Betsy's Kitchen

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

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

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

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

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

I

am

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

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

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