Crimbo

I never quite got into the Christmas spirit this year. Maybe the change of jobs, maybe the insanely hectic pace right up to the final moments, maybe because there were no Christmas parties this year (damn economy robbing me of my open bar). But I did learn a new term for the holiday, courtesy of my Brit. We were up north on a pre-Dec 25 ski getaway and considering an early-afternoon beer when he said "why not, it's Crimbo, isn't it?".

Early-afternoon drinking included, this Christmas season has followed the suit of my entire year: although one might think a chef and now food editor would have all kinds of delicious roasts and baked goods and hand-made gingerbread ornaments coming out my ears, I just don't. I got the Christmas cakes made by the skin of my teeth (don't even ask about the sticky evening of rolling and wrapping the marzipan), but I never got that fluttery, giggly festive groove on. Only once did I catch myself singing Jingle Bell Rock in the shower.

But that is not to say I didn't eat well, it just wasn't particularly festive. But who can argue with a mini mountain of perfect steak tartare taken at 11:30 pm at my favourite Montréal bistro (and who can argue with getting storm-stayed in Montréal?). And then there was the vat of coq au vin I made in the tiny kitchenette of our ski chalet; it seemed to get tastier day by day. (I do travel with one chef's knife - the only gear I can't cook without). The paté-on-toast breakfasts, the entire box of Ferrero Rochers, the soft-boiled eggs peeled and eaten without napkins in the rental car outside the airport: these were all noble yet decidedly un-Christmassy.

The one hilarious, perfect meal that lingers (and that seals the deal on the Brit) was après-ski one day. Tired, blissed out on snow and sun, deep into the first of many bottles of wine, he covered the table with a packet of sliced ham, soft butter, several hard-boiled eggs, the Dijon, half a loaf of rapidly-staling bread and a bag of Doritos. The sandwiches we cobbled together were just ridiculously horribly good. (The chips go right into the sandwich, like crispy lettuce but better). Perhaps the fact that we watched a good hour of the mediocre choirs-sing-carols channel on tv made this a festive feast. No matter. A new tradition is born.

Labour of Christmas Love

If you don't like Christmas cake (aka fruit cake) you might not understand the following, so let me frame it in different terms. There is always one dish in every cook's repertoire that requires a stupid amount of expensive ingredients, unlimited amounts of time, patience, research and something close to obsession EVEN THOUGH THE RESULTS ARE NOT APPRECIATED even close to enough to make the preparation of said dish "worthwhile". Perhaps it's hand-rolled pasta, or 23-step stuffed mushrooms which guests pop down like salted nuts. You question yourself.

My own particular Waterloo is Christmas cake. Much maligned by jokesters and children, it is definitely one of those foods that you only come around to liking in adulthood. Donny and I were at a whiskey tutored tasting many years ago when it happened for me: the master blender described the flavour characteristic of whiskey X (I think it was Cragganmore -- anyone?) as "fruitcake". The heavens parted, angels sang the Hallelujah chorus, and I fell in love with fruitcake. And so began the years of recipe research, extended phone calls with Mom and Auntie, poring through old books, purchasing of special pans: the annual labour of Christmas love. [Someone in my family will be upset if I don't point out that they have been making fruitcake for ages, I just didn't like it then. Fine. Take it.]

Well 2007 was a mould-breaker for me: I made the blinking cakes in OCTOBER. Once a week I brought them out of the cellar (read: cold closet where I keep the recycling box), unwrapped the foil and bathed the little darlings in whiskey, brandy or whatever I was drinking that night. They were universally acknowledged as The Best Christmas Cakes Ever. How could I ever meet that standard again? Particularly this Fall, when I've been working 2 jobs, falling for my lovely fellow and still figuring out my new dwelling.

I finally got around to the cakes in ....shame of shames...December. It seems logical that extra booze would solve the lack of proper maturation time so I soaked all $65.94 worth of dried fruit in $15.16 of brandy for 5 days. I nibbled on those tipsy raisins all week and finally came to the baking on Saturday.

The sheer volume of cakes (based on an old heritage recipe) means that the entire kitchen gets involved in the creaming of 2 lbs butter, separating and various treatments of a dozen eggs, zesting of a half-dozen oranges, and combining of all the flour, sugar, spices and other secret ingredients. But with the fruit already occupying every inch of my biggest mixing bowl, I had this funny feeling that when the time came to combine the batter with the fruit I might need to use the sink. Ah, the wisdom of the ages: there's this line in the old recipe that recommends using your best PRESERVING KETTLE for the Big Mix. They don't mention that the bloody batter is so heavy you have to mix it with your hands. Yup, I did the old James Herriot sleeves up-scrubbed hands and plunged my whole arm into the vat of batter. Works marvelously well.

It takes almost as long to bake the cakes as it does to clean up the mess. And so after all this work, expense and time, only the Very Best People who really truly appreciate the glory of Christmas Cake will get to have any.

Gourmet...gourmand...glutton?

I've said before that my super-hero ability is that I am always hungry. And a few times in my life I've really pushed the envelope in terms of eating to excess. There was the infamous weekend out of town when I reviewed two posh restaurants in one night (2 full-on, 3-course meals between 5:30 and 11pm), the week in Italy when I decided that 2 whipped cream-covered gelati/day were necessary (alongside 3 no-holds-barred meals and plenty of wine); the birthday dinner when we had a cheese course before the blow-out meal as well as after (oh and the main course was braised short ribs on Gorgonzola polenta). But I've never pushed it on consecutive days like I did this past weekend.

The background: job # 1 is over, job #2 doesn't start in earnest til next week. Celebration(s) are de rigueur. Wednesday we were just trying to have a casual drink but the pub was rammed so we snuck over the bistro, once again installing ourselves at the bar for chicken liver paté and --favourite of favourites -- choucroute garnie, that heady mess of pork and sauerkraut. It's rarely on the menu so I feel compelled to order it when I can. Thursday brought a steak dinner - to die for ribeye with garlic mash and a pile of fried onions. By Friday we had to do something to justify the gluttony so we went skiing for the day, well, until we got back to the pub at 3pm for a burger, fries and pints. Of course we fell into a deep post-ski-and-burger coma/nap, and awoke positively begging for....uh, Champagne and oysters.

What could be better than a platter of little oysters from St Simon, New Brunswick, tiny plump Kumamotos, a few big guys from Aspy Bay, Nova Scotia, a bottle of excellent Champagne and the company of someone who is enjoying it all just as must as I was? But wait, Saturday Sean and Jane cooked a prime rib of pork with mushroom barley risotto! By the time Sunday came around a giant bag of popcorn at the movies seemed like a frugal snack. So though I adored every mouthful -- I can barely decide which was my favourite -- I'm afraid the word gluttony isn't too far from the mark.

A new contender for Best Meal Ever

I'm hours away from the termination of my job, but they are squeezing every last drop out of me, and so I've been on the road for the past 7 days, promoting products made by the company whose employ I have recently quit. I know; it doesn't make much sense to me either.

In any case, I arrived at yet another hotel yesterday afternoon at about 4. It was snowing the wet, unpleasant stuff and nearly dark for the night. I was knackered and achingly hungry, my feet were damp and freezing and I needed a nap, a change of clothes and a stiff whiskey. Nothing for it: I rang Room Service and ordered their all-day breakfast. While they poached my eggs I changed into my jammies and ran my feet under the hot faucet. I then proceeded to devour the feast with a relish I've never had for a platter of mediocre breakfast. Comforting eggs running all over the sausages, ketchup for the hash browns, baked beans and pork cretons piled onto corners of buttered toast, all were gratefully inhaled. Even the little packet of processed peanut butter fell victim to my path of destruction. I threw the tea bag into the thermos of hot water (for post-nap) and crawled under the duvet.

In the past I have bemoaned the utter crumminess of breakfast in general. I never realized that I've been eating it at the wrong time of day.

Adventures in puréeing

I've finally figured out what cookbook I can write: The Grand Olde Book of Puréed and Other Soft Foods. Think of the readership: people with sore throats, sore teeth, no teeth, people with an aversion to chewing, babies. It's been 4 days since a gum graft has forced me to eat nothing but and I'm just hitting my stride in the innovation department.

Soups are great, sure, but boring after a while. Friday night I scrambled some eggs, mounded them into a bowl of tomato soup and covered the whole affair with aged cheddar. Delicious. Yesterday we came upon a hot cart selling scalloped potatoes. Mmmm. Last night I was testing recipes for MY NEW JOB and I discovered that buttery flakes of black cod slip down quite easily - no chewing required. The gorgeous fish is set over white beans hit with Pastis and hazelnut oil (so weird, so good!) so here I am, mouth shattered from surgery yet eating about the most gourmet meal my little kitchen has yet produced.

Dreamy dreams

I've been at this racket for about 6 years -- the writing about food racket, that is -- and it all came together for me last week. I got my dream job. Dream of all dreamy dreams dream job. Dreamy. Job. Pour moi. To say "over the moon" or "giddy with delight" says it but "crazy rocking out of my gourd ecstatic" might hit closer to the mark. I'm going to be the food editor at a beautiful national style and home magazine.

Taking a slight bite out of the glee is today's major dental and gum surgery. Hey, this food editor is going to eat room-temperature puréed foods for the next 2 to 3 weeks: how innovative and stylish. We begin with a room temp latte followed by room temp corn grits gooey with grated Cheddar. There's a pot of lentil soup burbling on the stove, and cheese soufflé will no doubt figure into the next 48 hours as well. All laced with regular lashings of Tylenol 3 of course.

But what a meal last night for The Last Supper. We sat at the zinc bar of the city's most perfect French bistro where braised rabbit with prunes and Armagnac (insanely rich, meaty-sweet and tender) became the Last Solid Food I'll eat for a stretch. Why is rabbit so rare on menus? It is patently superior to chicken in every way. I suppose rabbit is another one of those "meats" which verge too close to "pets". My lovely dinnermate feasted on veal kidneys: is that any worse or better? Delicious, fluffy bunny; tender, doe-eyed baby cow. Mmmm.

Comfort Food II

My stars, what a week. It would appear that I have been the lucky/unlucky recipient of a week-long roller coaster ride. This week has encompassed the single saddest thing that's happened to me this year (saying goodbye to my sister and nephew at the airport) as well as the very happiest (more on this in a few days!!). And all kinds of other crap in between -- a rejection, some sublime truffled cheese, a tear-filled afternoon of frustration at work, a first date. Whew.

My anchor, my consolation, is pasta. I ate pasta every day this week and somedays more than once. Gemelli with plain tomato sauce on Monday, macaroni-cheese lunch on Tuesday, hemp-flour ravioli at a fundraiser on Wednesday, tomato tortellini eaten out of the pan on Thursday, gemelli with sundried tomato pesto on Friday. Am I ashamed to admit that there is now a recently-emptied bowl of ricotta ravioli next to me as I write this? Heavens no. Why would anyone refuse comfort during times of intense emotion?

Last Market Day

It's so cold now that I wear a toque and mittens most mornings; nevertheless, I headed over to the local farmers' market this afternoon as usual, not even pausing to consider the relation between farming and the seasons. As I approached, my tummy sank: no tents, no bustle. Ah! It's October 28th, and the farmers' market season is frosting over like parsnips.

But a valiant few braved today's wind warning and 4 degrees: the butter tart lady seemed to be wearing 2 coats; the bread teens were jumping in place, the too-friendly coffee dude was scowling. The fresh produce offerings were meagre. And yet, somehow this way is preferable. I often feel both overwhelmed and not up to the task during the real bounty weeks, when everything looks appealing and immediate. Those are the times when I buy too much and struggle to mow through heads of kale, cauli, beets & greens, potatoes, celeriac and green beans in one week. Better this: fewer options, less guilt.

It also doesn't hurt that Fall stimulates the desire to cook. So today, it was 2 adorable little butternut squashes as well as a basketful of sunchokes, a bunch of pea shoots and 4 winter radishes (candy cane striped and delicious raw). The squashes will become soup (and they last forever, so no real rush there), as will the sunchokes. Soup is the default setting for winter vegetables

In typical style, I had no real "plan" for supper tonight, but while on the phone I distractedly cut up a cooked potato and mixed in minced pea shoots, mayo and mustard and ate the whole yummy bowl with a spoon, and then mandolined 2 radishes and a Honeycrisp apple (from a marketing a few weeks back) and tossed with vinaigrette. Not bad, Chef.

Well, Thursday night we're feeding 600 people at the office, so I'm going back into the vortex. Better eat well while I can.

TV food and Steak Meurice

Although I care for very little of what's on the food television shows these days, I have tremendous respect for the generation that created the genre. Watching episodes of any of the old shows is always inspiring; and they were so much better than the dreck we see now. Julia Child is widely recognized as a pioneer of cooking shows, and her reputation continues to shine. But what about the Galloping Gourmet, Graham Kerr? He of the greatest cooking show of all time. He who made 455 30-minute episodes between 1969 - 1971? 455 EPISODES. (The punters on the Food Network can barely squeeze out 13 episodes a year now.)

The Galloping Gourmet was--simply enough--fun to watch. Kerr himself was a handsome bon vivant who made cooking exciting, enjoyable, and appealing. He gave his audience confidence as cooks and I would argue that he did this not by making 30-minute meals or fast and easy recipes, but because he very clearly expressed the pleasure he himself took from cooking and eating (who can forget his orgasmic expressions as he would taste his dishes, close his eyes and swoon). That he was sexy and awe-some was gravy. He captured then what very few cooking shows have done since. His show was #1 simultaneously in the UK, US, Canada, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand. No freaking kidding. But after a motor accident in 1971 he changed his foie gras and clarified butter-loving ways, befriended broccoli and pretty much disappeared.

My partner in crime and I are keen to cook through the recipes in Kerr's masterpiece cookbook. Having watched his show as children, we're curious now to taste and see what kind of cook Kerr really was; his persona loomed so greatly. Do the recipes taste as good as he made them look? Do they still work now in 2008? Or have times and tastes have changed?

Last night my squire brought over $4 worth of excellent locally-made morcilla (Argentine blood sausage) (plenty for 2 eaters) which we broiled and ate with a cast iron panful of bacon, onions and savoy cabbage while we hashed out the details of our project. The rules will trickle out as we write about our culinary adventures and discoveries. Steak Meurice, a signature of Kerr's, is first up.

Inspiration and agitation

I'm eating crow today. Ever since I had a showy but bad meal of molecular gastronomy last year, I've been bashing the movement vociferously. The epitome of this bad bad meal -- which I ate begrudgingly, as it was for a restaurant review and I had to -- was a scallop that had been pureed and extruded into ribbons of fettuccini. Hey chef smartypants (I yammered in my head) what possessed you to fuck with one of the ocean's dreamiest treasures (that needs nothing more than a searing in a mofo hot pan to achieve perfection?!)

So I've had rather a chip on my shoulder about the whole molecular gastronomy thing ever since. Until yesterday. I had the chance to hear and see elBulli chef Ferran Adria, inventor of the new gastronomy. Like elBulli's melon globules which (allegedly) burst on the tongue, his eloquence and philosophy took me by surprise.

The guy's a genius, simply enough. He's an artist and an innovator and whether or not his style of cuisine floats my boat, he has revolutionised my craft. When you hear an artist (a true one, in any field) speak about his passion it's hard not to be persuaded.

I won't even try to explain the cuisine. It is to cuisine what Picasso is to Impressionism: a revolutionary change. As Adria explained, he invented a new alphabet. It's hard to imagine anything new -- truly NEW -- in cuisine, but he did it. And yet, his goal is still what chefs have been attempting this whole time: to be provocative and to cause happiness and even laughter.

His insights included that chefs rarely eat their own food as their customers do -- sitting down, not just tasting it off a spoon standing over the pot. (Guilty as charged); that mine is the best generation of chefs in the history of cuisine because we do it out of passion, not out of necessity; and that it doesn't matter how the food is made -- what matters is how it tastes. Now how can I be pissed off at that?

I celebrated with too much Champagne and so spent tonight at home nursing a headache and a stock pot.

Butter is the new cheese

I'm working on a trends piece for a magazine so I'm out in the shops a fair amount these days, trying to sort out the crap from the treasures. Man, there is a shitload of garbage in jars and bottles and packets. "Pizza dough mix" in a box...which is flour, dry yeast and salt. Way to go brainiac: you still have to add the water, olive oil and elbow grease. Meanwhile, every imaginable variety of jam/ condiment/ spread/ barbeque rub/ flavoured vinegar/ $25 olive oil continues to fill immeasurable real estate on the shelves of our city's food boutiques. Nothing seems to cost less than $7 and everything contains either lavender, smoked paprika or organic cane juice. I have a funny feeling that were I to purchase one of these pricey jars I would use one tablespoon then relegate the sucker to The Back of The Fridge.

Not to worry, though, there is still much to wonder at and salivate over. These treasures usually appear in the fresh section. Today at a cute catering take-away I found a foil-wrapped parcel of artisanal butter ($8 for 250g); I caught another one later in the day at the city's premier cheese and provisions shop. [A side note: the first recipe in Jen McLagan's new book, Fat, is for homemade butter. Oh you can bet I'll be on that one asap.] It seems that a few enterprising cheeseries are taking the initiative to lure foodies with a new form of hand-hewn fat.

My opinion on this? I left the bread and knife on the board all afternoon, to where I returned at regular intervals to slice, toast and slather. As darling James Beard said, "Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; and good bread with fresh butter, the greatest of feasts."

Mm.

Chefstock

We had our inaugural national chefs' congress this past Sunday-Monday. I continue to bask in the afterglow of the most inspiring, awesome food-related event of my career. I'll try to be brief, but I'm yet barely able to express my inspiration in words. I'll start with the food and see where that goes.

In brief: the engine on this train is Michael Stadtländer, our country's head chef; he's at the forefront of the craft. He initiates trends -- but on principle, not on pretension. He moved to a huge farm 2 hours north of the city and lives and works on a mostly self-sustaining farm. Nightly, he serves 8 people a dinner that comes from his pens, gardens and woods. He's an artist; he's a genius; he's our leader. This whole cabal was his initiative (not that he didn't have a wee army of helpers). He's about 7 feet tall and wears a feather in his cap.

So about 250 chefs (barely any media and absolutely no wannabes or socialites) congregated at Stadtländer's farm midday Sunday. We sang the national anthem. Then 13 chefs from each of the country's provinces cooked a regional speciality in cast iron pans over open fires. This all happened in a huge open field. There was the most buttery gravlax; musky, peppery muskox tartare; whitefish caviar and YES, diced raw whale blubber (exquisite, like lardo) from the North; scallops with oyster nectar, pickled herrings and an unfortunate lobster risotto from the East; Berkshire pork, duck ballotine and braised lamb from the middle; bison pierogies with bison bresaola and berkshire pork in a broth of very gently smoked pike chowder from the West.

But the hands-down scene stealer was the fish and brews from Newfoundland. This dish of cod cheeks and tongues, battered, shallow fried and served over "brews" (kind of a mash made of salt cod and hard bread) topped with addictive pork scruncheons stole the heart of every chef at the show.



We hung out, drank lovely wines and beers and just chatted. There was absolutely not a whiff of competition; I think this was because there were no non-chefs there. Although we had all stuffed ourselves at lunch, by 9pm all were ready for round 2, prepared by the heavy-hitting chefs from The Big City. They showed their muscles with elk rib eyes; 18-month-cured hams; fire-roasted lamb; handmade charcuterie and artisanal cheese; raw oysters, scallops and clams cooked on an open fire. We gorged on those shellfish then pocketed the hot shells (it was freezing by sundown). The epic bonfire was lit.

We returned for another day, another meal (breakfast cooked by culinary students. Lovely pigs). Then sessions where chefs spoke passionately about their crafts. Sustainable aquaculture; living off the land; making cheese. All these conversations were elevated way beyond the usual food pap served up by the non-food media. This is why we guests found the fires beneath our asses lit with a vengeance.

This is by far the last you've heard of this.

A few words upon having found a zucchini in the crisper

It's been a particularly embarrassing week for me as the home cook (see list of other meals from the week to the right). Suffice to explain that after roasting a chicken last Saturday night I haven't turned on the oven or stove once. Tonight (one of those luxurious Saturday nights at home by myself) I have returned to my old ways and cooked up a plain old pot of pasta for supper. But something wonderful happened: as I was digging through the wilting-to-manky produce in the fridge there appeared a perfectly fine small zucchini.

While penne is boiling, heat some olive oil and a small pat of butter over medium low. Add a coarsely chopped clove of garlic and a small dried hot pepper and get them all fragrant. Increase the heat to medium high and add a chopped zucchini*. Once tender throw in a big handful of chopped parsley, a splash of white wine and a generous dose of Parm. Now I'm all proud and feeling chef-y.

* Jamie Oliver helped my get over my dislike of zucchini, which I'd always found wet and blah. Cut it into long quarters then deftly slice out the seed layer. This removes the spongy layer that never cooks out its moisture, leaving behind a rather tasty remainder.

D.O.P pizza

One of the easiest things to spot in a restaurant is pretension. There's a forced-ness that anyone who just loves to eat can simply feel. It's the feeling you get walking into a glitzed-up restaurant where the music is so cool you don't recognize it and the hostess (wearing more eyeliner than apparel) lets you see an almost imperceptible sneer as you doff your coat and reveal a less-than-uber cool outfit. The menu reads right -- these days it'll be "sharing plates", lots of pork and a whole lot more words in non-English languages -- but the food doesn't deliver.

By happy contrast, authenticity is also pretty easy to spot. When we stepped into what's billed as our city's only truly Neapolitan pizzeria, my Italian swain exclaimed that this would not be out of place in Naples. Right down to the exposed white cedar bar, the pizzeria's owners are attempting to bring the entire authentic Neapolitan pizza experience to this city.

They even have an ideology page on their website where they quote from the EU and the Vera Pizza Napoletana code. Just to begin, a true pizza must be circularly shaped, 0.3 cm thick at its centre and 1 to 2 cm thick at its crust.

YES, THERE'S AN ASSOCIATION WHICH GOVERNS THE AUTHENTICITY OF PIZZA. (And people wonder why I worship the Italians.)

I would travel days, pay a princess's ransom, abide boring conversation and even sleep in a tent to experience this kind of passionate food-related authenticity. So sitting too far across a long communal table from my beau seems a paltry compromise because the first item on the pizza list stops me cold: Margherita D.O.P.

Denominazione di origine controllata is beautiful Italian for the Protected Designation of Origin laws which guard the names of regional foods. Champagne was one of the first winners (you can't call any old bubbly champers anymore), so are prosciutto and Parmigiano-Reggiano. It's a way of keeping safe the actual words we use to name foods, keeping their original meaning in tact. Kind of like a food dictionary in application, in order to be named Parmigiano-Reggiano, it must be made in a small region of Northen Italy to specific standards inspected by the Parm-Regg cheese consortium. I have a fierce passion for dictionaries, grammar and language, so no surprise that I dig this kind of thing.

As we eat the D.O.P Margherita, we can only smile. It is perfect and simple and delicious, the San Marzano tomato sauce slightly more sweet than acid, the fior di latte mozzarella creamy and pale, the basil wilted, the crust exceptional in its simultaneous crispy-chewiness. We pull on $5 tumblers of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo and bawl at each other over the extraordinary din.

I have long lived by the motto that pizza is like sex: even when it's bad it's still good. Pizza does get slutted around rather a lot (this city also boasts an Afghan pizzeria, a Turkish pizzeria, and many varieties of BBQ chicken pizza), and that's not always a bad thing, particularly at 3am on the way home from the pub. It's just comforting to know that someone cares enough to make this pizza according to these rules. And that deserves respect.

A single girl and a flank steak

It was either James Beard or Mrs Rombauer who said that eternity is defined as a ham between 2 people. That quotation played in my head this week. I barbequed one of Elvis' lovely flank steaks on Monday night (marinated in a motley combination of soy, hoisin, maple syrup, chili flakes, Dijon and balsamic) and sliced it thinly. My stars, I just finished the last of it on Friday! It lasted me 4 meals. I'll have to revert to tofu and quinoa this week.

I've poached a new element from Carol Blymire's wonderful, inspiring French Laundry at Home blog. She lists "what else I've eaten this week" and it's always fun to read. I'm hoping the contents of my own list won't be too scary to admit.

Preserving madness

When like-minded people engage in an activity which all are mildly obsessed with, excess is just a stone's-throw away. That's why last night at about 8pm, my canning partners and I decided there was nothing for it: we had to preserve what remained of our bushel of tomatoes.

Ok, let me back up. Last year Sean and Jane and I had 3 magnificent weekends of preserving, ending up with chutney, chili sauce, 2 types of jam and several litres of preserved peaches. We were determined to increase our results this year, but between their new baby and my apartment move, we had so far preserved doodlysquat and the season was waning. I was starting to feel a bit desperate, and that's when the madness set in. We met at the market and goaded each other into not just doubling the quantity of peaches we preserved last year but TRIPLING it. And we knew we needed a triple batch of chili sauce. But that doesn't sound like too much, right? Alas, it was just twenty minutes later while negotiating with a very young farmer's daughter for 36 plum tomatoes that she uttered the fateful phrase, "why don't you just buy a bushel? It's only $12."


Now, gentle reader, how am I, an occasionally insane, type-A, stay-up-all-night personality, to respond to that? Not to mention that at 9am on a Saturday I was besieged by rolling buggies, strollers, Golden Retrievers and oversized backpacks full of corn and cauliflower, and there was neither time nor space to think rationally about this decision. The next thing I knew, we were hauling a BUSHEL of plum tomatoes on top of THREE FLATS of peaches.



Ah, preserving day. When madness takes hold of you lock stock and barrel. And just when you think you have blanched, quartered and skinned as many peaches as possible, there is still another sinkful to conquer. Once appropriately prepped, we shoved the sweet, juicy beauties into jars, topped up with thin sugar syrup, wiped rims, snapped on lids and rings and lovingly simmered them for 20 minutes. There is nothing quite so satisfying as hearing the dull >snap< of the lids sealing.

But there was no rest for us (just a fortifying turkey and cranberry sandwich). After chopping the onions and peppers for chili sauce Sean removed the 36 tomatoes required. He then looked at what remained of the bushel, looked over at me and remarked "you've got to be kidding me". Yeah, those 36 tomatoes made up about a sixth of the bushel. We didn't say much for a long while after that. But then we agreed that it would be criminal to toss the tomatoes -- there was no way we could eat through them in a week. We looked at each other and understood: this was going to be a long evening. We consulted books and the web, then simply blanched, skinned, quartered, packed into jars with water and sealed the jars. Results to follow in another post, no doubt.

Each year we forget how very long it takes to bring a canner to a boil; how long the chili sauce simmers before it's right; how much ice we'll need for the blanching stages; how sticky the kitchen floor gets mid-way through the day. But we don't forget the sublime pleasure of snapping open a litre of the sweetest sunshiney peaches on a snow day in January, or of the perfect flavour match between our chili sauce and a wedge of tourtiere on Christmas Eve.

The List, part 1

Mondays at the office are like some kind of bad energy tornado, so I try to keep my head down make myself look super annoyed and busy, thank you George Costanza. Best thing to do is read from the proliferation of food-related websites and blogs (it looks vaguely work-related in case anyone catches a glance at my screen). This list came up and I cannot resist. Of course, I have to put my 2 cents in, so the back half of the list will follow in another post.

The Omnivore's 100
1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at http://www.verygoodtaste.co.uk/ linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:
1. Venison
But never truly wild venison. Hunters, please contact me. You kill it, I'll cook it.
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos Rancheros
A good option on otherwise lacklustre brunch menus.
4. Steak Tartare
Horse tartare is better
5. Crocodile
6. Black or blood pudding
We grew up on this, but my sly parents called it by its French name, boudin, to trick us into loving it. Worked.
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ganoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
I live in a wonderful city where pho is one of the cheapest eats available.
13. Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
To truly represent the genre, it must be on uber-processed white bread with uber-processed Kraft peanut butter and grape jelly.
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
One of my favourite eats on a NYC weekend
16. Epoisses de Bourgogne
If it was hygenic or in any way seductive to slather this on myself, I would gladly do so. Nothing so stinky ever tasted so sublime.
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
Sure, but why? Grapes do just fine.
19. Steamed pork buns
Excellent hangover food.
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
Out of the garden, still warm from the sun, dribbling down my face....yes.
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
We nibbled through a tasting menu of foie gras a few years ago (not recommended for those with heart conditions or weak stomachs). My favourites were the simple applications like torchon with rhubarb compote, or seared in a mofo hot pan till it's all yummy crusty on the outside and wobbly melty on the inside. But foie gras cheesecake? No thanks.
24. Rice and beans
YES!!
25. Brawn or head cheese
Veal head cheese from the Testaccio market in Rome, eaten with a plastic fork in the square. Bliss.
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
Raw Caraquets from New Brunswick are my favourites, but battered in panko, deep fried and served with jalapeno mayo at Oyster Boy also floats my boat.
29. Baklava
Used to make this by the 2ft x 4ft slab for a catering company. Bleh.
30. Bagna Cauda
Whenever I make this it splits. Help?
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
Mrs Jackson, my "second mom" (our neighbour and my mom's best friend) came from German stock. Her mom, the formidable Mrs Spindin, made a freezerful of sauerkraut every year.
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream
38. Vodka jelly
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
A "Top 10 Meals of My Life" list will come eventually, but a sneak preview: gnocchi with braised oxtail at Sora Marguerite in Rome.
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
Once I unwittingly swallowed half a spider out of my oatmeal (3 of his legs remained in the bowl). And I'm pretty sure I ate a fried cricket from a street stall in Bangkok.
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
One new year's eve I was back in my university town (population 1500 souls) and we gathered at our old pub. For some reason they were selling Johnnie Walker Blue (upwards of $200/ 750 mL) for $5.95 a shot. I am proud to have become intoxicated on such lovely booze.
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin

The List, 51 - 100

Since I've been writing this on the sly at work I had to parcel it into 2 posts. But I thought about it all night. I love lists!

51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
Surprisingly easy to make at home.
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
...but I believe the last time I had one I was 15.
56. Spaetzle
Here is a word that no waiter seems able to pronounce. Other big offenders: bruschetta and risotto.
57. Dirty gin martini
Sure, but why not have a Gibson instead?
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
The only possible justification for a mess of poutine is intense physical exertion (or heavy drinking -- it makes excellent "soaking up" food). So the ideal situation is to order a giant poutine as lunch in the middle of a day of skiing. Eaten with a 2-pronged wooden fork, of course.
60. Carob chips
I am embarrassed. My mom went through a hippie stage when our "treats" were these and banana chips. Call the psychotherapist.
61. Smores
I have never understood this.
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
I had a clay mask on my face once, does that count?
64. Currywurst
No, but sign me up.
65. Durian
A lasting memory from my childhood in South-East Asia is the iconic signs of crossed-out durian in the vicinity of hotel lobbies and on public buses. They always said "smells like hell, tastes like heaven" but I would locate the flavour closer to creamed onions.
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
And we must add Canadian beaver tails to this list.
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
Nana's secret ingredient: a tin of V8
72. Caviar and blinis
73. Absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
My brother was a cop and tells a great story about coming across an accident scene involving a car + driver (hale and sound) and a deer (now dead). A few discreet phone calls later, a guy showed up with the proper tools and proceeded to divvie up the carcass. Please see item #1.
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-star restaurant
Others involved in this wee project have mentioned 4-star NYC restos as comparable to Michelin 3 stars. For me, the tasting menu at Le Bernardin was as spectacular as dining gets; we wept from sensual pleasure, and that has to count for something.
85. Kobe beef
And some Kobe beef kidneys too.
86. Hare
...and the adorable little bunny in the garden is getting plumper by the day!
87. Goulash
88. Edible flowers
The bunny eschews the flowers so we eat them.
89. Horse
Yes!
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

My new local

Glorious world! I moved to my new apartment last weekend and my new local pub is everything a girl could ask for. I've been every day since I moved in.

Day 1: Moving Day itself. Overwhelmed by boxes, weary from heavy lifting and swirling emotions, damp from the rainstorm, Mary Elizabeth and I tucked into a snug table, drank pints of Guinness and ate crispy, hot fish & chips (generously hosed with malt vinegar) amidst a buzzing Friday night crowd. The waiter flirted with us, the food was excellent and a cutie on the tv won a gold medal in wrestling. Bliss.

Day 2: Cordless drills and paintbrushes. While my tireless, made-of-gold brother painted and hung shelving and heavy mirrors, his Michele and I purchased and assembled IKEA puzzlers. By 7pm we were ready to demolish a bottle of bubbly; by 8pm we had showered and settled into a table at the local. The daily specials are renowned, so we all ordered horseradish-crusted beef tenderloin with veg and rosti. Salutary; enriching; life-giving. The flirty waiter took one look at me and simply asked, "Guinness?". Bliss.

Day 3: Hitting the unpacking plateau. I can live in the place as it is, without all those last boxes unpacked, so I'm out and about. Matt came by to collect all my now-empty boxes (he's moving next weekend, love the circle of box life). We had a wander then perched on the patio at the local for another set of Guinness. No food; it didn't matter.

Day 4: Monday, getting home late from work...and I still haven't bought groceries. The only solution? A drink and a light supper at the local. Another special du jour: expertly seared trout with an iceberg-watermelon-bocconcini salad swimming in excellent lemon-poppyseed dressing. How perfect? My already-limited home cooking may be about to suffer another blow. How can I cook when there is such good food, drink and company a mere block away?

Food on the move

Twice a year my day job requires me to travel for several weeks. A colleague and I go across the country and make a presentation all morning followed by a lunch previewing about 20 of the new products our company is working on. We do about 13 shows over the course of 2 to 3 weeks. It's brutal.

Travelling for work sounds oh so glamourous and fun, but consider this schedule: get up at 6am in a less-than-luxurious hotel, try to grab a workout on a crappy hotel treadmill, put on your game face for 5 hours chatting to guests and making a dynamic (ha) presentation that you've already done 12 times, eat the same lunch of the same 20 items (but you have to eat everything so the guests think you like it all), speed to the airport for a 2pm flight, arrive in the next city by 5pm, check into yet another hotel, grab some dinner, drink too much, sleep too little and wake up and do it all over again the next day.

Naturally, for me the worst part is the food. I can't go on stage without breakfast, and when I'm stuck in a hotel my standard -- 1 soft-poached egg, whole wheat toast, tea and OJ -- sets me back about $25. Hotel breakfasts are hit-and-miss; sometimes the poached egg comes set in a cereal bowl with 1/2 cup of warmish water, other times it's perched on a slab of Texas toast soaked in margarine. There are always home fries, even if you don't order them. I often succumb to the temptation of the little packet of Kraft peanut butter.

This is followed by the aforementioned set lunch, of which I ususally eat three bites, then find myself at the airport and starving, truly one of the modern food lover's worst predicaments. I won't even go into the atrocities sold as "food" at airports; you've been there, you've been humiliated by a $10 sandwich filled with 25 g of turkey , a softened piece of iceberg and a triangle of cheese-product. And that's better than the food you can buy on board.

We try to find a half-decent place for a cheap dinner (the company gives us a whopping $50/day for all meals and after that breakfast I'm down to $25). More often we just want a salad and a shitload of booze. Somehow travelling makes you so so tired. But then sleeping in hotel beds is perpetually uneasy-making. Thank heavens the two of us get along like bacon and eggs.

Food for the Sick

A new development: in the past few weeks my computer desk has become my eating space. I've been writing lots, sure, but I discovered this little thing known as tv on the internet, and now I'm as likely to be writing as watching an episode of Mad Men. Meals just naturally happen here (such as they are... herewith leftover quinoa, yellow beans and tofu with fried onions eaten with a cereal spoon and an Anchor Steam beer). I'll try to keep the crumbs out of the keyboard, but I'm more worried now than ever that I'm becoming a loner geek.

It doesn't help that I spent the entire long weekend quarantined in the apartment with a bout of strep throat. Searing pain on swallowing, throbbing pain in the throat at all times, headaches and a rollercoaster fever meant I had lots of time for tv and movie watching. But not for eating; the worst part is barely being able to swallow. Last time I had strep I survived on Cream of Wheat, applesauce and room temperature licorice tea for 7 days.

So, starving and needing food to help the antibiotics go down, and knowing that swallowing anything chunkier than hand lotion was an impossibility, I busted out my 14-year old and still kicking Braun hand blender and puréed the mason jar of chunky chicken soup Mary-Elizabeth had brought me. (She also brought dvds to put an end to the unfortunate Chuck Norris marathon I had been reduced to watching on tv.) That purée and a few litres of homemade ginger tea kept me alive on Saturday. Lucky me, Sunday brought 2 handsome men, one with more chunky chicken soup and season 2 of Rome and the other with eggs and Marsala for zabaglione. (I still can't decide who I love more.) But may I recommend zabaglione as the ultimate food for the sick. Its sweet, boozy frothiness comforts all wounds and takes the edge off to boot.

By Monday night I was ready for and craving solid food. Kate had brought the perfect thing: 2 of her homemade garlic-herb sausages. Yes, bless her culinarily enterprising soul, she makes her own sausages and they are tremendous (her kitchen adventures put me to shame and I love it). I roasted and sliced them then sautéed lots of garlic in olive oil, added 2 of my freshly crushed Roman chilies, a head of steamed Swiss chard, the sausages and the rest of a bottle of white wine. Served over my new favourite, utterly swallowable ultra-smooth polenta and now I'm back in business.

Indian food

In my backwards food world comfort takes two forms: pasta or Indian food. The pasta one is a no-brainer -- who can turn down a pan of gooey homemade macaroni and cheese under a buttered breadcrumb crust? -- but the Indian one is likely one of my idiosyncrasies. My family lived on the subcontinent for three of my adolescent years and we subsisted on dal bhat -- rice and lentils. It's a miraculous meal of sorts: one of the world's least expensive yet most nutritious food combinations, which locals eat (along with curried seasonal vegetables, tarkari) for both of their two daily meals, every day of the year. EVERY DAY! Forever! With meats like chicken or goat taken only on feast days. Now, I can eat pasta pretty well every dinner for a month and not get tired of it, but to sustain a nation of people on one basic meal for a lifetime makes dal bhat the World's Greatest in my estimation. And there is something so wonderfully satisfying about the combination of rice smothered with creamy, spicy cooked lentils; it has exactly the same filling qualities of a good tuna-noodle casserole or chicken pot pie.

It's not just Indian food; I recently read a great short piece by an American author extolling the same virtues of Mexican beans and rice (sorry, I'm mid-move and have already packed the anthology which contains the author's name). I should be less surprised that at least half the world is sustained by these comfort foods.

And did I mention how easy dal bhat is? These days I'm simmering a small potful of red lentils while I caramelize about 4 big, thinly sliced onions in the cast iron pan. Once the onions are sweet, deep golden and tender I add a big tablespoonful of Dean & Deluca's hot curry powder, a double-size pat of butter, a drizzle of honey and a load of salt. As soon as the onion mix-up goes into the lentil soup I clamp on the lid and let everything get to know each other. A scoop of sticky basmati goes into my favourite bowl, I dole out an enormous ladle of dal and then ...the magic happens. Add some Patak's hot lime pickle and eat with a cereal spoon.

Oddly, though, restaurant Indian usually doesn't cut it. There's too much heaviness from butter and cream in restaurant dals so you can't eat a whole giant bowl of it without nearly bursting and groaning the whole way home. I was excited to eat at and review Amaya, our city's best Indian restaurant, last week, because I know they are stingier with the ghee and fat, bit I still felt five feet wide when I left after an otherwise extraordinary meal.

But that's material for another day -- the restaurant "secret" of how to make everything taste better. Hint: it's fat.

Eating horse and Scotch eggs

There are two places in the city that serve horse meat. I guess there continues to be a general aversion to eating the flesh of creatures more commonly known as pets, because when I gleefully ordered an entree of horse tartare on Wednesday night, my 3 dining companions choked on their Pernods. What followed was a rush of unintelligent babbling about how it's wrong to eat horse, like it's wrong to eat dog or cat. Of course, I dismiss this logic out of hand, seeing no difference between any of these lovely creatures and the vital beauty and gentle cuddliness of pig, chicken, cow and fish. Have you ever delighted in the fervent nuzzling of a goat taking food from your palm? Of a puffy yellow chick at the egg hatchery in the science museum? Have you read Charlotte's Web? Did it turn you against a good roti, rotisserie chicken or extra order of bacon at breakfast? I myself am so fond of the docile wet stare of all ruminants that I've been known to weep spontaneously when seeing them represented in art (see Caravaggio's Rest on the Flight into Egypt). It doesn't stop me from eating them.

Generally, the French eat horse while the Brits abhor the practice. Leaning on the French quarter of my ancestry, then, (the Celtic remainder is just happy to have a whiskey afterwards), I have as much issue consuming horseflesh as I do consuming chicken, pork, turkey, elk, moose, snake or insects. Talk to me about eating farmed Chinese fish or inhumanly slaughtered beef and I'll rant till I drop, but nibbling on cavallo (so eloquent in Italian) is no biggie. And at this small, unpretentious, perfectly French bistro in the heart of Chinatown, the horse tartare is a treat I cannot resist. The meat itself is almost sweet and not at all gamey, and when all mixed up with Dijon and cornichons it's absolutely lovely.

Rarer still, though less contentious, is the Scotch egg, served only during pro soccer games at the lakeside arena. Brian and I shimmied through streams of fans in search of the one concessions stand where we would find the treasure we sought. And there it was, $4.20 of hard boiled egg wrapped in sausage meat, battered and deep fried. It feels reckless to eat one without a defibrillator within 10 metres, but it does match perfectly with sports-arena draft beer.

Other than that, the home front cuisine of late has been particularly underwhelming. On one of the most humid evenings of the summer I slow-simmered (because I love to add steam to humidity) San Marzano tomato sauce and it has gamely formed the base for most meals since -- plain on pasta, with a can of Italian tuna on pasta, cold on crackers after a night of drinking. Bio-K, crackers and cheese filled out pretty well the rest of my in-home dining. I suppose my ex-domicile culinary abandon makes up for it.

'licious

SIDENOTE: I've discovered a new iteration of hell: gastro-intestinal distress has forced me to survive on the BRAT diet for 5 days. I had no idea how mind-numbingly boring bananas and rice could be. Effective, yes, but my stars it's dull. I even resorted to making jello on Wednesday just to let my tongue taste something vaguely fruity. Vaguely.

Luckily enough, the distress hit me right in the middle of the city's summer "restaurant festival", so I'm staying in anyways. Lots of cities are doing this now; originally it was a way to get people out of their houses and bunkers after the SARS panic several years ago. Now it's just a sad repetition of something that was once a good idea. Restaurants offer $25 or $35 3-course meals, in theory providing the plebs with an opportunity to go to the exorbitantly-priced top rooms, or even just to more than one moderately-priced room. That's the idea. In practice it's a scam. Here's the dirt: the hippity-high-end restos are first of all utterly swamped by reservations, and then by rabid wannabe diners calling and calling trying to get on the waiting list. Many restos triple or quadruple their covers (the number of meals served), which means diners are essentially kicked off the dining room's pant leg after about 75 minutes. To accommodate the insane increase in covers, fine kitchens work distinctly un-fine hours, make food in bloated, oversized quantities and buy in things like ravioli and desserts (which would normally be made in-house). The food is compromised. Diners do not get an authentic experience.

But my biggest beef (and clearly I have more than one) is the loss of service. My favourite part of going to an uber-resto is the way they make you feel like the only person in the room (the good ones do this, at least). Service is the make-or-break element to a good restaurant and it just evaporates under the pressure of the resto-fest.

I love fine restaurants, and it's worth it to me to save up to splurge on dining properly and well. But during the 2-week reign of the 'licious resto-fest, I'll stay in.

Fior di Zucca

After a week that included such memorable meals as "Raw Cauliflower dipped in Hellman's" and "3 Gins-and-Soda", I'm doing quite well this weekend. The brunch rant stuck in my craw all week, so after a luxuriously long morning in bed on Saturday, nothing would do but the greasiest breaky. I even enjoyed it at one of the sketchiest intersections of this fair city. For $6.99 I ate most of 2 scrambled-to-extinction eggs, a mountain of homefries, 2 sausages, a thick slice of ham, 2 slabs French toast (with table syrup), 2 slices of regular toast dripping with edible oil product and about 8 little cups of thin coffee with cream. So so good; my first square meal since Thursday, and at 2pm it hit the proverbial spot.

Off to market this morning then to get some fruit and veg into this body I clearly do not treat like a temple. Heirloom cherry tomatoes (at least 6 varieties in one punnet), the mother of all red leaf lettuces, her sister the enormous bunch of spinach, new potatoes, eggs, another of Amaranth's great grass-finished sirloins, raspberries and strawberries should cover it. I fried up some of last week's green garlic with quartered cherry tomatoes and a handful of spinach, poached an egg and buttered two slices of multigrain toast. I was so delighted with my endeavour that I took its photo and insisted on pouring a Pimms and lemonade into a proper champagne flute (garnished with berries) to accompany. It is Wimbledon weekend after all.


But the thrilling, danced-on-the-spot find was a punnet of 14 perfect, picked-this-morning ZUCCHINI BLOSSOMS. In Rome this spring I had fior di zucca every day and vowed to try making them myself, not knowing that just getting my hands on the flowers would be the first challenge. I nearly poached a bunch from a neighbour's front garden last weekend but couldn't quite descend into criminality at that moment. My favourite way to eat them is stuffed with fresh mozzarella and a piece of anchovy, battered and fried. But just battered and fried is good too. Oh, and as a topping on a pizza with tomato and anchovies. I'm almost paralyzed by the options!

The Badness of Brunch

An ongoing inquiry: why is brunch such shite? I been disappointed, even offended by bad brunches so often it's now just a cliché. These days I'm happier at a greasy spoon because at the very least it's predictable and cheap.

For example: this past Sunday we were at the farmers' market in a posh, condo-booming district. We ventured into what seemed a cute brunch spot and chose from the formulaic menu (variations on eggs and bacon, variations on Benedict, granola, pancakes, burger). What happened next was as banal as traffic. My Benedict was predictably sub-par: undercooked eggs leaking their gelatinous whites over peameal that tasted like it was stored in a used hockey sock; sauce dubbed Hollandaise which looked like foam insulation and tasted like dusting polish; tepid home fries slimed with peppers and paprika; half a Roma tomato, as firm and crunchy as a cucumber, snowed with shelf-stable "parmesan" and waved under a lit match. For this, we paid over $40. Vile. Embarrassing for all involved. And it has happened countless times at various establishments: bad food, weak service, high price.

So what's the problem? On the industry side, brunch is a nightmare to work whether you're at the stoves or on the floor waiting tables. Customers are fussy and tired, often hungover and so either ravenous or nauseous or both. They want comfort food, cooked to their own subjective ideal of perfection, and quickly. Satisfying these savages is futile.

I blame the egg -- the hallmark ingredient of brunch -- which is impossible to cook to everyone's liking. As a customer I'm just as bad as everyone else: I like my scrambled eggs soft and creamy, my omelettes well-whisked and not one bit browned and my poached eggs with a runny yolk and fully cooked white. You're likely retching because you like your scrambled eggs in firm curds, your omelettes puffy and golden and your poached eggs almost totally cooked with just a whisper of raw yolk. See?

It's smarter in the end just to go to the diner and order the 3-egg special knowing full well that it will be overcooked scrambled eggs and deep fried potatoes (laquer them both with HP sauce and all is forgiven), garden-variety toast moist with margarine, sausages cooked at 6am and kept in a warmer for 4 hours and -- bliss -- lots and lots of high-test coffee hot enough to scald off your taste buds. All for $4.99.

There's more to say here. I haven't even started in on the subject of stuffed French toast.

Eating Trash

Just about every chef I know has a soft spot for some kind of junky food. Bunny dreams about tuna noodle casserole made with canned soup, Donnie Dee eats mini ravioli cold out of the tin, Kiki treats herself to those weird Mac Do pancake-sausage-egg sandwiches. These are our secret indiscretions, too embarrassing and horrendous ever to admit in public. Unless we're macking on trash together. So when the remains of a Happy Retirement cake made their way to the work kitchen Thursday afternoon, Kiki and I descended upon it with the kind of guilty glee reserved for playing hooky or watching The Young & the Restless. That store-bought white slab crusted with liquid paper-white frosting and eerily blue rosettes is the kind of naughty trans-fat heaven that makes your spine shudder. I had a little sliver. Then another and another. Then brushed my teeth to try to break the cycle, only to return to the sugary trough half an hour later. At some point Mama Jen (our moral compass) sighed "I do not understand you girls". You should see us when we're testing deep-fried cheese sticks, or anything deep fried for that matter. It's a little disgusting and a lot discouraging, no doubt, to watch chefs with refined palates and high calibre cooking skills stuff our faces with breaded, cheese-stuffed chicken fillets. Oh don't even mention macaroni and cheese.

In my own case, there are 2 possible explanations here. One, I appreciate the processed food because it is the very opposite of what I have chosen to do with my professional life. Kind of an anti-"busman's holiday" excuse. The second possibility has something to do with my tortured relationship with food and its relation to my identity and self-esteem. But it's way too complicated to spend any time on that one.

Recipe work

Certainly one of the more interesting elements of this job is the recipe development. We work on recipes for products themselves, but then we also develop about 200 recipes a year to show the new stuff "in application". So if there's a new jam, we develop a recipe for jam squares or trifle with jam or -- our standard -- puff pastry with jam. For the most part these are the recipes that show up on the backs of bottles and packages.

But a proper recipe doesn't happen like a sneeze. No, as with everything in the corporation, we make the process as long, drawn out and complicated as possible. First, develop the recipe, making sure to use lots of our other control brand products, but only the ones that are available in every one of our stores across the country. Figuring this out is a weeks-long process in itself. Then the recipe's flavour and ease of preparation have to be approved by our boss, then we send it for nutritional analysis. Next we buy all the groceries and send the recipe with groceries out to three people in the company to make at home. We sit down and pore over their feedback, along with the nutritional analysis, make any changes necessary and finally send it up to the powers that be to either print on a package (high exposure, much risk, many calls to customer service if there's a snafu) or tossed into the vast emptiness of the website, never to be seen again (low exposure, no biggie). By the end of it all the recipes are as poked and prodded as a brunch buffet, and just as appetizing to me. Frankly I'd rather never cook them again. (For the record, stay away from buffets of all kinds. Really. Everything you are imagining is true).

And after all that work, I still surprise friends and -- ah!-- colleagues too when I tell them to check out our recipes on the website. Oh, you have a website? with recipes? Pity the poor, tasty little red pepper - Parmesan souffles I made today, the creamy, subtle celery risotto with tiny scallops, the wicked cheddar-sour cream shortbreads, the tapenade puff pastry straws.

My Good Family

After much pestering, I'm back in the family fold for about 36 hours. As usual, the prime directives are Cook and Eat. This means that after flying in late Friday night and enjoying several drinks with a dear friend, I woke up Saturday to learn that my older brother and his lovely girlfriend will be here for brunch at 11am. Mum at least allowed me a coffee and dish of porridge before I hit the stoves.

I kind of hate cooking brunch -- it has to be eggs, it's a bit of a rush, and no one is terribly interested in trying something new. For all this, and my second straight hangover, I think we nailed it. I curried some canned tomatoes and simmered halved hard-boiled eggs within, broiled 2 bunches of fat asparagus, diced half a watermelon and half a pineapple and cooked a pot of rice. It was really easy, the eggs could sit until we were good and ready for them, and we were also able to eat through a half-pound of bacon without creating too much flavour chaos. We ate outside on the porch and had one of those delicious, rambling conversations that encompassed all manner of topics, from municipal politics to the superiority of 4-on-4 hockey to whether or not we had ever replaced the glass table top. I drank 4 cups of my mum's blisteringly strong coffee and jittered through the afternoon.

Us being us, the next task already called: making meringues and lemon curd to take to my cousin's for supper. My coz, the eldest of all 9 of us, has long been the family chef, creating elaborate, exquisite dinners for the family. It's always a blow-out at his place. On this gorgeous summer evening, he served a pork loin crusted with fennel and porcini powder cooked on his outdoor rotisserie, a pureed fennel sauce and grilled veg. To Die For. Inspirational. Ok, we were deep into the wine, but still. The salad of watercress, cilantro, cuke and watermelon refreshed us well enough that we devoured the meringues. The whole affair lasted about 6 hours. The rest of the party -- my aunt and uncle, Mum and Dad, coz and his wife -- are some of my favourite people. This is my good family, the ones who tell raucous stories, ask probing questions, demand all the details, tease and laugh. And eat and drink like the Irish Catholics we are.

At one point my aunt asked me "do you cook for yourself?" and I had to explain that no, I don't, and that I always feel guilty about it. Years ago, this very cousin made the most wonderful speech at our Nana's memorial, describing how Nana (a gay divorcee just like me) always took such pleasure from cooking for herself. It's true. She wrote us long, expressive letters, and in each one she would describe her evening's supper. Most often it was a few little lamb chops, sauteed in garlic, butter and oil, with a baked potato and some steamed broccoli. She was so excited about these meals that she would often have hand-written a "yum!" next to the typed passage.

I should see if I still have any of her letters.

Victory!

I have consumed nearly all of the market wares from last Sunday. Incredible, particularly for me, and especially on a week that had me eating out 4 nights. Here's the play-by-play:

Monday: I invited myself to a young gentleman's to cook for him the sirloin, marinated in Korean kalbi and topped with half of the radishes (thinly shaved on a Benriner), the shell peas with leeks and some of the spinach (and bacon for added oomph), the new potatoes boiled and banged up with butter and dill, and the berries, eaten plain while watching an excellent BBC doc on TV chefs.
Thursday: the remaining spinach sauteed Italian-style with lots of garlic in spicy oil, with the rest of the beautiful tomatoes halved and added, the rest of the asparagus.
Today: does this count as cheating? I brought the dirty dirty head of lettuce and what remained of the radishes to work and made a Big Salad for the crew's lunch.
Meanwhile, throughout the week I've also been bringing slices of the bread into the office for my breakfast.

So now the fridge accounting stands thus:
Half the bread
A handful of the shell peas which escaped from the bag and into the depths of the crisper (I have low expectations for these escapees)
And all the condiments you can shake a stick at.

I think this is progress. Or else just more encouragement for me to overspend at the markets. I'm going out of town this weekend, though, denying myself the best farmers' markets. What will I do for food next week?

Taste Test

At work, and my total egg use count is already up to 30, and it's not even 11 am. Six cheesecakes (again!) and a dozen individual red pepper-Parmesan soufflés which I'm delighted with. I'm developing application recipes for new products for the website. This means that my diet today has consisted of raw cheesecake batter and soufflé. Oh, and the 3 espressos we tasted -- Illy, Lavazza and our own brand. It's such an education to taste coffee with our resident expert. Now I can taste caramel, chocolate, bitterness, acidity and body in what I previously would have referred to simply as "a great espresso".

Tasting is such a huge part of the work we do here. When we critique and develop, it's never enough to say "I don't like it", you must describe exactly the taste or texture you don't enjoy. It's a whole new lingo: cheese can taste "hoofy", shrimp "pondy", beef "livery", chocolate "thin" and pork is --ok, not the cleverest expression of flavour -- "porky". Those are all faults, by the way. When we like something it's "moreish" (I want more!).

When we interview new people, we put them through a sensory exam. It's brutal. These poor suckers -- nervous as it is no doubt -- have to tell the difference between tomato sauce with added thyme, oregano, rosemary and basil; between iced tea sweetened with honey and with sugar; between homemade mayo and purchased mayo; and more. And if you don't ace the test, you're not likely to get a job here.

But maybe you don't want to work here. Our afternoon yesterday was kyboshed by a three-hour information session for our 200-person division. Read: brainwashing and empty promises with a patronizing team building exercise thrown in. Argh. Our company has been undergoing an alleged "transition" for almost 2 years and while Mum always said a change is as good as a rest, it's now just ridiculous. People are still getting terminated, many others have left from frustration, and the rest of us are on tenterhooks waiting and wondering what's going to happen to us. My fear is not that they will fire me (frankly, give me 3 months severance and I'll dance my way out of here) but that they will change my job on me, and expect me to just soldier on. For now I'm keeping my head down. And hoping for something decent for lunch.

Afterglow

The best comment about the paté was from the pretty young thing who remarked "this is such great hummus!". Being a vegetarian, she wasn't particularly pleased when I disabused her of the notion that liver pate contains no meat. Sorry, I am mean to vegetarians sometimes. And pretty young things.

For no good reason -- I love pretty young veg and rarely cook meat at home. This morning's farmers' market was like some kind of acid trip for me. In the heady humidity the surfeit of gorgeous radishes, greens, tomatoes (in June!) and berries made my head spin. Naturally, I bought way too much, and now must focus the rest of the week's energies on consuming:
1 bunch red radishes
1 big red leaf lettuce
1 gargantuan bunch spinach
1 pint of the sweetest multicoloured grape tomatoes
1 loaf of Monckton's whole wheat-flax bread
1 quart new potatoes (so dirty they must be delicious)
1 grass-fed sirloin steak
1 quart shell peas
1 pint strawberries (which I gave away)

Good grief! It's enough veg for a family of 4. I had to clean out the fridge just to make room. But did any of this hyper-stimulation inspire me to out-do my self for lunch? I made a fried egg sandwich on the new bread and ate half of the tomatoes on the side. So that's a no. And then promptly accepted a dinner invitation. When will I learn?

Bunny is house sitting at the mansion where he is personal chef, so he invited some of us up for rotisserie chicken. This gorgeous house is filled with the best of everything, so the barbeque is a Viking built-in with about 18 square feet of grilling space and an industrial-like rotisserie. The smell of those chickens was to die for, and the four of us destroyed two of them. He is an inspired, self-possessed chef who takes utter delight in his creations, but guess what? He never cooks at home either. Take-away sushi and leftovers from work are the principle meals chez lui. Tonight though, in his stunning, kitted-out work kitchen, he was on fire, bringing out three of his homemade ice creams and sorbets after dinner as well as homemade dulce de leche and gluten-free chocolate pecan cookies. "Cooking at home is so annoying" is his simple explanation. Another single, apartment-dwelling professional chef whose fridge contains more condiments than edible sustenance. We are friends for a reason.

Chicken Liver Paté

Well it’s 6:27pm and I’m due to go help a friend set up for a party later, so I should eat, but there isn’t much in the fridge except the sheep milk ricotta and the Mennonite bacon. This means pasta of course. If it wasn’t for pasta I’d likely starve. The bacon is sizzling now. That bodes well.

But it was a hell of a day for cooking. I was going full tilt by 7:25am with the shallots and the livers for the paté. It’s a recipe from my apprenticing days and as soon as the brandy hit the pan I had one of those amazing moments of olfactory memory. It’s always a thrill immediately to feel transported right into the hot summer of 1997 when I made this paté every other day. I can hear Chef Steve telling me to “use a shitload of Dijon and buzz it while it’s hot”. We used Frangelico then but in the interim there has been some unpleasantness between Frangelico and me, so I chose Marsala. Hurray, another use for the Marsala! That bottle of Marsala sits in the pantry and I imagine it just sighs to itself while an endless stream of other liquor bottles take up residence and get drunk relatively quickly. A suitor came over and made zabaglione with it at the beginning of April and I haven’t cracked the bottle since.

Once the liver paté was done, I had dried beans and lentils to cook and present -- kidney beans in a salad, barley (pot and pearl) as lemony side dishes, soup mix (ack) as soup and split peas as dal/soup. Second olfactory transport moment of the day, back to the hippie cafe in 2001. That soup (boil split peas; melt a shitload of butter, sizzle in some curry powder and honey and add to peas. Done.) saved my behind on numerous occasions when the realisation that we were About to Run Out of Soup hit me 10 minutes into the lunch rush. Great soup, and the work crew loved it. There were cheesecakes again today, to check out how different bricks of cream cheese behave in application. Blimey, it’s a whole trip down memory lane, what with having made that recipe about 800 times from 1997 to 1999 at the Italian takeaway. Nothing says Italian like New York cheesecake. The day continued in a similar manner till quitting time, a blessing to be busy during these trying times at work.

Still, all that said, I hardly feel like cooking right now. I’ve been to the chiropractor and the eyebrow shaper and the cobbler (seriously, his name is Rocco and he just fixed my favourite Miz Mooz mules). But I’ll put an egg yolk in my favourite pasta bowl, whisk in a big gob of ricotta with a bit of cooking water, snip the non-slimy leaves of parsley over it all, add a shitload (the word of the day I guess) of pepper, the crisped bacon and the pasta. A glass of rose from what remains of last night’s Frustration bottle and I should be just fine, once again sustained by Italy’s best.

Chicken Liver Paté
Cook 4 big, thinly sliced shallots very slowly in at least 1 stick of butter. Once they are totally translucent add a smashed clove of garlic and about 750 g of chicken livers. When the livers are cooked, splash in about 1/4 cup of brandy or Marsala and a good glug of 35% cream. Cook the liquor out a bit then add a big gob of Dijon, a tiny pinch of allspice, salt and a shitload of pepper. Buzz it in the food processor until very smooth, taste for seasoning and press it through a fine mesh sieve and into a serving bowl. Chill at least 4 hours.

The work kitchen

Have purchased 2 lbs of chicken livers and 3 boxes of crackers. Big plans, clearly. But still I won’t be cooking at home -- I’ve got all the ingredients packed in a bag to take into work tomorrow to cook there. The thought of smelling fried livers the next time I wear my jean jacket is enough to get me out of bed early, on the road and into the work kitchen before the rest of the crew is in. Chicken liver paté is always a hit at a party (and I'd like to make a good impression at this Friday's bash), and it's cheap and easy to boot. I just don't want to cook it at home.

This has happened before. Many times. When Nana died and several of us decided to make her Famous Chocolate Cake for the memorial, I made it at work. Taking fresh bread to friends for supper? Better make it at work. Braised oxtail to woo a suitor? Certainly don’t want to have that in my apartment. Not that this behaviour raises any eyebrows at work, and I’ve never been told to cease and desist, as long as there are leftovers for the crew. Likely our (human) dishwasher begrudges me the few extra dishes, but that’s nothing new.

It's a decent kitchen, my work one. Lots of space, lots of gear, and a great crew. I'm particularly proud that it is, like any good home kitchen, a gathering place where people speak freely. Product developers and quality assurance specialists and executives drift through looking for a snack and to have a little chat. I've learned more about the business this way than by any of the countless wasted hours spent in meetings or dreaded information sessions. That said, I cannot bear the way visiting strangers in my kitchen seem to believe they have an instant camaraderie with me because I'm wearing whites. Jerks in suits sidle up to me and say "what are you cooking me for breakfast" in that self-important, jokey way that boils my blood. Perhaps they'd like me to strip for them as well. There are always elements of prostitution and slavery in cheffing, but I'd like to choose those moments myself.

2 hot Italians

June 7

I’m starting to go to the Saturday morning markets as much to chat and see people as to get provisions for the week. So half the pleasure came from just asking Elvis the cute young butcher for “2 hot Italians”. They are great sausages -- in this market sea of every imaginable sausage meat-seasoning combo – but when your butcher’s eyes light up and he flashes a killer smile and then undercharges you for these chubby, spicy sausages, well, it makes a girl want to eat more sausage. Even if I am an inveterate flirt. Let’s drop it there.

But when I looked at the rest of the contents of my shopping bag it was clear that once again I had shopped without A Plan. A giant bunch of rhubarb ($4.50), a tiny tub of Monforte sheep milk ricotta ($7 gasp), 2 bunches of sorrel (why 2? Why why why?). So it’s now Sunday afternoon, 36 sticky, humid degrees, I have a laundry list of chores to do (including, ironically enough, the laundry) but all I can do I sit and pant a bit. Off to the movies to cool down for 2 hours (and heat up, thank you Robert Downey Jr). Now I can finally turn on the grill and cook these hot Italians. Yes, the grill, keep all that cooking heat out of the tiny apartment! But no, because I’m still a professional idiot, the only starch in the house is pasta, so on goes the boiling water and the kitchen turns even more hot and humid. Vegetables? Sorry Mom, keep dreaming. There’s the rest of the Dirtiest Head of Lettuce from Tuesday’s market, but the humidity wilts it right in the salad spinner. Can I huff out an exasperated “BAH!” yet? Thank goodness I like my beer on the warmish side because just minutes after the Marston’s is poured, the glass is soaked with condensation (hmmm, much like my forehead). Regardless, the meal of penne, sausage, some of our excellent 2007 red pepper relish and a warm beer made me glad. Not elated, just glad to have accomplished food preparation in a heat reminiscent of Bombay noon after a too-short thunderstorm.