The Lusty Tomato

Rothko juice

2012-02-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

Just a quicky post in between tasks (only 17 days until I leave!). I'm having a love affair with my juicer these days. I don't think healthy drinks were Rothko's style but perhaps he would have enjoyed the colour field aspects of this one.

Rothko Juice*
*requires juicer
- 2 medium oranges
- 2 apples (I like gala)
- 2 carrots
- one big beet
- as much ginger as you can handle

Into a clear glass, juice all of the above, processing the beets last. Set glass in window. Admire your artwork. Drink and prepare to feel fabulous.

The ingredients waiting to happen.

Pulp goes straight to the compost bin. Or my parents' worms.

Taking (chicken) stock

2012-01-15T23:38:00.002-07:00

Things are rather balls to the wall right now. (I justlearned the origin of that phrase; it’s not nearly as lewd as you think.) Injust over a month, I will be taking leave from my day job – graphic design –for six weeks of road tripping and creativity. I have many projects to tie upbefore then so to say I am in “go mode” is an understatement. It’s a good,productive busy but sustainable only because the end is in sight. Thank(downward) dog yesterday’s yoga class was all about breathing techniques!

While I am away I will focus solely on photography, writingand myself. You will hear from methroughout my adventure except when I am “tenting it,” taking a much-neededbreak from electronics, and/or hitting the trails. Hopefully I’ll have some funstuff to share.

Where am I headed, you ask? South. Back to the Bay Area. Avery dear, generous friend and her lovely husband have offered to provide thetime and space necessary to nurture my creativity. (I am lucky to have amazingfriends!) First thing on the agenda in California: see Eve Ensler and IsabelAllende speak at a Book Passage event. To keep a very long story short, I havestrong connections to the work of both of these women and… well, sometimes thestars align in interesting ways. Something in my heart settles when I am in northernCalifornia so it feels exciting and “right” to get back to where I once thoughtI belonged.

Oh yeah, the theme of this post is revisiting and reframingthe past. Next month I will go back to California but today my camera and I lookedup my old friend, pasole verde. Click here for my recipe – a post close to thebeginning of this blog. It’s fun to look over my shoulder with “perspectivegoggles” (they’re like beer goggles except they enable more informed, healthychoices).

I’ll be in touch before I head out!

My most recent memory of SF...

Let us now praise the elastic waistband

2011-12-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

OK guys, I just took one for the team. It’s 3:00 pm and I’ve already broken my post-Christmas, “absolutely no booze for the next 48 hours,” rule because I ate the photo subject. The cherries and sauce are vodka-laced. That, combined with a stiff Americano and cake and ice cream, means Houston, I am ready for blast off. My hands are shaking and I can’t decide if it’s the caffeine/sugar OD or holiday martini DTs. One of those acronyms.

The dessert in the photo was served after our family Christmas dinner. The very rich and decadent cake was a new recipe for my mom (made with a cake mix—an unexpected yet well-played move from my all-things-homemade fairer parent). The cake was merely a vehicle, however, for my parents’ sugared vodka-cherry elixir, made with pucker inducing Evan’s cherries harvested from their back yard tree. To serve, dense and moist chocolaty slices were piled with boozy sweet and sour cherry sauce; creamy vanilla ice cream rounded out the post-turkey calorie bonanza. What resulted was rather bacchanalian. The food joy moans were enough to make the Virgin Mary blush and Joseph run in the other direction. (I like to think the wise men would have stuck around for the party.) This all was a surprise considering my kin are generally of the savoury rather than sweet palette persuasion. I am not a sweets gal and I hit that business twice. Most went for thirds. By the end of it I am pretty sure I looked like Üter from The Simpsons.

But back to the photo shoot. It’s not a practice of mine, midday imbibing. In a loose way though today’s sweet indulgence speaks to the 2012 I hope to cultivate. I’d like to say yes a little more, be more open to possibility, and embrace the unexpected. These things accompanied by the usual suspects: health, a kind and generous heart, and the cojones for life in general. All of it, hopefully, with a cherry on top.

May your 2012 be wonderful and delicious! Thanks so much for taking the time to read this blog.

- LT

Gestalting Ginger

2011-12-03T21:40:00.000-07:00

Oh, hi. Did I say I'd be right back? Sorry. November just kind of... happened. Um, like it always does. So I don't know why I emerge from the annual time to psychoanalyze the direction and complete contents of my life with as little daylight as possible phase as if I didn't know it was coming. I think my friend, Tracy, has it right: In November, drive south until you hit the desert and don't come back until the holiday parties are in full swing and we're all too busy drinking sherry to give the dark days a second thought. Some might argue that the earlier it gets dark, the earlier you can hit the sherry. Just sayin'. (Truthfully, though, these days the gym and skate skiing trump the bottle. I'm in my late 30's - this butt ain't going to defy gravity on its own.)

Lately I've been flirting, again, with the idea of a masters program. For many years Art Therapy has caught my eye. I love learning about psychology, I love art and I love helping people. Seems like a good fit, non? But part of me cringes at the idea of school and the accompanying stress, both financial and work-load. So for now I am just letting my thoughts mingle and trying to free up my creative channel. Today I made Rorschach art with ginger. Seemed appropriate.

Let me know what you see, friends. I see terriers here and there (perhaps I am projecting my desire to acquire a dog). Also squirrels and a psychotic rabbit. Where's Jung when you need him?

Fall is like this

2011-10-16T23:12:00.000-06:00

Greetings. Fall is here in all of its pretty, sideways light glory. A few snaps of life in the past couple of weeks. I'll follow up later this week with my English Class Dumplings recipe, straight out of Tainan, Taiwan (see photo below). For now, happy fall, y'all!

The Roots: Part One

2011-09-25T20:19:00.003-06:00

Thanks to the lovely folks at Twin Meadows Organics, Jasper is undergoing a trial organic food box program. I was lucky enough to make the list of 15 participants. Every week for the past month I've received a box of organic produce straight from the Robson Valley, an area that can be considered local to us J-towner's. Exciting stuff.

The box has been stocked with a variety of goods, root veggies in particular. So I am going to devote a few posts to root recipes. Here's one of my spicy favourites - it should put a dent in your carrot cache:


Simple ingredients.

Carrot, Ginger, Pork Stir-Fry
- 1 tablespoon peanut oil
- 1 tablespoon chopped garlic
- 1/3 pound ground pork
- 1/2 teaspoon ground chilies
- 1 3/4 cups matchsticked* carrots
- 3/4 cups matchsticked* ginger
- 1/2 cup water
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 2 tablespoons Bragg's Liquid Seasoning
- a healthy grind of ground pepper
- sesame oil
- rice or noodles of your choice

Prep all of your ingredients before cooking. Heat a wok or heavy-bottomed pan to high. Add peanut oil. Add garlic and fry for 10 seconds. Add pork and ground chilies; stir-fry on high for about two minutes. Add carrot and ginger and stir-fry for another two minutes. Add water and salt and cover. Leave heat high and boil vigorously until veggies become tender (add more water if necessary). Remove lid and add Bragg's and pepper. Cook for another couple of minutes, until the liquid has reduced but ensure there's enough for sauce. Serve over your favourite rice or noodles and top with a splash of good sesame oil. You might also want to add a bit more Bragg's.

*Matchsticking seems like a pain but it's not so bad... Clean your carrots. Peel and trim your ginger into a block shape. Slice a thin portion from whichever root you are matchsticking so you have a flat surface to work with. Lay the root veggie on its flat surface and slice into "sheets" about 1/4 inch thick. Fan the "sheets" out like a deck of cards (overlapping) and slice into matchsticks. Mind your fingers - tuck them and your thumb away from the blade! This technique should speed up your prep.

Masala chai

2011-08-09T16:45:00.005-06:00

I finally watched Slumdog Millionaire a couple of nights ago. Because I was likely the only person on the planet who had not already seen that film, I probably don’t need to tell you how wonderful it is. I just need to tell you that I love masala chai. (If that connection doesn’t make sense to you, rent the movie.)

I am laid up with a summer cold at the moment and therefor not imbibing in my usual morning coffee ritual. Thinking I should have ginger tea but craving a hit of caffeine, I figure masala chai is a logical choice. It is written. (Still nothing? Rent it!)

This recipe below is based on a friend’s spice mixture. I’ve made it my own by amping up the ginger and pepper; cut back on these spices if you don't like it too "hot":

With a mortar and pestle, grind the following:

- 3 tbsp roughly peeled and roughly chopped ginger

- 3-5 peppercorns

- 1 star anise

- 3 cloves

- 5 cardamom pods
- 1/2 stick cinnamon

Place ground spices in a pot with 750 ml of water. Bring to a boil then simmer and reduce liquid by a third. Add 1 tbsp of black tea to the reduced liquid and steep for 3 minutes. Using a sieve lined with cheesecloth or an old teatowel, drain the hot liquid into a pitcher. Add milk (or cream) and honey to taste. Serve hot or over ice with fresh mint leaves.

The great garlic (e)scape

2011-07-18T20:54:00.001-06:00

When I said "garlic scape", a friend thought I meant a painting depicting a crop of the infamously stinking rose. I would have assumed the same thing had I not been formally introduced to this tasty garlic flower stem (scape) that, according to Wikipedia, comes from the hardneck and elephant types of garlic. Intrigued by their appearance - they are quite beautiful - I purchased a bunch from my local farmer's market. I also picked up a big bag of basil. I think you know where I am headed with this: Pesto. With a hankering for some homemade pasta, I whipped together a version of the tasty green paste and indulged in a good old fashioned carb load. The flavour results were pretty good; the dish was endorsed by a five year old, a coup when cooking something you've never made before. Here's (roughly) how I did it:

- 4 garlic scapes
- 2 cloves roasted garlic
- 1/3 cup pan roasted almonds, skin off
- 1/3 - 1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese
- 2 packed cups of fresh basil leaves
- around 1/2 cup of extra virgin olive oil
- salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
- mints or gum (for the potent breath you will have after consuming this pesto)

Place roughly chopped garlic scapes, roasted garlic, roasted almonds and cheese in a food processor. Blend until nuts are extremely fine, almost paste-like. Add the basil and process while slowly drizzling the olive oil into the mixture. Stop when you've achieved a slightly oil-moist paste. Taste and add salt and pepper to your liking. Place in an air tight container to store in the fridge (pour a light layer of olive oil on top before covering).

This pesto is probably best when fresh but I imagine it would store for a couple of weeks. You might want to serve it with a fresh lemon slice, depending on the final dish. The pasta was great and next I might try a grilled, pesto-rubbed halibut steak. Or just lick it off a spoon.

Pizza, My Heart

2011-07-03T21:59:00.001-06:00

The title of this post (comma excluded) is poached from a lovely little pizza joint in Santa Cruz, California. I often think about the devilish-smile-cracking stories from my Santa Cruz era, a stretch of time very much in my past although the memories remain clear as a glacial lake. I remember eating a slice from said resto, after which my companion declared he would open a bistro next store called Quiche My Ass. It could have flown, I'm sure, but I believe my friend became a community planner instead. Probably for the best.

Oh pizza, every now and then I just have to have you even if I know you're not super good for me. To keep it somewhat healthy, homemade is the way to go. I don't want to get all sanctimonious about my organic Alberta wheat dough (with fresh herbs from my garden, of course) or the peperoni made at a local ranch--largely because this bad boy is not all local and/or organic but it is where it counts. The flavour is big: This pie cured my rainy day doldrums.

It's usually more about photo than recipes for me, but my flat bread recipe is such a staple that I need to share. Spruce it up however you like. Use as pizza dough or bake as focaccia topped with sea salt, olive oil or whatever else you fancy. So easy.

Ingredients:
- 1 cup warm water
- 1.5 teaspoons dry active yeast
- 1 tsp honey
- 1 tsp fine sea salt
- about 3 - 3.5 cups flour
- a handful of herbs or whatever you crave at the time
- tablespoon olive oil

I use a food processor for this recipe, although you can do it by hand or in a mixer.

In a small vessel, add the yeast to the warm water and let stand for around 5 minutes. Mix in the honey (you might want to heat it first) until completely blended. If using a food processor, use the dough blade. Add all of the dry ingredients to the bowl and start to blend. Slowly add water/yeast mixture until the dough forms a ball that rolls around the bowl (you may need more or less liquid depending on your flour). Allow the dough ball to knead for a minute or two in the bowl; turn out onto a floured surface. Knead by hand until smooth and elastic (for a few minutes). Grease a medium-sized bowl with olive oil and drop in the dough ball; cover and let rise, preferably for several hours. (This dough will freeze well--you can freeze it before allowing to rise. Use within a few months. Thaw and rise at room temp for several hours.)

If using a mixer or stirring by hand, add the blended dry ingredients cup by cup to the water/ honey mixture until the dough is smooth and elastic. Cover and allow to rise as above.

When you are ready to bake, punch the dough down, then roll out on a floured surface, either thin for pizza or around a centimeter or so thick for focaccia; let rest (covered) for 10 minutes. Top accordingly. I usually bake a pizza at 450 F for around 20 minutes; focaccia will take around the same time (up to 10 minutes more) at around 400 F.

Toppings on the pictured pizza, in order of placement:
- olive oil-brushed fresh red wheat, thyme and rosemary dough
- tomato sauce (reduced stewed toms, garlic, basil, olive oil)
- peperoni
- chopped spinach and feta
- sauteed mushrooms
- mozza
- roasted garlic cloves
- thinly sliced onion
- a few dollops of herbed brie
- cherry tomatoes
- basil leaves
- drizzle of olive oil

All of the above are things that were kicking around in my fridge. Delicious? Oh, yes, particularly with a glass of tasty bordeaux and zero demands on my time for the remainder of the evening. Salud, my friends!

Dad Day dinner

2011-06-23T21:32:00.002-06:00

I love the word "pork". All dirty things aside (the Porky's franchise included--did your parents let you watch that at birthday parties, too?), it's a good, solid word. And it's damn tasty. You can work miracles with pork (in my agnostic view). Roast up some of this juicy, flavourful meat then just open your mouth, close your eyes and don't think about Charlotte's Web. Pork in a carrot-ginger stir-fry elicits nothing short of food lust for yours truly.

For Father's Day last weekend I cracked Rick Baylis' Mexican Kitchen and made a version of his achiote-roasted pork with pickled red onions. Fall apart, tangy and tender pork heaped on steamed tortillas along with garden cilantro, queso, pineapple and pickled onion... it was divine. A festive and celebratory meal in honour of a festive and celebration-prone man: my dad. It was a great excuse to use the banana leaves that have been haunting my freezer for a couple of months. And pickling red onions (the flourescent pink looking things in the photo) is a cheap and easy way to spruce up all of the ordinary things you might top with onions (a fire-roasted smokie, for instance). For fear of copyright infringement I won't share the recipe but do youself a favour and pick up the cookbook.

Cheers, everyone. It might not feel like summer but we can eat like it is.

Full circle

2011-06-04T20:49:00.001-06:00

I spent last weekend on the west coast, surrounded by baby energy. A couple of pregnant friends brought me out in exchange for photographs of their current family experiences. One friend delivered her baby while I was en route (!) and the other is about 7 months pregnant. Marvelous and inspiring. In between belly and baby sessions I managed to squeeze in a food shoot. With roundness, freshness and abundance on mind, these blueberries caught my eye.

*******

In contrast to all of the new life happening in Victoria, the day before returning home I received word that my Aunt Judy was in a critical state and had only hours to live. She passed away on Thursday surrounded by people who love her. Judy was one of my biggest cheerleaders when it came to photography (and life in general) and I will miss her very, very much. In her memory, please pick up the phone and call someone who's helped make your light shine brighter--let them know. Or, if that person is no longer here, light a candle and write them a note or sing or just do whatever you need to do to celebrate them and yourself at the same time. From the heart.

Peace, everyone.

Not egg-regious, just egg-cellent

2011-05-23T22:20:00.001-06:00

Sorry about that title. I do love a pun, even a lame one. Did you know the Alberta Mycological Society is located in Edmonton, the "City of Champignons"? Har har har... I love it.

So, it's been a little while. I've been juggling projects, the day job and time away from ye ole computer screen. I do want to keep up with food photos while I tackle larger side projects, so I hope to post about something I've created in my kitchen at least once a week. Instead of longer written pieces I'll include a bit of peripheral info about what was going on around the time of my shoot. Less time commitment and probably more fun = I will keep up with Lusty.

So here's what was happening today:

Jian Gomeshi on the CBC (Q), hosting a debate about one space or two after a period, before the next sentence. I prefer the former, but I try not to take up too much space in this life.
Casual glances out the kitchen window at the "bird tree". I try not to stare too long--I am sure my neighbor thinks I am a stalker. If I use my binoculars from a crouching low angle I don't think he can see me. The birds need to be on the high branches for this stealth move to work.
My friend Jean bounds up my front steps; she's ready for mountain biking and I am still in my pajamas, dirty egg dishes piled beside my computer as I edit photos. I completely forgot we were going for a ride. It's great she's here in front of me or I probably would have made an excuse for remaining inside on this dreary morning. Once on the trail, hollering for bears, breathing pine forest and marveling at my bike's ability to shock absorb anything I throw at it, I am grateful...

Bread in the belly

2011-04-03T23:02:00.003-06:00

So, I was perusing the 'net to find an appropriate food quote for this blog post. My theme: comfort. This one caught my eye first and made me laugh:

Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what's for lunch.
- Orson Wells

Reminded me of a couple of work collegues who, years ago, had neighbor computers, one displaying the noble screen saver text, Free Tibet; the other, Free Lunch.

Laughter is comfort but, as Sheila Graham said, food is the most primitive form of comfort. For me, bread is the ultimate comfort food. Not just eating it, preparing it. Nothing is as calming as kneading soft dough while good music drifts through a sunlit house. The yeast smell, the baking smell... mmm. I suppose the process of making bread is somewhat zen. One must be patient, let flavour develop, let the elements take care of what they need to do. Haste makes waste, as my mom would say. Patience.

If you long to make comfort food or anything at all, really, you can probably find the recipe in The Joy of Cooking. I love that book, and I refer to it often. I cracked it this weekend and made rye bread for the first time ever. It was delicious. Rye flour was very interesting to work with, more "cakey" in dough form because it doesn't contain wheat flour's gluten-producing protiens (learned that tidbit from the book). See the photo at top: rye toast and spinach scrambled eggs. A nice start to this Sunday morning.

I also wanted to experiment with sourdough bread so I tried my hand at making a starter. Note to those who want to make a sourdough starter: it really expands, like, a lot, so don't mix it in a medium-sized mason jar (as I did - the photo exhibits the calm before the storm). I'll let you know how the sourdough bread turns out. In the meantime, friends, may you have comfort in both your belly and heart.

Death of a GB Man

2011-03-27T21:43:00.002-06:00

Has it been almost two months? My word. Life has been busy.

Part of that busy-ness (business) is a Food/Travel writing course I am taking. To say I am behind in said course is an understatement (sorry, Don) but I remain determined to get (almost) everything done, including the "tell a story in five photographs" assignment. Inspired by a long winter, an overloaded plate and stories of close friends feeling like life is eating them alive, here's what I came up with.

Love to all, especially those who know this feeling. And more soon...

Aunt Judy

2011-01-24T20:11:00.002-07:00

Lately, like many of my healthy acquaintances, I have been lamenting the few extra pounds I put on over the holidays. A series of cold and flu viruses, the usual food/beverage debauchery and some seriously cold weather meant that I wasn’t as active as usual: far more fuel was going in than was being spent. As a result, my pants are tight – I can deal with this. What I am tired of dealing with is the self-punishment that comes along with slightly more junk in the trunk. What, really, is the point of fretting over it? As I grappled with this yearly ritual of mental self-flagellation, enlightenment arrived this weekend in the form of my dear aunt Judy. Judy has cancer.

My aunt is not really a blood relative – both of my parents are only children – but she is my mother’s best friend and I have known and loved her my entire life. Her kids are my cousins; our families are tight with a long history of National Lampoon-style vacations and many, many celebrations. Beyond the familial, Jude has always “got” me. She would come to my apartment for a beer and chat when I was having a hard time at art school. She talked to me about adult things like sex the way a parent can’t because they’re your parent. She still buys me thoughtful gifts and sends dirty email jokes. She’s that aunt. Judy is the type of sparkly person everyone wants to know and finds hard not to love. And she is fun. Even sick with cancer, when she and my mom visited me in Montreal I could barely keep up with their wining, dining and shopping (and embarrassing attempts at hooking me up with good looking Québécois waiters). Incorrigible. The joy of her person and the light she brings to me and everyone around her is why it’s so tough – awful – to see her navigating the palliative phase of cancer.

I’ve made it a habit to listen closely when members of older generations dole out wisdom; whether I agree or not, there’s usually something to learn. I’ve heard Judy mention how, in retrospect, she can’t believe how much she cared about her weight when she was healthy. I don’t think she means that she cared too much about being healthy; rather, she fretted over a few extra pounds that in the end don’t really matter. At this point, she’s just trying to keep weight on.

Team effort.

Because the cancer has, for the past eight years, been shutting down the organs in her lower abdomen, Judy can’t eat enough regular food. She sustains herself with a food replacement prescription called TPN (total parenteral nutrition). Basically, TPN is a bag of liquid nutrients that gets pumped into a central line in her chest; this happens every night. The routine goes something like this: sterilize the kitchen counter, sterilize everything else, fill the syringes with vitamins, inject the vitamins into the TPN bag, mix, attach surgical tubing to the bag, fill the tubing with TPN fluid, while holding the heavy bag overhead flick the tubing a lot and then a lot more to get rid of the air bubbles, sterilize all contact points, flush the chest line with saline, attach the bag tubing to a digital pump, attach the pump controlled tubing to the chest line, press start and hope that the air bubble alarm doesn’t go off (if it does, return to the flicking stage), sleep with TPN being pumped into your body all night. As I usually say to Judy about this process and the disease in general, this sucks. In regard to the TPN she responds, “Yes, but it’s keeping me alive”. About the disease and with a soft smile, “Ya, it sucks.” The cancer has made its way into her pelvic bones, lymph nodes and, the doctors think, her lungs. She is on a regime of drugs like morphine to keep the pain tolerable. She used to love eating and now she never feels like eating.

Checking the pump.

I am sure almost everyone knows or will know and love someone affected by this crappy disease. A lot of us will get cancer. According to the Canadian Cancer Society, cancer is the number one cause of premature death in Canadians (2004); based on 2009 incidence rates, 40% of Canadian women and 45% of men will develop cancer during their lifetimes, and an estimated one out of every four Canadians are expected to die from cancer. Yes, slightly disconcerting. This would be an excellent segue to preach to the choir about toxic agricultural practice, what we’re doing to our environment as an extension of that agricultural practice (according to the UN, animal agricultural alone is the number one contributor to climate change), and how what we’re eating and breathing is giving us cancer.

But – butt – back to my tight jeans and Judy. It seems some sort of balance needs to be struck between maintaining a healthy lifestyle, respecting the planet and wanting to enjoy life’s fruits (which occasionally shape-shift into a plate of perogies). The dumbest, most futile and pointless thing to do is be hard on yourself for a few extra pounds. (As Judy said yesterday, “I’m built for comfort, not for speed”.) You had such a good time earning those pounds and you have so many other good times to look forward to. Why waste the precious energy that drives us through this life, however short or long? So I’ll try not to be a food martyr and I ask you to do the same. Let’s exceed the BS cultural programming for once, shall we? Let’s enjoy food responsibly most of the time but let it fly every now and then, and also genuinely enjoy exercise instead of turning it into a self-punishing chore. Take stock of what makes your life rich; like that great tune goes, be thankful for what you’ve got.

And, Jude, I love ya.

Not a stripper pole. Or is it? What happens in Arizona, stays in Arizona...

Little Portugal

2011-01-18T22:22:00.004-07:00

Last week a chef friend treated my sister, brother and me to a Portuguese cuisine and cooking lesson. Miguel Goncalves, a talented culinary master well known to Brushfire Gallery (Jasper Artists Guild) art opening enthusiasts, brought the flavours of his mother land to my sister’s small Rocky Mountain kitchen. Just as Miguel is not a subtle guy, these are not subtle flavours. Gorgeously aged port and caldo verde – the national dish! - kicked off an evening of wine-marinated pork and prawns (with Spanish beer thrown in for good measure) and a 20 lb octopus. Ya, you heard me right. The impressive cephalopod (I am embarrassed to say my biceps were sore from holding it up for photos) was salty-slow simmered to tender perfection and doused, along with steam kale and boiled potatoes, with white wine vinegar. Not your typical Alberta meal. The night was rounded out with delicious Portuguese wine, good friends, conversation and my siblings and I wielding very sharp, expensive knives bearing names like “Excaliber”. Obrigado, Miguel. Let’s do it again.

Nik works the double knife technique.

Everything should be marinated in wine for at least 24 hours then simmered in beer named "star".

Portuguese facial. You're so cute, Nik.

*******

Inspired by a different corner of the globe and obliged to bring sweet treats to my day job, last weekend I cookbook traveled to Iran. Persian cardamom cookies, anyone? You can find the recipe in the cookbook Home Baking, mentioned in my previous post. Gluten-free, rice flour short bread perfectly perfumed with freshly ground cardamom. Cardamom. I could say that word all day long.

Yum. Ee.

Eat snowshoes, not mass-produced meat

2011-01-03T13:34:00.003-07:00

While I look forward to a new year, the post-holiday crash can be a drag. Although I don’t eat a lot of bread, occasionally I allow my hands and heart (and stomach) to delight in a day of baking. A slice of oven-fresh, serotonin-boosting bread sometimes outweighs the heaviness of gluten and cold, dark winter days. (OK, who am I kidding? Buttered bread will lift my spirit any day of the year!) Yesterday morning I cracked open Home Baking, one of my favourite cookbooks in a series penned by two outstanding author/photographers, Naomi Daguid and Jeffrey Alford. I happened upon the recipe for snowshoe breads. Named for their shape and appearance, these nan-style breads hail from the Afghanistan/Turkey/Iran neck of the baking woods. Always up for a new international culinary challenge, I gathered the five simple ingredients and quickly kneaded my dough to baby-bum-smooth perfection. In search of the sun and synchronizing with my rising dough, I bundled up and hiked up the nearest hill. After reveling in peace and quiet, frosty mountain fairytale views and vitamin D sunbeams, warming myself beside a 500 degree Fahrenheit oven was a lovely way to end the afternoon. In long johns and wool socks, I happy-danced around the kitchen while eating a warm, soft and chewy snowshoe—the perfect winter moment.

********

This morning I tuned into ye ole CBC and caught the end of Jian Ghomeshi’s program, Q. It was a rerun from Thanksgiving weekend 2010: Jonathan Safran Foer and Chef Anthony Bourdain debating the contemporary politics of eating meat. Interesting stuff; click here for the podcast. Coincidentally I am currently reading Foer’s latest book, Eating Animals, which is lovely and, I suppose, why he’s debating about cows and chickens on public radio. If you haven’t already, pick up Eating Animals and another of his books, Everything is Illuminated. Stunning stuff.

Happy new year, everyone!

Doughnut dynasty, round 1

2010-12-05T16:07:00.005-07:00

While reminiscing about my Ukrainian grandma--Baba--last week, my mom and I hatched a plan to reinvent her naughty but tasty doughnuts. For months we've been scheming ways to collaborate on a food product for next summer's farmer's market, and now we're certain we'll make some dough--on doughnuts! Doh! I can't avoid the pun urge! (And how I love a good Homer Simpson-ism, especially when used in such congruent context.) I just spoke with my mom: she is working on batch four. It seems mastering these Cadillacs of pastry is not easy, particularly when our neural pleasure centres retain the high-standard memory of baba's perfectly browned, supple, melty-delicious doughnuts. But we must surpass our doughnut past (lordy, now I'm rhyming!). And up the exercise routine. I'll keep you posted, doughnut lovers.

*******

Ready for kneading.

The zen practice of cutting doughnut dough.

Mom's rings on the recipe card.

Best cup ever

2010-11-28T19:04:00.002-07:00

Hair still damp from an early morning dip in Lago Atitlan, I ventured into the misty coffee orchard surrounding my Gaudi-esque abode. Waxy green leaves and deep red berries arched around and over the soft dirt path. Emerging from the foliage, I stumbled on a roadside cook shack tended by an elderly Mayan woman. I took a plastic seat at her outdoor table and, in shamefully broken Spanish, ordered huevos and café. The eggs arrived and were savoured with fresh, hand-crafted corn tortillas. The true star, though, was the coffee—oooh, the coffee. Toasty, smooth, robust and rich, it warmed me from the inside. I sat contently in that plastic chair, sipping heavenly brew and exchanging smiles with my sweet Mayan cook. Enjoying a second cup – relaxed, finally – I watched the small Guatemalan mountain village wake up.

How about you?

Ball and biscuit (and steak and beer)

2010-11-15T22:13:00.015-07:00

Just returned from a lovely couple of weeks on the coast. No longer trusting my wheels and wanting to avoid focus of any kind, I rode the rails from Jasper to Vancouver. First stop: Rundi and Michael’s place.

I’ve known Rundi since we were kids. I was excited to get to know Michael, Rundi’s new beau with Texan roots and a penchant for microbrew and Mexican food. Yes, we enjoyed catching up over mucho delicious food and beers. And between strolls around Vangroovy I got to help Michael whip together a new mix in the brewery/loft. What would Jesus brew? Stout. The ultimate foodie moment, however, was indulging in an authentic Texan-made chicken fried steak meal complete with white sauce and biscuits. Oh, and brussels sprouts, not that anyone noticed those (and they are definitely not the reason my pants feel tight right now).

Thanks for the hospitality, Rundi and Michael! We’ll talk beer and Mexican dreams soon…

Fresh bisuits. Mmm.

Chicken fried steak for brunch...

Makin' mash.

So long, summer

2010-09-27T23:09:00.003-06:00

It was a good summer. It was the summer of yes, the summer of new faces and places, fresh air and mountain love. Sure, it became the summer of rain. But cabin memories warm a gray sky, and glacier thoughts make a girl glad. Flashes of backpacks careening down moraine and crushed eggs--that’s another story

No eggs, no problem. Soaked oats, fresh fruit and coconut cream with a side of cowboy coffee ain’t no second place. And any breakfast tastes amazing if you’re perched on a porch in the middle of mountain magic nowhere.

Great summer, great trips and more to come. I promise.

Where you bean, Lusty?

2010-08-02T23:22:00.023-06:00

Summer time, and the livin’ is busy. Fun busy, that is. Us Canadian mountain folk are enjoying the far too short window of balmy weather and all of it’s associated activities. A typical day can involve prolonged outdoor exercise, floating in crystal-clear lakes and dinner and drinks with friends, preferably outside with a barbeque doing the lion’s share of the work. I suppose there’s also fulfilling the requirements of a day job, if absolutely necessary.

I consider my days to be jam-packed with things to do, especially this time of year. This is why friends who have children amaze me. If ever I am entertaining a woe-is-me moment I look to them for a reality check. Everything is relative, I know, and we’re all on our own path with individual challenges but man, caring for children appears to take multi-tasking to a new level. As busy as I get, I still have time for me: baths, contemplative quiet moments and, well, doing this. With kids things would probably look more like getting splashed while bathing little people, trying to staple thoughts together while cooking for the aforementioned little people and having to balance Thomas the Train’s personal dramas with my own. Things would be slightly different.

My sister, Niki, is no exception to seemingly bionic parents. She cares for a five year old (Dylan), maintains a house, works as a science communicator, writes poetry, exercises religiously, socializes regularly and cooks most meals from scratch. Yesterday she threw green bean canning into the mix. I am convinced she’s part machine.

Most people can later in the year, but Niki seized the early-season opportunity to start the preservation party. When I arrived at her house, Dylan and his friend Linnea were playing outside in their “time machine” (AKA a blanket-covered hockey net, pine cone console buttons and grass carpet). Raucous Swedish girl-band music blasted from the kitchen window. I entered the house to see Nik’s one-woman canning show blur about the kitchen, cutting, stuffing, boiling and… the smell. Is it strange to think the heavy aroma of dill in a hot, humid kitchen is a deeply sensual experience? I digress. I snapped photographs as she hovered above her soon-to-be winter food cache. She crammed jars with peeled garlic, green beans and dill, simultaneously organizing afternoon family beach time and dinner, and occasionally checking on the time travelers. As usual, I silently vowed that whatever I contributed to dinner would be spectacular, a treat for Nik and her family. Trying to imagine what I would prepare, my thoughts wandered back to pickled green beans, the desire to savour one plucked from a gin Caesar before the dog days of summer take their leave. I'll let you know when that happens.

I hope your summer is slow, hot and lovely. Enjoy every minute and, if you’re of the north like me, eat fresh and local while you can.

- L


Nik canning beans

Beans enjoying a bath

The time traveler's children

The garden of earthly delights

2010-07-12T23:15:00.003-06:00

In an effort to clear my head and figure out what the heck I am doing this fall, I drove down to the Columbia Icefield area for a day of hiking, reading, writing and photography. Between a few serendipitously pleasant distractions and a much needed break, not much photography happened. I did leave the campground, however, with rekindled conviction that I am headed in the right direction. It’s just a matter of being pro-active and letting go at the same time. You know what I mean.

The smile-y photos reflect the sentiment brought on by tenting at the foot of one of the most breath-taking alpine areas in the world. Optimism in bananas, chorizo and mountains—it’s really that simple.

*******

I recently interviewed and photographed my friend, Tracy MacKay, for the local paper. Tracy co-spearheaded the Jasper Community Gardens, one of several Jasper Local Food Society initiatives. Linnea, Tracy’s daughter, came along for the photo shoot. Much fun. Here are the photos:

Still life with egg and peony

2010-07-01T15:12:00.004-06:00

There is something rather Tenneson about this photo, and I love it.

Sorry about the long absence. It's summer. The peonies are blooming and life is good. I promise to make it up to you. Maybe I'll make us mimosas and an omelette with thin slices of Swiss cheese and shaved ham folded inside. We'll spend the rest of the day reading books under the beach umbrella and floating in the sea. Sound good?

Travel story coming soon...

La, la, love you, lasagna

2010-06-07T22:41:00.003-06:00

This weekend, on a rainy Saturday, I made lasagna from scratch--even the noodles. Inspired by the Italian pasta roller I inherited from my Baba and, well, my stomach, I set out to make a work of pasta art. Lasagna de Vinci.

Roasted garlic, roasted tomatoes, olive oil, spicy olives, portobello mushrooms, ricotta, fresh basil, spinach, fresh whole wheat noodles and cheese, cheese, cheese. It looked beautiful and tasted even better; sorry you weren't there. But I can always be tempted into making another, especially if you supply a nice Chianti and something that involves dark chocolate. Maybe we'll watch Il Postino. Let me know, bello.

Top photo: Saturday's lasagna
Bottom photo: fresh noodles await the pan

At the Anderson's

2010-05-24T15:29:00.004-06:00

With her sister and nephew, Lusty made her way out to Valemount, B.C., for Sharron's birthday party this weekend. Two days of good friends, fun in the woods and good food. Here's a few pics--enjoy.

The neighbor's place.

Elka's chickens. I really must arrange a constant supply of fresh farm eggs.

Gord's eagle antler.

There's nothing as lovely as fresh air and fresh lavender.

Pixie cup lichen.

Kale salad and lasagna. I love this salad! The dressing is equal parts lemon juice, olive oil and Braggs.

Sunset.

Kind of irrelevant, but Tom Kitten makes me laugh.

Some of Sharron's plants in the front yard.

Sunday's breakfast: wild blueberries, Sharron's raspberries and waffles.

Happy, berry and waffle-filled kid.

In Sharron's studio. A beautiful Goddess mask she's working on.

I've never tried fiddleheads, and apparently we were too late this season. The ferns survive... this time!

Sweet little marsh on the property.

Lots of neat mushrooms and flowers. It's amazing how different the foliage is on the BC side of the divide. Love it.

Nik, intoxicated by the smell of organic beeswax. Heavenly!

Trav showing Dylan how to dip and drip.

Candles in the wind...

A turtle family. The Anderson's log home is full of art and good vibes.

Thanks so much for a great couple of days, Sharron and Gord! And happy birthday to Sharron :)

Bean down so long that it looks like up to me

2010-05-12T21:28:00.003-06:00

These are the first beans I've ever sprouted on my own. I can't believe how easy it was and how good they taste. Beautiful, firm and delicious little miracles growing in my dark kitchen cupboard. There's a metaphor in there somewhere. Yoy, I just can't help myself.

More soon, folks. Lusty is busy with photography projects and life altering decisions, so stay tuned...

Lusty returns for a Mexican potluck

2010-04-25T15:27:00.005-06:00

Last night some friends hosted a Mexican cuisine-themed dinner party. A potluck. Motivated by my love of tamales (I heard rumours the host was preparing them), the pleasure of spending an evening with good friends, and my ego telling me to show up with something amazing, I accepted the invite and whipped up a cauldron of my favourite posole. Soup pot in one hand and a bag filled with garnishes, good tequila, hot chocolate and ground Oaxacan worms in the other, I made my way over to their cozy mountain home.

Seventeen adults and at nine kids in a small house. The space between us was filled with laughter, conversation, hugs, margaritas, beer, tamales, soup, tostadas, refried beans, rice, chipotle-infused salad and tequila shots chased with ground worm spice sprinkled lime wedges. Comforting, toasty corn aroma and Manu Chao’s happy rebel anthems toned the air as we danced around each other to reach the food counter. Sí, Manu, entre casa y Babylon, camina la ilusión…

Later, the kids materialized from watching movies in the basement, marched into the kitchen demanding cake, cake, cake! I half expected to hear a conch sound off á la Lord of the Flies. It’s ironic and probably shortsighted that we placated them with sugar-laden dessert, but it would have been cruel to deny them chocolate mousse layer cake or cream and berry soaked Mexican party cake.

I left after dark, empty pot in hand, stomach full of goodness and heart brimming with light. Viva la vida.

Top photo: The host making margaritas.
Middle photo: Dinner time.
Bottom photo: Slightly excited about cake.

Two takes on the onion

2010-03-22T22:18:00.004-06:00

This is an old photo of mine. Years ago I photographed a series based on a handful of Pablo Neruda's odes. The onion was a proud member of the group. I love onions. I've often said there should be a cologne inspired by the aroma of onion and garlic sauteing--a sure prelude to pleasurable eating. Here are a couple of poems inspired by this often under-appreciated vegetable. Respect.

Onions
The onion loves the onion.
It hugs its many layers,
saying, O, O, O,
each vowel smaller
than the last.

Some say it has no heart.
It surrounds itself,
feels whole. Primordial.
First among vegetables.

If Eve had bitten it
instead of the apple,
how different
Paradise.

- Lorna Crozier,
From: Sex Lives of Vegetables.

Ode to the Onion
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicated the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion,
clear as a planet,
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.

Generously
you undo
your globe of freshness
in the fervent consummation
of the cooking pot,
and the crystal shred
in the flaming heat of the oil
is transformed into a golden feather.

Then , too, I will recall how fertile
is your influence on the love of the salad,
and it seems that the sky contributes
by giving you the shape of hailstones
to celebrate your chopped brightness
on the hemispheres of a tomato.
But within reach
of the hands of the common people,
sprinkled with oil,
dusted
with a but of salt,
you kill the hunger
of the day-laborer on his hard path.

Star of the poor,
fairy godmother
wrapped
in delicate
paper, you rise from the ground
eternal, whole, pure
like and astral seed,
and when the kitchen knife
cuts you, there arises
the only tear
without sorrow.

You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
you are to my eyes
a heavenly globe, a platinum goblet,
an unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone

and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.

- Pablo Neruda
From Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

The Mexico Diaries, Part 3: La Casa de los Sabores

2010-03-15T20:15:00.003-06:00

While in Oaxaca I took a cooking course at La Casa de los Sabores. A portion of the instruction took place at a local market and the rest of our time was spent playing in Chef Pilar Cabrera's kitchen. And eating, of course. Here's a few photos... enjoy!

At the market. Still life with Jesus and meat.

Chef Pilar buys some fruit.

Calla lilies - my favorite.

Market graffiti.

I loved this woman's hands.

Piloncillo and chiles. Two more reasons to move to Mexico.

Tomatillos, or tomates verde. Salsa verde, hear we come...

Very yellow chickens.

Back at la casa, Barb enjoys a miltomate.

I think I can still taste this salsa.

Ridiculously good mole verde. I love this bowl.

A shot of mezcal and - buen provecho! - our class shared an amazing feast.

The Mexico Diaries, Part 2: I burn for you, Queso Oaxaca

2010-03-04T22:46:00.004-07:00

In Oaxaca, the street in front of my posada was under construction. Coming and going meant navigating torn up sidewalks and unsolicited construction worker attention. It was unnerving – at first. Fielding my concerns about the hissing, comments and intense gazes, a friend advised that I just chill out and lap it up; soon enough I would be back in cooler, more asexual Canadian climes. Good point, I thought. No harm in some hot appreciation of my modest self.

I’ve taken many nude drawing classes. I intimately understand the physical beauty of women. We’ve been celebrated in art, music and literature since human beings had the capacity and inkling for creative expression. Politics of our male privileged planet aside, I see what the fixation is about. Women are a powerfully magnetic blend of strength, intuition, intelligence, mystery, beauty, life and creativity – to drop just a few adjectives. In Mexico, I wondered what passion in my life (other than the obvious opposite) paralleled this fervor for women.

I developed a passion for Oaxacan cheese. I love it. I think it’s beautiful, the way it oozes and spreads in a sauce over eggs, or out of a stuffed, grilled and hot poblano chili. To a neophyte, it tastes like the salty, soft, squeaky and chewy ingredient you’ve been missing your entire life. I crave it. I long for it. I want to consume it. If I saw a big ball of Oaxacan cheese walking down the street – and if I removed some of my culturally programmed inhibition (or if no one was around) - I would probably call out to the cheese. I might say something like, “Ssst! Hey beautiful, mmm, so delicious,” or, more directly, “I want to remove your wrapping, slowly unravel and devour every inch of you.” It would feel damn refreshing and liberating to say it out loud. Yes, I understand lusting after something that makes my world more beautiful, joyful and delicious.

Maybe it’s best that I don’t live where I can freely access Oaxacan cheese. I wouldn’t want to take it for granted or grow tired of it. The undeniable truth is, however, that I would cut off a finger to have it here in my Canadian refrigerator. And sadly, as my friend predicted, there’s another layer to my longing: I’ve been at home only a short while and already I miss the passionate, uninhibited male attention. In either case, it’s as Neruda said: Loving is so short, forgetting is so long… Ssst – know what I mean, hermoso?

Top photo: Small ball of Oaxacan cheese
Bottom photo: I am not sure what kind of cheese was used, but these hands make a mean omelette.

The Mexico Diaries, Part 1: A funny thing happened on the way to eating dinner alone

2010-02-28T23:25:00.007-07:00

Occasionally, people meet people who show them what is possible in life. This happened to me several times during my recent trip to Mexico.

I met Lisa Sonora Beam at a restaurant, Maria Bonita, in Ciudad Oaxaca. Noticing we were both alone, I invited her to join me for dinner. As I savoured my Mole Negro, Lisa told me about her career as a “digital nomad”, artist, educator and author. I knew I was crossing paths with someone special and significant.

Lisa teaches the art visual journaling. She showed me her 2010 version; it’s filled with ideas, inspiration and reminders about her goals, a message to herself from her inspired self to keep on track and focused. She also penned the book, The Creative Entrepreneur: A DIY Visual Guidebook for Making Business Ideas Real. An inspiring and inspired woman, indeed.

Meeting Lisa couldn’t have been more auspicious. Lately, I’ve been re-evaluating my life, specifically my career, geographical location and level of personal and spiritual fulfillment. While most of my life looks good in the context of what my culture tells me is “right”, I often feel bored out of my skull and restless. My art education (a BFA in photography), the majority of my interests, and my wild-at-heart sensibility would – will! - have me living somewhere else, and pursuing alternate professional avenues. I am already on the path to more creative freedom and integrity, but meeting Lisa was a good nudge from the Universe: You’re headed in the real right direction. I ordered her book upon returning to Canada for some added inspiration and perspective.

After dinner, Lisa and I hit Calle Alcala, a bustling pedestrian and shopping street, to check out a few art galleries. Eventually we ended up at another restaurant, Como Agua Para Chocolate (named after the Esquival book, naturally) for a divine hot chocolate and scoops of rose water and mezcal flavoured ice cream. I was in the right place, at the right time, and it was delicious.

(Above photo: brunch at Maria Bonita)

**********

Graphic design, pop culture, graffiti and public art collide in Ciudad Oaxaca. ArtejaguaR, an artist group originally formed in the fine art department at Universidad Autónoma “Benito Juárez” de Oaxaca, has work on many buildings in the city. I found this rendition of Emiliano Zapata to be particularly awesome - que chido.

Feeling pupusas

2010-01-24T21:45:00.003-07:00

I recently heard Mexican cuisine whiz Rick Baylis say that he liked cooking Latin American food because it's an intuitive process. It reminded me of Laura Esquivel's book, Like Water for Chocolate, and Isabel Allende's, Aphrodite. Both books talk about food as if it's an extra-sensory, earth-moving experience. I tend to agree. And having learned how to cook Mexican food by taste and feel in a kitchen full of wise women, I know what Baylis is saying. Last week, I learned how to make pupusas the same way: watching, listening, feeling, smelling and tasting.

My work colleague, Gloria, invited me over last Thursday for a pupusas lesson. She spent some time in El Salvador after high school; she's been trying to eat her way back there by making pupusas, a Salvadorean classic, in her Jasper kitchen. Pupusas have been around for over 2000 years - I needed to experience why, and I wanted Gloria to show me.

Gloria's effervescent laughter and chatter filled the kitchen as she poured warm water into the corn flour mixture, testing its consistency by squishing it between her fingers. She woman-handled the filling - refried beans, zucchini and cheese - until it submitted into a viscous mass, ready to be stuffed inside dough balls. That was my job. Once the balls were filled, they were patted into a flat disc and flopped onto the hot, dry pan where they baked until crisp. The kitchen smelled like a tortilla street vendor's cart: divine. At Gloria's large wooden table we savoured pupusas with laughter, stories and smooth tequila.

It's best, for me, to be taught how to cook by feel, directly from the memory banks of foodie friends. The best recipes are passed down and around this way. It's pure joy to be in a kitchen with kindred spirits, sharing food and life wisdom. Making pupusas, tasting and feeling my way through the process, will always take me back to last Thursday at Gloria's, and everything I learned there.

*****

Speaking of Latin America, I am heading to Mexico in a few days. I look forward to updating "Lusty" with travel stories and photos when I'm back. In the mean time, happy eating everyone!

Dinner with a t-rex and 40 pound monkey

2010-01-13T22:03:00.003-07:00

Cooking for one can be a drag. Sure, I get to make whatever I want without having to accommodate the taste of another, but, like a good story, food should be inspired and shared. And, while I am a big fan of personal quiet time, I’m far less resentful of washing dishes when they’re done with laughter at my sister’s house. With my brother-in-law’s witty background comments and my four-year-old nephew’s wild energy bouncing around their abode, I am in heaven. Their place is dynamic and full of life, a welcome departure from my usually quiet weeknight routine.

This week’s dinner with them was no exception. I arrived at their house to discover my nephew, Dylan, entertaining a little friend. The boys, including my brother-in-law, played with Transformers in the living room while my sister, Niki, multi-tasked together our dinner. She had me taste her soup as she prepared veggie dogs for the little ones. Soup, salad, tortillas, rice and beans on the counter and – ding dong – the door bell rang. Trish had arrived to pick up her son, Dylan’s friend. “Come in, Trish! You must be hungry after skiing – have some supper.” Trish took off her boots and Niki set another place at the adult table. The kids, meanwhile, wolfed down veggie dogs at their small fake-candle and t-rex adorned table. Candles, laughter and story telling warmly lit our table and small dining room, interrupted only by the young ones running by when they had finished eating. They demanded I hold a small hockey stick “gate” between my chair and the wall, a gate opened only by the words “open sesame” or a forceful Red Rover-style charge. What’s an elbow injury when you get to be the gatekeeper?

After Trish and her son left, Niki and I did the dishes and chatted over tea. While listening to her I thought about how lucky I am that we live in the same town and have a close relationship. I have been fortunate to watch my nephew grow from a baby into a gentle and smart little boy. We have shared countless meals, cups of tea and other simple pleasures.

Later, as I prepared to leave their house, my nephew hung off my neck like a 40 pound blond monkey in Spiderman pajamas. He insisted that we group hug with his mom. With their arms around me, I wondered what food we’d make at next week’s dinner rendez-vous.

Soul food

2009-12-24T12:06:00.015-07:00

Thinking about Christmas inevitably conjures memories of my Baba, my mother’s mother, Stephania Litowski, originally of Ukraine. Although she died several years ago, she seems to permeate the air at this time of year. The most tangible memories of Baba are found when eating Ukrainian food prepared at Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and, it seems, any other time my family can think of an excuse to whip up a batch of pierogies, cabbage rolls or paska. Other family traditions evolve, but Ukrainian food remains a staple.

I remember the day my brother and I visited Baba’s apartment, hoping to bond over a lesson in cabbage roll construction. My hands fumbled with the pickled cabbage leaf, unable to roll a spoonful of bacon and rice into the stubby cigar shape. Not one for mincing words or, in that moment, patience, Baba took (read: grabbed) my mangled piece of cabbage and, in her still-thick accent said, “OK—I do it.” There was little time to waste for this strong, proud woman, this woman who endured such poverty as a child her immigrant family literally ate ravens to stay alive. This woman who, when her partner threatened violence, told him to “go ahead and hit me, because you have to sleep some time, and when you do, I’ll pour boiling water on your eyes.” This woman who was a survivor, period, and, because of a what she contributed to a diet of garlic, beets and hard work - I would add sheer will - lived to be 98, leaving us mere days before the birth of her first great grandchild. Although somewhat amused, I didn’t hesitate to hand over my cabbage roll the day my brother and I received our “lesson”—I may have questioned other authority figures in my life, but I had a healthy dose of respect for Baba. After she died, I taught myself how to make pierogies in her honour.

Baba used to say grace in Ukrainian before our Christmas dinner. Although each year we had to more or less pry it out of her, when she succumbed and bowed her head in preparation, a hush would fall over the table. When she started to speak it was as if in tongues and we were transported somewhere else, into our history and the secret old country past where so few glimpses were permitted. After supper she could sometimes be convinced to sing traditional songs, usually accompanied by a spontaneous little dance, all the while terribly amused with herself. Hilarious, tough and delightfully enigmatic—I miss Baba every day.

I wonder what Baba would think of the family’s evolving Christmas traditions. Last Christmas Eve’s party was a pastiche of people: Russians, Japanese, Mexicans, Canadians, Christians, Muslims, agnostics, white collar, blue collar, straight, gay, young and old. It was a party that, to me, captured the spirit of what this season is truly all about: open hearts and open minds, and the celebration of what is possible for human beings when those conditions exist. And, of course, good food. I think Baba would have liked it very much, but I sense maybe she was there with us anyway, singing and dancing while balancing a plate full of pierogies.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

The chicken remains of the day

2009-12-13T21:38:00.003-07:00

My dad called me last Monday. “I got those Hutterite chickens for you and your sister. Come and get them if you want—they’re in the freezer.”

Every so often, members of one of Alberta’s Hutterite community drive their freezer truck into Jasper and park in the empty lot behind the Athabasca Hotel. Through mysterious channels I don’t quite understand, the word of the Hutterite’s arrival spreads like a seasonal flu around our small town, emails and phone trees abuzz with the news that soon we will have the opportunity to buy chickens, ducks, turkeys, eggs and a variety of other non-mass-produced farm products. Considering Jasperites live in a national park and, for the most part, lack direct contact with local (provincial) agriculture, arrival of the Hutterite freezer truck creates a stir akin to 60’s Beetle mania.

For some reason, the stars aligned for my dad this week—when he pulled into the vacant lot/tiny farmer's market, the waiting line was yet to form, good luck considering the mercury was hovering at -34℃. On ‘Hutterite Chicken Day’ - the unofficial name bequeathed upon the infrequent and mysterious arrival of the freezer truck - there is usually a long line of local people crowding that particular block Geikie Street’s sidewalk. As the poultry patrons inch forward anticipating their soon-to-be-stuffed freezers, successful shoppers leave the queue hauling industrial strength clear plastic bags full of frozen bird back to their vehicles or, in some eccentric cases and fairer weather, a bicycle. Fortunately this time my dad’s avian stockpiling experience was stealth-like and frostbite-free.

I store my chickens in my parent’s large freezer because the small freezer in my fridge has limited real estate—the ice cube trays, beer glasses, frozen Coho salmon and BC blueberries are regulars and territorial about space. So I picked up a chicken from my parent’s place earlier in the week and, after thawing it in the fridge, dressed it up in a pretty rosemary, thyme and butter outfit (with a garlic and lemon corsage) then sent it on an oven date with my new enameled cast iron roaster. After things get hot in addition to heavy, I let the lady have a rest, later placing her in the fridge to cool down. Naughty poulet stories aside, having a cooked chicken on hand for lunch salads and soups greatly simplifies meals during my workweek; eating a Hutterite chicken greatly pacifies my fear of putting something questionable in my body, win-win in my books.

---

The chicken meat is long gone and it’s time to use the remaining bits and bones for soup stock (see photo for today's stock enhancers). I make a fairly decent chicken stock thanks to Alice Waters. Earlier this year I purchased her book, The Joy of Simple Food, a Slow Food-oriented how-to guide and cookbook for amateur chefs. It’s a great book for those wanting to expand their kitchen know-how and learn a few tricks of the trade. I also highly recommend eating at Waters’ restaurant, Chez Panisse, if you’re ever in Berkeley... religious stuff for a foodie.

Pie-ous on a Sunday

2009-12-06T19:19:00.008-07:00

I baked my first pie ever this morning. From scratch. I needed to use up some excess organic apples my sister and I had purchased and, in my quest to learn all aspects of cooking and food, I figured 'apple' was an appropriate first subject in Pie Making 101.

To start, I channeled my Ukrainian baba - she used to make amazing apple-rhubarb pies - and set forth. Remembering what my mom had told me about overworked dough, I was careful not to add too much ice water or kneed the pastry excessively with my hands. As the dough chilled in the fridge, my apples bubbled happily on the stove. I didn't think the aroma could be any more enticing until I added the cup of rum-soaked raisins, my dad's suggestion (this pie was truly a family effort). Mmm. Amazed at my ability to roll out the puck-like portions of dough and cussing only moderately when it stuck to my rolling pin, I assembled and baked what you see pictured.

The pie then became the 'pie about town' when it drove over to a friend's house — we ate the first slices as a break between cooking (holiday stockpiling) spanakopita, crab stuffed mushrooms and gingerbread people (we like our cookies PC). I left some pie behind for my friend's husband, and sent one home with my sister for her partner, all the while hoping that I had boiled the booze out of the filling as my nephew and his friend inhaled their slices... Next stop: Chez Wilson, where a piece went to my dad. I somehow made it home with the last morsel in the dish. I can hear it singing its siren song in my kitchen as I write this.

A delightful Sunday indeed, worshipping at the alter of good food, good family and friends, and pie, glorious pie.

In honour of tomotoes

2009-11-30T13:55:00.012-07:00

I've always enjoyed tomatoes, but their true potential was not unlocked for me until I worked in a Mexican kitchen... in Calgary, Alberta. While studying photography at the Alberta College of Art and Design, I took part-time work at Boca Loca, a small store dedicated to specialty Mexican groceries and traditional homemade Mexcian food. Guajillos, chipotles, anchos - in those days my tolerance for spicy food was at an all-time high. But the chile's burn, the excitement of the exotic and new flavours meant nothing without the unassuming and ubiquitous "love apple", the tomato.

Pictured is one of my favourite things to eat on a cold day, a tomato-rich tortilla soup. With deep, earthy flavours and a moderate dose of spice, this soup is the perfect thing to warm the belly and elevate the soul, particularly when your heart is in Mexico but your reality is in a blizzard. I base my version on the recipe from Bon Appétit's May 2003 edition, The Soul of Mexico.

It's easy being green

2009-09-30T21:51:00.004-06:00

Pasole verde is one of my favourite soups. There's something soul warming about it - the flavour is fresh yet comforting. It requires a couple of specialty items, but if you can locate them it's well worth the effort (which is minimal to start with). Any decent Latin American grocery market should stock the ingredients you seek. Here's how I do it:

Soup ingredients

3 Cups good chicken stock
1/2 small onion, chopped
teaspoon olive oil
1/2 tsp dried Mexican oregano (must be Mexican!)
1/2 Cup cooked hominy (maize kernels treated with alkali)
handful of shredded chicken
1 Cup chopped green lettuce (anything but iceberg)

Garnish (to taste)

cubed avocado
crumbled feta cheese, or queso fresco if you have it
chopped cilantro
fresh squeezed lime juice (I like key limes)
dash of dried Mexican oregano
salt/pepper

In a heavy bottomed, medium-sized pot, heat the olive oil then saute the onion until transparent. Add the stock, 1/2 tsp Mexican oregano and hominy: bring to a boil. Reduce to simmer, then add the shredded chicken. Simmer for 5 or 10 minutes. Place the chopped lettuce in the bottom of 2 large bowls, ladle soup over the lettuce and garnish at will. Savour.

If you like Mexican food and need an authentic reference, I highly recommend Rick Baylis' Mexican Kitchen.

If you like buying excellent quality dried spices for a decent price, try Penzeys.

If you want to buy 5 lbs of dried chili peppers during an online shopping spree inspired by a cold winter night, try Pendery's... Enjoy.

Gone daddy gone, the garden's gone

2009-09-27T21:48:00.005-06:00

Today I pulled my pot garden (a garden that is in pots...) In the photo is the last of my carrots and, although they look big, they're really only about 5 cm long. Dregs. Anyone familiar with my photo series What Remains or my ACAD work will be familiar with this format, this way of styling plants and veggies. I have shot carrots before, once on a background of blue angora. I liked the rabbit reference, the contrast in textures and the discomfort of dirty carrots on an luxurious fiber. And they did look dirty. Very dirty. But I digress. The garden is up, autumn is on fire and I have some dirt to clean up.

The Return of GB

2009-09-26T17:04:00.005-06:00

My bother returned from Mexico today. He was there visiting his lovely girlfriend and successfully landing a teaching gig which will hopefully lead to work in his area of education, poli sci studies in Latin American indigenous movements. He departed Canada on my birthday a few weeks ago, and kindly brought back these bowls, mole, hot sauce and some good lookin' vanilla as a belated gift. It's nice to be known! I sense some tortilla soup coming on...

Life lines

2009-09-23T22:26:00.013-06:00

Beginning the begin... welcome to my inaugural blog post.

As I cut open a gorgeous avocado today in my kitchen, a section of membrane peeled away from the pit and I was stunned by the tree image residing in the papery bit I generally toss directly in the compost bin. The creative door has been ajar lately, and I have been thinking at length about the interconnectedness of, well, everything, how it relates to being an artist. So somehow this tiny tree, this veiny image that resembles so many other life systems in nature at large and in my own body, seemed perfect to me. I have been waiting for the "right time" to start this blog and as I ran to grab my camera and capture my avocado moment, I knew I had found it. As a wonderful design instructor of mine once said, "Just start".

So here I am.