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!
