and water ratio of 1:1. This yields a pretty sour pickle. If you'd prefer less sour pickles, use 2 cups of vinegar and 4 cups of water here. Also, don't skip the steps leading up to the actual pickling; it's important you treat the cucumbers before you begin in order to end up with the best product.

You can serve these the day you make them, though I like them best after about 2-3 days in the refrigerator.

1.5lbs mini cucumbers

3 cups distilled white vinegar (5%)

3 cups water

4 cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed with the back of a knife

4 tsp brown mustard seeds

2 tbsp dried dill

2 tsp kosher salt, or to taste, plus more for treating the cucumbers

Equipment:
1 medium-sized pot
Glass jars/containers with lids (I use mason jars)

1. Soak your cucumbers, whole, in an ice bath for at least three hours to overnight. This helps crisp them up, especially if you're using older cucumbers from the supermarket.
2. Drain and dry the cukes and cover generously with a thick layer of kosher salt. This will help draw out any additional moisture.
3. Shake the salt off the cucumbers and slice, lengthwise, into fours.
4. Prepare your brine by adding the vinegar, water, mustard seeds, dill, and salt to the pot and bringing it to a boil. Once it begins to boil, lower the heat and simmer for another 2-3 minutes, allowing the flavours to meld together.
5. Rinse the jars in warm water to prevent cracking.
6. Pack the jars with the cucumber spears, adding about two cloves of smashed garlic per quart jar.
7. Carefully pour the hot brine over the cucumbers. I like to do this over the sink for obvious reasons.
8. Allow the brine to cool, cap, and refrigerate for at least six hours before consuming. Consume within 30 days (if they make it that long!)

Old habits die hard

2011-12-22T21:55:00.001-05:00

In graduateschool, I prepared for the holidays by clearing out my side of the refrigeratorand the pantry, which meant that I shopped exclusively for apples, eggs andyogurt for all of December. For the most part, I cooked decent meals formyself; they were usually balanced and sometimes even rather involved –shepherd’s pie, roast chicken, carrot and dill soup with homemade stock, porkchops served with homemade applesauce. I’ve sufficiently outlined the flops onthis site, but let it be known that we dideat some delicious meals, too. Regardless, I met mid-December with what Ifondly refer to as – I kid you not – “the hashbrown bowl”. It’s fairlyself-explanatory, as you can well-imagine, but essentially you layer dicedYukon Gold potatoes with cheap grated cheddar cheese and Heinz ketchup and callit a day. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to eating like a college student.

I can’t say I’mthat much better these days. I’ve traded the potatoes for cruciferousvegetables (just say with me: cruciferous, cruciferous, cruciferous!), but I’mstill the girl standing barefoot in the kitchen, freezing her toes off andhoping all of the bits and pieces yield something palatable. This week: bowlafter bowl of an oddly rich, hot vegetable soup slightly sweetened withparsnips; softened black beans stirred with bold chipotles in adobo and chilipowder, eaten over a bed of just-cooked green peppers, onions and mushrooms andtopped with slices of velvety avocado; toothsome chickpeas tossed simply withred wine vinegar and a top-quality extra-virgin olive oil; and tonight, a bowlof brown rice pasta with broccoli, chili flakes and Laughing Cow cheese. With abit of grated cheddar on top (!) What can I say – old habits die hard.

And yes, Laughing Cow. What? My culinary vices include, but are not limited to, Ethical Bean medium-dark roast coffee and Laughing Cow cheese. I don't want to be right.

My head oforganic broccoli was on its way out and pronto, and so I tossed it in with thepasta during the last few minutes of cook time and mixed in the cheese and abit of milk to coat. This is not the dinner dreams are made of, but it wasoddly comforting and nourishing and made a lovely companion to a few podcasts Ilistened to. It’s the kind of simple food that makes sense to eat on a nightleading up to the holiday festivities.

What do you eatleading up to the holidays?

A game-changer

2011-12-20T00:38:00.000-05:00

Girl Hunter by Georgia Pellegrini was recently released. I haven’t read ityet – it doesn’t seem to be out in Canada yet – but I feel pretty certain itwill be a game-changer, the way Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma became a platform for other books of thesame and inspired multiple books on local eating. Why? Because the cookbooksection at my local Chapters has grown tired and boring, dear readers, that’swhy. I love local food issues and even I, girl who can listen to the same song onrepeat twenty-five times, have grown sick of reading the same things. And thenalong comes Georgia, a pretty blonde who offers up a sizeable dose of charm anda lot of interesting things to say about hunting and artisanal food production.

Certainly food-related issues and topics have been trendingromantic over the last few years. At their core, the philosophies espoused bySlow Food, local eating, artisanal food production, and "sustainableeating" express this perspective most acutely. It's a nice thought tothink about, even if entirely unrealistic. Industrialism occurred because thosetraditions involved some seriously hard labour. However, given the currentculinary climate, it seems intuitive that hunting would follow suit; after all,if we're devoted to growing organic vegetables, keeping laying hens in ourbackyards for eggs and making our own butter, isn't it only natural that wemight want to learn how to hunt, gather and forage, too?

While Pellegrini is remarkable in her own right, I find itinteresting (though unsurprising) that in marketing the book, the complexquestions a departure from Wall Street into the world of hunting might provoke weredeliberately overlooked in favour of the simplified You can hunt a deer andstill be a lady! Was that ever a question? But it is, isn’t it? It’s notonly a fresh book idea; it’s a fresh idea, period.

It's a Wednesday night and I'm fashionably late for drinks withmy friend K. in Cabbagetown. I met her well over a year ago in passing when weboth served at an event hosted by a well-known real estate executive on a largepiece of property outside of Barrie. We’ve taken a seat at one of the high topsand I’m deep into my first glass of wine. "I talked to my friend and hetells me I need to play hard to get," she says. "I am playing hard toget. I'm not doing anything. But he says no one will hunt a deer that'sstanding right in front of them."

In every other aspect of our lives, women are encouraged --hell, forced -- to pursue. You want a fancy education? Go after it. You want toclimb the corporate ladder? Give it a try. Venture to Thailand, knock back thatshot of tequila, learn how to fly a plane; you can do whatever you want and bewhomever you choose. All you have to do is choose it. But when it comes tohunting, we're told to lay down the gun.

"I don't get it,” I tell her. “I know so many great,funny, single women with vibrant social lives who have so much to offer.”
"Well, one thing's for sure. I'm not waiting a month untilhe comes back from Hawaii."
"What, no postcard?" I smile, dunking a sweet potatofry in aioli.

I suspect hunting will gain ground in the coming years. You'dbe surprised to hear how many people hunt -- no one ever seems to discuss it.Georgia generally waxes poetic about it, which may inspire others to move outinto the field. I mean, it’s already happening. Still, though, a part ofbe wonders: while it’s socially acceptable, for the most part, for a woman tobring home the bacon, will anyone object if she slaughters the pig, too?

I’m celebrating B.’s birthday in Kensington Market over a glassof Cabernet, flank steak with chimichurri, Yukon Gold potatoes and a perfectlytender mushroom salad. B. is one of the most endearing women I've ever met; she’seasy to like, maybe because she’s warm and open-hearted and her smile easilylights up a room. Maybe it's the fact that she is dancing around in her sequinskirt, purchased from the children's department. "You can't eventell!" she says. “Can you? I don’t think you can tell.”
"When are you planning on heading back toHuntsville?" her sister asks her.
"Um, well, I was thinking..."
"I'll give you a ride back anytime you like," J.pipes in.
"Why, are you going there sometime soon?"
"No, but I know how much you like my music."
“He does have great taste in music,” she says, looking over atme.
"What, you don't like the sound of my uncomfortablesilence?" her sister asks.
The table erupts in a glorious fit of laughter.

B. used to live with her grandmother, but now lives withseveral other people in a big house in Toronto. She’s another fabulousgo-getter, heading, why of course, to Huntsville this holiday.

My parents met on a blind date; they were set up byfriends who are no longer together. As the story goes, my mom pursued my dad,who was mostly interested in sports and getting into mischief and not the leastbit interested in committing to a long-term relationship. My mom’s a pretty convincingwoman and my dad’s an awfully smart man, so I suppose it was inevitable. Whatwould’ve happened had my mother let him go? There’s a picture of them when theywere dating. My dad is thin and lanky and wearing some retro shirt and afedora, and my mom’s there, her hair softly curled, looking beautiful. My dadis the kind of person who shows you he loves you; my mom fills in the words.

I want to read that book. I want to read someone else’spassion. And then I’ll let the wind take me, drive me into the field, where welearn to hunt and run in equal measure, where we navigate the terrain using ourminds, our hands, the clothes on our backs.

How to move up in the world

2011-12-08T18:02:00.001-05:00

I think I've been in denial of the cold temperatures for a good month now. November was unseasonably warm in Toronto and it was easy to get carried away. Somehow I expected strawberries to appear at my local farmer's market and the flowers to start blooming again, yet here I am, nestled between the Brussels sprouts and the turnips. Not that there's anything wrong with cruciferous vegetables or tubers.

But after donning my fall trench coat for weeks (during the workday, anyway), I finally relented. I yanked out those fleecy, warm blankets from the steamer trunk in my living room. I've added an extra blanket to my bedding. I've been mingling with a pair of flannel pyjamas, nearly letting go of my tank top and shorts ensemble. Most telling, you'll find me most nights parked in front of my television watching Law & Order, mug of Lady Grey in hand. Oh, what an exciting life I lead! Rest assured, as busy as the city is, we Torontonians sleep. There might be drinks and dancing on the weekends, but come Tuesday night, we urban dwellers are undoubtedly catching up on some much-needed R&R. Even the most energetic of us need time to re-fuel. At least that's how I envision it in my world of generalizations.

And so I've made my way back into the kitchen, hovering over flames. Sounds a little Gordon Ramsay-ish, doesn't it? Well, when I'm finished cooking and you peer down into the abyss that is my sink and spot all of the dirty dishes waiting for you there, Hell's Kitchen is not much of an exaggeration. This week I listened to the Tragically Hip on repeat and stuffed mushrooms with the patience of a three-year-old. Tonight I'm planning a meal of eggs, these Brussels sprouts and this Thai-inspired salad that makes me want to pick up the Fresh line of cookbooks and see what all of the fuss is about myself. But first, we need to talk about oatmeal.

I know talking about oatmeal with others is often akin to talking about chores. Everyone knows they should be eating breakfast, oatmeal in particular, but nobody eats it, or they do it begrudgingly, or they eat it because they are doing their best to lower their cholesterol. Here's the thing. Oatmeal is delicious, or can be when prepared right. This pumpkin oatmeal is delicious, as is this carrot cake variation. Don't tell anyone, but it's also good with this chocolate hazelnut spread we all secretly adore or a generous scoop of peanut butter and jam. But it is also delicious baked. If you are not an oatmeal person or do not care to eat first thing, this is portable and tastes like dessert. Dessert, readers. And if there's one thing most people are generally game for, it's an excuse to eat sweets before noon.

I love Heidi Swanson's version. This one is clearly based on that. But berries are no longer in season here, despite my daydreaming and November's deceptively warm temperatures, and I have an abundance of crabapple sauce on hand from a pick I went on back in August. I don't know about you, but applesauce isn't something I through a lot of. Not like hummus, anyway. And as a single person living alone, it's tricky to pawn off on others. Here, come over for some...applesauce. You see why one might not keep friends. It's not exactly the same as saying, hey, come on over for some coffee and homemade cookies! (that would be spiked coffee, if you are one of my friends) or, even better, I have five bottles of wine that need to be used up, how much time have you got? This is how you move up in the world, people.

This baked apple oatmeal, conversely, is satisfying and perfect for those chilly mornings where you're caught at ~~7:15am~~ ~~7:30am~~ ~~7:45am~~ 8:01am reaching for your robe and damning the bed again for adding yet another bruise to your collection, so that everyone at your gym thinks you're being abused from the knees down. This oatmeal goes well with coffee, a drizzle of pure maple syrup and a dollop of plain Greek yogurt, and still leaves you enough time to read an article or two and check your Twitter feed for all of the good worldly gossip and pack your lunch. It's the kind of breakfast that makes you want to hope for world peace and other crazy, nonsensical things, the kind you're most capable of believing before noon when you're jazzed out on caffeine and sugar (though knowing my penchant for not-to-sweet desserts, you can bet your bonnet that there isn't much sugar in this. At all.)

It just so happens that throwing together a batch of baked oatmeal is easy peasy. One bowl, a few on-hand ingredients, some time suntanning in the oven and poof, breakfast for the week. It's the kind of thing you can pull off even after a day crammed with meetings, the word DEADLINE ominously running through your mind at warp speed. You want to pull a rabbit out of a hat? Make baked oatmeal. It won't necessarily make you popular among friends, but it will keep you in the running. And after too many nights in front of the television drinking tea, you'll need something to keep up your credibility.

Baked Apple Oatmeal
Adapted from Heidi Swanson

Yields 6 generous portions

2 cups rolled oats
1 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 - 1/2 cup organic cane sugar, depending on taste
1 cup almonds, roughly chopped (feel at liberty to substitute)
2 cups milk (I used light vanilla soy milk)
1 egg
3 tbsp chia seeds (optional)
1/2 cup ground flax seeds
1 tbsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tbsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg
Generous pinch of sea salt
1 cooking apple (I used Gala), sliced into thin wedges
1.5 tsp baking soda
3 tbsp vegetable (grapeseed) oil or unsalted butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 375F.

In one bowl, mix together all dry ingredients (oats, sugar, almonds, chia seeds, flax seeds, nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon, salt, and baking soda) until combined.

In a separate bowl, mix wet ingredients (applesauce, milk, egg, oil OR butter.)

Make a well in the dry ingredients and slowly whisk in the wet ingredients. You'll end up with a pretty wet batter, so you know.

Grease an 8-inch square baking dish and pour in the mixture. Top with the apples and bake, uncovered, for 35-45 minutes, until cooked and set. You'll know it's finished when the edges start to move away from the sides of the pan. Serve warm or cold with a drizzle of maple syrup and a dollop of yogurt, if desired.

We get around just fine

2011-12-06T21:12:00.001-05:00

At a time when we're told to focus on the big picture – namely giving to the less fortunate and thinking of others before ourselves -- it's ironic to feel as though you’re being pulled to focus on the small things. If you don't pay attention, you could find yourself pulled under a strategically placed mistletoe, miss the wreaths recently hung against the marble wall at your workplace, accidentally imbibe one too many festive cocktails. There are so many details to this holiday.

After spending a good amount of the wee hours of Sunday morning trying to get home from a late-night shift, I found myself, four hours of sleep in me, at a prestigious venue in North York built in the late 1800s serving brunch to J. Crew clad ladies and their well-to-do husbands, sipping on Chardonnay and eating plump shrimp. When I served at a wedding back in the fall the grounds were gorgeous – you could see the giant trees in the distance, the abundance of orange and red leaves, and the weather had just begun to cool off. Now, on the inside, pine trees were up and decorated in red and gold, setting off the mouldings and dark parquet floor. R. and I hung out in the women's locker room sipping on coffee in tiny elegant teacups on saucers and eating a breakfast of baked apple oatmeal out of a plastic container, talking about her love life and impending trip. It's the kind of conversation where issues of personal value arise, where you ask yourselves what the big issues and the small issues are. We finish our coffees and return to the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, moving seamlessly from relationships to the purpose of doilies on saucers. We’re small fish in a big pond, but we get around just fine.

A friend of mine is currently battling cancer. He is twenty-eight. The last time I spoke to him he was boarding a bus, preparing for a day of radiation. Prognosis is good, all things considered, and the fact that he has more lives than a cat works in his favour. While it's no small thing, that he can make light of the situation and find the humour in it proves how much larger than life he really is. Speaking with him now, he seems calmer now, wiser now. Seven years have passed since we met and we’re getting older. Cancer is large, larger than all of us, but shows up so small.

My former boss once told me that her husband, who is not a very big man, sold her when he said, “Dynamite comes in small packages.” I smiled.

And then there are these mushrooms, because this is a food blog after all. They garnered rave reviews at the corporate holiday party I brought them to last week and I actually like them quite a bit myself. They're delicious and satisfying and addictive, but don't sit too heavy as most appetizers do. What sets these mushrooms apart, to my mind, is the balsamic vinegar they are tossed and baked in prior to being stuffed. It lends a welcomed acidity and sweetness, mellowing out the richness of the filling. It's the kind of thing I might serve to a small group of friends one night over wine and conversation, the kind of small group that fills a room from end to end.

Stuffed Mushrooms
Adapted (slightly) from Food52

Serves 15-20 people
Please note that this recipe makes quite a bit of filling. The reviewers over at Food52 mentioned tossing some of it into a frittata or an omelette -- a nice idea. It also makes a good dip for crackers or broccoli.

Mushrooms
6 pints mushrooms
4 tbsp good-quality balsamic vinegar
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt and pepper

Filling
1 package cream cheese (light is fine)
¾ cup grated Pecorino Romano, Asiago or other salty hard cheese
1 onion, chopped and caramelized
3 garlic cloves, minced
1lb ground pork seasoned with fennel and red chili flakes OR mild Italian sausage, browned

Preheat oven to 350F. Stem and clean the mushrooms and toss with the olive oil and vinegar. Season generously with sea salt and pepper. Bake for 25-30 minutes.

For the filling – mix everything together in a large bowl. If your ingredients (caramelized onions, meat) are warm when you add them to the cream cheese it should be pretty easy to mix together.

Stuff the mushrooms and bake for another 30 minutes or so at 375F until the tops have browned.

Worth the wait meatballs

2011-11-29T19:46:00.001-05:00

Something's been keeping me up at night and it goes by meatball.

Having grown up in a mutt of a household -- my father is of French, Scottish, English and Native descent, while my mother's background is mostly English -- my main exposure to meatballs came from holiday get-togethers and summer barbecues. These meatballs were almost exclusively of the frozen variety, usually covered in some too-sweet commercial sauce and terribly dry. Yet somehow these magical things seem to incite rave reviews in most and invariably make me cringe in disgust. Yes, I'm a veritable food snob, and if it comes down to frozen food vs. starvation, I can tell you my hunger will put up an enviable fight. Life is too short to eat bad food, non?

It wasn't until Molly Wizenberg's article on meatballs appeared in Bon Appetit that my mind opened to the

possibility that meatballs might be good. Partly this is because I happened to like the magazine back then, and more importantly, Molly's recommendations are solid. I'm a worshipper at the tower of Daily Granola. I've made these chocolate puddle cookies twice to remarkable results (do seek out the cacao nibs.) I've also made adapted versions of these chocolate chip cookies and these buckwheat cookies, both delicious, as well as this chickpea salad, her (and Marcella Hazan's) recipe for tomato sauce, this red lentil soup with lemon, and Brandon's chana masala. You can trust this girl with your palate. She is also responsible for turning me on to Judy Rodgers of Zuni Cafe fame and the most perfect roast chicken you've had in your life. IN YOUR LIFE, people. That is a big deal for roast chickens everywhere.

But still, no meatballs. When I first moved to Toronto I subsisted off eggs, beans and rice and whatever inexpensive produce was available, mainly because I couldn't afford much else. And I used to eat a lot of lentils before embarking on this project of sorts where I told myself I'd make an effort to eat more exclusively Ontario fare (though this, I have to say, is ridiculously challenging if you are not a particularly big meat eater. I miss lentils and brown rice.)

Anyway, in essence, meatballs should be good. Ground meat, a binder, some seasoning, a great sauce -- I can be sold on these few things alone. But for some reason very good meatballs rarely materialize around here, and because I'm a bit of an uncomfortable omnivore, meatballs aren't really one to make the cut. There's also that whole time consuming business that nine-to-fivers tend to avoid (like the plague -- another cliche) and that whole dirtying many pots thing solo cooks and eaters everywhere tend to avoid (again, like the plague.) I actually adhere to a two-pot rule when cooking, so I went out on a bit of a limb here. Yes, I'm a rule breaker. Are you happy? I'm happy. Because I have a pot of these. And so should you. Especially on a cold and dreary day like today, where I was forced to treat myself to a giant gluten-free Prairie Girl cupcake for having to walk forty minutes in the pouring rain to restore balance. Or something like that.

My very good friend Sam made these allegedly incredible meatballs a while back. They are not Molly's, they are Mario's, and while I'm sure Molly's are very good, perhaps even exceptional, these are, too. I think Sam has urged me to make this recipe just about every time I've seen her, and although we don't see each other quite as often as we'd like, trust me when I say it's been many a time.

I divided the work up over the course of two evenings, since these lovelies take three (!!!) hours from start to finish. I made the sauce and made the meatballs the night before so all I had to do was brown the meat and bake them when I got in.

And honestly? Make these meatballs. They are incredible -- everything a meatball should've been a long time ago. And worth the wait.

Meatballs
Adapted from Mario Batali

Serves 6-8, depending on appetite

1lb lean ground beef
1lb hot Italian sausage, removed from casings
8-10 slices day old bread, diced into 1-inch cubes (I used O'Doughs gluten-free flax)
1/4 lb proscuitto, chopped finely
3 eggs
1/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1/4 cup + 1/4 cup grated Pecorino
1 bunch Italian parsley, minced
1/2 bunch mint, minced
Several gratings of nutmeg, about 1/4 tsp
Extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper
Tomato sauce (I used Mario's recipe)
1/2 cup dry white wine
Vegetable oil, for frying (I use grapeseed)

Combine the first 10 ingredients in a large bowl and mix well to combine. Add 4 tbsp olive oil to the mixture and form into golf-size balls. Layer them on a lined sheet tray and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or overnight to help them retain their shape.

Heat a couple tablespoons of vegetable oil in a cast iron pan or similar to medium-high. Add meatballs, taking heed not to overcrowd, and brown them. As they brown, add to a Dutch oven or similar cooking vessel one by one. Top with tomato sauce, wine and extra parsley or cheese, as desired, and bake for about an hour until meat is fully cooked. Serve immediately.

The faintest idea

2011-11-23T22:24:00.001-05:00

I’m sitting down in the near-future to talk about my distant-future with a trusted, older co-worker of mine.

This appointment came up by accident, after gathering in a small room to discuss a list of projects (momentous things transpire in small rooms, I’ll have you know.) We both agreed that it was not the conversation we intended to have. The thing is, if I’m being totally honest, which is how we roll here in Aubergineland, I don’t pay much heed to my future. I understand that I should. I acknowledge that I, at twenty-six, should probably know what I want, have a plan of attack as to how to acquire it, and be ready. But I spent my early twenties in college drinking too many pints and sharing stories with my classmates and reading a whole lot of books, and mostly I figured that things would just work themselves out naturally, that it was somehow inevitable. I imagined that one day I’d have a career, whatever that happened to be – I think I wanted to be a book or magazine editor at the time – and that someday I’d find myself in a long-term partnership, possibly marry, own some kind of property, and have children. Although all of that seemed fairly abstract, too. Hell, it still feels lofty to me.

The thing is, nothing magically works itself out. Nobody tells you that. They certainly don’t tell you that during hours-long debates at popular grad school public houses. Most pursuits necessitate some sort of process and intent. And I am especially poor at marketing myself. You wouldn’t think so, seeing as I have this shiny blog here and all, but I am terrible. I haven’t the faintest idea of how to package my misfit list of skills and interests into something even remotely compelling. And most importantly, I am petrified of acknowledging what would "make my heart sing." I have no concept of what that road might look like and I am awful at forging my own path. Mostly I flail around and try to look decent doing it.

I am a writer – that’s the truth. I’m pretty sure I have always been a writer, because before I could write I painted my thoughts, and before that I would tell myself stories. I’m pretty sure I will always write the way I’m sure singers feel they will always sing and painters feel they will always paint. For a few odd years I was reluctant to call myself one because I didn't write often and I thought perhaps I should be published first before I went around advertising myself as this writer person. But at any rate I am of a generation and live in an era that every day denounces the critical importance of real, engaging content. Hand-written letters and telegrams were replaced by email and the phone, which have since been replaced by social media and text messaging. We want to read our newspapers without paying for them and we make a fuss when they go up in price. We want to watch television and the news online without paying for cable or satellite, and we find it absurd to pay thirty dollars for a hardcover non-fiction title that the author may have spent one, two, three years researching and writing and who may very well be living below the poverty line. Who attends poetry readings anymore? How many publishers are pushing good books over best sellers? Who wants to be a writer now? I don’t. What do you do when you are a writer who likes learning and writing about food and who is concerned with the state of food security in North America? Who is passionate about local recipes and culture? Who gives a damn about humanitarian causes and some vague notion of sustainability? Who wants to hear from you? Who will listen? What do you have to say that is so different and so much more insightful than what the next person has to say?

This isn’t related to food, I know, and so maybe I’m cheating a little here. I’m used to having the answers; I don’t know that I’m comfortable with open-ended questions. Because the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I don’t always know what I want. I don’t have a five-year plan, or a ten-year plan. I don’t know that even if I did know what I wanted that I’d have the chutzpah to pursue it single-mindedly, the way I’ve always pursued everything else. I don’t know that I would want to. I don’t know that I am sufficiently self-assured in my convictions to realize them fully. I don’t know that I have the guts for that. I don’t know that I am ready.

Which is scarier: not getting what you want, or standing at the precipice of it?

If you're willing

2011-11-19T12:04:00.001-05:00

“Enter through back alley,” I read. “Well, that sounds safe.”
“Oh there it is,” he says.
“That’s not an alley. That’s a street.”
“Ask any hooker, it’s an alley.”

It’s your typical Thursday night shift: we all show up at the venue, not knowing what we’re going to be doing or where we ought to be, and play it cool – which, by the way, isn’t all that difficult to do when it’s -1C outside and windy as all hell.

“So,” C. says, “That guy back there? He’s nineteen. I just hit on a nineteen-year-old security guard. But he looked twenty-five.”
“Are you turning pedophile in your old age?” I answer, smirking.
“No. No, no, no.”

We’re herded upstairs where I meet Bree, “like the cheese but spelled differently,” and Velvet, bartenders who are busy polishing glassware. Velvet glances at me and takes out a copy of Gods Behaving Badly from her bag, handing it over as the client turns her back. “Close your eyes, ask a question, and flip to a page. You’ll get a word.” I do as she says and get an answer to my question. “What is this game?” Bree laughs. “Something we invented ten minutes ago because we were bored.” I like them immediately.

We put in the time, running up and down stairs. Around eleven, when the outside world has left, we gather around the last table standing and eat bacon-wrapped beef tenderloin with truffled aioli, summer rolls with cilantro, olives, cheese, fruit, stuffed mini potatoes. We tell each other our stories – it’s always best to come armed with one or two – and meet the still midnight air together as we make the trek back home. It seems warmer. The winds have calmed.

My day-to-day is jam packed with rules and regulations, corporate policies and standards. There are rules, here, too, but mostly it is about living in the moment, learning the art of infinite adaptability, being okay with plans being subject to change. Some greet uncertainty with caution while others throw themselves head first into the abyss.

After weeks of melancholy-tinged conversations with others about the economy and the state of the world, being reminded of how few choices we really have and how powerless we really are, feeling as though I can choose my own life is re-invigorating. We have never been able to choose our environment; that’s out of our control. But at the end of the alley there is a door, if you can see it, if you’re willing to brave it, and in spite of what you know or think you may know or have been told, adventure lies ahead.

That sort of disarming thing

2011-11-16T18:09:00.001-05:00

Whoosh! Weekends spent in my hometown are always far too brief. I'm aware that I'm unusually close to my family, but perhaps it's because I actually like them. We discuss local wine, new recipes and travel destinations. We play board games. There's a lot of yelling and carrying on.

They warm my cold, black heart. That sort of disarming thing.

Amherstburg is the kind of place where you meet up with decade-old friends at the local greasy spoon, the kind of place that still serves $5 breakfast (with coffee) on checkered table cloths and doesn't accept interact cards.

You follow your sister into the barber shop early, before the regulars pile in, and head to the back so she can trim your ends and make you look presentable. You ask her boss how he's doing. You say hello to her co-workers, and together discuss the merits of roasted red pepper hummus as someone gets their hair straightened to the sounds of Top 40s.

Before leaving for a party, someone might exclaim, "Take a roadie!" and so you do, tossing it under the seat, smiling while shaking your head.

And then, poof!, you arrive back in the Big Smoke, surrounded by skyscrapers and fellow transplants.

Now I'm going to talk about Brussels sprouts.

But wait! Don't leave! Just say it with me: Brussels sprouts. It sounds pretty. I think it has to do with the word sprouts. If they were called something different, perhaps Brussels blooms, maybe people would be more inclined to eat them. When I brought them up to a room full of co-workers, most cringed in disgust, repelled by the sprouts.

To be honest, I am not a big fan of the little cabbages. I like cabbage. I even like vegetables in miniature. Though people have tried to convince me over the years that Brussels sprouts are inherently delicious, I'm a reluctant believer. There's still not much of a gravitational pull. I've tried them roasted with a little olive oil, salt and pepper, sure that a simple preparation would win my heart. That didn't happen. I've eaten them with bacon. Meh, alright. My mom likes to boil or microwave them. There are no words to accurately describe my facial expression when the words "boil" and "sprouts" unite.

Fortunately, food authorities exist out there and Cook's Illustrated is really the foremost of them. It's one of those modern day rarities: no glossy photographs, no fuff, no advertisements (!) -- just plain good ol' teachings. What can I say? I may be woed by pretty things, but not indefinitely.

At over seven Canadian dollars, this magazine does not come cheap, folks (though my current library fees makes it look like a bargain.) But it is good quality. I often mosey over to Chapters on my lunch hour to peruse the cooking and art sections. I might grab a coffee and linger a while. It's a nice reprieve from Cubicleland. The good news is that these recipes are classics, which makes the magazine an investment -- unlike current favourites that publish predominantly sensational food news, appealing nearly exclusively to a bourgeois sensibility. I've stopped subscribing to these because I find the recipes are poorly constructed, flop or simply aren't good. Pretty pictures be damned (!).

The more I cook, the less I rely on your standard recipes. Yes, I love trying new things. I'll give a good-looking dish a go. But perfecting the basics is sometimes trickier and requires more diligence and patience than I may have been willing to muster in the past. I can find you a great chili recipe; I can make you a fish taco that will blow your socks off. However, ask your typical home cook how to properly roast Brussel's sprouts or cook scrambled eggs and they might look at you a little quizzically. Truthfully, anyone can follow a recipe; it isn't exactly hard. But acquiring skill -- identifying when something has finished cooking, tasting with intent, understanding the various components of a dish -- that takes experience and a little know-how. Cooking a fine, simple meal is an underrated thing.

And so, Brussels sprouts.

I've become a bit of an overnight fan.

By adding a bit of water, the sprouts are transformed. Magically, they are rendered tender and sweet, the bitterness removed entirely by the slow caramelization process. It helps to find yourself some nice Brussels sprouts, by which I mean fresh ones with tight leaves. I purchased mine at the local farmer's market, where they all looked delicious.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts
Adapted from Cook's Illustrated, Nov. 2011

Serves 2

1lb Brussels sprouts, cleaned, trimmed and halved
1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Drizzle of water
Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 500F. Using a sheet of aluminum paper, make a pouch. In a separate bowl, toss the sprouts with the olive oil until thoroughly combined. Season generously with salt and pepper. Add the sprouts to the pouch and drizzle with a splash of water. Nip the pouch shut. Roast for about 10 minutes, covered, and uncover for another 10, or until sprouts are tender-crisp and lightly caramelized. Serve immediately.

On eating alone, or a case for orange food

2011-11-09T19:23:00.000-05:00

I've pulled some impressive magic tricks in my day. If you place an open container of hummus in front of me, I will make it disappear.

I've eaten my weight in hummus this week, having made it my dinner -- with seed crackers and broccoli -- the past two nights. This is what happens to single people. I am perfectly capable of tying my own apron strings, brining and roasting chickens, braising cabbage rolls, boiling lentils, and baking potatoes, but with no one to cook for, sometimes -- happily (!) -- dinner is hummus. Which, in my defense, is better than a half pint of ice cream. I leave that sort of indulgent behaviour to humid summer days when even glancing at my oven makes me want to throw myself at my freezer. My oven and I have a bit of an open relationship from June until September; it seems to work for us.

There was that one New Year's Eve when I ate flourless chocolate cake for dinner accompanied by a French 75. This is not a good combination. I'm not advising you mix the two. But I wanted one of each and so one of each appeared. Or that time last winter when I split a slice of chocolate cake with a friend over an espresso. That also became dinner.

I highly recommend ice cream for dinner, by the way.

Eventually I find my way back to civilization. It helps that I'm fond of vegetables in that must-hit-the-market-weekly kind of way. I cooked up a pot of vegetarian chili last night while throwing myself an impromptu dance party. And this morning I woke up sans alarm to the sun, bright and cheery. I made myself some oatmeal with some old carrots I had on hand as the coffee brewed. I put on Billie Holliday. I finished a book. It was a remarkably productive morning.

I was almost late to my 9 o'clock meeting.

You didn't need to know that.

But my shirt was ironed and buttoned correctly. I slapped on a pair of polished black pumps. I wore lipstick, people. I tried my hand at that whole be charming business.

And the oatmeal was delicious. You don't need charm when you've got the chops, folks. Or a terrible case of cocky.

You toss some grated carrot in with some milk. (I don't know about you, but I usually end up with a surplus of carrots this time of year. I always think I'm down to my last two. This never happens and I never learn.) As for the milk, I use Silk light vanilla soy milk because I appreciate their (seemingly) transparent practices and traceability. You can use whatever you have on hand -- cow's milk, almond, whatever. You heat it until the carrots cook a little -- the timing will depend on how old your carrots are -- and then you add your rolled oats. You cook that. You throw in some warm spices -- ginger, cinnamon --and a splash of vanilla. You mix it around. You could add some nuts or seeds here if you like, but I just salt it well, and then I sit down to eat. It takes a bit of time, but it's worth it. Especially if it means you can sit around a little while longer listening to good music and enjoying your java.

And the hummus? We're on a bit of a hiatus. Until next time.

Carrot Cake Oatmeal

Adapted from Angela at Oh She Glows

Serves 1

1 carrot, finely grated (about 1 cup)
1 cup milk, or as needed
1/2 cup rolled oats
1 tsp ground ginger
1.5 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp real vanilla extract
Real maple syrup, to taste
Salt, to taste

Toss your grated carrot and milk in a pot and heat over medium-low. Cook for about 3 minutes, until the carrot has a chance to heat up. Add your oats and stir thoroughly. Continue stirring until the oats are almost fully cooked, about 4 minutes, adding additional milk if and as required. Add spices and vanilla. Remove from heat and stir in the maple syrup. Salt until the flavours come through clearly.

How far you can see

2011-11-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

The morning is crisp and clear, signs of the kind of autumn day I longed for back in October, the one I felt I was denied. The kind that conjures visions of walks in High Park, in midtown maybe, sipping on a cappuccino or a mug of peppermint tea, observing the leaves slip into brighter clothes, window shopping, whatever it is Torontonians do on Sundays. I’ve my apron on as early as 7:30am, moka pot heating on the stove, slicing a Spanish onion with a nearly dull knife.

I’ve been reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon and Love and Other Impossible Pursuits by Ayelet Waldman for a while, flipping back and forth. Both are great reads for different reasons. I love Chabon's failed heroes. And I love the manner with which Waldman treats the human condition. She writes the main character, a young woman who has recently lost her infant daughter, with great sensitivity; yet Emilia Greenleaf is deeply, beautifully flawed. There's no pretension here. I adore how the reader is absolutely compelled to sympathize with a character who isn't necessarily an easy person to care for, but who is intensely layered and interesting and really, by striking out against those closest to her, is simply asking to be loved. I was on the subway last night when I glancedat the author's biography on the back -- “[Ayelet Waldman] and her husband, the novelist Michael Chabon, live in Berkeley, California, with their four children.” I had no idea they even knew each other, but I've been falling asleep with both of them on my bedside table all along.

“It’s a really big city, William. It’s a huge city, and Collegiate is one tiny, little dot. It’s a tiny, little, meaningless dot. It’s a huge city, and you’re going to have a huge life, and I promise you, I promise you, Collegiate means nothing. No matter what happens, no matter how mad and sad anybody gets, you’ve just got to remember how big everything is, and how far you can see.” (Waldman, pg. 180.)

Caramelized Onion and Mushroom Frittata with Fontina
Serves 4-8

2 tbsp unsalted butter
½ large Spanish onion, sliced
250g cremini mushrooms, sliced
8 large eggs
½ cup milk (I use 2%)
2oz grated fontina cheese
Salt and pepper, to taste

In a cast iron or ovenproof skillet, heat butter over medium-high heat. Add onions and cook slowly until nicely caramelized, about 45 minutes. Add the mushrooms and continue stirring until the mushrooms have browned slightly.

Heat oven to 350F.

Crack the eggs into a large bowl and whisk until well combined. Slowly add the milk. Season the egg mixture with salt and pepper, and pour into the skillet. Cook over the heat for about five minutes and then move the skillet into the hot oven.

Bake for about 25 minutes, until the eggs are mostly set. Remove from the oven. Sprinkle cheese over top and broil for an additional 5-10 minutes, until the cheese is melted and the top slightly browned. Serve immediately.

Meeting Tuesday

2011-11-01T19:04:00.000-04:00

I have a song for every day of the week, and the Stones own Tuesday. In part this is because I love the Stones (who doesn't?) paying tribute to them before I make my way to work makes for a happier day spent in Cubicleland. Also, "Ruby Tuesday" is easy listening for people prone to noise sensitivity prior to 10am.

There's no such thing as a bad Stones song, and while it would be wrong to play favourites, "Ruby Tuesday" holds a special place in my heart. Mostly it reminds me of my cousin Kate, who, at a yearly summer get-together, adamantly declared we play it, her blonde head swinging in the hot, still air. I don't remember what comes next -- maybe she got up on a chair and sang along loudly to it. I wouldn't put it past her. But I do remember feeling pretty free and content. And listening to the Stones long into the evening.

This Tuesday is my first day back from Vacationland. The bad news is that my vacation has come to an abrupt halt, not to be resurrected in any way until the holiday season is in full swing. On the bright side, I did a bit of cooking: there's a pot of white bean, sweet potato, kale, and chorizo stew that simmered away in a robust homemade stock; I pulled together some chicken fajitas and mushroom omelettes while my friend was here visiting; and this granola, my new favourite granola recipe.

There's a few things I like about this. It's not a bad way to meet a Tuesday morning. It has this sweet-salty thing going on that I, as a big-time salt afficionado, adore. Like most granola recipes, it's relatively quick to toss together, and if you choose the right peanut butter -- I am dead SOLD on this crunchy Ontario brand, come hell or high water -- you end up with a truly remarkable product. For those who prefer clumpy granola, this should fit the bill nicely.

If you're looking to use up some of those leftover pumpkin seeds, this recipe offers a lovely arena. Although the original is quite good, I've modified it slightly to meet my tastes (and dietary restrictions.)

Peanut Butter & Honey Granola
Adapted from the Kitchn

Yields about 4 cups

3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup hulled roasted pumpkin seeds
1.5 tsp fine sea salt
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1.5 tsp ground ginger
1/2 cup honey (I prefer wildflower honey)
1/4 cup demerrara or light brown sugar
1 cup natural peanut butter
1.5 tsp real vanilla extract
2/3 cup grapeseed or olive oil
3/4 cup roughly chopped dates (optional)

Pre-heat oven to 325F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, combine oats, seeds, salt, cinnamon, and ginger.

Heat honey, brown sugar and peanut butter in a saucepan over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until the sugar dissolves and the peanut butter is melted and well combined. Turn off the heat. Slowly add in the oil.

Using a spatula, carefully mix the hot, wet ingredients with the dry ones. You're looking for a slightly rough, chunky texture. Transfer to the baking sheet and bake for about 40 minutes, stirring at 10-12 minute intervals, until amber-coloured. Remove from oven and let cool completely before tossing with the dates, if using, and storing in an air-tight container. For best results, use within two weeks.

Oh this adventurous life

2011-10-30T13:51:00.000-04:00

I don’t know how it happens, but the months sail by, flipping through like a shuffling deck of playing cards. I never learned to shuffle, either.

I weathered the rain and wind the other day to pick up my very best friend at Union Station. As I went in to hug her, I thought, yes, finally, I can breathe again. It’s that kind of friendship – the one that can only blossom between two fiercely independent, free-spirited individuals who, geeks to the core, never let the world tell them what to want, what to do, what to believe and connected because of it.

An aside: I just noticed that if you sub “vampire” for “friend” in that paragraph above it might sound a little Anne Rice-y, which I suppose is awfully fitting considering the season. Trust that the only red liquid imbibed this week starts with “w” and ends with “ine.”

On the East side, I take her to my local coffee shop. It’s the kind of place you need to learn about through word-of-mouth due to its side street location and low-budget advertising. It’s Bulldog Coffee – I think they have a couple of different locations – and they’re my favourite. The baristas crank out mean espressos and chat with you as if you’ve known them forever. I appreciate the openness. But then again, it’s that kind of neighbourhood, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone; the kind of place where you’re likely to run into a friend you haven’t seen in ages, and – surprise! – find yourself sitting down to drinks on the fly. I like that.

I order for my friend and we take a seat by the door, settle in for the long haul. We talk it all over. Our lives – the past, the present, the future; our regrets and disappointments; our successes and accomplishments; where do we go from here?; hopes and fears. We cover the landscapes, one by one. I listen to her recount her trip to Australia, how beautiful it was, how much she loved Sidney. I tell her about how I was dazzled by the bright lights of New York City. We recall the time I made inedible dill carrot soup with entirely too much dill and garlic. When she introduced me to The Best Potato Salad Recipe ever (yes, ever! I feel very comfortable dropping that word around The Best Potato Salad Recipe. It's not too much.) There's that time we devoured an entire loaf of gluten-free monkey bread in under twelve hours at the exclusion of all other food groups. The conversation comes easily. It's as if no time has passed at all, which I suppose is how it is with good friends.

“Should we get something else?” she asks me.
“I still have coffee,” I protest, swirling the last of the froth.
She pauses.
"We’ve been staring down at the bottom of our coffee cups for the last two hours.” And we both laugh.

Here we are on the West side, listening to the piano man stomp his feet on the worn wood floors. This place feels like something out of the 20s, but I can't place why. My chair moves with the keys and I don’t mind. Harlem Underground is small and intimate and the food is delicious. We recount old stories with our old friend, D., and as predicted, spend the night fighting back tears. The conversation weaves and changes course, because this is 2011, not 2008, and we are a little older and maybe a little wiser now.

“When did we last see each other exactly?” someone asks as I sip on a dirty gin martini. I think it was when we came back to my apartment after a night at some local bar. Maybe it was the night we shot a few games of pool at the Firehouse and I embarrassed myself by proving to everyone what an embarrassingly bad pool player I am.

“Allow me to fill you in on our ‘adventurous lives’,” I say, taking another bite of cajun catfish.

We are separated again by the many kilometres, our lives shaped by the choices we make, the meals the markers. I think it over while simmering some chicken stock, boiling beans back to life.

Feast for the Fight, etc.

2011-10-20T22:56:00.001-04:00

Feast for the Fight took place last night, and so it came to pass that this Torontonian braved high winds and rain in the name of fundraising.

In high school, I met a very brave and beautiful friend of mine through mutual friends. The way I remember it, we were introduced because she was friends with someone I had a ridiculous crush on, and while the crush went nowhere -- thankfully, as I had some interesting taste back in the day -- she and I became friends. She was the one who got me drunk at our prom party off apricot brandy. She was the one who helped me study for history and classical civilization exams in university and made sure I had my information down pat. When she was living in Toronto she brought me back a load of gluten-free products from Toronto to try; around my nineteenth birthday, we split a bottle of Sour Puss while at Guelph, visiting a friend of ours. I remember the night I met the man who would become her husband and thinking he seemed cool. When we both lived in Windsor, we danced together at the Loop like nobody's business, and we continued the tradition by being the last ones standing on the dance floor at the wedding of a friend of ours this past May. Whenever I've been through the ringer and I let my friends in on it, I can count on her to say, "Your house or mine?" and though she may not have always agreed with my choices, she's always been on my team.

And no, we are not alcoholics. Thanks for checking.

Several years ago, around what must've been my twenty-first birthday, I spent a lot of time at the hospital. My grandfather was wittling away, the consequences of working as a millwright during the hay days of asbestos. It is one thing to know someone is dying, but it is quite another to know they are suffering. It feels heavier. But while I'm reasonably adept at dealing with death in my own way, as much as anyone can ever be, it's another to know that girl you sat across from at the school cafeteria now sits across from you in the hospital. Because I do not take myself so seriously, I have this terrible habit of cracking jokes when people are upset. And so between bringing Tim Hortons fruit and yogurt cups to my grandfather and listening to Johnny Cash on tape, I tried to see her and make her laugh. Maybe you just had to feel it instead of trying to make sense of it.
Shortly after my grandfather died, her mother passed away from cancer.

Since then, she has participated in the CIBC Run for the Cure every year. I ran with her a couple of years. Of course, with these things, it is not just about the money, though that matters. And it's not just about the race. It's about respecting and honouring the past, certainly, but also about conjuring a vision of the future that looks better than the present. This sounds hokey and trite, but yes, it's about hope. Can you imagine a day when we can cure someone of cancer? I want to live that. Feast for the Fight is one of many fundraisers dedicated to raising funds for cancer research and the like, but I didn't agree to attend solely for that. I attended in honour of that vision. It's that vision that gets me knitting scarves for women and children living in shelters. The one that lived with me as I weeded an older woman's garden this past summer while plucking crabapples from a tree. The one I carried with me to the top of the CN Tower tonight, something I am doing because that same friend encouraged me to do it, wrote me a note to remind me I could it, and helped me to raise enough money to participate. Here's to all of that.

I am glad that I could, over a bowl of pretty good pad thai at the Queen Mother Cafe, give back in some small way. But I am also glad to keep doing what I do, which is this: to cook and to write about the way food brings these stories back to life for me. To show the people in my life that I love them again and again, whether it's through a slice of maple whisky pumpkin cake or a plate of overcooked scrambled eggs (hi Laura). This is the way I hope.

While I wait for that vision to manifest, I'm feeling fortunate tonight that I have people in my life who offer tremendous support and keep me grounded. You make the present a gift to live.

With time to breathe

2011-10-18T22:48:00.000-04:00

The days around here are slowly winding down.

Gone are the whirlwind months of surprise visitors and grueling shifts, never-ending to-do lists and afternoons (and evenings. And the wee hours of the morning) spent canning. I’m reading (!) again, dear readers. I’m trying to finish up Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys and I’m in the middle of the unexpectedly addictive Love and Other Impossible Pursuits by Ayelet Waldman. I'm trying to catch up on my blogs and finish a newspaper. I made a pot of simple broccoli soup tonight and finished my leftovers. The front door of my apartment is newly painted thanks to my super. My place is clean. I have a "new", waterproof winter coat. The dishes are done (!) with the exception of one soaking pot. The laundry is under manageable conditions.

It would seem I have my life in order! With time to breathe!

I'm working on a few recipes for you. I made pumpkin biscotti last night. It sort of bombed. I made beef short ribs and polenta with acorn squash the other night -- that was pretty delicious, but it needs another go. Tonight I picked up a few pounds of locally grown, LFP-certified beans (red kidney, white navy and black turtle) and some of the best peanut butter made with Ontario peanuts. We'll see where that leads.

The leaves are crunchy beneath my feet and I’m given to drinking several cups of tea during the day to combat the inevitable chill October’s presence always seems to bring in. One of my very favourite people is set to visit next week and spend a few days with me, which, to my mind, is an early holiday gift. We lived together all through graduate school, and for drama's sake I can't say life has been the same since. I’ve looked high and low – there is no one like her in the world, and I’m looking forward, more than anything, to sip on a good cup of coffee with her and discuss our lives with each other as though we’re still fawning over our theses or marking student papers. As much as I miss those days – and I do, terribly and achingly – I’m enjoying celebrating the present.

How are you faring this fall?

Those otters looked a little suspicious

2011-10-16T17:04:00.000-04:00

Dear readers, I've been sick.

There should be a clause that every lovely, perfect weekend be followed by a lovely, perfect week, for too often it seems we're punished for, oh, trying to enjoy life a little. I thought those otters looked a little suspicious.

At any rate, a girl can only live on fried eggs and bottomless bowls of soup for so long before she starts craving something a bit more substantial. Since I was away last weekend, I've been making do with some odds and ends -- a head of broccoli, some potatoes, homemade granola with yogurt. And what to do with the acorn and spaghetti squash perched in the corner?

I thought I'd give you a break from all of my pumpkin shenanigans and focus on a different squash. I'd like to imagine I'm not the only one obsessed with citrus-coloured vegetables. And this time I get to play with two varieties. I know, you're stoked. I can sense it from this side of the screen.

I pulled this meal together from what I had on hand -- an example of what you can do with good, local ingredients. I usually want to make meals that are slightly involved and interesting, but I often resort to the same types of things pretty routinely. I'm hoping to change this over the next few months and stretch my culinary legs a little. Luckily, even sick I find it easy to throw a couple squash in the oven and roast them and a bit of pork while I catch up on my blogs and television shows. It requires little energy and yields big results.

Another bonus? This meal is entirely budget friendly. Squash is super economical and plentiful this time of year and will keep for months under the right conditions. Pork can also be had for cheap if you aren't overly particular, but I buy my meat directly from a butcher and pay the premium. Even still, this meal is satisfying, nourishing and economical -- and a much-needed change from my soft food diet.

Spiced Pork Over Spaghetti Squash

Loosely adapted from Cooking Light

Serves 2

This recipe yields two servings, but you'll be left with more spaghetti and acorn squash than you really need. Fortunately, squash freezes really well, so you can always put it away for a future use. I like to keep some kicking around because I like adding squash to omelettes and soups or for incorporating in other dishes.

1 large pork loin chop (about 10oz)
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/8 tsp ground nutmeg
Pinch cinnamon
Salt and pepper

1 medium-sized spaghetti squash
1 standard-sized acorn squash
1 tbsp grated parmesan
4-5 fresh sage leaves, minced
Good quality extra-virgin olive oil
Pepper

1. Whisk together spices in a small bowl and coat pork with them. Salt and pepper each side generously and bring to room temperature.
2. Slice the squashes and drizzle with a bit of olive oil. Place in 400F oven for 45 minutes - 1 hour, until fork-tender.
3. Bake pork until an internal temperature of 145F is reached (or 160F for very well-done.) Cover and let rest.
4. Scrape half the spaghetti squash into a bowl. In a separate bowl, scrape out flesh of one half of the acorn squash. Mash and mix with a quick drizzle of olive oil, the parmesan and sage.
5. Mix the acorn squash "sauce" with the spaghetti squash until well combined.
6. Slice the pork in two and serve over spaghetti squash. Serve immediately.

Check it out

2011-10-15T13:21:00.005-04:00

Dear reader, while you wait for the next installment of Aubergine (humour me), you might want to check out two upcoming events if you find yourself in the Greater Toronto Area.

Tomorrow, October 16th is Foodstock, an outdoor, pay-what-you can, public food event in support of the movement to Stop The Mega Quarry. The event will feature 100 local chefs including Michael Stadtländer. Stadtländer is an internationally renowned chef, whose farm-to-table eatery at Eigensinn was 15 years ahead of the locavore movement and has been ranked as one of the top ten best restaurants in the world. Head out to Honeywell if you can to support this great cause and sample some fine cuisine. To donate or learn more about it, click here.

Dine out at a participating restaurant on Wednesday in support of Feast for the Fight. A portion of the proceeds will go toward the Canadian Cancer Society. To see the list of participating restaurants, click here. I'm still undecided on whether I'll be out that night or not, but if you plan on attending, please let me know!

It's chilly out there today, readers, so be sure to arm yourselves with cozy sweaters and a cup of hot tea. How am I beating the chill? A mug of strong coffee and a pair of fuzzy slippers (listening to Ben Lee doesn't hurt, either.) Enjoy your weekend.

Last cinnamon sticks standing

2011-10-11T23:01:00.002-04:00

Dear readers, I'm back from another lovely weekend at the cottage. I'm battling what appears to be the onset of a cold and as such have resorted to things like endless mugs of peppermint tea, fried eggs on toast and granola with yogurt. Though I can appreciate the finer things in life -- single-origin raw chocolate, dark roast coffee, aged wines, expertly crafted cheeses, fresh seafood -- you'd be surprised at how often I turn to some version of a staple to keep me nourished and satisfied. When you cook for yourself, anything goes, doesn't it?

This weekend involved real comfort -- reading on the beach, leisurely breakfasts prepared to classic Motown tunes, hours spent playing board games with family members (I contend that I'm not really all that competitive), sipping hot apple cider and whisky cocktails with a cinnamon stick garnish, and watching Will and Grace while perched on the sofa, stuffed. It was about roasting marshmallows over bonfires, playing with slobbery dogs, and kayaking through the lake, the water so calm it was if we were shooting through shields of glass. I might love Thanksgiving more than Christmas if only because fall in Ontario is so beautiful and idyllic.

I don't have much to say to you today, readers, except that I have a hot pot of potato-leek soup simmering away on the stove, garlic roasting in the oven, and a book on my bed waiting for me. I'm fortunate to have the family I have -- unconditionally sweet, supportive and fun -- and friends who really are with me 24 hours a day in some capacity or another. There's a lot to love and to be thankful for this year, not least that I'm still able to appreciate a dinner of a couple eggs fried simply in butter and eaten with good bread and radishes on a warm October night.

A recipe for Thanksgiving

2011-10-07T14:37:00.001-04:00

I do not like pumpkin pie.

There, I've said it.

I think pumpkin is an absolutely fabulous thing. In fact, along with plaid, apple picking and boots, it's what I would call a true marker of autumn. I don't know about you, but my plans include turning orange this season.

Enjoying a pumpkin spice latte while taking a mid-morning walk on a crisp, cool day. Pasta tossed with pumpkin, bacon, and sage. Pumpkin tacos, if you're so inclined. I introduced you to the joys of pumpkin oatmeal. We've eaten pumpkin pancakes. I'm a particularly big fan of pumpkin bread -- I adapted Julie's version to great success for those looking for a winner of a recipe -- and pumpkin risotto. And last year, I brought Laura Calder's squash cake to Thanksgiving dinner at my uncle's cottage.

Now, the cake was good. We all liked it and the texture was especially nice. But it was also a little on the boring side. This is all well and good after a large meal, I think, and in general I tend to prefer my dessert on the less-sweet side of the scale. However, to a family accustomed to and in love with pumpkin pie, it was a little underwhelming I'm sure.

I've gone back to the drawing board this time. Maple syrup. Whisky. Brown sugar. Nutmeg. Cinnamon. Ginger. I'd like to give pumpkin pie a run for its status. I don't know about you, but I'm headed out of dodge this weekend to enjoy some time at the cottage again -- reading, kayaking, listening to Motown, playing Mexican Train, roasting marshmallows, and refining my bartending skills. It sounds promising.

And, I'll add, so does this cake.

Maple Whisky Pumpkin Cake

Yields about 8 slices

3 eggs, separated
1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/4 cup pure maple syrup (dark, or Grade-C, recommended)
1/3 cornstarch
1/4 cup coconut flour or alternative
2 cups pureed pumpkin
1/4 cup whisky (I like 40 Creek)
1 tbsp ground cinnamon
21/2 tbsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground nutmeg
Pinch of salt

1. Pre-heat oven to 350F and grease a springform pan. Cream egg yolks with sugar until well combined.
2. Add in pumpkin, maple syrup, whisky, spices and salt.
3. Mix until thoroughly combined.
4. In a separate bowl, beat egg whites until stiff peaks form.
5. Gently fold egg whites into the batter and mix in.
6. Add in any nuts (walnuts, pecans, etc.) that you may like at this point.
7. Gently fold mixture into springform pan and bake until a toothpick comes out clean and the sides are crisp, about 50 minutes - 1hr. Serve warm with cinnamon whip cream or creme fraiche.

Breakfast around here looks like this: a pumpkin oatmeal recipe

2011-10-04T21:01:00.001-04:00

I know there are people who don't eat breakfast. I'll admit, I don't really understand these people. I love breakfast. It's the one time of the day when mixing peanut butter and wildflower honey in with my whole grains seems perfectly acceptable, when a bowl of granola sweetened with maple syrup and brown sugar passes for health food. This is not to say I'm someone who adores sweets -- I'm not. But come fall you're most likely to find me puttering around in the kitchen, nursing a pot of oats over an open flame. Gone are the days of light lunches and quick breakfasts of yogurt and fruit or fried eggs. After all, what is more soul-satisfying than a hot bowl of grains?

When I first considered a commitment to local eating a couple of months ago, I'll be honest. I searched high and low for oats. Oak Manor produces oats grown and processed in Ontario, but naturally they aren't gluten-free. Which is fine -- unless you have that pesky auto-immune disease that's so du jour. Fortunately Cream Hill Estates, out of Quebec, makes a line of gluten-free oat products that include rolled oats, oat flour and oat groats. I realize these oats aren't from Ontario, but Montreal is a heck of a lot closer than the Bob's Red Mill Wheat-Free Oats I was purchasing. Happily, these oats are also more economical - $11 for almost 5lbs, vs. $7 for 2.2lbs of Bob Red Mill's Wheat Free Rolled Oats (and this is at NoFrills -- they go from anywhere between $8 - $10 at stores such as Whole Foods, Loblaws and health food stores.)

Cream Hill Estates, according to their website, "is a small, privately-owned business producing and distributing guaranteed pure oats as rolled oats, oat flour and whole oat kernels (groats)." They're currently in the process of developing other gluten-free oat products. For those in the GTA, I purchased mine from Noah's Bloor St. (at Spadina) location.

I'll be covering alternative ways of enjoying your bowl of oats in the future, but here's one to tantalize your tastebuds for now.

Pumpkin Oatmeal

Serves 1

1/3 cup rolled oats (learn more about rolled oats here)
2 heaping tbsp pureed pumpkin (I use Stokely's, which is grown and processed in Ontario)
1 tsp pumpkin pie spice, or more to taste
1-2 tsp pure Ontario maple syrup
Dash of pure vanilla extract
Black walnuts (optional)
Salt

1. Cook your oatmeal according to package directions. Be sure to add a pinch of salt to the cooking water. I cook mine on the stovetop because I don't have a microwave, which takes about 4-6 minutes.

2. Closer to the end of cooking time, around the 3-4 minute mark, add canned pumpkin, pie spice, and vanilla. Mix thoroughly to combine.

3. Heat through and serve immediately. Stir in maple syrup and add walnuts or other add-ins if desired. You may need to add a little additional salt if the flavours aren't coming through clearly. Enjoy with a cup of local pumpkin tea or with pumpkin spice coffee.

And we're off (!). Again.

2011-10-03T23:04:00.001-04:00

I'll come right out and say it: I've been trying to write this post for a long while now. How long? Embarassingly long. Twelve re-writes long. At least. Let's forget I just said that and all yell apple cobbler. That's better. I've been drinking a lot of mint tea and watching bad television and listening to a lot of good music, most notably Sarah Harmer and David Gray. Also, it's fall now. That happened. All around me people are getting sick and asking, "Where did August go?" Nevermind August. What happened to July? I'm still stuck in July. Maybe I'll quit this blog and take up a cigar habit and write a book called May and Everything After. It'll be a quick read.

That's what's new with me. What's new with you? I haven't heard from you in ages.

I haven't been writing much these days. It began innocently enough back in June when I was too busy to breathe and fold my laundry, let alone cook anything more elaborate than fried eggs. I fell out of the habit of documenting my life and fell into the lives of other people -- celebrating 21st birthdays, for instance, or hearing a woman wax on happily about a savoury panna cotta made with boursin cheese and served over mixed greens. I spent a morning pulling weeds out of a garden on the outskirts of the city as a group of guys plucked crabapples from tree limbs, and a stranger walked by and exclaimed, "Too bad there are more weeds there than grass."

I sat on a porch stoop drinking unsweetened iced tea with the owner of a local pizza chain, and later washed my purple-stained hands after picking mulberries. I ate amazingly delicious food and drank ridiculously delicious cocktails in New York City, walked Central Park and the Brooklyn Bridge with one of the loveliest women I know. I met C., a lady who introduced me to the guys at ChocoSol and to their little-known but much-loved mysterious elixir, the drinking chocolate, that I swear to you will make you deliriously happy the moment you sip on it. I spent a lot of time canning and preserving and, inevitably, making a pile of dirty dishes. I went to baseball games and dinner parties and concerts and sat on as many patios as possible. Now I'm ready to write again.

I've also decided to commit to a bit of a challenge -- to incorporate as many local foods into my diet as possible. I've been interested in eating locally for a good while, so really this is not such a steep departure from where I left of. But too often I resort to the same dishes, cycle through the same meals -- poached egg on top of brown rice pasta, some version of rice and lentils. It's not a bad thing, but I think there's a lot of experimentation left to do and a lot of unexplored territory that beckons to be discovered. Certainly we're all aware that we live in uncertain times -- haven't we always? -- sudden deaths, job losses, budget cuts, poor crop yields. No matter where I am or what anxieties arise, I like to think that a few friends can sit down around a table -- even if it "sitting down" means hanging out on the floor -- and, with the magic of a bit of food and a good glass of wine, feel that everything is right in the world. Cheers to more of that.

A change in seasons

2011-08-06T15:18:00.000-04:00

It's easy to feel disconnected in a large city, I think -- to feel distanced from everything that matters, some social graces or common courtesy. A trip to the market can offer a sort of cure-all for the disease that is City Irritation, a remedy for those plagued by stress and anxiety.

I woke up with the sun this morning. It usually happens despite my best intentions. I sat around drinking strongly brewed chai tea, made breakfast in a clean kitchen, read the Globe and Mail online and caught up on my reading. I walked to St. Lawrence, grabbing a coffee along the way -- you can say what you will about Starbucks, but hats off to Howard Schultz for carving that empire -- and walking by St. James Church, admiring the architecture.

I love that at the market, you are confronted by choices you once never thought possible. Freestone or clingstone peaches? Early Redhaven, Garnet Beauty, Harrow Dawn. They sound like beautiful women in a fairytale. I like the small peaches that first come out in July the best. They're amazingly sweet and the juice runs down your arm freely with wild abandon. I buy a few, but I'll need to wait a few weeks for the canning variety, I'm told. No freestones yet.

There's melons of every variety - cantaloupes, muskmelons, sugar baby, watermelon. Heirloom tomatoes and fava beans. Fresh garlic, strawberries still holding on, baby cucumbers slightly soft to the touch, corn-on-the-cob. A man stops me when he realizes I'm blindly picking my cobs. "You'd think they're all the same," he says, "but they're not." He pulls back the husk on one to expose a few black bits. "Here, this is a good one." I leave with six ears of good corn.

The blackberries have grown bigger since a couple of weeks ago. The first of the season were tiny and tart, like the Shiro plums just coming into season. These blackberries are plumper than the ones are the grocery store but still tender to the touch, still delicate, but extremely sweet.

I pick up a large cucumber from a man who drives all the way into the city from Leamington, close to my home town. I always try to purchase something from him. Maybe that's the nostalgia in me talking. Jalapenos and poblano peppers. Beautiful purple flowers from the Mennonite growers who are here every week selling the most gorgeous bouquets. They are always busy, the barrels filled with female gawkers. When you don't have a garden, it's the next best thing.

Welcome back to Aubergine Land

2011-08-02T21:54:00.000-04:00

Some interesting things have been occurring lately in Aubergine Land.

Just last week, while walking back to work from a library lunch -- no, I did not eat the books, though I may have nibbled on some of their covers -- I so fantastically caught one of my heels in a subway grate as I caught a glimpse of this glorious book in a storefront window. I recently discovered that a burger joint around the corner from me has been offering a gluten-free bun option on all of their burgers for some time now -- for a whopping $.75 extra. Apparently I am finished eating sausages with mustard at midnight, leaning over the counter like the uncivilized eater I am.

On Saturday, while picking up things to can and freeze at the St. Lawrence Market (North), the owner of Acropolis came up to me. "Do a shot of olive oil with me!" he exclaimed. It's 9:30am, I thought to myself. But then again, how often do Greek men approach me asking me to do shots with them? And who would I be if I were to refuse? I'd barely recognize myself. So as I stood there in the middle of the market, weighed down with fresh local fare, I did a shot of extra-virgin olive oil with my left leg up, muttering 'Opa!', as, according to the man, it makes the oil taste more delicious. The thing is, it was. Grown in a bio region on the island of Crete, it's brought over in oak barrels and bottled in Canada. Light and grassy, I imagined it would add the perfect finish to a serving of asparagus risotto. We followed this with a shot of honey balsamic, which was terrifically sweet and syrupy, and a couple varieties of black olives.

And most interesting, at least to me, is these veggie burgers. Now I'll be the first to admit I do not care one bit for the words "veggie" or "burgers." Too cheerful? Cheesy? I'm not sure what it is. But when I spotted this new release, I gave in. Most of the recipes that appear in the book are not gluten-free and, according to the author, not easily adapted, but a few are and they are worth trying out. This is the first and only recipe I sampled from the book and am therefore ill-equipped to provide a thorough review, but I'm impressed with the flavours and how easy so many of the recipes are to pull together. This one is no different. From beginning to end, this recipe takes a maximum of twenty minutes -- and that's stretching it. What I loved? It's nutritious, healthy and comes together quickly. It's delicious and economical. What I didn't love? The instructions provided insufficient detail as to what the finished batter should look like, and some of it didn't make sense. I've revised the recipe here in hopes of making it easier for you so that you, too, can enjoy them. Now, these will not form easily into patties. My ingredients bound together, but they were too moist. Instead, I spooned batter into a hot cast iron pan and flipped them once the first side was cooked through. Once heated through, these burgers stay together well, though, and freeze easily.

Chickpea Spinach Burgers
Adapted from Veggie Burgers Every Which Way by Lukas Volger
Yields 5-6 burgers

1.5 chickpeas
5oz fresh baby spinach
2 eggs
2 - 3 tbsp lemon juice, or as needed
2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp kosher salt
Chickpea or garbanzo bean flour

Combine 1.25 cups chickpeas, spinach, eggs, lemon juice, cumin, and salt in a food processor and process until the mixture resembles a chunky hummus. Add to a large bowl and set aside. In the bowl of the food processor, add the remaining chickpeas and process until just crumbly. Add to the other mixture and stir to combine. Sprinkle in chickpea flour until the burger mixture thickens. You may not be able to make patties with this mix exactly, but the flour will bind the burger together nicely once cooked. I take 1/3 cups of the mixture and plop it into a cast iron skillet over medium-high. 3-4 minutes on each side yields a burger that is crispy on the outside but deliciously moist on the inside. Serve with your favourite condiments on a bun, or on a bed of butter lettuce (my preferred way.)

An ode to coconut flour

2011-07-17T22:41:00.001-04:00

It's quiet in here. I've been on a bit of a hiatus lately.

Part I is best called, "Weeks where I worked entirely too much and burnt myself out." Around here, Part II is titled, "...and then I got sick and was forced to relax and recharge." There may have been good food and some wine involved. I won't tell you how many glasses were consumed in the interest of keeping scorn and judgement at bay, but suffice to say there was plenty of spirited recklessness around these parts and it was whole-heartedly deserved. And, suffice to say, not a whole lot of writing has been going on. I'm sorry. On the plus side, I give you Kurt Elling. Swoon away.

Part III, I'm calling: "coconut flour, you scoundrel!"

My sister came to visit a couple of weekends ago. I gave her a tour of Toronto, which to me means a day at the beach and an afternoon shopping, nights spent eating and drinking and generally having a good time. I found a casual black dress to wear frolicking about town, and a rug for my living room, and I ate ice cream while walking through Pride. I watched the fireworks, and I read voraciously, and mostly I sat back and let life happen for a little while. La vie est belle, non?

And I made these pancakes. Now, I'm not much of a sweets-for-breakfast kind of girl. Mostly I eat granola and plain yogurt for breakfast, topped perhaps with some (fabulous) local peanut butter or chia seeds or fresh fruit. Sometimes I'll eat eggs in some form or another. In the cooler months, I'm partial to oatmeal and hot cereal. But every now and again, like clockwork, invariably a craving for pancakes takes up residence and I'm forced to submit. Unlike traditional pancakes made with bleached all-purpose flour, this version is healthy, slightly fluffy and full of fantastic flavour (even before the maple syrup.) Not much surprises me anymore. I don't feel like every turn in the kitchen automatically enlists me in some game-changing event. I don't need to re-invent classics or develop innovative dishes. A good meal is always worth celebrating, whether it is enjoyed at a four-star restaurant made at the hands of talented chefs, or a humble, simple meal prepared at home and eaten among old friends. I like cool techniques, well-considered approaches, fresh flavours. I'm always thrown when asked to prepare a dish. Most of what I make is simple fare, hardly impressive. But every now and then something comes around and changes my life, and let me tell you, coconut flour is one of those things. Now, I've known about it for a while. I've heard others sing its praises and virtues. But, like most things, it took me a while to catch on. You needn't wait for a special occasion. Wake up on a lazy weekend morning, start the coffee (or the tea!), and make these pancakes while the sun is dancing in your kitchen and your body is full of energy. Proceed with an adventurous spirit, head held high, and act, even if you don't believe in it, optimistic for a moment. Eat these pancakes with a smile, day ahead of you, and surrender to the next part, whatever form it takes.

(Photo credit: Laura Berneche)

Coconut Flour Pancakes with Blueberries
Adapted from Erica Kerwien
Yields 6 silver dollar-sized pancakes, or 2-3 servings

3 (room temperature) large eggs
1 tsp grapeseed or olive oil
1 tsp real vanilla extract
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp baking powder (make sure it's gluten-free!)
1 tsp maple syrup
2-3 tbsp coconut flour
1/8 tsp kosher or sea salt
Handful of fresh or frozen (defrosted) blueberries

Additional maple syrup and/or butter for serving

1. Separate your egg yolks from your egg whites. Beat the egg whites until they develop soft peaks. Set aside.
2. Combine all dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, cinnamon, salt) and whisk together thoroughly to incorporate.
3. In a separate bowl, mix together all wet ingredients (lightly beaten egg yolks, maple syrup, vanilla and oil), leaving the blueberries out.
4. Make a well in the dry ingredients. Slowly add the wet ingredients. Beat everything together on a low until just combined. Carefully fold in the egg whites, followed by the blueberries.
5. Heat a skillet, preferably a cast iron one, to medium-high. Add the batter. Unlike traditional pancakes, you may not get the bubbles on these pancakes that signify they've finished cooking. Instead, you'll have to check the bottoms to see if they've crisped up enough. I find that you can tell if they're finished because the ends will curl up a little.

Serve immediately with maple syrup, butter and additional blueberries if desired.

*Note: these do not re-heat well.

Mulling, mulberries

2011-07-07T21:07:00.000-04:00

Tonight I picked mulberries for the first time.

What to say about mulberry picking? I walked up the house at the end of the street. "Local, local, it's the buzz word. Everyone keeps saying to eat local," the man tells me, offering me water or tea. "But where is local? A lot comes from South America, some from African countries, from China, from Europe. Where is Canada?" I nod my head in agreement. Who knows what's in season anymore? Peppers are in season, but the only ones you'll find at the superstores around here at from the U.S.A. What about peas? I see English cucumbers from Ontario, I see onions, potatoes. An apple here or there if you're lucky. But Ontario berries are slim and I rarely see cherries.

Many are under the impression, so it appears, that we don't grow much in Canada. It's kind of absurd how little we know about our own unique culinary landscape. Have you heard of serviceberries, also known as Saskatoon berries? They grow freely in parks. Free food! There's various mushroom varieties, and apple varieties of course. But we grow other things. Chicory, wild rice, other wild edibles. A landscape that produces asparagus, lettuce, pears, apples, plums, apricots, crabapples, mulberries, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, rhubarb. I remember growing up in my Nan's backyard and feasting on ripe rhubarb, straight from the garden, eaten without sugar. I remember picking crabapples from her tree and picking out the worms, savoring their tart flesh. I remember running through the cornfields. I remember picking our Halloween pumpkins at a nearby local farm, and buying fresh sweet corn from roadside stops. I know the taste of fresh peppers and the delicious earthiness of a fresh mushroom, and I know what a good potato can do to a person.

We shook the mulberry tree collectively over a couple sheets, trying to get the fruit down. Together we managed to get about five pounds, each taking home a little under half a pound. It's hardly worth it, maybe, to pick mulberries. You don't get much at a time. But I saw the sun set over the ravine, and I managed to forge bonds with perfect strangers over similar interests and convictions. Why were we there? To help out a local charity? To indulge in a few mulberries? I was there because I am dedicated to becoming more connected to my environment and to my food, to learning more about where things come from and how they grow. There's a lot of lessons to be gleaned from nature, I think. And there's something to be said for simple living. I could do without a lot of things. I'd be willing to give it all up. But at the end of the day, I want a future where people are sitting around eating good, local food; I want to live in a present where the local food scene is thriving, and people understand what it means to "eat Canadian". And most importantly, at least to me, I want to appreciate what's on my plate, never take it for granted, and treat the world I live in with respect and gratitude, cherishing each delicious bite and each special moment.

Where the living is easy

2011-07-07T14:01:00.002-04:00

Nights in spent catching up with an old friend. Watching Mad Men over a meal of salty canned clams and corn pasta, arugula standing in for the black pepper. It's common food around here, delicious and economical, but it kind of sings in its own way. I like the taste of clams with corn pasta done al dente, the way the parmesan interacts with the arugula and the chili flakes. I love the garlic butter that resonates in the background, the way it pulls all of the ingredients together, and I like the bite of the pasta against the softness of the sauce. Consumed with a glass of VQA red wine while sprawled on the couch, it feels absolutely luxurious. A couple of dark chocolate squares for dessert? Mais oui!

There've been many good moments lately. My sister came to visit this past weekend and I made her coconut blueberry pancakes, a recipe I'll share later this week. Blueberries aren't in season quite yet around these parts of what I can tell, and the crappy ones from Oregon made for a lousy substitute, but I can envision them being made with good blueberries, the tart-sweet variety, the kind that leaves blueberry juice stained on your clothes. I've been reading more these days, and trying to catch more films, and find myself taking short walks in the early evening just as people finish their al fresco dinners, gulp back that last taste of wine. It's nice to breathe in the summer air, a little humid and still but gentler this year. It's nice to walk aimlessly and conjure up wishes. Romantic, isn't it? I like to listen to jazz while making dinner, glass of wine in hand, or to country music as I mop my floors. This is summertime in Toronto. Drinking mediocre sangria on a large patio with an old friend. Walking around and witnessing the Pride festivities over the weekend, eating a small scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream and happily lapping up the sunshine. Reading about M.F.K. Fisher's life over a lunch hour; reading about women who eat over another. Gearing up to pick mulberries. Contemplating the fall, considering my future. Making lists and planning projects. Is this what happiness looks like? I think so, indeed I do, and I am glad for it.

Springtime in Toronto

2011-06-26T20:26:00.000-04:00

Some months are quiet. They appear sheepishly at your doorstep and wander around for a while, getting comfortable before showing themselves out after coffee. Other months, like June, are loud. They begin, not with a stir, but a ferocious tumble. Loud bass in your apartment, pots shaking against the door they are hung on. Local strawberries that ignite in your mouth, oozing sweetness. You throw a few stalks of Ontario asparagus into a frittata, into pasta, savouring its innate earthiness as it sizzles in the pan.

Things I have loved about June – the hitlist:

-A cottage weekend spent kayaking, reading and drinking strong coffee in bed while watching the sun come up over the lake, eating chicken kabobs and bacon-wrapped beef tenderloin, cocktails, an art gallery full of Canada’s finest hidden away, a wine tasting, a drive back into the city listening to new records;
-Pints of local strawberries lining the sidewalks, and eating them until my belly grew sick with the sweetness during a torrential downpour;
-Ending the day over a phone conversation with my mother;
-Frequenting the farmer’s markets again, and tasting watermelon honey for the first time;
-An Alice in Wonderland party with the most phenomenal attention to detail;
-Weddings, both lavish and tacky and sweet and simple;
-Plotting for a New York City weekend next month;
-Dinner enjoyed al fresco with friends;
-A weekend of good laughter and more unforgettable memories with old friends;
-Listening to blossoming romances between some of the strongest, most wonderful women I’ve met and their new beaus over coffee;
-A beautiful new pair of sandals for my tired feet;
-Yellow peonies in clear mason jars;
-Conversations at midnight, new things to dream to.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of springtime. I don’t remember the last time I felt this happy and satisfied, or felt more loved, and I think one has a lot to do with the other.

First of the season

2011-06-11T09:08:00.001-04:00

I don't believe I've ever told you about this woman I know. Let's call her Amelia. She's become a sort of den mother to me over the course of the last few months: she taught me to knit a scarf; she's encouraged me when I desperately needed cheering up; and she has the most sensible outlook on life, love and food. Organic potato chip in one hand, cigarette in the other, she's made me feel comfortable sauntering around with one foot firmly rooted in a rebellious Birkenstock sandal, the other in a goody-two-shoes, patent leather Mary-Jane. A life full of contradictions is a special thing, no?

We sat around last night sipping cheap red wine as she recalled how she met her husband -- randomly, unexpectedly, during a vacation over on Paradise Island. She'd known him for a week and suddenly they were entangled in a long-distance love affair. I adore stories like that, where two people seemingly forgo all caution and reason, throwing rules to the wind, to try something out. Perhaps because I did it. Things didn't work out as well for me as they have for Amelia, but even if they hadn't fared so well for her I doubt she'd be the type to regret it.

Listening to her wax optimistic about love made me pause and reflect back on my own relationships. And then it got me thinking about strawberries.

I picked up a local pint the other day on my walk home, the first of the season. They taste exactly as they should: mostly sweet, with a hint of tartness. They cost as much as gold around here, partly because they're novel but also because imported berries are ridiculously underpriced, coated in layers of pesticides and chemicals and picked by underpaid immigrant workers. I like berries, but the cheap ones are rarely as satisfying as these berries were. In fact, these were so delicious, I sat there at my computer in the morning, drinking Chai tea and eating all of them, one by one.

Last year, in March I sat in a car in a parking lot outside a produce stand in Plant City back, eating the first strawberries of the season with my then boyfriend, my feet up on the dash. Things made sense. Danger seemed far away from us, as it always seems to when you are happy. It's hard to believe I've only been in Toronto for a little over a year -- it feels like longer -- but I still feel close to that moment, strawberry juice dribbling down my chin as we bragged to our loved ones. There is something about eating locally, in-season, that just tastes infinitely better than robbing ourselves of that moment for a quick dozen mediocre strawberries.

Now single, I sit in anticipation of love stories like Amelia's. I love hearing them. I think about a possible future, of picking berries, of eating the first asparagus or green beans or apples or peaches of every season with a loved one, sitting back in wonder, exclaiming, "it took me by surprise."

A change in the weather

2011-05-25T08:09:00.004-04:00

This past weekend – a day at the beach, a morning at the farmer’s market, a lazy day spent leisurely cooking – has totally put me in the summer mood. There’s still plenty of work going on around here; I’m dusting my boots off as we speak. But a year in and I’m finally getting settled in my apartment. I’m looking at paint chips and searching for fabric and it’s all very fun and exciting, at least to me. This “fun and exciting” bit includes, but is not limited to, drooling over The Rug Company website, browsing pages of beautiful furniture I can’t afford, and dreaming up a little writer’s spot, which I envision will pretty well look the way it does now – a chair, a dining table and a laptop – but with peonies and a magical and amazing coffee genie. It’s the little things.
I digress.

When I search for recipes, I cull through blogs and pages for ones that are, as clichéd as it sounds, fresh, simple and innovative. I’m interested in new methods and techniques, in adding a little charm to the everyday. It’s the French toast dipped in orange blossom water, or a vibrant spice blend, or a tablespoon of vinegar that cuts through the richness of a stew, enlivening it with a new dimension. I’m not really into long preparation times or multiple steps. Sometimes it’s nice to devote an entire day to prepping and cooking, but it doesn’t usually interest me. I probably pass over most of the recipes I would have gobbled up hungrily just a couple short years ago.

This recipe is adapted from Kary Osmond’s show. If I could come back as someone else, I might like to come back as Kary Osmond.

This one is a true winner. It’s filling and tasty, full of vibrant colours and comforting textures. Last week I threw together salads on the fly for my lunches, and one day I landed on a stunning and somewhat surprising combination: shredded leftover chicken Diablo, black beans, avocado, and mango tossed in a quick white wine vinaigrette. I loved the way the mango and the avocado played off each other – the tanginess of the mango with the buttery, mellow flavor of the avocado. Mashed with the chicken and black beans, it was fantastic. This one is pretty good, too, but a little more economical and less fussy to put together.

Basically, you open a couple of cans, rinse, and do a bit of chopping. It requires a bit of effort, but it’s worth it. I’ve been taking this salad for lunch, but I imagine it would also be quite nice served up next to some roasted chicken or grilled fish. Alternatively, you could throw a scoopful on some greens or on a baked sweet potato. I thought that might grab your attention.

Black Bean, Chickpea and Avocado Salad with Mango
Adapted from Canadian Living
Yields 4-6 servings

1 – 16oz can of black beans, or about 1.5 cups cooked and salted
1 – 16oz can of chickpeas (garbanzo beans), or about 1.5 cooked and salted
1 ripe avocado, peeled and cubed
½ mango, diced (optional)
1 jalapeno, diced, or to taste
1 brightly coloured bell pepper, cleaned and diced
½ cup chopped fresh cilantro (coriander)
Zest (rind) of 1 lime
Juice of 1 lime
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper, to taste

Toss everything except for the lime juice and olive oil in a bowl and mix thoroughly.

In a separate bowl, whisk together lime juice and oil. Add to the salad. Chill for at least one hour.

The girl who emerged from the fourteenth century

2011-05-15T20:36:00.000-04:00

When you are almost virtually alone in a large city, sometimes the loneliness is palpable. Certainly being employed is comforting. The routine of the everyday provides its own rhythms. But as anyone who works the cubicle life knows, work alone is hardly enough to sustain a person. Well, most people. My grandfather might’ve been an exception to the rule.

But, as they say, in life, change is the only constant. And so on a bright Saturday morning, I found myself bartering for used dining chairs, chairs that remind me of sitting around my Nan’s table eating roast pork and fruit salad. It was the kind of Saturday where you drink entirely too much coffee and spend entirely too long looking through clothing racks trying to differentiate the tops from the dresses. The kind of Saturday where you race to the subway only to find you’ve missed the latest train, but spot a friend there instead. “Hey!” you say, greeting him. You lend a sympathetic ear. When he approaches the topic of texting, he mocks you for not having a cell phone. “I’m a little old-fashioned,” I say. “You’re from the fourteenth century,” he tells you.

“Except that I wear pants,” I retort, smiling.

It’s the kind of weekend that involves movies and popcorn. In particular, air-popped popcorn with chili flakes, sea salt and olive oil.

Popcorn with Chili Flakes, Sea Salt and Olive Oil

Yields 1 good-sized bowl

Popcorn kernels, about ½ cup
Sea salt
Chili flakes
Drizzle of olive oil

Pop kernels according to the direction s on your air-popper. Alternatively, you could pop the kernels on the stove or opt for plain microwave popcorn. Drizzle in olive oil and mix thoroughly to coat all kernels. Sprinkle generously with sea salt and as many chili flakes as you’d like. Serve immediately. Makes good leftovers (in my opinion.)

New hopes

2011-05-02T22:15:00.004-04:00

Maybe it’s the election, or the Royal Wedding, or finally rejoicing the end of winter (!), but I’m starting to feel a little like myself again. I have a series of self-improvement projects on the go and I have plans. Plans, people. And yes, these plans include more than just sampling every bottle of wine currently carried at my local LCBO. Speaking of wine, I currently have a glass of Chianti in hand, and it is mighty fine indeed.

I'm collecting new hopes, dear readers; I'm list-making and wishing and wanting. I'm listening to Ingrid Michaelson and printing photographs and feeling inspired. Maybe there's something to this April showers business after all.

Speaking of spring -- we're over the cabbage/root vegetable hump that swallowed me up throughout the last couple of months. I'm ready for this next season. I wonder what spring will hold this time. I spent last year -- my first spring out of school -- traveling and seeing friends I'd missed and hadn't seen in far too long, and generally panicking as much as I could and growing as neurotic as I am capable, and I'm anxious to see a different spring: one equally filled with good people and all-encompassing laughter, but with fewer anxieties and a greater degree of self-acceptance. Life-acceptance. More breathing.

I often hear of “these people” who grow summer squash, or even winter squash, and end up with massive piles of them during peak season. Apparently soups are made and salads are eaten; zucchini is stuffed and roasted, or tossed into pasta, or pickled. “These people” give some away to their neighbours, who are initially grateful but later run for their lives when they see “these people” coming in fear of ending up recipients of unwanted and unneeded squash. It’s uttered like a bad word, whispered under someone’s breath: SQUASH.

Let me tell you, I don’t know who “these people” are, but they can make an appearance in my kitchen – nay, my life – at any time. I welcome squash gifts the way most women welcome free fragrance samples at The Bay, and trust me when I say I will flock to you like the good ol’ moth to the flame if you were to come three feet near me with a bundle of fresh farm squash. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, apparently mine is by way of surprise produce, preferably organic and homegrown.

It wasn’t always this way. I can’t say I always appreciated the beauty that is smooth skin and seeds rendered delicious upon roasting. The relationship was slow to start, I’ll admit, but soon, like any good addict, I fell hard. Butternut squash, cubed and roasted with maple syrup. A risotto with puréed squash and Creole-spiced shrimp. A squash torte (!) or zucchini filled with Italian sausage or crookneck sautéed with fresh dill and olive oil or sliced thinly and tossed with feta cheese. I could go on, but I’ll spare you the details of my torrid love affairs and head straight to the heart of the matter.

I’m being courted by Sir Spaghetti Squash and am not put off in the least by his name. He is dashing and daring and looks so good in the little glass bowl that sits out on my island. Tonight, plagued by the disease known as Recipe Rut (FYI: unrelated to squash), I came home after a long day and a couple of hours of putzying around Yorkville and posed myself that age old question: What’s for dinner? I think sometimes I even ask myself this question aloud, hoping to find a genie hidden in the cupboard. So I stood there, drinking a glass of something that begins with the letter “w” (hint: not water) and eating carrots (err, baked tortilla chips and mashed avocado with lime) and glanced down at my petite yellow darling.

If you are one of “these people”, we need to talk. A friend with too much squash is a friend indeed.

Spaghetti Squash with Roasted Red Peppers, Olives and Kale
Serves one very hungry girl or two as a side dish

½ small Spaghetti squash (yields about 2-2.5 cups cooked squash)
3 tbsp grated Grana Padano, or to taste (or another hard, salty cheese such as Parmigiano-Reggiano or Asiago)
4-6 kalamata olives, pitted and roughly chopped
1 garlic clove, smashed and minced
1 generous handful of frozen or leftover kale
2 roasted red pepper sections, about ½ a pepper, roughly chopped (or roast and use your own)
¼ tsp ground smoked paprika
A pinch of red chili flakes
Sea salt, to taste
Olive oil

Add spaghetti squash half to a big pot of salted water and bring to a boil. Cook for twenty minutes or until the squash becomes fork-tender. Remove from the water and set aside to cool.

Meanwhile, defrost or re-heat your kale. Feel free to substitute a different green such as spinach if that is what you have on hand.

Return to your squash. With a fork, shred the squash – it will come apart in the form of “noodles”. You may wish to let this stand for a bit over a colander to remove some of the water. I was impatient and skipped this step, but I’d recommend doing it for the best result.

Toss spaghetti squash with heated kale, fresh garlic, olives, chili flakes, salt, cheese and smoked paprika. Drizzle with a little olive oil. Toss to coat and combine. Serve immediately.

This might also be nice with a bit of pesto or shredded basil, or topped with an egg, feta cheese, shrimp, chicken, or pine nuts.

Things that are good

2011-04-28T21:16:00.003-04:00

I’ve been trying to write for a while. I’ll be honest. I’ve started and scratched out an embarassing number of entries. Some emotions or experiences are tricky to put into words. A long weekend spent in Amherstburg drinking fabulous wine and margaritas out of mason jars, eating great food and laughing with my family. Reading a wonderful book in bed with a cup of fresh coffee beside me, the sun rising. A Tuesday off work to putz around the city. A short work week. Steel cut oats with frozen sour cherries and shredded, unsweetened coconut. Going out with co-workers. Believing in the good in people.

What have you been up to lately? Dear readers, I’ve missed you.

I haven’t been cooking much lately (gasp.) Pasta with an egg and homemade lemon artichoke pesto, quick red lentil soups and a crustless quiche with Gruyère and cremini mushrooms. I've been loving meals that come together easily but that are still big on flavour; subtle hints of anything need not apply.

At the same time, some of these things -- notably the quiche -- have been a bit heavier than I'm accustomed to. Unintentionally, I gravitate more toward vegetable-laden dishes full of pulses and fresh ingredients where animal products appear secondary instead of taking a starring role. Every once in a while I cook up something a little indulgent. It's great, but I'm happy to be back to lighter fare.

These meals have been both satisfying and nourishing, and I'm glad for it.

A red lentil vindaloo with potatoes and green beans, served on brown rice.

An enormous chopped green salad with French lentils. Have I told you how much I love French lentils? Well, a lot. I would happily sit and eat an entire bowl of them, tossed with a red wine vinaigrette and garnished with a bit of goat cheese and possibly a hardboiled egg.

And an amazing lemon tart. Umm...a different kind of satisfying and nourishing, really. I don’t have pictures because it was devoured too quickly over the long weekend. This makes me sad, but then again, I tend to think it was a bit of a clever move on my part. It’s just an excuse to bake another one, no?

Lemon Tart of My Dreams
(Barely) adapted from Elana’s Pantry and Laura Calder

Yields about 8 slices

1.5 C almond meal
1/4 tsp fine grain sea salt
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 tbsp sugar

1/4 C vegetable or neutral tasting oil
1 tsp real vanilla extract

2 whole eggs
4 egg yolks
3/4 cup sugar*
2/3 cup sour cream (low-fat is fine)
3/4 cup fresh lemon juice

To make the crust, combine the first four ingredients (dry ingredients.) Whisk to thoroughly combine. Make a well and slowly add the vanilla and the oil. Continue to whisk until absorbed. Pre-heat the oven to 325F. Grease a 9.5" ovensafe pie plate and add the almond "batter", smoothing with your hands if necessary to even it out. Bake for 15-20 minutes until slightly browned.

To make the filling, blend the eggs, yolks and sugar together until emulsified. Slowly whisk in sour cream and lemon juice; it will yield quite a thin filling. Once the crust is finished cooking, fill with the lemon mixture and bake at 325F for 30-35 minutes until set. Refrigerate and cool for at least two hours. Serve chilled.

*Despite the amount of sugar, this recipe yields quite a tart pie. If you prefer a sweeter lemon tart, I would up the sugar to a full cup or even 1.25 cups.

Two steps forward, three steps back

2011-04-19T07:19:00.001-04:00

This weekend, I pulled out my heavy winter sweaters. I settled down on the couch with a hot mug of chai tea and hung out with Canadian Living as the snow and hail came down. I listened to David Gray and made a pot of soup. I thought about granola and forgot about the dishes. It's the kind of chill that digs deep into your bones and makes you lunge for a blanket, turn up the heat, sport layers. And it was the kind of weekend that begged for comfort food.

I've eaten potatoes all my life, but the best I've ever had while were I was in Florida. I know I wax on about the state entirely too often, but I can't be held accountable for how many wonderful qualities it possesses. It seems particularly geeky to admit that whenever I glance over and find a piece of fruit has come from Florida -- especially Plant City -- I smile a little and think about eating the season's first strawberries in the car in front of the produce stand. I think about the time I found a fully intact conch shell that had washed ashore one overcast day, wind whipping against my ears. And I think about the potatoes.

Now, maybe you've eaten fresh potatoes. So have I. But there is something supremely earthy tasting about Florida potatoes. They are delicious. They are wonderful boiled and tossed in melted butter and salt, or even eaten plain. They are excellent with salsa and avocado. I remember sitting down to a particularly good meal one night -- ribs smothered in sauce, green beans and potatoes -- and thinking, this is amazing. It was wonderful.

These potatoes are not those potatoes, but I like them just fine. Canada yields some pretty great potatoes, too. Here's the idea: you cut up about half a pound of red-skinned new potatoes, and you toss them in a little olive oil, just enough so they don't stick. You throw them into a cast iron pan with some coarse sea salt and a couple cloves of fresh, smashed garlic, and you roast the whole thing for about an hour, until the flesh gives in and grows tender. You might want to flip them halfway through cooking time. At this point, you can smash them and continue roasting, or you can remove them from the oven and toss them into this harmonious blend of olive oil, lemon juice, dill, and capers. It's the perfect thing for April, I think, some kind of cure.

It's simple and relatively hands-off, something that comes together easily. It would be nice with a bit of smoked fish and some mixed greens, or tossed into a green salad. How do you like to eat your potatoes?

Potatoes with Lemon and Capers, or "Rockstar Potatoes"
Serves 3-4

1lb red new potatoes, about 3-4 medium-sized
2 cloves of garlic, smashed
Sea salt
Olive oil

1.5 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1-2 tbsp fresh lemon juice, or to taste
1-2 tbsp finely chopped fresh parsley
1/8 tsp dried dill
1 tbsp capers, well rinsed and finely chopped*
Sea salt

Pre-heat your oven to 400F. Rinse your potatoes well and dry completely. Half them. Toss in a little olive oil, about 1 tsp -- just enough to coat. Place with the flesh side facing down on a 10-inch cast iron (ideal) or other oven-safe skillet, salt generously, and add the smashed garlic, whole, to the pan. Roast for 1 hour, until the flesh becomes tender.

While the potatoes roast, make the vinaigrette. Combine the lemon juice with the herbs and capers, and salt to taste. This is important as the salt will not properly mingle once the olive oil has been added. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil to emulsify. When the potatoes are ready, toss thoroughly with the vinaigrette and let stand for five minutes to allow the potatoes to absorb the dressing. Taste, and adjust seasoning. Serve hot or eat as a cold potato salad.

*The photographs feature the capers whole, but I would chop them finely next time to ensure all of the flavours are thoroughly combined.

She doesn't take it lying down

2011-04-05T21:00:00.004-04:00

So March happened.

I believe I spent half of it perched on the couch with a hot mug of tea and entirely too much television, but at any rate. It's April now; spring has officially and unofficially arrived. I'm back to drinking chilled wines, dreaming about long and lazy patio days and contemplating my next big haircut. I think it's clear by now that I have my priorities straight.

In all earnest, I've been thinking about other things, too, like getting back to writing and organizing my apartment properly, about efficiency and productivity. The thing is, I always seem to have so much time when I'm not preoccupied with trying to fill it. I get around to doing the dishes. I read my library books. I make my lunch in the evening and pick out my clothes. When I'm busy trying to do things -- really do things -- I end up doing next to nothing, squandering my time. As Henry Brooks Adams once said, "Chaos often breeds life, when order breeds habit." I don't know about you, but there seems to be this constant push and pull in my life between my tendency to micromanage and my desire for spontaneity and freedom. Do we just "let it be" as Lenon insisted or do we worry ourselves into circles hoping we can muster up control?

Or, in the end, maybe we sit around drinking that lovely chilled wine and make fish tacos on a Monday night after a long day at work. Maybe we wish we were surrounded by good people, but feel as though we are. The emails, they wait. The plans wait. There are people you can't wait to talk to. And then there is this: the quiet stillness and silence of waiting, of postponing, and there is the loudness of life as you take a bite of your dinner and smile, and wonder to yourself: where has life gone?

Grilled Salmon Tacos with Apple-Cucumber Salsa
Adapted from Food & Wine and We Are Not Martha
Yields about 4-5 tacos

These tacos are really lovely. To save time the night of and for best flavour, prepare the salsa ahead of time (ie. the night before.)

4-5 corn tortillas

2 tbsp mayonnaise
Lime juice

1/2 lb Atlantic salmon
1 tbsp chili powder
1 chipotle pepper in adobo, minced
Zest of 1 lime
Sea salt
Grapeseed oil

1/2 English cucumber
1/2 red bell pepper
1/4 cup red onion
Generous handful fresh cilantro
1 tsp sugar
1.5 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 fresh jalapeno
Sea salt

Avocado

Combine chili powder, chipotle pepper, a generous pinch of sea salt, and lime zest and smother salmon. Let stand for about 20 minutes to allow the flavours to mingle.

In the meantime, prepare the salsa. Using a spoon, carve our the seeds from the cucumber and finely dice. Slice, trim and wash the bell pepper, and finely dice. Finely dice the red onion, and chop up the cilantro. Mix to combine using a wooden spoon. In a separate bowl, combine vinegar with sugar and a generous pinch of salt, and whisk together. Pour over your diced vegetables and toss thoroughly to ensure even coating. Set aside.

Add mayonnaise to a small bowl. Thin to desired consistency using lime juice.

Before cooking the salmon, heat corn tortillas in a dry skillet or by baking at about 300F for 5-7 minutes, and keep warm using paper towels or aluminum foil.

To cook salmon, drizzle grapeseed oil over a grill pan and bring to high heat. Add salmon and cook until almost flaky, about 3 minutes per side (this will depend on thickness of salmon.) Once cooked through, flake using a fork.

To serve, mash avocado on a corn tortilla and top with salmon. Add salsa and line with lime-mayonnaise drizzle.

Ooooh boy.

2011-03-21T21:19:00.004-04:00

I've been trying to write this entry for a week.

This was not the week I expected to have at all.

Excuses are for wimps and undergrads. But first there was the earthquake that rocked Japan and then the tsunami. The aftershocks came. A nuclear catastrophe erupted and a snowstorm hit. In the days that followed many were quick to point out that disasters happen each day to people around the globe, but I don't feel that's a fair comparison. I don't mean to say that those suffering in Japan are not worse off than anyone else, though that may very well be, because I'm not interested in writing up a veritable who's who of worldwide victims, and I'm not interested in measuring levels of agony or injustice if such measurements were even possible. I mean to say that media coverage of these Japanese events has totally saturated the airwaves, print mediums and social networks in a way that is so all-encompassing. I woke up Friday morning, ate my granola and yogurt, sipped on a mug of strong coffee, and watched the world shift and change irreparably yet again. And in a small way, insignificant to anyone else, those moments have woven themselves into my life, too.

After a large-scale natural disaster I tend to retreat a little, grow uneasy. Maybe you do the same thing, too. I lie low. Do you know what to do? I don't. I sit glued to my television listening to the news reports and the stories, and I read the articles and the quick write-ups. I can't imagine it yet it stares me in the face. Mostly it makes me feel sad and helpless, but it also serves as a reminder of how fragile we all are, how delicate our lives are, like intricately woven spiderwebs.

They -- epic natural disasters -- render me speechless. How do I wax on about the wonders of chickpeas tossed into a lemony, rosemary-spiked casserole when such despair looms? Toward the end of the week I fell ill with a wicked case of the "stomach flu", ie. sleep for eighteen hours straight and wake up promptly at 8am in search of orange popsicles and slurpees; walk across the street in barely-combed hair, Birkenstock clogs and baggy yoga pants to acquire said slurpee and an orange freezie (sorry, no popsicles.) I clearly spent most of Friday sleeping and all of Saturday propped up on the couch catching up on B-rated movies and connecting with a 2L bottle of warm 7-Up.

That brings us back here, to Monday. Have I mentioned that I hate Mondays? Probably. I've been sticking mainly to the basics -- bland recipes unworthy of writing down at all. But there is one thing I have fallen in love with for the first time. I know I'm slow -- hang with me. Eventually I catch up, you know.

Yes. Toast, butter, honey, and sea salt. Wild blueberry honey, if we're being specific, though your favourite honey will work just fine. It's basic and doesn't require a recipe, but I've been happily eating it all week for breakfast. Sometimes it's just what you need -- or what I needed. And while new recipes are all well and good, I think it's nice sometimes to revert to the classics, even just for a little while, even just to be reminded how satisfying they can be. I feel uncomfortable writing more than this, to be honest. Life goes on, certainly, but a pause does some good, too. I for one could use a long pause.

That, and a bite of toast.

This little life

2011-03-07T21:12:00.001-05:00

Some say that the purpose of life is joy. Between that and the guy who tried to convince me that I could will away my auto-immune disease by using a hypnotist or holistic nutritionist -- I can't remember which -- it might be a little too zen for me. But regardless, there's some real truth in that conviction, I think. Misery is an unhappy waste of time in my books, so I'm trying to be more mindful again. Learning what makes you happy is difficult, particularly if you derive happiness from many things. Sometimes I have to stand back and remind myself that contentment and satisfaction are different things, and while I may be complacent I am not always so happy. This statement reminds me of Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project, actually. This has nothing to do with food. I'm getting there.

This weekend I cooked. I made enchiladas stuffed full with pinto beans cooked from dried and roasted poblano peppers topped with a salsa verde made from fresh tomatillos from a store in Kensington. They were wrapped in preservative-free corn tortillas, the only ones left at this Latin American grocer I frequent. The owner tends to make up prices depending on how well he knows you. "I'm making enchiladas," I said. "Green or red?" he asked, and we talked about how delicious real Mexican food is and he chuckled at how excited I was at the prospect of eating enchiladas made with super fresh tortillas. You'll know him if you walk by Baldwin St., because he's the one outside spouting a mantra that goes like this: "Bens, piss-tachios, al-munds..." and he will give you terrific advice if you ask.

I braised pork tenderloin, red-fleshed and fresh, in milk and a little extra-virgin olive oil and seasoned it with salt and pepper, dried sage and garlic. I served it on top of a small mound of lentils de puy, tiny French green lentils, tossed with a mustardy red wine vinaigrette. I woke up to steel cut oats this morning thanks to my slow cooker, and to a butternut squash and granny smith apple soup this evening spiked with a little apple wine and apple cider vinaigrette for brightness. I even threw together a chickpea casserole with farmer's cheese, plain yogurt, parmesan, fresh rosemary, fresh parsley, lemon, artichokes, brown rice and homemade bread crumbs, frozen for a later date. I think it might be nice cooked with a little dry white wine and eaten with some lemon artichoke pesto I still have in the freezer, served with a spring mix salad and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc some evening. I imagine eating it while watching a French film quietly on my couch, wearing some elegant something or other that I of course do not own because I own nothing that embodies that kind of style.

It makes me long for spring in a real, tangible way, for sandals clanking against the sidewalk and a cappuccino on a patio somewhere, perhaps at Caffe Doria on one of those adorable tables beneath the tree. I'm happy I've come to Toronto, even if it means there are long lonely pauses where it feels as though one life -- my old, care-free life -- has died a silent, barely perceptible death and another more mature one has entered. I consider all the changes that have occurred the past few years and I'm filled to the brim with nostalgia, sadness and pride. I miss everyone, always, and even the tiniest things remind me of what used to be my daily life -- a life I lived without thinking too hard about it, moving one day to the next, and a life I no longer meet every morning. It really does feel like I was picking up a bottle of wine from the grocery store yesterday or walking against the unfinished wood floors at the apartment I shared with an ex-boyfriend. That I drove to a girl's night or drank wine at The Winery, casual, feeling a sense of community and belonging. I think about graduate school and how much I laughed with my old roommate, and it's frightening to think it'll be two years this May since we last lived together. I was just talking to her over a cup of coffee. We were probably ranting about something or other.

Eventually I may feel this way about this little life of mine, too. I hope so. Maybe everyone will move here to the big city at some point; that's the dream, isn't it? For now I dream in sour cherry popsicles and debate whether I should sign up for a food writing course for April or wait until July, and I think about travel plans to New York City. I'm lucky in that all of my endings have been met with good beginnings, and even luckier that the feeling has yet to leave me.

No recipe right now -- I have one in mind, but you'll like it better later, when the buds start to pop. For now just know that I'm here, I'm pondering the ways of the world, I'm trying to be conscientious, I'm trying to keep it together, I'm trying to work toward a self-satisfied place, I'm eating an orange every morning and savouring every section. I have an antique pine dining table now and staring at it makes me smile, even if I don't have a single chair to sit on in order to enjoy the table fully. I'm busy. It's all good. And I probably miss you the way most (all?) Canadians miss springtime on March 7th. But I'm beginning to feel joy, I think, for the first time in a long time, which must mean I'm beginning to feel at home in Toronto.

Dear reader, do you ever feel like you've lived many times over? That there must've been a steep cliff between where you were and where you are?

Quiet hours

2011-02-26T12:31:00.000-05:00

The best part about Saturday morning, at least for me, is being able to fully enjoy my two cups of coffee. I brew it strong -- a symptom of living in metropolis? -- sit down on the couch with some breakfast, a blanket and the online edition of The Globe and Mail and drink up. It's marvelous, especially coming off a seventeen-hour work day. Between visits to the library to pick up and return books, hunting around in Leslieville for a dining table (it's being delivered on Monday), meetings, phone calls, more meetings, watching movies -- The Social Network and Blue Valentine respectively, reading (Molly Stevens, where have you been all my life?), discovering the art of braising (see Molly Stevens), hitting the gym, serving and other miscellaneous tasks, come Saturday I'm plenty grateful for the few quiet hours I have all to myself. Yes, there's cleaning and food prep and grocery shopping to get to, but that time in the morning -- those few quiet hours -- are perfect.

This morning I'm particularly drained. But I'm spending time with a girlfriend of mine tonight and working all day tomorrow and it's the Oscars (!) -- a cocktail or two is a prerequisite for viewing, non? I'll pull it together in time. In the meantime, I want to give you this. It's a recipe by Amanda Hesser, included in Cooking for Mr. Latte. I loved it because it's one of those things that can easily take centre stage at the table, feeding both vegetarians and omnivores alike. And while Amanda calls for freshly shelled beans, I used canned to simply the steps and it worked just fine. Of course, dried beans are more delicious (and nutritious) and my preference, but I ran out of time (shocking.) Growing up, baked beans meant navy beans smothered in tomato sauce, possibly spiked with molasses. I used to be under the impression that my grandmother actually made beans from scratch (that I'm sorry to say I never cared for much), but it turns out her version of "homemade beans" is a giant can she tosses with canned pineapple and whatever else she happens to have on hand.

This Mediterranean-style baked bean dish is lovely. Amanda's recipe calls for 1/4lb of pancetta, but I omitted it. This dish is simple and fool-proof. Myself, I took it for lunch all week. If you're uncomfortable with cooking, mix two cans of beans with your favourite tomato sauce, slide the mixture into an ovenproof baking dish (such as Pyrex or Anchor) and top with half a cup of bread crumbs. Cook uncovered for about an hour and a half, until the bread crumbs are toasted and the beans are creamy. If you'd like to try making your own sauce, see below.

Romano Bean Gratin
Adapted from Amanda Hesser

Serves 4 meal-size portions or 6-8 side portions

There's a lot of room for variation on this. If you don't care for rosemary, try oregano. I imagine this would be nice with black olives and feta cheese, or with fresh basil in place of the thyme. If you'd like to make this dish omnivorous, try adding cooked ground turkey or chicken. I think it might even be nice with some goat's cheese and a heartier fish.

2 cans Romano beans, also called Cranberry or Bortolotti beans (or use alternative such as white navy or cannellini beans), about 3 cups cooked
Sea salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 onion, chopped (about 1 cup)
2 garlic cloves, smashed with the back of the knife and minced
1 tbsp chopped fresh rosemary or 1/2 tsp, dried
1/2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper
28oz diced tomatoes and juice
1/2-1/3 cup toasted bread crumbs (I made my own using a loaf of homemade brown rice bread)

Preheat oven to 300F.

Start on the tomato sauce. Heat oil over medium heat and add onions, cooking until they tenderize and turn translucent. Toss in garlic, rosemary, thyme and red pepper. Cook for a couple of minutes until fragrant and add tomatoes. Simmer for about twenty minutes until the flavours meld, but not until the sauce becomes pasty and thick. Remember that the sauce will continue to cook in the oven. Season generously with sea salt and pepper, and fold in the (rinsed and drained!) Romano beans (or whatever you are using.)

Coat a small casserole or gratin dish with olive oil and add the mixture. Top with 1/2 cup to 1/3 cup bread crumbs. Bake, uncovered, for seventy-five to ninety minutes, checking occasionally to ensure there is enough liquid in the dish. If not, add a little water or chicken stock as necessary. The length of time this recipe requires depends on the initial tenderness of the beans. If you're using beans cooked from dry, you may need to bake for a full two hours. Mine were fairly tender and it took about ninety minutes. The lovely thing about this is that it's difficult to overcook because you are baking at such a low temperature. Serve garnished with a bit of Parmigiano-Reggiano if desired.

In the time of cabbage

2011-02-18T21:28:00.008-05:00

As any good Windsorite can tellyou, the weather in Southwestern Ontario isprone to flights of fancy. It floats to a lovely high of 10C one day and thendescends into the gloomy trenches the next, hovering around -20C. And as a good,former Windsorite, I've developed a sizeable amount of patience over the yearsfor fluctuating temperatures and seasonal disappointments. But like perishablefood my patience has a best-before date, and as Valentine's Day came to abitterly cold, windy close, I felt it expire. I want summer dresses andweekends spent at the beach listening to jazz and reading. Heck, I'd settle fora t-shirt and jeans and a walk through Trinity Bellwoods at this point. Are youthere, spring? Its me, Sarah.

I like casseroles, soups andstews well enough. Miraculously, I haven't tired of them yet; I still have afull line-up of potential suitors begging for a trial run, including a dish ofchic chickpeas cooked in dry white wine and lemon juice, served over mashedpotatoes (or, I'm thinking, a creamy bed of polenta and steamed greens.) Butyesterday I observed as Laura Calder made eggs en pipérade and readers, Idreamt and drooled over the thought of eggs cooking away in a savory tomato and peppersauce accompanied by a side of soft baked homefries. But peppers and tomatoes aren'tin season yet, so here I wait, awash in carrots, potatoes and onions.

But, as it turns out, there iscabbage. Yes, that homely, round vegetable most ignore or eat sparingly viacoleslaw or as a vehicle for ground beef and rice. You might recognize itpickled, eaten atop bratwurst. As alone as I am in this camp -- and trust mewhen I say that the cabbage lover's world is a very, very lonely one -- I am aharsh defender of its versatility and deliciousness. Now, I don't care forboiled cabbage, and I don't know many who do. Frankly, it's bland and boringand loses all of its lovely texture. Braised or roasted cabbage is an entirelydifferent story and one I like a great deal better than its clean-simmer-servenarrative.

I was surprised to learn thatcabbage is actually native to the Mediterranean region. Cato the Elder declaredthat "It is the cabbage that surpasses all other vegetables."Personally, I like its other names -- seacabbage and wild cabbage-- much better, and I think if we started calling it Sea Cabbage of Greece itwould rise in popularity by at least ten points within the week. In theinterest of transparency I sometimes refer to it in my mind as Cah-bahge!!! (three exclamation marks!), a cross between sabotage and kaboom, which makes itsound like a deadly weapon. It gives me heart palpitations and provokesfainting in particularly impressionable foodies, so I'd say my pronounciationis quite fitting. Good cah-bahge may cause fatalities; consume at your owndiscretion. When I trained for a job at a grocery store many moons ago we were referred to the it as "sexy cabbage" because its corresponding number is 4069, and ever since I've considered it the bad boy of the vegetable world. Don't allow its ubiquity to deceive you.

As far as dangerous situations go, such was the case when I somehowfound myself at lunch one Winterlicious day at Pangaea (pan-gee-ahh!!!), one of Toronto's (allegedly) best kept secrets.Frisée and light greens dressed with a mustard vinaigrette, served with half aperfectly crisp roasted pear, a small square of Stiltonand candied walnuts. Well-seasoned duck confit, incredibly tender to the tooth,on a small pool of sour cherry jus and served with a side of apple braisedcabbage. For dessert, a white teacup of drinking chocolate with homemadevanilla bean marshmallows. "It is what it says it is," said ourserver. "I know," I answered. "It's what I want." To mymind, it is easy to do fancy dishes; I take issue with the fact that theingredients often overwhelm each other to such a degree that they are renderedunrecognizable or muddled. A simple hot chocolate is hard to pull off. Becausethere are so few ingredients it would be impossible to hide an ingredient ofinferior quality; any eater with a solid palate will know immediately.Fortunately the hot chocolate was perhaps the best I've had in my life. I'mstill thinking about it.

But if pushed, the cabbage tookthe lunch to new heights. Others pushed theirs off to the side, so I might be(gasp! again!) alone on this, but I adored it. It was buttery in texture andintensely flavourful, and lingered perfectly on my tongue alongside the meltingduck meat. I had clearly underestimated its potential. Oh, I rememberoverhearing discussions over a good ol' fashioned girl's night in Florida about howcabbage cooked in a cast iron pan with bacon can take on almost mysticalqualities, but it took really tasting cabbage in her Sunday best to get me upin arms. Err...his Sunday best. Whatever.

I don't often try to replicaterestaurant dishes. If I've experienced a memorable meal, I'll return for it.But cabbage is easily made at home, and so I've gone and done it anyway,Sarah-style. It's not fresh peppers and tomatoes, nor is it Pangaea, but perhapsit is close enough. At least until next month when I begin to long for localasparagus and bright-tasting red currants.

Savoy cabbage (see above) is the best varietal for cooking, but this recipe would be equally delicious with white winter cabbage.

Braised Cabbage with Apple andCarrot

Yields 6 - 8 side portions

1/2 - 3/4 of a Savoy cabbage, thinly sliced

1/2 cup pure apple cider, preferably with no sugar added

1/4 cup dry white wine

2 carrots, grated

1 medium sized apple (such asMcIntosh), grated

3 tbsp unsalted butter

Salt and pepper, to taste

Preheat oven to 400F.

In a large bowl, mix together cabbage, grated carrots and grated apple. Add to a large greased casserole dish (I use one by Anchor). It's okay if it overflows slightly, as the cabbage will cook down.

Heat the butter over medium heat until melted and slightly nutty smelling. Remove from heat and whisk in apple cider and white wine. Season the liquid generously with salt and pepper, and pour over cabbage mixture.

Roast for about forty-five minutes, covered, removing once from the oven to mix. Roast for an additional fifteen minutes uncovered so the edges brown and crisp up.

Serve warm.

A taste of the tropics

2011-02-09T21:37:00.002-05:00

I don't know how to begin this other than to say, "I baked! Woo! Come and git it!", which could mean I desperately need to get out more often or I've been listening to entirely too much Gretchen Wilson lately. Next I'll bust into work muttering that I'm here for the party while rocking a pair of cowboy boots and a denim mini, and nobody wants that.

I wonder about myself too sometimes.

I don't remember when I first ate banana bread. I might as well have been in the womb. All I know is that everyone has a recipe for it, much like its more refined cousin, zucchini bread, and most people like it well enough. Growing up, I ate mine slathered with margarine. It was great for breakfast or a mid-day snack, and up until yesterday I hadn't had any in far too long.

Now listen: I am not, unlike some people, the biggest banana lover. I like bananas, sure -- whipped with milk, sliced into a cold bowl of cereal or with toast and peanut butter. But there they wallow away at the bottom of the fruit bowl whenever I buy them, their skins having turned as brown as paper lunchbags by Friday morning. I sense it's a bit of travesty to confess this, but there you have it.

Armed with a loaf pan and several flours, I went to work on adapting Joy's lovely recipe for healthy banana bread. I'm not sure what I expected, but what I got surpassed my expectations. The loaf is slightly sweet from the brown sugar, with tiny pockets of moistness from the dates and a crispness from the oats and coconut. This version is delicate and falls away in large pieces with a gentle nudge, but that's not a problem in my book. This bread is delicious -- a party in your mouth, perhaps, but you may need to double check with Gretchen on that one. As for me, it's about as close to a real, tropical vacation as I'm going to get right about now.

Banana Bread with Dates and Coconut
Adapted from Joy the Baker

Yields about 10-12 slices

1/4 cup pure cornstarch
1/3 cup quinoa flour
1/3 cup brown rice flour
1/3 cup buckwheat flour
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

3 tsp plain yogurt (not nonfat)
1 large egg, gently beaten
2 egg whites, beaten
3 large ripe bananas
1 cup uncooked rolled oats

1/2 cup roughly chopped dates (optional)
1/4 cup unsweetened shredded coconut (optional)

Pre-heat the oven to 350F and grease a standard-sized loaf pan (I always use unsalted butter for this.)

In a small bowl, mash the bananas until smooth and add in yogurt, egg and egg whites. Mix to combine.

In a larger bowl, combine all dry ingredients -- constarch, the flours, salt, baking soda, baking powder, oats, nd ground cinnamon -- and whisk to combine. Slowly add the wet ingredients and (you guessed it) continue to mix together. When the wet ingredients are well incorporated, add in the chopped dates and coconut. Stir again. Expect the mixture to be fairly thick. Pour into the loaf pan and bake for about 50 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean and the bread has almost doubled in size. Allow to cool in the pan for at least ten minutes, preferably longer, and remove. Let cool completely before slicing.

Suddenly

2011-02-03T21:57:00.005-05:00

If I'm being honest, I have to admit that I don't always know what to write. Mostly it sounds self-absorbed. I want to tell you about my Saturday, how I walked southbound on University Ave. listening to Frank Sinatra, hot cup of strong coffee in hand. I want to tell you about how I smiled at the day that was miserable and overcast and, legend has it, birthed a sunny, bright, crisp afternoon. I'd like to go on about a lovely night when I ate Vietnamese take-out over a cheesy film and drank two large glasses of wine, or how I read about how Amanda Hesser fell in love with Tad Friend while tucked beneath my duvet. I roasted root vegetables with rosemary, sea salt and olive oil, I whipped up a batch of sriracha-laced hummus, I shook up a basic red wine vinaigrette, I made a pot of sunchoke-potato soup with chile oil, I made a browned-top baked oatmeal and cooked a cremini mushroom and bacon frittata loaded with fresh parsley.

But most of all, I want to tell you about something I've been contemplating lately. One of the (many, many things) I love about Amanda Hesser and Melissa Clark is their utter candidness and honesty. It's beautiful, and so attractive. I thought the same of Laurie Colwin when I was reading Home Cooking. "People used to learn to cook by making dishes in their mother's or grandmother's repertoire. But now that cooking is no longer a necessity, very few people do this, which is probably why so many young people may never cook. Without a handful of recipes to start you off, cooking seems overwhelming. There are too many choices. Why begin with roasted chicken when you could make chicken satay or chicken curry? Why make chocolate pudding when you're used to the molten chocolate souffles that you get in restaurants?" Amanda asks in Cooking for Mr. Latte: A Food Lover's Courtship, with Recipes. I'd never thought about it that way, but it's true.

While I grew up with a mother who had dinner on the table by 6pm every night and did indeed cook, I didn't grow up the way some others have -- dining in top Parisian restaurants, perfecting croissants and eating potato salad with homemade mayonnaise. For a long while there was Shake'N'Bake and Swanson's chicken pot pies and Domino's pizza on Friday night (to qualify, I'll mention that my parents both cook and both cook very well.) It was how I grew up and it made sense for my family. But at the same time, as someone who adores cooking from scratch, I had no real repertoire when I first started out. I still don't, not really. I try different recipes. I eat what I like. It's not uncommon for me to eat the same thing for dinner all week without thinking twice about it. But I'd like to think this is a good way to start -- being thrown into the ocean headfirst and trying, gracefully or not, to navigate the waves and ripples.

As Amanda says -- I speak about her as if I know her, I realize -- "when you make a dish again and again, altering it to your liking, it becomes an expression of your aesthetic, of your palate, of who you are. And when you serve that dish to guests, they come to understand you a litte better. This my mother, who is very practical, generous and a perfectionist, makes a superb roasted chicken with herbs tucked under the skin and lemons and onions neatly packed into its cavity, and crisp almond biscotti that look as if the nuts were arranged one by one. My sister Rhonda is indulgent and has a good sense of humor. One of her specialties is spaghetti with fried eggs."

I like the thought that my repertoire of dishes is an extension of myself. Of course this is easy to say given my affinity for anything kitchen related. But I think even throwing together a salad with some nuts and a good goat's cheese counts. I think of the dishes or foods I make most often -- linguine with tiny canned clams, lentil soups and stews, salads with multiple lettuces, granola, roasted chicken with lemon, garlic and rosemary. I made a batch of terrific latkes with aged white cheddar and homemade applesauce, and I love dipping my fingers into a big bowl of air-popped popcorn coated lightly in olive oil and dusted with salt and either smoked paprika or chili flakes.

Brown rice pasta with pesto is my go-to meal, perhaps because it seems perfectly refined to me when topped with a poached egg and is equal parts comfort food and sophistication. I enjoy eating cottage cheese right from the container, standing up, or having a baked lamb sausage with red grapes -- the way the skins split open is lovely. I don't know what these things say about me except that I must have a great deal of time on my hands, which is half true, I guess. However, I do like humble foods, simple foods, and I suppose that speaks to my upbringing and my former geographical landscape. At the same time, I like the best. Good, freshly picked, Ontario apples. A fruity extra-virgin olive oil and a grassy tasting one for different purposes. Delicious teas and fresh herbs. Some might say I'm obsessed with food and they would be correct, but I think of cooking and preparing foods in the same way I perceive fashion or home decor; I see these things as my soul's limbs, not self-defining exactly and not the be-all, end-all, but as a way to live in the world. I get to decide who I am and what I love.

If I'm being honest, I want to tell you that so much of what I know stems from the mistakes I made and the lessons I gleaned from those mistakes; this applies to just about everything. I didn't know my way around in the kitchen at all when I first started out, and I didn't know enough about my job when I started working, but I'd like to think that's okay. The most important thing I've taken away from Amanda -- oh, Amanda! -- is that people used to learn, which is to say they were taught. These days, we don't always have that luxury.

We don't start knowing everything: we learn piece by piece, picking up odds and ends as we go. And that's what cooking is to me, too -- seeing what's around, what scraps can be thrown together into something edible. Eventually you realize sweet potatoes, kale and eggs operate harmoniously together, that coriander was the missing ingredient in the lentil soup from one of your old haunts that you tried to re-create, that latkes are easier to make than you imagined.

Or suddenly you find yourself with an odds-and-ends kind of cookie, one that is a little bit dessert and a little bit refined and a little bit ladies-who-lunch. I don't know what that says about me, but I know I am quiet when I eat them. As anyone who knows me can attest to, this is no small thing.

When I cook these days, I imagine Amanda in my kitchen, tasting a basic vinaigrette I've emulsified in a glass jar, or biting into a bean taco and murmuring aloud, "More salt?" as she lets the flavours float on her tongue, tastebuds making the call.

These cookies are buttery but crumbly, flavourful yet restrained. When I handed them out to those looking for samples, one proclaimed they were very nice. I like them well myself, especially considering the dough freezes well -- excellent for those who live alone and don't want to be tempted with so many cookies. Full disclosure: I devoured seven of these (mini cookies) within a few hours, but since they contain that magical ingredient (begins with b, ends with utter) in addition to the buckwheat and quinoa flours....well, this cookie is practically a health food, non?

Buckwheat Cocao Nib Cookies
Adapted from Molly Wizenberg, who adapted this recipe from Alice Medrich's Pure Dessert

1 1/4 cups quinoa flour
3/4 buckwheat flour
1/2 lb (2 sticks) unsalted butter, brought to room temperature
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1.5 tbsp baking powder
1/3 cup cocao nibs*
1.5 tsp pure vanilla extract

Now, this is going to sound like a total cop-out, but Ms. Wizenberg does a much better job at detailing the method than I could ever hope to do. Please see her instuctions, adding the baking powder to the flours. I used quinoa flour in place of the all-purpose, but I can't see why you couldn't use brown rice, coconut flour or any other flour you like. The texture and flavour might alter slightly, so please take that into account.

Please see Molly's instructions here.

*I only had 1/4 cup of cacao nibs when I made these cookies, so I added in some finely chopped dark chocolate to make up a the full 1/3 cup. The cookies were no worse for wear, trust me.

On becoming resourceful (or, my girlfriends are superheroes)

2011-01-26T23:01:00.004-05:00

It just so happened that my furnace blew out Sunday evening during the coldest night of the season, when the temperature dropped to -31C with the wind chill.

After a weekend of frustrations and heartbreak, I sat on the couch and felt the air grow slowly cooler. I could feel my apartment floors through my leopard-print slippers. This city's not used to this insane weather, I thought. I grabbed another blanket. But when I peeled back my duvet Monday morning, there was no mistaking it, that startling, skin-blazing chill.

I phoned my landlord immediately, but the city was in trouble. People were having heating issues all over. After experiencing a near-asthma attack while walking to the AGO the day prior, I hailed a cab to work. I sat at my cubicle wearing my thickest pair of tights beneath my lined wool pants, two t-shirts and one of my heaviest sweaters.

With my furnace repairs delayed, I considered my options. Calling up a friend, packing up my things and crashing somewhere else for a couple nights. Buying a space heater. Burying myself beneath my blankets until conditions improved.

I thought about the old days, jacked my oven to 450F and opened the door. Within two hours, my apartment was reasonably comfortable. Take that, furnace -- name the game and I'll play it.

This was a hard weekend for many people. A pregnant friend of mine was butchering chickens with her mother when she spotted blood. She has been trying for a good long while to have a baby, and grew immediately devastated at the thought of losing this one. Fortunately she and the baby are both okay, but another friend of mine was not so lucky. Another friend of mine lost her cat. And, apart from thinking we grow increasingly complicated and complex as we grow older -- thank goodness -- I thought, my girlfriends are my superheroes. I'm fussing about my heat and others are mourning a future, gone. And also this: here we are, a collective of young women who butcher chickens, make sausages from scratch, knit clothing, sing, play instruments, develop public policies, revise national marketing materials, plan elaborate trips, move to different cities on a whim, take chances, go back to school for the third time, open businesses, and forge ahead into the great, clichéd unknown, entirely unarmed.

As Dana Velden put so eloquently this week, "You're human and you're built for this."

And so I made a giant pot of minestrone soup -- not a soup that requires several fancy ingredients, but one that insists on pantry staples. One easy to throw together at a moment's notice. No zucchini? Toss in a cup of green beans. Don't like zucchini? Use cabbage instead. It's a good soup, an easily adaptable soup, one that pleases the palate and warms the belly. Good comfort food. If I were anywhere near any of these women, I'd try to warm their spirits with a pot of this. It reminds us that while star-studded ingredients like quinoa flour and good-quality dark chocolate and amazing coffee and artisanal goat's cheese are all well and good, the bare-boned basics, when treated well, when savoured, can really shine, and are perhaps the most comforting thing available in moments of quiet desperation and sorrow.

I know what you're thinking: a bowl of beans and vegetables. Well, yes. I know it doesn't look like much -- photographing soup takes talent I just don't have -- but trust me on this. The pesto in this recipe makes for a truly superb broth. I froze half this soup, but I don't think it'll stay there for long.

Minestrone Soup

Yields 8 - 10 servings

Notes: There are a number of recipes for Minestrone. However, there are a few things I wouldn't skip on. For one, good-quality stock is, to my mind, essential; I like homemade chicken best, but any good poultry stock will do. I would hesitate to prescribe vegetable stock, because I find most far too sour-tasting. I've ruined many a pot of soup with vegetable stock. However, to each his or her own -- if you like vegetable stock, then by all means use it.

Secondly, I substituted the pasta with uncooked quinoa to up the protein and nutrients in this recipe.

Third, I think every soup needs a bright ingredient. In this instance, I've used red wine vinegar, but you can easily substitute lemon juice if you haven't red wine vinegar on hand. This recipe also calls for diced tomatoes; if you don't care for chunks of tomato in your soup, feel free to puree them or adding tomato sauce instead.

Fourth, while I love the taste of sundried tomato pesto here, I know this isn't available to everyone. Classico makes a jarred version available at most grocery store, or try experimenting. You could add pancetta or bacon to this recipe. Try adding in green beans, cabbage and/or spinach in place of the zucchini. Use whatever's on hand or looks good at the store.

1 tbsp unsalted butter
1 tbsp olive oil
1 large onion, very finely diced or grated (roughly 1 cup)
4-5 carrots, peeled and chopped (about 2.5 cups)
1 zucchini, chopped (about 1 cup)
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
2lbs potatoes (3-4), peeled and diced
1 quart good-quality, low-sodium poultry stock, preferably homemade (see notes)
2 - 14oz cans diced tomatoes with juices
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 tbsp dried oregano
3 tbsp dried parsley, or 1.5 tbsp fresh
2 - 16oz cans of beans (I used kidney), about 3 cups cooked, rinsed
1/3 cup uncooked quinoa
2 heaping tbsp sundried tomato pesto
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
Sea salt and pepper
Parmigiano-Reggiano, for sprinkling

1. In a large saucepan or Dutch oven, melt the butter and olive oil over medium heat. Once the butter is melted and the pan feels warm, add the onions. Toss to coat, and sprinkle lightly with sea salt. Cook until onions soften, about five minutes.
2. Add carrots and continue to cook until slightly tender, about ten minutes more, adding additional oil as necessary.
3. Toss in the garlic and combine with carrots and onions. Once fragrant, about one minute, add tomato paste and stir to combine.
4. Add in potatoes, chicken stock, canned tomatoes, beans, zucchini, quinoa, and pesto. You may have to add the second can of beans once the soup has reduced slightly (I had to.) Salt gently again and add 1/8 tsp of cracked black pepper. Bring to a boil and then reduce to a strong simmer.
5. Cook until the potatoes are tender, the broth thickens and the quinoa is fully cooked, about 20-30 minutes. Take the soup off the heat and add in the red wine vinegar. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
6. Serve in bowls garnished with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

The pleasures of the winter table

2011-01-19T23:33:00.006-05:00

If you live in a city where the temperature drops to -20 celcius, perhaps you are the type to stay in bed, cancel your planned outing to the St. Lawrence Antique Market, and re-schedule your trip to the Maharaja exhibit at the AGO for the following week, weather permitting. It's the kind of weekend that finds you sipping on a Manhattan while watching the Golden Globes, keeping warm under a blanket. You turn up the heat just a little. You make good use of your slippers. You enjoy a leisurely breakfast and an extra cup of coffee because it just makes good sense to do so.

January is a depressing month, so they say, and I'm apt to agree. But instead of filling my weekend with errands and stuffing it to the bits with various to-do lists, I enjoyed a leisurely one filled with old-fashioned fun: knitting, reading, tea-drinking, baking, and making a terrific, simple lentil soup recipe that is, no joke, ridiculously cheap to cook up. Even if you use organic lentils as I do.

I have ideas, readers, really I do. I've been cooking up a storm. And enjoying.

Those stories will come.

Last evening, after a long working day, I walked west down Bloor until I reached St. George. Around the corner came a dapper young man and he whisked me off to a lovely little place called Bar Mercurio where everyone is in good spirits, always, and a woman with crazy blonde curly hair mixes up a mean espresso martini, slightly sweet, exceptionally creamy and absolutely divine. Your friend and this lovely woman engage in casual banter. "Done any painting recently?" he asks her, and she says, "No, no." "Just re-use your work from this year for next year's show and call it something else." She laughs and murmurs, "Yes, I'll call it 'I Changed My Mind'," as she takes a sip of espresso from her tiny white cup, and we all smile together.

The marble counter top and wall of wine are all Italian, and the low light soothes your broken mind. I sat there and drank my cocktail -- perhaps too quickly, as it disappeared all too fast for my liking -- and experienced the moment. I am trying to experience the moments, dear reades, as January is almost over already and soon it will be February and then it will be March. Spring! What will that feel like? Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming and need to move a few steps back.

Soon it will be over, dear readers. I don't want this season to pass me by; I want to celebrate its quirks. I want to make a big pot of soup on Sundays and fantasize about spring pea soup with mint. I want to decide, rather impulsively, to bake up a batch of miniature buckwheat cookies with cocao nibs on a Saturday night before heading out to catch a film, the first that I've seen at the theatre in almost a year. I want to sit down for a while doing nothing, and find myself perfectly happy doing so, and I want to bury myself under my duvet for another hour before getting up to grab a few groceries. I want to listen to Chet Baker and chop onions perfectly. The things we think about when we're left alone for too long, non? What I'm saying, I suppose, is that there's beauty in all seasons. For too long I've overlooked winter's as hers is more difficult to see and to love, I think, for someone who has always adored the summertime. I'm slowly coming around. It has taken me twenty-five years, but I'm just about there.

Eventually spring will come. Eventually, I'll write the things I've been wanting to write and share them with you. Until then I'll be here, slurping soup, and taking life as it comes because even under the snow, the slush, the salt, there's amazing things preparing to emerge.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show. -Andrew Wyeth

There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you.... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself. -Ruth Stout

A girl in the kitchen with a knife and a chicken

2011-01-11T23:37:00.001-05:00

On a mission, I bundled up Sunday afternoon and left my pre-war walk-up in search of winter boots and chicken.

Wind-whipped and weary, I entered Sanagan's and felt myself being transported through time, back before supermarkets existed. By the time I get there -- an hour before close -- it's bustling. It's not very organic, but I only head out with a plan. I don't look to see what's best, though this sometimes influences my decision. I wonder about these choices of mine sometimes. I pick recipes and I test them out, seeing whether my tweaks and tinkering pay off. Sometimes this works. But increasingly I'm turning away from recipes and back to my own table. I like to write about the stories associated with food, but stories, at least for me, seldom emerge from this sort of cooking. The genuine, honest stories that I fall in love with time and time again extend from simple home cooking, from humble lentils and run-of-the-mill potatoes. I don't need another bowl of beet-fennel soup. Surprisingly, the only meal I like complicated is breakfast, even if I'm rarely able to muster the kind of energy and brain power such a recipe requires before 10am and two big mugs of coffee.

Sanagan's makes me consider these things, maybe because it reminds me of walking through the butcher's at five years old, a pickle or hot dog in hand. Not only is it an entirely different experience to handle a dead animal from a butcher that deals exclusively with small, local farms than to handle a cellophane-wrapped one from the grocery store, but the intimacy of it all isn't lost on me, either. Despite my stance as an uncomfortable omnivore, I've fallen in love with the place. I adore that even when it's busy, which is often, the man behind the counter will talk to you and tend to your questions as though he has all day to chat. Sunday, I buy a whole free-range chicken -- $2.99/lb, the special of the day -- and once home, my new winter boots draining on a tray by the door, go about separating the parts.

I'm no stranger to this, but it's different this time. Dana Velden, a writer over at TheKitchn.com, said that "purchasing a cut-up chicken wrapped in cello does make it too easy for people to sidestep the fact that what they are about to consume was once alive and flapping its wings." What she says is true, I think. My bird is not pale pink, the way all birds are at supermarkets, because it has not been through a chlorine bath to ensure that it is "sanitary", fit for human consumption. My bird is slightly yellow-tinged, skin dotted with blood from where the feathers were pulled out. When I pull at the twine the legs relax, and I'm aware that yes, this was once a living thing. I'm almost overcome with emotion. I find intellectual discussion sometimes confusing because I'm often left with more questions than answers. And so, for me, what I know is what I feel. My eating and shopping habits are never far from my mind. If our lives are like bodies, then in a quiet, slow sort of way, my eating and shopping habits have become limbs, and everything works together in this indivisible cycle.

When my grandmother was growing up, she lived off turnips. It goes without saying that she can't even look at them now. Here I am, decades later, choosing between chickens. This is the thing that doesn't match up for me. For years, we scrounged and saved to afford to live. There was a purpose to all of that economizing. To say otherwise now is highly laughable -- certainly there is still poverty, even in North America, and even those with well-paying jobs still have to watch their expenses. But in the same breath, so many of us are not bargain hunting so we can live. What are we saving for? Where is our money going? I'm not asking these questions because I have the answers. I know we are writing a narrative, regardless of whether we realize it, and I know that what we do know will determine, at least in some small way, how the North American (and possibly the global) culinary landscape will look in the future. This is no small thing. This is a big thing. On a local level there is me with a knife and a chicken in a rental kitchen. There's a lot of story there.

Further reading:
Weekend Meditation: The Whole Chicken by Dana Velden for thekitchn.com
A vow for 2011: No cheap chicken by Francis Lam for Salon.com

Breakfast here is

2011-01-09T10:26:00.003-05:00

Pumpkin quinoa pancakes sprinkled with smoked paprika and doused in real, Grade A maple syrup.

Do you see what I see? A blood orange -- at last.

Some people grow impatient during these sessions. By people, I mean myself.

I really like these pancakes. They're so flavorful. It's surprising how well one flour can work in a gluten-free recipe; these are infinitely better than the white rice things of the old days. If you attempt this recipe, know that the batter will turn out a little thin, and that these are delicate pancakes -- they're tricky. But even ugly, they are delicious.

Take a look at that sky. Here, it's a beautiful, bright blue. Tree limbs are holding snow. Greg Osby playing in the background, "I Didn't Know About You." I find myself constantly uttering that phrase myself whenever I venture out. What about you?

A soaker of a Saturday

2011-01-08T18:45:00.004-05:00

I'm sure for some Saturdays are restful days. As for me, I dream about lazy weekends. I might even talk a little in my sleep. Perhaps it's because it's January. Because we're all bright-eyed and wistful, making our affirmations and writing down our resolutions. Lose ten pounds, maybe. Live fearlessly. Be positive. Stay hydrated. Fall in love. January, that keener, is full of ambition, and so am I. Paint the bathroom, I say. Organize the closet. Find a spot for those spare towels. Commit to an area rug. Keep in better touch with your friends. Take more photographs. Plan a vacation. Mornings filled with writing and newspapers and sunshine are best left to summertime, maybe. For now there's grocery runs and a never-ending supply of dirty dishes and fridge doors that come unhinged randomly on a Wednesday night and ruin your plans. For instance.

This is not to say the weekends are painful. I might wake up a little later. I might perch myself on the couch and sip two cups of coffee, eat breakfast -- this morning I ate a glorious bowl of spiced oatmeal with grated carrots -- and listen to "The Dog Days Are Over" while catching up on my reading. But mostly they are preoccupied and busy, complete with a very, very long to-do list. The kind of list that emerges if you've spent the last four days desperately trying to ward off illness because everyone in your office is sick and the building is poorly ventilated and no one on the street has the decency to cover his or her mouth when he or she coughs! The nerve! Knock on wood, I'm still healthy, but as I came home every night this week exhausted and sore, I mostly sat down in front of the television, or in a bubble bath, and did nothing. Would it be more or less annoying just to let myself get sick, I wonder? In Toronto, there's now a store that promises to mix an individual fragrance for you, so that you, too, can smell like peppermint without sucking on a hard candy. There's a place that specializes in French furniture replicas and refurbishing. But what of the common cold?

Anyway. Now there's work to be done. I put a decent dent in the list today, trekking all over town and all, and was forced to add the following item to the list: buy winter boots. I've been ambivalent about it. Do I really need them? I admit, I've been whining about it. I already have a black leather pair that I adore and that work just fine (so I thought.) They're comfortable and my skinny jeans fold nicely into them. But walking back from the St. Lawrence Market today, I found myself with a giant soaker. It only needs to happen one time, as it turns out. My mind is made.

But tonight, apart from boot-hunting, I took a small reprieve from the world and cooked. I wanted to. I wanted to make something successful. Last week was full of flops: a beet-fennel soup that was awful and required modification of all kinds (I really should have known better),

potato-spinach cakes that were too liquidy and didn't form into, well, cakes. I planned on writing an elegant and lovely post, perhaps, or one full of passion and anger, but instead, on this snow-filled day, you get this: me eating vegetarian chili and sipping on a Manhattan. Before me lies a night of cleaning and organizing, of glancing at my new library books (I'm so excited!) --The Cook and the Gardener: A Year of Recipes and Writings from the French Countryside and Cooking for Mr. Latte: A Food Lover's Courtship, with Recipes, both by Amanda Hesser, My Life in France by Julia Child (so I can finish it), and Eat, Memory: Great Writers at the Table edited by Amanda Hesser -- and dreams of that lazy weekend I know I'll have one day (certainly by July!) Concerning all of that Amanda Hesser up there, what can I say? Lately I'm really impressed by The New York Times. The recipes are just plain solid. Ruth Reichl, Melissa Clark, Amanda Hesser -- each represents the gold standard in recipe-writing. Unlike the recipes featured in this publication.

So if you, like myself, have a night full of crazy in front of you, sip on one of these. And make the chili. It's the perfect remedy to a day of insanity and a night of (sigh) work.

Manhattan

Yields 1 drink

2oz whisky, preferably rye whisky (I use Forty Creek)
1/2oz sweet vermouth
2 dashes of bitters
Maraschino cherry, for garnish (optional)

Combine all ingredients (minus the cherry) and shake well in a cocktail shaker with a couple ice cubes. Strain mixture into a cocktail (martini) glass and garnish with cherry if desired.

A lesson learned

2010-12-31T12:05:00.006-05:00

I'd first heard of Meyer lemons about a thousand years ago. It's a rough estimate, but I think I'm close enough.

It might've been through this blog or maybe this one. All I know is that there came a point in my blog-reading career where Meyer lemons were all the rage. The culinary equivalent to leg warmers or skinny jeans, if you will, only prettier and gender-neutral. But, like 50s cocktail dresses, Meyer lemons will never go out of style. I thought cantaloupe or perhaps the pomegranate or maybe even red currants might take first place in the fruit beauty pageant, but the Meyer lemon has proven herself the belle of the ball too many times to count. And like my personal line-up of stylish great beauties -- Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, and, in my opinion, Jackie O -- she's here to stay.

I should've sought out a Meyer lemon years ago. Sensing they were overrated, I never bothered. After all, regular lemons often fit the bill just fine: I love their inherent tartness, their thick citron skins, their bright acidity and aroma. But then (!) I took a trip to the Distillery District a little while ago, and had my mind thoroughly blown by a little Meyer lemon-ginger truffle at SOMA that entered the very recesses of my mind and left me speechless. And so I ate my chocolate accompanied by my words, and vowed never, ever again to let my annoyances interfere with potential culinary discoveries. The fact that many may feel compelled to write about, and endorse, a product ad nauseum is a good indicator that the item in question is worth trying, non? Perhaps this is an affirmation to live by in the new year.

Since my momentary encounter with the Meyer lemon, I've felt the compulsions. More Meyer lemon, please! I spotted a giant bag of them at Bloor Street Market, $3.99, but passed them up (why? Sometimes we have to learn the hard way.) And then (!) later on, as I browsed the aisles at Pusateri on Church, glancing at the array of fabulous olive oils and vinegars, I saw several Meyer lemons, petite and glowing, nestled in a basket by their lonesomes. It's almost as if they were sporting halos that late afternoon.

*Photo credit: asromanov

What would a Meyer lemon vinaigrette taste like? I wondered. Would it be a good thing or a very good thing?

As with many things, only time would tell, and time, she told a very nice story indeed.

Cider-poached salmon with dill,
flaked over Boston lettuce, eaten
with chopped kalamata olives, cucumber
and feta.
Meyer lemon drizzle
over the spectrum
...le sigh.

Yes, dear readers, the Meyer lemon possesses the most beautiful fragrance you've ever smelled in all your life. I want to say it shares some similarities with the tangerine, but that would do it a great injustice (with no offense to the tangerine, which is quite lovely in her own, orange-y way.) You have to smell it for yourself. Cut one open, inhale, taste. It's transformative. Perhaps I've said too much and have proceeded to annoy you with my goings-on about this fruit, but it is quite unlike a regular yellow lemon and took me entirely my surprise. It made me write poetry, friends. That's some inspiration. And so with that I wish you a very merry New Year's Eve -- best wishes, good luck, and may many a Meyer lemon skip into our lives this year, igniting several blissful surprises to run amok amongst us all.

xo, S.

December, holiday detox, etc.

2010-12-29T17:11:00.004-05:00

Chocolate Puddle Cookies, 03/10, Tallahassee FL

We are mid-holiday and already I'm filled entirely to the brim with happiness and gratitude. 2010 may have appeared fairly bleak at the onset, but how those concerns were repressed once the months unfolded and I got into the swing of things.

Plum Cobbler with Assorted Fruit, 02/10, Tallahassee FL

It's been a whirlwind of a year. Last December, I saw the light shows in Lakeland, FL. while sipping on coffee and catching up on television shows. I beach combed at Passe-A-Grille Beach, slurped up a creamy tomato bisque with seafood and sherry, ate bites of broiled flounder and drank potent margaritas on the rocks.

St. George Island, 02/10, FL

I celebrated New Year's Eve in style by hitting up two of my favourite Toronto spots -- The Yellow Griffin Pub in Bloor West Village and Terroni on Adelaide East by St. Lawrence Market -- and attended a terrific house party and drank a lot of red wine (a very early indication that this blog would come to feature many such episodes of my drinking a lot of red wine and writing about it.) I spent January in Amherstburg and went back to Florida for a month, drinking sparkling wine with good friends and eating such delectables as homemade BBQ ribs with two different sauces, seared tuna on plaintains topped with an avocado salsa and blood orange drizzle, and amazing creole-style shrimp with a cheese-filled potato cake.

Kim's visit to Toronto, 06/2010

It was a year of Blueberry-Ginger Cheesecake, eaten under a big tree in the Florida sun, the crisp March air whipping at our skin, and, subsequently, a year of rice and beans done several different ways while I searched for a job in the midsts of a downtrodden economy. I made a permanent move to Toronto and set up shop. I started this blog. I spent a night on my uncle's boat, drinking crisp wine in the hot air, and a day, sipping at caramel apple martinis and eating a great dinner in honour of Canada Day. I tried and fell in love with Indian food for the first time. I worked the toughest job I've ever worked (in catering) and landed my first career job (in corporate marketing/advertising). I've read some wonderful books, and have had the pleasure of meeting so many lovely people. To finish off this year, this year of lessons learned and victories gained, I can't help but count my blessings: my family is happy and healthy; I can pay all my bills and still dream of owning a pretty duvet cover; friends that are the most wonderful people a girl could ask for; a fabulous apartment; and a great job. That, dear readers, really is everything.

Ottawa, 05/2010

There was also a whirlwind trip to Ottawa, complete with great conversation, wonderful food, and terrific tour of the city by one of my favourite people. And a minor car accident. Let's try to forget about that (though, as with many unfortunate things, it makes a good story in retrospect.)

I once said I wasn't much of a soup person, but this winter has made a liar out of me. After making Cuban black bean soup (twice -- both scandalously delicious), a forgettable throw-together-in-the-crock lentil soup, a red lentil soup with potatoes and cumin, Melissa Clark's Red Lentil Soup with Lemon (twice), potato-leek soup with rosemary and roasted garlic, Richard Olney's Garlic Soup, and sweet potato soup with maple syrup and chili flakes, and broccoli cheddar soup, I can no longer claim such a title. Now I dream of a chickpea soup with cumin, of a soup au pistou with a dollop of sundried tomato pesto, of more lentil soup. My devotion by this point is rather unquestionable, non?

Griffin at the cottage on Lake Buckhorn over Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, 2010

When you are finished with holiday celebrating -- perhaps around January 2nd? -- and require a bit of a detox, I recommend making a big pot of Melissa Clark's Red Lentil Soup with Lemon.

It's a simple soup, each flavour distinguishable from the other. The tomato paste lends depth, the lemon adds brightness, and the lentils contribute plenty of heft and volume to this hearty, filling soup. It tastes as good as it smells, and freezes well.

A soup by any other name

2010-12-15T22:08:00.002-05:00

When winter comes to the big city in a big way -- I mean a -26°C with the wind chill kind of big way -- sometimes the best coping method is to arm yourself with two new shiny cookbooks -- Dorie Greenspan's Around My French Table and Melissa Clark's In the Kitchen with A Good Appetite, courtesy of the public library system -- and to listen to Kurt Elling. It's particularly helpful to whip up a batch of granola that fills your apartment with the lingering scents of ground ginger, cinnamon and brown sugar, and to sip on a cup of tea called The Skinny that came highly recommended by a co-worker, the faint smell of Indian cuisine arising from the steam.

And -- if you're particularly daring and dreamy -- the best way to arm yourself against the throes of the cold is to wait and wonder as a pot of garlic broth simmers on your stove. Truly, it will calm your worries and heal your aching body.

Remember a while back when I confessed to not being a soup person? That my experiments in the land of liquid had, generally speaking, soured my hopes of ever metamorphosing into a soup-makin' connoisseur? Dear readers, I have made several pots of soup this winter, and by and large I have liked them all. I've beat the system! Or something like that.

And then (oh, the story turns!), there was a soup named Garlic, and she was smooth, rich, indulgent, and...dissatisfying.

Dissatisfying, at least, to me.

It is the perfect restorative, regenerative soup, yes. A soup using no less than a dozen cloves of garlic is bound to wield some power. But really, despite its simplicity and lovely French techniques, it's safe to say this elegant soup is not for me. I feel okay admitting to this. It's a nice soup. It's dignified. It's the perfect companion for crusty bread or a poached egg, or both if you so please, and if I were served it anywhere but in my own house it would please me well enough. But I have realized through this season of soup-making that my soup preferences lie at either end of the spectrum -- very robust or very brothy, with no middle ground. But nevertheless, you should know this recipe, if only to tell people you are making garlic soup.

When I told people of my plans to make garlic soup, the reactions varied. "Garlic..soup?" one might ask, as if the two were very separate things that should never be mixed in equal parts (unlike French Onion Soup, which no one except for perhaps my sister second guesses) while another might respond with, "Oh, I bet that's delicious!" And still another would come around very inquisitive indeed, without an opinion either way -- just wonderment that such a thing could exist. "Hmm, garlic soup!" Like a child, I am often amused by small things.

For this recipe, I used an adaptation of Richard Olney's recipe. Julia Child also has a recipe for garlic soup which appears in Mastering the Art of French Cooking I, but the way she incorporates egg and parmesan is very different from Olney's. I think both are equally good, but it depends on what you are after. Olney's yields a creamy, rich soup, while Child's is quite brothy and uses the cheese as a garnish. If you intend on re-heating, I'd recommend Child's version, as Olney's is one soup that does not stand up to re-heating; the olive oil separates from the soup, and you end up with a soup slightly greasy in texture and aesthetically unappealing.

Now tell me a story where you made a soup that causes memories to shift and stir.

Humdiggin'

2010-12-06T23:46:00.000-05:00

Making mayonnaise is tricky. In my experience, anything involving eggs is particularly finicky. After attempting to make mayonnaise twice, and wasting four otherwise rather terrific eggs, I've retired my mayonnaise-making -- but you know what they say about threes.

No, when making mayonnaise, you must be especially careful to drizzle in the oil oh-so-slowly. It's where I always fail (always being twice, of course.) If you don't whisk in the oil slow enough, you risk breaking the sauce altogether and on your hands you'll have a lovely bowl of thick vinaigrette. It looks pretty, but you don't want this. It is not good. Especially if you are making am ambitious potato salad with salmon and three varieties of potato. Served me right I suppose for trying to be all high-fallutin' (as my grandmother is all too fond of saying), but maybe had I succeeded in my mayo-makin' all of the potato salad would have been devoured. Instead I threw together a lemon vinaigrette and it sufficed. However, not to debase a lemon vinaigrette or anything, but it is not mayonnaise. And there is no sense messing with the long-term, loving relationship that is that between potatoes and mayonnaise. You may add balsamic vinegar, or perhaps some Dijon mayonnaise, or even a little Ranch dressing, but a potato salad without mayonnaise is so very criminal.

But what it has taught me -- making mayonnaise, not making naked salads -- is fundamental: patience is invaluable, and persistence, mandatory. And really, if you get it right, the results..? It's amazing how transcendental a bowl of homemade mayonnaise can be, in the same way that a really great beef stock can put your mind at ease and comfort your worrisome heart. Unless you are a vegetarian. I think this goes without saying, but in my line of work I have quickly learned that assumptions are dangerous weapons.

This week is best captured in vignettes: working alongside two women, filling phyllo shells with King crab and a tarragon aioli, charred corn and tiny slices of avocado, sipping sparkling wine from a styrofoam cup.

Wild mushroom risotto cakes fresh from the oven, picked right off a wooden spoon with your fingers; the mushrooms still have a bite to them.

"Tell us another story," they ask, and so I play along and spin a few tales. The room, a loft-like sort of place with exposed brick and beams, one of the windows broken. There is no heat in here and it's -5C and we shuffle around, putting our toes up against the chaffing dishes trying to keep warm. "What do you think about this?" one of them asks me as she hands over a sushi pizza. Good, I think, but more salmon is needed and less rice. She echoes the same, and we smile.

"So what got you into catering?" I ask. "We love to eat," they say, and it makes sense. There's three of them who run the business and two of the women used to write plays. Every time they got together they would talk about their next dinner destination or where they might grab a snack, and soon it escaladed to the point where they believed (naively) that catering would be perfect: they could make their own hours and cover for each other while heading to auditions and the like, and life would be grand. I don't think they realized they would be writing stories in a different way, in an oral sense, and that their art would form on platters instead of on stage, but I have no complaints. The story, as the ladies tell it, is far more elegant and whimsical than I have made it out here, but there it is. We hum along to "I Believe In Miracles" and hear the clacking of heels against the wooden floors above us, the sound like horse hooves. "Are you humdiggin'?" one woman asks the other. "Why yes, yes, I am." There is risotto cakes and sushi pizza, sparkling wine and Coca Cola, beets with goat cheese and pralines, and soon enough I am out in the cold again, trudging toward the Queen 'car with my dry cleaning.

Two women in a bookstore, browsing the cookbook section (!), drinking peppermint hot chocolate and a latte. The one thing I hate about moving from city to city is being forced to leave friends behind. You will still be friends, certainly, but the distance is difficult and the months fly by. Before you know it half a year has fluttered away and you think about visiting them constantly. It's going to take some time to really meet people here, but somehow the cold succeeds in bringing people together.

A Sunday afternoon and I take a brisk walk around the city core, making my way down Queen West and back up to Kensington Market in search of Sanagan's. People gawk and observe outside at the window display. The men who work there are fabulous to deal with and their utter transparency is impressive and refreshing. "Grass-fed stewing beef," I say when a gentleman asks what he can get for me. "Oh, I was just slicing some up right now," he answers. Perfect. It's not cheap, of course, but their prices are fair and reasonable and the quality is tops. Maybe it's the sense of intimacy perpetuated by small, local businesses in the big city, but there's a special quality to independent stores that pleases me. Maybe it's that my actions matter. And to tell you the truth, it's really charming to walk along the streets devoid of cars, to hit the pavement with my boots, and to feel as though you are stepping into another era altogether. Instantly I am brought back to my childhood when my mom would drag my sister and I to the butcher's and we'd be given pickles or a hot dog or kielbasa. The place smelled like bologna and I stared at the piles of bright red ground beef, called it spaghetti.

Skip to the evening and you'll find two people at a wooden kitchen island, drinking cheap Italian red and eating a rip-off version of Julia Child's Boef bourguinon. I would not choose to finish the stew on the stovetop impatiently instead of the oven, but I did. I also would not cook my stew for three hours and kill my meat for a second time as Julia recommends, and it just so happens I did not. Good stock is absolutely necessary. Those are my tips. It's easy to put together and it tastes damn good, and it makes me wonder how something like Boef bourguinon has been relegated to the background. This night there is maca chocolate and the sound of laughter and talk of Canadian citizenship and lyrics that go I hate you, you pain in the ass. That sounds about right; it's a song I can dance to.

And today, two women -- things come in threes, after all -- begin a phone conversation each by breaking a wine glass. A different kind of cheers, perhaps? Over the phone we whine about losing another wine glass yet again, and this is why I buy cheap glassware. It was only a matter of time. And it's only a matter of time until another one bites the dust.

A quick (humble) note

2010-11-30T20:40:00.003-05:00

Hello dear readers.

You've all been mighty kind to this one.

This is not a plea. But if you like what you see here on Aubergine, or perhaps a little of what you see here, please consider nominating this blog for one of the categories in this year's Canadian Food Blog Awards hosted by the fine people over at Beer and Butter Tarts.

Thanks from the bottom of my heart for your readership and support.

Over and out,
S.

A beet to beat

2010-11-30T20:24:00.001-05:00

When was the last time you evaluated your beet relationship? I conduct a yearly performance review, and I have to confess: the vegetable does pretty well in my many rounds of testing despite being socially inept. You can't ace everything. This turns out to be A-ok, as I have a special place in my heart for wallflowers, especially those who come dressed to party -- how Rainbow Brite-esque beets are!

Maybe you've never tried a beet because you've been warned that they are absolutely dreadful, or perhaps you love them and eat as much borscht and beet hummus as you can get your spindly fingers on. I have to say, I grew up believing beets came in one format: pickles. Bright, fuschia pieces in mason jars forked on glass plates for special dinners. Although I knew pickles and cucumbers were one in the same, I never gave much thought to beets. Beets only came in pickle form, no? I liked them well enough I suppose, but perhaps only because no one was ever there to provide contradictory information. Oh, beets! someone might say, and so I grew up believing beets were in fact a good thing, like dill pickles or olives. Had I known the reality, I might have crossed them off my to-do list a long, long time ago and that would have been the end of it. But as it came to pass, I fell in like, and never gave another thought to it. I liked pickled beets, and it was decided that this was good.

My mom never cooked with them otherwise and I didn't have much exposure to them until my first year of grad school, when I spotted them at the farmer's market, breathed a sigh, and embraced it: beets. Yes.

Beets can be a real pain in the rear. Unlike Montmorency cherries or blood oranges or just about anything else on this site, I'm not about to wax on about the wonders of beets. They're usually filthy things, covered in mud, and take foooo-re-ver to fully cook. Yes, that long -- foooo-re-ver. They also have a tendency to dye just about anything in their wake a beautiful purple, which is generally lovely but is sometimes hell to a dishwasher (you're looking at her.) Often beets are paired with goat cheese, which is nice but, I think, overdone, and sometimes they are pureed and made into a pasta sauce. I've seen them used to make red velvet cupcakes naturally, and certainly they are tasty if prepared properly, but my favourite way is in a salad. Yes, a salad. And my favourite beet -- oh, the varieties! -- is the baby candy cane. She's a heartbreaker who'll make your heart skip a...do I really need to finish this sentence? This is probably why beets are real loners: they inspire people to say the corniest things, really, they do. I can't be held accountable for any tacky lines that escape my lips in the days to follow. I'm warning you now, so take note to avoid me. Unless you come bringing blood oranges. Then by all means, stop on by and I'll find it in me to keep a tight lid on my beet-tipped talk.

It was a productive Monday night when this slaw came to mind, and what a slaw it is. It's beautiful and refreshing, and tastes nothing of bland winter vegetables. It is the salad for beet-lovers and beet-haters alike, those who embrace the changing seasons or curse the sub-below temperatures and ache for spring. Trust me that if you hum "Beat it, just beat it" as you grate the vegetables, your salad basically makes itself. Its beautiful stripes, the red and the orange exterior, and the very sweet, mild-tasting flesh -- the beet make an excellent contribution to this recipe. I'm eating a bowl of this salad accompanied by a sizzlin' hot bowl of sweet potato and red lentil soup for lunch this week. You could do the same and we could be twins -- twins with orange insides, if anyone were to open us up and examine us, give our organs a performance review.

Autumn Slaw

Yields about 8 servings

1/2 celery root, peeled and grated
6 candy cane beets (about 1lb), washed well and grated
2 pears, grated
1/2 cup pumpkin seeds
1/2 cup roughly chopped walnuts

Feta cheese (optional)

1/4 - 1/2 cup good-quality balsamic vinegar
1/4 - 1/2 cup walnut oil (or substitute a fruity extra-virgin olive oil)
Salt, to taste

Combine celery root, beets, pears, pumpkin seeds and walnuts in a bowl and toss with a fork to combine. In a separate bowl, whisk vinegar with oil to emulsify and salt to taste. How much oil and vinegar you use will depend on personal preference, but for reference I used 1/2 cup vinegar to 1/4 cup oil. My vinegar is also particularly sweet and tart, and I happen to enjoy acidic dresings, so you might prefer a 50/50 ratio.

Garnish with feta, if desired.

"There is a town in north Ontario / With dream comfort memory to spare..."

2010-11-29T21:06:00.001-05:00

I'm not the first to say this, but I have no idea where November went. Hello December -- I can hear you whispering among the willows.

The first snow came as I walked down a beautiful city street, fall leaves still attached to their branches. Ahh, Canada; it turns out I missed you something serious! I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but I... might like this thing called winter.

Yeah, I still can't believe it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm hardcore about summer. But winter inspires bundling under blankets and hot apple cider with a capful of Captain Morgan's spiced rum, sitting by a roaring fire and making mulled wine. It means evenings spent reading and listening to K. D. Lang talk about being helpless, and sitting back on your sofa, reflecting, feeling fortunate about the way the months have unfolded. Who knows how many wrong turns we narrowly avoided.

But still, no blood oranges. They are December babies, after all. So I wait. I wait for blood oranges, and blood orange and jalapeno margaritas, and blood orange juice, extremely orange and tart.

Farmer's markets packed with kale, with spinach, with celery root, with candy beets that really know how to help a salad take centre stage. Clementines that taste so sweet, juice dribbling down your chin as you tuck into another section. Pears the shade of green the grass takes when you first see it in the springtime, signalling, however subtle, a new season, and leeks as big as a child's arm. We are fat and happy around here as we decorate the office tree, exchanging inappropriate stories while we let the tea steep. If you're going to take a break between frantic e-mails and drawn out phone conversations, you better make it a good time.

Yes, winter, maybe I've come around to you. Strolling through Toronto streets in my boots, jeans tucked in. Waking up to a giant mug of coffee the size of my head -- a really fantastic cup, I should say -- and buckwheat crepes filled lightly with cheese and topped with sunny side up eggs, sprinkled with paprika, and chicken bacon. The crepes are so good and buttery tasting that my tastebuds can't help but sit up and dance. The flavour isn't nutty, but soft and flavourful. I need that recipe and someday someone's going to surrender it to me. But in the meantime I'll dream about that crepe and about the Christmas holidays, and wait for blood oranges.

What are you waiting for, dear readers? Or maybe you're just enjoying things as they are, which is perfectly acceptable, too. Let me tell you: I've got my eyes on those pears.

Do yourself a favour and dance while you cook. Tonight there is a batch of soup simmering on the stove, and "2 Scoops" by Michelle Harding coming from my television, and hey! another Monday under our belts. We're a day closer to blood oranges, to a new year, to a good night's sleep. Winter -- I've got you figured out.

*Entry title courtesy of Neil Young, "Helpless"

Live to eat

2010-11-23T21:49:00.007-05:00

Socrates said, "Thou shouldst eat to live; not live to eat" while British author Henry Fielding contended that "We must eat to live and live to eat," a diplomatic line if ever one was uttered.

Unsurprisingly, I was frequently reminded while growing up that I live to eat.

By virtue of this blog, I'd say that fact is self-evident, though I'd like to add that eating to live and living to eat have become one in the same for me. How we've become so Puritanical about food and eating is beyond me.

For a moment, imagine you're sitting at a rustic dining table in Italy overlooking the vineyards, sipping on wine and eating artichokes dipped in Hollandaise sauce. Fathom a bowl of fresh pasta in front of you, tossed in homemade tomato sauce, a block of the good parmesan beside you. Imagine eating a light but satisfying breakfast at a cafe in France, sipping on a mug of pressed coffee, your day ahead of you. Imagine chocolate that tastes so good you can't speak, can't listen, can't do anything but taste -- it's that good. Imagine a weekend so full of laughter, of good food, that you don't mind when Monday rolls around. Imagine doing it again.

While one of my co-workers is busy planning a getaway vacation for next year, I'm preoccupied with plotting my next great meal. Our Lady Peace, with all due respect, was incorrect -- happiness is a fish you can catch, preferably a large wild salmon set to bake in the oven on a cedar plank and coated in real maple syrup.

I trekked to the Dufferin Farmer's Market last Thursday and though was rather underwhelmed, I was mighty impressed by the carrots and onions I bought there. I have to say, there is nothing like a fresh carrot. There is nothing like fresh produce. In its ideal form, it's addictive and delicious and tastes strongly of itself. Some of the carrots were added to a spicy red lentil and cumin soup I whipped up on the fly Sunday evening for this week's series of dinners. Many of them will contribute to a sweet potato and lentil soup planned for next week. Yes, I plan out my meals a week in advance. Some take their work very seriously. Others are very serious about technology. I, dear readers, am very serious about my meals. Priorities, I say!

As we enter the holiday season, food takes front and center stage. At last.

I'm quickly falling in love with smoked paprika, and I've seen roasted cinnamon, oh yes I have. I'm drinking my hot apple cider and my ginger tea, and I'm keeping my eye on LCBO's Spinelli stock to ensure there'll always be a bottle waiting for me. That is to say when I'm not busy gulping down Viewpointe's Cuvée, one of my absolute favourite wines. Ever. Yes, I said it. Ever.

Friday I was was taken for a short tour around the Entertainment District, the first time I've been there late to experience a full downtown catastrophe first-hand. I was taken for a Spanish-style supper -- 10:30pm -- at Grindhouse, a joint that serves up respectable burgers slathered with very lovely chipotle-laced ketchup, made in-house. I have to confess I'm not much for ketchup; I find it far too syrupy-sweet, something I leave to the times I want to bite into a piece of nostalgia. But this ketchup was probably the most impressive thing about the restaurant. And the fact that they carry Boylan's soda pop. If the Ethiopian proverb states that those who eat from the same plate will never betray each other, those who toast to the future, each holding a bottle of Boylans, are sure to have a good meal. Good rootbeer never lies.

Saturday afternoon united a famished young woman (me) with The Burger Bar on Augusta and several great, gorgeous girls from Humber's 2009 Creative Book Publishing programme. It's a diner sort of place. Maybe it's the newspaper-covered tables, or the old photographs, or the pretty servers dressed in vintage garb. Maybe it's that they serve their bourbon sours (with homemade sour mix) in mason jars, and offer up great burgers on the best gluten-free buns I believe this city has to offer. Either way, the place is wickedly charming and perfectly suited to Kensington Market. They even offer a 50/50 fry option -- half conventional fries and half sweet potato fries. For the indecisive among us, or those who want more than anything to have their cake and eat it, too -- *cough* -- it's perfect. It's even more perfect when you pair it with a memorable coffee experience in Kensington Market, vintage shopping, Queen West store-browsing, and a tree-lighting ceremony at Dundas Square, where we almost froze in our boots.

And then, on Sunday, just when you thought two burgers wasn't enough for one week, I went ahead and conjured up a little more magic. Because good things come in threes, non?

A chocolate cake, courtesy of Bob's Red Mill, filled with cocoa nibs, topped with cream cheese icing and garnished with frosted cranberries.

Butternut squash risotto with sage and creole shrimp. I bought the squash at the St. Lawrence North Market a few weeks ago and I'm so glad I did. With the slightest bit of pressure the squash opened, unleashing its fragrance. It was bright orange, the colour of a good carrot.

And a Greek salad with what might be the best (!) salad (!) dressing (!) I've ever had. In my life. Phew. I'm not sure I can handle all of these hefty declarations!

I'll take my life with a side of mashed potatoes, thanks.And in the meantime, I'll be dreaming of chana masala, of Richard Olney's garlic soup, of a sandwich with double smoked bacon and avocado, of buckwheat crepes filled with cooked apples and drizzled with gently sweetened Greek yogurt.

Butternut Squash Risotto with Sage & Creole-Spiced Shrimp

Risotto

Yields 6 meal-size portions

1/2 large butternut squash
1 tbsp unsalted butter
1 tbsp olive oil
2 celery ribs, very finely chopped
1/2 large onion or 2 cooking onions, finely chopped
1.5 cups Arborio (risotto) rice
1/2 cup dry white wine*
4-5 cups good-quality chicken stock, preferably homemade*
1 tbsp fresh sage, finely chopped, plus more for garnish if desired
3/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
Salt, to taste

For the squash:

Pre-heat oven to 400F. Slice open the squash length-wise and scoop out the seeds (reserve them to toast later!) Drizzle with a little olive oil and roast for 45 minutes - 1 hour, until the flesh is very tender. Set aside. Once cool enough to handle, peel away the skin and break squash into large chunks with your hands or a knife. Puree with a little olive oil in a food processor or blender, and start on your risotto.

For the risotto:

In a large, heavy-bottomed pan (ideally a Dutch oven), heat oil and butter over medium-high heat. Add onion and celery and cook until very soft, about 10 minutes. As the celery and onion cook, heat your chicken stock in a separate saucepan over medium heat. This is done so that the chicken stock, when added, doesn't lower the temperature of your rice.

Try not to burn the onion (like I might have.) Add rice and toss to coat with butter/oil. Quickly add wine; it will sizzle. Once it evaporates, begin ladling in the chicken stock one scoop at a time, stirring your rice repeatedly to help with absorption and to prevent the rice from sticking to the bottom of the pot. Continue until rice is cooked and/or the stock is gone, about 20-25 minutes. You can tell the rice is finished when it doubles in size and turns bright white, though tasting as you go will help with this; ideally, you want the rice to retain some bite. Add your pureed squash, cheese, and sage. Mix thoroughly to combine. Taste, and salt accordingly.

*I use an inexpensive wine for risotto -- my standby is Colli Albani, which retails for about $8 per 1L bottle. If you don't drink or you don't drink white wine, seek out the smaller bottles. Some are sold in 4-packs, perfect for cooking. You can also opt to skip the wine altogether, though I wouldn't personally recommend it.

Creole Seasoning
Adapted from Kevin at Closet Cooking

(Yields enough to coat about 1lb - 1.5lbs of shrimp)

2.5 tsp smoked paprika
1 tsp salt
2 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp onion powder
1 tsp black pepper
1/4 tsp - 1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp dried thyme

Combine all ingredients together.

Shrimp

Toss shrimp with Creole seasoning and let stand (covered in the refrigerator) for 1-3 hours. Add a little oil in a grill pan over medium heat and cook shrimp, about 2 minutes per side, until opaque.

We remember

2010-11-16T22:38:00.001-05:00

Having a day off in the middle of the week is nothing short of luxurious -- a walk down Bloor, the Holt Renfrew window displays already set up for Christmas. 2010 is almost over. I'm relieved in a way, but sad, too. This year has been split right down the middle, one side revealing heads and the other tales. A little girl walked behind me with her father tonight and debated whether it was raining or snowing. "It's snowing," she said. "Raining," he said. "Snow and rain," she said. "Snow with rain," he responded playfully. That sounds about right.

No, I relaxed on Remembrance Day. I sipped on peach juice as though I were eight years old, debating over bath towels. Peach juice reminds me of being at Colasanti, cider doughnut in one hand and peach juice in the other, apple picking in the fall. It has that kind of power, so be weary next time you opt for it. I heard they no longer make those doughnuts, and the peach juice is likely too sweet, but it makes me smile wide anyway. I bought a head of butter lettuce at my neighbourhood grocer and stared at a package of dried cherries for longer than was necessary wondering if it would be a very good idea to add them to my morning granola (delectable) or a very, very bad idea (another expensive staple to add to my increasing list of so-called must-haves.) I passed, but it seems nothing is ever too extravagant when it comes to breakfast around these parts, so don't be surprised if you find me spooning some into my cereal on some lofty morning. Local wild blossom honey? Fresh pecans? Cocoa nibs? Roasted ground cinnamon? The good yogurt? Whatever it takes to beck and call me out of bed at 7am makes me weak in the knees (and quick with the hands.)

I digress.

Despite enjoying Thursday -- both gorgeous and turbulent -- I've struggled with writing this post. Anything I have to say regarding Remembrance Day sounds forced and ultimately pretty trite. All I can do is tell you that it means something to me that it might not to someone else. When I see someone standing with a tray of poppies, my heart skips a beat and there I am, handing over a five spot. It means something that men and women died, that people went off to territory unknown and did so voluntarily or involuntarily, in defense of something as amorphous as freedom. And so I listened to Amos Lee and went for long walks and generally reflected in that way that keeps you up at night. It's that time again, between Halloween and Christmas, fully ambivalent. Not quite autumn anymore and not quite winter. It's a good time to go nostalgic, as far as I can tell.

I went back to my hometown this weekend in celebration of what would have been my great-grandmother's 100th birthday. I was six when she died, and don't remember much of her, but I do recall my mother dropping off her groceries with my sister and I in tow. There was never a shortage of jelly beans. I ate the orange and yellow ones as she doused her TV dinner in salt before tucking in, and she tried to convince me how great the black ones were. Now I'm the one eating black jelly beans.

In November, there are things to remember and memories to be made. We sat around the dinner table -- more of us around that table than there have been in years -- and ate like champs. Some of us drank like champs, too, but I, dear readers, was not one of those unlucky individuals who nursed hangovers the following day and forcefully denied it.

Walking through a graveyard, at least for me, means digging up bones and searching for ghosts. But in a way we're all still together around that table, except that some of us tread a little lighter and kindly leave the wine for the rest of us to imbibe.

Perhaps one of those graves is that of a little girl you never really got to know. When mentioned, it moves someone to tell you a story, one that you keep to yourself because it's one of those intimate stories so powerful it doesn't require repeating. But I can say that little girl is the prettiest of those ghosts because those still with us speak of her with a level of beautiful, heart-wrenching care and adoration you'd think stretches far beyond the human potential to love. And because they cannot remember us, we will remember for all of them.

Because I'm of a rye-drinking clan -- how Canadian! -- I'm handing over a classic recipe. The other is an old-timey kind of dessert that's been tinkered with, one that's simple and comforting -- two words totally necessary at this time of year.

Rye and Ginger

Yields 1 drink

1.5oz (rye) whisky
3oz gingerale (preferably made with cane sugar)
Lime wedge
Dash of bitters (optional)

Pour whiskey and gingerale over ice in a rocks or highball glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

Bananas and Milk

Serves 1

1 frozen banana, sliced prior to freezing
Splash of milk

Combine banana and milk in a food processor or blender, and pulse until the banana takes on the look and mouthfeel of soft serve ice cream. Eat or serve immediately, garnished with nuts if desired.

Have a cookie

2010-11-09T23:31:00.005-05:00

Some people debate the end of the world. Others worry about the state of our economy.

I, on the other hand? I think I'll have another cookie.

At least for now. Tomorow begs for seriousness. As for tonight: hold on to your hats, folks and frolickers, and consider the last time you ate a really good cookie. What was it?

When the living wears you thin, sometimes there's nothing else to do but sigh, listen to Michael Franti's "Sound of Sunshine" (or what have you) and hope for the best. This sometimes works. You could always try holding a costume party ala Elton John. That could get interesting. Or you could bake a batch of these gems, crispy yet tender, some sort of chip-cookie mutation gone oddly... right.

I'm not much of a cookie person, really. Actually, I should rephrase that. I wasn't much of a cookie person. But these cookies? They're the sexiest of the sexy cookies. While I still can't put back an entire batch by my lonesome, I do have officemates. Fortunately for me, people are generally quite receptive to homemade cookies, and -- you can quote me on this -- no such cookie will go to waste on my watch. That's a promise I can uphold, and I take my promises very, very seriously indeed. Especially concerning items of the chocolate variety.

Most of the time, I live on pretty simple fare. An egg here, some rice noodles here. Cooking for more than one, in my experience, is both a tiresome responsibility and a luxury, a fuse lit equally with obligation and joy. But cooking for one leaves enough to be desired as you find yourself plowing through another night's worth of leftovers or in the dark at 8pm, contemplating whether air-popped popcorn counts as dinner if you drizzle olive oil on it and eat a bowl of lettuce on the side. Suffice to say, I appreciate that I'm now able to dabble on the sweet side whenever I fancy, to turn over a cookie here or a tart there and place them oh-so-innocently on the kitchen counter of my office. It's a way to experiment without feeling bogged down, to try something new without committing to an entire batch. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.

I first made these cookies on a cool night in Florida. Yes -- Northern Florida does cool off significantly, contrary to popular opinion. My good friend Kim was on her way over for dinner. The menu sounded reasonable enough: chicken with lemon and roasted garlic, quinoa salad with a tahini dressing, vegetables, wine. For dessert, I opted to make something other than my standard 3-ingredient peanut butter cookies and stumbled on these. I wasn't sure what to think initially. Everyone in the blogosphere raved about them, these alleged chocolate puddle cookies, but they looked pretty generic to me.

After the first batch had cooled, I popped one in my mouth. Let's just say I have been eating my thoughts (and the damn cookies) ever since. It was an epic fail of a dinner that evening; my chicken, a cheap thing from Winn-Dixie, disappointed. I refer to it as the strangest bird I've ever cooked, because it sat in the oven for almost two hours and yet was still undercooked. Odd. (And no, there was nothing wrong with the oven.)

The quinoa salad was a flop, and so baked potatoes were served (always good).

The vegetables, well. There's not much to say about them.

But that night, we watched Olympic figure skating, drank some wine, ate some cheese, and devoured these cookies. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say the cookies saved the day. After all, Kim is still my friend -- this is saying a lot considering I tried to poison the girl with bad poultry. She's a good sport. She also has fantastic taste in cheese (and food), and it's been my experience that these types of people are both rare and good to keep around. Especially in the event they insist on leaving Brie at your place.

I didn't have walnuts or cocoa nibs on hand during that initial batch, and I have to say, these things change a cookie. They turn a pretty damn good cookie into a pretty damn great cookie, as a matter of fact. My favourite variation of this recipe is Molly Wizenberg's, unsurprisingly, mostly because it incorporates cocoa nibs (always good) and secondly because the yield is on the smaller side as far as cookies go. Which you may or may not like, depending on whether you find yourself back in the kitchen baking up another batch within days because someone has gone and eaten them all. This is known to happen; don't say you weren't warned.

So if you find yourself alone in your kitchen on a Monday night, feeling a little down without reason, anxious to hold future dinner parties, anxious for the future, anxious for the end of the world, have a cookie.

And make it a pretty damn great one: a cookie you can sink your teeth into, that you can chew on, that coats your mouth with cocoa, that leaves you happier with every bite.

Check out Molly's recipe here.

The kind of week

2010-11-07T23:46:00.005-05:00

Last Saturday, I bundled up and headed over to the Brick Works Farmer's Market. I don't recall whether this is true or not, but my memory says it was a lovely day, and so it was. I walked all the way to Greektown and took the shuttle bus up by Bridle Path. I have to say, it was quite the experience: I have never seen produce look so beautiful in all my life. That's saying something coming from a girl who grew up in the county. When I handed a five spot over to the man who sold me my sweet potatoes, he said "Red or white?" I'd never heard of white sweet potatoes before. Purple, yes; they're plentiful at most of the Asian markets in Chinatown. But never white.

Have you heard of rainbow-striped radishes? Did you know there are at least three varieties of baby spinach, and likely far more? I bought a pound of mixed kale, red and green and lacinato from a shy woman with blonde hair. Apples were piled high on three long tables at the back of the room, and I stopped in and snagged a litre of real apple cider -- you know, not overly sweet, still tasting of the orchard -- from two little boys who tried, with their best sales tactics, to get me to buy two. "Sorry boys, it's just me," I said.

A trip to the market is expensive; I looked down into my grocery bag and could barely believe what I'd paid. But what I bought can't be found at the supermarket. Mostly, I get stress at the grocery store. I get stress and anxiety and frustration. The aisles at downtown supermarkets are narrow and cramped. I can never find what I'm looking for, or they simply don't carry it (smoked paprika, cocoa powder), or the item isn't worth buying (drowned and rotting Romaine, overripe avocadoes). Heading to the market is an event. It makes sense, even if it isn't a bargain.
A Frenchman who runs Bee's Universe sells honey (evidently), rabbit and eggs. I know the combination sounds odd, but he does.
"People, you know, they don't want to buy rabbit. They think bunny bunny, but it's good. It's good in stews," he said.
"I'll make a note of it," I answered as I pushed my eggs to the bottom of the bag.
They are the best eggs I've ever eaten, the yolks thick and rich and full of flavour. I don't know about the rabbit -- maybe he's right -- but he was on the nose with those eggs.

There's the owner of an artisanal cheese operation, and another who sells half-decent gluten-free breads. It was really something. And the sweet potatoes? They were thrown in a stew with spicy sausage and spinach, and sweetened the broth ever so slightly. They were, for the record, the creamiest sweet potatoes I've ever tasted. We eat because we have to, and often forget how good things can taste all on their own. A little sea salt and a drizzle of good olive oil helps, certainly, but if something sings all on its own...that's magic, folks. The man who sold me my sweet potatoes had a sign saying, "Remember how good food used to taste?" or something of that description, and it was so apropos. I don't remember -- I grew up during industrialized times -- but I can well imagine.

It's been a good week. It's the kind of week where you sport your favourite little black belted dress mid-week, the one with the cowl neck you found for a steal last year at Ann Taylor in Michigan, and are met at lunch by a mysterious man on a secret mission. You spot each other in front of Scaccia, an Italian eatery, and hang out for a few minutes to appear perfectly covert. He encourages you to hide the evidence (kale caraway bread -- shh) as you return to your cubicle, everyone unsuspecting. No one notices. While he is in fact perfectly sane, this dress in particular inspires him to compare you to the likes of Ingrid Bergman and Audrey Hepburn, which causes you to blush all day long as though you were sixteen all over again and were just told that so-and-so thinks your kilt is pretty swell. Not so becoming for a very serious and sophisticated Marketing Coordinator, I should think, or rather an undercover spy (fortunately I've since recovered, though the Malbec I'm currently sipping on is inspiring its own particular brand of redness.) This man has been scorned for inappropriate conduct, rest assured. We can't have spies throwing their colleagues off missions, now can we? It's in our collective best interest to remain on guard at all times.

It's the kind of week that brings mushrooms baked in balsamic vinegar, and corn pasta tossed with a velvety tomato sauce, garnished with peppercress and parmesan cheese.

It's the kind of week that sees to it that you have an espresso and ricotta cheesecake with a walnut crust on a Monday. It's the kind of week that is hectic, but makes you feel as though you are on the top of the world: finally, work feels familiar. It's the kind of week that requires Big Band music and ensures that you master knitting after all and the kind of week that gets in the way of your reading. It's the kind of week that interrupts the responses you are trying to write to your friends, and informs you you're lucky to even have friends, considering how busy you have been between trying to keep on top of things, working a full-time job, working a part-time job, and everything else in between. It makes sure you laugh a lot. It makes sure you smile a lot. Probably more than is healthy.

It's been a chilly week in the city. This is for certain. But I skip and I jump and I leap. I sense it has something to do with the sweet potatoes, but I can't be sure. That goat cheese sure gives those potatoes a run for their money.

Sweet Potato, Sausage and Spinach Soup
Adapted from Bon Appétit

Yields 4-5 bowls

2 large sweet potatoes, peeled, quartered lengthwise, cut crosswise into 1/4-inch-thick slices (about 1lb each)
1lb new potatoes, peeled, quartered lengthwise, cut crosswise into 1/4-inch-thick slices
6 cups (1.5 quarts) low-sodium chicken broth (I used Pacific)
1 large onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 sausage links (I used hot Italian, but chorizo would make a fine choice)
9oz fresh baby spinach, washed well and spun dry
1 tbsp lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper, to taste
Olive oil, as needed

In a Dutch oven or large stockpot, brown and cook the sausage over medium-high; set aside to drain. In the same pot, add oil if necessary and heat onion and garlic until softened and fragrant. Add chicken stock, sweet potatoes and potatoes and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and continue cooking until potatoes are tender. Using a potato masher, mash part of the potatoes to thicken the broth and to balance the consistency. Add sausage, spinach, lemon juice or wine vinegar and cook for an additional 15 minutes to allow the flavours to co-mingle and the spinach to grow tender. Taste, and adjust seasoning. Serve with crusty bread, if desired, to soak up the broth.

For consideration

2010-11-02T22:12:00.000-04:00

"Grocery money is an odd sticking point for U.S. citizens, who on average spend a lower proportion of our income on food than people in any other country, or any heretofore in history. In our daily fare, even in school lunches, we broadly justify consumption of tallow-fried animal pulp on the grounds that it's cheaper than whole grains, fresh vegetables, hormone-free dairy, and such. Whether on school boards or in families, budget keepers may be aware of the health tradeoff but still feel compelled to economize on food -- in a manner that would be utterly unacceptable if the health risk involved an unsafe family vehicle or a plume of benzene running through a school basement.

It's interesting that penny-pinching is an accepted defense for toxic food habits, when frugality so rarely rules other consumer domains. The majority of Americans buy bottled drinking water, for example, even though water runs from the faucets at home for a fraction of the cost, and government quality standards are stricter for tap water than for bottled. At any income level, we can be relied upon for categorically unnecessary purchases: portable-earplug music instead of the radio; extra-fast Internet for leisure use; heavy vehicles to transport light loads; name-brand clothing instead of plainer gear. "Economizing," as applied to clothing, generally means looking for discount name brands instead of wearing last year's clothes again..."

"Buying your goods from local businesses rather than national chains generates about three times as much money for your local economy. Studies from all over the country agree on that, even while consumers keep buying at chain stores, and fretting that the downtown blocks of cute mom-and-pop venues are turning into a ghost town. Today's bargain always seems to matter more."

-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver

A tale of too spicy

2010-10-27T23:33:00.003-04:00

I don't know when it was that I decided I liked spicy food, but I suspect it had something to do with Buffalo wings. I have to say, a good Buffalo wing is hard to pass up.

Now, there's no recipe for Buffalo wings here, so don't get your hopes up. I know. I'm sorry. I did spot a pretty promising one in Bobby Flay's recent release, Throwdown: More Than 100 Recipes from Food Network's Ultimate Cooking Challenge, however. If you happen to be in the market for a Buffalo wings recipe.

My father has always liked hot food. Food so hot sweat trickles down your face, even in the dead of a Canadian winter. Like father like daughter, I gradually followed suit. I keep two hot sauces at minimum in my refrigerator at all times; pickled jalapeñoes and canned chipotles in adobo are staples of mine; and when I get it, my pizza is usually covered in chili flakes (and more hot peppers, of course.) I keep cayenne and hot paprika at the ready. I realize most of my obsessions are of the fickle variety -- I might be tempted by a celery root here or a fennel bulb there, a pile of raspberries in the summer or a couple blood oranges toward the holiday season -- but my love of all things lip-burning, tongue-tingling? I think it's getting serious.

Down the street from my first apartment is a terrific Vietnamese place. The owner, one of the sweetest men you'll ever meet, makes it his mission to know all of his diners. If I ever make it there again, I know he'll pop over to my table and say in his broken English, "Where've you been?" as he hands me my order, a bowl of rice vermicelli with chargrilled pork, stuffed to the brim with gently pickled vegetables and fresh mint. It's too much for one person to eat, really, but sometimes you might gobble it up gratefully anyway, stuffing yourself silly, and the fact that it costs $7 might make you do a happy dance and repeat the whole thing over the following week. On one day in particular, the man walked by my table and peered down at my bowl. "Wow," he said, "you like it spicy?" The bowl was bright orange from all of the sriracha I'd drizzled in.

"I think you've lost your tastebuds," my roommate declared. For a long while, I thought she was right. There was a point in time I even infused tequila with fresh, hot jalapeñoes from Florida and shot back that concoction like nobody's business.

But this weekend, when I tried my hand at replicating my favourite Vietnamese meal (epic fail)...something mysterious occurred.

I dove into my bowl, ravenous and excited, and...sweat. My tongue...on fire. It was so hot, I actually started crying. So hot, in fact, that whenever I went to breathe, my tongue instantly blew up in flames. It was an inferno of a bowl. My mind flipped back to that episode of Sex and the City when Miranda becomes paranoid that she'll die alone and be eaten by her cat. Except that I wondered if I in turn might die of too much hot sauce and disintegrate like a stabbed vampire from Buffy.

The thing nobody tells you is that if you keep a bottle of sriracha sauce in your refrigerator for five months, it will get hotter. And hotter. And hotter.

So it makes sense that when I told my father about this incident, he responded with, "Sounds about right. I had the hottest horseradish the other night..."

Old habits die hard. Something tells me that thoughts of burning alive aren't enough to keep me away from hot sauce...at least, not for long.

The other shoe

2010-10-26T00:31:00.006-04:00

Maybe you're the type of person who is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Such standing convictions take a certain degree of pessimism, I'd say. And, as sunny a disposition as I have, I must confess I've succumbed to that line of thinking several times in recent memory.

I don't know why I felt uneasy all last week. Maybe it's the fact that I went half the week without wine. That could be it. Sometimes I let my neuroses get the better of me. Sometimes I get so excited and happy about life that I fear the rug will be pulled out from under me as I yell, "No, no, but everything was going so well! I don't need to win the lottery! I don't even need that cookbook I've been eyeing..." and so it goes.

The other shoe certainly dropped on Saturday as I found myself standing in the middle of a streetcar somewhere around Dundas and Spadina, cursing the driver and the zombie walk and the Gardiner closing and everything else that was making me very late for work, and, spontaneously, hopped out into the pouring rain with two strangers, running for blocks until I found a cab to hail to get me to my gig and the others to their destination. As I ran as fast as my legs would go into the building, I thought -- well, hello other shoe! There you are! What GREAT timing you have! I was breathless and panicked and fifteen minutes late, but all turned out fine. I even managed to redeem myself (though only after I accidentally poured hot coffee down the back of a woman's chair/designer dress and had to fanagle her a new chair. Alas. Other shoe, I say!) But the point is, sometimes stuff happens. You do what you have to do. And then you eat dog food for dinner -- almost literally, since we were fed hamburger patties topped with a watery jus, undercooked onions and overcooked mushrooms, and some sweet scalloped potato thing I didn't dare go near. I thought of skipping dinner. It was ten in the evening, I wasn't hungry, and the guests got plump garlic shrimp served with Hollandaise sauce, apparently for the sole purpose of taunting me. But seemingly out of nowhere, I had thoughts of my mother yelling at me for not eating enough. I heaved a sigh and tucked in. Well, as much as one can tuck into a hamburger trying to pass itself off as Salisbury steak. Some things, like a fake Chanel bag, just don't make sense.

Eventually someone will meet you on Bloor and you will surprise them. You'll walk down to Bar Mercurio, have the door opened for you, and face a large man with a white apron who shuffles two bar stools together and gestures for you to sit. A bartender with crazy blonde hair holds out her hand and introduces herself, and you smile back. Suddenly you are sipping on an Espressotini, some kind of Toronto-Italian hybrid of a cocktail that tastes like liquid gold and might as well be. Dean Martin croons from the radio as you wiggle your toes inside your Birkenstock clogs and adjust your glasses. That's the thing. Eventually all fantasies give way to reality. Screw it, you think. Take me as I am and all of that business. If the other shoe's going to drop again and muck up my good fortune, so be it.

Espressotini (or as close as I can get to the recipe without begging)
From Endless Coffee Break

Yields 1 high-voltage martini

2oz espresso (room temperature)
2.5oz vanilla vodka
1oz Godiva Cappuccino Liqueur or Kahlua

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice and add all ingredients. Shake well and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with coffee beans, if desired.

Exhaling at the farmer's market on a Saturday afternoon

2010-10-19T00:13:00.007-04:00

I happen to adore poblano peppers. There, I've said it. Judging by my entries here, one might come to the conclusion that I in fact love everything, but that would be a mistake. I do like most things; I'd like to think that's part of my charm (contrary to popular opinion, I can turn on the charm like a champ when necessary.) However, I've never quite come around to cauliflower (sorry), though I have a couple recipes earmarked that might change my mind -- one with cinnamon and cocoa, and another a gratin from a restaurant, if you must know -- and I'm not big on persimmon or papaya (no apologies here.) Horror of horrors, I'm not fond of ripe tomatoes, and I'm convinced I'm allergic to pineapple.

And, to be honest, as much as I love food, I hate that grocery shopping is often an all-day affair around here. Part of it is because I rely on public transportation, or more accurately, my legs. I walk everywhere. Secondly, I'm finicky.

Quite frankly, the number of choices available and the lack of information we're provided with in North America about where our food comes from stresses me out. As the newspapers roll out article after article about local eating and statistics of people wanting to know where their food comes from, or as I pick up a couple t-shirts at a store and find many labels now read 'Made in Canada' instead of Taiwan or China, I know I'm not alone in my anxiety.

I stand in front of the eggs for a solid five minutes debating which of the cartons is the lesser evil, though I try to make it out to the butcher on Queen West that sells organic eggs or to one of the authentic farmer's markets that actually sell real organic ones. I am particular about the little meat I do buy, and subsequently about my meat-based stocks. I prefer to support local farmers by purchasing my produce directly from them. This adds up to a lot of headaches, as you may imagine, and it's not for everyone. It's never my intention to corner anyone, but this is my reality, and as our choices become increasingly limited by agribusiness and factory farming, it may at some point become yours as well. But on this weekend, lo and behold, I came across several wooden boxes of poblano peppers, littered over a long table with a homemade sign blowing in the wind. I breathed. You can only live your politics so much before they impede on the living part.

...Back to our scheduled programming.

The first time I ate a poblano pepper was at a Mexican restaurant in Tallahassee. I'm not saying the restaurant is particularly good. It's not. They do make decent top shelf margaritas, though, and on this particular night, I hopped on over there and shared a plate of Chiles Rellenos over a margarita the size of my head. Suffice to say, those Chiles were very fine indeed.

All humour aside, poblano peppers are lovely. On one trip to Plant City, I picked several up at the farmer's market and returned to stuff them with pinto beans mashed with salsa. They were terrific just like that. A good poblano doesn't require much else.

I spent this past Sunday performing a veritable cook-a-thon, stocking up for the week. Out came a batch of granola; Molly Wizenberg's celery root, apple and fennel salad dressed with a halzenut vinaigrette; Melissa Clark's red lentil soup with lemon (excellent) from her new cookbook; and a potato and poblano pepper frittata with goat cheese. We know how I feel about goat cheese. Now you know how I feel about poblanos. Everyone loves potatoes in some form.

I suspect you know where I'm going with this.

Roasted Poblano Pepper and Potato Frittata with Goat Cheese
Serves 4

2 roasted poblano peppers, skins removed, roughly chopped*
3 medium-sized potatoes, washed well and sliced thinly
2 shallots, diced
1 clove garlic, peeled and minced
1 tbsp vegetable oil, such as grapeseed
1/2 cup goat cheese, crumbled
Salt and pepper
8 eggs
Milk, about 1/2 cup

Line potato slices on a baking sheet and bake at 350°F until tender, about 10 minutes. Set aside, but keep the oven on and switch to broil.

In a large bowl, crack the eggs, a good glug of milk -- about 1/2 cup -- and whisk to combine. Add goat cheese and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper.

In a cast iron pan or other oven-safe skillet, heat oil over medium heat and add shallots. Once softened, add garlic. Once fragrant, add potatoes, peppers and egg mixture. Cook for 5-7 minutes until eggs have set, and place pan in the oven. Keep an eye on the dish and broil until the top has browned slightly. Serve immediately, or eat cold, garnished with salsa or hot sauce if desired. This dish also reheats reasonably well (I served mine with some spaghetti squash tossed in some leftover lemon artichoke pesto.)

*To learn how to roast peppers, check out this tutorial here.

Some place unfamiliar

2010-10-17T12:06:00.000-04:00

This morning, I'm recuperating from indulgence.

Oh yes, dear readers, it was one of those weekends.

As it turns out, sometimes you can make a mad dash escape even within the city limits -- all it takes is an excellent tour guide and a spin around Baldwin Village. The first stop included a lovely Moroccan pad thai accompanied by a decent gingerbeer at a vegetarian restaurant, followed by a quick walk down the street to a video store that plays black and white films on a screen outside. You enter, and behold, a taste of Italy in the form of tiramasu-flavoured gelato -- a taste yields creaminess at first, and is quietly followed by a punch of flavour. It's a little unusual, the way it doesn't arrest the tastebuds but instead takes them on a road trip. Afterwards, you are transported via a pair of magic red shoes to a steak house attached to The Hilton where you spin your legs around a barstool and tuck into a slice of the most sinfully delicious, rich chocolate cake imaginable; I wish I would've had my camera on me, for I suspect the torte would have proven exceptionally photogenic. It was so dense, in fact, that it was like eating a scandalous amount of chocolate fudge. Afterwards, all you can do is breathe and smile, the flavour of chocolate still lingering in your mouth.

Recollecting on your perch, contemplating a walk through the city and thereby putting off your Sunday obligations, you think these are the sorts of evenings that make Monday mornings look okay.