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.