Hello, gentle readers of the internest!

As the primary contributor to Foodie and the Everyman, I wanted to inform you that I will be taking some much needed time off this summer to focus on gardening, reading and other things unrelated to either writing or food, and also just to generally try and sharpen my focus.

Occasional updates may still occur, but they likely won’t happen nearly as often as you’ve become accustomed to.  But trust me, when I have things to share, they will be good, I promise.

I might only be off for a few weeks, or I might hold out until the beginning of September.  Either way, just know that I will be coming back to check in on all of you soon.

Take care and enjoy your own summer vacations!

Having spent a fair number of my formative years living on the meagre amount of support doled out by the government to my father, I can heartily sympathize and relate to the plight of people struggling to live off the small allotment for food on social assistance.  While many argue that allowing people on social assistance more money only encourages them to stay on aide longer, I believe there is something to be said for allowing the dignity of having a healthful, satisfying meal without automatically assuming that money is being funneled to drink or drugs, etc.

The Stop, one of Toronto’s foremost community advocates is currently promoting their Do The Math challenge, in which 10 high profile Toronto residents attempt to live on the contents of their standard 3 day emergency food hamper for as long as they possibly can.  You can read about the participants’ efforts on this blog, and also in this article by The Star’s Corey Mintz.

As someone who has lived at or below the poverty line at times I feel quite strongly about it, thus I urge you to check it out; hopefully it will be a stepping stone to bring about the seeds of change.

Until next time…

Today I had intended to regale you with stories about all of the fun the Everyman and I have been having (and noshing) while in Aruba during the past week.

However, because the charter company that flew us down to Aruba went out of business while we’ve been away, we were put onto another, later flight and are travelling today instead of yesterday.  I can hardly complain about an extra, mix-up imposed day in paradise though, can I?

Thus, I will leave you with a photo taken from my lounger.

It’s nice here, isn’t it?

Until next time…

Ironically though, it seems there has come a point when even I am all Pollan-ed out.

I’ve read The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defence Of Food… who hasn’t, nowadays?  And I’ve seen Food Inc, King Corn, Death On A Factory Farm and others of their ilk that deal with the myriad problems affecting our global food systems.  But when I was browsing at the bookstore this past Christmas, I saw the latest tome in the Pollan repertoire, the slim and succinctly titled Food Rules.  To be frank, after thumbing through the pages I couldn’t bring myself to buy it for exactly 3 reasons;

1) It really struck me as “Food – For Dummies,” or rather a distilled version of his previous 2 books

2) I’m not keen on ideas once you start labelling them as “rules” because my inner anarchist says no, not to mention it makes it sound like some kind of slapdash lose-10-pounds-quick diet plan

3) It would be preaching to the choir since I try to maintain a diet centred around real food already, anyway

But then a few days ago I read an article on Grist that focused on one of Pollan’s many (there are 64) rules; eat all the junk food you want, as long as you make it yourself.

This got me thinking – deeply.

Imagine what the world would be like if processed food in all its dubious forms didn’t exist…

It seems unfathomable, doesn’t it?  Yet it’s only within the last 50 years that it has become a whole mainstream industry unto itself, with companies viciously fighting for a piece of our collective pieholes and permeating our every waking second.  Unfortunately, the task of backing down from all of this scary, unwholesome crap at times seems insurmountable.  As you might have seen on the teaser first hour preview of Jamie’s Food Revolution, people who become accustomed to the bad stuff don’t take it lightly when you try to wrest it from their grasp, they “don’t want to sit around and eat lettuce all day,” as it were.  So how does one filter all of the extra salt, sugar and empty calories out of the food we’re eating when it’s practically programmed to become addiction-inducing?  Some days I’m not convinced that it will even happen in my lifetime, let alone the next 5-10 years, but the best suggestion I have would be to avoid fake food at all costs and if you can, never start eating any processed food in the first place.  After all, if you never start eating it, you can’t get addicted, right?

Speaking in broad strokes, human beings seem to have a predisposition for being lazy.  If we reverted to a time when we actually had to make all of the junky foods that we were ingesting ourselves, I truly believe we wouldn’t be eating them, or at least not as often.  One friend with a pop and bag of chips a day habit likely wouldn’t continue if she had to mandolin potatoes into papery slivers herself and boil down her sugary syrup.  And who among us would heat up a deep fryer full of oil just to have a morning donut to go with that coffee?  Of course not!  When you consider it in that context, it seems ludicrous to eat what should be considered a treat on a regular basis.  But for too many people those little snacks are daily indulgences, as we continually tell ourselves “we’re worth it!”  Marketing has taught us that in a world full of instant gratification, we just don’t have time to wait for a reason to enjoy these edible luxuries anymore.

On a related topic, I doubt competitive eating would have become the “sport” (I use the term loosely) that it is if somebody still had to make all of those hotdogs (or twinkies, or pies, etc, etc) by hand.  Making things by hand denotes care and requires one to have a bit of reverence for the product at hand, rather than blindly cramming it down the trap door without a second thought.  At some point long ago, many fast/junk foods were made by hand.  Some of today’s quick service behemoths (McDonald’s and KFC) started out as little one off roadside stands that intended to serve home cooked fare.  I often wonder if their founders would even recognize these restaurants today, given how far they have strayed from that original plan.  With increased demand for product comes growth that requires economies of scale, and once those come into play, oftentimes things become more mechanized and with automation, sooner or later corners are trimmed.  Cutting corners (it would seem) plays a large role in how we got to where we are today.  For instance, it’s become easier to mechanically separate meat and blast it into a nugget form than it is to cut up pieces of chicken and make the same.  There might be a slightly noticeable difference in flavour, but that can just be covered up with excess salt and sugar and fat – no biggie.  Before you know it, what you’re left with bears little resemblance to the original idea, doesn’t it?  I don’t doubt that most of the creators of all of this processed food had outsized ambitions, but I find it hard to believe that anyone dreamed of starting with inferior ingredients and methods.   Unfortunately, the bigger you are, the more compromises there are to be made.

Perhaps if food service had stayed local instead of branching its tentacles into multinational corporations we wouldn’t be in the situation we’re in.  There’s certainly something to be said for having a higher level of accountability to your neighbours and peers than might be possible in a nameless, faceless organization.  What do you think?

Until next time…

Aside from the simple act of breathing, there isn’t really any other consumptive requirement that equalizes society more (because we all have to do it or else we die).  So, it seems only logical to me that as a species we should be more than a little preoccupied with the W5H of our food.  If essentially (we’re talking extremely drilled down here) nourishment boils down to a matter of life or death (do I have food enough to eat or will I go hungry?) why wouldn’t you want to concern yourself with it to the nth degree?  If you were to ignore the question of food for long enough, it’s possible that your own survival would be at stake as your body began to starve.  Yet for some odd reason the people who do consider these things aren’t the norm, and instead are labelled foodies; an insipid little word which inspires disdain even amongst those who would fall into such a category.  As such, foodies have become culinary outliers, a fact easily proven by watching the eyes of non-foodies glaze over whenever someone who appreciates food discusses the intricacies of their favourite edible creation in their vicinity.

There’s an inordinate number of people in the world who would consider me to be something of a food snob based primarily on the fact that I am very selective about what foods I will allow into my body.  But I’m not a snob; far from it, actually.  It’s simple, really.  If it doesn’t taste good, it’s not coming in, that’s all there is to it. Why is it that having passion for any subject has become synonymous with snobbery? I’m not as big a hater of the word foodie as most people either (obviously), but I generally try not to frame myself through definitions of character or personality.  I grew up in a house, in a place, in a family that professionally and socially cooked and placed a high value on food and kitchen table camaraderie.  Subsequently, I was nurtured and engaged in food myself, and to this day not only do I love to cook but I relish eating, too (surprisingly, I don’t love to eat nearly as much as I love to cook, though).  To me that’s normal and not something I regard as smacking with even the slightest bit of pretension.  Rather, I think of food and cooking and eating as elemental, because it unites us with our forebears via its commonality.

While I may not eat some foods because I don’t think they taste good (the vast majority of processed foods would be a perfect example) I don’t believe that being discerning is sufficient grounds for being labelled snobbish.  My brand of food fascination is a blend of a quest for authenticity over watered down fare, tempered by occasional bouts of obsessive compulsive behaviour.  Case in point; I can be just as easily satiated by a $4.50 baby cow sandwich from Commisso Bros. as I have been with the $275 a head tasting menu at Eigensinn Farm – it really just depends on the situation.  The cost of food is irrelevant when you consider the rich tableau of atmosphere, companions and occasions that formidable memories are born of.  For instance, in Chicago I desperately wanted to visit Alinea, but it was something that time just wouldn’t allow.  It would have been a meal costing several hundreds of dollars I’m sure, but the cheap and dirty food from Fat Willy’s Rib Shack that formed our last taste before getting back on a plane was just as appreciated as Alinea would have been because it too was prepared with passion.  In that respect I’d say I’m closer to a culinary egalitarian, really.  Put simply, I enjoy good food.  Whether I cook it for myself, or I pay someone else to cook it for me, taste integrity is unanimously the mitigating factor in what I choose to eat.  Though realistically, as much as I’ve come to enjoy restaurant food, 99 times out of 100 I’d much rather cook something for myself because only I understand precisely how I want that something to taste.

In fact, I personally believe that people who choose not to cook are the true snobs, because paying someone else to do something you don’t want to do reeks of superiority.  At some point during the 1950′s, cooking went from being perceived as a nurturing part of a decent home life to being painted as an intolerable chore.  Cue the montage of ads about liberating women from the drudgery of their kitchens by replacing home cooked foods with frozen dinners and ready meals to make my point for me.  Or this quote from a recent article in The Toronto Star “For me in recent years, cooking has been a bit like dentistry: I hear there are people who still do it themselves but it just makes me shake my head sadly.” (I know it comes from an article about the Slap Chop, but I find such a sentiment disheartening still). I’m not going to disagree with the fact that cooking and preparing food from scratch is hard work.  You’re reading the website of a girl who cooks her own food, bakes her own bread, cures her own meat, preserves her own jams and churns her own butter, so believe me when I say I do understand.  But look instead at what’s been lost.  Society has become so far removed from the taste of real food that manufacturers can layer on salt and fat and sweet and chemicals just to make their food seem palatable because most people are unfamiliar with how delicious unadulterated food can be.

Paying someone else to prepare your food (either via restaurant or the shelves of the supermarket) is rife with undertones of servitude.  With the obvious exception of celebrity chefs, cooking is still considered one of the humblest professions out there, staffed mostly by uneducated masses.  And before you start to disagree with me, consider for a moment what other profession requires you to work 80 or more hours per week on your feet for such meagre and thankless pay?  Or think on the fact that many of the unsung heroes in a kitchen are immigrants who are just thankful to be gainfully employed, even without the benefit of sick days, vacations, etc.  Cheffing is hard, brutal work that many attempt but few prevail at, and it certainly is not an industry for the weak.  Yet, why don’t we acknowledge their legitimacy when we’re basically putting ourselves into their hands by outsourcing our food to them more and more each day?  Again, it sounds like snobbery to me.  The clincher for me is that more often than not, the people who cook mid to high end food do not make enough money to even patronize the places they work at themselves.  How’s that for irony?

At a time when The Food Network feels it needs to add a whole other channel to accommodate a demand for additional programming, it would seem that what we eat should be a more important topic than ever.  Instead, it’s been shown that more people love to watch food television than actually cook anymore, with the backlash of artisanally-minded people like me still somewhat in its infancy.  But it doesn’t have to be.  Taking food into your own hands is not an indicator of snobbery, it’s an opportunity to exert a modicum of control over what you want to eat instead of letting Big Food (or anyone, really) decide that for you.

I’m eager to hear what others have to say on the matter.  Do you think that belonging to the cult of food makes you a snob?

Until next time…

During the last few weeks it seemed like you couldn’t swing a cat without being subjected to the Vancouver Olympics in some way, shape or form.

As someone who is generally not a huge fan of sports in any respect, I’m sure you can imagine how exasperating I found the 24/7 coverage, especially when you stop and consider how much time, effort and money goes into what amounts to a glorified international pissing contest.  However, the Everyman is a huge lover of sports, so there was a fair amount being viewed in our household during those 16 days.

One food-related topic that received quite a bit of press during and after the games was the validity of having McDonald’s as a prominent corporate sponsor.  Many have chimed in and been rather vocal about this, including those who wished that we’d showcased uniquely Canadian cuisine, instead of pandering to the lowest common denominator.  GFR even had some random 12 year old write a (rather unedited) rant about the whole affair, the gist of which boiled down to shame on us.

Far be it from me to be a shit disturber, but with the exception of the whole First Nations/Burgergate saga I’d have to say I respectfully disagree and might even (sort of) be on the same side as McD’s(!) for once.

I know.  You’re all shocked and dismayed about how that could ever be possible.  Well, it goes a little something like this…

Truthfully, I’m no great fan of McDonald’s.  In fact, I think in general it is a lot of what is wrong with our food environment with its cheap, unsustainable and empty calories.  But that being said, I don’t think that having them sponsor the games was necessarily the worst thing, either.  You see, what with all this talk about junk food taxes or health food subsidies lately, it raises a rather interesting point.  Unless such a time comes when grossly unhealthy food is completely banned or outlawed, we are always going to be surrounded by McDonald’s and their ilk and will have to learn to make educated choices about them.  In a way the idea of advertising McDonald’s using Olympic athletes actually strangely ties in to teaching children about food.  Rather than looking at these ads and cynically thinking “Oh, no world class athlete sustains themselves on crap like that” we should instead be using it as a forum to instill the (nearly lost) principles of everything in moderation in the younger generation before ailing health becomes a  forgone conclusion.  Realistically, we all know that making any food strictly verboten will only serve to make it that much more desirable in a child’s eyes.  In spite of my personal opinions about fast food in general, I believe such a shift still needs to be made, because as a food category it’s likely not going away any time soon.

When I was growing up, McDonald’s was a treat, something to be had 2 or 3 times a year, or perhaps as a venue for hosting a winter birthday party.  Nowadays this nutrient deficient food is in some cases a more common occurrence than a home cooked meal for a great many people.  It’s no wonder today’s children are likely to be the fattest generation to go on record, with a truly appalling rate of juvenile diabetes to boot.  But, if we used people that children might idolize to foster a healthier relation with the cult of fast food, it’s possible that the tide of childhood obesity could turn itself around.  It could even be as simple as leveraging them to give a further explanation of the concept of ‘as part of a balanced diet’ and how that relates to the salt and fat and sweet we’ve all become so accustomed to consuming.  Because really, you can sell just about anything on TV if you have the right amount of spin, so why not be corporately responsible while they’re at it?

Even evil fast food conglomerates can be an educational opportunity if you know how to use them, sometimes.

Until next time…

In fact, if I’m to be brutally honest, I’d have to say that I generally despise the smarmy little buggers (with the exception of the kith and kin of a few friends or relatives of mine, that is).  For comfort’s sake I usually prefer to keep a fair amount of distance between me and the lot of them with their bad manners, foul mouthes, entitled attitudes, short attention spans and constant orbit of gadgets and technology (/rant).

That being said, there’s been a lot of talk about children in the media lately.  There’s plenty of discussion surrounding the obesity epidemic that’s facing their generation and how as a society we need to focus our energies to improve and shift their current fate.  Mrs. Obama has her Let’s Move initiative, Alice Waters has the Edible Schoolyard program,  and Jamie Oliver’s recent TED Prize wish was to teach every child about food.  Of course, that’s merely a sprinkling of the many projects attempting to tackle this multi-faceted problem, but these 3 just happen to be some of the most highly visible.

On the surface they all sound like rather noble causes, and certainly there is a degree of credibility behind the idea of educating children about food and exercise in order to stem the tides of an obesity related epidemic.

And anyone who has seen the promo clip of Oliver’s upcoming show (specifically the kids that don’t know the difference between potatoes and tomatoes at around 1:16 in the video) should be able to grasp the positive ramifications when kids get switched on about food.

However, the point where I often find myself flummoxed is when people start talking about banning, outlawing, taxing or restricting certain foods deemed to be “unhealthy” from school premises  in order to achieve that goal.

I find this proposition difficult to swallow for 2 reasons;

Firstly, anyone who has ever spent any amount of time with a child (regardless of age) knows that as soon as you refuse them access to something, you inevitably make it seem irresistible in their eyes.  Remove sodas, candies and sugary snacks and all of a sudden you’ve got kids clamouring for them even more so than they already do now.  Not to mention the potential for “black market” trading of said contraband goods – if kids really want it, they’ll always find a way.

Secondly, I really don’t understand why schools should be involved in feeding kids to begin with.  As a parent, why would you ever want to entrust the health and welfare of your darling dear to another person that most likely doesn’t have their best interests at heart?  Heaven knows you can’t be there for your children 24 hours a day to protect them from the so-called evils of food, but instead of leaving them to fend for themselves in a cafeteria, you could (novel idea alert) prepare a meal for them yourself.  Perhaps there is just a fundamental difference between schools in Canada and the US, but when I was in school (and I attended in 3 different provinces over the years) none of the institutions prepared food or even had a cafeteria on-site until I got to high school, and even then it was just a small snack bar.  The line where food met school was explicitly defined as the occasional sponsored pizza or hotdog “treat” day, but that was it.  At what point did it become acceptable to completely outsource the care of society’s children to lunch ladies, yet still be able to level the blame at them when people didn’t have the time or desire to take the matter in hand themselves?

I know it’s been proven that it’s easier for children to learn when they are not hungry, so I do understand the reasoning behind providing the option of food in schools in the event that a child might not be getting it elsewhere, otherwise.  But beyond that sort of specific scenario, if parents are really that concerned about the food their kids are eating, they need to make an effort to educate them one on one as well.  You can’t rear a child on a steady diet of crap at home and then expect them to easily pick up healthy attitudes solely from programs at school.  Attitudes towards food are learned behaviours, and if you set a decent example for your children at home, you leave them in better stead to avoid all of that other crap when they are out in the real world.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that where they need to apply it the most?

Until next time…

While other kids got to have play dates and scheduled outings with their moms and dads, I enjoyed an absentee relationship with mine; 2 of 3 being terminally addicted to their kitchens.  In the years that my parents were together I barely saw my mom because she’d leave for work while I was still at pre-school and not return until 2 or 3 in the morning.  After my parents separated, my mom and stepdad were too busy chasing their restaurant dreams to worry about things like family all that much, so I lived with my dad and only saw them a couple times a year.

Despite many wonderful things I learned and was inspired by during my time in their restaurants, the one thing that continues to irk me to this day is the overly critical nature that they’ve imbued in me.  It was never more evident in them than on the rare occasions when we would go out to eat as a family.  Rather than enjoying the brief time we had together, they would categorically pick apart whatever we were eating, regardless of whether it was a cheap trattoria or a fancy French bistro.  They’d then move on to analyzing whether they could make a particular dish better, and consequently discuss how to do so.

It drove me nuts.  Had I been older it probably would have driven me to drink, but at that young age all I could muster was a withering roll of the eyes.  I didn’t see them often, so all I wanted was to make the most of our time, but they never let up.  For years I vowed I would never be like them, determined to be happy with whatever was set before me, instead.

But, over the last few years I’ve found their somewhat unsavoury trait rearing its ugly head more and more in my demeanour.

Between working in their kitchens and stints at culinary school I’ve had plenty of time to develop an overly picky palate.  In a lot of ways it’s been for the best; I’ve gained a certain level of disdain for junk, fast and pre-packaged food-like substances in favour of slow (or what I like to call real) food.  On the flip side, it also makes friends and lovers (unnecessarily) nervous wrecks when feeding me, and coworkers assume I’m some sort of snob because I choose not to eat their hydrogenated oil filled crap or corn syrup laden goodies.  Even though I’m relatively quiet about my beliefs and standpoints on food (preferring to internalize rather than proselytize) most people assume I’m some sort of elitist crank or cow hugging moon maiden, anyhow.  That I don’t care what anyone thinks of me or my habits seems to stymie them all the more.

I often try to rationalize that I’ve only taken on the best parts of this annoying habit from my parents.  Instead of critiquing things for how bad they might be, I strive to only indulge in tastes of ridiculously good food because I think it satisfies your body, soul and cravings more.  Of course, that’s a mantra that’s easier said than done…

When you’re young, the theatre of a meal was more about the company than the actual meal, but as I’ve gotten older, that expectation has slightly equalized.  I still enjoy spending time with whomever I choose to break bread with, but it has become harder to enjoy something I didn’t cook myself because my standards have become prohibitively high.  In most cases it’s not that I think I could prepare the food any better, but that much of the time I find myself unsatisfied by it.  Our dinner at Tappo last weekend before the theatre was a prime example of such, with food that was too salty, too gloppy and too uninspired for me.  It didn’t help when a busboy dropped a dirty knife down the Everyman’s back on the way by and didn’t bother to apologize, either but that’s a story for another day.

In recent years I can recount only Eigensinn Farm as having completely exceeded my expectations.  That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy any of the other meals I had before or after it, just that none stand out as much as it did.  My frequent posts about The Black Hoof and Cowbell should also serve to illustrate how much I love what both of them are doing, but even then there are always small things to nitpick about.  Even our recent trip to Splendido, which has been considered one of the best restaurants in Toronto for quite some time was dampened by a general impression of “meh”, despite the stellar service and reputation.

One of my goals for this year is to try and shake this critical monkey off my back.  For Christmas the Everyman gave me a trip to Langdon Hall, and so help me jeebus, I want to enjoy it.  Let’s just hope it lives up to the visions I’ve built up in my mind.

Until next time…

I intended to write about this yesterday, when I could still feel the fire of indignation in my belly, but the more retarded of our 3 cats chewed through the power cord on my laptop charger, thus leaving me without access to the interwebs.  My ranting has likely grown a little more subdued than it would have been immediately following the show, but it still raised questions nonetheless.

In the second episode, Hugh takes a group of people he’s convinced to raise chickens on a tour of a poultry-rearing facility that he’s constructed as a small-scale model of the difference between conventional and free range birds.  He fills half of the giant shed with 1,600 chicks destined to have a relatively charmed existence, while the remaining 2,400 or so( of the 4,000 birds he starts with) are crammed into the same size shelter on the other side of the barn.

The free range birds obviously have a little more space because there are less of them on their side of the shed, but they also get perks like bales of hay to roost on, balls to play with, CDs to peck at and access to the great outdoors.  What might seem like small concessions make a world of difference to these birds, as is evidenced by the flock of perky, upwardly mobile chickens pecking and scratching around.

By contrast, the conventional birds were much more cramped in their space, and had no “toys” to play with at all.  After several weeks they could barely walk, having eaten so much (during the 23 hours a day they’re encouraged to eat) that the poor birds had grown faster than their legs could support.  The carpet of bird shit was so heavy that apparently the barn stank of ammonia and many chickens were getting “hot spots” on their legs and feet (which is a pleasant way of saying they were being burned by the chemical reactions of so much shit coming into contact with their extremities).  Having so many birds confined to such a tiny area also increases the chance of illness infesting a flock, so any time a sick or slow bird was found, it had to be removed.

On top of that, Fearnley Whittingstall discusses how he has to cull many chicks because they are smaller than the rest and won’t make “market weight” at the same time.  Because this unfortunately represents no profit, they must be dispatched.  Throughout the show you can see him becoming increasingly shaken with each cull, but on the conventional side, birds are only given 5 to 6 weeks to live and one cannot risk the safety of the flock with ideals.

Having seen movies like Food Inc. and watched Jamie’s Fowl Dinners, this isn’t a subject I’m new to, and I’m not naive about mass market food production and the steps that have to be taken to feed an industrial civilization.  Unsurprisingly, when most of the participants took the tour of the 2 halves of the barn, they were distressed and disgusted, with the exception of one woman who refused to be affected by it all because cheap as chips industrial was all she could afford.

Personally I have 2 objections to all of this.

Firstly, I have a hard time listening to people complain about what food they can and can’t afford.  Many people will cry afoul of food costs rising beyond 10% of their income, but will happily shell out money for big screen TVs, cell phones, video games and all manner of other things that aren’t truly necessities.  They didn’t really delve too much into this woman’s situation for me to make a fair assessment of her particular lot in life, but generally speaking, if eating more ethically raised food was important to her (or anyone) priorities would be rearranged to find the money to pay for such.

That being said, my bigger issue is with the way people don’t seem to care about the inhumanity of this kind of farming operation.  Let me draw a parallel to the moral outrage around veal.  People are so shocked and appalled about veal being reared in a tiny little space and killed when it’s still technically a baby, but nobody cares about chickens being raised in a similar manner and killed when they are only weeks old.  Why is that?  Is a cow cuter?  Speaking as someone who loves cows but also eats veal, I don’t think an animal’s beauty (or lack thereof) makes the manner in which it is raised any less important.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a vegetarian.  I eat meat 4 or 5 nights a week, but the difference is I make sure that I know where the meat I buy comes from and how it was raised.  I also don’t waste any of it, because not only does it cost me a bit more to buy organic grass-fed meat, but I know that an animal’s life is worth something, so I’m not going to just callously throw it away because I am a top of the food chain carnivore.  One of the women was incredulous when Fearnley Whittingstall proceeded to make enough roasted chicken risotto for 6 with the remains of a roasted bird, explaining that she usually throws away most of the carcass and leftovers because she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Honestly though, I’m more interested in hearing what all of you think.  So, have at it!

Until next time…

As I get ready to go off into the great white yonder to spend Christmas at the Everyman’s family’s cottage, I’d like to leave everyone with my best wishes for a wonderful celebration, and some pictures of the holiday edibles that will be gracing our dessert table this year (courtesy of yours truly).

No matter what you may get up to tomorrow, I wish you all the best in doing it!

Until next time…

It’s about that time of year when I seriously kick into high gear baking mode.

So, with that in mind, I’ll be signing off until the new year.

I wish you all a safe, silly and delicious holiday.

I’ll be seeing you on the other side.

Until next time…

In some instances, they’ve invited me to free dinners, or asked me to cover things like Conviction Kitchen, or even the launch of a new chef cookbook.

Recently I even had the wonderful people representing Pom Wonderful send me an envelope of coupons in order to sample their new line of juices.

Just the other day a representative for a company called Pop Chips asked if she could send me a few samples bags to try.  The irony here, which I made her well aware of at the time is that I don’t typically enjoy salty snacks all that much.  However, she was fairly confident that her product would be the one to change my mind, so she sent them anyway.

All of this is a roundabout way of saying that I will occasionally be giving my 2 cents on products; but only if I like them.  Things that I don’t care for are never going to see the light of day here, which is why you’ve never seen me covering the opening of the latest chain restaurant like so many other Toronto bloggers (also because I would rather throw up than eat at a chain restaurant, but that goes without saying).

I know there are a lot of people who think that the PR business is this big, dirty machine, and in some ways, I suppose it does come off as a little sleazy.  Let me reconcile that by saying that I have never been the kind of person who is swayed by anyone else’s opinion.  It’s great if someone has an opinion (and everybody does) but it’s not going to make up my mind for me about anything, in the same way that other people might look to restaurant, movie or product reviews.  That being said, my opinions should never be the deciding factor in making your own decisions, either, because just because I like something doesn’t mean that you will.  If anything, I hope that if I find something that’s worth sharing, it will do nothing more than to highlight its existence, which will allow you to draw your own conclusions.

To that end, I’ll be creating a new category for such posts called YMMV, otherwise known as Your Mileage May Vary, where I will share things with you that I’ve been sent that I find really cool, or conversely, things that are so horrendously bad that it would be a disservice not to warn you about them.

So, in closing, I urge you to keep an open mind and a critical eye.  That’s all you really need in order to decide whether you like something or not.

Until next time…

I know, I know, I know.

It’s been like forever and a day since I last posted a Foodie 13.  The funny thing about it is I actually have one that’s completely written that I’d prepared back in August for while we were on vacation, but I just haven’t felt like publishing it since then.

Between work, Taste T.O. and various other ongoing stuff, I haven’t really had much of a chance to devote to this medium.  I heartily apologize.

Since I’ve been running this website for nearly 2 years now, I suppose it’s about time that I tell you all a little more about who I am and what makes me tick.

So, without further adieu, let’s take this opportunity to get a better acquainted, shall we?

1 – I love cows – And not just for eating, actually.  Cows, surprisingly are one of my main raisons d’etre.  I love their loping gracefulness, their gentle nature, and their hulking presence.  I’ve been trying (quite unsuccessfully) to hug one for years now, and I got pretty damn close to doing so when the Everyman took me to Heatherleigh Highlands for our anniversary a few years ago; it’s a B&B with a working farm on-site.  I never got that hug, but a baby was born the morning we were leaving, so I did get to play around with it a bit.  Some day, I plan to have a cow of my very own.

2 – I harbour a small collection of vegetable-shaped stuffed animals – It’s a longer story than I care to explain, but to sum up, the Everyman loves the challenge of those claw games.  When we used to live in the apartments at the Yonge Eglinton Centre, there were several claw games scattered conveniently throughout the mall and attached cinema.  Suffice it to say that after winning several times, I’d amassed quite the collection of stuffed veg.  They’re all pretty much the same, differing only in colour.  The purple one is named Beet-or, the creamy one would be Fun-ion and the smaller, limbless one (not pictured) would be L’il Niblet.  Yeah, weird – I know.  You should see what some of our pets’ names are!

3 – I am depressingly short but like to behave as if I’m 10 feet tall – I don’t really think this requires much additional explanation, other than to say that I have a ridiculous pair of red 6 inch faux snakeskin platform boots (that I refer to as my Bowie boots) reserved for times when I feel the need to “get shit done”.  They don’t come out very often, but when they do, I’d suggest you be getting the fuck out of my way.

4 – I have 3 tattoos that you will never see – But, you shouldn’t really feel bad about that; it’s not you (really!) it’s me.  Only a handful of people have ever seen any of them, and I can count on the fingers of one hand (with some left to spare) those who have been privy to to them all.  Surprisingly (and thankfully) none of them are actually of food, but I designed them all myself.

5 – I am both the baby and the middle child in my family – Before you start thinking there’s some sort of gross incestuous business going on here (grow up, pervert!) I will clarify to say that I am the baby in my pre-divorce family, but the middle child in the family that includes my younger, half brother.  ‘Nuff said.

6 – I once tobogganed off the roof of a childhood friend’s garage – Which yes, is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever done.  At the moment I cannot recollect having done anything dumber, but I’m sure if we got my dad on here, he could probably chime in with a few contenders.  To be honest, I’m not even sure he knows about this one, but what can I say?  When you’re 9 and living in snowy and cold-as-fuck Winnipeg, what else is there to do?

7 – I am equal parts French Canadian and Trinidadian – Which, if you believe certain stereotypes, would make me both snobbish and hot tempered.  I’ll allow you to draw your own conclusions, but I won’t be offended if you happen to agree.  It’s all part and parcel of belonging to a melting pot family.

8 – I can wipe the floor with your ass at mini putt - No, seriously.  I can. And I’ll tell you why.  I have this little thing.  It’s called gusto.  It means I whip balls around the mini putt course so hard that I can (and will) knock out my opponents in a single, devastating blow.  I defy you to compete with my sheer putting majesty.  P.S, you can stop laughing now.

9 – I am the product of a mostly single father childhood – Which would probably explain why the majority of my closest friends in life have been men.  Growing up alone with a dude gives a woman a unique perspective on life and men I think, and I find that I still relate to men better than women.  It also explains why my dad is quite possibly my favourite person in the whole world.

10 – I hate the stupification of my (and future) generations, but can’t help adoring ICanHasCheezburger.com – From the outside, it should be one of my biggest nightmares as a spelling, writing and grammar nerd.  And truly, the majority of the time none of it even makes sense.  But the pure, simple joy of belly laughter that it brings to my days excuse its egregious sins against the English language.

11 – I am fiercely competitive – I hate to lose, so consequently I love to win.  I have to be the best at everything I do or else it doesn’t seem worth doing.  I suppose you could say I have one of those perfectionist, Alpha personalities, but I’d just say I’m driven.  And if you can’t keep up, you should probably just get out of the way, ok?

12 – I hate people – I know I’m not always the easiest person to get along with, and this is likely why.  I hate people, because the word denotes the huddled masses, or those who’ve developed a mob mentality.  I get along just fine with individuals, typically reserving my disdain for the those hellbent on fitting some pre-defined mold.  Because of that, I’ve always felt like kindred spirits with some of the more off-centre personalities from the 21st century, particularly Salvador Dali.  There’s great beauty in seeing things a little bit differently, you just have to be willing to look for it.

13 – I despise social networking and most modern technology – Technology is unfortunately a necessary evil.  Especially in my line of work, which could generally be described as E-commerce.  As much as you can’t argue with the convenience of it all, I believe that cell phones, computers and text messaging, etc are detrimental because not only do they cut us off from the rest of the real, living, breathing world (all the while under the guise of helping you to stay connected) but they’ve all contributed to the lacklustre, nonsensical communication that’s prevalent today.  H0w many times have you heard some teen or tween say things like “OMG”, instead of just saying “oh my god”?  Or how often have you seen people out at a restaurant or cafe in a group who spend more time texting, Twittering or Facebooking than actually interacting with the very people they’re supposedly there to see?  It’s not healthy, people!  Put it down and turn it off.  Trust me, your loved ones will thank you.

I know this didn’t really have much of anything to do with food, restaurants or Toronto, but perhaps today you’ve learned a little bit more about me.  Though not as evil as Hitler or as selfless as Mother Teresa, hopefully I still proved to be relatively interesting subject matter.

But that’s all you’re getting, so skidaddle, will ya?

Until next time…

When I was a teenager, my mom and stepdad owned a small bistro in a little town in Ontario cottage country called Dorset.

Dorset, for those of you who aren’t aware, is in the general area of Huntsville, Bracebridge, Gravenhurst, etc.

One of the things it is most famously known for is an old general store called Robinson’s.  These days, that general area (though Huntsville specifically) is also known as the hometown of the fabulously glam-rockesque Hawksley Workman, not that we’re keeping track or anything…

Now, during the summer that I was working at the bistro with my parents, I spent a great deal of time handing out advertising (menus and such) in front of Robinson’s.  And back then (nigh on 13 years ago), Robinson’s was an old fashioned general store with bits and bobs and handicrafts.  I’m not sure when during the last 13 years it merged with a Foodland store to provide a greater selection of groceries to the cottaging masses, but I’m sure you can sense how that in and of itself offended my sensibilities.  It seems that over the years, the little things that made Robinson’s unique have been slowly falling away.

So, I’m hoping you will also be able to understand how I found myself standing in the produce aisle at this Robinson’s/Foodland blend last week, full of moral indignation.

Most of the time I’d say I’m a pretty live-and-let-live sort of person, but when I picked up one of these pre-packaged basil sleeves for the Everyman, I was outraged to see the little stamp down the side that said Product of Dominican Republic.  Before you start getting all up in arms about me having a hate-on for the DM, let me be clear that I don’t.  What I have a hate-on for is stocking something that comes from so bloody far away when somewhere in Ontario or even some other Canadian province, there must be a commercial greenhouse growing basil that’s just as good by local farmers.

I stood there in the produce aisle, fingering the package, mouth agape for a good 2 minutes.  The Everyman gave me that look he gives me when he thinks I’m overreacting and told me to stop making a big deal about it and get on with our shopping.  So, at the time, I did.  But I’m still fuming.

Seriously.  What the fuck??? Why does this happen?  When I was at a Metro at lunch yesterday, they also had pre-packaged herb sleeves, but these ones were shipped in from the (drastically closer) Quebec.  A vast improvement, yes, but still perplexing nonetheless.

So, all that ire has convinced me that I need to write a letter.  I want an answer and I want to know why.  I’m not naive, so I know that any answer will most likely have something to do with money, but it just doesn’t really make sense to me, you know?  Are these the measures a national supply chain must take to deliberately deflate the price of a package of herbs to $1.49?  Well, I don’t know if I like it.

Until next time…

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that nutrition-based food claims make me more than a little uncomfortable.

It seems that for every “scientific” paper that proves the benefits of consuming a certain type of food or nutrient, there are still others disputing it.  In a way it’s no different than the claims made by the multi-billion dollar diet industry bent on pushing yet another new faddy regimen.  Every few months new research surfaces to show that some thing (that until recently had been a workaday foodstuff) has been catapulted out of obscurity and into the limelight.  At times it makes me wonder if all of these studies are in some way connected to each food’s saavy marketing board…

In the last few decades, we’ve had studies revering margarine and vilifying butter.  Years later, butter faced a (luke-warm) reprieve, if only due to the fact that research arose stating that margarine had gross things like trans fats in it.  Then there was the jump on the olive oil bandwagon, backed up by research into the healthful Mediterranean diet.  And on, and on, ad naseum.

Which then prompted a string of books about why one culture’s diet was better than another, including French Women Don’t Get Fat, (a book a well-meaning friend once brought me to stave off boredom while I was sick) that among other things advocates living off a watery leek broth when you’ve overindulged (real healthy… snerk!)  Or the (more than a little smug) rebuttal Japanese Women Don’t Get Old Or Fat, which I bought for the express purpose of seeing what exactly they would claim was better in their “lifestyle” book than the French one, but 3 years later, I’ve yet to get past page 2.

The revolving door of nutritional recommendations doesn’t stop there, either.

Remember how eggs used to be described as the perfect food?  If you do, then you’ll also remember contrasting studies that state they’re full of cholesterol and not good for you, too.

Or there’s milk, another so-called “complete” protein, combated by people who claim that milk isn’t meant for human consumption, postulating that the large portion of the global population who are lactose intolerant amply prove that fact.

And we can’t forget one of my most favourite products in the prescripto-food spectrum; what I’ve been lovingly referring to for years as “poo yogurt”.  In Canada, I think it started with Danone’s Activia, which contains some ridiculous bacteria they named “bl regularis”, which is a subtly un-subtle way of trying to convince people that this yogurt will help your digestive system with poops.  Sounds like a load of crap (pardon the pun) don’t you think?  Combine it with those moronic commercials where some idiotic woman is belly-dancing around her home or office while eating the yogurt, plus an animation involving lots of yellow moving arrows, and you’ll see why I think it’s a bunch of bunk.  In fact, Danone was sued last year over the fact that their own research didn’t support their supposed “functional food” claims.  Way to do your homework, guys!

Moving beyond manufactured food, blueberries became a “superfood” due to the tiny, bursting orbs’ composition of antioxidants, anthocyanins and various other beneficial compounds.  Cranberries were supposedly high on the scale, too.  Then came pomegranate-pushing, hyped by the Pom Wonderful people, and not far behind, the Brazilian superfruit; the acai berry.  After acai, there was the goji berry, and since then there’ve been chia seeds and yumberries and (I imagine) a whole slew of other products I’ve never even heard of yet.

Big business is listening too, intent on cashing in.  Haagen Dazs makes acai berry sorbet and pomegranate ice cream in the States, and you can find either of those in most yogurts and juice or smoothie blends at the grocery store today.  In fact, I first learned about acai about 4 years ago when I ordered an acai smoothie at Booster Juice after a particularly vigorous workout.  But, unlike most people, I didn’t continue to slurp it because of it’s life-giving potential.  No, I started consuming it regularly because it was the only fruit I’d ever tasted that had a flavour profile similar to chocolate.  After a few months though, I gave it up like a dirty shirt.  Chocolate-flavoured fruit that’s only grown in the Amazon don’t come cheap, after all.  I only recently picked up some freeze-dried powder to include in a cardamom blueberry acai jam I was making, and the $30/100 g pricetag still makes me second guess the purchase.  And at the Toronto Home Show recently, the Everyman and I sampled pure bottled acai juice from some random company, but at $40 a bottle (750 mL) with a “recommended” dosage of 4 ounces a day, that wasn’t a pricetag I was willing to swallow.  I’ll have to stick to my jam to reap the benefits of acai, I guess.  Or just enjoy jam for being jam that tastes like chocolate.  And my jam?  Well, it’s delicious, but it’s not going to make me smarter or stop me from getting cancer.  Coincidentally, Crofter’s also began marketing a line of superfruit jams, each packed with a different blend of superfoods, but from what I’ve seen, it’s not so marketed with health claims, so much as taking advantage of the general hype around them.

So, in closing, if you buy into all of the hype about superfoods, I suppose there’s no harm in taking part in them.  At a bare minimum, it seems to be that many have been fruits and vegetables over the years, and as far as I’m concerned, there’s never anything wrong with increasing your intake of either.  However, if you’re buying processed yogurt and ice cream and candies and smoothies and sweets just because they include some kind of superfood, well there’s a certain old fashioned saying that I think might be applicable to you…

A fool and his money are easily parted.

Let’s do our best to not let these giant corporations take us for fools.

Until next time…

Some might consider that overkill (and they wouldn’t be wrong), especially since my approach to food shopping is not at all European, or in the style of purchasing only what I require at the time.  Over the course of the past few months I’ve progressively whittled the number of markets I attend down to one regular Saturday morning trip.  For someone like me, with a constant desire to have it all, that’s no small feat.  But it was made somewhat easier once I started to open my eyes and discard my naiveté about our markets and how they are generally operated.

Year after year, the number of farmers continues to dwindle as society becomes more technologically advanced and urbanified, yet they must exist somewhere, otherwise who is growing our food?  A great, bitter and secret irony in Ontario is that many of the people that you’ll find at your local farmer’s market aren’t actually farmers at all, because strangely enough, not all markets require such a criteria of their vendors.  While it’s true that the artisan purveyors at the market have been on the downswing for a while, one thing I always had faith in was the fact that the person selling me my food at the market was connected to it in some way.  Unfortunately, in a lot of cases those people lounging around under tents in parking lots and wooded areas are just as likely to have picked up that produce at the local food terminal as they were to have harvested it themselves.  I’d read about the prevalence of this dishonesty elsewhere before, but stubbornly refused to believe it was true.  Yet, the more I started to inquire about the provenance of the food or a vendor’s involvement in producing it, the fewer answers I was left with.  The last straw finally came when I asked a “farmer” what variety of vegetables they were selling and how they were grown, and all I was met with was a blank stare. Any farmer worth their salt or the products in their pickup could tell you which varietals they sweat blood and tears growing for the last few months. Or weeks later when I showed up to another notable market, only to find bananas (not a product that grows in Canada, even) and sweet corn (this was in the beginning of June before the corn would have even been tall enough to eat) available on the tables.  And if these faux-farmers are just buying up skids at the food terminal, how is that any different than if I were to purchase said food at a supermarket?  My faith in the process having taken a hit, I immediately stopped shopping at any vendors that were unable to provide answers to the simplest of questions.  In effect, if they are selling that food under false pretences, why should I believe any other claims they might make about it, like whether it’s local or organic?  How is one to know?

In Toronto a body of concerned citizens exists to vet the farmers that sell at their markets; they formed an organization in 2007 called My Market, and their goal is to ensure that the people selling you the food are the people who grow that food, which also helps to certify that the food is actually local.  The My Market locations (there are 5) are not exclusively organic, but they are a step in the right direction towards keeping our food dollars within the community.  The market that I visit each week happens to be a My Market, and while there are a few things that seem to be missing (decent bread, a meat or sausage vendor and blueberries) the motley group of 10 to 12 vendors are always happy and friendly, and exhibit exorbitant amounts of passion when discussing their wares.  Not only will they talk your ear off about the latest assortment of fruit and veg from their farms, but they have the dirt under their nails and smeared over their boots to prove it.  In this day and age, authenticity still counts for something, after all.

And that is something I can feel good about.  So now you know where I spend my Saturday mornings, but what about you?

Until next time…

We started our relationship by going on a roadtrip to Ottawa for a concert, then to Cuba for a friend’s wedding, but the last true vacation was to Panama in 2007.  Last year we did a few 4 day jaunts to the US, but they’re kind of a tease because as soon as you start getting relaxed you have to turn around and go home again.  We’ve been meaning to take some time off this year, but between the two of us starting new jobs within the last 9 months, it never seemed like the right time.  We’ve done a few long weekends this summer, but haven’t gone any further than our recent drive to Bradford for the Outstanding In The Field dinner.  This year, it’s been all about the staycation thus far, unfortunately.

We’ve been discussing a few potential places for several months, having narrowed it down to a long weekend in the Carolinas, a 7 to 10 day journey to Spain, and the decadent CuisinArt Spa in Anguilla.  The Carolinas might still be possible this year, but Spain requires a bit of advanced planning, since I’d have to visit El Bulli and the reservation wait list is notoriously long.  I’ve been thinking I should put our names down now for next year, even. On the other hand, the CuisinArt Spa is prohibitively expensive, so I don’t think we’ll be going there any time soon, but it’s certainly nice to dream.

Earlier this summer I wanted to take a short sojourn to Montreal or Ottawa during some time off, but the Everyman claimed ignorance once the time came, so we didn’t end up going anywhere.  When he happened to come home last week and tell me that we were going to go to Quebec City for Labour Day weekend, I was ecstatic.  Before even contemplating any sites to see or things to do, I hit up the Quebec Chowhound board to mine for edible recommendations.  I do enjoy travelling, but realistically, tourism is just something I tend to do between meals, which are really the star attraction for me.  One thing I’ve come to realize about myself is that no matter where we’re planning to go, the first thing I have to nail down is where I’m going to eat.  It’s the mark of a true foodie, I suppose…

We’ll be arriving on Friday around lunchtime, and returning to Toronto on Monday around the same time, so that leaves us with 9 whole meal opportunities!  So far, I’ve managed to gather 7 recommendations in the vicinity of our hotel (Chateau Frontenac) from haute cuisine to café fare, but I imagine we’ll just be stopping in to random places that we find.  Because we both have allergies and very rusty French, we have to be somewhat vigilant about not patronizing restaurants that do not provide English menus, because there’s always the chance that we’ll miss something and fall ill.  I had wanted to go to either Restaurant Toast! or L’Utopie, but the Everyman wasn’t a fan of the menu at Toast, and L’Utopie’s website does not have anything listed in English, so we’ll have to see once we get there.  It’s sort of a drag, because I was really looking forward to going to one of them, but I hear the food at Le Clocher Penche, Le Pain Beni, Cochon Dingue and Le Billig is fabulous, so hopefully I won’t be missing much.  The Everyman’s brother and wife did a trip to Quebec City for their anniversary recently, and they said the food was fantastic, but everything was over the top rich, to the point that by the end all they wanted was salad.  I’m hoping to mitigate that excess by sourcing a few vegetarian options for lunches, or alternatively packing an impromptu picnic or two.  Regardless, I’m sure the easy access to poutine and pain au chocolat will mean I’m 10 pounds fatter by the time we come home, but sacrifices must be made.  It’s a good thing I’ve been eating all this vegetarian food lately, I guess!

Of course, if any of you out there on the interwebs have recommendations, I am all ears!  Just drop a line in the comments, it would be much appreciated.

Until next time…

It makes me laugh sometimes, because I’m sure there are a lot of people who would look at our kitchen and think that it’s pretty close to ideal (and it is) but when you live and work in it every day, eventually you pick up on the shortcomings and faults.

Chief amongst those downsides for me would be the lack of a double sink.  When I lived on my own (pre-Everyman) I got so used to that small luxury that when we moved in together it was one of the things I ended up resenting about our shoebox apartment (that and the gaudy Scarface-esque rose-tinted mirrored walls, and chipped granite floors.  A spacious kitchen was always in the plans when we were condo/house shopping a few years back, and even though I knew I wanted it, the sink ended up being one of a million tiny details that I wasn’t paying attention to.  Not that I would’ve walked away from our place because of it when it came down to decision time.  Of course, since our countertops are stainless steel, it’s not exactly the easiest thing to refit the kitchen with a new sink, either.

Another thing our kitchen lacks is a sizable pantry.  We have 5 standard over the fridge or under the counter cabinets, but I’m a hardcore cook; I come with a plethora of gear.  My kitchen tools, dishes and implements take up 4 of the 5 cabinets, plus one whole windowsill, which only leaves one small 3 shelf cabinet for dry staples.  We have a minuscule broom closet that could theoretically be converted into a small pantry, if I weren’t using it to hang coils of my home-cured sausages.

The third thing that’s missing is an island.  When we first saw our condo, it was staged and they had a movable island set up in the empty space between the kitchen and the living area, so I just sort of assumed that once we moved in we’d get one.  In an attempt to keep the flow of the space open we’ve since decided against this, but it also means that I have nowhere to centre a well-placed ceiling pot rack to free up that valuable cupboard space.

Other than those 3 small nuisances, our kitchen is practically perfect, though my dream kitchen for our next house has been shaped by nagging kitchen covetousness.  One of our neighbours a few doors over has a droolworthy wood-burning oven situated in their backyard, one which I have contemplated hopping the half dozen fences between our properties to use late at night.  Due to that, (plus a trip to my in-laws friend’s where a wood-burning hearth formed the central heating system for their cottage) a wood oven has now become a near necessity.  It might take me until I’m retired and living in the country pickin’ beans, but dammit, some day I will have one!

In recent years a secondary oven has also become something of a want; one that I didn’t grasp the convenience of until I met the Everyman’s mom.  Not only does she have a second oven, but it happens to be installed at their home-away-from-home cottage – making it perfect for hosting large holiday celebrations.  In general it just seems like a smart (if luxurious) idea that would aid in expedited baking.

An ever-increasing appreciation for the art of charcuterie practically guarantees that my next home will have a workable area to use as a curing room or cave that’s far enough away from cat toilets so as not to taint my precious meats.  I still don’t know much about what makes a space ideal for this, but at this point, anything’s got to be a step up from my broom closet and kitchen window, right?

My biggest wish and greatest love crystallized after I saw the episode of Alton Brown’s Feasting On Waves where they tour the CuisinArt Spa in Anguilla; specifically their amazing greenhouse.  Some day I hope my home will have a tremendous conservatory where I can grow delicious edibles and tropicals year round.  Though it’s quaint and reminds me of too many hours spent playing Clue, it is the one truly outrageous desire I have for my forever home.  Silly perhaps, but nobody ever said I wasn’t a dreamer.

So, that’s it!  No doubt a few of these are somewhat niche, but I’d rather have any of them than a kitchen full of Sub Zero, Wolf or Gaggenau any day.  Because really, if you’re not a very good cook to begin with, it doesn’t matter if your range cost you $400 or $40,000?  Have you ever noticed how a lot of people who have those fancy schmancy designer kitchens never even cook in them, anyway?  To that I say, what a shame.

Care to share what sort of kitchen toys top your wishlist?

Until next time…

In a way, I suppose I was destined to become a foodie, though at the time I wouldn’t have thought so…

When I was around 4 or 5, I was standing on a chair at the stove, watching my older sister preparing something delicious for me to eat.  Completely oblivious, I put my hand down on the glaring red element to reach for a cookie jar in the cupboard above the stove.  Lesson number one; always pay attention in the kitchen.

I recall how my parents used to refer to me as “chipmunk cheeks” because this foodie never liked to eat.  I’d sit at the dinner table for hours, stuffing my face until my cheeks ballooned.  My parents would often attempt to wait me out and sit there trying to coerce me into eating my supper, but eventually they would give up, leaving me alone at the table to finish, at which point I would spit all of the food into my napkin and flush it down the toilet.  Lesson number two; not everything that is put in front of you is worth eating.

Being sick always meant I got my two favourite foods; buttered bagels and chocolate ice cream, and a chance to watch Mary Poppins on the living room couch.  I’d like to think I was ahead of the curve on that whole dipping fries into chocolate shakes trend, as I used to dip my bagels into the melty ice cream.  Lesson number three; sweet and savoury do mix.

I never got to see my mom.  She worked as a chef, which meant she slept before I left for school, and was gone by the time I made it home.  On rare occasions I was allowed to visit her at the restaurant, which has always stuck with me.  I’d sit at a banquette near the back, happily slurping down the best food the 80′s had to offer a 5 year old pipsqueak like me; tri-coloured rotini with spicy sweet honey garlic Italian sausage.  Yum!  Lesson number four; pasta will please any child.

There was also “Ma”, a friend of my parents who owned Sneaky Dee’s with her husband, who used to look after me in the afternoons a lot, and made the most transcendently gooey grilled cheese.  She’d fry them up in pools of butter so that the resulting sandwich was golden, greasy and enigmatic.  I’ve never managed to replicate it (probably best for my health) but the Everyman’s version comes pretty darn close, even though he never uses butter at all.  Lesson number five; simplicity is key.

Most of my traumatic food experiences came from my mom’s home-cooked Trinidadian food.  The majority of the dishes I love today, but one never managed to win me over as a fan, a salted cod, stewed tomatoes and peppers concoction which still causes me to retch when I think about it.  I do fondly recall when my mom would make roti shells by hand, standing at the stove and slapping them back and forth between her hands to stretch them out.  Lesson number six; palates change.

After my parents divorced and my Dad and I moved to Winnipeg, he would drop me off at my Grandma’s place whenever he needed a reprieve from his precocious 8 year old.  Grandma and I would cook and bake together, and she would teach me how to make things like dutchess potatoes, or bring out her album of cake pictures from the years when she owned a bakery.  A great deal of my love of cooking stems from the times I spent with her, because she always knew how to make it fun.  She was a formidable woman, and no matter how naughty I was, she spoke to me as a young lady and gave me small pieces of diabetic candy.  Lesson number seven; the love of good food is inter-generational.

Living with my dad meant I had to suffer through his limited cooking repertoire.  He always tried really hard, but most of what he served was not particularly good.  The one dish I liked a great deal was his ode to chicken almandine.  He would saute chopped chicken, then coat the pan with white wine and a bit of butter or margarine, then top it all off with slivers of almonds and serve it on a bed of buttery white rice.  Simple, yes, but completely soul satisfying.  For years afterwards one of my favourite comfort foods was a plain old bowl of buttered white rice.  Lesson number eight; everyone has one dish they can make better than anyone else.

After a time my mother and stepdad moved to Oakville to open a pub called The Lord Nelson.  I could only visit on weekends, but while I was there I was allowed to help out in the kitchen, which is when I realized how much I loved food and my stepfather’s curried crab salad.  It’s a shame that I am no longer able to enjoy that anymore, as I don’t think it would be anywhere near the same if I made it with allergy-approved surimi.  Feeling guilty about not spending any time with me, my mom would spend her short breaks taking me down the street to an Italian trattoria for tiramisu.  Lesson number nine; food heals all wounds.

Then when I was 14 I was caught shoplifting at the mall, and my penance was that I was shipped off to my mom and stepdad’s next culinary endeavour for the summer, a restaurant in Dorset called The Hollow Valley.  I spent long, hard hours working in the kitchen and doing plenty of menial tasks.  I spent most of the summer chipping buckets of potatoes for french fries until the day I accidentally let the handle on the chipper slip and almost ended up cutting off my fingers.  At that point I was relegated to dishwashing and more refined methods of kitchen prep, working up to the day I was allowed to prepare one of the weekly specials.  Wednesdays were mine, and I made many tasty and quaint quiches, served with a side of fresh greens.  It was during that summer that my stepfather introduced me to the joys of rare burgers, something that I’ve been unable to get anywhere outside of my house, but nonetheless haunt my dreams with their juicy, succulent meatiness.  Lesson number ten; incremental kitchen victories are the best way to instill cooking confidence.

Lastly, I recall how throughout all of the years that my mother was a chef, I very rarely saw her eat.  Now that I cook as much as I do, I see the same habit emerging in myself.  Once I’ve spent so much time cooking for others or babysitting a finicky meal, the last thing I want to do is eat it.  Strange and ironic, but it’s the sacrifice we sometimes make to nourish those we love.  Lesson number eleven; providing TLC through food is not without its sacrifices.

So, as you can see, I learned a great many lessons from my interaction with food from childhood through adolescence.  They not only shaped my outlook and perspective on food but how I behave in the kitchen today.

Do you have any food wisdom from your childhood that you’d care to share?  We’re all ears here at Foodie and the Everyman.

Until next time…