Rhubarb is one of those ingredients that I wait for starting in March, when the April food magazines come out and start touting recipes incorporating this ingredient. The initial craving is further exacerbated by my reading of English magazines that flaunt their access to forced rhubarb much earlier than we can even think possible, as we can barely fathom remembering what grass looks like post 6 months of snow.

What I like about rhubarb is the way it is tart and sour and has such a crunch to it. It’s also astringent and I sort of like the way my mouth feels all rugged after eating some. But mostly, it makes me think of the times when as a child, my next door neighbour would cut me a stalk from her garden, hand me a small bowl of granulated sugar and shoo us kids away to sit on the porch and keep quiet for a few minutes… until the sugar rush hit and then it was pure summer pandemonium. I used to alternate between one bite of rhubarb with sugar and one without – but always discreetly. I didn’t want the other kids to think I was weird for actually liking something that wasn’t nerve-jarringly sweet.

Eating rhubarb in the summer was a moment that I always anticipated and always enjoyed, but it wasn’t a pleasure that I let anyone in on. When we moved to the island, my parents never bought any unless it was on special or to use it for a strawberry-rhubarb pie/crisp and they never planted any – but they had no reason to, as I never told them how in love I was with that stalk.

Now that the strawberry season is picking up, I am also deeply involved in consumption of this ruby gem. For $6 the box, it didn’t take much for Micheline at the Atwater market to convince me to make the purchase. Once I got home, it also didn’t require a lot of effort to come up with ways to bring the best out of these locally grown bombs of sweetness. I made some macerated berries, I made a healthy loaf to pair with ricotta as a breakfast option and then I brought some to my friend Kim and then… well I still had A LOT of strawberries left.

The Quebec strawberries, when in season, are so juicy one needs a napkin to catch the juices. So brilliantly red is the flesh inside and out of these berries that it makes you feel really guilty about ever purchasing those white shouldered dust tasting things from California at any other time of the year. As I was reading my newspaper on Saturday, I found myself casually eating them, as is, in all their naked but wholesomeness. I don’t really remember what I read because I disappeared for a moment to a time when I would be able to sneak a few berries away from the box my mother brought home from the market, and indulge slowly while on my swing set. Like me, my mother liked to work with strawberries – a fantastic semifreddo, an open faced pie with strawberries in gelatine, her version of macerated berries, etc. But we rarely had them intact. And I love them that way – but I never told anyone.

My passion for chocolate, which is well documented on this site, or my affinity for cheeses, are the types of delightful moments that I share often with company. Yet my secret crush on rhubarb and strawberries, and my consumption of them, which ever way I choose, is a gratifying moment that I typically only reserve for me. I like being able to savour my memories, relive childhood bliss, and take a moment to not be responsible to anyone else or pay attention to anything else than those wonderful summer flavours. We always say that there are little pleasures in life and that we should take care to note them as well as create them. In light of rhubarb and strawberries, I’d like think there can also be some pleasures that we have the right to keep for ourselves and that we should occasionally reward our souls with them when we need to. It can make life that much sweeter...

Attuned with the general beat of the season and in consequence to my growing research demands, I will continue to post a weekly thought but the other posts will be more sporadic. Yet rest assured that my newsletter will continue to be published monthly and I am still very dedicated to uncovering the glorious offering and exciting events of Montreal. But I too would like to take the season to willingly engage in the tango that is getting a coveted spot outdoors to have a pint in sunglasses, and make up numerous excuses to “have meetings outside the office”!

I like to plan things. It’s part of my nature. It’s also probably what allows me to wear the multiple hats that I do and manage to keep it somewhat together. And I try to understand that not everyone has that desire or need to have some sort of structure to their lives – but it isn’t effortless

Flexibility is an easy word but a difficult approach. Knowing when to bend versus being uncompromising, but without always acquiesce and forgetting yourself in the process is a talent. Nature has an amazing capacity to do this, sway to the beat of the environment while keeping itself rooted and intact. But flexibility can also come from knowing when to be present and put out our best and when to take a step back and wait for better moments.

Sometimes I wish I were more like corn, bracing against the wind but strong, rather than being a carrot who just buries itself in the earth, avoiding the elements outside altogether. But mostly, I wish I were an asparagus. There is sturdiness to the asparagus, a fresh crispness, and a lot of elegance. But for all of these vegetables, what’s most flexible about them is their appearance at the market. They aren’t always available, and for that, we should be thankful as well as take a lesson away from it.

Now, let’s get back to my preferred vegetable. The thing with asparagus is that as much as it can be great, it is out of this world when it is freshly picked. The problem is that most people don’t know how to select asparagus, how to bring out the best in them and minimally, when they are in season. Well the answer to the last question is now – and for only a few more weeks and in Quebec, we grow some pretty spectacular varieties.

But for the first two questions…

Pick up a bunch of asparagus. Are the stems still moist? Are the tips nice and compact? Do the stalks seem firm and vibrantly green? I also smell them – a telltale sign of old asparagus is a rather unpleasant, cat “waste” odour. Once you smell it, you’ll know what I mean. So now imagine that the bunch in your hand passes the test. You take it home and prepare these pristine specimens only to take a phone call in the last minute of the steaming process and now you have overcooked, chartreuse coloured, limp vegetables worthy of a hospital cafeteria lunch special… on a good day.

There is a simple solution to the conundrum of this unfamiliar vegetable with the finicky culinary preparation. Eat them as fresh as possible and eat them raw… Yes, raw. This was my revelation a few weeks ago at Mr. Birri’s stand at the Jean-Talon market. So tender and pure are his organic asparagus, that he will let you taste one, uncooked, before you clamour to purchase a bunch. Yet at $6 a bunch, some may balk. But they shouldn’t and here is where that lesson of flexibility becomes evident once again. I don’t hold fast to the idea of a vegetable but rather, I see what the garden has to offer and then make budget and menu adjustments in consequence.

These days, with globalization and the world seemingly closer in terms of culture and offering, we have actually grown further away from our own roots. Produce from the garden shouldn’t come enveloped in plastic wrap and a black Styrofoam plate. Rather it should be purchased unwrapped with tons of rich black earth and live critters. That means the vegetables are still alive – not cryogenic. But mostly, they should be bought when in season – when they are at their best in terms of flavour and freshness. And asparagus in the middle of winter are always more expensive than in the late spring, it’s basic economics.

I eat tons of asparagus starting in May until the season finishes at the end of June. By that time, I’ve enjoyed them in multiple different fashions and loved every minute of consumption. But about seven weeks into my obsession, I tend to grow tired of eating them, just as they start to lose their sparkle and finish their season. Then I find another vegetable to love in its prime and so is my seasonal romp through the garden. Sometimes I’ll see asparagus in the grocery store in September, and while tempted, I am more content with the memories of how good they were at the cusp of summer than how disappointing they will be if I bought them in the Fall. And when we meet again at the Jean-Talon Market, in May of 2009, like an old friend one wants to make an extra effort for, and generally appreciate for everything that they are, I will be thrilled to see them again.

Attuned with the general beat of the season and in consequence to my growing research demands, I will continue to post a weekly thought but the other posts will be more sporadic. Yet rest assured that my newsletter will continue to be published monthly and I am still very dedicated to uncovering the glorious offering and exciting events of Montreal. But I too would like to take the season to willingly engage in the tango that is getting a coveted spot outdoors to have a pint in sunglasses, and make up numerous excuses to “have meetings outside the office”!

Having traveled quite a bit in the past few weeks, I have witnessed the dawn of summer in casual Vancouver and the fury of it in Missouri. The ocean humidity and cooler temperatures of Vancouver were calming, even if it meant an extra sweater in the evening. The actual reality of the “t-word” in Columbia, Missouri, that’s tornadoes for those who were naïve enough to think it was thunderstorms, meant stifling heat, headache inducing low barometric pressure, and gale-force winds. Four days of that made me realize that a heat wave in Montreal in August is kindergarten to this high school of weather conditions.

Overall, those two experiences made me yearn even more for summer in my beloved city, even if it is an odd relationship. I can appreciate the sun, but not too much or I burn to a crisp. I find the floral displays and green horizons beautiful, but not enough to start my own garden. I like people watching, but find sitting on a terrace for too long annoying, especially when the back of my thighs start sticking to the plastic chairs. What I adore about summer in Montreal however are the smells. This was my recent revelation, probably spurred on because of three weeks of sitting in aseptic environments in conferences, airports and hotels. But even when outdoors, my attention was never distracted by a hovering scent or piqued by the odour of something interesting.

Summer in Montreal is a cacophony of smells and a clash of aromas. I like to think that it’s not just because the humidity is higher and thus intensifying the scents in the air, but also due to the entire city walking up from the winter of numbness – not just of body but of senses. We flock to the opened-up markets, fire up our BBQs, invite people to join us in our backyards, etc. All of these activities are sources of aromas that have come to represent summertime living. Add to that the fact that Montreal is a city engrained with ethnicity and openness of spirit, and we can attribute another layer of olfactory curiosity, one of multicultural perfumes.

The interesting thing with smell is that it’s the sense that is most closely linked to the brain. It takes less time to register a scent and evoke a memory than with sight, sound or touch. Since one cannot taste without scent, these two go together.

When I smell someone making burgers on a BBQ, my first thought is of my youth. I remember being at Mme Bordeleau’s house, half walking-half running (you weren’t allowed to run by the pool), having been called to lunch. Seated at the table, I would get a sesame-studded bun containing a patty of roasted, seasoned ground beef that I would request without cheese, and then I would proceed to smoother it ketchup. Optimally, the bottle would fart, because that was really funny… As per usual, there were some plain chips and some celery sticks on the same plate. The chips always got soggy because I would jump out of the pool without drying off and eat them immediately in the hopes of getting more with my burger.

I am also particular to the smell of freshly cut greens, wet earth, as well as the occasional whiff of compost (just a whiff though). When I would visit my grandparents in Switzerland, I would get a crash course on gardening from my grandfather. Armed with a pairing knife, we would walk between the rows of produce and pounce on what his expert eye detected as prime for picking. Squatting before tufts of green, he would grip the fronds and pull up a glorious orange carrot. Other times he would lean over to cut a small head of lettuce and sometimes, he would dig for potatoes. We would then take the basket of goodies and go to the stone garden water trough in the shady part of the garden to rinse and pare the vegetables. On numerous occasions, there we would be obliged to sample our finds – impeccable produce flecked with rich soil, the grit a welcome sensation and the burst of fresh, pure flavours divine. After that, it was always my responsibility to bring the unwanted trimmings to the compost pile, where the zucchini were grown.

In the past 48 hours I’ve gladly noted the smells of the following: hot melted ice cream on a sidewalk from a mishandled cone, lily buds in the morning humidity, the smoke from a Mergez on hot coals, baguettes from the open door of a bakery, the final moments of coffee beans in the roasting machine, the mix of grass and diesel from someone manicuring their lawn in anticipation of a weekend fete, the salt and iodine steam of lobsters almost ready to eat, the first Quebec strawberries so ripe they’re at the cusp of fermenting, fresh basil at the farmer’s stall… All scents that I am familiar and enamoured with.

Each summer smell tells a story and allows me to travel through the panoply of my memories – good, bad, tasty, unsavoury, but always a part of who I am today. It’s as if the odours that surround me in the heat of June, July, August and September act as subtle reminders of the life I’ve lived so far, the seminal moments I’ve had and the reason for what I am and what I like today. An intangible picture album made up of ephemeral whiffs and complex recollections that I never tire of revisiting… And for those odours that I haven’t yet isolated? I see those as an invitation to explore and seek out their origin, so that I may add them to the blank pages still waiting to be filled in my book…

Attuned with the general beat of the season and in consequence to my growing research demands, I will continue to post a weekly journal but the other posts will be more sporadic. Rest assured that my newsletter will continue to be published monthly and I am still very dedicated to uncovering the glorious offerings and exciting events of Montreal. But I too would like to take the season to willingly engage in the tango that is getting a coveted spot outdoors to have a pint in sunglasses, and make up numerous excuses to “have meetings outside the office”!

When I mention this approach to people, their reaction is often to attribute my ease with being recipe-free to my experience. It is assumed that because I cook a lot, I know what goes together, how to prepare items and the techniques required to bring out the best in ingredients. Some of this is true, but most of it is false.

I have never taken a cooking class in my life and while I read a lot of recipes and talk with many food professionals, I am no more prepared in the kitchen than the next non-chef. Perhaps I am more adventurous and less afraid to try new items, but I think that confidence comes from being my own guinea pig and having a roster of very brave friends willing to take some gustative risks.

What I like about not having to refer to directions while cooking is that it allows me to uncover the culinary world at my pace and in a very metacognitive way, one where I learn as I realize that I’m learning. There is so satisfaction in those instances. I might compare them to the same feeling one gets when realizing that an acquaintance has risen to the occasion and shown the true scope of their friendship.

Recently though I was reminded that the reckless abandon of recipe-free cooking does have its drawbacks.

It started with a fragrant spice mix that evolved into a dinner idea. I consulted a few references, played around with some vegetable combinations, selected the optimal protein and then I just went for it. I even had two wines to taste in order to see which would pair best. On paper, had I written it down, it probably would have looked quite tasty. But alas, this concoction turn out rather dull. It was a classic case of too little flavour and ingredients not displaying their full potential. A total disappointment.

In retrospect, I was almost destined to fail because there were too many unknowns in the picture. I was trying a new ingredient with a cooking technique I had never tried and no concept of proportions. And even one of my wines, a slightly oxidized Chablis, was in a style that I don’t particularly enjoy. So my meal was unsatisfying and I was glad I had some chocolate for dessert. In consequence however, I haven’t banished the spice mix from my pantry and vowed never to attempt said technique. I’ve just decided that next time I’m motivated to try either one, I might just follow a recipe to see if I get it right.

Just like friends, some recipes are easier made than others. While we get some right the first time around and reap the benefit of incorporating them into our repertoire, others require some getting accustomed to. Yet once we have mastered the techniques they outline, we no longer follow a set of guidelines but we begin to follow our instinct and heart and that’s what makes the outcome savoury.

But there are those recipes that will always elude us and that somehow never taste right. Those are the ones we either continue to follow instructions for or decide no longer to try. Yet if we decide to reattempt the difficult guidelines, we must also prepare ourselves for potential disappointment. And I guess that’s why I don’t like to follow recipes more than a few times. I don’t like to presuppose that the result won’t be satisfying. I’m always willing to give it a few trials, but after that, the effort to quality of experience ratio is no longer in my favour. Thus I prefer to focus elsewhere or stick to what I know is always rewarding.

So the secret is out. My ease with recipe-free living comes from having defined my tolerance for unfulfilling outcomes rather than extensive experience or knowledge. So far, it’s been quite a tasty and simple approach, and one that I recommend to all those who haven’t taken the formal epicurean route.

For the next few weeks, I will be out and about more than usual, so my posts will be more sporadic. Rest assured that upon my return to a regular schedule, I will divulge all my discoveries…

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Nigella Seed
• Info – books, events, etc.
• Nodjus – an amazing blog
• Eating the World
• Recipes & Attempts
• Asparagus: flavour affinities
• Random Facts
• Great food quotes: Ham & Eggs
• Wine Crate
• Bad Seeds: a movie to see

“What’s your comfort food?”

I get asked a lot of these sorts of questions – it comes with the territory of having a blog and being out and about, interacting with people and engaging with them. People want to know what your favourite spice, store, cheese, brunch spot, recipe, fish monger, fruit, coffee filter, etc, etc. are. And for some of these questions, I have answers that I can be consistent with. Reservoir is my favourite spots for brunch, I will always recommend Mr. Birri’s cherry tomatoes and Raymond at the Fromagerie Atwater would be very disappointed if I actually had a favourite cheese because he has so many more for me to try.

As for restaurants, I don’t tend to patronize locations I don’t already have a sort of affinity for or positive expectations of. I use various information sources to make my choices and generally have a handful of options that suit my taste and personality – the final choice depends on what my palate is in the mood for. My research results can confirm that I’m not the only one who thinks this way, but more on those in a few weeks...

But when it comes to stating a comfort food, that's when I often find myself struggling to answer. Being the research nerd that I am, I figured the best place to start uncovering why I had this difficulty was by using The Free Dictionary, for the formal definition of comfort:

com·fort (k m f rt)

• tr.v. com·fort·ed, com·fort·ing, com·forts
• 1. To soothe in time of affliction or distress.
• 2. To ease physically; relieve.
• n.
• 1. A condition or feeling of pleasurable ease, well-being, and contentment.
• 2. Solace in time of grief or fear.
• 3. Help; assistance: gave comfort to the enemy.
• 4. One that brings or provides comfort.
• 5. The capacity to give physical ease and well-being: enjoying the comfort of my favorite chair.

While the above does a great job at specifying the word, it does a lousy job at outlining how this word works in a food context – there is a big part missing, in my opinion. And here is why. Last week, I answered the question with “A polar bear ice cream sandwich, wrapped in wax paper, preferably from a corner store”. This weekend at the market, I found another example of a comfort food. Chocolate milk, sold in a glass jar, that was so rich it was like a liquid chocolate bar. No actually, it’s like remember when as a kid you would use your spoon to soften chocolate ice cream until it was that perfect semi-melted consistency, how it always tasted best in that form? And your parents would always tell you not to play with your food when you would do that, but that’s just because they didn’t understand?

Comfort food is the kind that is nostalgia inducing – it is an item that transports you to a time in the past when things were right and pure. This feature is not in any definition of comfort I have come across, yet such a key component to my interpretation of the state. The memories that crystallize in our minds that only comfort foods can arouse are often the most powerful. We don’t think as adults that fortune cookies taste good, but we eat and enjoy them anyway because we all remember the excitement of seeing those elaborate buffets and drinking Shirley Temples with decorative paper umbrella and pineapple garnishes. Delivery pizza is not about finesse so much as the act of ordering. By doing so we relinquish responsibility of a meal and allow someone to make, bake, and drive over a pie so we can spend more time just being with those close to us. What moving day was memorable without a pepperoni and an all-dressed washed down with a case of beer while seated on paint cans?

I can find comfort in foods that are upscale like foods that are not considered too chic (yes, I am completely addicted to Kraft PB, there, I said it). But a “comfort food” is one that seeing, consuming and savouring elicits a  smile because it takes me back to a time when things were just good. In that sense, I would almost venture to say that comfort food is really just a synonym for soul food…

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• Wine & Drink
• Weekday wine – Dr. L.
• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Coriander Rye Bread
• Info - books & events
• Two special cocktail hours: wine & tapas for a cure
• Fancy Beaujolais
• Recipes & Attempts
• Une tartine aux tomates
• Pairing : Oregon Pinot Gris

Food envy is charming in a way because it occurs in a situation where others are present, which necessitates a form of sharing. We’ve all had that moment when the plates are set before us and we are forced to admit that we too should have order the duck rather than the steak. So we use numerous strategies in order to at least finagle a sample of the more desirable preparation. Sometimes, as a result of the swap of bites, we uncover that both parties have affinities for the alternate dish and an official plate exchange takes place. Futterneid can therefore create a positive desire to interact.

Another aspect of envy at the table is that it motivates action and leads individuals to be more democratic in their choices. After a few instances of feeling futterneid, one might be tempted to use a different approach when consulting a menu and consider deviating from the usual choices that appeal. Thinking differently is the first step towards acting differently and thus innovation. Once again, we note that futterneid can have positive consequences as it can lead to more diverse future dining experiences.

But envy is not jealousy. Whereas envy is the desire to have something one doesn’t yet, jealousy is the fear of losing something one already has (or thinks they have). Jealousy has a rival notion and so sharing is quite verboten as it may jeopardize the standing of one to the other and lead to a perceived potential loss. In the domain of food, which I think must remain democratic, jealousy should not exist. Food is about exchange, openness, discussions and gathering. If chefs were jealous, they would never produce dishes because the fear of having their ideas stolen would be too great. A winemaker would never release a vintage out of fear that it would all be drunk and he would no longer have a testament to his greatness. Book authors would never print their recipes, etc.

So when jealousy reared its ugly head (blond in this case) recently regarding my presence at a food related event about a food related topic, I quite lost my appetite. It was especially surprising because I had no idea what I was potentially threatening or how I could be in a position to prevent the offended party from acquiring and/or maintaining their status.

Later it dawned on me that it wasn’t a question of haves and haves not in this case, but perhaps just a very convoluted way of being made aware that my choices have an impact. A wise man once said: “If you don’t have any critics, then you’re in trouble because it means that no one cares about you”. Essentially, the abrasive reaction I experienced recently was a way of letting me know that I had or was something my detractor desired and in that sense, it was a validation. No one wants to operate in a vacuum where their choices don’t at least make a ripple and perhaps for this person it was a tsunami and that comes with the territory of being in a public forum – not everyone will be a fan. But I can at least make the distinction between these two effects and thus decide to which I should pay attention to. When someone has futterneid around me, I consider it a compliment as it signals they appreciate my choices. When someone exhibits jealousy towards me, I also consider it flattering because it means I’m different and perhaps capable of sparking discussion. And that’s an impact I am very proud to be able to create…

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• Restaurant
• La Feuille de Menthe
• Wine & Drink
• Two Wines – A Learning Experience
• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Ranch Les Beaux Bisons
• Info – books, events, etc.
• Seasonal Produce Reference
• Recipes & Attempts
• The Healthiest Burgers Ever
• Wine Crate
• Things you don’t want to hear…

I once had that happen with a dessert I didn’t botch and for a very discerning audience. A lovely rosemary cornmeal crust tart with lemon mascarpone cream and sliced pears. Deliciously light and luxurious at the same time, it was the type of dessert I would order in a restaurant and be wishing the portion had been bigger. And the fact that I managed to evoke that feeling from myself by myself was almost awkward – that’s how uncommon that feeling is for me in the baking department. And my guests? They were convinced I was just being modest about my lack of skills in the confectionary department – how disappointed they may be in the future…

These days, while I’m still cooking in my kitchen, I’m also cooking up a storm of data (in the totally objective sense, of course) and I am in complete awe at the whole process. For those of you who knew about it and had the time to fill it out, the results of my recent survey are in and now the best and scariest part of the process needs to take place – analysis. For months I have been talking about, anticipating, postulating and presuming all these theoretical concepts that I would ideally reveal with the compilation of 2 months worth of rankings and ratings. Easy to claim and wish, definitely harder to actually sit and face SPSS (stats software) on my laptop and click on the “analyse” button. Believe me, when the status bar says “running reliability…” for 2 seconds, it feels like 100 hours.

Like baking, statistics is not my forte and so I look forward to working in that domain as much as burning myself on the oven door when taking out a cake. But it’s a necessary part of the process, like dishes, that will inevitably lead to some conclusions, hopefully positive and able to contribute to the sciences of marketing. And just like baking, the art of uncovering meaningful results from a long list of numbers and tests requires patience and attention with a sprinkle of flexibility. And so far, it’s looking promising, but I still have to wait – it’s not done yet.

The problem with this is that I’m not a generally patient person… When I decide to move forward with something, I like to be able to work immediately towards results and to have an overall idea of what the outcome will be. As per last week’s post, I tend to be more comfortable when allowed a bit of control over situations in my life. But with statistics, and a data set that is culled from the general public, this cannot be the case. Rather than tell those numbers what they need to be disclosing and what I want them to confirm, I have to let them do the talking and on their terms.

The commonality with baking here becomes almost comical with the precise measures and procedures. Consider any complex cake. The batter must be well made, the cream properly whipped, the chocolate not burned and separated and the fruit puree properly strained. Yet, and as with primary research, even if all these are individually well executed, there is no guarantee that once in the mold and in the oven that the contents won’t seep out through the loose cracks of the springform pan. The oven itself could decide no longer to work or be too hot or too cold, the cake may not rise completely, or at the end of the experiment, the cake may just refuse to unmold.

I started this research project with a good theoretical base, executed several steps always with the guidance of esteemed researchers, backed my actions by published and proven methods and with total objectivity. Now that I have my 200+ respondents, nicely entered in my spreadsheet, I can only anticipate that this will all serve a purpose. And while anxiety nearly killed me before starting the process, it is slowly subsiding as I uncover the dimensions, limit the variance and check my alphas. The picture that is emerging is slightly different than I thought but that’s not a bad thing at all and I find myself smiling because I really like the process of the investigation, and maybe I kind of like this type of statistical analysis… But mostly, I am surprised by the passion it has ignited in me. I’m so engrossed with this data set that it keeps me up at night and has me talking about it to anyone who will listen. And like a baker, I’ve actually gotten up earlier than I need to in order to work on it.

I am beginning to accept that there are some things I may not want to be good at but may have a knack for and also realizing that some of my personality features, patience for example, will be tested at time and that these will significantly affect my approach to tasks – perhaps in a positive way. The biggest revelation this week for me was that there is no greater satisfaction for us impatient ones like the reveal – and so we embark on journeys even if it means that we’ll have to wait, put in a lot of effort at obscene hours of the day and work through them to get to the sweet centre we know is there. Stay tuned…

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• Restaurant
• Spring Menu at La Table des Jardins Sauvages
• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Lemon-Salt Almonds
• Jamon Iberico de Recebo
• Info – books, events, etc.
• Meet an Author: Taras Grescoe
• Random Facts
• Fiascos
• Wine Crate
• Food Frames: Take 18

And after writing the previous sentence, I find myself questioning why on earth I would ever be attracted to food and wine, seeing as how both these domains require some sort of a gamble.Pick up a fruit and you can guestimate the freshness and quality. Of course there are signs and cues that one can use as guides, but it’s never a guarantee. And then coupled with the high probability of human error in preparation, the act of cooking seems like a quite a risky venture.

A few months ago, I found a great cake recipe by a well-known author of Middle Eastern cuisine. This culinary icon also happens to be the cousin of a very close friend of mine. So one weekend, as part of my contribution to a meal Margaret and I decided to concoct together, I offered to bake this infamous and personal gateau. It’s an odd recipe on paper but the premise seems right and I figured the author has published numerous books, she has to know what she’s talking about.

So I went out of my way to find organic oranges and began to tackle the task of baking. From the get go, I was confused. “Boil the oranges for two hours”. Okay… are they entirely submerged? Do I cover the pot? Already, my anxiety level is high and the onslaught of questions cropping up as I keep reading the recipe aren’t boosting my very delicate baking self-esteem level. I spare you the gruesome details but in short, I ended up burning the oranges, not greasing the pan (I wasn’t advised to) and not unmolding soon enough so half the cake remained in the pan and had to be carefully removed and then in artfully replaced on top. Not to mention that although the recipe said 50 minutes in the oven, it was charred on the edges at 30. Add the lemons on top was my attempt at making this cake “pretty”.

When I got into the car the next day, I looked at Margaret and I told her that even if they are related, I’m not impressed with her cousin and because of my horrid experience, and because she shared the recipe with me in the first place, I am expecting her to sample the cake nonetheless. She looks at me with a big smile and says: “I meant to tell you that my cousin is better known as a culinary historian than the recipe maven…” Thanks for telling me, after the fact. The cake turned out not to be that terrible after all, but I promised that I would never make that recipe again. It just took too much of a toll on my confidence and patience. After that experience, I only made the recipes that I make fantastically well, and could in my sleep, for about a month to regain some shred of esteem.

In the past few weeks however, I’ve been making a lot of loaves and breads and desserts. I don’t know why. I’ve been generally nice to people and I got good grades…So I haven’t done anything really worthy of atonement lately and don’t really merit the bitter taste of burnt baked goods. Interestingly enough, the results of my attempts have actually been total successes. See the Healthy Loaf recipe as an example (click here). And this Sunday I baked a tasty Swedish rye bread, a special order for a friend.

Ironically, I don’t have more control over the outcome of these recipes than I did the flops of yesterdays. And I’m realizing that perhaps there are times in life when you just have to wing it. I know this because of all the bread recipes I have attempted in the past month, not one was completed as per the exact instructions – a very serious gamble for someone as challenged as me in this domain and as controlling. Yet the results have been better than expected. So maybe, just maybe, I should capitalize on this unexplained talent that is surely fleeting but right now extremely rewarding. And while I don’t know what the loaves of the future will taste like, I want to be able to look back one day and be proud that I embraced this moment of freedom, one that can only come from the release of control…

In other news, if you haven’t already, I encourage you to take a few moments to complete my online survey, part of a research project I am putting together in the scope of the PhD studies. It takes no more than a coffee break’s worth of time and you’ll be entirely satiated by the knowledge that you are helping out a student and contributing to the marketing sciences!

https://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=nRNXcEZY_2bFL_2fe0jDPhyhTA_3d_3d

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• My newsletter
• The May Edition – Renewal
• Wine & Drink
• Huet in Vouvray
• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Halibut Cheeks
• Tourte Grains Bio
• Info – books, events, etc.
• Cod by M. Kurlansky
• Recipes & Attempts
• Haroseth
• Wine Crate
• Silly Things Waiters Hear: IV

And then, Vito made me realize that there are some very redeeming qualities to change.

There is a period during the year, only about 3 weeks starting in mid-April, when the almond tree yields the first expression of its fruit. We all know the almond as a hard nut, but when it is first formed, it is the furthest thing from. Green almonds are an unripe fruit – the exterior is sturdy and fuzzy and the interior contains a gelatinous kernel what as the season progresses, becomes the firm almond kernel we refer to as the nut. It is a typical product in the Middle East, where the entire fruit is eaten, often dipped in salt water, and served with an aperitif. You eat the entire thing for a tangy-tart, herbaceous snack or you can break apart the dichotomous exterior and just eat the kernel. Since mine were the first of the season, I enjoyed them whole because I liked how the substantial exterior, once bitten, offered a contrasting soft filling with the jammy almond kernel.

These fresh almonds are an experience and unlike anything I had ever tried. And Vito was aware of this. See, Vito and I have this unspoken understanding that sharing is good and there are few things as pleasant as watching another undergo a food revelation. Through our trusty messenger Anna (who has at times consumed some goods in transit – we’ll call that shipping fees) we have exchanged Italian plums for Swiss cookies and Sicilian olives for specialty breads. There were also a few pears and mint thrown into the mix last summer. It’s a wonderful relationship.

Last week, totally unannounced, Vito decided we were starting another round of discovery and I found myself with a bag of the aforementioned. These were so foreign to me, I had to use “Googl-eh”, as Vito would call it, to learn more about them. I even passed them on to a few foodie friends so we could marvel at them together.

As is often the case with food for me, it’s never just about the items being consumed, but mostly about the thought behind the offer. Vito made me realize with those almonds that my sometimes bumpy personal journey had actually opened the door for our exchanges. Had I not endured the tough moments and the decisions that resulted from them, I wouldn’t have had to find an alternate source for Basler Läckerli (see December 2007 newsletter), fallen so in love with my new found suppliers’ products that I forced all those in my path to try some, and had Anna bring some to Vito at my urging.

I’ll always cherish new foodstuff passed on by a fellow epicurean, trying them with new friends who share a similar passion, at the market or even in the wee hours of the morning, pre-workout, when I make many exchanges with fellow food amateurs. It is no secret that my curiosity to try new products is never satisfied and I yearn for moments like I had last week with those novel green almonds. Munching on them this week it occurred to me that consuming them was a type of celebration – a very typical Nathalie way to relish the moment. All of a sudden, this alternative form of merriment was revealed as infinitely superior to what I had originally envisioned. I might have been in a blue mood but adding these green wonders made the lens through which I saw the subsequent days decidedly rosier. Grazie mille Vito!

In other news, if you haven’t already, I encourage you to take a few moments to complete my online survey, part of a research project I am putting together in the scope of the PhD studies. It takes no more than a coffee break’s worth of time and you’ll be entirely satiated by the knowledge that you are helping out a student and contributing to the marketing sciences!

https://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=nRNXcEZY_2bFL_2fe0jDPhyhTA_3d_3d

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Murcia al vino
• Info – books, events, etc.
• Iron Chef Montreal
• Recipes & Attempts
• Turnips: flavour affinities
• Random facts
• Why are they called “Super Tuscans”
• Great Food Quotes: Jelly
• Wine Crate
• Food frames: Take 17

It’s Friday morning and the realization that she needs to make this starch component for her dinner party on Saturday is marked with despair. She’s never made it before and even though I have shown her how, the thought of it just seems overwhelming. So I volunteered. And then I insisted. Finally I told her that I was going to make it anyway and that if she didn’t come by and pick it up, she would feel even guiltier. So she accepted, I made it and she came by to get it. It’s how I was able to help a friend in need and in a way that I knew I could.

Even when I was younger, I always hated it when people would tell me in sad situations that things would turn out okay, not to worry and all the other stuff people are supposed to say to those who are down. What didn’t sit well with me was the notion that there was no way to tell if it really was going to works itself out and that some situations are in fact just awful and can’t be made better. Some circumstances require us to experience hurt and sorrow and it’s from those that we learn to rise again. So because I never bought into the fallacy that all scenarios have silver linings and never developed the capacity of positive spin, I use another strategy to help those in need. I feed them.

Feeding someone to quell their distress or attempt to rectify situations isn’t a new concept, and the reason it’s still around is because it works. It’s called comfort food because it does just that – ease the soul. Food is at every occasion whether it’s happy or gloomy. We congregate at weddings buffets, at birthday dinners, at funeral wakes and in the cafeterias of hospitals.

The reason for the presence of food at virtually all life passages is simple: food is a way that we can communicate without using words. When my friend tells me about the hours that spends at the hospital, the fears she has regarding her sibling’s ability to cope, how much she wants to show her support and how incapable she thinks she is, I can tell her that she is wrong, but she doesn’t hear that because that’s not what she feels inside. Consoling her with reassuring words may ease her insecurities but it doesn’t make them go away and certainly doesn’t prevent them from growing exponentially. And so I rely on the cliché that actions speak louder than words.

She has a dinner party to plan on Saturday, amidst a flurry of appointments, coordinating schedules, attempting to manage the usual day-to-day and coping with her own emotions. On the Monday, she tells me she wants to make fish and… Well, that’s about as much thought as she’s given it and it’s stressing her out. So I plan the rest of her menu. She is grateful and I see a flash of doubt in her eyes but I don’t push her – it seems like enough people are doing that these days. As the week progresses, we talk about how she’s managing without ever mentioning the planned festivities and it’s only on Friday morning that she blurts out that she can’t believe she needs to make this meal and we near a total meltdown.

Any other time, this would have been an easy to prepare meal for her but these days, it seems like the work it entails is worthy of 18 chefs. So I tell her that I’m making her starch dish, the polenta, because it’s the only one she’s never made and I know this is not sitting well with her. She’s polite and refuses my offer and I respond with, “It’s not an option, it’s a done deal. It’ll be ready for you when you finish work.” We do not speak of the polenta again. She come by at 5pm, I pass her the package, hug her and at the last minute, throw into her bag a few sprigs of fresh basil from a plant I acquired at the market that morning because I know she loves the scent. We exchange but a few formalities but I can see by the look in her eyes that something seems just a bit calmer and while I haven’t told her that the grief she feels will dissipate, I have shown her in my own way, that I can help her through it, one dish at a time.

Here are the pieces that appeared on this site in the past week, in case you missed one (use the search engine at the top of the page to access these and others):

• Restaurant
• Chez Benny
• Wine & Drink
• A Franc Revelation
• Discoveries & Ingredients
• Branche by Callier
• Info – books, events, etc.
• Food Blog Search
• Recipes & Attempts
• Cod en papillote
• Wine Crate
• Food frames: Take 16