LINDSAY CAMERON WILSON

A January Thought

2012-01-06T10:02:00.002-04:00

I just found this little 'thought' as I was searching through some files. Sometimes when you read something written a while ago, it feels like you're peering into someone else's life. I liked the sound of these words, the colours, the flavours, the ease of flowing with the seasons. I needed this inspiration on this grey, cold, January day, when food seems particularly beige. Thank you Lindsay from the past.

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Flowing with seasons defines how I operate in the kitchen. Cold, grey days trigger a nostalgia for warm, simmering stews spiked with a vibrant spoonful of parsley pesto. The first sign of grape hyacinths tells me it’s time to sauté spring greens in garlic and top with soft goats cheese and a sprinkle of pistachios. Summer means the lightest of touches; most ingredients shine all on their own. Roasted squash and buttery mushrooms tell me it’s fall.

Within this rhythm is a toolbox of flavours I keep close at hand. It’s these tools – lemons, vinegars, oils, maple syrup, flaky sea salt, roasted tomatoes, garlic, ginger, toasted spices, to name a few – that are the constant in my kitchen. I can’t control the seasons, but I can play with what they bring. My tools allow local golden beets and white sprouting broccoli to become the focus of a Thai green curry. Sweet potatoes and parsnips become a Moroccan tagine. Quince becomes a jelly served with goats cheese.

These tools create harmony in my kitchen. They create balance. They allow food to sing.

I also must add that I am a mother of three. I cook meals on the fly for boys who are hungry. My food isn’t complicated, but the tool box is essential. It can transport even macaroni into something fit for, well, the parents.

Kernel of Wisdom from Christensen's

2011-09-06T21:09:00.001-03:00

Christensen's Vegetable Farm, a family favourite for all things fruit, vegetable, floral, canned and preserved. Signs like this one are posted all over the walls, inspiring, urging, coaxing and empowering people to perhaps try something new, or prepare their bounty in a new and interesting way. Last night their fresh, sweet corn (picked '5 minutes' before purchase) was boiled, sliced, and scattered through buttery hodge-podge. And yes, we smiled from ear to ear...

The Building of a Bisque

2011-07-18T15:02:00.006-03:00

Directions:

1. Gather friends together and boil lobsters.

2. Eat lobsters.

3. Salvage any leftover lobster meat and set aside. Place shells in a big roasting tin and blast for an hour in a 450f oven. This will dry out the shells and enhance their flavour.

4. Put roasted shells back in the lobster pot. Add water to cover and add whatever flavourful ingredients you have - onions, green onions, herbs. Simmer for an hour or so. Do this over a propane stove outside if you can; it's a stinky job.

5. Strain.

6. Chose a friend (see above, R) who is a fabulous and enthusiastic professional cook who can create a mirepoix with her eyes closed.

7. Watch her saute the mirepoix, add tomato paste, lobster stock and cream. Give her a glass of wine as she cooks. Inhale.

8. Spoon into bowls and add reserved lobster meat.

9. Enjoy.

Singapore Sweetness

2011-06-20T14:01:00.003-03:00

The other day I received an email from my friend, Chére, in Singapore. Chére and her family are heading to NS for the summer. Below is an email she found in her inbox from her son Will, who's learning to email. She sent it to me, and with Will's permission, I'm sharing it. Needless to say Pippa and I are in love. But have I mentioned he's only seven?

From: Will Cooper
Date: June 15, 2011 AM 07:14:34 GMT+08:00
Subject: Things i am going to buy in canada with my canadian money places where to buy stuff Camp Cooper/Old Navy/Nova Scotia/Toronto

Things i am going to buy in canada with my canadian money places where to buy stuff Camp Cooper/Old Navy/Nova Scotia/Toronto
1.my own wallet 2. 3.Pippa Cuthbert and Lindsay Cameron Wilson soup 4.mini-stanley cup 5.vancouver canucks hat 6.my own tomato plant 7.carrot seeds 8.a small camping tent (made for real camping) 9.a dvd of vancouver canucks hockey goals 10.Pippa Cuthbert and Lindsay Cameron Wilson juice 11.Pippa Cuthbert and Lindsay Cameron Wilson cookies

Toronto Preserved, chez Café Guilead, avec Martha. Le 27 mars.

2011-05-03T19:53:00.005-03:00

http://www.jamiekennedy.ca/intro-gc.php

Lobster Sandwiches

2011-04-11T11:22:00.003-03:00

I've been in the test kitchen lately, developing recipes for Select Nova Scotia's Seasonal Calendar, the Art of Cooking Local. I've been tasked with developing recipes based on one seasonal ingredient each month. I've paused on June - Lobster. I thought a fantastic lobster sandwich would be ideal, but I couldn't move forward. A lobster sandwich is an example of restraint, control, discretion. The lobster needs to shine; less is more. But it's also memorable, nostalgic and decadent. My measure, however, is an unlikely one... my grandmother loved a good lobster sandwich. The soft white bread, a touch of mayo and big, generous pieces of lobster. But she was also practical. One June day she offered to treat a handful of her grandchildren to lobster sandwiches. We piled into her VW rabbit and pulled onto the Bedford Highway, the Basin sparkling in the rear-view mirror. But before we knew it, she took a right, straight into the McDonalds parking lot. "They make the best lobster sandwiches", she said. "I hope we're not too late."

I threw out the following question last week on Facebook. The responses were numerous, but not a mention of McD's.

(The verdict? Fresh lobster meat tossed with chives, tarragon, a little mayo, sea salt, pepper and tiny pieces of chopped apple. Crunch and interest, but the lobster still shone. And the bread? Squishy? Toasted? Sourdough? Hotdog bun? I chose baguette. Cause that's what I had.)

Lindsay Wilson
in the test kitchen..what makes a fabulous lobster sandwich? thoughts?

April 6 at 10:42am · · ·

- D Lots of Lobster.
  April 6 at 10:43am ·
- V chunky lobster pieces!
  April 6 at 10:44am ·
- C Letting the lobster be. x
  April 6 at 10:44am ·
- V and great white bread from La Vendenne
  April 6 at 10:44am ·
- L A bit of mayo and a fresh baguette. :) Is that sacrelige?
  April 6 at 10:45am ·
- J warm toasted bread and lots of lobster
  April 6 at 10:47am ·
- H lemon, mayo, soft lovely bread. now i'm hungry....
  April 6 at 11:12am ·
- B i'm allergic .... but still think you would need a little bit of celery...
  April 6 at 11:19am ·
- Lindsay Wilson thanks everyone! love it! will let you know how it goes...
  April 6 at 11:30am ·
- J very small chunks of onion and celery. I like mine in a toast hot dog bun.
  April 6 at 11:35am ·
- R It is all about the steamed bun and the right amount of mayo...God want one
  April 6 at 11:35am ·
- M I might be too late but I like dill or mint or lemon. Something a little different to give it punch.
  April 6 at 12:03pm ·
- M I like mine without lobster. I sometimes wonder if I am really from Nova Scotia.
  April 6 at 12:16pm ·
- C Some Cava on the side.
  April 6 at 1:07pm ·
- D lime jello
  April 6 at 1:25pm · · 1 person
- D fennel
  April 6 at 1:50pm ·
- P little mayo and a little dill....yum
  April 6 at 2:15pm ·
- C I agree with Nicolle mayo+lemon+ crispy pancetta+chopped chives
  April 6 at 3:04pm ·
- V A bit of curry mixed in with the mayo, crispy lettuce, really fresh French bread.
  April 6 at 4:08pm ·
- Lindsay Wilson Oh soooo good. I think it will have to be lobster sandwich 3 ways...
  April 6 at 4:44pm ·
- C i like a little crunch, like a tiny bit of celery... lots of pepper, not too much mayo
  April 7 at 12:25am ·
- P sourdough bread
  April 7 at 5:34am ·
- J tiny chunks of sour apple.
  April 7 at 10:48am ·
- M really crispy lettuce, and very finely chopped spring onion, and a hint of dijon in the sauce. I will be happy to sample :)
  April 7 at 3:39pm ·

Japan

2011-03-20T21:44:00.004-03:00

When you're sick, podcasts reign.

Today I listened to the February podcast of the Food Programme, from BBC radio 4. It transported me instantly from self-pittying sniffling to Japan - pre tsunami, earth quake and nuclear emergency - where the future of Japanese food culture was being investigated. Questions such as these were posed by food writer Simon Parkes.... on an island where the bulk of the rice farmers are over the age of 70, how long will Japan be able to sustain itself? On an island where foreign ingredients are celebrated, (then improved - think kobe beef, green tea ice cream, tempura batter...) will rice always be an essential part of the diet? Can there be Japanese cuisine without rice? Will the younger generation embrace the traditions of the past? Will farmers be young again?

Then we're left with Japan today. What happened to those rice fields 10 days ago? Are the elderly farmers safe? What are they eating? What will they eat?

Baie qu'appelle...?

2011-03-02T21:26:00.008-04:00

A mason jar of jam has been sitting in our fridge since the summer, its contents slowly being savoured by my husband James. He came back from a fly fishing trip in Labrador not with salmon, but with this jar of bakeapple jam, given to him by one of the fishing guides. He reveres it, cherishes it, almost cossets the contents in a way I’ve never seen a food-stuff loved before. James loves fly fishing, but he rarely will fish and tell. I usually have to piece together the details with careful open-ended questions. I’m out of my league. But this morning, as he spread the jam on his buttered toast, it hit me. The story of the jam is my link: a flavourful portal onto the boys-club river. This is what he told me:

‘We had two guides in Labrador. This first one was Mr. Knowmore, otherwise known as the Great White Hunter. He is also a machinist who makes parts for heavy machinery at the Boisey’s Bay mine. The other guide, Eric Belben, was the main analogue technician for Labrador. Now he’s retired. They're good friends. Boisey’s Bay was on strike while we were there, and the Great White Hunter didn’t want to sit around, so he offered to help guide.

We fished the Pinware – a brakish, swift river that flows through Labrador. The landscape is raw; uneven rocks and evergreens line river, and it was too wild to wade in some places. We were fishing for salmon using 9 foot 8 weight fly rods. Our flies were undertakers and black bears green butts. No skin was showing, but the black flies still drove us to insanity. We had to take the shortest, windiest pee brakes possible.

The Pinware is an open river, it’s not restricted so anyone can fish there. There are many pools, so you have to move around a lot. One pool is called the North West Shoot pool, accessible through a long walk through a low bush meadow. The Great White Hunter pointed out bakeapples growing in the field. Imagine a light-orange raspberry balancing on the end of a stalk, growing in clusters.

At the end of the week, the Great White Hunter gave me a jar of bakeapple jam. He made it himself.’

Bakeapple (Cloudberry)(Rubus Chamaemorus). 'Bakeapple', anglicized from the French, 'baie qu'appelle...' meaning, 'what is this berry called..?', is internationally known as a 'Cloudberry'. It is similar in appearance to a rather large raspberry and has what some say a distinct honey/apricot-like flavour. Others claim its unique delectableness is beyond compare. The colour is orange/yellow and grows one berry to a plant approximately 3-4" high. Bakeapples are members of the rose family having close relatives such as the raspberry, blackberry, nagoonberry, and thimbleberry. Male and female flowers grow separately with each plant growing a single white, five petalled flower from the tip of the stem. The fruit is red when unripe and turns a soft golden orange at maturity. They are generally ready for picking around mid August. Bakeapples occupy a variety of moist northern tundra and peat bog habitats. These berries are extremely rich in vitamin C and contain few calories. The juice has been used to treat hives.

Source: the Dark Tickle Company

December happenings

2010-12-28T18:29:00.007-04:00

Overheard:

A friend sits in a London café on a Saturday morning in December. She watches as a father and youngish son settle into their chairs. The father sips an Americano, son a frothy hot chocolate. The father opens the Times.

“Would you like a bit of the paper?” asks the father. “Yes daddy. I’d like the bit with Heston. Let’s see what he’s cooking this week. “

Heston Blumenthal is the food writer for the London Times. He’s also the King of molecular gastronomy in the UK, acclaimed chef, recipe developer for Waitrose (fine grocers) cookbook author and owner-operator of the Fat Duck in Bray. I’ve never been; it’s impossible to get a reservation. But who needs one now? I, and apparently seven year old boys all over the world, can pick up the Times on Saturdays and bring Heston directly into our kitchens.

Heston has caused quite a stir lately. His Christmas pudding for Waitrose, complete with a whole orange nestled within, sold out immediately. Within days the puddings were being sold on ebay for £250. Heston says he doesn’t even like Christmas pudding.

But he does like chocolate. While in London recently, I found a unique chocolate tart recipe of his in the Times magazine. It’s basic shortcrust pastry on the bottom, chocolate ganache in the middle, but on top, things start to get interesting. He tosses popping candy with melted chocolate, lets it harden, then sprinkles it over to the top (with some optional gold leaf). A chocolate explosion every time to you take a bite. I’m going to try it for New Years Eve. I, and that seven year old boy, no doubt.

Seen:

Family hike in the Acadian forest, an old growth forest along the banks of the St. Mary’s River. We walked under maple, oak, and beech trees, past alders, stepped through spongy meadows, crossed streams and crunched acorns. Hardly a coniferous in sight. The area has always been a hot spot for fly fishermen. Babe Ruth fished these banks back in the 30’s. I think we found his sardine tin.

Touched:

Chickadee’s are tame. They’ll eat from your hand if you stand very still. Their tiny claws feel like curly toothpicks on the skin. My father calls it minuscule spandex over bone. They perch, grab a sunflower seed, shell and all, then flit away.

Word on the Street 26/09/10

2010-09-25T18:21:00.005-03:00

Word on the Street

National Book and Magazine Festival

Victoria Park

September 26, 2010

11-5

More specifically, at 1:30, under the Flavours of the Maritimes tent, I'll be telling a 'how to write a cookbook' tale.

Below, the long version, first published in the Coast, a long, long time ago...

The Making of a Book
by Lindsay Cameron Wilson

It all started with a book on juicing. Juice? We drank it, we loved it, we understood its benefits. But writing a book entirely devoted to juice wasn’t our intention. My colleague Pippa and I had a different idea; one that we felt would fill a huge, curiously ignored gap in the cookbook market. We put a proposal together, stuffed envelopes, licked stamps, sent it to fifteen different publishers, sat back and waited. Then we got rejected, fourteen times (idea to remain top secret in the event that one of the 14 publishers decides to change their mind). When the fifteenth proposal was returned I tore it open over the garbage can (as was the routine - discarding rejection somehow balances the pleasure/pain ratio) but paused just before it took flight. It was only a partial rejection: they liked us, but not our idea. They wanted to meet us. Could we churn out 100 juice recipes, quickly? Did we mind the small fee? Were we willing to accept their policy of not offering royalties or copyright to first time authors?

We knew we could write a cookbook together. I am a Canadian food writer and she's a New Zealand food stylist and has a nutrition background. Our collective experiences are perfect for a global cookbook market. But neither of us thought we would ever write a healthy cookbook. Pippa and I, you see, inhibit a world where aesthetics and the story behind food is paramount, while health is a distant second. Even the cookbook shop in London where we met shares the same philosophy. The succulent food books are displayed at the forefront, while books on healthy subjects are tucked behind the front door. But neither of us could harness our desire to explore unchartered flavour combinations, regardless of the calorie content or first time author stipulations. It was a mission, and we chose to accept it.

Over the following four weeks we could either be found in the market, at the computer or in our respective kitchens, aprons on and ear plugs in, stuffing roughage into our shiny Breville juicers. This model is loved for its external waste receptacle and wide feed tube, but it sounds like a 747 about to take flight.

Once the juices were blended, I would take a sip and record my thoughts. If it passed the test, it was poured into a zip lock bag for my husband to try. Then I'd give Pippa a call. This is where our co-authorship was essential. Who else could possibly understand that a juiced leek, despite its powerful detoxifying qualities, can burn your nose hairs? Who else wants to hear that their co-author had an equally adventurous day discovering the powerful laxative effect juiced pears and prunes had on their digestive system? What about the shared elation of discovering how delicious juiced lychees with a touch of rosewater could be?

Our juice testing coincided with the advent of winter. My flat was cold and damp. I wore the same juice stained sweats every day. I only left the house to buy ingredients. I couldn’t get a comb through my passion fruit pulp encrusted hair. But there was no time to primp. We had a pre-Christmas deadline that we were determined to meet. Yet as our deadline grew closer and our work load increased, we remained intact. The book that had began as a flavour combining mission had blossomed into a health giving orgy of calming goodness. Our hair grew thicker. Our skin glowed. Our bodies were cleansed and energized. To be truthful, it was the 'damn you look good' comments that really kept the juices flowing right through those dark and cold December days. Thank goodness. We needed the extra fortification to get us through the January editing.

Juice! turned out to be a success, and our publishers suggested that be it turned into a series (complete with royalties!) Fueled and fortified by juice, we moved onto Ice Cream! Soup! Barbeque! Pizza! Cookies! (be sure to pronounce each title with fervor and excitement). We’ve just finished the last book in the series, Veggie! I now live in Halifax , Nova Scotia , and Pippa is still in London . But thanks to email, we’re carrying on, exactly the same as before. Well, not exactly the same. My kitchen is bigger, my fridge twice the size, I now have two little boys tugging at my apron strings. But food styling the books brings me back to London twice a year. That’s also when Pippa and I have our future recipe brainstorming sessions. It’s always good to go back to London – the food, the shops, the friends, the chaos – but as they saying goes, there’s no place like home.

Sometimes I feel like I haven’t really left.

Culinary Confessions

2010-09-08T14:38:00.003-03:00

Last Spring I was asked to write a piece for Tidings, the University of King's College alumni magazine. The assignment was broad: write about a food adventure. Every day is a food adventure, from baby food explosions to candlelit sausage stews on the propane stove during a hurricane. There are stories in every mouthful; the question is which mouthful is rich enough to share? I decided to turn the assignment into something more of a food confession. Read on, or click on the Tidings website where you'll find the story complete with a beautifully immortalized zampone.

The five course meal starts out strong. Fragrant, amber-coloured stock fills

a shallow, white porcelain bowl. Fresh pillows of gnocchi and slivers of

garlic scapes swirl within. Next comes a warm plate featuring what looks

like a thick slice of sausage nestled within a spoonful of soft, puréed

lentils and a touch of zucchini pickle. The sausage, made from pork,

cinnamon, nutmeg and Parmesan cheese, is encased in a thick, cream coloured

casing. I scoop out the filling with my fork, and top it with helpings of

lentils and pickle. The combination of flavours – tart, sweet, salty but

fresh – and textures – creamy, with a little pickle crunch – are incredible.

As the filling is devoured, its casing falls limp like a thick ring of bacon

fat onto the plate. The chef is my friend Larry, who grows his own

vegetables, makes his own cheese and raises turkeys, ducks and chickens.

When the course is finished, he looks at my plate, crestfallen. As a fellow

food professional, I have broken a tie that had bound us together. I am no

longer brave in his eyes, no longer authentic, no longer a practical eater.

I’m just a squeamish city girl who eats high on the hog.

The dish is called zampone, a speciality of Modena, Italy. To make zampone,

Larry shaves the pig’s trotters of excess hair with bic disposables. He then

bones and washes them and fills them with a rough sausage called

cotechino. The whole thing is oven braised for 4 hours, sliced into

thick rounds, and served with a lentil purée. The word zampa means paw; a

large trotter is called a zampone; a small one is a zampino. Zampa, zampone

or zampino; I just… can’t do it. There I’ve said it. In fact, if I had a

postcard handy, I’d post a secret: I can’t handle a little pig’s foot with

a few short hairs still attached.

While I’m at it, I may as well add: really red blood sausage grosses me out.

Sweatbreads? No thanks. I could never knowingly eat horse or dog. And don’t

even get me started on durian.

I am a grateful eater. Food, prepared for another, is the sweetest gift.

Especially Larry’s food, which is lovingly prepared from start to finish. He

knows where every bit of his food comes from; in fact, the pigs that offered

up their trotters for this meal are his neighbours. I believe in ‘nose to

tail eating’ in practise, but have trouble with execution. It’s hypocritical

of me, but I’m learning that personal taste and food politics collide in my

mouth.

These culinary confessions have made me vulnerable. Uh oh. Hopefully Larry

will have me back.

The Lunenburg Farmers' Market*

2010-09-08T13:49:00.003-03:00

The Bounty

clockwise, from left:

lisianthus from Maple Grove Greenhouse and Farms, beets, carrots, basil and cherry tomatoes from Glad Gardens Family Farm,

Pain au chocolat and those delicious ? jam-filled oversized-french thumbprints from Boulangerie La VendÉenne, and finally, perfect peaches from a nice guy who let me try one first

*Every Thursday from 8-noon at the Lunenburg Community Centre, May 14th till October 8th

**Missing from photo: fat scallops from Evan's Fresh Seafood

HOME: Three Sisters, Three Views

2010-07-25T17:37:00.004-03:00

Beverley Cameron, Susan Sutherland and Sandra Brownlee are sisters.

They were raised in a home filled with beauty - on a budget. Their

mother, Vivien, made centrepieces from nature. Her dishes sparkled.

Pops of colour filled each room, from a simple chair slip-covered

in purple corduroy to a lime green, mohair blanket folded across

the back of a sofa. Their father, Marshall, believed in a beautiful

front door. A table large enough to accommodate unexpected guests.

A comfortable bed. Both parents worked outside the home, but this

didn't preclude them from being homemakers. They lived in many

homes when their children were young, but the message was always

the same: come in and sit down, we were expecting you.

One of their favourite houses was on the Bedford Highway. It had a

cherry tree beside the house and a long, narrow, sunny kitchen. In

mid-summer when the tree was filled with fruit, eleven year old

Sandra would climb on top of the scratchy roof and pick fat, red

cherries. Her twin sister Susan made cherry pie pastry in the

kitchen below. Older sister Beverley sat on a kitchen stool with

pencil and paper, drawing the scene : the garden beyond the kitchen

window, a bowl full of glistening fruit, a younger sister rubbing

flour and shortening together with her fingers.

The sisters are grown now and their parents have passed away. But

on any given day you can still find them at home, celebrating the

beauty of the everyday.

2010-07-06T22:11:00.004-03:00

It wasn't meant to be a Job-like, biblical adventure that day in May. The sky was blue, the air was hot, and we were sailing - sans enfants - in the Gulf of Mexico. But our water supply had just run dry. The head was broken. I had to pee. Oil spill loomed off in the distance. And to make matters worse, we were covered in love bugs, and not the Jonas brothers kind.

According to Wikipedia, Upon reaching maturity the lovebug spends almost its entire adult life coupled (in copulation) with its mate, hence its romantic nicknames. The male and female attach themselves at the rear of the abdomen and remain that way at all times, even in flight.

They were making love on every surface: the boat, our hair, between my toes, the empty water bottles. Perhaps a little BBQ would help? But where was the BBQ? It wasn't in the fore cabin or the bins in the stern. It turned up much later tangled up with a life jacket. But no propane tank. It appeared under the spinnaker, stuffed beneath the bow. Searching, needless to say, is not an easy task with love bugs in your eye lashes.

Finally, with wine glasses in hand, we sailed up into a warm wind to the sound of burgers sizzling on the grill. A sailboat barbecue is a beautiful - yet precarious - sight: a small metal sphere suspended off the edge of the boat, attached by a small fist gripping the rail. Salty wind adds flavour. A touch of ocean spray adds spice.

As I brushed a love bug out of my lip gloss and took a sip of wine, I heard that tell-tale sound of sailing equipment malfunction - plop! The propane tank bobbed only for second before it sunk beneath the surface of the Gulf. Then it was gone. Lonely, raw burgers sat abandoned on the grill. We weren't feeling like tare tare.

Our fine captain finished the burgers off that night on the stove in the kitchen down below. We ate them at dusk as the boat motored towards the St. Pete Beach draw bridge. Our berth was just on the other side, and the last opening was minutes away. Needless to say we had given up on the overnight expedition. No toilet, no water, no propane and too much love drove us away.

But it was the best twice-cooked burger I had ever tasted. And a little love-protein never hurts.

Easter

2010-04-18T12:21:00.005-03:00

Easter Sunday in Sherbrooke village seems like lovely, distant memory. It was warm and sunny. Purple hyacinths dotted the ground. The kids collected eggs in t-shirts. Today, 2 weeks later, it's snowing.

I'm going to relive that day through the menu; food has a magical way of transporting you to a place, time and temperature. The meal was a group effort, with Larry Fogg and James Wilson at the helm.

Larry's warm brandade with homemade baguette
Trout terrine with grilled scallops
Grilled leg of lamb with salsa verde
Potato and fennel gratin
Gilly's chocolate tart
Larry's salt-washed cheese

*Brandade is a puree of salt cod, olive oil and milk, sometimes called Brandade de Morue ('morue' being the French name for salt cod). Brandade is a specialty of the Languedoc and Provence regions of France, particularly Nîmes. Similar preparations are found in other Mediterranean countries such as Italy, Portugal and Spain where dried salt cod is also enjoyed.^[1]

2010-04-12T14:28:00.002-03:00

I've just come from a morning with Jane, my gardening mentor. I found her outside giving her perennials a good drink of water spiked with fertilizer. She says they're really hungry right now after the long winter. April is the time to quench their thirst.

As I hung on her every word this morning, it occured to me this is how new cooks must feel. what does blanch mean? how do I chop and onion? what does simmer until 'done' mean anyway?

I'm encouraging Jane to write me a recipe on how to garden: step by step, day by day, season by season. She could start with what I understand - her compost. Beside her sink is a porcelain pot where she collects eggs shells, coffee grinds and peelings. 'Organics from the beginning of the meal, not the end,' she says. When it's full she takes it to the big composter in the backyard, where it turns into lovely, rich, black soil. She scoops it out and sprinkles it on her flower beds.

'Spread it gently over the soil,' she tells me, 'as if you were putting beautiful pearls on a woman.' Or truffle shavings on tagliatelle? Yes. She's speaking my laguage. There's hope for me yet.

birthdays.

2010-03-03T19:48:00.011-04:00

I would like to say that Luke's 6th birthday was filled with pure goodness like homemade cornbread served with flame roasted chilies:

But the truth is, this is what we had for dessert:

And followed by this the next day:

Due to overwhelming requests, here are the recipes:

Cornbread:

Based on a Lucy Waverman recipe from The Globe and Mail, Jan 12, 2008

1 cup yellow cornmeal

1 tablespoon baking powder

2 cups grated old cheddar cheese (I mixed in feta and parmesan, that's what I had)

2 eggs, lightly beaten

1 cup sour cream

1 cup creamed corn

3 tablespoons melted butter

1 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 350f. grease a 9x9 baking dish, or in my case, an oven proof fry pan (cover the handle with foil if it's not oven proof). Stir all ingredients together, reserving 1/2 cup cheese for topping. Spoon batter into baking dish. Add chillies for fun. Bake for 45 min until golden and just cooked through.

Storm and Clone Trooper Birthday Cake:

1 slab cake from the superstore, iced in white, black and grey icing

random collection of storm and clone troopers, washed and dried

sparkles for effect

Little Bear chocolate and whip cream pie:

(directions from Luke: mom, I'd like to have a chocolate pie with cream on top, the kind that goes up and up, you know, like the one on Little Bear)

1 store bought pie shell, baked blind and cooled.

1 package chocolate pudding, cooked, cooled then spooned into shell

cool whip, in the dispenser (I didn't even know cool whip came in a can!)

sprinkles

So easy.

Betsy's Kitchen

2010-01-15T11:23:00.010-04:00

Today I'm making lentil soup - Betsy's lentil soup. As I follow her careful steps, I realize I can now share a little secret...

This fall two of my sisters and I put together a cookbook. It was a project commissioned by our cousin George for his wife Betsy. Betsy ran a cooking school in their home in London for many years, and his dream was to compile her recipes into something tangible. We worked together on the sly, Lee as CEO (ie. totally computer savvy with the focus of a man watching football) and Sally and I as chief helpers. Spending time with Betsy's recipes was like being there in her kitchen, hearing her voice, guiding us along. George presented her with the finished product on her birthday, while dining with friends in Paris. George declared on New Year's eve that it was his highlight of 2009. Sniff.

For the cover, we wanted an image that reflected both Betsy's love of food and art. We decided on a shot of her hand-blown glass chilli necklace, captured by Sal one sunny afternoon in September.

I wrote the introduction.

Betsy’s Kitchen was well underway by the time I came along. It’s the fall of 1996 and I’m on my way to the south of France to study French for the school year. I have a degree under my belt, but my future isn’t clear. In fact it’s as cloudy as a poorly made consommé. Hiding up in George and Betsy’s spare room on the 3rd floor of 3 St. James’s Gardens seemed like the best place to pause before the journey of clarification began.

Four floors below Betsy is busily chopping garlic for that morning’s class. She lifts the cap within the wooden cutting board and wipes the papery skins through the secret hole into the garbage below. Her mis en place is complete. Pastry is chilling in the fridge. Stools curve around the kitchen island, waiting for the students arrive. Soon the door bell rings and a handful of adults, binders in hand, are ushered inside. William Morris-papered walls guide them down the stairs into the cozy basement kitchen below. How appropriate. There was nothing Morris valued more than the satisfaction gained through creative co-operation. Morris was an architect by trade, but he also embraced the arts of stained glass, embroidery, wallpaper, furniture design and tapestry. If the Victorian diet hadn’t been so uninspiring, his repertoire would, without a doubt, have included the culinary arts.

That year in France was peppered with many trips to 3 St. James’s Gardens. I hung on to Betsy by her apron stings; I followed her to Lidgate, her butcher, and Michanicou Brothers, her green grocers, then watched as she transformed her bounty into edible works of art. Betsy’s kitchen is a melange of craft, food, wine and story fuelled by students, close friends and family. She made a career from these ingredients and shared this vocation with those who walked through her door. Today I make a living writing about food. I thank Betsy for showing me the recipe.

And Betsy's Lentil Soup, customized for me the year I hid on their third floor:

The b's and d's of dining etiquette

2009-12-03T16:30:00.002-04:00

You're at a wedding. Circle table. Bread's on one side, wine's on the other. Your neighbour is showing signs of H1N1, then sips from what you thought was your wine glass. It's all so stressful.

Here's a simple trick to keep everyone in line. Make the OK sign with thumb and forefinger. The right hand becomes a 'd' for drink, your left a 'b' for bread. As long as you can read, you'll never be confused again.

Acknowledgments go to Peter and Allison for getting married. Their dinner at the AGO provided the perfect table setting to illustrate this point. And to Jamie for modeling and dining etiquette expertise.

Salty Sweet

2009-11-24T13:59:00.006-04:00

Where do I begin?
My first peanut buster parfait?
Bacon drenched in maple syrup?
That chocolate covered pretzel?

Memories of salty sweetness are dancing in my head. The two are everywhere. I’m gazing through my last copy of gourmet, the august edition, bold and confident (before the magazine folded) and I keep going back to a recipe for salty caramel ice cream. It’s November now, but salty sweetness defies the seasons. I walk downstairs and my boys are watching Charlie and the chocolate factory. The ompa loompas are mixing sugar into the chocolate river. Later I sit down to Jeffrey Steingarten’s column in October’s Vogue. It’s on candy. Chocolate covered pork rinds included. I rummage through the remainder of the Halloween candy. Of course the wunderbars and Reese’s peanut butter cups are long gone. It's the salty-sweetness. (Incidentally Wunderbars, with their chewy, peanut-butter center and chocolate coating, fueled my triathlete wunder-friend Laura to the half-ironman world championships. They really are a perfectly balanced food. She came in 6th.)

I settle for Lindt's dark chocolate with 'hand harvested fleur de sel'. The touch of saltiness is mixed throughout, not sprinkled on top. It snaps apart. The chocolate is creamy with a mysterious hint of saltiness. I know, I'm being sucked in. Hand harvested salt, like my boyfriend jeans, is trendy. But no matter. The combination satiates.

Savouring this combination is probably just lazy tasting.

When food enters the mouth sweetness is greeted first, saltiness second. Sour and bitterness - those complicated, moody tastes - require patience as food travels down the tongue.

No.

Salty sweetness is about balance. They settle something within. I think about this as I read Kate Inglis' incredible blog, sweetsalty. It chronicles her life on the south shore of Nova Scotia - the good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the tasty, the ugly and all that lies between. Its sweetness isn't saccharine- it's old-fashioned, natural honey. Its saltiness isn't unsavoury- there's loyalty, wisdom, depth and preservation. It's practically Biblical. The two mixed together create more than the sum of their parts; it's funny.

I ask Kate why she chose sweetsalty as the name for her blog. "I just wanted something kind of understated and evocative, and it kind of popped up and felt right. Metaphorically, in terms of the sound of the words. And I think the essence of food is in there, too - writing has always been an act of nourishment. And the only way to explain how I wanted my blog to be is that I wanted it to feel not so much like the Internet, but like someone's warm kitchen. Does that make sense?"

Yes. No wonder I love it so much. Now where's my ice cream maker?

Quince Jelly

2009-10-27T18:15:00.008-03:00

So, in the end, the aforementioned jelly actually turned from green to rose-quartz pink to amber to rusty red. As the colour changed, so did the flavour. In its raw, green state, quince are eye-wateringly sour. Once clear and red, the jelly is sweet with a tart top note. The four cups of sugar helps.

The recipe came from Joy of Cooking. According to Joy, quince is packed with pectin so doesn't need certo. Just quince, sugar and water.

Chop fruit in half and place in a heavy bottomed stock pot. Don't worry about amounts - the formula for this jelly is based on the amount of liquid you have after simmering and straining. Add enough water just to cover fruit, but not enough so the fruit floats. Bring to the boil then simmer gently till soft, about 1.5 hours.

This is where things get creative. Fill a jelly bag, or failing that, line a big bowl with a double layer of cheesecloth or, in my case, my baby's muslin receiving blanket. A clean one. Spoon the mashed fruit into the bag, then tie the corners around a broom. I put the bowl in the sink, then lifted the broom horizontally so the bag was dangling above the bowl, catching the juice. I supported the broom with upside down shopping buckets and cookbooks. I can't believe I forgot to take a picture.

3-4 hours later I had 6 cups of pinkish, opaque juice. The pulp in the bag went into the green bin.

Joy suggests making jelly with just 4 cups of juice at a time, approximately 3/4cup -1 cup sugar per cup of quince juice. You can also freeze the juice and make jelly another time.

Put the juice in a large saucepan and bring to the boil with the sugar, whisking constantly at first to dissolve the sugar. Chill a little plate in the freezer. Skim off any white scum as it forms. After a while - 20 minutes? - drip some juice onto the chilled plate. After a minute, push the puddle of juice with your finger. If it wrinkles as it's pushed along, it's ready. Look elsewhere for more serious instructions.....

Pour mixture into sterilized jars and cover as you like - wax or with lids and rings. I used the latter (jars and rings can be sterilized and re-used, but lids can only be used once). I boiled the sealed jars in a pasta pot, lifted them out with tongs and let them cool. As I washed the dishes I heard the lids 'pop', one by one. A good sign the seal worked.

Et Voila!

Departures and Returns

2009-10-24T14:09:00.007-03:00

This is my aunt Sandra. She is holding one of her weavings which reads:

becom

ing

more

centered

as I

recom

mit to

being

in the

studio

as my

way

of life

Sandra's studio is a sun drenched white room. Inside is her loom, stacked fabrics, shelves filled with labeled storage boxes, and her journals, so many of them. This room is a work of art in itself. The order, the colours, the peg board pinned with cards and inspiration. The weaving that lies within the loom looks like a beautiful plate of food, half eaten, left momentarily because the phone is ringing. But plates of food will eventually disappear; weavings grow and remain.

My studio is the kitchen. It's where I go to collect my thoughts. To hide from the chaos outside. To create. Eventually what is made will be eaten, broken down, wrapped and reheated.

Sandra's work includes found objects. Ropes, fabrics and other treasures washed up on the shore. She finds beauty in what is discarded. Sometimes this happens in the kitchen. I have a bag of quince from my friend and neighbour Genevieve. She picked the fruit from her tree in the backyard. Last year the fruit fell to the ground. Today, in my kitchen, it's becoming jelly. Soft, pink jelly.

DEPARTURES AND RETURNS - Sandra Brownlee - opens at the Mary E. Black Gallery on Marginal Road, October 29-December 22, 2009

waffles + Tavi

2009-09-20T11:06:00.006-03:00

This post is nothing more than a celebration of giggles in the kitchen. I'm not usually into laptops at breakfast, but this morning it was worth it. Over waffles (the joy of cooking kind), we read Tavi's latest post. Tavi is a 13 year old fashion blogger who recently made the cover of Pop Magazine. She figures this exposure will bring new readers to her blog, so she decided to welcome them with a video that makes her look "smart and sophisticated". It made my 3 and 5 year old break into fits of laughter and inspired them to dance. Not very many things can tear them away from waffles in the morning.... check it out. I love being inspired by 13 year olds.

Sophistication 101 from Tavi G on Vimeo.

Love letter to the Brookfield Bakery

2009-09-06T12:45:00.002-03:00

Dearest Brookfield Bakery,

My sister was married last week and my sole responsibility was dessert provider at her rehearsal dinner. One sister provided smoked pork chops for the barbecue (www.theporkshop.ca); older sister and aunt Sue made big, colourful salads. I love to bake; it's what I do when I'm happy, sad, procrastinating, or hungry. But this job was different. The baby I was carrying was supposed to arrive two weeks before. He was late; I was tired. This is where you come in, Brookfield Bakery.

I ordered all my favourites - blueberry pies, chocolate macaroons, almond bars and, of course, Brookfield brownies. We plated the desserts and served them to the guests seated within the white tent, perched along the banks of the Northumberland straight. The wind was blowing hard that night, and the little candles on each table were fighting to stay alight. Everything was enjoyed under the moonlight, but the brownies went first.

The brownies I make are the rich, dark, almost flour-less kind. Yours are the opposite. The bottom is toffee-like, the middle is moist and chewy. The icing isn't cloying; it's milk chocolate perfection. In theory, they don't suit my dark chocolate tastes. But they win me over, every time.

Thank you, Brookfield Bakery, for doing my baking for me. Every new mother needs you, and so does every bride.

Yours forever,

Lindsay

Brookfield Bakery Ltd

Brookfield, NS B0N 1C0

(Cross Street: Smithfield RD and Camden RD)

Phone: 902-673-2434

*Look for the 'open' sign

2009-08-05T20:32:00.003-03:00

Fid - one of Halifax's first restaurants with a farmer's market inspired menu - has just relaunched with a new look and new menu. It's less formal, more bistro-like (0r 'resto' as they call it) but still serves up the same fabulous local fare.

Today's edible art came in the form of a cold cauliflower soup with a drizzle of curry oil and a sprinkling of edible flowers. Corn-flower blue on creamy yellow. It was almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

http://www.fidresto.ca/

Manchego and Membrillo

2009-06-12T16:52:00.004-03:00

The trip to Barcelona could have gone in many different directions, but the two boys under five and the 27 week pregnant belly set the tone. No long lingering meals in tapas bars washed down with sips of Rioja. No cava with my Serrano ham. No Neil Young under the stars at the Primavera music festival. No ‘once in a lifetime’ meal at El Bulli.

But that’s ok. When your ankles look like stuffed sausages, afternoons under the olive tree by the pool aren’t so bad.

Before dinner we’d put a tray of local cheeses together – Mato de Montserrat, Garrotxa, and Manchego. The smell of verbena filled the air and fat lemon slices - fresh from the tree- bounced in my aqua. And the ankles were elevated. Muy bien.

Manchego is a slightly salty cheese, but the taste depends on maturity. The Spanish love to pair it with its best friend, dolce de membrillo. Together, the two become more than the sum of their parts.

Membrillo is a sweet paste made from quince. It’s sold at cheese counters in blocks and placed along cheese on a cheese board. We bought this one at Boqueria in Barcelona. Layer it upon fresh bread and a slice of manchego, and really, we’d practically forget there were boys beneath our deck chairs playing with plastic soldiers.

freestyle puff pastry

2009-05-05T15:59:00.004-03:00

There's nothing like the infectious enthusiasm of fresh passion.

This morning I was swimming lengths with my fellow cougars. Every 50 meters coach Gary, (AKA 1976 Olympic swimmer who's just discovered his kitchen) would shout out something about puff pastry.
Or knife cuts.
Or a restaurant he'd like to visit. Had I been there?
I love it. I get to stop hyperventilating while simultaneously reflecting on why the puff pastry covering his chicken pot pie didn't last well in the freezer. 50 meters later I figured it out. He thawed it, then froze it again. No double freezing Gary. Then he tells me not to lift my hands too high while doing the crawl. I look like a synchronized swimmer circa 1986.

Through it all I learn about feeling the water. Some hands are better at finding slow water to pull -the slower it is, the more control we have over pulling through it. when it's done properly, it's artistry.

Kind of like cooking.

CBC radio's the current recently aired a documentry on the subject- the art of feeling water, that is:

"There is a certain kind of person who is a little different from the rest of us. They exist on land, like the rest of us but they live ... thrive in the water. On land, you might pass them by. in water their movements are strong, graceful and intuitive. They can take our breathe away.
The Current's Chris Wodskou is not one of those people. But he wanted to find out what makes them tick especially elite athletes in aquatic sports such as swimming, diving and synchronized swimming ... people whose success depends on how well their minds and bodies can mesh with water. And so this morning our Watershed series submerges itself in their world. Chris Wodskou's documentary is called Water Babies.

http://www.cbc.ca/thecurrent/2009/200904/20090430.html

I'm no elite athelete, but I can trade cookbooks for coaching.

chicken and eggs

2009-03-24T15:12:00.001-03:00

According to the calendar, it's spring. But fresh snow is on the ground. Never mind. It's time to start thinking about new life. Eggs are the perfect vehicle in which to do so.

Carbonara. Whisked eggs tossed through hot pasta. Sizzling bacon with its fat. Parmesan cheese. Pine nuts if you have them. Chopped parsley if you need colour.

Apparently I'm not the only one thinking about eggs. My cousin Claire Cameron, a writer living in Toronto who happens to have blogged on chicken coops in her 'hood, has noticed a surge in traffic on her site. City dwellers want hens in their gardens.

Claire's site.