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.
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What passes for a meal this week
- a terrible cafeteria salad
- veggie miso burger on greens
- bran flakes and a few medjool dates
- pork chops and sweet potatoes with green beans
- pesto pizza
- spag bol
- half a lamb chop, a sausage and salad
What's the deal?
I’m a chef - I make my living cooking. Years in the restaurant industry were good to me, but I concurrently took my Master of arts and when I was through it dawned on me that I didn’t actually want to be a prof in some charming small town; I wanted to keep cooking. Trouble is, restaurant work isn’t the most intellectually stimulating, and I wanted more. After years of cobbling together food-and-writing-related work, I landed in the wild world of magazines as a food editor.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The Girl
During my apprenticeship I was the only woman in a kitchen of randy, raucous men. At first they called my first name to get my attention, but once they started calling me The Girl ("pick up table 45 Girl", "get The Girl to make more crackers") I felt like I was one of the crew. Feminism be damned, there's nothing like being accepted into a kitchen brigade.
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