Baie qu'appelle...?

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

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

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

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*

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

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.

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.