Buckets of Beets

I couldn't tell you a conversation of any great consequence that I ever had with my Granma. I can hear her voice in my head. I always liked the way my name sounded with her twangy northern ontario accent, but there are no particular words that come to mind.

What does come to mind: Beets. Large, like 5 gallons large, white plastic buckets filled with homemade pickled beets. I love them with all my heart. They were always cut to a perfect two bite size, four if I cut it up smaller and smeared the excess juice around on my plate. I liked how the purple liquid would mix with the white and blue of her beautiful blue wedgewood china. I liked to set the table, well, as much as any kid "likes" to set the table, let's call it finding the positive in child labor. I tried to find all the cutlery that matched and turn all the plates so that the little people painted on them were facing perfectly forward. Don't you find it funny when you reflect on your life and the things that seemed so normal are actual a text book case of early onset OCD?! I digress, which actually highlights my point for me, food is the language of love. Not that nauseating, smootchy love, cause when you have that who can actually eat anyway?! Food is what nourishes us and the people who provide it for us are the ones that love us, care for us and want us to grow.

My Granma died this week. 

I'm glad she got to go. After a long, hard, full life, she was diagnosed with alzheimer's a few years ago and in the word's of Sweet Brown "Ain't nobody got time for that".

As we all do at these times, we sit, reminisce and catalogue our memories to try and lift our spirits, to somehow drown the sadness with happy thoughts. All I came up with was beets.

I remember everything about them. How I was too little to get the lid off the giant bucket myself. This is most definitely a good thing, because I probably would have climbed inside and eaten my way out. I once ate so many beets I peed purple. (Too much information? Too bad.) I remember the tupperware container that she would fill and put on the table at every meal, like it was salt and pepper's long lost triplet. It was the most amazing tupperware; it had this magical little draining basket in it so the beets could swim in the juices, but when you wanted one, you lifted it up and they were all sitting there drained, ready for the eating. There were no beet vs fork fights at the bottom of the jar like I do when I'm trying to get the last pickle - you know what I'm talking about, stop laughing at me. I love pickles too, but we are talking about beets, focus. I feel pretty certain that my Granma found me to be an odd child, what with the love of beets and wedgewood china, but I couldn't be more thankful that I had a Granma who made me beets.

Once I'd carefully catalogued my childhood beet affair, my mind was free to ponder other memories… crab apples.

My grandparents lived on a farm with a lawn as far as the eye could see, a barn, a vegetable garden, many many bushes with burs (that's another story, but let's just say my mom always dressed me in wool, sent me out to play and some how it was my fault when I came back covered in burs?!) and a gloriously large, shady crab apple tree. It threw up apples all over the lawn like a teenager on prom night. So what do you do with a never ending supply of crab apples and 5 grandchildren at your disposal? You give them each a basket and tell them they don't get any dinner until they fill it up (note, this isn't the first time I've mentioned child labour, oh those were the days!) It only became known to me in the last week that my Granma loved to sit under that crab apple tree, I guess that memory was blurred by all the horrific memories of collecting crab apples on an empty stomach. Weird. I'm glad that something that reminds me of her was one of her happy places.

I spend a lot of time, cooking, eating, searching, researching and trying to create little mouthful of happiness, usually with preposterous techniques and expensive groceries. My Granma could create one of the quintessential childhood taste sensations with 3 simple ingredients and a butter knife: peanut butter and jelly on white bread. My mom never bought white bread, it was always brown and yukky*, yes that's the technical term. My mom never bought the "good" peanut butter, it was always brown and yukky* and tasted like peanuts - not like the sugary goodness from the "Skippy" jar. She always got ours from the health food store. I can't remember, but I'm sure whatever kind of jam she bought was brown and yukky* too. (I love you, Mom) Now that I think of it, I think she always bought weird jam, like blueberry and marmalade - yukky*. My Granma has soft, sweet, white wonder bread, sugary, salty, creamy peanut butter, strawberry jelly that I'm sure had as more sugar in it than strawberry and it was delicious. She kept it all in the bread cupboard with one if those pull down doors. I was too little, so I had to wait until no one was looking, climb up on the counter, slide the jammed door up with all my tiny might and make myself a sandwich the way she did. And, since no one was watching and I didn't want to get in trouble for getting peanut butter in the jam container, I would lick the knife in between.

I've learnt of many other, of my Granma's gastronomic idiosyncrasies in the last week - I had totally forgotten her ability to bite ice cream. Try as I might, I've never been able to do it with my wimpy, cold sensitive teeth. I remembered how she would hide pennies and dimes in homemade cakes and the unfortunate biter would get a prize. 

There was nothing pretentious, nothing extravagant, nothing remarkably notable, almost forgettable  about food at her house, but believe me, it was always good. My Dad visited her not long ago, and the memory of her that has stuck with him about her fight to find the lighter side of Alzheimer's - "Who remembers what they had for breakfast anyway?!"

So I ride this train enroute to her funeral, eating my cut fruits and over priced cheese, which will surely be a new culinary memory to remind me of her. The fear of ever forgetting her has been lifted, we are not guaranteed to keep our memories but I will always have my beets.

*This morning for breakfast** I ate ground peanut butter from the health food store on an organic rice cake and it would have tasted even better with some blueberry jam on top.

** Yes Granma, some people remember what they ate for breakfast, but I'm weird like that.

pb and mustard, brought to you by - the letter F.

The words that mean the most to me all seem to start with the letter F; Food, Family, Friends, Fun and F#%K. (sorry parents, but I really like saying it, it makes me happy)

These things can not exist without each other. I, do not exist without them. When we eat together, I mean really eat, when you take that first bite, look at each other and smile, when we share, we are family.

We all have a lot to blame our families for, we are all emotionally scarred, were forgotten at soccer practice, fed tofu and told it was chicken, dropped on our heads at a young age (sorry little brother) and almost all of it we take pride in blaming, more specifically, on our parents. At any given moment, it is always easier to blame them than take responsibility for our own situations. The one thing I can happily blame on my parents - I know how to share food. My life is more complete, more full, has more meaning, because they taught me to 'eat'.

We were the kids in the chinese restaurant eating with chopsticks while the kids one table over were eating McDonald's.

We were the kids at McDonald's who shared a large coke and fries while the kids one table over all had their own happy meal each.

We were the kids that got excited when we were heading out to try the new polish place while our friends were happier at home with a pizza.

We are the brothers and sisters that will take a bite of food, and when overwhelmed by its deliciousness, pass the remaining half bite onto the next sibling and smile.

Some people say don't talk with your mouth full - I say, if you are eating food that you can wait to talk about it, you're eating the wrong food. And you are definitely eating with the wrong people.

You make a friend for life when you share food. I know the direction a friendship will take the first time we eat together or have a drink. It's the little things, like pulling a bag of baby carrots out of your bag and sharing them with the 6 people around the table, most of whom you've never met. It's holding up your meatball sandwich while your friend takes a bite. It's ripping the last french fry in half so you both get the last bite. It's letting someone take 12 bites of your cheesy chicken pasta, that you know you will never get to eat again, but you are happy they tasted what you tasted and you will forever be able to talk about it. Food people share more than just food, we share our passion, we create things to bring joy to each others taste buds and lives. Always remember to Prost!

I had the honor of making dinner for my "chosen" family last night. Not the one I was born into, but the one I was born to be a part of; my girls who love to share food and wine.

It wasn't just about the food, it was the time we shared while I cooked, meal we ate together and the conversations lingering over one glass of wine too many as the night stretched into the wee hours of the morning.

I was never given the impression that there were rules for food. That there was some right or wrong way to put ingredients together. Nor was I ever discouraged from making any concoction I pleased and subsequently eating it. Thus, the peanut butter and mustard sandwich was created - much to the delight of my childhood partner in crime (now a chef) and this mad food scientist. You may never see what we saw in that sandwich, I believe a great variation on it was to add ham. However, it was the very first and important step on a path that has lead to the meal I created for my family last night:

"Apple Crackers" with Butter Lettuce, Aged Cheddar, Grilled Prosciutto and Cracked Black Pepper. I got the idea for this while wandering around a gourmet food pantry and falling in love with a bushel of apples. So red, so shiny, so sweet and juicy. I proceeded to find the sharpest cheese I could find to counter the sweetness, and really, when is cheese not a good idea? And the prosciutto? Everything tasted better with bacon, everything.

Grilled Zucchini. Never underestimate the joys of a beautifully grilled zucchini slice, marinated simply in olive oil, garlic, salt and lots of pepper. Simple. Delicious. The perfect side dish, especially if you are barbecuing, just do it.

Black Bean Salad with Lime-Paprika Dressing. Don't fear the beans. I will put beans in everything, given the chance. Their al dente texture and creamy flavour improve everything, especially salad.

And the show stopper……..

Pork Cutlets stuffed with mushroom in red wine reduction and wrapped in Prosciutto, drizzled (or drowned) in smoked gouda, cumin and chipotle cheese sauce. I finally did it! I gave in to my desires, pushed aside my fears that maybe pig on pig was too much pig. I love pigs, everything about them - Pork wrapped in bacon, I was not disappointed. Once you've wrapped pork in bacon, it's really not that big a stretch to convince yourself that covering it in creamy, creamy, smokey cheese sauce is the best idea you have every had. I pride myself on my cheese sauce (Käse Sauce - lecker) it is my first memory of proper cooking, on a stove, making a roux and adding cheese until it was near impossible to stir. It's not just a cheesy sauce, its thick, velvety, creamy goodness with a glossy sheen and an aroma that consumes you're senses. To be clear, mac and cheese at my house is a gourmet meal.

Now that you are all lost in a daydream of pigs and cheese, forgetting my earlier lament of the indivisible nature of food and family… you're not listening to me anymore are you?

You can never truly "eat" alone. True love is shared a plate, a glass, laughter and a lifetime. So the next time you bite into an apple and smile, remember to pass it to someone special and smile together.

(thank you mom and dad)

@BloordalePantry - brunch edition

The world, well its inhabitants, have spent all of eternity waxing lyrical about what home is. Blah de blah blah blah, home is where the heart is… home is where your mother is… home is your grandmother's chicken soup… mmmmmmmmmmmmmm soup!

Right, sorry, I'm writing here - I get it, I get it, I get it; home isn't a place, it's feeling. Enough already.

That being said, please read on to learn about what I think about "home".

Some mornings, you wake up in your own bed, in your own apartment, in your own town and your very first cognitive turn is… I need to go home.

What is home? (internet, it's called google.)

My home, I feel like I have different homes on different days (yes, I am a squatter, don't judge me) is the place you can breathe in and then breathe out and something will catch you: it's freedom.

I am lucky enough to have in my possession, many memories to go home to. Where just the thought of that moment and a deep breathe takes me back, fills me with that feeling of joy, of freedom, that can make you fly - Tinkerbell was right!

So it happens on Sundays, more often than not, in the quiet moments of a sleepy morning, that this business of being an adult, whilst liberating, can be a bit of a drag.

This is Toronto, it never stops. Where do you go? Who will catch you? How the hell are you suppose to find a memory to make you fly? One word: CAMP.

Only the people that have worked and lived at a summer camp will know what I'm talking about. For the rest of you, sorry about your situation. I can't explain this to you, just make sure you send your kids to summer camp and then force them to be camp counsellors, it'll save you a lot in therapy bills later in life. Camp is the most relaxing chaos you will ever experience. It's a family, where the parents are 17, nobody knows who the kids real parents are and someone is always breaking the law in some shape or form. So, maybe I can explain it to you… basically it's "Teen Mom" meets "Jersey Shore". And for some reason, no matter how bad it gets, we love it.

Bloordale Pantry (aha, you didn't think I was going to get to the food, did you?!) is where I go home to.

Owned and run by a sweet young lady with a heart for food, it is staffed by what seems like misfits with a childlike charm. This modern diner successfully opens and closes everyday with it's motley crew serving happy, appreciative customers, just like camp. I knew it the second I walked in that fateful morning, early last summer - organized chaos with a smile. Despite appearances, or should I say, misconceptions of a hipster fearing mind, these guys do everything well. From a good, strong, kick-you-in-the-ass americano, to their as-spicy-as-you-like caesar to their creative juice combos - fresh squeezed orange, beet and ginger, Happy Sunday! Admittedly, I expect restaurants to get these right, especially if you dare to serve mass quantities of hungover city folk every weekend, so we were off to a good start.

One important thing that camp cooks and diner chefs have in common - you don't mess with breakfast. The first time someone put eggs, bacon, home fries and toast one a plate, the creative process was over. seriously. stop. just stop it. now.
The key is to get it right - everytime. Shouldn't be that hard, should it? But snooty, over decorated "establishments" have been screwing it up for years and making you pay for it. The litmus test for breakfast is simple, do I have to add the ketchup because it's the only thing that is going to make my breakfast taste? Or can you actually eat every bite on your plate, perfectly seasoned and experience the joy of a perfectly roast potato, perfectly crisp bacon and scrambled, not solid, eggs? It is a wonderful surprise when you "accidentally" put that first fork full of food in your mouth, so hastily from starvation, that you forget the ketchup, to realize that you won't be needing that today!

(There is also option number 3…I add it just because I really love ketchup and eggs are the perfect vessel to get as much of that tasty, red, goodness in my mouth? aka you are Canadian and apparently you don't know any better.)

I did mention that you should NOT mess with breakfast. The exception to this, if you can actually improve things: knock yourself out. Say by adding… some wild boar sausage to your vegetarian omelette… don't mind if I do. Of perhaps an english muffin isn't your thing, how about eggs benny served over toasted polenta cakes with a rose hollandaise…. see what I'm getting at? I could go on forever, everything on the menu makes me happy. I do believe they have a menu for other parts of the day! One day I might explore that, but it may start getting a little weird if I show up for breakfast Saturday AND Sunday, and all of a sudden I'm eating dinner there too. Not creepy, right?

So as far as home goes, breathing in fresh brewed coffee and breathing out my wine breath from Saturday night to be caught by a Mimosa made with fresh squeezed orange juice and filling up on a great brunch is about the best way I can think to be caught and set free on a Sunday morning in beautiful, chaotic Toronto.

Thank you Bloordale Pantry… see you in the morning!

i heart pig, here is a story about vegan food.

I’ve been eyeing off the new restaurant in my neighbourhood since they peeled the brown paper off the front window. Early in the summer @hogtownvegan opened its doors and has managed to keep the seats full through the season. The only thing keeping me from jumping on the tofurkey bandwagon was possibly my favourite movie quote of all time on repeat in my head. OK, who’s kidding who, I’ve been reciting it out loud at will: “What do you mean you don’t eat no meat? ... It’s ok... I make lamb.” With the hope of lamb in the back of my mind I commandeered a seat in the front window to watch the pink sunset, checked the menu and, hopes be dashed, the only animals I found were the ironic works of art on the walls.

I’m a girl who relishes her vices; from bacon to pork chops to

one drink too many, I’ll

have them all and then some, usually another bottle of wine (I’ll also accept a bacon wrapped pork chop if you’re offering). So I was really going out on a limb at a vegan restaurant with no liquor licence. Things I strongly believe you should never order in a restaurant; dishes with ingredients or overarching ethnicities opposing the establishment’s ethos. Case in point – anything entitled “vegan **insert animal protein here**”. So what to order? Unchicken and Waffles? Nope. Reuben? I don’t think so. Hot Wings? Hells no. Black Bean Tortilla Salad with cashew sour cream? Don’t mind if I do!!

Gluten-free*, dairy-free (shocking), surprisingly not nut-free, who knew? And might I mention, delicious. The dish arrives looking not overly dissimilar to a healthy portion of nachos, healthy large and healthy comes with lettuce. Atop the tasty mound is a dollop of homemade guacamole mostly likely plated with a soup ladle, I’m feeling pretty good about my decision right now. I’ve said homemade once, this is a restaurant, if it’s not homemade you are eating in the wrong place, so the rest of the ingredients I’ll list sans the obvious: fresh (also possibly redundant, but not always true!) tortilla chips, warm tomato concasse salsa with a hint of spice, black beans seasoned with the perfect amount of cumin, iceberg lettuce coated in a tangy, herbaceous dressing and as promised, the cashew sour cream that tastes more like sour cream than cashews, go figure. The only thing that stopped me from inhaling this delightful concoction without chewing, no, not common decency or social etiquette, a cold glass of @hogtownvegan’s own ice tea. A little sweeter than I appreciate, see endless mentions of my penchant for bitter in the @brocktongeneral posting, but tasty, lemony and morish.

Needless to say, this meal went down like a treat, not to mention it being a perfect pairing for my equally hippie inspired yoga practice just an hour before. Damn organic granola munchers, I think they’re on to something. Maybe I’m not a hipster after all, anyone need a pair of suspenders?

So I’ll be heading back to @hogtownvegan. The staff were friendly, the food tasty and intriguing, the dessert menu not yet explored (flourless chocolate torte!!!!!!). And if that weren’t enough to keep a girls attention... their liquor licence is pending!

*I don’t eat gluten (sober). I am not celiac, the term “gluten intolerant" has been coined for my people. However, the swollen, twisty, sharp, stabbing pain in my guts after consumed such substances is one I prefer to minimize. Thus all gluten-free products are warmly welcomed and ingested without restraint. Tips, recipes and restaurant recommendations are greatly appreciated!

@brocktongeneral

One of those inhumane, humid Toronto nights when you're not sure if an icy cocktail is going to cut the heat or elevate your internal temperate beyond breaking point...

Luckily for me I chose the sleepy, quiet, Saturday night of a long weekend for my maiden voyage to the BROCKTON GENERAL - there was one open table. Already knowing the menu for the evening, bless you wondrous social media, seated, I was still completely unable to decide where to start; on offer, an array of reds, whites and bubbles. However, what had really caught my eye were the cocktails and one very special item: a bottle of French cider, all 750ml. A close tie between the Boubonade (yes, bourbon and lemonade, together, in one glass, don't forget the light aroma of thyme) and the cider - I felt my server would be the best authority on a successful start to the meal. Her response, in my mind, came as a challenge; "if you think you can finish the entire bottle, I'd go with the cider." At it's core, this was in fact high praise for the cider, being elevated above that of the handmade, locally crafted cocktail, I paused to give it another thought as I was already leaning toward the cocktail. Having indulged in beautifully crafted German Hefe-Weissbier (Paulener) and a pint of Young's double chocolate stout earlier in the day, I decided that quality, over quantity, should prevail. It was the right choice.

For "Starters" were 2 dishes topped with cheese and the roasted cauliflower. I don't glaze over the other 2 dishes as any indication that they were inferior to the roasted cauliflower but to highlight chef Alex's restraint. My childhood favorite was cauliflower and cheese sauce, pretty much everyone I know has a similar childhood favorite that they continue to eat today; broiled cauliflower with cheddar cheese, cauliflower parmesan soup, yes, cauliflower and cheese go wonderfully together, especially after your mother has cooked the hell out of it and all you can taste is the cheese. Tonight, this would not be the case. Served perfectly al dente, tossed with toasted pine nuts, bacon and anchovy, you could conclude that the genius was in the bacon, and it was, however the real genius was the hint of basil. It brought the sweetness that elevated this creamy, nutty, salty mix from 4 delicious ingredients to the perfectly balances bite that was on my fork. I pause, I smile, deep breathe, I take another glorious bite.

It should be said early on, that I do not genuinely enjoy white wines. Some of you will stop reading right now, cast me aside as an uncultured swine and reassess any of your belief in my previous statements. For the rest of you, if this hasn't already deterred you, later on I will express my dissatisfaction with French wine, if that is cause for concern, thank me for sparing you from reading anymore of my un-indoctrinated views and switch back to twitter feed now.

Back on task, I do not genuinely enjoy white wines. More specifically, I do not genuinely enjoy white wines within my budget and I thank the generous few who have afforded me the pleasure of the well balanced whites that caused me to ask for a second glass. This evening I ordered the white fish. It is common place to order a white to accompany such a dish and to pair it with a red; uneducated, misinformed... blasphemy. For me, ordering a white would serve to ruin the chefs efforts in a form comparable to doing vinegar shots with faux gras. The next best/most appropriate pairing - Pinot Noir; subtle, delicate and open to interpretation.

Oh quinoa, tonight I judged you too soon. I am a huge quinoa fan, so I went straight for it, over the fish center piece, grilled peaches and lightly blanched swiss chard. Admittedly, I was unimpressed. The chef had boldly chosen the dark quinoa, cooked it perfectly, seasoned to taste but I felt it lacked zest, it was plain. That is until I circled the plate once and then maneuvered around collecting a piece of each ingredient for a complete bite. As a lover of all things bitter, skip to 30 minutes later when I order an espresso macchiato instead of the cinnamon, plum upsidedown cake for dessert, I am always genuinely surprised by the power of sweet matched with savory. The white fish was creamy, tasting just enough of the ocean to remind you of where it came from, the chard's bite providing independent character, the previously misunderstood quinoa brought an earthy, balancing medium and heightening all these things, the subtle accent of the not too sweet, appropriately grilled peaches. Did I mention the walnuts?! One day I'll learn to take a complete bite from the get go, but sampling does afford you the pleasure of knowing that a chef can take several simple, clean flavors and once combined, a whole new, wonderful sensation.

As previously mentioned I went with bitter, not sweet to finish my meal. A very well pulled espresso with hints of cinnamon and caramel, topped with correct amount of creamy foam. I left happy, with a short walk between the restaurant and my living room where a glass of peppery Merlot and a piece of Lindt Sea salt chocolate were waiting to serve as a fitting night cap...

The only thing that would have made this dinner better... if I hadn't eaten it with my shirt on insideout.