two hollow legs

Oh shame!

This is one of those meals that you really aren’t supposed to talk about, because it’s kind of trashy and shameful, but since I told you that I ate McDonald’s already…

And moreover, I am working on shedding things I don’t need (clothes, unsolicited advice, crappy gifts that were clearly re-gifts), and shame is one of them.

The other day I got completely absorbed in doing something at home, that I didn’t realize it was 2 pm and I hadn’t eaten lunch already. This was completely uncharacteristic of me, as usually all I dream about is food and food and food, and therefore lunch is usually at 11 am, and second lunch is at 1 pm.

When I realized the omission I stumbled over to the kitchen, and with each step a larger wave of hunger washed over me. In a frenzy, I whipped around, looking into the pantry, opening up the fridge, rifling through the pile of bread bags on the counter…then it dawned on me that the best solution to this catastrophe was this: a tuna sandwich on an Everything bagel.

Yes.

I started thinking like a gastronomic chemist: protein to add substance and satisfaction, as well as to slow down the hit on my glycemic index due to the carbo loading bonanza of the bagel…or perhaps I was just thinking like a hungry little squirrel.

I knew I had a bagel, I knew I had a can of tuna. I flung open the fridge and found the floopy miniscule remains of a head of celery. After a quick dice I went back for the mayonnaise and relish (I usually do a giant blob of mayo and slightly smaller blob of relish in my tuna sandwich filling), and was confronted with a shock: no relish! Zounds! My eyes scanned the back row of forgotten condiments…and then I had it: sweet chili sauce. Same texture as relish, sweet like relish, spicy instead of sour…whatever. Hunger was calling like a telemarketer at dinner time. I glugged out some sweet chili love and proceeded to mix it into the tuna. Of course in my haste I had been too generous with the mayo and my sandwich filling was looking a little soupy. So I did what any sane person would do and thawed some frozen green peas in hot tap water and threw that on top. Meanwhile I had been toasting the bagel, and when it was ready (i.e. when the sandwich filling was made) I proceeded to butter the bagel and slap on a few spoonfuls of tuna.

And voila! Satisfaction.

the M word.

Sometimes I like to go to McDonald’s and challenge my ideas about purity.

Milo

A few years ago I spent a month in Salamanca, Spain, as a camp counsellor for local children. They would spend two weeks with us learning English from British teachers for a few hours each day, and the rest of the time we’d attempt to wear them out with dance/crafts/sports. It was a varied experience, to say the least, but I remember it fondly and feel richer for having been through it.

One of the most interesting aspects of living in Spain was the pace of the day, which by necessity was determined by the timing of meals. Breakfast (desayuno) was usually something small at around 9 am, usually a large bowl of a hot milky beverage and a biscuit. Lunch (almuerzo) was at about 1 pm, and the largest meal of the day; even at our camp it was two courses. This was a longstanding tradition as it marked the siesta, the time in the afternoon from about 1 to 4 pm when all the businesses would close and everyone would go home and rest during the hottest part of the day. At 5 pm we would have an afternoon snack (merienda – 5 pm is still afternoon! Who knew!?), which I usually really looked forward to, because it was something delicious or other sandwiched in a baguette: chorizo, or better yet, chocolate. Then later in the evening around 7 or 8 would be dinner (cena), which was usually something light.

As we were outnumbered with rambunctious 12-14 year olds, we did not serve coffee in the morning. I can’t remember exactly what the name of it was, but the hot milky beverage served was a Spanish variant of Milo, a malt-flavoured milk-based powder that you added to hot water or milk. Think of hot chocolate, but less sweet. Perhaps it was actually Milo. Anyway, it was a comforting thing, as my mom always had Milo or Ovaltine (same but different) in the pantry. It lulled us counsellors back into existence, bolstering us for the day ahead.

As the temperature drops in the fall I feel like I should be longing for the warmth of Spanish summer days. Instead, I am happy to settle down with a bowl of steaming Milo.

Oh for palate’s sake

It’ll be Christmas soon, and that means one thing is certain: potlucks.

I know we haven’t quite leapfrogged over Halloween yet, but I already see Christmas decorations for sale in the shops, so there.

I’ve always wondered why no one brings a giant bowl of plain white rice to a potluck. I suppose it’s because we all secretly want to impress everyone with our ingenious dish that we just “threw together,” but really we are craving that moment when someone points to our dish and says, “You should try that, it’s good” and our face gets a little redder with pride, or maybe it’s the Cab Sauv.

But really, why not plain rice? In a meal that you’d create at home, it would very likely be present, to soak up the spicy sauce of a curry, or lend a refreshing balance to brussel sprouts and pork tenderloin. Instead at a potluck your tastebuds are assaulted with a myriad of flavours. Just consider the salad selection: dill from the potato salad, basil from the Caprese salad, and something “Moroccan-inspired” from the couscous salad. The incongruity is bewildering.

Oh, perhaps that’s what people want at potlucks. They want to try a bit of everything, never mind that the tastebuds will get saturated, they want to be heady with the aromas of the world, Thai basil, Italian basil, whatever. They want to spin their way home, carried on a cloud of cardamom and oregano. It is the next day that they nurse themselves with a bowl of steaming rice, hunched over it with a blanket wrapped around their shoulders.

One of these days, I’m bringing a giant bowl of plain rice to a potluck. I doubt anyone will point and say that it must be tasted, but I trust that secretly, deep inside (probably in places unknown to the conscious mind), they will be very grateful indeed.

Cream of mushaboom

All that talk about Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom the other day gave me a hankering for my own version of creamy mushroom goodness.

I have a copy of the 1960 edition of Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking, which is said to have changed how the British cooked, just like how Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking is said to have changed the way Americans cook. I found my copy for $3.50 in a used bookstore that has gone defunct a few times over; when I saw it I clutched it to my chest just in case anyone else spied it and wanted to fight me for it.

Ms David suggests using bread instead of flour to offer slight thickening to the soup, which she says is the “old-fashioned way.” Intriguing. I did follow her advice on this, but from thereon I strayed, as I am apt to do.

And Campbell’s is never too far away: I used a carton of their salt-free beef broth as my liquid of choice.

Elizabeth David-esque cream of mushroom soup

Cut about 4-6 handfuls of button mushrooms into small pieces. Finely dice a small onion. Melt a generous blob of butter in a large pot and add the onions. When they soften and become translucent, add the mushrooms. Stir occasionally and let them soften and shrink. Meanwhile, soak a crustless piece of bread in some of the beef broth. When the mushrooms look well acquainted with the onions, add the bread and smush it into the mushrooms. Add about a litre of beef broth (or however much is in one of those cartons of broth), and bring to a boil. Add 500 ml of cream (I used 18%), and crack in some salt and black pepper. You could stick it in the blender and lightly pulse it to break up the mushroom pieces a bit more, but I didn’t bother. A light sprinkle of nutmeg or scatter of fresh parsley is a nice garnish.

I was so hungry I finished half the bowl before I remembered to take a photo.

The lighting of the photo makes it look grey and insipid, but it was creamy and soothing, with refreshing chunks of mushroomyness. Yum.

Macamacaroni

I remember Sundays when I was growing up as being rather groggy and lethargic days. Finally the adrenaline of the week had run out, and the sharpness of mind rendered from low sleep and cramming for tests between field hockey practice had faded. After a week of churning out delicious dinners with the required starch-vegetable-protein ratio, my dad would either decide that we went out for lunch or raid the pantry. Sometimes he’d crack open a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom and throw in some cooked macaroni, and we’d slurp it up with Chinese soup spoons out of a bowl whose bottom was lined with cubes of Spam.

Of course, these days my sophisticated sensitivities baulk at this sort of philistine slop…

Ha. I kid no one. The apple does not fall far from the tree.

I don’t think I could bring myself to actually buy a can of Spam (the shame! the fierce judgement!) but if it was served to me I’d relish each fatty, salty bite that would melt on my tongue.

As for the Cream of Mushroom, I heated some up for myself about a year ago and was sorely disappointed. It was tasteless and grey. The bits of mushroom resembled clots of snot. Perhaps it was my father’s loving touch (and the Spam? no the love) that made those Sunday slurp sessions so comforting.

As I get older and start to see my parents as people and not as Mommy and Daddy, I miss them more, and so I try to conjure them up in ways that make sense, that is, through food. The other week I roasted a beautiful birdy (free range and antibiotic-free of course, to balance out my Spam guilt) and made broth with the carcass. I threw in some whole cardamom pods and slices of ginger, along with the requisite celery, carrots and onions. After straining the broth and letting it sit overnight in the fridge so I could scoop the solidified crust of fat off the top, I made soup: peas, carrots, celery, bits of chicken, a light hit of turmeric as an ode to Campbell’s neon yellow Chicken Noodle soup, and of course macaroni. I love the shape of macaroni: if you turn it one way it looks like a smile, and if you turn it another it resembles the shape of a rainbow – both cheerful things, which is what my father is.

I ate it steaming hot, with a Chinese soup spoon.

Mood and food

(I like rhymes. I like words with “oo”s.)

Most of the professional bakers I have met are really relaxed people: never in a rush, they always pull things out of the oven at just the right time. They don’t fiddle anxiously with the lemon curd in mortal fear of it curdling or hover over the meringue as the mixer whips. They are cool, like cucumbers, or Canadian cities in January.

Lately I’ve been noticing more and more how my mood affects the food I make. A few weeks ago I made a millet salad. I was in a crummy mood. The salad was crap. I ended up throwing it out.

Over the years I’ve noticed that whenever I bake bread and try to rush the process, it never turns out and I end up making compostable door stops. So now I don’t bother unless I know I have the time, or at least I try to be organized enough to get started sooner than later. When I am working the dough, I take on a placid demeanour as I think of unicorns and buttercups. Peaceful dough makes good bread.

In high school there was a fierce vegetarian in the grade ahead of me that had a sticker inside her locker that said, “If you are what you eat, does that make you dead meat?” Tough question. My response: “Uh, maybe…no I’m not eating a beef patty….I have to go to class…any class…”

I do think though that our emotions affect the food we make, and how well we digest it. Emotions need to be metabolized just like carbohydrates, protein and fat.

So, here are some Muffin Lady endorsed tips to ensure that your cooking mood is good and so is your food:

– Feeling rushed while making food is no fun, so try to plan out your kitchen strategy. Timetables. Charts. Flow diagrams. Venn diagrams. Get out that Sharpie and drawing paper! Magazines targeted at yummy mummies often suggest devoting Sunday afternoon to prepping meals for the week. Why not? Fit it in between soccer practice and unstructured play time.

– To lift your spirits while cooking, put on some mood-enhancing music. If your heart is heavy from thwarted love, I suggest Gloria Gaynor’s hit, “I will survive.” James Brown’s “Get up offa that thing” is an excellent cure-all.

– Pour yourself a drink: water, decaffeinated coffee, looseleaf peppermint tea, Five Alive, Bordeaux….something. Hydration improves brain function. With that, I suppose I should encourage the water option…

– Pretend you are the host of a cooking show and describe out loud what you are doing, as you are doing it. I like to pretend I’m Paula Deen. Nothing like a southern accent to jazz things up in the kitchen.

– Last resort? Wear neon. It works. Trust.

A story

The other day I went to the drugstore. While I was waiting in line at the register the lady in front of me was debating out loud with herself whether to get the package of pudding that was all chocolate flavour or half chocolate and vanilla. She chose all chocolate because apparently her granddaughter likes it best. The lady behind me had breath that was heavy with the smell of alcohol. She liked to roll her eyes at how slow the line was moving. Meanwhile I was buying a 24 pack of earplugs. They were on sale. It struck me that the mundanities of life can have a peculiar edge.

Then I went home and ate lettuce and peas cooked in butter. The slight bitterness of the lettuce created harmonious balance with the sweetness of the peas.

The end.

C is for courgette…

…and for clear countertops 🙂

In a continued effort to clear our counters of its population of yummy veggies that have been gifted to us, I made zucchini and apple fritters for a picnic lunch with the Muffin Man. Beside some curlicues of shrimp, they were a light and pleasant treat on an early fall afternoon.

Zucchini Apple Fritters

1 large zucchini
2 apples
1 egg
some flour and bread crumbs
salt
garlic powder
lemon zest

Grate the zucchini and apples. Squeeze out as much water as possible, and mix with the egg. Add enough flour and bread crumbs until the mixture is no longer soggy, but still sticking together. Add salt, some garlic powder, and lemon zest. Heat up some oil in a frying pan over medium-high heat. With the zucchini/apple mixture, shape a loose patty in your hands and plop into the pan. Fry on both sides until it turns an appetizing brown. Eat outside, served on china plates.

Swimming in the Red Sea

We are swimming in tomatoes.

Since we know super fantastic people who grow their own vegetables, we have been inundated with piles of fresh produce. Piles! I haven’t seen the surface of the countertop in weeks, mostly because of the tomatoes lined up on it. God forbid I pile them into a bag (their weight will crush eachother!) or put them in the fridge (they’ll get a mealy texture!). In turn, they have been sitting quietly, sunning themselves in the morning light and whispering to eachother about what they think about the bananas a few inches away (“look, he’s turning brown and mushy! Ewww”).

These tomatoes are so good that they shine best when eaten raw, thickly sliced and speckled with black pepper and sea salt. However, there are only so many tomatoes that one can eat before turning into one yourself. And besides, it’s fun to prolong their glory with some simple preservation…

My favourite way of preserving tomatoes is by making tomato butter. There is no actual butter involved; it is simply tomatoes, sugar, some spices, and a hint of vinegar. (The original vegan butter, you might say!) After cooking it all down, you end up with a dark, thick, rich concoction. It’s a lovely replacement for ketchup (how very gourmet of you) when spread on the inside of a crusty burger bun, or as something to dip Octoberfest sausages in, or beside the scones at tea time.

A variation on the tomato butter is the apple tomato butter, which is self-explanatory, and just as delicious.

All this canning makes me feel like a squirrel collecting nuts for the winter.

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Tomato ~~Butter~~ Buttah

1 lb tomatoes, chopped
1/2-1 cup brown sugar (according to taste)
2 whole star anise
1/4 tsp ginger
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

Put everything into a big pot and heat at medium-high. Let it boil until 80% of the water evaporates. Use a hand immersion blender to break down the chunks. Let it boil for about 10 minutes longer. Spoon into sterilized jars and seal. Feel a sense of deep satisfaction, because canning is a lot of fun.

The apple tomato butter version simply replaces some of the tomatoes with apples. It is up to you to leave the apple skin on, but definitely remove the core and seeds.

I sterilize jars by letting them sit pretty in a 200 F oven while I’m preparing the tomato butter.

For more of my canning adventures, go here!