Stamattina

my place in "it all"

2012-01-08T22:01:00.000-08:00

im going to Chez Panisse!

...

100 miles in one step

2012-01-01T21:44:00.001-08:00

I live in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia, beloved for its natural beauty, heat, and lakes, "home" is a destination for a number of Europeans vacationers, a staycation spot for a number of locals, a summertime second home for many a wealthy oil drilling Albertan (and their loud deisel trucks). It is also renowned for its orchards and vineyards, its abundance of produce as seen in its abundance of farmers markets. Well, guess what, all those lovely selling features are frozen.

Kelowna and surroundings are not that great in the off season (read: late fall-the earliest, most hopeful and promising signs of--please let it be--early spring)--unless you ski, which i do not, because gravity and i do not get along and i treasure all of my limbs.... And those orchards/vineyards/farms? Hibernating. So, it seems, are the Albertans and their trucks, so i am not entirely bitter about winter here.

Really though, it is difficult. Besides the fact that i suffer from SAD (seasonally affected disorder)--and regardless of the fact that my suffering is self diagnosed...), the Okanagan Valley leaves alot to be desired in the winter.

Being a valley, it is gray. Not rainy, not really snowy, just plain ol gray. For days on end. SAD.

Nothing grows. No grapes. No apples. Certainly no cauliflower.

Which is where this eulogy to the popularized summer months comes full circle: i miss cauliflower.

And many other vegetables and their sexy cousins: fruit. Really, i know a pink lady apple is pretty and all, but i so miss blushing white peaches, near to bursting with juice plums, perfumed raspberries, and my beloved apricots.

i miss them all because, in my dedication to the region i call home, i follow the 100 mile diet, even in these gray, gray, graygraygray, days. I miss green in these monochramatic times: beans--string and freshly shelled--, delicate salad greens, fennel arguably stronger than Sambuca, and parsely. Sweet you-know-who- i miss parsley. Sure i could easily buy all that i would in the not so gray months here from California or Mexico at my favorite produce shop, but it just wont taste the same as the veg i grow myself--anyone who has eaten a tomato off their own vines, yet still buys them, flavourless, from mexico in the winter, can attest to this, i am sure. And i have jars of my own tomatoes. And bags of dried. And bags of chopped heirlooms in my freezer. My bountiful freezer.

I preserve alot of what i grow, which helps me get through the months that i am not growing anything. But i forbid myself from using it until January 1. Instead, i live off the less frequent winter farmers market, filling myself to the point of fatigue with stored roots, the occasional leek if i am lucky, the ever saddening supply of cabbage (i still buy it, even when it is wilty...i question my morals at this....). That is, as mentioned, until January 1.

This is the part of the post where the gray, low hanging clouds clear and the sun shines gloriously. Oh. Thats not the sun. That is not even my SAD sunlamp. That is the light of my deepfreeze.

The new year marks my self-designated rejoice for the old year date. When i can replace the celery root i have been living off of with the remnants of summers bounty. This is the one instant when freezer food is as, if not more, appealing than fresh. It is a silly rule, i know, to wait until now when i started turning orange for carrot consumption weeks ago, but it creates the same sort of appreciation for the work i did to preserve my crops and their flavours, as it does to enjoy that same bounty in its season. No it is not the same, but it is still better than anything with a "packaged on" date that traveled from somewhere sunny all year long (note to self: relocating may mean less strategic freezer usage...). But the wait is over.

January first and i pulled, not surprisingly, cauliflower. Worth the wait. Worth the sacrifice of eating it fresh when it was, instead ziplocking it for now. It makes me a little less SAD. A little less orange? A little more thankful for the place that i live that truly is "Beautiful British Columbia"-- just reference any non-deisel vehicle...

and now, i am going to dig out some of those apricots...

Let's talk hangovers...

2011-12-31T16:33:00.001-08:00

...it is new year's eve, afterall.

I'm sure most folks out there have plans involving a large amount of alcohol consumption, or driving home those consuming a large amount of alcohol (which, to note, is called "well-planned"). But did you folks think about the morning after?

Im not here to preach--ok, i m preaching a bit, but mostly about planning to have a safe ride home--a "think before you drink" wouldnt-you-like-to-be-able-to-wake-up-and-enjoy-the-first-day-of-the-new-year-or-at-least-stomach-breakfast idea...but i am here to talk about the breakfast:

The hangover cure. I dont have a recipe. Alot of people do, citing the heal all benefits of a raw egg floating in tomato juice (downing what you would rather be throwing up???), or greasy, breakfast sausage heavy egg hashes smothered in ketchup or hot sauce and butter drenched toast to soak it all up (eating what resembles and therefore likely will feel quite at home with the contents of your stomach). Such self doctor-ers are much more experienced drinkers than i; personally, i hate the thought/feeling of losing control so much that i rarely break a buzz despite my love of all things booze. Im a bit of an alcoholic (forgive the term) contradiction: a wino at heart who craves handcrafted beers, or a guinness for dinner in the winter, who doesnt chase a shot of tequila with lime because she loves the taste, who cant play scrabble without a whiskey, no ice, whose recent interest in classic and inventive cocktails has expanded her "liquor cabinet" (empty wine boxes restocked..., classy) twice over, who prefers her espresso with a shot of grappa in cold weather, who makes her own amaretto and limoncello, yet i have been drunk less thank the number of drinks it takes for me to get so (3-5 depending...). Despite this, i know very well what i want the morning after: carbs--particularly those drenched in sugar.

I've never been much of a savory breakfast person to begin with, and the very smell of bacon makes me queezy, but when i can barely lift my spinning head to down some thickly strong coffee, i take my usual sweet breakfast to the extreme (extreme for me at least--no icecream on my toast or anything; even a poptart is too much...). Think french toast with apricot jam and maple syrup or cornflakes (my guilty pleasure breakfast cereal) with enough sugar/honey that they may as well be frosted flakes (that made sweet cereal love to golden grahams...). But the best hangover breakfast i ever had on one of the 3-5 occasions that i needed one were pancakes at the Bread Co. in Kelowna.

There was nothing particularly special about this stack. Just your run of the mill buttermilk cakes, Sure they were light and fluffy, familiar and comforting--just your run-of-the-mill buttermilk cakes. Except that these were covered in granulated sugar. Granulated. Not dusted with icing sugar like pancakes of childhoods past ("snow" we used to call it, and it was strictly reserved for french toast in my mas kitchen). This may not seem as epic to some as it was for me; perhaps you, like my French girlfriend whose mom was adjusting to pancakes versus crepes upon immigrating to Canada, have always eaten your pancakes dusted with gritty white sugar. I had never seen it before. Perhaps still a bit drunk, i could hardly contain my excitement over it. I dipped sugar covered bites in the mini syrup boat so that syrup would not dissolve the crunch i was getting such a kick out of. Yes, i dipped sugar covered chunks of carbs into more sugar, and felt increasingly better. I sat up straighter, the sun came out, i vowed to eat my pancakes with granulated sugar everytime i was hungover (though earlier i had vowed never to drink again).

So aside from rallying up a safe ride home, in preparation for the New Year, why dont you whip up some pancake batter for tomorrow morning, and bust out the syrup and the gritty white sugar. And some bacon, if you insist.

Happy new year

How i wish i had spent my Christmas eve

2011-12-29T21:18:00.002-08:00

http://orangette.blogspot.com/2011/12/december-24.html

Blown out of the water

2011-12-28T23:23:00.000-08:00

i love working at the fish shop. Crazy, im considered by my current coworkers for reasons less simple as most of your reactions, im supposing: smell. Its true, there is a fishy waft behind me as i walk through my own home at the end of the day (straight to the shower), and i keep fish shop clothes seperate from every day outfits, but its hardly a worry. I mean, when i am there, i dont smell me anyways. I smell all the fish, of course, who are supposed to smell. And then, after said shower, I eat them.

My fishmonger boss is incredibly passionate about all things from the sea. With his English accent he exclaims about freshness, sustainability, the sheer luckiness of having such a variety of gorgeous fish to choose from. He is also incredibly generous, sending me home on my first day four years ago with a rare John Dory, simply because he was excited for me to try it (passionate, as i said); he took the only other one (generous, right?); recently he handed me a requested tuna belly at no charge because he wished more people were interested in the belly he so enjoys eating sashimi style. Oysters two valentines days ago, for the sake of love; a lobster for Christmas eve dinner (holiday bonus?). It seems he feeds off my passion, eager to share his love of seafood; and i feed off his seafood, trying whatever he throws my way, whatever comes fresh and new and exciting into the shop. Tonight, that was monkfish.

We have had monkfish in before, but i had yet to try it, for, i confess, i was a bit of an arctic char addict, and nothing could distract me from it. And i tried to distract most all salmon seeking customers with it, trying to guilt trip them about seasonality and fresh versus frozen and just generally disgruntled by the general publics inability to step out of there comfort zone salmon/halibut fish-box (truly, it is my greatest pet peeve working there: the beeline to the Sockeye and Spring, frozen at sea and barely holding a sheen while other glistening, fresh, fish beckon. And then they have the nerve to complain that it is "fresh"--well, guess what? Thats cause it isnt. Its frozen! Come back in the summer folks, enjoy it while it is in its glorious run...sorry, it really annoys me...). The winters i have worked selling fish, i would ask everyone who tried to feed their family salmon if they had tried Char, followed by my sales pitch, hardly hearing their response. Despite less than successful efforts, i will now begin the same approach with monkfish in mind, because tonight, it blew my mind.

Christmas eve found me craving a fish stew, but i was too excited about the seven fish dinner of Sicilian tradition to change my plans; so i have been craving it ever since. Yesteday was the planned dinner date, until i got wind that we would be getting monkfish in today. I postponed, simply because most of the recipes i had come across listed (sometimes insisted) upon monkfish as the partner to shellfish. It was worth the wait. My goodness it was worth it.

I started by slowly creating a broth out of my garlic, onions, bay leafs, fennel seeds, chilis, and saffron, simmering in my home canned tomatoes, white wine, and bottled clam nectar (im afraid of whole clams since i horrible day lived after eating a bad one...). In went the monkish and some other seafoody additions to poach gently. Into an oversized coffee mug with a chunk of baguette, to the computer where i stopped what i was reading and began writing this because a spooned up peice of monkfish, i repeat, blew my mind.

It was so tender, it practically dissolved into tiny flakes in my mouth. It was magically sweet, as if defying the slightly spicy broth. It was not as i expected it to be. Once dubbed "poor mans lobster" (before it became common and therefore just as expensive as the comparable crustacean), i thought it would be large, dense bites of fish, firm and dare i say, i bit bland. Not at all. Quite the opposite. In fact, i dont know who termed it that, but i know it is worth every penny that any ol'lobster is. If you have not tried it, and you should be so lucky that your fishmonger has it, have it wrapped up for dinner. I promise you will not miss that salmon/halibut...

Sincerely, the grinch

2011-12-24T22:11:00.000-08:00

A list, not of wishes to St. Nic, but of things i actually like about Christmas:

1) The excuse to make a variatable 10 cookie jars worth of my favorite baking...and to consume them all in less than a month

2) The excuse to refine and expand my cocktail knowledge

3) Sparkling wine

4) Cocktails made with sparkling wine

5) Once a year movies like "Love Actually," "The Family Stone," and "Home Alone."

6) Seeing my sister (and the rest of my family whom i have no excuse for not seeing the entire year round for living in the same city let alone province...)

7) A traditional Sicilian feast

"Feast of the seven fishes;" how Christmas eve is spent on the Italian island. Consciously Catholic, there is no meat eaten the night before Christmas, rather a banquet of pesce from antipasto, through ensalada and primi pastas, to the roasted whole entree. I can think of no greater meal to get through--i mean, celebrate-- this holiday.

And so i did--after all, this was no North American thanksgiving that i themed Italian, but their custom i gratefully celebrated here.

And how we celebrated. Working at the fish shop over the holidays helped in attaining 7 fishes--tuna tummy (a raw salad with salted capers) and a boiled lobster (the meat added to a spicy Fra Diavolo sauce for linguine) were "perks of the job" and much appreciated--the pasta made the menu for me. There were cocktails made from Fernet Branca and, yep, sparkling wine, because, hey, its Christmas. And then there were cookies, plenty of cookies, because, hey, its Christmas.

And because, hey, its Christmas, its time for traditions--this fishy feast is now mine, because, hey, it makes me actually enjoy this holiday.

Perfect for dipping

2011-12-03T23:31:00.000-08:00

Im surprised to this day that Bonnie (the owner of the Round Street Cafe in Lethbridge and home of the best ginger molasses cookies both i and my ma have had before) gave me the recipe for said cookies. Just like that. No questions, just a list of ingredients. She must have known they would never be the same as those had in her heritage building coffee shop no matter how many times i baked them (which is only three--every Christmas since recieving the recipe). That they would never be as chewy and sweetly gingery as the winter my ma and i shared one (Bonnie makes them a size worthy of $1.25) on a break from Christmas shopping, ordering mugs of mint tea to dip . That tradition was started there too, and i dont think i could enjoy a gingersnap without wishing for a cuppa mint (i would still enjoy the cookie, i love cookies. but i d be wishing for the tea...). The ones i made tonight sure needed it.

The dough seemed very soft, so i baked some testers to see if i should chance adding a bit more flour. When they had completely cooled on the rack (id made and ate dinner, and wasted some time on the internet in the meantime) i decided i wanted them warm, and besides, they seemed a tad underbaked; so back on the tray and back into the oven they went. When i pulled them out for the second time, they were more than a tad over-baked--not yet burnt, but now falling into the ginger"snap" category. Enter mint tea. They were completely salvageble, with a bit of a bite from added candied ginger that Bonnie doesnt use. And though this year again they were not even close to the first one, five years ago, the mint and ginger, and Bonnies generosity, the memory of her peaceful little place, it rings in the Christmas season for me.

Happy holiday baking, everyone.

Thanksgiving! (again)

2011-12-03T18:17:00.000-08:00

Given my last post, you would think i would have had an Italian inspired Thanksgiving. Let me tell you, it was a great exercise in restraint not to break out my saffron and olives and go full on Sicilian. But not this time.

Though i did not go full on American as i had planned to. There was no corn pudding, no oyster or andouille sausage stuffing, no cornbread, or baked yams (had there been yams at all, there would have been no pecans, and certainly no marshmallows, sorry...), there wasnt even turkey (greater sorry). So what was so "American" about my American thanksgiving? It wasnt Sicilian, i suppose.

Well, there were brussels sprouts with roasted garlic, a silky parsnip puree laced with malt vinegar (aha, a play on an idea i got from an American restaurant where the chips in their fish and chips are parsnip and they come with a malt vinegar aioli--a stellar combination), an un-stuffed stuffing of wild rice and quinoa with wild mushrooms, heirloom beans (the shelled kind, up in Canada here, string and pole beans are all done for the season) braised and saucy with wintry herbs, the last of my greens with a meyer lemon dressing. And pie. There was, of course, pumpkin pie.

And with this pie (in a hazelnut crust), came what i think may be my "pumpkin pie spice." I dont use a traditional blend when i m making pumpkin, anything, really. There was saffron in the one i made for my Italian Canadian Thanksgiving, and i ve roasted the squash with bay leaves to amp up the savoriness when making a bread or scone. This addition though, may be hard to deter from. I even made an excuse to use it again, roasting the last of my pumpkins to turn into butter, just to grind up this spice mix: mostly cinnamon, but generous with ginger and cardamom, a hint of clove, and, the newcomer, anise. I love the smoky licorice flavour this gives, even more stunning against the hazelnuts. I only wished there had been a slice for a traditional day-after breakfast.

Vicariously eating

2011-11-25T22:01:00.000-08:00

I have not been that into sage for a long while now; a fragrant, full leaved bundle has stood in a water filled mason jar in my fridge for so long now that it drank all the water and proceeded to wilt. Yet i did not change the little handrawn icon under my side menu's "i cant get enough" display (this is assuming that you visit my blog enough to have noted the icons presense at all), despite such obvious lack of interest in the herb.

Finally, i changed the picture, and not to another herb, or veg, or food anything, really. More like a food everything. Note the map of Sicily. Stop reading if you have to, maybe scroll down a bit, yep, there it is. Sicily. Italy's little island of not-so-little-flavours. Flavours that i have been cooking with, and craving when i am not cooking with, for as long as it took for that once beautiful bouquet of sage to parch.

It goes without saying that i love Italian food, but Italian food re-defines itself regionally. To begin to descriptively explain this would exhaust me (and it does, as i read cookbooks and literature on the subject late at night, eating cheese and chestnut honey and drinking grigio not gris--or marsala, or grappa...--to feel like i might be there doing the same). One such read, a cookbook, begins with a breakdown of the different areas, their typical cuisine, dishes, ingredients, drinks...and i have made a mess of it. Meaning, i took a pen as a read, and circled that which i loved in each place, double circled what i really loved (etc with the number of circles and amount of love until tornado-esque etching), sometimes underlined, or made a rather large box, chicken-scratched such exclamations as "lovelovelove," and "thats for me," replete with the occasional heart. This was my way of choosing where i would most love to live should i, i mean, when i, oneday live in Italy. I knew it would be Sicily (i didnt know, it could be Sardinia...).

The influences of such boat-ride away places as Morocco and Spain have left their travelling footsteps in Sicilian flavour. Saffron, mint, dried fruits, flavoured waters made from rose blossoms and orange flowers--the abundance of citrus! The abundance of seafood! Swordfish! On land: sheep, and their cheese; real ricotta as i cannot make it here (even though i did again tonight with the best local milk i could get my hands on; still from a cow though). And lots of veggies: cauliflower, eggplant, zuchinni, tomatos, fennel...All things i not just love, but cannot get enough of lately. And as i cook with them, i imagine what it might like to be there. I imagine it smells of salt, the sea surrounding it. Tasting salt too: olives and capers. I imagine picking my own lemons, tasting an orange as i have never tasted it before. Buying fish fresh from the sea; sardines, anchovys, fresher than i have ever had them. Experiencing a real Cassata (not like my sad, but funny, attempt last Spring), after the ceremonious Easter feasts. Feeling a bit edgy in a place with such spicy food and spicy mafia history. Loving feeling edgy.

My "cant get enough" love of Sicily has brought me to go one step further on this blog, adding a page for menus, where (in the next couple of days, hold tight!) you can check out two (for now!) Sicilian inspired dinners, personal tweaks added to "research" (read: sleep deprived obsessive reading).

Check it out, try it out. Take a vicarious vacation.

I ask too, do you eat vicariously? Where would your dinners tell me you would most like to be?

Just me, and some meat (a second post)

2011-11-25T12:03:00.000-08:00

So i have already written once tonight, but i feel like i need to tell someone this: tonight i ate meat.

Its not that i'm a vegetarian coming out of the closet; i'm not fessing up about sneaking some bacon. No, I am not a vegetarian (god love prosciutto and shortribs), nor am I a carnivore. I am not even much of an omnivore. I usually only eat meat with company, either cooking for or being cooked for, and really only if said company is insistent, but i find most audiences are open and/or oblivious to meats dinner table presense. Tonight however, their is no company, and i am very aware of my meaty dinner.

It wasnt even a butcher shop or deli inspired dinner (no shortribs, no prosciutto, respectively) but leftover, frozen, rabbit. Sounds good, right? Like the one meal you'd long to break a uncognizant meat-free streak with? Better than bacon? Well, it was.

This was leftover from Easters grand dinner (even better: frozen and aged! Stay with me...). Originally the rabbit was braised whole with olives and fennel; tonight, it was finished with the same, plus wine, coriander seeds, and golden raisins. With white beans on polenta, the last of my parsely for the season (a worthy goodbye dish), it was....well, meaty. And pleasantly so. And salty. And pleasantly so. So pleasant, its part of my new "menus" page--check it out! So pleasant i wish i had normal meat-eating-company to share it with. But i am happy to sahre the recipe:

You start with frozen shredded rabbit...

...maybe its best i'm alone.

Hope you all enjoyed your meaty (turkey-y?) holidays (those in America, at least); mine is tomorrow. But no turkey. No meat, actually. But i bet there will be pie.

Stay Golden

2011-11-22T22:27:00.000-08:00

Every time that i eat a beet i think: f*** i love beets. In those words. In my head.

My kitchen mouth--well behaved with my recent "early retirement"--kicked into mental gear just now, eating a salad. Innocent, unassuming salad, and profanity. Neither the salad nor i was particularly shocked, however (no spritely arugula wilted at the curse), for this is a common occurance when i eat a beet.

It is not that i do not know what a beet tastes like; i have had them simply simmered to softness, roasted and caramelly, in several variations of soup (my favorites being Waterfront Wines' brothey version, and my own--toot toot--pureed with roasted tomatoes), as a bruschetta (a less pureed version of my soup...), fried as chips, as a cure for fish (Jamie Oliver has a version in his newest cookbook in case you are wondering what the hell i am talking about--oh, the profanity continues!) and mom's pickled ones. But for as many variations as there are for beet preparation, i rarely eat them. Probably because of the preparation. Probably because of the availability of such favorites as fennel, tomatoes, and cauliflower (all of which pair quite well with beets, i might add and make a mental note of...) at the same time as beets. It doesnt matter really, the fact is that i eat them so rarely, yet love them so much, that the flavour instantly ignites the same knee-jerk reaction that jerking one's knee into something hard/sharp/pointy quite forcefully would. A simple "mmmmm" (more whimper like in the latter) does not suffice. Its more of a where-have-you-been-all-my-life (oh-right:right-here-all-along-i-feel-silly-i-promise-to-eat-you-more-often) moment, even if i dont follow through with that promise.

Beets never fail to be unexpectedly sweet, while at the same time being deeply earthy; they are balanced alone, needing not a complimentary companion--though there are so many. Those friends of beets bring them to a different level, too, so they can be sweeter, or earthier, neutralize salt and citrus, pronounce spices like cumin, aniseed, and cinnamon, brighten heavy, creamy, cheeses, allow sharp goat cheeses to melt seductively against the beets richness. I like the golden ones best. Probably because they are yellow. Probably because tonight they were shaved into a salad of arugula, torn canned artichokes, and toasted hazelnuts, and i ate one for the first time in so long that i had a moment. I apologize if i offended anyone, but seriously, they were so f'in good.

Beets winter over, too. In fact, this guy tonight, was from this summers last harvest--months ago. But it was still just as bright, in color and flavour--like my language.

Tonight, i may have eaten glue...

2011-11-15T23:24:00.000-08:00

....and it was not the worst thing i have ever made for dinner.

The story goes that in moving i broke two little plates, my favorite bowl, and a coffee mug that i never use but felt sorry for with its amputated handle. I resolved to fix these special dishes with a little patience and a lot of non-toxic glue. Emphasize the non-toxic, because once all was said and solid again, i set to use my re-newed dinnerware. Especially the favorite bowl, which housed tonights dinner of Sicilian style roast cauliflower (not local, but a "souvenier" if you will, from my trip to Red Deer--not local there either...im the only one judging me...back to the glue story) with chickpeas. Piping hot, thats how i like it. And how i did like it; no matter where that cauliflower came from, tonights dinner was tasty, and i neared the bottom of the bowl pretty darn quick. Not quick enough, however, for the heat to melt the glue on the bowl, and it pulled up in strings that i, immersed in cookbooks showcasing other tasty looking dishes, plainly took to be melted cheese until i realized that i didnt put any cheese on my cauliflower, and that the strings were in fact glue, and that i may have, in fact, eaten some. Anchovies mask the flavour to most things, i suppose.

Just a short, silly, story to share.

A postcard from home to my "holiday"

2011-11-12T20:24:00.000-08:00

Some people head south for the winter (one of my bosses is in Mexico; my landlords are living in their trailer in Arizona); it is vacation here in the Okanagan, people searching for a week or two of sunshine somewhere else than our own paradise, before the gloomy grey sets in. When we closed for the season, I followed suit, and booked a flight. To Red Deer, Alberta.

Was it the pamperous and relaxing all inclusive vacation of someone in desperate need of pampering and relaxations needs, the perfect adventure to satisfy my craving for escape, or the epitomy of food journies? No--it was so much more.

I caught a seat sale the very night i snuck a thought at my sister, Jeanine, that i come visit. It just so happened that she only had class on the day i would arrive (she is in her last year of Nursing studies, compassionate smarty she is), the other morning it was cancelled. So we would have solid days together, and as she said: I would get to see her life. Just as she did mine this summer.

And what a beautiful life it is. Her roomate, Amandha, and her parents are more than i could ask for as a stand in family with me and ma all the way over here in BC now. They made me feel like family too, loving me like they love Jeanine. Her friends too. It all felt very natural, slipping into her day to day (sans stressful classes and hectic hospital scenes); no agenda, just being in eachothers moments. We talked, laughed, did yoga, drank alot of wine with alot of fabulous people (unknowingly responsible for so much happiness and security, so much so needed). And they let me cook for them.

Goodness i love cooking for people who love eating. It was far more fulfilling than any of the glamorous holidays i may have escaped to. This was no escape at all, but rather being in the presense of a hell of alot of well fed love (and well stretched; even Amandhas folks joined us for pre-dinner yoga). They thought asking me might be a bit rude being that it was my holiday, but, really, i was going to insist. That is where i am most at peace, sauteeing garlic and onions, making a meal surrounded by a family of friends loving the wine, talking, laughing, asking questions about the food that they are also loving. That is the fulfillment of being a chef, what i miss so much cooking behind the line: the noted satisfaction. Its inspiring too, keeps you going--as I so needed. Just like a holiday is supposed to do, and we kinda did travel: Moroccan the first night, Italian the second, Mexican the third.

I didnt cook the last night. After conquering a climb in Canmore with Johnny (still had to sneak in the adventure...), the two of us and my sis had dinner in Calgary before i flew home. It had been 4 years-ish since we had seen eachother, and to me, it felt like life may have happened for both of us, but no time really passed between. The two people in that truck with me that last day mean more to me than they can know; true friends who gave me a solace no amount of sunbathing and free-cocktailing could have. Things felt right there, the whole vacation felt pressure-less, fell so beautifully into place, unrushed, no expectations, exceeding anything i could have expected.

Home now, i only cannot wait for my next "holiday."

Thanks everyone. Wish you were here.

Earl grey oats with a buttload of honey

2011-11-07T21:38:00.001-08:00

Perhaps you have someone like this in your life; from a life long ago, and though only by a random message every so not-so-often, remains a part of your present life--and hugely. Because when these messages come, you are so refueled with life that you wonder why this person isnt more constant. Its someone who changed you once upon a time, simply by being a person so amazing that, in simply caring about you changed you. And the inconstant only seems to make them that much more special. That person for me is Johnny.

I dont know where to begin in explaining Johnnys amazingness (in this case, that is a real word, because not even Websters Thesaurus has enough synonyms for amazing to describe him, so ive opted for a fake word to lend justice whilst cheating the English system...bear with me. No wait: "epic," its Johnnys way of describing what i am having a hard time doing). When i met JKo (as Johnny Korthius is well-known) he was bartending where i waitressed in Lethbridge, AB. At that time, his smile was horribly intimidating, as i was horribly shy. Then i jumped out of my shell (horrifying) and started a friendship. He came and taught a grade one lesson about trees (he is, now, a certified arborist) to the class i was doing my teaching practicum in (like i said, from another life...), both of us sharing, with over twenty little chillins who were as fond of Johnny as i still am, a part of our lives that meant something to us. And that was pretty big, i think, for either of us. And meant something to both of us.

For me that time has passed (cook not teacher, right?), but Johnny now has his own arborist company, as well as an adventure tours company complete with a wicked bus that i just learned about from him last night. Not surprising though, as the dude grabs life in a--ironic term, but...--death grip and uses all of his many talents. In the short time that we were physically in eachothers lives in Lethbridge, Johnny went from taking dance classes and dropping in on gymnastics to gain balance as a mountain biker, to teaching both. Later on he was modelling. Skydiving. Rockclimbing. In Australia. And now, running two companies and fueling the world with his undying energy.

I simply sit back in awe, for the most part. Until i cant take it anymore and have to have a bit of him in my life. So i simply drink earl grey tea with a buttload of honey (what he would order when we went for late night/early morning tim hortons after work) and think fondly. Sometimes i send him a message just to see where hes at, or let him know i m thinking of him. And, even better, he sometimes sends me one for the same reason.

I bring this up because this Friday it wont just be a message from Johnny; i get to see him. I leave tomorrow to visit my sister in AB, and couldnt help but tell Johnny i d be in the province, not really expecting him to be there too (we also have a history of not crossing eachothers paths when in eachothers typical paths). But he is. And we are going hiking. Extreme hiking. Extreme Johnny. Extremely happy.

This is someone who gave me a new energy once, and confidence. And continues to do so whether he is full on here, or not at all. Hes just a beatiful person who gave me a beautiful sense of self. And a love of earl grey tea. So much so that i stirred a ripped tea bag into my oats this morning with apple slices and a buttload of creamed honey. Try it, its epic, and think of that person who may not be there day to day, but is so there day to day.

(unnecessary) event(s) of the season(s)

2011-11-05T20:00:00.001-07:00

Dinner is always an event for me. I use the hyperbole "always" with no disrespect here; as a past life English major, i understand the archtype is hastened to be used, but trust me: i exaggerate not, dinner is always an event for me (even if it means peanut butter toast--its crusty bread with melty nut butter sprinkled with salt that i have been looking forward to all day (all, not another hyperbole, but an accurate measure of time that seriously got me through the day to the moment i ate, still standing, said melty PB--no J,this is dinner after all).

Take today for example: my ma and my aunt sue pulled up late morning with the futon to replace the bed in my new 30 foot square (actual hyperbolic exaggeration here...) home. To thank and repay them for providing me with something to sleep and sit on, and in doing so providing ample dancing floor space as well, i made lunch: roti, pumkin red lentil hummous, minted tomato salad, cumin laced baked eggs, eggplant za'atar, crumbled feta. A feast. At 2:00pm. Followed by an apple and some sad looking plums that i kinda felt bad for...

Dinner happened around 8:30 pm, when i actually felt hungry again. And yet i couldnt just have a little something something snack; no, it was dinner: an event.

The rest of the eggplant (it needed to be used, its fall for crying out loud, eggplant is long done...) roasted hot, charred with plenty of garlic. One of the too many squash (tis the season to be far to devoted to cooking and eating squash in one form or another; quite insistant in this case....) on my newly refurbished suite floor was in the oven with just as much garlic, plus some chilis. The two were later combined with some of the last parsley i will see for a long time, fresh walnuts that i had spent the better part of my day raking up and de-husk(?)-ing (is that what its called? that green capsule surrounding an unshelled walnut? whatever it is, the black underneath makes on hell of a mess), and the last of the feta, all on top of even more garlicky bulgar wheat. Add some chickpeas and you've got a dinner that was just too much. The eggplant thanks me for using it up, but my stomach does not.

I suppose the act of cooking is what i most desired, not the act of eating. Just as all summer long i desired that same act, as if it were the one thing that proved i was still taking care of myself, when all i really wanted was a PB sandwich (still toasted, the least of efforts i could put in), eaten in bed, perhaps finding half of it uneaten the next morning...

Really, what would have been taking care of myself would have been getting that extra bit of sleep time. And really, what an event it would be, now, even with all the seasons end free time actually having just a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. With wine. Toasted, cause its cold out there now.

(Sigh)

ps: im madly in love with the new Feist album, "Metals," particularly the song "Comfort Me." Perhaps ironic considering this post. Too ironic.

pps: J is sometimes dessert. By the spoonful. Ok, actually, i prefer honey. And i would eat that--by the spoonful--any time of day.

a letter of thanks for a dinner to be thankful for

2011-11-03T13:22:00.000-07:00

Lately i have been right obsessed with Thanksgiving. Nevermind that the Canadian holiday was three weeks ago and that tomorrow is a whole different holiday entirely (and i get pretty into that one too; pumpkin ale and molasses candies ready and waiting, black and orange dinner planned), i am but halfway from the next one. Yes, i love Thanksgiving so much that i even celebrate with our neighbors to the south. I may even go creamed-corn, full on traditional this year; normally i celebrate American tg, in Canada, with a dinner inspired by somewhere else in the world (think chicken tagine instead of turkey, pumpkin halva rather than pie) . I have a month to decide, however, though it seems that until then i am thoroughly preoccupied with that style of dinner: a main dish surrounded by sides, dessert(s). This may be custom rather than a once-a-year way of feasting (simply feeding, rather), but for me and my tendency toward something in one pot and a big ol salad, maybe some olives while i cook, its quite a change--though i must say it is helping deal with the "harvest" in my refridgerator.

And i am quite enjoying it. So much so, that i had to give thanks via email to someone who inspired such a dinner on such a weekend that was no such of a holiday, but full of good eating anyways. Thought i would share this letter and extend the invitation to have a dinner to truly be thankful for, even if it is only, say, wednesday.

jon--i have to tell you about my dinner: honestly, i wasnt too stoked about hali cheeks this morning (ive been loving and craving oilier fish, something fatty for the cold seasons; halibut means summer to me, and i had a summer full of it, and salmon too, but i dont think i will ever tire of salmon--how patriotic of me--, and cannot wait much longer for its fall/winter stand-ins: char and trout; god i love trout. this bracket is turning into quite the tangent. back on track now...), but i thought, if Jon says theyre top drawer, than they are top drawer and you better just damn well get some. and they were top drawer. or top notch as we say far to often at the restaurant. another story, another time; not another tangent.

First i slow roasted thick slices of some of the last glut of the farms heirloom tomatos with garlic, onions, and saffron--oh, and some little little potatoes that were dug up with big big potatoes. When they were bubbling away and beginning to look all caramelly and smelling like seduction (sorry, food gets me going...), i put them into a warmed bowl and reduced the juices to a thick sauce. Hot sear on the cheeks, on top of the tomatoes, sauce. This was the center of a sicilian inspired dinner with a shaved fennel and chickpea salad, and some thin leeks (also the last of the farms; also of which i have a glut, do you like leeks?) cooked slowly in oil with artichokes and tossed in the last hot second with mint and parsely.

im pretty happy with those cheeks.

Thanks. tiff

How Sundays should be

2011-10-16T20:58:00.000-07:00

Half willingly, half winningly

2011-10-06T23:23:00.004-07:00

ive told you before, and i will insist upon it again: cooking competitions are not my thing. For a few reasons, really:

- i cant stand people watching me, it makes me claustrophobic
- i cook to de-stress...not visa versa

ok, so that is only two reasons, but they seem sufficient enough explanation for why i am not shooting to be on Iron Chef one day. Yet tonight i found myself competing; half willingly (to make a long story short), and half enjoyably (to be honest).

The comp was for Junior Chefs (a category i will fit into for the next 3 months...), put on by Alexis de Portneuf cheeses as part of Okanagan Fall Wine Fest. The task: create a plate that showcases one or more of three of AdP's cheeses, paired with a local wine. Chef judges, 150 people voting for popular choice, me with an insistance on doing a dessert.

Risky business to begin with, as each of the three cheeses (an ash-rind goat, crumbly yet soft blue, and --my choice--wash rind brie style) are horribly pungent (ok, pleasantly--but adamantly--pungent). But i made it work. Enough to win second place, at least.

i will save you the details of the competition, save only to say that i made carrot cake, and that i was damn proud of it.

Really, it was great; a chance to express myself creatively and put myself into a dish, to witness peoples content and enjoyment from my little cake (the first thing i missed, and still so do, once i began cooking for strangers behind kitchen doors), to feel the energy of that room of people who love food, reminding me without intent, that i do too. And hey, they loved my food...bonus.

So i am tired and hungry (you dont have a chance, really, to try your competitors dishes whilst plating your own), but feeling so damn happy about the whole thing and how not a disaster it was. Didnt hyperventalate once. Doesnt mean i will do it again...at least not more than half willingly.

And the remaining carrot cakes: dinner. Wine paired. Winner.

One for the books

2011-09-24T22:25:00.005-07:00

I have wanted to write a cookbook ever since i started to legitemately (read: get paid for) cook. For nearly four years now, i have scrawled down what i am eating for dinner so that it might be transformed into my own recipe in what i hope will be an epic collection. So far these food stained bits of paper have made it into an also food stained manila tag envelope marked "for cookbook." And there they have sat for nearly four years. The food stains are no longer identifiable.

So this year, i decided to change tactic, inspired by Nigel Slaters brilliant "Kitchen Diaries." I would record each day/night, good/bad what i cooked/ate, into the very body (a petit hardcover journal) of my "cookbook." It would be a seasonal log of the year replete with sketches and anecdotes, and best of all, the journalistic devotion would help find this since dreamed of book complete by the beginning of the next quattro of seasons. Not quite. Not at all, actually. In fact, now there is only a new collection of food stained scraps of paper. The only difference is that these ones have dates, so that someday they may be placed in some sort of logical order as if recorded as happened.

"Someday," indeed. There will be a someday, i am sure. And perhaps some of those scrawls, however long ago, will be included. At least this one will be (and food stain free):

Zuchinni (sorta) Carbonara

My ma told me that someone told her that if you, gardenless, do not end up eating some free zuchinni at least once all summer, then you have no friends. Harsh, it seems, but for anyone who has ever rang a doorbell and ran like hell, leaving a box of rather large zuchinni on someones front step, you know how generous the season can be. One of my favorite ways to deal with the abundance:

In a large pan, gently soften:
1/2 spanish onion, small dice
2 large cloves garlic, minced

Add and saute:
2 cups thinly sliced zuchinni (use the mandolin--its easy peasy)
generous pinch of dried chili flakes
even more generous pinch of sea salt

Meanwhile, boil enough pasta, preferably a long noodle like linguine, but if you live for penne, go for it, for four. Toss aldente pasta with the tender zucchi and a good handful of chopped Italian parsley. Splash in some white wine, and continue cooking pasta for just a minute or so. Crack four eggs over the lot, and toss to cook completely. Drizzle with gentle extar virg olive oil, and a hefty grating of parm or pecorino. Breakfast or dinner. Or immediately after the drop-and-dash-doorbell...

ps: i call this "sorta" carbonara, because the chefs i staged with in van would scoff at this for too many reasons to list here. Primarily, the lack of smoked pork and use of the whole egg. In my defense, this recipe was created, like too many others, for a post work, 1030 ish, starving for comfort and nutrition, plus just plain starving, dinner. So it is not authentic, but damn is it tasty.

Breadwinner

2011-08-12T20:25:00.000-07:00

Chef once told me he loves to ask potential employees what they love to cook most; loves, that is, to watch them debate uncomfortably for the answer that he might want: something complex? credible? German? Without hesitation, i answered "bread" (to which he replied, laughing, "well, wrong place for you then, not happening").

So i bake bread on my days off, because it truly is the most enjoyable thing for me to create (risotto is a close second; it forces me to slow down, and softening garlic and onions is pure therapy). Today was a day off. And i baked bread.

It is not just something i do for kicks though, I am forever intrigued and frusterated with bread baking. The more i learn and understand, the more i hate to fail. And fail i do; my gosh do i fail. A number (any number, you choose, i cant bring myself to count) of loaves have been near inedible, yet eaten in spite, dense, burnt, off-ly sour, spongy, crust so thick your knife bends...but then there are the loaves that work. That rise dome like and have craterish holes in a solid crumb and crisp crust. Chewy, sour, rippable. Bread dreams are made of.

Tonights bread was not dream-worthy. Nor was it a nightmare. An unpleasant dream perhaps, the type you half remember, and even though you woke disconcerted from it, you still want to remember the details. Anyways, i know what went wrong, and that to me, is as satisfying as it is frusterating as a perfect loaf.

I overproofed the dough on the second rise. Following too closely to the directions and ignoring my gut feeling and experience, i let it go for an hour after i felt it was in need of retarding. And although it still rose perfectly, the inside was coarse, the holes like that of a sponge, instead of the type you can peer through that i love. Texture wise, it was horribly disappointing, especially after a day devoted to it; especially especially since i knew i was messing it up when i began to mess it up. Taste wise, however, it was perfect. I made it from a new culture, one that called for rhubarb and yogurt (from "beyond nose to tail"), and the tang, which was like a brief but very noticable prick from a pin, came almost as an afterthought. Like it was saying: hey betcha thought i was just bread. Well, surprise, i am a wild yeast sourdough with a lousy crumb. And i love him because of it.

It was still therapy, just like making many pots of shitty risotto was relaxing and enjoyable. Theres always toast.

Prioritizing

2011-05-13T23:34:00.003-07:00

One of the worst things about this past winter in Van was missing the year-round farmers market. Last season in Kelowna, i swear i lived off of stored root vegetables (so many carrots...) yet never tired of them. More rutabaga was consumed in three months than in my entire life until then. In five years i had missed maybe three market days, if that, and working at the Kelowna one last year solidified my devotion. Vancouver filled me up with California, and i immediately took up my cheaters version (there's a few self-allowed exceptions: we cant grow coffee here, after all, but we do roast a mean bean) of the 100 mile diet, and the farmers market would be, again, my grocery shop for the week. Except this saturday.

Or perhaps all saturdays for the rest of the spring/summer/fall. Why, after just moving home to the provinces largest outdoor market, would i give it up so soon? Because i have to pick lettuce. At five thirty in the morning. At the farm that will eventually be mine. Because i have to show that i am devoted to the farm where i will pick my lettuce one day and many many days to come. It will be hard. I may even try to head there after three hours of picking greens. I will have to, eventually, for the heirloom beans that we dont grow. And honey. And pluots. Oh goodness, jsut wait for the pluots! I will definately go for the pluots. And probably much more.

I will definately not be going tomorrow, and i will certainly miss it. I love the feeling there as much as the seasonally contributed produce, love my market basket, and the early morning start. But tomorrow i need to sow my devotion, and weed instead of shop, plant instead of visit; need to make the farming life my life. And go into town on wednesday to get more honey.

This time of year

2011-04-22T23:08:00.004-07:00

Today, i am celebrating. Odd, it may seem, as coming from a Catholic fam i should be greiving this "good friday" (or at least that ridiculously long mass) but, with a much less religious present self, im cheering for Earth Day. And Spring. Well, "spring."

It has been bitterly cold the last week, not just cold, but snowing, in APRIL. Snowing so hard yesterday, i could hardly see on my bike ride down the hill to work. But today, miraculously--tis another holiday for miracles, befittingly--the sun came out full force. And i planted.

Peas, fava beans and sunchokes are in, my rhubarb plant has been transplanted; much of the same was eaten from last years frozen stash for dinner. And fish--for good measure this good friday.

Sunday, i celebrate easter the way i do best...

Breaking the rules

2011-04-07T00:02:00.003-07:00

What i (also) love about my restaurant stage is that the food mentalities i possess only out of sheer devotion to Italian mentality moreso than from actual experience, are adhered to passionately and without question. No cheese with fish. Not even anchovies. Ever. Breadcrumbs are put on the linguine vongole to dissuade people from asking for parm as a finishing touch. Carbonara is sacred. Bacon and eggs; lots of pepper; parm. No peas, no garlic, no artsy make-it-new-ed-ness. Keep it simple. Any more than four ingredients (especially in a pasta) just takes away from flavours that are beautiful on their own, or with a good solid lover. The last is something that i try (and love, respectfully) the most. My favorite flavour combinations are really trifold or less: peas, sage, pecorino; cauliflower, garlic, olives; fish, parsley, lemon; flour, water, salt (ok, thats bread...). Yet as much as i adhere to simplicity, enjoy it, sometimes i struggle with it. or at least i think i do. What i am realizing though, is that certain things are not ingredients at all, part of creating a dish, but not directly part of the dish. They dont "complicate" flavours, rather, create or accentuate them. For example, salt. You wouldnt say: "i had the tastiest pasta of peas, sage, sheeps cheese, and salt. Its not really an ingredient (except in the case of bread...), it is just there, unassemptive and certainly not complicated. For an even more succinct example (or two) how about wine, stock, or lemon (im addicted to lemon, i would sooner add it to things than salt; it certainly goes with anything fish that i make--another italian rule i follow religiously); or just because salsa verde contains four to six different herbs plus garlic and maybe even capers (certainly salt and lemon) doesnt make it complicated. It is simly salsa verde: green sauce. Simple simple. Herbs are simple simple. Garlic, chilis, oil, sel again, liquids: simple simple. Not breaking any rules. So tonight maybe i didnt break the rules. Instead of lemon and oil dressed calamari with peas, turnips, cauliflower, sunchokes, artichokes, garlic and olives on buttermilk polenta with sage, garlic chives, and parsely, all with salt and a bit of wine, i had calamari and spring veg on polenta. Simple. Flavourful. Not topped with cheese.

hardly un-perfect

2011-04-05T23:18:00.004-07:00

Do you know what was perfect about today? How imperfect it was. Or rather, how content i was despite its imperfections: i was quite ok with having to rush through breakfast--hardly perfect (slightly burnt) ricotta hotcakes--only to find that the clouds had opened up in the two and a half minutes it took me to unlock my bike, and closed up again two and a half blocks from my destination. there wasnt alot to learn at my stage today...nono,actually, there is always alot to learn and see and practice, just this time it was more observation while peeling peppers and washing lettuce, only to leave when the real excitement of a very busy service started. i was leaving, hurriedly to a lecture. I was late, but was worth the sweaty effort and missed line action to hear Elizabeth Gilberts speech. Although her humour was someone predictable ( i see it rather as a shared train of thought), her date in Vancouver coincides ironically in so many chance-iful ways with my desperate need to travel, get over love and into it again, to seize the moment, to reconnect with myself, to eat like i am in Italy. And to re-involve myself with my relationship with writing--the topic of her lecture... The ride home, where it started raining again, but i realized i had had probably the most wonderful day in this f**in city (how i have come to refer to this place) yet; unplanned, unforseen, and certainly un-perfect. it did end however, with a nearly perfect vongole--actually... perfect, to me, and the sense that i am learning something about cooking, more about myself. And eating like an Italian.

A saturday for life

2011-04-02T23:34:00.005-07:00

When i first moved to Vancouver, i was going to the Coquitlam Farmers' Market every Sunday.

The produce was unreal--the shiniest, firmest, slender yet voluptuous eggplant i had ever seen; generous heads of cauliflower; loosely bundled radiccio treviso--not available at my (now) much missed Kelowna market. Then, with the arrival of the cold, this market, closed for the season; the winter market replaced it and the many other markets around the city, so all was not lost. Except that this new conglomerate market was on Saturdays. I worked Saturdays. Every Saturday. For the first time in five years, i missed my weekly Farmers' Market visit. But not this week.

This Saturday i did not work until one. Plenty of time to hit the market at its opening hour of ten (i swear, either Vancouver sleeps in, or Kelowna is populated by early risers, because even grocery stores here open one to a couple of hours earlier than home.), and see just what i had been missing.

Alot.

The last of winter and the beginning of spring were there for sale. I wont get into too many descriptive details (enough was said in calling eggplant "slender and voluptuous" i think) i only want to say that this was my favorite day in Vancouver so far. Going to and coming back excited from that market, making breakfast with the garlic chives i had scored, and now dinner with the sorrel and goats cheese, feels routine. Complete. Part of how i live my life--or at least how i have for the last five years. And for the first time since coming here, i feel at home in this rainy, sleeping-in, city. And just in time to leave...well, after next Saturdays market.

Whats in a yolk?

2011-03-27T20:52:00.005-07:00

My "vacation" is coming to an end. Tomorrow morning i head back to Vancouver--hopefully not to rain, because i packed quite optimistically with skirts and not enough pairs of socks. It has been a full and wonderful week of visits; lots of hugs and a restocking of Gray Monk wine. I really did manage to see most all of my favorite people in all of my favorite places: grandma date to Mosaic Books; milk and meyer lemons (my last non-local purchase--more later) from Helen; the afformentioned wine from lovely Jen; Willy and Rene always so happy pre-season; conquering Knox with Jessy; my first farmers market in way to long (see above about non-localness...) and my family of vendors; tea and chaos with Cheffrey and Michelle and their kiddos and now pooch; Monika and her NEW WOOD OVEN bread--thanks lady!; missed Jon at the fish shop, but left a love note; and finally Tom and the farm and my home and how good and real and safe and sure it all feels. All that, plus two dozen farm fresh eggs. Make that one dozen. Getting organized to leave (read: realizing i am hauling a silly amount of stuff back to Van, only to likely bring it all back and more in two weeks), i came to the shocking realization that in just four days i have eaten ten eggs. Ten. That is more than two a day, which according to my uncle is just fine (two a day fried in butter with buttered toast and bacon is routine); not so to most health gurus. Now i love eggs. Love. If i were a guest columnist in Donna Hays magazine filling in that little questionaire (if you dont know what i am talking about, go buy an issue, be inspired by its lovely simplicity) eggs would be one of my "always in your supermarket trolley" ingredients. One of my five foods to bring to a desert Island. Most of my go to dinners use them. I would go so far as to say that poached eggs are my ultimate comfort food. Poached egg. Usually jsut one is enough, so really i dont know how ten disappeared. Hmmmm: I made a double pasta recipe (theres 2); rhubarb curd (two more, plus two yolks--hey the whites are still in the fridge, so it is really like nine eggs gone...); carbonara with peas for dinner (one); poached at breakfast (one more); poached at breakfast again (that makes ten)...so there you go. Should i be worried about cholesterol. Probably not. In fact, i am not. I am jsut kind of sad that they are gone. These eggs are truly amazing: the yolks are so deep yellow they are orange. They are what a recipe is referring to when it calls for "large eggs." They are rich tasting, with pudding'y texture. And only three bucks a dozen. Thank goodness i bought two. Or maybe for my heart, not so much... Its hard not to disguise that i am feeling a bit guilty about my recent oueff consumption. Why? Is it because i know about cholesterol (thank you very much health gurus) and how if i really want to "enjoy" eggs, i should use the whites as they are protein rich and it is the yolk that is the HDL threat (but it is the yolk that is so tasty, so "enjoy" becomes really oxymoronic). Besides, there are so many worse things i could be eating. Besides, again, didnt eggs used ot be the "complete protein" that nutritionists compared all other proteins to when developing their silly diet rules and tables? Used to...i know that much too. Anyways, thats not it. I am feeling guilty because just a week ago, at breakfast with my aunt i revealed that i had had poached eggs every day the previous week, to which she responded: "that cant be too good for you, can it." It stuck. You know when someone says something casually and off handedly, with no bad intentions, i am sure? For example, my ma once said told me red really washes me out. She didnt mean i looked bad, just that my fair skin was all that more fair against a red sweater. I think about that everytime i put on my red cardigan, but i put it on all the same. Then i look in the mirror and think, I dont look washed out, silly ma. So i am going to go poach an egg now, just so i can say, this is the best thing for me, silly aunt. Make that eleven eggs in four days. And another thing to look forward to having again when i am home for good.

transitioning

2011-03-25T21:59:00.002-07:00

The last few days, the moment i put on my jacket, i am sweatedly overdressed. My wool coat is just too much for the insta-spring of the Okanagan, and i couldnt be happier for it. Coming home this week for my dog-sitting "vacation" before returning for ten days to Van and then moving back for good (oh--its so good), i expected to need my mitts and toque and the well-lived in longjohns of winter, perhaps a sweater under my coat, definately no skirts as i had been doning in Van...definately wrong. It is beautiful here; the only snow left is way up on those mountains, and the sun actually shone in a way that made it feel so right to be back. That this was the perfect moment for transition home.
My kitchen transition (im giggling at the rhyme here...) is a little slower to adapt. Now, even more so than ever, i am craving winter squash. I want to roast a big ol'kabocha but make it light and delicate for spring. How silly; all winter long i have waited to dig that bag of peas out of my mini-deepfreeze, hibernating as they were until i came home to devour them just in time for the next seasons harvest with spring-y flavours like new chives and parsely, ricotta cheese and poached eggs--instead, i am all about the sage. And potatos before there are new ones. Old potatos to go with old peas. To ring in the new?
Really though, i am as Spring as Spring chickens come. i live for this regrowth season, and the weather is telling me it is here, loud and proud as the robins and runoff. Chives and parsely are sprouting (at least in Van) and i crave sage?? Woodsy, strong, comforting on roasted meats sage? I have cubes of frozen parsely puree (sounds delicious, i know) in that same freezer with the peas, but freshness just wont do. It seems my cravings are also transitioning.
And really, the marraige of sweet peas and earthy sage is so lovely. So lovely, in fact, that i will probably continue to eat it in the real freshness of Spring, when peas, parsely, rhubarb, and garlic scapes are coming out of the ground not my frozen storage (the latter, not a good idea to freeze by the way; thing chewy...really chewy). With some artichokes from Van, all part of the transition...

pieces of cakes and confidence.

2011-03-15T01:23:00.002-07:00

Today I baked cakes. Two. For people other than friends and family. Definately for more people than myself. For customers:people who paid for the cake i made. And they were lovely.
More lovely though, was the someone who had the confidence in me to let me bake those two lovely cakes. And pulling through--that was lovely too.
And eating said cakes--also quite lovely.

Its where i belong

2011-03-11T00:29:00.002-08:00

Im dutch. You know it, I know it, my family is quite proud to know it and make sure other people know it. But i will say it again (and probably several--many--more times to come): im more Italian than anything.
Even more Italian than i am Canadian. Gasp! Where is my sense of patriotism? Sadly, it left with the addition of pineapple to thick crust pizzas and remains only in my devotion to proper winter wear, toques, scarves, mittens et al. It left with bacon, yes, bacon; which translates to i am not really a big fan of pancetta, at all... just dont tell my Italian "kin".
There are plenty of other uses of pork, however, that i love; that keep me from becoming a vegetarian. And the Italians, they know pig. They use the whole damn thing. Nose to tail and all the shrapnel in between the goods in between. And i saw it get put to use tonight.
I found my little Italy. My consellation- Italy- for- my- one- and- a- half- loss- at- real- Italy Italy. La Quercia, where, finally, i have entered the kitchen. Bad enough that it took my October last year to my birthday this past week to eat there, but i left staging there until my last mere minutes in this city. All the more reason to make every minute count.
And eat as much as possible. And by much i mean meat. Oh goodness all the meat tonight (including pancetta). Every thing that was cooked was offered to taste and then some. I even drank pasta cooking water to note the salt level (high by the way; shockingly high but for good reason).
Why i left this until now, i do not know. Why i didnt spend my whole winter here...oh how things may have been different, so different. Better late than never, though, and i plan to use and thoroughly appreciate my time there as best i can before going back to reality, and working on making actual Italy a reality.
This is like a whole new mini adventure, and i will be posting my learnings and exaggerated love for Italy, for La Quercia in general for the next week or so (possibly longer, but then it will be more I miss than i learned). More on tonight later, i have Marsala and dessert to enjoy.

Are we there yet?

2011-03-03T20:17:00.002-08:00

The groundhog not seeing his shadow, and even more technically than that, 2011 not being a leap year and something to do with Earths proximity to the sun and universal rotation something something (i read this somewhere legitimatley reliable and far better explained, i swear) means that spring is on its way sooner than later and i could not be happier.

Nor could i be more impatient. The weather here in Vancouver has been a tease: sunny and warm, sunny and cold, gray and warm, gray and cold, unusually without rain and then out of nowhere and belatedly christmasy, feet of snow. The randomness of it all has me changing my spring optimism as often as i am forced to change my shoes.

Springs official arrival means alot more to me this year than warmer weather (socklessness and skirts), peas and rhubarb--theres also garlic scapes, sorrel, rapini, salad greens, and herbs...i am half kidding here. In all seriousness, though, i miss fresh food; local food. Even frozen local food stowed for winter in my inaccessible kelowna freezer. Here in Vancouver i havent been able to make the farmers market for work, and i miss that shopping desperately. Please, add in some dramatic sighs and tones of longing here, because really, nothing would calm my soul more than celeriac and rutabaga from the Vernon market. Thats right, rutabaga, or swede; that is what my heart longs for. Such simple things to love and miss.

And to look forward to. Because it is coming, just ask the groundhog. Soon i will be moving home for spring planting. For opening the restaurant. For reunions that begin with "i cant believe the whole winter has passed." Oh i long to say that: "i cant believe winter is over...thank god." I feel like an impatient child strapped into the backseat of the car, forced to sit still until at least the next bathroom break, growing increasingly restless as the stack of archie comics gets worked through and the snacks stale and dwindle. ArewethereyetArewethereyetArewethereyet?????? how bout now?

Soon. Soon spring and all its freedom and re-newness will be here.

Happy Groundhogs Day!

2011-02-03T01:09:00.001-08:00

...and cheers to an early spring with sunshine and peas

Things that make me love what i do

2011-01-04T23:14:00.003-08:00

Winter is tough. Im not talking about shovelling sidewalks uphill while the snow mockingly continues to fall, wearing so many layers that walking becomes waddling and you can hardly see between your scarf and toque while the snow, again, still, mockingly falls. No, i am talking about the lack of things growing, and my serious lack of inspiration for cooking.

Last year i was devoted to the Winters farmers market, and lived off stored vegetables and winter greens. And it was blissful. This year, there is no market (well, there is, but making a living doesnt allow me to go...), and my mini deep-freeze, plum full of spring and summers harvest is in my home five hours away and i am simply not desperate enough to brave the snowy Coquihalla for frozen peas. There have been alot of anchovies lately. Too many olives. Way too much cheese. Definately to much California and beyond produce. I am feeling guilty and horribly uninspired.

Really, i cannot remember the last time that i truly enjoyed dinner. Its not all the well-travelled produces fault either. It has to do with not being in my own kitchen free to play and cook as long as i want; to the long commute to any decent markets, then the long commute back that leaves little time to cook what was intended with the market visit. It has to do with missing home. Even the bowls that i would eat dinner out of. It has to do with feeling completely passionless.

For you and for me, here are a few things that reassure me that I love, passionately, what i do:

-- new things on the tables of markets, revealing the season and providing new things to cook with.

--good bread

--the smell of gently sauteeing onions and garlic--pure therapy

--amazing three ingredient meals

--baking/eating cookies

--perfectly soft poached eggs

--olive oil

--risotto and its need for devotion

--softly whipped cream

--all things Italy

--new things curried or Moroccan

--cooking for or eating with others

--breakfast; uncomplicated, and enjoyed with the newspaper

--after work "meals" (think peanut butter toast and eggs; leftovers; pasta; cereal)

--the after work drinks

--the before and during work cold cups of coffee

--when simple really does turn out to be best (or rather, not bothering with complicated for knowing that simple almost always turns out best)

There is not a career that i would rather be doing, i cannot even think of one that might replace anything to do with cooking, but right now, cooking more work than it has ever been.

2010-11-27T23:15:00.002-08:00

Dec 1st. That is the commencement of all things "Christmas" to me. Until then, no eggnog, gingersnaps, decorating, or gift shopping. Until then, lights and carols annoy me; I will leave a store if it is play "The First Noel" before the first of the month. I am by no means a scrooge, rather wait pensively to kick off my familys and my own traditions. But i am horribly susceptible to xmas over kill.

Once I start, I cannot get enough gingersnaps dipped in mint tea, spiced rum and eggnog; if i start too early, i bake too many things, buy gifts only to find something better later, and the music really begins to irritate me, so that by Christmas i am either sick to my stomach or just plain sick of it all. Not even my favorite holiday (that honor is reserved for Thanksgiving--see tomorrows entry...), Christmas is so immensely overwhelming and often overrated that it goes quickly from "Joy to the World" to the "Song that Never Ends." So I hold off, perhaps even until a week or so before, and really enjoy the day itself, and all of the excuses to indulge, to really do so.

Tonight, however, November 27, i slipped. We are starting our Christmas baking at Quince, and today was a trial run for Chef Andreas German stollen. And i had some...with spiced rum (my Christmas cocktail pre-requisite). Im having it right now, actually, hypocritically three days before go time. And it is good. Very good.

But not as good as tomorrows last pumpkin pie will be. Or the remainder of the pumpkin desserts i plan to make before gingersnaps and date square devotion begins, before fall turns into winter, and thanksgiving into christmas, and sanity into hypnoticism...

This post hardly makes sense, i am sure, but that is just the pre-december rum, and it probably wont get any better...

so you can eat great, even late

2010-11-15T22:19:00.003-08:00

I have a new cooking job; i've told you this. But did i tell you that this new cooking job would mean evenings off? That's right, no restaurant dinner service, just prepping food for catering platters and a "quality foods line." Did i tell you that i was looking forward to having dinner at the reasonable hour that most people dine at, or at least sometime before ten o'clock? Picking something inspirational up on the way home to turn into something tasty. Partially digesting my dinner before falling asleep; not falling asleep in my dinner. Good thing i did not tell you all of these things, because i would have been lying.

The truth is: even though i am supposed to be finished my shift at four thirty, i am often there at least an hour, sometimes two, past then (unpaid, by the way). And even if i am off at my designated eight hour mark, i cannot board the skytrain with my bike until after six. And why would i want to? You see, no matter what time i finish up, the thought of climbing into that stuffy transport system where people pretend eachother doesnt exist is depressingly exhaustive. I need to spend a little time outside first, have a little break from the constant feeling of, well, commuting. And so i get home after the time i looked forward to having dinner at.

And then i go for a run. And then i shower. And then, as i am cooking again, i scold myself for not just coming straight home to the stove. It is where i am happiest, and easiest able to unwind anyways, so why the procrastination? No idea. I know my habit is entirely preventable, and horribly unhealthy, and yet night after night, the pans heat up well after they could be.

Another question? Why the pans, why cook at the time of night? why wait another half hour or so for dinner when it could be done in the swipe-swipe two seconds of a peanut butter sandwich? That question i can answer: because i love it. And because my day is spent waiting for it. And because the vegetables in my fridge will go bad if i dont cook them.

So here i am tonight, my screen telling me that it is 10:57 pm. I am just finishing off a pasta of roasted kale with anchovies, shaved sunchoke, beet , fennel and walnut salad, and a chunk of my own baked baguette. Later on yet, i will dessert on the last of the plum cake i made last night, make some tea and plan to, yet again, eat earlier tomorrow. And just as tastily--even half asleep it was great.

"Holiday" Feast

2010-10-31T21:49:00.003-07:00

Happy Halloween everyone! But doesnt it feel so strange to wish someone happiness on a day that celebrates death, or, if anything, the stimulation of cavities and erratic bloodsugar levels? Nevertheless, it is a "holiday" of good spirits, no pun intended, and one that i tend to partake in thematically.

What i mean is i too use the day as an excuse to indulge in copious amounts of candy, and though i may not dress up, i befittingly wear orange and black, and cook in the same colors.

This time i may not have made my own (you'll recall my obsessive need for molasses candies last year, which, i might add, are in great abundance here in Vancouver, including in a giant bowl at a coffee shop i like but couldnt take one from because i didnt even order anything, just checked out the pastries for a plum cake of desire--long story...) but i have a bag of black licorice waiting for me, after my black and orange dinner.

Thats right, i cooked a dinner in halloween colors. Not so lame really; my ma used to make homemade macaroni and cheese halloween morning, cool it in a large bowl in the refridgerator so that by dinner time it was set, inverted, stabbed with her chefs knife, and served as "stabbed brains," ketchup streaming onto the plate from the wound. Less gory, try this:

Eggplant, Pumpkin, and Cauliflower Curry

with currant pine nut rice pilaf and minted yogurt

In a cast iron skillet over medium heat, toast:

2 tsp cumin seeds

1 tsp black cardamom seeds

Loosen toasted seeds with olive oil (a good glugglug) and stir together with:

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 tsp smoked paprika

Drizzle over and roast in the same castiron pan, covered, at 325F:

1 lg eggplant, cut in chunks

1/2 head cauliflowed, in large florets

1 small pumpkin (or other winter squash)

2 dried bay leafs

1 cinnamon stick

coarse sea salt

Meanwhile, bring to boil, then reduce heat and gently simmer:

2 cups water

1 cup brown basmati rice

sea salt

Stir into finished rice:

1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted

1/4 cup currants (or sultana raisins)

Top rice with finished veg, and serve with plain yogurt and freshly torn mint leaves to top.

a side note--i miss Torrance the pumpkin ale and molasses candies from last season (though the latter could probably have lasted til now), but got to take my little second cousins trick or treating, so another good "holiday."

Years from now

2010-10-25T23:56:00.002-07:00

My goals in this career, this life, may be small--but to me, they are, like my food, simplistically satisfying.

In no set time:

1-- To leave inspiration, gratitude, and recipes behind in places that i learn; to learn from these places, yes, but also to give back memorably

2-- To plan, cut, and cook with unabashed confidence

3--To taste, experiment, and learn with unabashed passion

4--to have 'signatures;' recipes that are mine

5--to have a place that is mine to share such in; family and friends and familial, friendly strangers to share such with

6--intimacy with food, farming, and those who love and appreciate food and farming

7--a line of purchasable foods; stamattina in logo

8--my ideal bread

9--to be "home" for dinner

10--a sense of pride in what i do from me. my food, my choices, my art, my heart, just a something that is mine; and tasty

its not what you know, but who

2010-10-07T22:09:00.002-07:00

The last two wee...nonono: the last month and a half, has been stressful, to say the least. Ive already explained how exhausting competitions are, but add that to moving, not once, but twice in two months-- the second time to a big city a ways away from my new-to-become-comfortable farm-life (stress+desperate excitement here)--re-ignited/continuing, and trying to un-ignite relationship drama, and finally a week straight of coming into work 4 hours early first for competition prep, second for a sick coworker, and you get me: sleeping in until nine (three hours later than normal) and running out of milk with no time to go pick some up.

I managed to get milk today, actually, with fourteen minutes to spare before the produce shop closed. Thank goodness, because tomorrow actually has to start at six, and it needs to start off right. Milk included.

Wine Fest event tomorrow. Though it happens every year, this particular event, and always ends with much dancing, drinking and "good shows," until it is actually over will inevitably be a continuance of the stress of...oh, gosh, it feels like forever, actually...

But i am not writing to complain and moan about life as a cook; quite the opposite. I want to say that life as a cook would hardly be possible if not for all the people living the same, or very similar lives. The people that i work with are beautiful; my life source, my reasoning, my caffiene, more important than the milk i picked up for tomorrow.

I feel sad for my friend/relationship trying to un-ignite (side note: what the hell is the word for dousing the flames or putting out a fire...???) who loves the product he gets to work with, the cooking he does and the food he makes, but not the people he does it all with. i can handle the mexican produce and not being able to choose brule flavors because there is always a sympathetic shoulder and someone to send or recieve a silly note to or from, to laugh with, to empathize.

And lately that is nearly everyone in that restaurant. We laugh alot lately. And there is nore freedom with brules, more time to explain before being spittingly yelled at. I am surrounded by people who routed for me the entire two and a half months that i obsessed over competing, who still love me in the end. Who will be there next year. For another season of sleep depravity, fighting over red peppers and overbaked cookies, stress-induced poor skin, and a number of well deserved (but not permitted) staff drinks. love you all; four more days.

Done

2010-10-05T23:30:00.003-07:00

Yep: done. Done with this season; done with this routine.; with Kelowna; with competitions...

The last of all the 'done-withs' i should never have been 'doing.' I have said this before, not too long ago, actually, but i do not enjoy, or willingly partake in, competitions. So there was Italy on the line, how could i not, but tonights event, why did i?

To help out the boss-chef, who covered the stress factor for the both of us, organizing the event to the very last minute (including my plating...) it seemed. He needed another competitor, and i said i would help. This would not be as big a deal as the last, after all: there was no secret blackbox, most could be prepared ahead of time, and there would be wine, right beside me. It was $750 up for grabs, half a penny--if that-- in comparison to a life in Italy. Honestly, i did not mind competing this time, just doing it to lower his blood pressure, and looking forward to a night off, seeing dave and cheffrey and sampling wines.

I didnt win, and to be honest a second time, i am hardly phased. I received enough second helping admittances, and chef pats on the back (and self satisfaction; that was, eventually--three hours later--a tasty dinner)What i am tired of, what has brought me to write here, then, is sheer and utter exhaustion with life; doneness.

Being involved in such competitions is all-consuming. Even if you have your dish one hundred percent thought out, supplied and prepped, it is still the only thing you can think about. Minutes before and (if you do not win) long moments afterward, yout htink of what you could (a) do (ne). Sleep is lost, aimless pacing is done, and a few days of life simply dissipates unil you are just done.

like me, now. done.

no more cooking for a prize, how about jsut cooking again. and please, no more goatcheese polenta.

Unplanned

2010-09-30T23:37:00.003-07:00

I've always been a planner--laying out my days so as to prevent boredom, mindless doings, and feeling like I've accomplished nothing (I am a work-aholic planner to boot); also to keep from forgetting important events and 'to-do's' and to ensure i eat healthily and enjoyably throughout my busily overbooked but planned out days.

I cannot plan a day at work though (sometimes i dont even plan to be working, but one call changes that quickly), as something as every day as the weather can change when i go home, and how tired i am when i am leaving.

Take yesterday for example: with summer over and business slowing down, we have cut down from two Garde Mange shifts (a lunch and dinner cook) to one, who starts a bit later, works both meal time rushes, then leaves first of everyone; If there are few reservations at night, they leave even earlier, setting up for dinner, but not needed to see it through. That was me on Tuesday, home at the very lovely hour of four o'clock. I expected more of the same yesterday, as we had no one on the books for that night, and planned to bike home, do some grocery shopping and orchard hopping, and can the last of my tomatos. Bad idea, that planning. A party of twelve called to come at 5:00 (no big deal, i would leave after appies went out); they didnt all arrive until six, didnt order until just before seven. Then there were all of the other walk-ins and last minute reservations that decided a sunny evening is best spent on our patio, and before i knew it we had sixty people to make dinner for, and me without a light on my bike to make it home. Plus, i had spent the afternoon practicing my next competition dish (no i have not been bitten my some bug, i am helping out my boss whose putting the whole event together) in the lunch that cleaned me out of all my dinner prep, so was scrounging to re-fill before five, plus make (and souffle to uselessness) mini-chocolate brules for a set wine fest menu. No tomatos were canned, and i rode home at 8:15 with a flashlight in the bike of my basket, hoping no deer would run me off the uphill track home.

The only thing keeping me going through this day taht just kept going was fresh halibut from Codfathers that we just got in, and i planned to have it for dinner. But the same sixty people who kept me working four hours longer than expected ordered the hali special for dinner. No fish for me. Instead i had the leftovers from my competition prep, and not the way taht i planned to serve it that day. It was better, so much better, coming together under a desperate need for comfort and sustanance and for just one thing to go right. I plan to share this recipe after the competition...

No Time to Eat

2010-09-28T22:49:00.002-07:00

I work in a very busy restaurant; in the summer there are days where you really do not have time to eat, days when you stuff a piece of bread in your mouth, or, if you are like me, start an apple, and then hours later, discover the warm brown fruit and in a state of desperation, finish it off. It is not healthy, and we all try and find ways to avoid feeding 120 strangers and starving ourselves.

After being told many, many, times that it is important to stop once in awhile, that you can take a break, eat something, make time for your own health and sanity, I am only just beginning to listen and understand. There is nothing wrong with needing to eat and then feeding yourself, no matter how busy: Willi is persistant about this, Monika the baker lives by it, and recently, Andrea insisted on it. Urs however...

I have been working at the Farmers Market in Kelowna since April, and every Saturday morning when we finished setting up, served a rush or two, did a little shopping, and served another rush, i would bring out my breakfast: a couple of old mustard jars of homemade mueslix with fruit and yogurt. I'd sneak bites between customers, scarf during short free moments on crazy days, the cereal generally lasting til the near end of the market, and hardly put before customers, rather resembling the afformentioned apple, plus soggy.

It keeps me going throughout, having those jars to munch on, and none of the customers seem to mind (in fact, some have offered to buy it off me). Besides asking what it is and how to make it, the most common reaction to me with a the jar up to my mouth--at times shovelling--is to carry on: "eat your breakfast girl, go ahead".

Yet Urs, in a message left on my phone tonight, said that my market schedule had changed, and that he would need me to eat my breakfast at home, before i came because it was so busy there lately. .... ????? Besides the fact that that would mean eating at 6 am and not again until 1:30 (not physically possible-- or even humanly, actually-- for me), eating breakfast (like a normal person, i must emphasize) has never interrupted my work there, or let things slide. It is not as though i sit down and let the chaos pile up as i take a half hour break (which, technically i am entitled to in a six hour shift), but i eat as i go, a bite here and there keeping me going. What would effect my work is being starving halfway through--which i would inevitably be having had to eat so early in the morning--and not allowed to eat. Can you actually tell someone that they cannot eat? Ok, sure, with a "not on shift" to follow, but then you get a break to prevent yourself from dying of starvation. i do not get a break at the market, a quick jaunt around to do my own shopping, but i get scorned if it is longer than ten minutes. He has been so funny lately, and this is just...

Granted, i am not the type of person who wakes up and has breakfast second to whatever happens in the washroom. I go for a run, i start picking tomatos on farm days, or baking dessert on days off, or serving customers at the market; my body needs time to wake up and get excited about the day, then ask for energy to tackle it. I would rather warm soggy cereal it too, then force it down when it isnt wanted or needed, no matter how busy i expect the day to be.

Am i wrong? Is it just me that telling a person when to eat seems a bit strange? I know Urs is, but this is different, even for him. Then again, maybe he would understand if he ate once in a while...

There will be no Italy...yet

2010-09-26T01:25:00.001-07:00

A tomato graveyard

2010-09-23T23:51:00.002-07:00

I just, just wrote of the surprising abundance of BC sockeye,and now i must tell you about the awful lack of tomatos.

last year was tomatos' time to shine. Entirely because the sun did its own shining. There were more than we could possibly keep up with on the farm or in the restaurant: green zebras, orange bananas, black crims, garden peaches, striped romas, and tons, literally tons, of little cherry varieties. I developed cold sores in my mouths for so much lunchtime tomato acid. Just dipped in salt they were liek a fix to me. This year though, not even a tomato mayo sandwich on sourdough and i feel today it all ended.

Today i walked througha tomato graveyard.

A bit of life was taken from me too, seeing the blight ravaged vines, laden with ripe tomatos that i know will only turn blemishy, black, and inedible. It was devastating, for it seemed like with just two more day so fsunshine we would have been up to our knees in them. Instead though, we got rain. And frost. And ended a summer we never really had.

I did, however, get to freeze a whole bunch of splitters (tomatos that literally break through their skin with juicy ripeness, not acceptable to sell to restaurants, but incredibly tasty), oven-dry two trays worth of cherry romas, and make a few desperate jars of sauce. And as i eat them this winter, i will hope to have plenty more next year to replenish this sad stockpile; no, to eat fresh on sourdough with gobs of homemade mayo and course salt, to make up for this year.

Catch of the Season

2010-09-23T23:18:00.003-07:00

Perhaps you have read it already in the papers (i buy the Globe and Mail every Saturday and read a section each morning for the whole week...the "Globe BC" section, typically my Tuesday read, filled me in) but this is an incredible year for Sockeye salmon. And unexpected too.

I wont get into the details of the sparcity of salmon years prior, because i am too damned excited about this seasons abundance to gloomily reminisce. There is just so much salmon! If my grandpa were alive today, he would invite all his dutch relatives to visit and toss them all a fish to slimy flop against their chests as they braced in catch, jsut as he did summers ago (though not his entire 13 sibling family at once). Instead i will cozy up on this cold, rainy, end of summer night, and tuck into a beautiful fillet of fish from my home.

I could have gone with my favorite recipe, but with the vegetables from my new backyard waiting patiently in the fridge, and a craving for quinoa i instead prepared this:

Crispy Skinned Sockeye Salmon on Corn Quinoa
with Garlicky Green Beans and Zuchinni
Theres still leftover veg (zuchinni and green beans) from the summer, and they marry beautifully with early fall corn. Quinoa is seedy and bright here against the fatty salmon, and the whole dish, the yellows and the greens looks and tastes fresh on a cold night, celebrating both seasons and the abundance that we did have. Serves two.

Bring to a boil in a pot in which a steamer tray fits:
1 cup H2O

Stir in and reduce heat to gently simmer:
3/4 cup Quinoa
the kernels of 2 cobs of corn
leaves from one sprig of thyme
finely chopped parsely stems

Meanwhile, over medium high heat, warm olive oil in a medium sized pan. When good and hot, sear, skin side down:
2 BC Sockeye salmon fillets, pinbones removed

Season the meat with coarse salt and pepper, and when the skin has crisped (two to three minutes), remove from the pan and rest in a steamer tray that fits above your simmering quinoa pot.

Remove access oil and cool slightly that same salmon-searing pan. Over medium low heat, add to this pan:
splash each water and the wine in your glass
1 clove garlic, smashed and very roughly chopped
2 good sized handfuls green and yellow beans, trimmed of any stems
1 cup zuchinni, sliced into 1/2 inch thick pieces
Season with salt and pepper and cover

After about five minutes, when both your quinoa and veg are nearly finished, place the steam basket over your pot of grains, cover and gently steam for four to five minutes.

To the veg, toss in a handful of roughly chopped parsely, the leaves of a sprig of thyme and (if available) squash blossoms or nasturtiuns. Season with salt and pepper and continue to braise until just tender.

Serve the salmon atop the quinoa with the zuchs and beans alongside and celebrate the bounty we did have this year

A move not soon enough

2010-09-22T22:51:00.002-07:00

There is so much, too much, going on right now:

--the Italy competition (this Saturday, yikes!)
--the Saputo challenge (right now, much less stressful than the latter)
--visiting family, them to me and me to them
--using all of the above to forget about last saturday and re-, no, still-love...

and then there is the move to Vancouver, which makes me nervous and excited, or rather, more nervous and excited (i may just explode with contradictory emotions here). The same day i attempt to cook my way to Italy, i leave for a pre-emptive visit to Vancouver, to check out how things at Quince work, and how life will be there, ie: how long my commute will be, what the biking is like, and where i am going to eat and drink.

Vancouver will be a time to play. Enough with this stress. Enough with mind racing and sleep lacking, German yelling and midnight dinners, enough with men who know what they want and let it slip away. Here's to living free for awhile, eating and drinking and slipping away.

Lest i should forget while dealing with the chaotic reality that is right now in real life, a few places i intend to eat, drink, and be free in:
http://www.finchteahouse.com
http://www.littlenest.ca
http://laquercia.ca/
http://www.thenaam.com/naam/
http://pourhousevancouver.com/
http://www.luporestaurant.ca/

the last two are adam's hangout and workplace, the friend, along with torrence and Kris and my wonderful family whom i intend on eating, drinking, and being free with. Run by the ocean and forget this week ever happened...

Farm to Table...to Italy?

2010-09-05T14:02:00.003-07:00

Though my stubborness attests to my Dutch heritage, I insist that Italian blood runs through my veins. My fascination with Italy began much earlier, perhaps in my enjoyment of forming meatballs with my ma for pasta, more likely through the romanticized fiction of "Under the Tuscan Sun;" it is a fascination that still holds today, perhaps stronger than ever. It is not simply the naturally artistic hillsides, sumptuous foods and notorious wines that draw me in, but the very way of life. Italian is a personality, one that is relaxed, appreciative, in the moment and from the Earth, the very traits I try to incorporate into my own cooking style.

It has been a short two and a half years that I have worked professionally in the restaurant industry, spontaneously entering Okanagan College's apprentice program as a cook, training under Chef Willi Franz at the Grapevine Restaurant in Winfield. Short, yes, but horribly formative. During this time I have come to understand my passion for food, and it begins in the soil. Just down the road from where I spend my nights cooking winery dinners, is the farm where I spend my days with beans and tomatos, and a few too many weeds. It is here, at Lake Country Culinary Farms (LCCF), that I find peace and inspiration, seeing (and smelling and tasting) first hand, the freshness of a lush basil plant, intensity of blossoming hot and sweet peppers, the seemingly eternal offerings of summer squash. These are the flavours, pure, unadulterated, natural, that I love to accentuate in what I create, to combine and play with and appreciate for each vegetable and herbs potent uniqueness. My home and heart is on the farm, my passion and career grow from it.

For such reasons this contest seems designed for me, allowing me the scavenge for dinner where I am most at home, in order to visit a country that I would one day love to call such. For now, my goals include running LCCF and continuing to learn from and cook with the brilliant chefs of the Okanagan, and until the presentation of this event, had planned to visit Italy as part of a WWOOF exchange ("Willing Workers On Organic Farms") to further my knowledge and creativity. Should this trip occur earlier as a result of theis competition, I know I will use my time preciously to learn and with each of my senses experience, a genuine and unabashed food culture, and take such an event along with me for the rest of my culinary journey.

I hope that you will consider me as a competitor, and allow me to prove to my Dutch Grandma that somewhere along the line, a little bit of Italy got in the family mix.

...

That was my application for a black box competition that should I win, would send me to Italy to work on an Agriturismo next fall. Of the six people that applied, only three were chosen to compete, and I am one of them. It is a life-come-true-opportunity just two weeks from now...and all i want to do is throw up.
Competitions are not my thing; i have never willingly entered one, and never intended to, but this: it is Italy (Italy-- say it like Sandra Oh in the afformentioned movie and you will understand my incredulity). How do you say no to that? I cant not try, i also cant think of anything else but the cookoff, oh, and i cant sleep so well. About that throwing up thing...
So here is the plan: cook simply and what i know. Pretend it is just lunch on the farm. Relax, breathe, season well and hope that you dont overcook whatever protein reveals its ugly face in that black box.
I need to brush up on meat.
And sleep.
Wish me luck.

2010-08-26T23:40:00.002-07:00

We have come over the peak of the season at my restaurant. People are finished vacationing, and once school begins again, the nights will be a normal amount of busy, instead of an alarming amount of chaos. The whole summer always seems a blur at this point, but as it comes into focus i realize a few things: it was truly awful to start, only just started to be enjoyable, and i desperately want it to be over. My career and capabilities are no further along, having learned only what amount of respect and freedom of expression i need from a kitchen, and what i want out of the next years of my life.

Beginning with a move to Vancouver. I have a job with a chef who, in just the half hour we chatted, has promised me an opportunity to grow as a cook, and share myself as one too. Sure i am nervous as hell (mostly for public transit, though), but i am also desperately counting down my shifts here until i can make somewhere else my home for the winter, perhaps longer.

This is summer

2010-08-23T22:48:00.003-07:00

i wish i had more time to write; to tell what i am growing/cooking/eating...to talk about Crannog and Feast of Fields...to confess my fear of the upcoming move to Vancouver... but instead i can only ay that i am happy, full, overwhelmingly busy, rejuvenated, contemplative, and so damn full of zucchini.

Such is my summer

and sometimes things just work out

2010-06-17T22:33:00.003-07:00

Tom offered me the farm. Not as a gift, of course, like "i know you love Rapini, Tiffany, and you are getting quite good at weeding, so why dont you just take over?" No, not like that at all, but also not like Tom's usual goofy form of conversation. His serious offer came after i mentioned that once i completed my Red Seal (or rather, got it over and done with so my ma could be proud and happy that i completed something for once), and i could leave cooking for awhile, i wanted to go WOOFING in Italy for a year. Stopping howing, he asked/said that i really enjoyed this farming thing hey, cause y'know, i could take over this place when he was done (which, please not, is very, very soon, as Tom is 60 and this is his "retirement project"). What? was my in-head response, out loud i said, thats sweet Tom, but i think i need to live by the ocean. To that he offered to dig me a hole and fill it with water; to that I asked if we could plant a sailboat in it; hence thinking it was just another goofy conversation with Tom. Not so. It was a few days ago now, but the reality of it is finally sinking in: Tom was serious; he has leased the land for five years, after that he wans someone to take over, and he would love if that someone was me. We talked seriously for about three minutes today before a mechanic interrupted, in which time i had to sit down, and teared up a little. i mean, i want this, i have wanted this: to be a part of something that i love and am proud of, to work for it, learn it and live it and then have it be mine, entrusted by me from those i learned from and lived for. I just didnt expect it to be so soon.
And so the thinking and debating and nail biting and hair pulling begins. I am twenty three: am i ready for a farm, a comittment, a responsibility five acres large? vs I am twenty three and already, a dream is falling in place.
(forgive me my deep Hallmark-ism) This just goes to show, you cannot plan your life, but you can seize the opportunities it gives you to love it. (less hallmark-y) And sometimes, no matter how clumsy life feels, how un-pathed you are, it throws you a goal, a gift, something to work with and towards and to find happiness and sweet relief in. kinda like tonights dinner...
Today was my day off and all i had planned for eating was a stack of cornmeal rye pancakes with rhubarb syrup (lovely, but the way). Usually though, i have dinner planned too, excited for time consuming meal prep like homemade pasta, risotto or gnocchi, or a thought out meal featuring fresh fish. No, all i had was pancakes. And not enough for dinner too.
Never mind because in came life. Dave brought me two and a half foot tall stalks of the spiciest oregano i d ever tried (and coughed on at doing so) from his garden; the drive to the farm revealed a sign that first of the season peas were finally available at an off road farmers market. Slam on the breaks and pull in and spend the time in the field dreaming up dinner...and what it would be like to call this place my own.
Lastly, cooking dinner turned into a series of distractions: a lengthy chat on the phone, harvesting in my own garden, checking emails, drinking wine, and i nearly seared my dinner to the pot of the pan, and then cooked my lovely fresh peas into a deceptively off-green color. i say deceptively because all was definately not lost, or mushy for that matter. In fact, perfect. Thanks again Life.

Risotto Style Brown Rice with Peas, Spot Prawns, and Oregano Oil
makes enough for two, the only other thing i would love Life to have fall into place for me

In a large, deep pan, slowly soften:
1 clove garlic, minced
4 scallions, whites thinly sliced and greens chopped and reserved
1/2 tsp crushed cumin seed

Add in and cook to translucent
1 cup short grain brown rice

Increase heat, and splash in some white wine, decreasing heat again and allowing rice to absorb before ladling in some stock (i used a simple broth of prawn shells, parsely stems and bay leaf). Each ladleful of stock should be allowed to be absorbed before adding in the next, as you would risotto, until just under aldente (about 30 minutes for brown rice, 17 if you went for white). At this point, add in and cover to cook through:
2 cups uncooked sweet peas (left in the shell)
1/2 cup cherry tomatos (the last of which were in my freezer, they will be back, fresh, soon enough)

Now comes your last three minutes of cooking, typically when you would toss in cheese and let the risotto rest into gooey comfort food. Instead, add in and cover, turning heat as low as possible:
14-20 peeled BC spot prawns (seasons almost over)
Chopped mint, oregano, and reserved scallion greens

Dont worry if you let this go for four instead of three minutes while fetching some of that wine to drink with dinner, itll all work out...

Saved by a rainy day

2010-06-15T10:09:00.004-07:00

i have a little secret...i love the rain. Well, i should rephrase that: i love the sound of heavy droplets, running the morning after downpour, the smell and the crispness of the air. i'll always choose sunshine over the grey that rain usually means, but a coastal gal at heart, i dont mind the drizzle. Just dont tell the folks here in the sunny okanagan.

We have had so much rain lately, the lion coming out of the beatifully early and sunny spring, and it is starting to wear thin on most everyone (especially the farmers i work with). But quite frankly, life is starting to wear thin on me these days, and the off on rain provides the perfect chance (more like a legitimate excuse) to not spend my hours weeding, but doing laundry...

Because like the farmers and foodies i work with, this is the season of "dont stop," and more things than clean clothes get neglected. A clean self, for one, and sleep. But we live for this season, spend all winter waiting for itand greatly resent things like lousy weather for slowing us down in our glory time. In truth, my first reaction to the rain is anger: i cant bike, garden, the restaurant will be slow and everyone will be grumpy, and i am virtually stuck inside all day. So why do i secretly love the rain. Because sometimes, like today, there are things, relaxing, sit-down, inside things i really want to do, and now i have an excuse.

Today, that is baking bread (it s been awhile) and writing here (its been even longer), taking pictures in perfect natural lighting, and then later, when it stops raining, going for a run through the leftover calm freshness of it.

Oh, and folding my laundry.

thoughts on easter and spring

2010-04-01T22:47:00.003-07:00

For longest time, Easter has meant an excuse for a nice eggy breakfast (ideally in bed), complete with mimosas. Yes, Easter, at least for me, means a.m. drinking.

I am not religious. I should be, coming from a large and largely devout Dutch Catholic family, especially considering my oddly and obviously close relationship with my grandma, the most Dutch and most Catholic (though certainly not the most preachy) of them all. Atheism would blacksheep me I suppose, if my family cared to talk to me about it. Or if they knew i was drinking on such a sabbath day, and at such an early hour...

Despite its religiousity and my not, i love Easter for more than just mimosas. Its springs official holiday, though Earth day, thinking of it just now, seems almost more suiting. It is a celebration of new life; a fresh holiday bright with color--think of those eggs you decorated, and pastel colored jellybeans...and the inside of these cookies:

Around this time every year, more a marking of spring than easter, i make birdsnest cookies, the pefect sweet bowl catalyst for my abundance of jam. Put that way, and they will be my toast this easter brunch, to have with my eggs and mimosas.

happy holiday

easter candies

birdsnest cookies

Will you take me seriously if i eat meat?

2010-03-31T22:26:00.004-07:00

So i am not really a vegetarian. i mean, what kind of vegetarian willingly eats prosciutto, openly loves lamb, and proclaims after a great inhale, the amazing smell of the butcher/deli when entering? What kind of vegetarian enters a butcher/deli? The kind of vegetarian who works at the fish shop across the parking lot and has to enter the butcher/deli to freezer- vac fillets of fish that she regularly eats (veg-aquarian??); the kind of vegetarian who is not a vegetarian by principle or in association to the stigmatic assumptions surrounding such a lable, but by sheer dislike, or rather, other preference.

If i sound as though i am trying to be diplomatic and as precisely definitive as i would be in some sort of academic debate, it is because i am. i was reprimended, offended, and now am defensive.

lunch time at work:
Chef: whats that?
Me: my lunch.
C:what exactly are you making?
M: scrambled eggs.
C: jesus girl, you gotta eat something, if you are going to be biking and working and all that shit you gotta eat something-- i mean cmon let me cook you up a nice, thick big steak.
M: (GAG) im a vegetarian. (shit, did i just say that, i take it back i take it back...too late)

Chefs instant reaction, and i am talking no pause to think of the assault he was about to perform was to insist that "you people" should not even be allowed in the kitchen. to summarize his rant: i should choose a different career if i wasnt a meat-eater because i could never possibly know or understand the workings of cooking and flavouring animals and would therefore fail miserably at pleasing any "normal" omnivourous customer.

Slightly taken aback, i tried to explain what i meant, what i believe, what i am not about to repeat now, because really, i never needed to say it in the first place. And though now i realize it was him who should have felt as embarrassed as I did, at that moment i felt like i lost what little respect and trust as a talented cook he had for me--and that is as important to me as my moral choices regarding animal consumption. And though he apologized just moments later, and did actually listen to my reasons for eating eggs not steak for lunch, i know that me as a vegetarian is slated iin his mind and it will come up again.

Just another way i have to prove myself, i guess...

ps. i bought lamb at the farmers market in protest. i love lamb. i bought kale and mustard greens too...

Back to reality

2010-03-30T22:08:00.004-07:00

We are back in action at the Grapevine--if action means three tables and taking my time doing hardly anything. And as i run out of hardly anything it can only get worse, if by worse i mean actually, unfathomly busy as it will but a month or so from now. So i will enjoy the days of cookbook perusing and playing in the bakeshop--my list of accomplishments thus far includes three types of cookies, the macaroons a work in progress and repeated on tomorrows agenda--of laughing and having time for something that resembles a lunch.

"Real life" again also means less time for bike rides and more time in the car, and a fear that the calm contentedness i have achieved lately might simply evaporate once that kitchen hits full force. Still, even though i spent the winter thinking i wouldnt be, i am glad to be back; home.

so long winter

2010-03-19T22:37:00.003-07:00

as i right this i am drinking a stout float. That's right, not a root beer float, but a beer beer float. My last Granville Island Winter Ale, vanilla gelato, and blackberries from my freezer. Its a cocktail--well, dessert actually--to say goodbye to the awful season that is winter. And what a great way for it to go.

I said goodbye with dinner too, making a pasta of both my stored leeks and ones bought fresh at the market last saturday. The latter, falls crop, were left through the frost of winter, and when the ground was finally warm enough to harvest them, they had gone and sprouted new shoots. They were then, ironically and quite suitingly, both spring and winter leeks. Goodbye and hello...I'll make it again this spring.

Leek Linguine with Walnut Pesto and Purple Dwarf Basil

Last summer I made walnut, hazlenut, and classic basil pesto and froze them in icecube trays to pop into pastas such as this all winter long. The walnut is simply walnuts, parsley, and garlic--i dont season them when freezing, so that i am free to do so with the final product. If you dont have purple dwarf basil, substitute regular, thought he delicate sweet flavour of this pretty little leaf is hard to replace. This pasta would also be good with the addition of other spring veg such as peas and favas, or zuchinni in the summer. Would haev been great with ricotta salata, but i was craving a schwonkety-schwonk of parm, and thats what i got!

To boiling water, add your linguine. In a large pan, gently soften:
leeks,sliced in half lengthwise (and widthwise if particularly long) and immersed in water to rinse away dirt
garlic, smashed and chopped

When pasta is finished, add to pan with leeks, walnut pesto, and basil. Season with salt and pepper and top with a schwonkety schwonk of parm. So simple, so satistfying, so springtime... so long winter

Greenday

2010-03-17T22:33:00.002-07:00

St. Paddy's Day is my second favorite holiday after Thanksgiving. What is not to love about a holiday that went from a Catholic saintly celebration to one simply of Irish culture--and its genuine love of ale. Wear green, drink Guiness, feel lucky for the Irish.

And so I was. Starting with the green (yes I wore a pinch-preventing outfit), but I also ate alot of green things today, even more than usual. All green things. Pears and frozen green grapes on my mueslix; green lentil hummus; mache with walnut oil; trout with roast potatos, celeriac, leeks, and artichokes...ok, so the trout wasnt green, thank goodness, but you get the idea. I even bought a granny smith apple to stand in for my usual pink ladies.

I drew the line at green beer though, just Guinness.

The best thing I ate though, was not green. It was brown. No, it was not beer, but a fantastic Irish Soda bread (the most successful bread--successful anything-- to come out of my oven lately...). The smell alone made me want to do nothing but eat bread all day: a soury earthiness that was there in taste too. Moist and just slightly crumbly around the crust, i nearly did eat bread all day. When I wasnt drinking it...

Irish Soda Bread
The recipe I adapted this from was in Fresh by John Bishop. I subbed honey for brown sugar, and used half millet and half flaxseeds in my bread, whereas Bishop uses toasted pepitas; I have simply listed "seeds" here, so feel free to improvise with your own favorite. The original recipe also calls for half buttermilk and half whole milk, but I absolutely love the tang of buttermilk so I went full out on it. Do your best to let the bread cool at least half an hour before cutting in, otherwise its crumb will, well, crumb all over your counter. Whatever you dont eat fresh out of the oven will keep for three days in an airtight container, excellent with marmalade in the mornings.

Preheat oven to 425F
Mix together:
1 c AP flour
1 c WW flour
3/4 c rolled oats
1/4 c seeds
1/2 t baking soda
1/4 t salt

In a seperate bowl, stirring to dissolve, combine:
2 T hot melted butter
1 T honey

In a slow, steady stream, pour in:
1 c buttermoo

Combine the wet with the dry ingredients, then turn out onto a clean, well floured work surface, and form into a domed round, roughly six inches in diameter. Place dough on a parchment lined baking sheet and bake 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350F and continue baking 30 minutes or until the loaf sounds hollow when rapped. Have a beer, or do an Irish jig, while the bread cools to sliceability.

one part hippy

2010-03-09T23:30:00.000-08:00

In my overanalytical fasion, I proposed to my sister once upon a time, that we should list our most definitive characters--basically, our "personalities" narrowed down to three. No, I was not searching for or offering a schizophrenic diagnosis, but basically, as women, the different sides that are strongest in ourselves (times when we are complete hormonal messes aside). Here's mine:

--one part feminine, lover of all things womanly, inspired by Sex in the City fasion and friends and lovers

--one part stress junkie, cant sit still or ever overdose on intensity and doings of somethings, even if this means simply walking while reading and trying to eat a sandwich, or balancing three jobs

--one part hippy, longing for simplicity, dirty hands, sunshine and green things

And when the latter is the strongest of the three strong mes, i feel like eating what honey and bread deems hippy chow. This includes things like whole grains, veggie meals, soy products, basically anything not from an animal or mere molecules away from plastic. If you opened my fridge, I may look like a bit of a health nut, and I cant deny a diverse collection of grains and rices and the like, in the same cupboard as all those dried up legumes. Prosciutto and various dairy products in varying degrees of high fat content are about all that reflect the other two sides of me--oh, and the frozen, just-in-case chocolate bar, albiet organic and containing dried fruit...oh boy, even my chocolate is grassy...

Last weekend I went to Vancouver and it took my love of hippy chow to a whole new level. My vegan girlfriend and I went to the Naam for dinner the night that I got there. It was nearly eleven by the time we got there, but the 24/7 vegetarian restaurant was still bustling--and for good reason. The atmosphere is chill, but the smells and incredible food warming. It is huge portions of deep flavours and textures that you just want to curl up with. Both of us had the special: a green bean and potato curry cooked long enough so that it mushed (in a good, good way) together into an unexpectedly spicy dish, a bowl of chickpea dal with plenty of oily more richly warm than spicy sauce perfect for soaking a warm from the oven peice of naan bread that, i kid you not, was the size of a steering wheel. There was so much food, and I was so full, yet I could not stop dipping and folding up beans into that bread. I dream of it...

That weekend I also expanded my vegetarian horizons, sharing Tempeh at the Naam and cooking and eating for the first time, Tofu. That was an experience in itself, perhaps to be relayed at another time. But now I am hooked. I cooked some last night (in a much more skilled and practiced manner), with my own attempt at red lentil dal, and homemade naan bread--the dreams had turned into a heavy craving. And fed my hippy self.

Red Lentil Dal with Kale
I fried up some tofu in sesame oil with this, but i imagine it would be good with feta cheese, or roasted tomatos. Curl up, tuck in, feel healthy, make love not war.

In a small saucepan, heat some oil and slowly soften:
1 clove garlic, minced
1 shallot, minced

Using a mortar and pestle, blend together and add to the pan:
sm. pc each ginger and turmeric, peeled and finely grated
1/4 tsp fennel seeds
1/4 tsp chili flakes
1/4 tsp cumin seeds

Raise the heat and add in, stirring to coat with oil:
1/4 cup brown basmati rice
1/2 cup red lentils
2 fresh bay leaves

When the rice has become slightly translucent, cover with stock or water, and simmer gently for 30-40 mins. Season with s&p to taste. When its ready, braise chopped kale in a shallow pan with a bit of diced garlic and chili flakes. Mix together with the dal, squeeze a bit of lemon over and grab a steering wheel size flatbread for scooping.

Nested

2010-03-03T23:40:00.006-08:00

I turned twenty-three in Vancouver on Sunday. I pretended the Olympic fireworks and chaos were for me.

Better yet, I had two fantastic breakfasts:

1. After a much longer than usual, cant-stop-even-though-my-legs-are-dead-and-my-lungs-not-far-behind-but-i-love-this run by the sea wall, i showered and refueled with a much bigger than usual bowl of mueslix...downed with nearly a litre of almond milk. Didnt quite lose that nauseous feeling from the run...

yet...

2. Little Nest cafe. I had looked this up while meal planning for this random Vancouver visit. I fell in love with it on the website, but for not wanting to rush the day and unsure if theyd have vegan options for my girlfriend i was staying with, we decided to just visit for coffee. Impossible. Not with a menu as beautifully simplistic, yet detailed with care and seasonality, written in chalk on floor to ceiling boards. So despite being still uncomfortably full from breakfast, i ordered their homemade organic baguette (four options to choose from) with fresh ricotta and honey and housemade lemon curd. The table number was a block "E" (its a child friendly cafe), the americano strong, the baguette smothered in butter with the sides in dainty ramekins, the whole place perfect. It was exactly the type of spot I would love to call my own someday. I ate every last bite, feeling surprisingly more comfortable. And inspired.

oh, and there was a vegan cookie for Torr

keeping it short but sweet, just like my birthday

a little bit of yellow goes a long way

2010-02-01T21:46:00.010-08:00

sometimes the grey gets to be too much
sometimes life gets to be too much
and you just need some yellow
like these tulips

and these meyer lemons

which i used to make this curd

i'm feeling much brighter

From the freezer with love

2010-01-27T17:01:00.004-08:00

Kelowna cannot decide if it is winter or spring. For the last couple of weeks I have been waking up to frost, then just after breakfast, biking in the warm, above zero sunlight. And although it is not quite warm enough to ditch my mittens, it looks, feels, and sounds (birds singing as if in Snow Whites cottage) more like April than January. So long as the weather stays this way, and doesnt pull a prankster drastic freeze come Feb, I will be content to revel in the fact that things might be turning green a little sooner (I am knocking on wood here, folks--this is far to blissful a thought to jinx).

I love spring; it is by far my favorite season; it rejuvenates me. Spring brings sunshine and warmth and tulips and skirts and shoes that dont require socks. Theres little lambs and the chickens start laying eggs again. Let's not forget, too, rhubarb and peas and fava beans and the first crop of rapini. I am trying really hard not to get excited too early here, it is after all, still January and there is not a bud in sight yet, but I feel like clicking my heels and saying so-long to winter-- bring on the April showers and May flowers.

In celebration mode, I pulled a bag of peas out of my freezer that I shelled last June (the seasons were late to change last year), a habit I am trying to get into before it is time to refill it again. Even though my freezer is a right buffet of chocies, there are still many wonderful wintery veg at the farmers market that my fridge is jsut as full of fresh local goods. So I compromised and made a meal that was as much a mixture of the two seasons as the weather outside. It was a sort of non-committal, dont- get- your- hopes- up -dish- that was both tuck in wintery warmth and fresh spring. And with all the bags of peas still in my freezer, I will be able to keep celebrating even if January decides to be winter again.

Sage and Pea Barley with Roasted Sunchokes, Turnips and Hazelnut Pesto
The pesto was another freezer gift, frozen in icecube trays for easy use. The toasty buttery hazelnuts and fresh parsely flavour were brilliant with both the sweet peas and earthy roots. The sage made the whole thing warmer--perfect because it may be sunny, but its sure not warm yet. Serves two.

Gently soften in a pan:
1 shallot, thinly sliced
1 clove garlic, crushed
Add in, cover with water and simmer for twenty to thirty minutes
2/3 cup pot barley

Meanwhile, roast on a parchment lined sheet at 375F:
1/2-1 cup sunchokes, halved if large
1/2-1 cup turnips, cut in wedges
drizzle of olive oil
salt and pepper

When the barley is cooked, drain off most excess water, leaving about two tablespoons, and stir in:
2 cups frozen peas, defrosted
1 1/2 tsp dried sage

Heat through, combine with roasted roots and top with a big glob of hazelnut pesto (just follow your favorite basil pesto recipe, substituting parsely for the basil and hazelnuts for the pines). Think spring.

This sabbath

2010-01-24T21:27:00.005-08:00

I may not be religious, but there is something especially sacred about Sundays; a day of rest even for non-believers...and non-resters. The last day of the week is always special to me, or at least I try to make it that way by reading my favorite section of the Globe, having coffee with a girl friend via telephone, spending plenty of time outside, spending plenty of time in the kitchen. Sunday dinners, a ritual for many families, occurs in my single home too, either with invites, or just me, wine, a piece of fish, and dessert. Which was exactly how tonight, today, went.

To start, I was actually waking up at a normal people (non-bakers) hour. Eight am meant sunshine and CBC radio one as my wakeup call (their morning show is fantastic), and time enough to enjoy breakfast, a restaurant review read, and bike ride before my buddy Andy arrived for another Sunday favorite of mine: canning.

To carry on the Pink Lady obsession (and add yet another preserve to my sagging pantry shelf), Andy came over to make apple butter. Now Andy is no canning amateur, enjoying, in his unexpectedly homemaker sorta way, making jams and jellies with his ma, so he was not visiting this time for a lesson in cookery--he brought some of his homemade mint jelly in the cutest of tiny little jars, along with a batch of muffins (the boy is getting more Sunday invites for sure). However, he has never canned without pectin, or sans recipe. I have never canned with pectin, and make it up as I go, referrencing The Joy of Cooking for processing times and other fickle matters regarding botulism prevention. So it was a lesson in sporadicism, and fun to have company. With cardamom, vanilla, cinnamon, and bay leaf in the mix, my kitchen smelt fragrant and sweet, and four "pops" later (a very small batch--seriously, my shelf is going to collapse), we considered ourselves successful.

We didnt stop there however, there was far too much Sunday left to enjoy. Even while we waited for the butter to cook itself perfect, we had attempted panna cotta (the results away me in my fridge--the dessert portion of my sacred Sunday). When the kitchen was tidy again and still smelling of spice, we went for a two hour hike up and down and all around Knox Mountain, refueling with caffiene before deciding we had been far to productive for a day religiously devoted to rest and vowed to relax for the rest of the evening. But not before a great dinner.

Andy and I work at the fish shop together, and one of the perks of the job was tonights dinner; ginormous tuna sides get cut into steaks, but the chunk on the end near the tail gets cut up for seafood mix, which we had far to much of yesterday, so it came home with me instead-- Im just taking one for the team, really, saving such a beautiful, albiet out of season piece of fish from being cooked with other random trimmings only to be tossed with pasta and cream and blasphemously topped with cheese. No, it was far to shiny and pink and moist looking for such treatment, and really, it was a small sacfrifice on my part to salvage it for a wonderful Sunday dinner. (Tooting my own horn here) Wonderful. And now I`ll see if those panna cottas are the perfect end to the perfect Sunday. Hope yours was perfect too.

Bay and Rosemary Roasted Tuna with Couscous, Celery Root, Turnips, and Capers
What contributes to Sunday dinner's fabulousness is Saturday mornings Farmers Market finds. I tend to go overboard at the market, especially when the veg offers so much color and freshness in a season typically devoid of such; I started this meal with a shaved salad of heirloom carrots, jeruselem artichokes and fennel. I prefer my tuna medium to medium rare, so feel free to adjust the cooking time to your liking. Portions are for two.

To prepare the tuna, marinate your pieces in:
glug of good olive oil
1 tbsp chopped fresh rosemary (or stick 1/2 a sprig in each loin)
1-2 crumbled bay leaves
squeeze of lemon

In a coverable, oven proof dish (i favor my beloved stoneware Creuset knock off), place:
1 large celery root, peel and sliced in half moon wedges
6 small turnips, quarted
2 stems thyme
1 stem Rosemary
Drizzle with olive oil, season with salt and pepper and bake at 350 for 10-15 minutes.

Meanwhile, prepare your couscous (if you own a steamer for this, great, if you dont, just cook it like porridge, as I did)

Simmer gently until softened:
1/2 shallot
1 clove garlic
1 bay leaf
Add in, making sure you have at least 1 1/3 cup water in the pot:
2/3 cup couscous
Cook, stirring, until all the water is absorbed, about three minutes

Remove your veg from the "Creuset" and set aside, covered to stay warm. Turn the oven up to 400 and in the same dish, pour in couscous and place the tuna pieces on top. Season with salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon. Scatter 1 tbsp of capers overtop, cover, and bake for 7 minutes, adding in your veg for the last minute to reheat, because who wants cold veg or more than one pot on a day of rest? Take time and enjoy, because tomorrow is Monday.

Pretty in Pink

2010-01-22T15:51:00.003-08:00

Last spring I had to switch to Granny Smith apples when the Pink Lady supply ran dry. Granted, there are far greater tragedies in life-- such as just a couple weeks later when the only apples available in this beautiful orchard country came all the way from Washington--but i do remember truly missing them. So this year, I am planning ahead.

And why not? I freeze/can/jam/dry every other fruit that i madly love and even ones i just sorta like a little. Apples, second only, probably, to apricots, for my habitual love of them, surely deserve a place in my cold storage. And so begins the madness.

I started with apple sauce. But I only made one jar. Silly, I know, but I wanted to be sure that it turned out all right before making a ginormous batch--vanilla beans are expensive, after all, and I didnt need another incident like the champagne peach fiasco. Now, however, it is time to make a vanilla investment, because the sauce was lovely. Goes to show when you have apples as wonderful as Pink Ladies, it doesnt take alot to make em shine, just water, heat and vanilla in this case. Oh so pretty too.

Next: the rings of ladies in my dehydrater right now. The last of a big batch, I have already snuck a few. It says something that I am even bothering with these, as dried is about the last way I would eat an apple--though juice is right up there too. But since a pal wooed me with amazying oatmeal walnut cookies laced with sneaky little bits of dried apples, my opinions changed. They did so even further with the ones I am doing myself. Again, its those darn Pink Ladies, they shine with flavour even when you suck the life out of them.

This weekend: apple butter, so that the ladies can join me for breakfast through spring and summer until they return in full form in the fall.

Let the craziness (aside from referring friend-like to apples) begin. Its a girls weekend.

bud breaking and baking

2010-01-20T15:26:00.005-08:00

Tonight there was sunshine while I ate dinner. I dont think I even ate dinner in daylight once this summer, let alone the middle of January. A perk of my new life as a baker.

With school finished and only a part time job at Codfathers until the Grapevine re-opens in April, it seemed like a good time to learn the art of bread. So I asked Monika at Okanagan Grocer if I could do a stage with her, an unpaid stint taken on by many a young cook to learn a specific skill or simply to put a fancy pants restaurant on your resume (alot of high ended European restaurants run on free labour). So Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights, beginning at midnight, I join the gals at Ok Grocer for some baking, chatting, and MJ dancing.

To do this, I have to retrain my system on Tuesday; read: pull an all nighter so that by Wednesday afternoon I am ready for bed. I thought this would be more difficult than it was, but I was amazed to find that eleven am Wednesday felt like five pm, and sure enough, waking up in the middle of the night, it felt just like my usual eight am. Plus, it is kind of fun to have breakfast at eleven at night, lunch while the sun rises, and, although surprising, dinner in daylight.

And a good dinner it was: buckwheat and ricotta gnocchi with tomatos and morels. I have dipped into my stash of frozen summer veg, and the morels were locally dried last spring. With the sun the way it was, though, it could easily have been a freshly made dish of a completely different season.

Though the switch from the notoriously grey Okanagan winters is great for the endorphins, there is a major downside to such early warmth and cheer: bud breaking. My pal explained this to me the other day as he chided me for revelling at the sun last weekend, as a too-early blooming of fruit trees, only to leave them barren in the summer. The idea has haunted me since, to the point of having a nightmare in which I am baking at the restaurant and there is no fruit for the flans, so I go searching fruitlessly at every orchard in the valley, the panic becoming stronger and stronger with each empty storehouse. Honestly, it is a scary thought! Whatll i eat this summer if there are no apricots? Sure, I laugh now at my overzealous canning and freezing, but now i fear that it will not last, and there may be nothing to replenish it with...ever again! Of course, I am probably being ridiculous, but then again, this season showed hardly any blackberries at winter's fault, so it is highly possible that stone fruit could be extinct this summer. I would rather have two more months of treacherous grey and cold. Because at least I have to bakery ovens to keep me warm.

Hello again

2010-01-17T22:54:00.004-08:00

Since the last post I have moved, been heartbroken by a pooch (or rather, the pooch-giving-away-SPCA), made fine food at school, made not-so-fine-food at school, laughed alot at school, finished school, and am now cutting fish for money and baking bread for bread (literally, a loaf as a wage). All that and so much more, and no internet to tell you all about it.

Until now. And I do not know where to begin. But I am glad to be able to be back.

still baking

2009-11-23T23:08:00.002-08:00

I was very excited when my Amazon order came in last week, having been waiting through two backorders with great anticipation for My Daily Bread ever since flipping through it in an overpriced bookstore and seeing a walnut bread with a snappable crust like nothing else. That is, until I had the book in my hands and learned that every recipe called for a clay baking pot, lidded cast iron skillet, or le Creuset style earthenware dish. The trick to that cracked crust, apparently, was in the pot.
Such cookware has been on my kitchen wish list for a long while, but it was not the time to cross any of them off of it (le Creusets, as I am sure you know, are worth their weight in gold as the saying goes). But I had to have that bread, and I tortured myself for the next few days perusing cooking stores and lifting many a heavy clay pot. Just when I was beginning to think I would not have the bread of my dreams until next April (when i would again be comfortably employed), I found a much less expensive version by Wolfgang Puck, just as heavy, but less than a third the price. I could smell the yeast already.
Now I did not jump right into the walnut loaf (though I have a shwonkity-shwonk of them, more on that later), deciding to start with something a little simpler, read: no add ins. Settling on a ciabatta I prepped the dough last night, giving it its full eighteen hours rising time. Then a second rise of one hour, then onto a hot pizza stone with my knock-off creuset as a lid, into the oven and more pensive waiting for bread. At least this time, the smells were real. And it turned out lovely, see?!

It was so lovely, in fact, that I decided to do another. Well, really, I decided that this morning, preparing a rye dough before heading to school (bread this way is not exactly a spur-of-the-moment-notion). Technically I could have let it rise another six hours (though that would have had it ready for the second rise at 2 am, so perhaps I am better off...), but it looked ready, bubbly and stretched on top, and I let excitement get the better of me. Another hour and half rising, and now it is in the oven. It is nearly midnight. I have school tomorrow and will be up in six hours. And the bread still has and hour to go. But it smells so damn good. I will sleep, eventually, very well.

And its back to the real world

2009-11-16T22:45:00.005-08:00

Today was my first day of school, traditionally complete with a bagged lunch and loaded with apprehensions.

I dont even know what to say about this; what to think; or what exactly I am afraid of.

I do know I need some waffles, otherwise I wont make it there at all.

Wish me luck.

smells like lovely

2009-11-11T11:58:00.002-08:00

I wish I could photograph scents--its smells amazing in here right now. I am making quince paste, and the quartered fruit is simmering in water to soften on the stove, wafting intoxicatingly through the whole suite. Oh its good.
Really though, the smells of cooking are so intrinsic to what you are making, so part of the final dish, that you should be able to capture them. Not to bottle as a perfume (love roasting garlic, but really dont want to smell like it) per se, but to hold so that it is not lost with the seeing and tasting. The smell is the first point of enrapture, breathing in the joys to come. It truly is beautiful.
And I do, perhaps strangely, wonder what a smell looks like. It might look like the memory it is invoking, or mimic the weather or color toned mood of the day or yourself, as we often cook inspired by what we see or feel. It could be new though, the beginning of an association, many colors or only one, something solid or something more whimsical.
The quince in here right now--it is blue streams of silk, like sashes on one of those old fashioned poles for dancing around. It is fresh air and it is fancy free, sweet and crisp, and like rolling around in the grass.
Call me crazy, but you would be too if you could smell this.

taking my time

2009-11-07T21:39:00.003-08:00

(lots of headings about "time" lately, huh? hmmm, wonder why? Probably because I have plenty of it...)
Actually, the last three days have been pretty busy considering this is supposed to be time off. And all because I fell in love. His name is Walter, and he is a Chow Chow-Golden Retriever cross; yes, Walter is a dog, and I am head over heels. So much so, that since meeting him on Thursday, I have asked my landlords permission, gotten a negative, gave them one months notice, started apartment hunting, found two, and am waiting until noon tomorrow for the final verdict on mine (and potentially, hopefully, Walter's). I almost feel as if I am jinxing it by writing about it here, but I am just so darned excited. And tired.
You would think that catching up on sleep would be easy what with notoriously leisurely pace of retirement, but like I said, the last couple of days have been: wooosh. These are big changes I am making, so besides spending all day in the car here there and everywhere Kelowna, and countless sleepless hours on the internet scanning for dog-friendly non-hole-in-the-walls, I am a little, well, stressed. Heres why: no job, possibly no place to live, and possibly all for nothing if Walter gets adopted by some other home-owning folks. And then there is the am I being irrational nag, reminding me that again, I have no job at this point and am about to begin school, a nag that I want to kick in the ass because quite frankly, there isnt a better time, a time that I have more time, than now, to get a dog. For once I will have an actual, routine schedule, with time in the mornings and late afternoons onward for me and my pooch. There is nothing less stressful than spending my time doing that.
Tonight though, with all the sudden I feel like turning my world upside down business, I needed to spend time in my kitchen. Considering the original intentions of my little holiday here were to cook endlessly in my own home, I really havent at all. Did the leftovers thing, the pasta quickie, and last night, all intentions to make a vanilla roasted kabocha squash and parsnip soup ended with me on the couch with a plate full of vanilla roasted kabocha squash and parsnips, not even a fork for that one. This afternoon, however, with some final pre-decision visits and phone calls, I called it a day, not able to do anything more but wait (pensively) until tomorrow, at four o'clock, at which point I enjoyed my last two pumpkin muffins with a latte (perfect happy ending), went for a walk with the last of the fall daylight, then aproned myself for the kitchen. Tonight: carrot gnocchi.
Gnocchi is something I often play with. Having finally perfected it (you'll recall that triumph), I have ventured to try its other forms: ricotta gnudi, gnocchi verde, and now, carrot gnocchi (the familiar butternut squash variety was one of my disasterous first attempts: a big ol' gummy glob, rendered edible by copious amounts of sage brown-butter and parmesano). Starting at five thirty and not eating until nearly nine should tell you how slow going I was. I even weighed the carrots for my little half recipe--whole and sliced. I let the puree cool completely, busying myself with a glass of wine and some cookbooks to read, standing all the while by the stove. I meticulously shaped the readied gnocchi dough with two teaspoons into, oh dammit, what is that word, not quenelles...y'know, little pointed pillows (technical term, I swear), before gently boiling them. I prepared a strong vegetable stock with herbs and aromatics to finish them off. While they baked, I made a salad of persimmons, shaved fennel, and sunchokes. And three and a half hours later, I ate all of that, with some bread. Of, course, it all could have been done much more quickly, but I was immersing myself in only that, relaxing, enjoying the smells, standing on my feet as I am used to doing, not sitting in a car, and photographing most of the beautiful steps to dinner. Dinner itself was kind of disappointing, seriously lacking in carrot-ty flavour, but I enjoyed every minute, all two hundred and ten of them. And the pictures turned out quite nice. But I dont have time to post them now, since dinner took so long...

camera happy

2009-11-04T12:12:00.002-08:00

I know this site is pretty sparse when it comes to photos, and I really have no excuse because I sure take enough of them. Or at least I did. My photo taking has been on hiatus for the last week as my camera was stolen from my car (i know, what the heck was I thinking leaving it in there in the first place? Again, me without an excuse). Since then its been kinda lonely without it, and frusterating with food looking particularly photogenic and the sun actually out these days, the colors of fall mockingly alive, the lake glistening. Yesterday I couldnt take it anymore, I needed a camera in my hands, and here it is: a Nikon d5000.
Now I am not going to pretend to know much about cameras or even how to work them; all I know is this is an upgrade from my last one (a SONY something, nice, but not an SLR. It did all of the work for me). I am a beginner photographer by all definitions and comparisons, but I love the art, and often see things as photographs. So once I have figured out how to work this baby (and then some) I hope to share a little more of what I capture, and make this place a prettier place to visit. Off to learn and play now!

slow down

2009-11-03T21:12:00.004-08:00

Repeat after me: caramelization. No, slowly, sound it out: car-a-me-li-za-tion. God thats a beautiful word, isnt it? Sugars are found in the least likely places when you let things slow roast, when they are subjected to car-a-me-li-za-tion. lovely.
Take, for instance, a bulb of garlic. Bite into that: ZING! You will burn off your tongue (do not test this assertion at home, folks, raw garlic munching is not for the faint of heart or taste). Even minced ever so fine, fresh garlic speaks volumes in flavour. And that is delightfully all well and good, a kick, a "bam" as Emeril Legassi made infamous, that I could not imagine hummus or fresh pesto without; even when it is most commonly softened as a prelude for many (any?) dish, garlic is a wonderful aromatic and flavour--but caramelized, it is taken to a level of sublime-ness. It is gooey and sticky, more subtle, yet more rich than its raw state, smear it on bread and youll find yourself licking your fingers.
Baking anything at a low temperature for a little extra time than you might devote to a sautee in a pan, seems to yield similar results. The skin of whatever it might be (parsnips and carrots are among my favorites) crispens and becomes sticky, while the inside, still aldente if done right, is sweet and moist; together the out and in are nutty and, well, caramelly. Its a beautiful thing, when you just let the oven do the work.
Thats what I did tonight. Well I busied myself with other things (such as reading the instruction manual of my NEW CAMERA!!...more later), a small head of cauliflower (ok, not that small, but I was hungry...) broken into florets with a few slices of shallots and a good slug of olive oil roasted away in my toaster oven. Before I sound too repetitive, this is a recipe I posted in the summer, but prepared this way, I swear it is like a whole new meal--plus, I did a few things differently, and quite frankly, I feel it has been improved. Meanwhile, I made a pesto from some toasted (roasted too, actually, alongside the cauliflower, but for only five minutes or so), a good handfull of parsley, a clove of garlic, homemade ricotta salata, and 5 pitted kalamata olives. This only killed about three minutes, while to let the cauliflower tinge itself brown, I had to wait at least twenty--I highly recommend a glass of wine to pass the time. When the cauliflower was near ready, I boiled some fusilli. When that was ready (a mere eight minutes in comparison) I drained it, poured the cooked pasta back in the pot, added the beautifully car-me-lized cauliflower and pesto, gave it all a good toss and tucked in. ohh. Nutty. Thats what I loved about it. Sure it couldve been the walnuts, but the veg itself was nutty. I am nutty, about car-me-li-za-tion.
So we may all be sad that summer is over, but as we transition into winter, lets enjoy fall and all of its caramelly things (toffee-coated apples included, but in a whole different category of splendor); drizzle a head of garlic with olive oil, wrap in foil, put in a low temp'd oven and unwind to the smells for an hour or so, and then sop up the reward for patience with some good bread and a warming meal, or roast your favorite root veg (or brassica) until its exterior is golden--and thats what life'll be.

Early retirement

2009-11-02T12:28:00.004-08:00

I meant to write this post last night, but after too much champagne, I decided the morning might present a more coherent read.
Yesterday was the official last day at the Grapevine (hence the champagne--I was celebrating...?). It was all cleaning, all fun, and all over. Until April first next yearI wont be making any more Goat Cheese Apples, roll balls of butter, bake tortilla rings, or fasion Romanoffs; wont be yelled at in German; wont have to scarf down lunch in thirty seconds flat before the next rush starts. And I will miss it, deeply miss, all of it.
The truth is, I love the chaos, the stress, the yelling, because they come part and parcel with the wind-down, the success, the laughter. Such crazy afternoon services meant that we broke records twice this season: one Saturday we served the most lunches in seven years, the next day, we broke that record by another fifty. The three high fives that came of that gave a feeling of commaradery that would last for many seasons beyond--you could just feel it, we achieved that together, we all kick ass at our jobs! I pinpoint that weekend as a starting point for a mutual respect that existed all along, but at that point became conscious. In fact, this season I really saw and felt a pride in and appreciation for myself; where I felt welcome before, I was now unstatingly a key part of it all. There are many little memories, looks, compliments, moments, that make me smile and look forward to the next season of complete and utter chaos.
Though it will be nice to have my heart rate and blood pressure at a relatively normal level for awhile, yesterdays final closing has left me with a bit of a gap--no a Grand Canyon. The Grapevine is such a huge all-or-nothing part of my life for eight months that the next four seem impossibly vacant. Especially the next two weeks before school starts; I do not do well with free time, and this enforced vacation is somewhat daunting. Sure I plan on doing all of the things that there is simply not time for while immersed in our season: writing more, working on my photography, visiting family and friends, cleaning my home (no it has not been eight months since the last time doing that), catch up on sleep, cook in my own kitchen whatever I want, maybe learn German for next year--but it all seems so low key in comparison. It is only a matter of time though, before I get used to that, to the quiet, to the normal paced eating, to the relaxation--all of which I will happily give up again in the spring.
So the champagne toasted last season and the next, while what was left this morning to have with breakfast,celebrated the in-between. Cheers.

playing willy wonka

2009-11-01T00:39:00.002-07:00

Today is Halloween, so in the spirit of a holiday that seems to celebrate corn syrup, I tried my hand at making candy. Both hands, actually.
Let me start from the beginning. After the farmers market today, where (sidenote) I picked up the most generous bouquet of curly endive I have seen this side of the border, I did errands around town: the bulk food store for oats and lentils, the bank, the grocer for milk, and about six other grocery/drug/jumbo-shopping-plazas in a fruitless search for old school molasses candies. Remember those? Wrapped in brown or orange wax paper with little black witches flying past moons or yellow-eyed jack-o-lanterns, have a pillowsack of trick or treating loot was inevitably those cheap candies. Most kids loathed them. I loved them. I still do, the way they stick to your teeth and really get your spit going, their almost salty, deeper than caramel flavour. I would trade chocolate bars for them years ago, and now, i wanted a whole bag to myself (and possibly the two kids that might knock on my door). No such luck--I would have to make my own.
But could I find a recipe. No. Apparently such candies have completely vanished off the face of the earth--though, in discussion with others, that is probably not possible, they were made to withstand the test of time and will probably, one day, be indicative of our species time here on earth when dug up by the next inhabitants. What I did have though, was a recipe for fleur de sel caramels, so I figured molasses would make a fine substitute for corn syrup and went on my way. I did the salted caramels first, to test the recipe. Well I should have tested my thermometer, because the caramel went black and it read only 180F when it was supposed to reach 248F when ready. I would have to start again (very determined at this point to have something uber sugary for halloween), but now I did not have enough cream to make those and the molasses candies. The closest dairy selling store is fifteen minutes from my house, and the cream was two days passed due. He let me open it though, and it smelled fine so I got it at half price, though about four times as much as I needed. Again at the stove, I was more careful with stirring and attentiveness to color, but had no idea what I was looking for without a temperature gage. So I flipped open the ever-knowledgeable Joy of Cooking and there it was "soft ball" stage and the like. If only I had known 2 cups of cream and one very scorched pan earlier. But they worked: melt in your mouth, wrap around your teeth, feel the cavities perfect, just as I remembered them. Complete with a fabulous Vegan dinner inspired by my friend Torrence and a clovey pumpkin beer, it turned out to be a pretty fabulous celebration of corn syrup after all.

Salted Molasses Candies
This is my twist on a recipe from Gourmet. I used less butter and more molasses, and cooked til the soft ball stage (drop some candy mixture into a cold glass of water, remove and squish with your fingers, if it forms a soft gummy ball, you are good to go). Though not as good as the original--where are those things...anyone have any left from their Halloweening days?

1 cup heavy cream
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 1/2 cups sugar (I used white, but I am thinking brown, or even demerrara would have been better)
1/3 cup dark molasses
1/4 cup water

Line bottom and sides of an 8-inch square baking pan with parchment paper, then lightly oil parchment.
Bring cream, butter, and salt to a boil in a small saucepan, then remove from heat and set aside.
Boil sugar,molasses, and water in a 3- to 4-quart heavy saucepan, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil, without stirring but gently swirling pan, for three to five minutes. Carefully stir in cream mixture (mixture will bubble up) and simmer, stirring frequently, until caramel registers 248°F (haha--or hits the soft ball stage as discussed) on thermometer, 10 to 15 minutes. Pour into baking pan and cool 2 hours. Cut into 1-inch pieces, then wrap each piece in a 4-inch square of wax paper, twisting 2 ends to close.

For those few people who, like me, love those nasty little molasses chews, small drugstores still carry them--i by-chance called our local Winfield Paragon Pharmacy and sure enough they sell them, but they were sold out on the first day. I guess they are more popular than I thought--or there are alot of unhappy kit-kat-less children in this town.

its (all) about time

2009-10-30T21:35:00.002-07:00

Tonight while eating dinner it clicked: today was my last, actual, real, cooking shift at the Grapevine this season. Sure there is one day left on my schedule, but it will be spent scrubbing walls, and tackling that treacherous oven, rather than cooking with it. Today was it--wasnt yesterday just the beginning?
Now I must stop. I vow to write more on Sunday, when it is all actually done-done. When the season is officially over. Last sign in and out, last day in that kitchen with those wonderful people--prepare for some serious sentimentality.
It has been a good run though (more on Sunday, saving it for Sunday...), with an idle last week or so. Eerily so. I mean, it is go-go-go, go some more, sweat alot, yell some, remember to breathe and eat, breathe eat and sleep the restaurant since, well, warmth and tourism around here and then just...nothing. I mean, there was no segway, no phasing out, just: quiet. Which has been just as exciting.
Perhaps "exciting" is the wrong word, but enjoyable (perhaps "enjoyable" is the wrong word, as summer was chaos and stress--enjoyable chaos and stress). For the last few days, I have been playing in the pastry kitchen, making sponge cakes and chocolate mousse, choux pastry and vanilla cream to transform it into cream puffs, and a calvados sabayon that I am proud to immodestly call lovely. For the last few days, there has been time.
Now, though, time hardly seems so wonderful. In fact, it seems down right cumbersome, a burden that is haunting me as I await the very last day. Sure school begins and my days will be again filled, but even the mere two weeks prior to that, in what I would consider an early retirement if I even considered retirement part of my later in life plan, are sufficatingly full of nothing but time. It makes me anxious. What am I to do with all of that time and no one to cook for but me? And surely I cant cook all day for myself. I need a hobby. Wait, I have one, its called cooking. Are you sensing my restlessness.
Most people would enjoy such an enforced vacation, a freedom for two weeks before reality kicks back in. And I do plan on enjoying it, cooking things on my "list," and cooking for others too.
And I will start with Spatzli. From scratch, through the ricer, laden with enough nutmeg to make my grandma swoon. This tops my list because tonight, for the first time, I tried Spatzli--Germany and Switzerlands take on pasta. Now, being a pasta lover myself, and working under both a German (who, mind you, ate Spatzli almost--no I could probably safely say just-- every day this season) and Swiss chefs, it is surprising that I waited all year. And that thought was even more surprising when I took my first bite. "Oh my god," I thought--i may have even said this out loud--, "why the hell havent I been eating this all year?" It was that good. Soft and richly eggy, Spatzli is fluffy in a way aldente pasta cannot be. And I was shoveling it down as if I had no time at all to eat it. Seriously, I could not get enough, and wish so much that this had been my last Grapevine Spatzli rather than my first (meaning it sure would have licked the stress and hunger of the busy times). So my next food mission, what with all this newfound free time, will be to make my own, because I cannot imagine the off-season without it. And I have enough time to perfect it, and impress the shit out of that German and that Swiss the next time I see them. Not ready to say goodbye (more on Sunday...nows not the time).

Spatzli
This is the basic recipe and technique for Spatzli. At the restaurant, we served it unadorned as the starch side to Duck Breast with a warm cabbage salad for Dinner, at lunch it was sauteed with mushrooms, leeks and ham, before being doused in bechamel, covered with cheese and gratineed. I however, sauteed it with a clove of finely minced garlic, chopped kale, and sprigs of thyme and sage; top with parmesan cheese and wondered why I let so much time slip by.

the pink ladies have arrived

2009-10-25T11:56:00.004-07:00

I used to follow the adage "An apple a day keeps the doctor away," religiously grabbing an apple each morning with breakfast. But as the last of the winter stock dwindled this spring, and summer brought apricots, cherries, raspberries, peaches, and plums, I replaced my old standby with what was in season. And I hardly missed them at all; there was plenty (again, too much) to choose from.
Now, however, is apple season. The market is full of Honeycrisps, Granny Smiths, Macs, Spartans, Ambrosias, and Mutsus. I, however, have been waiting for Pink Ladies.
It has been a long wait, too, one where I kept my mind off apple cravings with Bosc Pears so as not to give in to another apple type, one I knew would be far less satisfying after two seasons without them.
I discovered, and fell madly in love with Pink Ladies last winter, reading a snippet somewhere by Alice Waters and a dessert of a tart made with lemon curd and said apples. On the Chez Panisse online menu, they listed another pairing of the Pink Ladies and cherries. Well, if they were a regular occurance for Chez Panisse, they must be special. So I sought them out...and didnt have to go far. They were in the same place I buy all my apples and pears, the Okanagan Fruit Packing co, a frigid cooler-of-a-building where I once did an apple and pear tasting with some chef friends: 42 varities at nine in the morning, thats alot of fibre even for this fruit lover. I dont remember tasting the Pink Ladies then, but I do remember that successful visit finding them.
The skin of a Pink Lady is, well, pink, blending with yellow in a smeared, pastel sort of coating. They were pretty. Before even getting in my car, I pulled an apple from the bag, and feeling this was going to be something special, closed my eyes and took a bite. Bam! It sparkled! This apple was effervescent, I swear--like having champagne! The skin was the but not chewy, the flesh was so crisp and juicy, not at all mealy or woody. It was perfect; Id never go back (I did once, with a Granny Smith, and regretted it...).
Unfortunately, though, Pink Ladies require a long growing season, adn they are one of the last apples to arrive. For weeks now, there have been plenty of apples to choose from, the Ambrosias particularly tempting with their similar hue (be strong, remember the disappointment of the Granny Smith), but I was choosing to wait for my favorite. I kept stopping in at OK Fruit Packers, but they were not there. By the seventh stop I was beginning to wonder if they were never going to come, we did have very sketchy weather this year. But I had heard that this was to be one of the best apple seasons yet, and I remained optimistic--and patient.
You can imagine my delight then, when yesterday at the market, after asking what the unidentified box of apples was at my Bosc mans stand (let it be Pink Ladies, please say Pink Ladies), he said he could not recall; it was on the tip of his toungue--oh what were they called. Pink Ladies, I asked as he said the same thing, remembering. I did a little happy dance and clap (the same moves I compulsively do when rhubarb hits the stands in spring). And then I bought twelve pounds (youll recall the heaviness of my basket). Back at my car, just as the winter before, I picked out a particularly large apple, closed my eyes and took a bite as delightful as the very first. So worth the wait.
And now I dream of all the things I will do now that my old favorite is back in the fridge. Plenty will be eaten unadultered, sure, but some will be sliced on mueslix or peanut butter toast for breakfast, dipped in lemon curd for an easy dessert, with walnuts and honey at any time of day, baked in crisps, or in a pie with a aged cheddar. I love that combination, old white cheddar with my sparkling Pink Ladies. One recipe I have been dreaming about since I began dreaming again about Pink Ladies is a crostada of the fruit, the crust laced with the sharp cheese. When I make it, I will provide the recipe. But for now, I am so excited to have them again taht I just had to share, and now I have to go eat another!

un-pickiness

2009-10-25T10:58:00.005-07:00

It seems silly to complain about too much food, but that is what I am about to do.

Market day yesterday and I would not resist the bounty of fall harvest. Soon my basket was impossibly (and in-carry-ably) full of apples and pears, parsnips, garlic, sunchokes, and the last head of butter lettuce I will eat this year, a double-baked swiss bread. If I had not run out of money--yes, actually cash stricken and not a debit weilding produce stand in sight--I would have added about ten pounds of winter squash in four different colors and varieties to my load, settling instead for another delicata, my last toonie.

I would consider this a successful trip, and look forward to the wholesome meals to come of it, if it were not for all the other options already in my fridge--artichokes, fennel, kale, carrots, beets, and more parsnips. Granted, most of the fall veg is hardy, and will keep well beyond next weeks market, the last one of the season, when I am bound to bring home those other three squash and then some. It is not really that I worry about all that I once found so beautiful will be found so rotten I have to throw it out, it is where to begin with it all.

There is just simply not enough time or meals in the day, or space in my stomach, for all that I want to make. Everytime I open my fridge door, I breathe in with excitement; it all looks so fresh and lovely, but then I go to reach for something, and my outstretched hand seems lost, going from veg to veg to fruit to cheese (another drawer of great variety), back to fruit and finally, fingers now a little chilly, comes out with nothing. Grabs a pumpkin muffin off the counter. It will help me think of what I really want.

But thats the problem, I want it all. If I could cook and eat all day I would, but it is just not timely, or physically possible. And choosing what to eat each time hunger calls is difficult with so many options and so many things that I love. I start thinking, I know I want to have this now, but I might want that later, or have been looking forward to having this for dinner, and will having this now ruin my appetite. What about this instead, its smaller...but oh, I was saving that to have with this. Besides, this will last longer than that, and I had one of those yesterday. Sound crazy--well it is.

Sometimes I think I should exercise more control when shopping, giving myself less options and less strife. Choose one vegetable per week, buy a shwack load of it, each night make a different meal with it, get right sick of it, move on. Its not just dinner though, breakfast would have to be the same all week too, so the cereal/toast/baking and all additions debate would not occur, the same brown paper lunch, and (I couldnt do it) one kind of cheese. One variety of fruit. The muffins stay, but only bake one batch of cookies for the week. Sounds beyond crazy. And boring.

Shopping then, I should think of what I really love, rather than what I love the look of. Again, though, and I may be writing in circles here, I love it all, some more than others, yes, but I am not picky. I love having variety and choices too, and all of this is really not worthy of complaint. I should be thankful that I do have so many options, that opening my crisper drawers is a struggle, that if I get the craving for something, chances are, its in my kitchen somewhere. I should be thankful that leaving the market with an empty wallet only meant that I would have to stop at and ATM and get the cash I would need to buy the quince I had arranged to pick up from a local farmer, use my card at the grocer for yogurt and figs. I am thankful, and I do so enjoy it all. And tonight, I will enjoy that fennel. Thats whats calling me and my outstretched hand today (its also been in there the longest, but never mind that). First, though, maybe an apple, or a pear, those look good...I should make a salad, or some soup, its chilly. Where are those muffins. Sigh, you have to start somewhere.

Swordfish with Braised Fennel, Olives, and Meyer Lemon
I buy vegetables because they are beautiful, which is exactly why I bought Maggies Harvest, a gorgeous (and as heavy as some of my root veg) cookbook by Maggie Beer. It is cloth bound, seasonally divided, and full of rustic, honest photographs. Turns out, it is also full of wonderful recipes and ideas, like this one for swordfish. Not an actual recipe in the book, but mentioned in the prelude to fennel as a salsa prepared by the late Catherine Brandel of Chez Panisse. Maggie could not recall the fish it was served on at the time, but imagined it would be wonderful on swordfish. This is my take on her story.

worth the wait

2009-10-23T21:56:00.004-07:00

For the second time today, I am waiting--most unexpectedly and (seemingly) eternally--for the oven timer to ding.
Waiting for the ding #1:
As the season is slowing, I am finally trying and learning new things at work. Today (well, the last two days actually, and more to come yet) was dedicated to honing my pastry, well, cake skills (that, and boiling a lobster). The other day I tackled a sponge cake box mix, a prelude to researching and baking the from-scratch version. Today, the cake was transformed into a white and dark chocolate, Austrian-style torte, mousse heavy and complete with chocolate fans. Splendid, but I barely touched it, taking notes while Rene, the (modest...?) cake guru did all the layering. I did however, have complete reign over a flourless chocolate torte--where my story begins.
I took my time making the batter, assembling my pan and collecting my ingredients before attentively following the weighed proportions of the recipe. Allow me to stress how carefully I wrapped that nine-inch springform pan in foil so as the keep the water of the Bain Marie it was to be immersed in from ruining the dessert I was trusted with. Just over an hour and the cake was ready, looking dark and flattened for thickness, I let it cool in its pan for far too long while I busied myself with other things. Had I checked a little sooner, I may not have this tale to tell, for all may have looked and smelled wonderful, but with the release of the pan sides came a stream, no, river, of water, and a far-too-fudgy cake. Never mind that it tasted great, this was a hardly a cake at all, more of a baked pudding. With forty five minutes left in my shift, and no bosses present, I started again.
It was such a simple recipe: 225 g butter, 250g chocolate, 1/2 cup sugar, 5 eggs, 1 Tbsp each cocoa and more sugar, 2 tsp vanilla, melt, beat, beat, beat, pour, bake, that I didnt grab the book as I hurried with a second chance. And I had all the quantities right, only, as this cake sat in the oven, it dawned on me that my 1/2 cup sugar had been weighed out at 225 g, on a roll from the chocolate and butter. Shit. But I had used a darker chocolate this time, so I hoped it would balance the doubled sweetness. Only time would tell. And alot of time, let me tell you. Not wanting to risk another soggy mess, upon Johnnys advice I turned the oven down, and stuck the cake in sans water bath, and nearly an hour and a half later, I pulled it out. I dont work tomorrow. Or the next day. I will not know until Monday if it turned out all right. I wont sleep until Monday night.
And apparently I will not sleep tonight, at the rate that my dinner is going. Last weekend I could not resist buying a delicata squash at the farmers market. It was cold and rainy that day, and roasting a whole squash seemed perfect. But I didnt do it that night, in fact, the market is again tomorrow, and I am just dealing with last weeks purchase. But it smells wonderful, and I am hungry with anticipation--have been, for the last hour and then some. After thirty minute I check my wrapped beauty. Not even close. So I poured some more wine, ate some of the bread and cheese I had to go with dinner, and waited for another half hour. Not quite. More wine. Is it done yet? Did the timer on my oven break? I think I will go watch it cook...

Ok, that was some time ago now. And I have since enjoyed that slow roaster, and too much wine in the meantime. But it was worth it, so worth it. Now I can only hope that cake was worth it too. Until Monday...

Tomato and Chantrelle stuffed Delicata with Herbs and Garlic
This is the last of summer meets fall: there are no more fresh tomatos, and summery chantrelles are replaced with the wintery little brown shrooms until the morels of spring bring change. But there are squash, and will be for awhile, ready to be roasted all cold weather seasons long. This time I stuffed before roasting, and, scraping the contents into a bowl, with a chunk of bread and wedge of aged gouda, I was satisfyed and cared less about how late it is (though that might be the wine). It would be equally delicious, I think, stirred into soft polenta, or baked with cream and parmesan.

In a small pan, warm some olive oil and gently soften:
1 thick slice of onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, smashed and roughly chopped
Once translucent, add in a cook until softened:
1 small leek (or 1/2 large), sliced and rinsed over
1 cup chantrelles, chopped and brushed clean
Add in and warm through:
1 large tomato, diced (roughly 1 cup)
1 sprig each thyme, oregano and savory
1 bay leaf
Cut a delicata squash in half lengthwise, scraping out seeds with a large spoon. Fill the cavity with the chantrelle mixture, drizzle with olive oil, season with salt and pepper, close back up and wrap in tinfoil. Back at 375 for half an hour, I mean one hour, I mean, maybe a bit longer. When it is finally done, scrape out all the goods into a bowl with lima beans or roast chicken. Top with chopped parsely and another good swig of oil. Be glad you were patient, tis the season for slow cooking.

"doing" mushrooms

2009-10-20T22:27:00.002-07:00

Sometimes bad things happen to you. For no reason at all, for no fault of your own. A random hate crime from the universe that could have smacked anyone else in the face but instead it chose you. Today, it chose me.
Coming back from a mushroom forage with other Junior Chefs, we noticed a car in the parking lot where we had met earlier that morning with its passenger window completely shattered. It was my car. Someone had broken the glass with a rock the size of my head (which remains on the drivers side floor), stolen my camera (yet left the cell phone that I carelessly left in the first place...), and I suppose, dashed off to the nearest pawn shop to, again with my presumptuousness, get money for drugs.
Ok, so I am insinuating their plan in an unfair way. But I was just robbed of one of my most prized possessions (the one, ironically, I wished I had all day as we treked through the forest in search of non-magic mushrooms), and left, as the weather gets cooler, with no right window and the impending bill for a new one. Also missing was a bag with school papers and government cheque (woulda helped pay for the window...). But what could I do. Just be thankful, I guess, that my beautiful market basket wasnt taken too, or that the ginormous boulder didnt go in one side and out the other.
And cook something wonderful.
Setting out on the mushroom tour today, I envisioned returning home with a little brown bag of collected edibles. I envisioned a risotto or polenta with enough pungent earthiness and cream to right settle into, or even just a buttery sautee on toast with a dry cheese and glass of white. But we came back as empty handed as my passenger side is empty mirrored.
Luckily, I had a bag of local chantrelles in my produce drawer, just waiting for their chance to shine. Softening first a little garlic and onion in olive oil, I chunkily chopped the chantrelles and tossed them in. As they met the heat their sweet smell rose, and I simply forgot about the drama of the end of my day. The camera was no longer a worry, rather it became an excuse for a new one; thankful to come back to any car at all, rather than upset at a car one window short. It was mushroom induced euphoria, something magic.

Chantrelle and Tomato Pasta
I used my last fresh tomatoes of the season for this dish, and can not think of a better way to enjoy them. The sauce was fresh yet rich, with meaty bites of chantrelles, soothing and comforting from first smell to last bite.

Bring a large pot of water to a boil; meanwhile...
Heat oil in pan and gently soften:
1 thick slice spanish onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
Once translucent, add:
1 cup roughly chopped chantrelles
Sautee until you are completely enraptured by the buttery sweet smell, then add your pasta to the pot of water.
Add to the pan and season with salt and pepper:
1 large tomato, diced
1 sprig fresh time
Cover and cook for five minutes; remove lid from pan, increase heat, and simmer until at least half of the liquid is gone. Add cooked pasta and toss (if too much of your liquid has evaporated, add a little pasta water to loosed the sauce to coat). Top with chopped parsely and grated grana padano. Eat lifes cares away--it could be worse.

Nows the time

2009-10-18T21:37:00.003-07:00

The season is coming to an end at the Grapevine. Though I am sad, I think of all the time I will have to make what I want to make, to teach myself, to practice, to put in effort. To eat a proper lunch. I look forward to days spent in my kitchen whiling away the time with dishes I have long wanted to try my hand at: souffles, doughnuts, sourdough bread, perogies; to not having to plan ahead so that I dont end up eating the same pasta all week long, to being able to really think about what I want for dinner at that minute and having the time to make it happen. I will surely be on my feet just as often, and may take to wearing my slip-and-stab-proofs in my home kitchen.
On my days off throughout the season, I would get excited, and plan what I was going to fill my day with making. Especially breakfast. Porridge would be set aside in favour of French toast or an omelette. Id bake scones or whip up crepes, and take hours to eat it, drinking way too much coffee. Then the rest of the day would be spent thinking about dinner and eventually making it too. Risotto and homemade pasta were saved for those days, and any new recipes that I have wanted to try. But with the prospect of many days off, and a sudden desire, with school approaching, to expand my knowledge and abilities (easy to neglect when you are very frustrated with the industry on a day to work day basis) I long to try new things, not just take time with my old faves; to try out classics, and maybe learn some of those French terms in the meantime. So heres to new cooking adventures and eating to pass the time--if only I could count these hours towards my apprenticeship. Or get paid still...

Avoiding fancy

2009-10-18T21:19:00.003-07:00

I do not like to cook fancy for myself. I usually follow a five ingredient rule (as well as my two pot max), and going beyond that makes me think that I am pushing simplicity, forcing too many things together into a conundrum of flavours less likely to please than to confuse. However, I often rearrange such five items in my head to become something that tastes like what I am eating, but sounds, for lack of a better, or real for that matter, word, menu-able. In other words, what I would do to my dinner if it was for my restaurant, rather than my personal dinner.
Does this mean though, that I care less about cooking for one than I do many. I have always thought that taking care of oneself in the kitchen is worth the extra effort, and enjoying my dinner has often meant enjoying my day, period. So why dont I cook the meals that I hear in my head as I eat the flavour inspiration of it? Perhaps embarassment at being fancy for just me (my sisters judgments come to mind) or a desire and regard for simplicity (my own judgements), or because the best ideas stem from the failure (i use the term loosely, dinners have been really good lately--toot toot) of others, the improvements or rearrangements into something a little better. It is certainly not for lack of time, plenty of that lately. And I hope it is not for lack of effort.
Yknow what--I think I am having a moment. A moment where it seems just too high maitenance to do something fancy for me. I am not talking about five course dinners or gastronomic revelations, but a willingness to go that extra step, take that extra bit of care, fuel that curiosity, or even understanding of flavours for just me. And not to tell someone about it later, but to enjoy it now, rather than think of what it could be.
Fancy, itself, is very subjective. Non-cooking friends (and sisters) of mine, think boxed pasta with a sauce I made from scratch is fancy, to make the pasta myself would be downright extravagant. I, on the other hand, view those with a simplistic eye: low maitenance, comfortable to make and eat, and a canvas for humble creativity. To me, I think, fanciness is in the preparation, the richness of a dish, the expense; the length of time from step A to step eat, and the number of steps in between. And most of the time I want none of that. I love to be involved lovingly in what I am cooking, but not encumbered with timing and calculation. And yes, I want to cook what I would be happy to present at a restaurant, but I would happily present the same things to anyone as unfancy as I am. Call me fancy, but I love to love food, and love to share that food and love. Moment over.

when im stuck with a day, thats grey, and lonely...

2009-10-17T23:10:00.007-07:00

funny that I should just be thinking of writing about lentil soup. More specifically, its inevitable unappetizing greyish color--at least if you use du puy lentils, or any bluish colored specimen. It does not happen, however, when you use red lentils, as in the soup I was thinking of and longing for when the thought of grey mush too mockingly resembled the rainy outdoors today, the weather the reason I craved healthy and hearty, warming lentil soup in the first place. Apparently, I was not alone.

Signing in to my blog tonight, intending to write mournfully about the weather: the rain that has been off and on drizzling and downpouring for the past four days, the grey that seems even less likely than the rain to let up as the Okanagan enters its infamous season of no color, I instead read someone elses blog. All the better for it, I suppose, because now I will write with less doom and gloom and perhaps a little more, well, color.
Heidi Swanson's blog, 101cookbooks.com, is one of the sites I regularly visit, not only for her stunning photography, but for her wholesome, often vegetarian recipes (i'd never claim to be a vegetarian--dont get me started on such labels--if you have me over for dinner, Ill eat whatever you cook, and i could not imagine life without prosciutto or sausages; if I eat any meat, it is usually for wanton cravings of fatty pork, Italian style), such as this lentil soup that so ironically appeared as her post this evening.
This often happens: I am thinking of writing something, or even just thinking something, and then I read my thoughts written by someone else. In fact, such happenings are both the reason I started this blog, and the reason it took me so long to do so.
I have, for awhile, wanted to do something like this, but hadn't for awhile, because it seemed like everyone was, or already had, done so. Lets face it, there are alot of blogs out there, you probably have one too, so I was hesitant. Then I read Orangette, and promptly ordered Molly's book, where within two sentences, not pages, mere sentences, we are talking less than 25 words here folks, I threw out any idea of blogging, nevermind writing about food again. Ok, I just picked up the book and I am clearly exaggerating, it was page two that got me. But never mind specifics, the point is that she was saying what I felt, what I had written only in personal journals and the very, very, rough draft of my own essay collection/cookbook (more on that later...), and I lost the need to say it. Finishing the book, or at some point there-within (no specifics), I got that feeling back, and here I am typing away, hoping somebody else will read and relate to me, maybe even Molly herself; I realized she needed and outlet, as did I, and rather than feeling someone was saying what I wanted to, I felt companionship in someone feeling what I was feeling, and saying it. I could say it too.
That Heidi is cooking lentils tonight, the same night that I am sitting here craving them, is ironic and comforting, having someone to relate to, even a stranger, a stranger who loves lentils like I do.
Most specifically, red lentils. My intent tonight (slightly off course here), was to not only comment on the grey outside, but the way most lentil dishes turn that similar, bland shade (ok, I am repeating myself, but at least I am focused:weather, lentils, grey...spit it out already). Except dishes made with red lentils (Eureka! what a discovery, red lentil dishes arent grey, I am brilliant, please keep reading my insightful blog). Admittedly, I was having a bit of an epiphany here, as I recalled a way to satisfy my craving for lentils without my dinner matching the outdoors: Jeff Irwins Red Lentil and Rosemary Soup.
Now let me tell you, quickly, about Jeff. He was a chef at 764 Restaurant when I worked there, and his mission, it seemed, was to be completely not approachable or friendly, but rather, seek and enact a method to make you feel horribly guilty/ignorant/unwanted/like crying. His moods were hard to read, and likely to have changed twice over once you thought youd figure it out. I dreaded working with him. But he was very talented, and he made one hell of a, no, many hells of a, good soup(s). I was afraid though, to ask for the recipes, but this lentil one I had to have, it was thick without being thickened, smelled so intoxicating I could hardly deliver it to a table without wanting to sneak away and down the bowl myself, was a beautiful, muted crimson color that just sang of lusciousness. So I mustered up the courage and asked. It took him all day, and me both offering to pay him for it (was he in a joking sorta mood), threatening to not let it go (still hoping he has a sense of humour), cowering away and asking others (he seems edgy), begging shamelessly (egotistic and, yes edgy today), until finally, of his own conceit, he simply said that it was very easy, literally the title gave the ingredients: Red Lentil and Tomato Soup with Rosemary. I knew there was also spinach, and supposed there to be garlic, but he wouldnt say much more. Except that the key, and this seemed mighty generous a divulging of his, was plenty of good olive oil. Lots, he said. That was the trick.
Jeffs soup is simple and damn good, and so not grey. But as I honestly just gave you the recipe that he gave me, I will provide this, but be warned, its grey.

Grey Lentil Stew
I made this with three root veg I love, but I imagine with would be wonderful with winter greens such as chard or kale,some chopped tomatos, or with a grain such as brown rice or farro--though I would cook these seperately and then stir in, as they tend to take longer than the lentils. If you have leftovers, sautee it up in a little hazelnut oil and splash in some red wine vinegar for an amazing salad...but I dont like leftovers, so I just keep on eating, sopping up the juices with some good crusty bread. Oh, and the creme fraiche is key when the weather matches the stew, because though lentils satisty hearty and healthy, cream takes care of comfort just a little bit more.

Warm some olive oil in a sauce pot and slowly soften:
1 clove garlic, smashed, peeled and very finely minced
1 shallot, thinly sliced
Add in and sautee three minutes:
1/2 cup golden beets, diced
Next comes:
1/2 cup parsnips
Cook another three minutes and finally add:
1/2 cup jerusalem artichokes, diced
1/2 cup french green lentils
1 bay leaf (this is my old herb standby--you may want to try some dried chili flakes, fresh thyme, or rosemary)
Stir to mix it all up, turn up the heat and when you hear it sizzling, splash in some rosè wine. Stir, then cover with water, about 1 cup (you can add more if needed). Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium low, cover and let simmer for 20 minutes, or until veg are tender. Top with creme fraiche and chopped parsely and a good swig of olive oil (jeff style).

just stick up your chin, and grin, and say...

first time for everything

2009-10-17T22:55:00.004-07:00

When I get an idea in my head, I have to have it. It is hard to shake: even after several unsuccessful market and grocer stops, i remain non-plussed, determined to make whatever i want to make, happen--and unable to choose something else for simplicity, time, and hungers sake. Stubborn is perhaps a more acurate term than determined.
Such ideas often stem from a desire for a favorite dish, and inevitably a craving during the wrong season. Tomatoey fish stew in the middle of winter, for one, when there is not a real tomato in sight let alone any colored vegetable. Or minted artichoke risotto, just days after the last of my herbs succumbed to the frost, and artichokes come from my cupboard not the ground. Apricots, just fresh, in spring and fall, before or after their season of bounty. More likely though, the idea is inspired by something I have yet to try, be it a cookery method, dish, or even ingredient.
Take, for example, the trout of two days ago. I have wanted rainbow trout since the weather turned cold and the halibut supplies dwindled. Time for something new and from a lake. Time for a fish that I could bake whole, just for me. Time to waste alot of time searching, four, yes four, grocery stores before finding the little guys (dont I live by at least three lakes that they swim in for heavens sake...). Finally though, I found them, and by ten oclock that night I was eating the whole swimmer, roasted in the oven just as I envisioned, recalling childhood fishing trips complete with hooking my own hand and the ce, my stepfathers claim to fishing success-- cheese, my stepfathers claim to fishing success--though, mind you, no true recollection of actually catching and eating a trout, and feeling much more successful this time at my own table.
Not having a taste memory, I wanted this fish as pure as possible, so I roasted it with a few slices of lemon and some parsely (safe), and topped with a little sherry butter to crisp the skin under the broiler. Devine. This is the approach I usually take when I search endlessly for a new something: prepare as unadulterated as possible to taste purely what I was so hungry for.
Tonight, or rather today, was all about quince. I have never tried the apple-ish fruit, but have waited to find its deformed and ugly yellowy-green self at markets or my apple place, having read and heard about it plenty. So when it appeared today in a soup prepared for the chefs association annual fundraiser at the market, I had to get me some once and for all.
And now I am waiting, as the anticipated quince roasts with a little honey and some wine in the toaster oven...

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I burnt it! ha! oh, it gets better, or rather, it got worse. Because before the charring, I have boiled slices of peeled quince because of having read of its long roasting time. Mush. I roasted that anyways, in a seperate dish of un-mushy peeled and sliced quince, both drizzled with honey, the latter with the wine (the first certainly did not need more liquid). Then into the oven, 375, for about ten minutes too long. Ah, cest la vie--just another day of finally eating what the day has been spent searching for: not perfect, slightly humorous, and generally successful for at least now I have tried quince, what the day was intended for. And, blackened bits removed, it was quite delightful, surprisingly zingy, and the new possibilities are endless...plus, it was a great excuse of a dessert to top with a shwonk load of whip cream.

Autumn friends

2009-10-13T23:46:00.005-07:00

It is that time: now that I have had pumpkin pie, I can have what I wait for the moment that leaves start a changing. Pumpkin muffins. My ma used to make these with the inevitable leftover pumpkin puree in those much more than necessary for a pie cans, transforming her basic muffin recipe into something worthy of breakfast, snack, or dessert (add vanilla cream for the latter). When I left home, I took the recipe with me, and after turkey dinner, I would make a double batch (that is alot, youll see what I mean with the recipe) literally filling my fridge freezers with muffins and only muffins; no room for anything else, and why would there need to be. Each morning I would pull a few out, and each afternoon I would warm them a bit, grab a coffee, and for a few minutes escape the world of brain numbing University studies. At least if I was eating pumpkin muffins, it seemed as if I was reading Dickens for pleasure rather than for Victorian Lit.

Even though I am not in school anymore, and my favorite lattes could be combined with any of the wonderful financiers, tuilles, frangipans, or macaroons coming out of our pastry kitchen, I still made these this morning. My autumns would not be complete without them--actually, my autumns are epitomized by them. Truly.

So what is so great about a basic muffin+pumpkin, you ask? First of all, it is hardly a muffin at all. But it is not cake either, being not-too-sweet; not even close to a buttery scone; almost breadlike though; really, a baked good of its own category. The pumpkin gives the dough this incredible moistness, and fluffy yet dense texture. They are substantial yet light, scented with spice and with the earthy, natural sweetness of squash. And the perfect partner for lattes. See for yourself.

Pumpkin Muffins

Though this recipe makes 4 1/2 to 5 dozen muffins, I usually have to make two batches to last the season. Frozen once cooled, they rewarm as if fresh from the oven. I have changed my mas recipe slightly, as I have had plenty of autumns to experiment. And no, these are not dry-ass like most of my university baking.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together:

2 1/2 cups each whole wheat and AP flour

3/4 cup brown sugar

2 1/2 T baking powder

1 1/2 t cinnamon

1/2 tsp each ginger, nutmeg, and cardamom

In a seperate bowl, whisk thoroughly:

1/2 cup vegetable oil

2 1/2 cup buttermilk

2 tsp vanilla

2 eggs

2 cups pumpkin puree

Fold wet ingredients into dry and stir just to incorporate. Bake in prepared muffin tins at 350F for 20 minutes.

This year I am thankful for Gourmet--a true toast

2009-10-13T23:44:00.006-07:00

i feel like I should talk about Thanksgiving. It is after all, my favorite holiday; it was, after all, especially splendid this year.
First, a recap of what the truly North American holiday means to me, and what it has been to me for the past twenty years.
Holidays have always been a struggle for my family--will anyone come, and if they do, will they all get along for once. Stress is as abundant as colored eggs and tinsel per season, and often more time is spent bent over backwards to accomodate and rally church attendance than is enjoying the festivities. Not so with Thanksgiving. It is neither religious nor directed at one person or happening; there is no gift giving. It is simply celebration of the earth and what it offers us, and whether you can find the time to come to our home, that Turkey is going to be stuffed and served with all the from-the-ground-fixings the horn of plenty giveth. Oddly, though, i could care less about the bird (except as a vessel for stuffing); give me a plate of that bread filler, yams, and some buttery brussel sprouts and i have plenty to be thankful for. Oh, praise be to dessert made from winter veg.
Pumpkin pie is the epitomy of the holiday for me. In fact, last year, it was all that I had. Sad, yes, yet so delightful. Being a province away from my ma and her fabulous stuffing, I longed for the familial meal. Her side of the family out my way hosts Thanksgiving at a national park about an hours drive from me. But I was working the night of, and the morning after, so I could not go--at least not in a timely way to really enjoy it. So instead I made a pie...and ate the whole thing. I am thankful for excusable gluttony.
This year however, I did get to Fintry for the Kouwenhoven Thanksgiving, and so did my ma. Though she did not make the stuffing, she did bring yams, and a sense of closeness that reminded me of why the holiday makes me feel so good--just being with the ones you love the most, the ones who dont judge you for third helpings of food and wine. Just being with the whole family, guitars and all, brought not only a reminder of why I love this holiday, but why I love food period.
And I brought pumpkin pie. But so did about twelve other people. I also brought a baked tomato dish that (though late, like me, to arrive at the buffet style table) was much loved. And it came from a much loved magazine that is often present at my holidays. I am thankful for Gourmet, and so is my well fed, singing, laughing, family.

Baked Tomatos with Hazelnut Bread Crumbs
Like I said, I dont like Turkey. So I stewed some lima beans with a bay leaf and shallot, and layered the slices of tomatos atop them before baking, so that I would get at least some protein (besides turkey seepage in the stuffing) to go with all of the carbs I love. This also made for hearty leftovers atop barley, adn I imagine it would make a mean pasta sauce too.

In a large pan, toast:
1 cup shelled and skinned hazelnuts, roughly chopped
1 cup bread crumbs, preferably whole wheat or rye
Drizzle with olive oil and toast a little bit longer, seasoning with salt and pepper.

Thickly slice 4 pounds of large beefsteak tomatoes (i used heirloom black clems) and layer in rows in a medium sized, rectangular casserole dish.
Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with the leaves of 5 sprigs of lemon thyme.
Top with breadcrumbs and bake at 450 for just ten minutes (nice short time if you show up late!)
be thankful

well read

2009-10-06T21:24:00.003-07:00

I just read about Gourmet magazine; I am at a loss for words at this loss of,well, words, and so very much more.

Gourmet was-- is, it is not gone, yet, afterall...-- not just yet another food-driven magazine. It was not a mag you flip carelessly through while waiting in line at the checkout; though if you did, you put it on that moving belt with your milk and produce to savour properly at home. Such an assumption comes from experience.

Guilty as charged, I am a grocery shopper who purposely seeks out the longest line (even if qualified to zoom through the twelve-or-less-express) so as to while away the wait with a food mag. Bon Appetit and Food and Wine are often available to browse, Saveur less common, sometimes even the food article and recipe section of Oprahs magazine. Once a month though, it is Gourmet, and only once a month because I rarely hustle to stuff it back on the shelf when the annoyed till gal gives me my total like do the others.

Even in that small amount of time, something in Gourmet manages to captivate me: a recipe I simply have to try at home (like the Vanilla Cardamom Pound Cake I had to have last spring, and will, I have a feeling, every spring), a travel story I long to read so as to vicariously experience the trip, and more often than anything, a picture that is so aweing, I want to be able to look at it any time I want.

Each Gourmet magazine is a work of art; this is what I believe sets it apart from other magazines in its genre. The photography is stunning, the detail impeccable, thoughtful, colorful, true to the segment and story, to the food subjected. It is the magazine I am most inspired by for its triage of passion, a recipe created and described, or lived and relived, and then presented in a way that is tender and becoming--it is as wonderful to simply look at as it is to read and cook from.

So apart from its reliability, I will miss the sheer beauty that Gourmet magazine adds to my days of dreaming of and working with food. I thank it for the inspiration it has given, and hope this is not the end.

For the photo that has captivated me now...

my own simple mornings

2009-10-06T21:13:00.006-07:00

I have not had porridge in two weeks. I felt that I was missing out on all of the other lovely breakfast options, had let the hot days of summer, perfect for cold shreddies and cornflakes pass by with a bowl as hot as the weather, and thought that perhaps I should start eating some of those jams (four kinds) I effortedly canned this year. Plus, I found Jennifer.

If you have not already stumbled upon Jennifer Causeys blog Simply Breakfast, do take a look. The site itself is simply photos of her morning meal, her sole comment a description of what it is. It was here, with a picture of goat cheese and honey on toast, that I abandoned porridge...at least until the snow flies.

So my simply breakfast: rice pudding with cinnamon and raisins, a bowl of golden raspberries, tea and milk. Hope you are enjoying your own special start to the day

...

No, its not porridge, its mueslix, with honey roasted plums and greek yogurt

a veg only (even) a mother would love

2009-10-01T23:07:00.005-07:00

My mom is the least picky person I know. A chef tried and true, we cannot go out for dinner without her tasting a bit of what everyone else is having. Invite her over for a meal, and she not only offers to help, but does so by tasting what is to come. She always ate what our childish hands made her for breakfast-in-bed-surprises, burnt or strange, and can sample her way through any farmers market or costco shopping trip. There is no food culture she has not experienced, from classic Italian, to the offals of Greek and German cuisine, the butter loving French, overwhelming Indian curries (my subject of avoidance), american takeout, crummy chinese takeout, authentic chinese sit down, and her own and mine, experimentation. My ma is the easiest to please for she simply loves food, its flavours and textures and the mere act of eating for such pleasure. I admire this in her, for I am at times a bit squeemish, and particular about a time and place for certain foods, and dont like alot of flavours at once (read, she may stick her fork in what I ordered, but it wont be as an exchange of tastes). I wish I could be more unabashed with eating, because I, like her, am really not picky.
But there are a few things that she does not like. Unless pears are cooked, she cannot stand their grainy texture; you wont catch her drinking a pina colada, because anything coconut flavoured in liquid form makes her feel as if she is drinking sunscreen, and she doesnt care for capers--though I have snuck them into a few things that she has admittedly enjoyed. But perhaps most intolerable to her, is eggplant.

Now she is not alone in feeling this way. Many people loathe eggplant for its tendency toward sogginess, and almost milky texture and flavour. I however, love it, and it is one of the things that I am curious enough to try in many different forms (except curry--dont get me started) and am intrigued by new ways to use, prepare, or incorporate aubergine (I find it even easier to love if you call it that) into dinner, for I love its taste, soggy milkiness and all.
That is to say, i love it with other things. While many a vegetable are best eaten unadulterated (but for maybe some coarse salt and olive oil), eggplant needs help. Alone, it is almost queezy, like its flavour is leftover from something that was once delicious. Like a burp. Ok...I know I am not making eggplant sound appetizing, and could not even convince my ma, at this point, that it can be so satisfying, but... what I mean to say is that eggplant, being the sponge that it is, benefits from other ingredients, while adding its own creamy, earthy flavour. It can stand up to anchovies, olives, and capers, and robust mediterranean herbs like basil and oregano, and a shwonk load of garlic, rounding out the saltiness and aromatics of the like. Eggplant loves most all cheeses, but is particularly fond of parm, ricotta salata, pecorino, and goats cheese. It holds its own in ratatouille, adding substance to the classic vegetarian dish.
But even if you enjoy the taste of eggplant in these dishes, it can be a pain in the butt to cook. Eggplant seems to stick to your pan no matter how much oil you use, for it soaks it all up the same as it absorbs flavour. And it seems to do so no matter how thick or thin you slice it. For myself, I dont mind this, because eggplant mush scraped from a pan still tastes delightfully like eggplant, and I just carryon cooking as if it were a pasta sauce of intent. But for those with a strong aversion to baby-food esque dinners, I suggest roasting it.
To do so, cut your eggplant in thick wedges. Rather than drizzle with oil, rub your hands with about a tablespoon of it and then rub each slice of eggplant, to coat, between your palms. Lay them on a parchment lined sheet pan, generously sprinkle with salt and roast at 400F for about twenty minutes. Eat them like this, with a zesty vinaegrette drizzled over, or dipped in salsa verde or garlicky aoili, or dice up your wedges and add to a pan of melted anchovies and garlic with handful of basil and oregano, toss with pasta and shave on a cheese that eggplant loves, no pan scrapage necessary.
But now, in a roundabout way, I get to the inspiration for such longwinded discussion of a very unpopular veg, both for frustration and flavour. I found an eggplant dish even my ma would love.
Long ago while seeing what was on the menu in the Chez Panisse Cafe as I often do, there was listed a Halibut entree served with green beans and eggplant. This was a combination I was not inspired to try, at least not right away. I thought that such a delicate whitefish would be overwhelmed by the distinctive taste of eggplant; despite loving both things, I couldnt imagine loving them together. But curiosity got the best of me, and sure enough, it was wonderful (should I ever have doubted the vegetable gurus of CP...). So wonderful in fact, that I think I could have fed my ma this supper, and made the list of things she does not like even shorter. Then again, just add Halibut and anything is possible with that lady...

Steamed Halibut with Green Beans and Roasted Eggplant
I dont remember what was served on top of the dish at Chez Panisse that particular Tuesday evening, but I drizzled over some meyer lemon confit--grassy and lively and perking up the earthiness of the roasted aubergine. It would also be good, however, with a dab of lemony aoli, or finely minced capers (though serving a dish with two of my mas food loathes may be trying too much...). This recipe makes enough for you and your ma, or any other eggplant skeptic you hope to dissuade, yourself included.

Turn your oven to 400F. Cut one medium sized eggplant, or two smaller ones (the less flesh, the less likely to mush), into thick wedges, and rub down with well olive-oiled hands. Sprinkle generously with coarse salt and roast on parchment for 10-15 mins.

In the meantime, prepare a pan with:
1 cup water
a good drizzle of olive oil
a splash of white wine (hmmm...halibut and gewurtz, even better for my ma)
one large clove of garlic, smashed
a few whole sprigs of parsely.
You will use this pan to partially steam your trimmed green beans, about a handful each, and halibut filets. This only takes four minutes, with the water simmering over medium heat. After four minutes, add the beans and halibut to your tray of eggplant with about a third of the pan liquid and finish the lot in the oven until the fish is just cooked, a mere two to four minutes more. Top with meyer lemon confit and some fresh chopped parsely and prepare to bid goodbye your aubergine woes.

Season of lattes

2009-10-01T18:47:00.004-07:00

Just like that: its fall. Just the other day I was wearing a skirt, now its jeans and the captivity of socks. It is briskly chilly, and with the leaves changing color, as my grandma so poetically described it once upon an october, it is as if the sun is shining from the trees themselves. Which is a damn good thing, too, because the real sun is sure making itself sparse.
It has been awfully grey here the past few days, a sullen reminder of the gloom to come as the once too-hot-too-move Okanagan begins its (quick) descent into, oh I shudder to write it, winter. And I am not ready for that.
Perhaps I am jumping the gun a bit here. There is afterall, this wonderful transition season of autumn, one of my favorites actually. A season of warm crumbles and crisps from the last of summer tree fruit and the new apples and pears. Where winter squash replaces zuchinni in its overwhelming bounty. One of roasting and braising and tucking in, literally curling up with bowls of soups and hearty pasta. Cinnamon buns and pumpkin muffins, and best of all, lattes.
There is nothing like a deep mug of strong espresso topped with thick, foamy milk. It begs to be kissed, held close, hugging you from the inside. If this seems too romantic for a cuppa joe, I apologize, and sympathize, that you do not get the same pleasure from each soothing sip that I do. And it is romantic; as soon as the air turns chilly, I crave them, and envision how I will enjoy them: Walking under trees as their amber leaves drift down, both hands wrapped around my cup; curled up with my cup and book companions; people watching from the Bread Company, where the milk froth is impossibly thick and the walnut raisin buns were meant for dipping. I drink them in the morning with toast or biscotti, in the afternoon with more biscotti or the infamous pumpkin muffins of all my autumns, just by themselves because its nippy and a scarf just isnt cutting it. In fact, this time of year, I treat a latte like a cocktail (never mind the beers or bellinis of summer, give me warm milk, oh boy...well, at least until winter and spiced rum takes over). And there is no one-a-day rule either, the second is no less satisfying than the first. Fall, come to think of it, is very good for my calcium intake.
And with the weather, and subsequent greyness, the way it has been lately, I have found myself full swing into latte addiction. A cappucino gets me through the meal time rush at work, and, from a trick I learned from my ma, I am able to make frothy milk at home from a pot of warm milk and a (careful) buzz from my hand held zerbitzer (an appliance most commonly used for pureeing soups, but I highly recommend it for this task too). So it doesnt get as thick as the Bread Co, but itll do for now...until I get my own espresso machine equipped with steamer.
On second thought, that may not be such a good idea. Then I would never leave the house, living off frothed milk and devouring novels in comfortable splendor, until before I know it, I actually cannot leave for the pile up of snow in my driveway. Besides, what better excuse for a latte than a coffee date with a girlfriend.
Which is exactly what Torrence and I did yesterday. And if there is anything that tops my intimacy with a 16oz latte, its a two hour girl talk over a 16oz latte, and serious consideration of another.
So cheers to enjoying the enforced splendor of the cooling season.

2009-09-26T22:57:00.003-07:00

I do not like when my job feels like work. I get grumpy, irritable, glum, wish I was elsewhere, and finally, not care at all about even being there doing what I am doing--and worst, begin to question my passion.

I am but an apprentice. I am in the kitchen to learn, and granted we are incredibly busy during our season, too much so for me to be learning classic preparation and dishes or butchering all sorts of carcasses, I often feel as though I am not. And then I wonder what exactly I am doing if I am not learning. More importantly, if I am not tested; no, more importantly still, if I am not creating. More than a desire (need) to learn, I am, or was when I started this, driven by passion.

Passion, i suppose, is what most chefs were one time possessed by. For some it is fleeting, for some it is constant, and for some, liek myself, it often feels stifled. Because I am but an apprentice after all, and I am there to learn, not fuel my passions (I am to keep those to myself, drawing on it to get through the tough days, I suppose, though lately I have simply been using wine for that).

But I am not learning, I am questioning my passion, and now I am talking in circles because taht is how this whole experience sometimes feels. It is hard to explain--i know what I love, and I truly do love what I do. But there is something missing, and that something would let me connect the two. Perhaps it is knowledge; experience maybe; proving myself; patience and practice--none of which, on days like today, can come soon enough, or seem to be coming at all.

Sometimes I believe that anyone could do my job, they just need to be shown how. Competence does not equal caring, however. I care; of course I care, we all do, that is why we are crazy enough to do what we do. We are good at it, we care about it, we love it. It is awful, then, when people I know put the same sweat and love into this work as I do, do not see it in me; the devotion goes unnoticed...so does the talent, the interest, the ideas, the knowledge, the trust. Still worse, is when I am not given any chance to prove those things. Stagnating squelches enthusiasm, and without that there is no passion, and without that, its just work.

Thanks for listening

reincarnation, or obligation

2009-09-24T22:29:00.005-07:00

Some people love leftovers. Its a quick lunch the next day, they insist. Roast too many potatos, tomorrow theyll be good in a ragout, or just cold as my sister loves for snacking. Some even love leftovers so much they purposely cook a full recipe (feeds six to eight) when it is just themselves for dinner--hey, the whole week is taken care of. Well, I hate leftovers. I would sooner finish what I have cooked even if it means painful overconsumption jsut so that I wont have little pots and bowls of this and that in the fridge. Leftovers are far to obligatory, demanding to be used but sadly dispositioned as has-beens; not as fresh as what could be tonight-- so obviously last night.
I also, though, hate throwing food out. It seems so wasteful, so ingrateful. So what if the lettuce is soggy, at least I have lettuce to eat. This is perhaps unnecessary guilt (and unhealthy at times) but guilt nonetheless that only reinforces the negative obligation to a meal.
There really is little that is less satisfying than these obligatory meals. Take tonight for example. Cherry tomatos. On my counter. For four days now. That is a long lifespan for a tomato, and these were starting to soften. But tonight I wanted halibut, and not with cherry tomatos either. No, I wanted it with chervil, chives, and parsley, with some steamed green beans and shalloty rice. But those tomatoes, sitting there sadly right where I was ready to trim beans. I had to use them. So I tried to stoke myself up: Ill simmer them in white wine, with fresh chopped chives, itll be lovely. And it would have been--had I been craving halibut with sauteed cherry tomatoes and fresh chopped chives. I dont need to tell you again that I wasnt.
And so I remain dissatisfied, sigh, and resentful, just generally filled with shoulda coulda wouldas...and a bit of a shouldnt-a as i console myself with cookies dipped in whipping cream. But cest la vie, right, not everymeal is perfect and at least now I dont have fruit fly attracting rotting tomatoes on my counter. And theres always tomorrow for another go at halibut, pending I still want green beans by then...

Single Girl Dinners

2009-09-24T21:36:00.004-07:00

I have often been met with incredulity that I cook for myself; I mean, actually cook...meals...just for me...by myself...like fancy stuffÉÉ No, definately not always fancy stuff, it just seems that way to other singles who cant be troubled beyond a grilled cheese.
Now dont get me wrong, i love grilled cheese as much as the next person (especially with stinky dry gruyere), and actually admire those non-chalant enough to eat a box of triscuits for dinner, or a bowl of cereal because for one, who wants the dishes, and secondly, its just for one.
But for me, cooking dinner is important. Sure there are tired nights when scrambled eggs and toast is more than fulfilling, but most evenings, actually cooking, just for me, is most fulfilling.
Cooking for myself feels as though I am taking care of, well, myself. Like even if I know I am not getting enough sleep, like my home should be a little cleaner, like I forgot to pay Telus again or that Im avoiding the dentist despite not being able to chew cold or acidic things on the left side of my mouth, I am in someway being responsible by having a satisfying, nutritious meal on the table.
In fact, I love the final moments of my day spent at the stove just for me. But again, some nights I am just not in the mood. Not in the mood for washing and chopping veg, for tossing and mixing, for add this and finish with that. Definately not in the mood for more than one pan. Times when even my go-to meals of pasta (a blank canvas taking only nine minutes to transform into a work of art) requires too much attention at the stove. On those nights, I can relate to the PB and J folk out there, or those who would rather jsut order the Number 5 from the local Chinese joint. But I dont combo it. I stick to my guns about taking care of me. And I make Single Girl Salmon.
One pot. Six ingredients. Salad, bread. Happy, well fed, just me.

Single Girl Salmon
I got this idea from Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant, a humorous and inspiring collection or essays about meals spent alone (and sometimes lonely). I read the essay by Amanda Hesser--Single Cuisine--whenever I am feeling unmotivated to cook for (sigh) just me. And then I make her girlfriends recipe for salmon, with a few adjustments of my own, and somehow simplicity wins me over, nothing left to want, and confident that I have taken care of me as easily as I could have done pouring a bowl of cereal. This recipe is per single person.

In a small saucepan, soften a thinly sliced shallot until slightly carmelized. Add in a torn fresh bay leaf. Breathe in the smell. Into the pot goes one-third to one-half cup of french green lentils (you judge your own hunger here); cover with water by half and inch and simmer for twenty minutes. At this point, pour a glass of wine and sit down. Read something, watch tv, paint your toenails...When the timer buzzes, place your salmon fillet atop the lentils and splash over some of whatever wine you may be drinking, plus a squeeze of lemon and some freshly ground salt and pepper. Cover, turn up the heat, and in four to five minutes you get to eat, just enough time to heat some bread and toss together a salad, and pour some more wine.
Enjoy, take care of yourselves.

I Cant Believe Theres No Butter

2009-09-22T21:16:00.006-07:00

I hate to say this, but I think I may have discovered a (shudder) low-calorie substitute for risotto. No...nonono. I take that back. There is no substitute for risotto, especially not something that isnt creamily laden with butter and parmesan. But the rice dish I just ate was creamy; no substitute, but comparatively satisfying.

It came from a recent Food and Wine magazine recipe, included in an article about a French chef promoting veganism in his restaurant and repetoire (hence the lack of risottos defining ingredients in the dish). Now I may not eat alot of meat, and could easily, and do really, live without cow, but not without the milk and subsequent products from it. So I included the optional shavings of dry goats cheese on top (ok, different farm animal, but you get the idea). But the rice itself, regardless of those scant shavings, clung together as if it was binded by a whole cup of the stuff, soft and unexplicably melty.

Well, I suppose the explanation comes from the method of preparing the pilaf. After softening your onions and garlic, you add rice and herbs, cover with water and boil it for one minute. DONE! yeah, right...no, then you cover it, and let sit for thirty minutes. Coming back (I went for a little walk) you simmer the rice for yet another thirty minutes (definately not a pressed-for-time-risotto stand in, but at least allows for inattentiveness), until nearly all of the liquid is absorbed. Add in your flavours, heat through and thats it. It is moist and warm and comforting as fall starts to set in. Give it a shot, you wont believe it hasnt been to the creamery.

Almost Risotto Brown Rice Pilaf
The only changes I made to the original version of this were because of what I had to use up in my fridge: cauliflower. So I omitted the listed basil in favour of a diced yellow tomato, adding to the moistness of the dish, serving the roasted florets on top, with shaved dry goats cheese, but feel free to add all the parmesan you may feel is missing, and not be able to resist.

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
2 medium onions, finely chopped
6 garlic cloves, minced
10 cups water
3 cups short-grain brown rice
1 thyme sprig
1 bay leaf
Kosher salt
1/2 cup diced and yellow tomatos, seeded if big and juicy
1 1/2 cups pitted small green olives, halved (6 ounces)
1/2 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
Freshly ground pepper
4 ounces shaved aged goat cheese, or shredded parmiagano reggiano

In a large saucepan, heat the 2 tablespoons of oil. Add the onions and garlic and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, 8 minutes. Add the water, rice, thyme and bay leaf and bring to a boil for 1 minute. Remove from the heat, cover and let stand for 30 minutes.
Stir 1 tablespoon of salt into the rice. Cover and simmer over low heat, stirring occasionally, until most of the water has been absorbed, about 30 minutes. Stir in the tomato, heating through. Remove from the heat; discard the bay leaf and thyme. Stir in the olives, parsley, lemon juice and lemon zest and season with salt and pepper. Spoon the rice into bowls. Drizzle with olive oil and top with roasted cauliflower and shavings of cheese.

Needed...

2009-09-18T23:11:00.005-07:00

Salt. Herbs. Less cooking time. A lot less cooking time. Tonights dinner, I mean.

Tonight was my first solo catering gig. I have been meaning to write about it all week, as that is how long I have been thinking about it, planning for it, wanting to tell someone(s) about it. It was for the couple that I rent from, or rather, the husband (L) of the duo and his five Harley-riding biker buddies. Every summer they do an end of season ride, and their (my) home, is a stopping point. Rather than hitting the local pub as they usually do, L asked if I would have dinner ready for his hungry gang.

Now this was very exciting, and flattering...and exhausting. I easily came up with a menu, things I had wanted to cook all summer long, recipes I wanted to try, and ones I had created and deemed shareable. Roast pork loin would be the entree, as I supposed these would be meat eating men, and my usual bean dishes would not suffice. Besides, I wanted to venture out and roast something carnivourous. But I had to venture beyond that even; L doesnt eat pork.

Square one, new menu, and after a consultation with Brett from work, three lamb shoulders I had no idea what the hell to do with. Slow braise yes, but how slow is slow, and am I going to be making peanut butter sandwiches ala minute because it is ten pm and these damn slabs of animal arent done yet. Near breakdown not unaided by the questioning of my bosses as to why I picked such a tough cut of meat, or worse, why I picked something I had never worked with.

Because how was I going to learn otherwise. Because I got an idea in my head and wanted to go with it. Because I had limited time. Because the shoulders were already defrosting in my fridge. Thats why.

So another chef consultation later (called my ma for comfort and encouragement and the sound advice to cook the meat the night before and simply bring it up to temp for dinner) and I was back in control.

Prep went well, and I had plenty of time for what I had readied the previous night, and the guys running--riding--an hour behind schedule. But for a shawdy bag of green beans, all was in order and everything but final touches were ready for the gang when they got there, armed with beer and tequila, friendliness and hunger. I started them off with a ciabatta loaf from Wine Country Bakery , and a Buttermilk Zuchinni Tart with herb salad from my garden. Needed more parmesan, but was nice and light considering the generous dose of cream I added. Yet another kudos to buttermilk; I really consider it my secret weapon.

But the dinner itself--Braised Lamb Shoulders on Bean Ragout with summer herbs (couldnt leave out those beans) with Lemony Roasted Fingling Potatos and Carrot Fennel Salad--was not at all how I wanted it. The romano beans I boiled to near mush, and I had not made enough dressing for the salad, which should have been out of fridge a lot earlier to really soften and blend. And that dreaded lamb. It was so fatty I could not slice it to present, but ended up just pulling the actual meat off to scatter atop the beans, both of which needed about double the fresh herbs I had used. And it all needed salt. Except the potatos, the potatos were great. Of course, the were doused in coarse salt...

But apparently, I am my own worse critic, because the guys were raving when I joined them (at their insistence, and during my designated dish-washing time), cleaning their plates and talking food. It was great, it truly was, and a huge relief, but I couldnt help wondering, and still cant, if they were simply being kind to the sweet little apprentice chef (that would be me), or maybe tequila shots make everything taste good (but then, I would have enjoyed it too because they poured seven of those little plastic cups each round--their goes professionalism) or there is something seriously wrong with my own tastebuds, because I thought the whole thing quite flat. Except the potatos.

And the dessert. I did a play on milk and cookies, roasting President plums plunking them, still hot, in glass cups and topping with barely whipped cream, then wedging in a cookie that was the subject of play for me. I love walnut and plums together, but I wanted a cookie that would sort of make the whole thing seem like it could have been a plum crisp--a big chewy, oaty thing. So I combined a recipe from Orangette (Molly never lets me down when it comes to cookies) with a classic oat cookie recipe in the joy of cooking, swapped some nuts around and mixed it all together. I did a test run the morning of, deciding they needed more butter and sugar if they were going to be wanna-be crisp toppings (yknow how that crumble is, almost crunchy on top and when you try to sneak off a little peice, it ends up being a big chunk, soft and moist from the warm fruit underneath...oh boy). So that night while prepping, I melted more butter and brown sugar together with another handful of walnuts, to stir into the already made dough. Well, I got doing other things and the butter browned somewhat before I could add the sugar and nuts. But that was just what it needed and there was not a cookie crumb left to be dipped in the ÈmilkÈ.

I suppose it was a success, L booked me to cater for his wife and her girlfriends when they come up two weeks from now, and asked me to be part of the annual biker trip. I hope that each visit marks my improvement. And taht I can get the hand of that seasoning thing.

Not quite new years

2009-09-13T22:08:00.007-07:00

You cannot can fruit in champagne. Or, well, you can, just not using the recommended processing times. That is, unless you want champagne erupting from your hot jars like it does shaken by overzealous (and already drunken) bottle-opening groomsmen on certain occasions.

That is what I learned today. Haha.

I love champagne, and what occured today happened simply for want of an excuse to pop open a long shelved bottle on my one day off this week and a half. That, and some really beautiful white peaches.

I love white peaches. There is something about them, their blushing cheeks against stark white flesh that makes them lovely to look at. To smell, they are more subtely aromatic than their golden brothers, offering what the lychee nut gives to gewurtz that sets it apart from all other wines. And their taste. Divine, sweet, effervescent--like champagne.

So I thought I would combine these two loves and set them on jars to share with my other love on days when there are no white peaches to be had (thank goodness wine, at least, is a year round thing). Think again.

Peeled and poached in sugar and sparkling, all was going well, and I was thinking of what a pro-canner I had become...until twenty five minutes later when I removed the first batch from the boiling black pot. Fizz was coming out all over the place! I thought perhaps one jar was not properly sealed, but the next to reacted the same, splashing me and my floor and landing me in fits of laughter as i ran for a towel. Oh boy. Now I had really done it, two disasters with white peaches. But still in love.

And apparently, oblivious to the ridiculousness of my endeavor. I had no recipe--though I must admit that I was inspired for the combination by a stone fruit devoted section of Donna Hays wonderful magazine that set slices of white peaches in champagne jelly; not one for gelatin, I thought id simply omit that minor detail; again, Haha--and yet, I continued canning, sending the next three jars into the water. What was I hoping for anyways. Ten minutes in, while on the phone to my ma sharing the hilarity of moment, i realized this, and yoinked the jars out. No fizz. No New-years style stickiness. And three little pop sounds, signalling success.

So you can can with champagne. And you can also find ways to eat your way through three jars of unsealed champagne poached white peaches. I particularly enjoy them on one dessert I do do successfully--unlike the first white peach disaster of last week--Buttermilk Pudding Cakes; then again, straight from the jar and drinking the dregs seems like a pretty good idea right now.

2009-09-09T22:08:00.003-07:00

I took a beating today. Not physical--no that was yesterday when I burned my arm on the oven door, and this afternoon actually, when I biked against wind uphill to relieve the stress of the day--but mental. And as a highly overanalytical and very sensitive person, mental abuse is worse than the physical; allow me to explain.

All summer we have recieved mixed salad greens from Little Creek Organic Greens. Dale, the farmer of these, takes such care as to have employees harnessed to wires so as to hover above the delicate leaves while weeding to avoid trampling them--as legend has it, at least. The last few days have been frosty though, and this weeks order was a little de-thawed looking. I assumed however, considering how fresh they were and that we had never had a problem from the farm before, that it was our cooler, and I relocated all four boxes to a less fan-directed spot in the walk-in. This, apparently, is reason enough for a chef to lose his cool. Not only did I get yelled at as to where the greens were, then why they were there, and then how could I be so ignorant as to put them there, but our dishwasher did too, for she assisted in explaining the lettuce situation. And then out of the cooler comes chef number two, also yelling about where the greens were and, well, you get the idea. Again, I tried to explain why I moved them but more yelling only ensued, some in German, some in English, until finally I was told that this was a "yes-chef" moment. Furthermore, I found out, there would be only "yes-chef" moments to come, and if I could learn this and other regulations of my position than we would have no more problems to come. This was behaviour, apparently, he would no longer tolerate.

I am not notoriously a disrespectful person. Quite the opposite actually, especially when it comes to my job. And after spending the last moments of my day wondering if I was out of place to defend my lettuce moving, I have decided taht it was all too ridiculous. And hurtful coming from people whom I thought had alot more respect for me. Id sooner have kept biking, in pouring rain and with an anvil in the basket of my bike than feel as questioningly (is that a word--im sure you understand) about my career and my job (different things, believe me, veryvery different) as I do now.

And it was awful

2009-09-07T23:35:00.002-07:00

Over a week ago, now, I showed up for work three hours early, mistakingly ready for the opening shift when I was supposed to be peanut butter. No big deal, except that I had arranged to pick up eggs at my little chicken farm on the way home from work--not an option now that that would be nine or so at night. So I decided to continue the pattern and show up there seven hours early. As I pulled into the yard, my egg guy and two of his sons were backing out with a car load of peaches from their orchard--we noticed eachother just short of driving into eachother instead. In the meantime, the senior citizens bus pulled up to pick up the grandmother of the house, blocking the two of us in. Then, out of said bus comes a tiny lady with dyed jet black hair and a persistent desire for peaches. After promising her a box when the bus returned from town later in the afternoon, she finally went back inside, and we could finally leave. But not before my egg guy became my peach guy: he offered me whatever I could pick off the last tree of white peaches, my favorite, and what I had just finished telling him were all gone from my usual peach lady. So there I was, after they had pulled away: climbing a tree in my skirt, reaching for every last peach to fill the box that lay below. It was me versus the bees and worth every minute of ridiculousness, every hour I was early for work. They were simply gorgeous, and the soft scent filled my car as I drove home.

But i didnt do anything with these beauties. Well, I ate them fresh of course, and on my porridge, doused a few in wine and let steep for dessert, froze alot...but didnt do anything, nary a flan or a cobbler to be baked and enjoyed. So tonight, with the last five peaches, white flesh now slightly bruised, I made a crostata--or, rather, attempted to.

You see, I am still learning, but you would think that I would know by now that baking is simply not as interchangeable as cooking; read: oil does not equal butter, and ground almonds are certainly not the same as cornmeal, not in the least. For the first, I did not have enough butter so thought I would compensate with canola oil; read: very wet dough. And the latter, I was craving almonds in a non-cakey, more tart like way, so thought an easy swap would satisfy my nutty desire. Only, almonds and cornmeal (as the recipe I was following called for) are not nearly the same texture; read: very wet dough.

Working the lot into a somewhat manageable blob, I formed what would attempt to be the shell, filled it with the white peaches, folded over the edges, put it in the oven and hoped for the best; came out with the worst. Between the soft dough and juicy peaches, the whole thing looked more like it was melting than baking, and though it bubbled with heat in the center, indicative of a cooked tart, it was still a pale blonde color, not crisp and golden. So what did my brilliant baker self do? Why, raised the rack a shelf or two and turned on the broiler. Three minutes and the crostata was now black and soggy. Great.

So what did my crostata craving self do? Took the tart out of the oven, put the whole thing on a plate with a big glob of whipped cream and grabbed a fork. Sitting, eating what was not carcinogenic of this thing I actually laughed out loud. And I learned a little too.

Thats what its all about

2009-09-06T22:29:00.004-07:00

And again, to comment on love affairs, but of the food kind again: zuchinni. Still cant get enough. Which is lucky, because my garden cant seem to give me enough. Serves me right for planting three varieties I suppose...
So far there are no cliched zuchinni-the-size-of-my-thigh stories, and i have not had to resort to anonymous doorstop dropping of squash, but I definately understand the word bounty. But like I said, I love the stuff, and have many lovely ways to deal with it, for those of you who love it too, or also painstakingly (mistakinglyÉ) planted more than one seed this summer

--thinly sliced on pizza with canned artichokes and fresh basil, fontina and fresh mozzarella cheese. No tomato sauce, just a good drizzle of olive oil.

--shredded in an omelette with soft goats cheese and thyme; or take the same three ingredients, add some cream, toss with pasta and you have an incredible veggie carbonara

--as a sidedish tossed with melted anchovies and mint

--shaved squash and its blossoms tossed with lemon juice and olive oil with ricotta salata makes a crisp and fresh salad

The last idea came from David Tanisè A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes. In the summer section of this book, Tanis talks about zuchinni and his ways of dealing with it. It is almost poetic the way he confesses the joy of simplicity that comes from cooking down cubes of zuchinni and the basis it becomes for so many delicious meals. Which brings me to tonights pasta, wonderfully sweet and flavourful, my new favorite way to deal with the veg that keeps giving.

Inspired by Tanisè description, I slowly softened a thick slice of onion, diced small, and a smashed clove of garlic in a pan of olive oil. After a couple of minutes I added in a glut of chopped zuchinni, seasoned with salt and pepper, splashed in a bit of white wine and covered, letting it cook down to a thin, almost saucelike consistency. In the last couple of boiling minutes for my linguini, i tossed in the pile of fresh herbs I had chopped up: summer savory, oregano, thyme, and purple basil. Tossed with pasta and topped with parm, this meal sang. No need to give away my zuchinni, Id rather share it in this form.

Another Kind of Love Affair

2009-09-06T21:41:00.003-07:00

I just finished writing the post entitled Love Affairs (shows how quickly I am to finish a posting, huh). Now, though, I must confess to how closely such patterns with food imitate my real love affairs. How prone I am to letting relationships fade away--every night with someone, to once a week, to moving on to the next tasty, feel good thing. I get bored with men as easily as I do food. Routine transends into claustrophobia, and I question seriously on what I might be missing, and long not for a new recipe, but a freedom to explore such, to eat what I want when I want to, metaphorically speaking of course.

Hmm, that comparison made me sound a bit, well, sleazy. I am not. But I am selfish. And just like when it seems a devotion to a dish is winning over the desire for some other meal I abandon it entirely, so do I run from a relationship when it feels too cozy, too unthinking, too detached from me and my own conscious choices.

But I dont want to cook just for me anymore--I am ready to eat the same thing every night for as long as we can. Something so good everytime, not leaving want for anything else, unthinkingly without recipe, just feeling. And I think, hope, i have found that dish, love without the affair.

Cookie Monster

2009-09-05T00:05:00.005-07:00

Yknow whats great--cookies with breakfast. not cookies for breakfast, i still have to have my oatmeal, after all. But with. Or after, I suppose, as dessert usually occurs.
This notion started with a little note in Heidi Nobleès ÈFrom the Orchard TableÈ cookbook. She confessed to loving her biscotti with her coffee at breakfast; I confess to her biscotti recipe being the only one that ever worked for me.
Biscotti is pretty understandable, though, perfect for dunking in lattes and not too sweet, hardly a cookie at all, but as welcome at breakfast as say, a muffin or sweet scone. But it was merely a starting point.
Then there was that little cafe in Vancouver, where I couldnt help but have not only a biscotti after my toasted baguette and jam, but a ginger shortbread, almond thumprint and the most amazing lemon sables--a breakfast dessert I found myself craving once home.
So to my cookie gurus website I went, and was not disappointed, Molly had a recipe for classic lemon sables (she is passionate about France and cookies after all). Changing it slightly to adhere to my love of lemon by doubling the amount of zest, they were just as at the cafe, no, better, for the bits of coarse salt, a pleasant surprise every odd bite.
By now my addictive personality had kicked in, and our pastry chef at the restaurant, Sandrines, cinnamon petit fours did not help. And before I knew it, I had three different kinds of cookies at home, too many really, for one person, even with the freezer space.
As if that was not enough though, I baked cookies for a catering. Deliciously nutty things that were a success of recipe combining and a new staple when I crave oats in cookie form. But there were only a few of those, as the guys liked them as much as I did, so there was only a minor delay in eating the cookies I already had, ones that I needed to get through, even if they were in the freezer (the choices were a tad overwhelming).
So I began to work on my always present biscotti. The last one was dipped but four days ago. One down, two cookies to go. You would think. But no, instead, having some spare time this morning (and inspired last night by beautiful photos on a newly discovered blog--when I intended to be writing on my own none the less) I baked up an entirely different batch. Even though I have been craving cinnamon buns for over two months, even though I want to try a recipe for apricot tarts from Maggieès Harvest (a most beautiful cookbook by the way) with some late season surprises I picked up at the Winfield farmers market, no, instead I am back to three different kinds of cookies.
So I have come to the following conclusion: I am obsessed. I dont know if it is because they are quick and a baking item that I actually have time for, if it is because they are dainty and snacky to eat, not really a dessert, more like a sweet cracker and great with all the fresh fruit I have, if it is because I get to use my fingers to eat them, or because I have an addictive personality, and my cooking fetish has become a necessity for my very existence: if I do not bake a batch I may very well be stranded at dessert road with no where to go but whipping cream and more wine (would that be such a bad path...no, but its better with cookies too...).
And for now, I am ok with this addiction. Because quite frankly, they have all been really good. They are the kind of dessert I like, at any time of the day; and having me smiling at many times of the day. May they make you smile too.

Hazelnut Biscotti
I love this classic Italian cookie; hardly sweet at all, and a good crunchy mouthful. But baking them has never worked for me. They always seemed to go beyond crunchy to brittle, inedible without dunking, but disintigrating if you did. Until I discovered Heidi Nobles recipe. But like I said, they are hardly a cookie-cookie, not the lack of fat content, and thats the way I like them. Good with coffee after breakfast, even better, as my Italian mama Franka advised me, dipped in wine after dinner. They keep well too, in an airtight container for two to three weeks, leaving plenty of time for other cookies in between.

Combine in a large bowl:
2 cups AP flour
3é4 cups granulated sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1é4 tsp salt

In a seperate bowl, beat together:
3 large eggs
1 Tbsp each, white wine and brandy (or cognac)

Add dry to egg mixture, as well as:
1 cup toasted, chopped hazelnuts

Stir just to combine, not overworking the dough. Using flour as your friend, shape into a 10 by five inch rectangle and place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Bake at 300F for fifty minutes, until firm and dry. Cool on tray for ten minutes, before slicing. Now, traditionally biscotti are cut on an angle, but I dont like a bunch of different sized dippers, especially not those silly corner pieces, so I slice horizontally, so that all my cookies are five inches long (though I suppose ten would be ok too). Lay the slices, cut side down, on the tray and bake for twenty minutes, flip, and then 15-20 minutes more. Cool completely on a rack, biscotti are not a cookie best enjoyed warm, but rather dipped into warm things.

Love Affairs

2009-08-26T23:14:00.004-07:00

There are some dishes that I can never tire of. That I can eat again and again and each time feel so satisfied. At least for a month or so.

You see, my love affairs with foods come in spurts; larger than being on a kick, where one cant get enough chips and salsa or eats the same pasta five nights in a row. No, when I discover a new food love, it lasts awhile.

Such love affairs start out rampageous--I must have it, night after night, thinking about dinner at breakfast, waiting eagerly, and drawing such pleasure from the very thought until lost in the smells, the taste, the feel of it. Nothing else matters, nothing feels as good as that first bite, and i melt into the meal. Slowly though, reality sets in: there are other foods out there, different flavours and recipes to try, but I still want it. So I wean myself of it, eating it once a week instead (though that simply means, at first, that I spend seven days pining for it, rather than twelve hours each day), until it begins to matter less, or seems too routine for passion and fades awade without my noticing, really. Or, I move.

Thinking of this addiction dispersal of mine, I realize it is very much connected to where I am living, and as I have moved quite frequently in the last four years (until now, I have not lived in the same city for longer than eight months), my dinner addictions have also changed.

The first I can pinpoint is from Lethbridge, AB. I was there for University, learning to be a teacher, majoring in English. What I really learned however, was how much I loved English and literature, and how much I really never wanted to be a teacher. More importantly, I learned how much of a refuge I found in cooking. Each night I would pack up my books from the library at around 6:00pm so that I would make it home with a chance to unload my body weight in books and essays to turn on The Ellen Degeneres show, dance with that hilarious woman and then begin cooking dinner. This was hown I would unwind before beginning to read again for the night, and would most often do so to a stew from a recipe book my aunt and uncle favoured while I lived with them in Vernon, BC. It was a vegetable dish chock full of eggplant, sweet and red potatos, tomatos and herbs. I loved it, and it felt healthy after sitting all day with highlighting textbook pages and walks to the washroom my only exercise. But then, back in Vernon with the same aunt and uncle, I decided not to return to school, or eggplant stew.

At that time I worked at an Italian restaurant, first serving then moving into the kitchen for my first official online job. Staff meal then meant Sambuca mussells...I am allergic to mussells. This was short lived.

Enter Halifax and another Italian restaurant job. Enter Linguini Romesco with Prawns. Spicy, nutty, tomatoey, plus seafood and pasta...it was perfect. I made a fresh pesto every night for a long while, sometimes during the day if I would be working the dinner shift, tweaking and perfecting my recipe, though never (regrettedly) writing down the perfect combination. Then, as the produce of spring and summer rolled in, I devoted every monday to romesco (to beat the monday blues of course) for four months straight. But I discovered more than an amazing pasta sauce in Halifax: I did not want to go to Dalhousie University there for Journalism as I had inteneded in the move, I wanted to cook; after all, I had not written a single thing since landing, but had I ever cooked alot.

Back to Vernon and to pasta with zuchinni and basil, or zuchinni and truffle oil, or zuchinni in an omelette with thyme and goat cheese, or just zuchinni, with mint and garlic. Partly it was to deal with the overwhelming bounty of summer squash coming from my a&u s garden (some the size of my thigh), partly because it was quick, versatile, and fresh.

And now I have found another way to prepare it. I am on my own now, in my own little place, and a garden of my own with, unsurprisingly, far too much zuchinni. I deal with it now however, alla puttanesca. Whores pasta, as they call it in Italy, and how fitting with the fleeting affairs I have with meals. I first tried this in the (detailingly discussed) trip to Vancouver with Jeanine, and it blew me away. Being a salt fiend, I loved the chunks of olives, the bite of capers and the robust anchovies. Adding zuchinni to my new go-to pasta gives me vitamins and an excuse to use more sauce. I have also tried it with tuna instead of anchovies, as suggested my an obvious foodie at the table next to Jeanine and I in the restaurant, with the addition of mint or basil to the usual parsley, on top of steamed cauliflower with plenty of bread to sop up salty juices, and again in linguine with eggplant instead of zuchinni. And although I am only on a once or twice a week puttanesco dosage--there are other veg in my garden, not to mention far to many at the farmers market, after all--I still cannot get enough of it. Next, thinned with white wine and poured over arctic char and sprouting brocolli--I will let you know how it goes. For now, give the standard a shot; I hope you fall madly in love.

Last Bites

2009-08-25T23:11:00.004-07:00

Sigh... this trip was as much a learning experience as any of the last ones. Mostly, actually, relearning.
I re-learned that my sister is very much the youngest child: it was my job to take care of things, that if they went wrong...well, she was not responsible for things going right in the first place. Someday, as I often find myself hoping, we will both be able to foresee, to take blame, or at least not assign it so convictingly.
I re-learned that because of the latter, I often feel guilty, like I am letting her down, and that I physically resent this. I get tired. And I get testy. After unsuccessfully trying to perk her back up (oh, when that girl gets down, it is a long haul back up), I just give up, speak a little shortly, just tire of the whole thing.
This, I re-learned, actually lifts her back up. Hard to explain, a bit like a guilt trip I suppose. But it works.
Lastly, I re-learned that she will not admit to being hungry. I would ask if she wanted to stop for lunch, and she never did, as her mood sunk lower and lower. But insist on some food, get her eating, and she unfailingly says she feels much better, she must have just needed to eat. No shit, now if only i could remember to keep her fed like a diabetic.
What I learned though, is that food often brings her down. She claimed, before the trip, that she is very open to trying new things; as I explained before, she will eat it so long as you assure her she has had it and likes it. Again: if she has tried it. Nothing new, and, more importantly, nowhere new. What I learned is how uncomfortable she is with places, assuming that a restaurant only serves fancy, weird, foods that she is not used to, that she will not enjoy. This is new, an assumption that because of where I work and what I am doing with my life, than I must want to eat only that way. It was difficult to convince her otherwise, and disappointing considering the meals we would have was to be the highlight of my trip. She not only dampered this, but made me feel bad for wanting it, and certainly didnt respect that I had catered to what she loved and wanted to do, hoping she would oblige my passions too. Not so much, and it remains a tint on our trip, albeit another learning experience.
Wow, did that ever make our trip sound a complete bust. It was not all bad, and perhaps I should have raved before I ranted. We did make many a good memory, laughing and singing, unexpectedly touring through the home our mom grew up in, having great family visits, movie going, and latte drinking. And now that she is gone I wish we hadnt had little spats, that we had done things differently, that where we ate hadnt mattered so much to me--or so little, no, so much too, just in a different way, to her.

There were, however, two particular eating highlights of our trip, though only one of which we would both agree on. The first was a small coffee shop, Coco et Olive where we had breakfast on the last day of our trip. I had stopped there for coffee the previous day after picking up milk for our shreddies, and suggested we go there the next morning, bribing her with the croissants they had ready. Both days we had plenty of cookies with our breakfast, and sipped lattes from small soup bowls with perfect, dense foam. The only disappointment, the housemade tomato quiche was not ready yet. The quaint shop was a little taste of France, and a serene way to start off the day (though cookies are always a wonderful way to begin, especially when they are dainty lemon sables).

The second place was at my insistance for one wonderful meal (the first night, I had a bag of popcorn for dinner, the second was a pub--I was adamant). We stumbled upon this place on our first night when Jeanine refused to eat at the restaurant I had made reservations at and we began a hungered wandering for somewhere else (should have reverted to our coffee shop go-to). La Quercia, a tiny Italian place captivated me with their simple menu and casually intimate ambiance, so much so that when they had no place for us that night until ten thirty, I made a reservation for two nights later instead. And the wait was worth it. The parmesan souffle was a perfectly blonde pillow, firm to the fork and steaming within, revealing air pockets but as tiny as a needles eye. The zuchinni salad accompaniment was thin ribbons of squash dressed lightly in lemon and olive oil with flecks of basil. A drizzle of well aged balsamic vinegar rimmed the plate, so sweet and fruity; it was a trio of clean, undeniable flavours. For dinner I had Linguine Puttanesca, a sauce rich in salty robustness, the anchovies, capers, olives and tomatoes coarsley chopped, a carefree presentation that renewed my appreciation for peasant food. Dispite my sisters obvious discomfort, I, perhaps selfishly, enjoyed this meal so much that I am glad to have nothing to compare it to. It was perfection, all I could have wanted from Vancouvers restaurant scene. Well, that and the lemon tarts from Granville Island Market that we desserted on while driving home.

Sister Trip

2009-08-20T10:22:00.003-07:00

Today is the first day of five, five, whole days off. In a row. From all of my jobs. Tomorrow I leave for Vancouver where for the next four days where I do not have to think about work, but rather have a summer vacation like most people. And best of all, with my sister.

I will pick her up tonight from the airport, she lives in Alberta, where she is studying to be a nurse. Ive made a lemon tart (I turned her onto them, my favorite, cannot-pass-it-up dessert) to celebrate her belated birthday, and have vaccuumed out my car so she would not be disgusted during to road trip portion of our trip--my car is quickly dirtied from farm shoes, stowing my bike in the backseat, and the meals eaten between jobs. I could tell you all about this sister of mine, how much I admire her go-with-the-flow relaxed nature, her ability to put people at ease and make them feel cared for and loved, how when you tell her something she really listens, and understands, how everyday she is growing more mature and lovely. But what I should really tell you, is that we are nearly complete opposites.

Jeanine and I are so different. She is glamourous, loves to shop and be around people, sleeps in, and is an incredible dancer. I am the hippy bookworm, who (obviously) loves to cook and write, being around trees and quiet, loves the morning, and cant move with any rythym to save my life. Sure we like alot of the same things, but usually for entirely different reasons. It has taken us a long time to understand eachother, even longer to respect what we know of one another, instead of ignoring or trying to change it. But (along with my ma) she is my best friend, and sisters trips such as this one have always been our best opportunities to grow closer.

Growing up together--once we got along that is--we used to take mini roadtrips just to have sister time. Once we drove to a nearby city just to buy tacky jewellery and have our pictures taken in one of those five-minute photo booths. She helped me apartment hunt in Lethbridge, a trip where we decided she should always be at the wheel, as my road rage and ability to get lost causes quite a bit of tension. The last bit of time we had was when her, my ma, Ernie, and Jeanineès boyfriend Sean came here for Easter. I was lucky enough to be given a day off from Willi to spend with my family, and Jeanine, Sean and I went for pizza at Bordellos (a must go for all visitors to Kelowna) where I learned the art of a woodfire oven and jeanine and Sean learned what a pizza should really look and taste like, then to a hockey game where we got nice and rowdy.

Sean joined the two of us too, when I bought Jeanine a ticket for her last birthday to come bring me home from Halifax. That was not a good sisters trip, we were at odds, and since it was not just the two us, we could not work it out. As difficult as it was, and as much strain as the unsaid put on our relationship, it was definately the trip that we learned the most about eachother, both good and bad and how to be honest about that. And it taught us that we need that time together, albeit more often, to keep that strong.

So here we go again. This time it is just the two of us, and on the opposite coast of the country. This time will be much more relaxed, we are certainly more at ease with eachother and our differences. So much so that we have dubbed one day of the trip as a ÈJeanine DayÈ and one as mine. Weèll do the big shopping in Kitsilano on her day, hit the beach and hopefully try our skills at windsurfing--her, the little athlete she is, will probably be a natural, me on the other hand, lets just say I feel like a pro just holding the board. Day two will peruse Granville Island Market, and hook up with my great uncle clark (a true hippy who i have grown especially close with since moving to the Okanagan), and go for dinner, or better yet, cook market findings. Which brings me to food.

Here is where we are really not that different. Although Jeanine cant even stand the smell of fish, and I will eat anything out of the water and her idea of fastfood is Wendys, mine is a coffee shop stop--though we both agree that when desperate, and this is something we learned while hunting for dinner before going to a ballet together in Calgary, if we cant choose a restaurant, choose a coffee shop, then at least we can count on lattes and cookies--we like many of the same things. Or at least, there is not alot either of us doesnt like. And if there is one thing that has changed alot with Jeanine it is her willingness to try new things (she used to order a burger when we went for Chinese). She will taste anything I make for her (though I avoid cooking things I know she wont like, such as mushrooms and onions, or anything seafoody besides canned tuna), and when we go out for something--this is adorable--sheèll choose something, then ask me if I think she will like it. Numerous times for different items. She knows that now only do I know, but I share her tastes, and trusts that she will enjoy it. Jeanine loves food, she is just not a foodie, so it is really fun for me to cook for her and go out with her...maybe I can get her to try real tuna.

So tonight begins five days of sister time: lots of chatting, laughing, awkward (on my part) dancing, and eating. More when I get back.
ciao

Cravings

2009-08-17T09:11:00.004-07:00

I have been sitting at this computer for the last hour and so far I have written and erased two, not even complete sentences. The coffee is gone, I have finished my oatmeal and two peaches (one of which was soaked in wine from last nights dessert--a mimosa of sorts). And nothing. Blank. So i got up to do the dishes and decided to write about not being able to write, because it seems to be mirroring perfectly, my not being able to crave.

Most people have heard of writers block. Well, in my experience, it usually occurs not for lack of an idea, but for two many half formed, overlapping, mumblejumbled ideas, incoherent unless allowed to relax and seperate into themselves. In other words, take a break, stop thinking, go for a walk, come back when its clear.

Well, I have what I am going to call eaters block. Not cookers, eaters. Because it is not that I am uninspired to cook, it is that there are too many things I want to try. Too many newly discovered recipes, too many old favorites, too many options in the fridge, and an exasperating obligation to use them all. It is this last part that is the most cumbersome, because the need to use up certain fridge dwellers overshadows my actual dinner desires, so meals are much less satisfying than they ought to be.

It doesnt help, either, working late nights, because than I am too tired to care, or listen to my stomach. I just want something easy, but wholesome, because it is late at night and I dont want to wake up regretting that bowl of cold potatos dipped in mayonaisse, or burping pesto from the pasta I had but five hours earlier. To avoid such grab-easys, I usually plan what I will make for dinner when I get home, and can prep for it before leaving. Usually this helps, and actually gives me something to look forward too when finished. However, such plans lately have centered growing older veg that must be eaten before I leave for Vancouver (so excited--sisters trip) in four days. So again, eating what I have to, not what I want, and really losing touch of what I do want.

I think that is why the artichoke was so unbelievably satisfying the other night. It was not what I had planned, but when I opened to crisper to get out the patty pans in dire need of cooking, but still with no plan of how i wanted them, and saw that big globe, i knew the little squashes would have to wait another day. It was impulse, but the mere sight of it reignited a craving I had had for awhile, long before purchasing it waiting for the time to make it happen.

So now, as I write this, I am trying to shake the plans from my head. Ill go for a walk, stop thinking, finish work, open to fridge and hope for an artichoke moment, hope to see a craving.