When the Ordinary Becomes Extraordinary

"Food is not about impressing people. It's about making them feel comfortable."

-- Ina Garten
"The Barefoot Contessa"


It will come as no surprise to you that I love to watch The Food Network. Just this past weekend I happened to see part of a program about the creation of a gourmet supermarket in Toronto. It appears to be enormous in size, that's for sure, but since it is still under construction I can only try to imagine what the finished entity will be like, or what products will be proudly on display.

After all, there already seems to be a plethora of up-scale supermarkets just bursting at the seams with exotic grocery items. And, honestly, even the most basic stores now carry a vast array of foods and products that our mothers (or grandmothers) would never have dreamed of finding on the shelf.

I know that my own children's concept of 'ordinary food' would have seemed outrageously exotic to me as a child. Our small town in rural Southwestern Ontario was pretty much cut off from the delights of international cuisine. Except, of course, for the obligatory Chinese restaurant uptown (always 'uptown', never 'downtown') which sported the not-so-traditional Chinese name, "The Esquire Restaurant'. Even so, dining there would no doubt have at least opened up my mind and my taste buds just a little, however we never ate there. No, my parents were pretty solid on the idea that eating in restaurants was horribly wasteful and needlessly extravagant. Eating was what you did at home.

Flash forward a few decades and my kids grew up thinking nothing of eating Chinese stir-fries, Mexican tacos and quesadillas, Italian lasagne and other pasta dishes, as well as the big favourite - Indian curries. These dishes are so familiar to them that they take them as common and ordinary and not in the least exotic. And I expect the astonishingly extensive offerings of today's supermarkets must seem pretty commonplace as well.

But the world I lived in as a child in the late fifties and early sixties was a very different world indeed. For instance, I spent my entire childhood never once having seen the inside of a supermarket. I had, in fact, never even heard the word 'supermarket' and I'm not sure it even existed back then. What we had in our town was one, and only one, 'grocery store'. It was small, it was plain, it didn't carry any 'fancy-schmancy' foodstuffs; and it was owned by a local couple whom everyone who shopped there knew personally.

So why wasn't I familiar with this essential town business? Because not only did I never have occasion to visit there, neither did my mother. How could that be? Well, my mother never did learn to drive and had five children at home, so her solution was to simply write out a shopping list during the week and then phone in her order on Friday mornings. Then, each Friday afternoon a truck would pull up in front of our house and a delivery man would drop off one, or maybe even two, boxes of groceries.

Our meals were quite plain and extremely predictable. Certainly no herbs or spices were ever used and never, ever any garlic. They were really such a far cry from most of the dishes I enjoy today. But, even so, we always seem to have such an incredibly strong and comforting connection to the foods that fueled our childhoods. I hear this over and over again from all sorts of people, no matter where in the world they grew up. It seems to be a universal truth.

Last week my sister, Sandy, mentioned that she was planning to make an old-fashioned meatloaf recipe that she and Mom had made together about 20 years ago when Mom had travelled to northern B.C. for a visit. Sandy said it had smelled wonderful while cooking and then tasted even more delicious. Plus, it had the extra appeal of reminding her of long-ago childhood meals. Sandy liked it so much she continued to make it over the years, although since she became vegetarian she has used "Yves Veggie Ground Round" instead of the ground beef.

Last Friday, the temperature suddenly plummeted and it was raining as well; a dark and gloomy day more like mid-November than the beginning of May. After work, I knew Mark would be heading out from Goderich to my place in London, through this wretched weather - and on his motorcycle. I knew he would be needing something nice and hot to warm up his frigid bones.

I decided to shop at a supermarket on the way home and pick up the necessary ingredients for Sandy's recipe. When I got home, Mark had just arrived, so while he changed into dry clothes and tried to get his circulation going again, I busied myself with cooking. In no time at all I had whipped up the veggie 'meatloaf', some creamy mashed potatoes with vegetarian brown gravy, some mixed vegetables with cheese sauce, and a bowl of fresh cole slaw. Mom would have been proud!

And, my goodness, it was wonderful! Mark felt warmed and rejuvenated and my son, Daniel, pronounced the loaf delicious and actually surprisingly 'meaty'.

As for me, just before sitting down to eat, I looked out of the dining room window at the cold and the rain and the wind and I shivered. Then, I began to eat my steaming hot and homey dinner and I felt a familiar warmth washing over me. This was comfort food at its best; I just loved it! And although I could still hear the noise of the swirling winds outside, I also came very, very close to hearing the sounds of my dear mother, bustling away happily - way, way back in my cozy childhood kitchen.

Cheers!

Diane


Here is a link to my sister, Sandy's well-used recipe, compliments of "Uncle Ben's".

http://www.unclebens.ca/en-ca/Recipes/RecipeFinder.aspx#RecipeID=2245

I think it would be much, much better with "Yves Original Ground Round", but that's only my opinion. (And Sandy's!)

Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries

"He who likes cherries soon learns to climb."

-- German Proverb



If you could suddenly transport yourself to Japan this week, do you know what you'd most likely end up doing? Probably a good deal of exotic 'sakura hanami', and loving every minute of it.

No need to blush, now. In fact, if you happened to bring your children along for the trip, they could happily participate as well.

'Sakura' is the Japanese word for cherry tree and 'hanami' means blossom viewing. I think it's quite lovely that the Japanese have a specific word devoted to the concept of taking the time to enjoy the beauty of cherry blossoms. Their incredible beauty lasts only such a short time that it is considered vital in Japan to stop everything and simply observe them carefully, allowing the joy of the experience to deliciously wash over you.

According to an observer, "The Japanese cherry does not have to produce a market crop because it is a born aristocrat and its single mission is to be beautiful. But it does render a very useful service to the people." (www.canada.com)

Shizuko Mishima (www.gojapan.about.com) writes: "Hanami and cherry blossom festivals are held all over Japan in spring. In hanami parties, people have fun, drinking, eating, and singing during the day or night. It is like a picnic under sakura trees. Usually, people bring food, do BBQ, or buy food from vendors for hanami parties."

Well, I have never been to a hanami, but I do have some amazing memories of our family's own 'cherry blossom festival' back when I was a child.

We lived in a small town at the end of a very long street, in a home that happened to have quite a bit of property. And we were fortunate enough to have had five beautiful cherry trees in our yard! Four were in the back yard, and one - the biggest and the best - was at the far corner of the land extending from the side of the house to the road.

We never ate BBQs, or picnics, or even snacks under our cherry trees. As they were prolific producers of baskets and baskets of fresh, ripe, red cherries, we kids just did the sensible thing. We climbed up into the trees and ate cherries.

It was so much fun! Sitting up on branches in the trees, legs dangling from tree limbs, chatting away and laughing with siblings or friends while picking and eating cherries and spitting the pits onto the ground. It was like a private, cool, leafy tree-house - a wonderfully fun and private 'kid world' all our own.

My Dad always looked after the trees; carefully pruning away dried bits and keeping them safe, and healthy, and looking their best. He knew very well that our family could never hope to consume all of the fruit produced and that it wouldn't take very long for the birds to discover such bounty. He encouraged us to eat as many cherries as we liked, and he was also kind enough to encourage the neighbourhood kids to help themselves as well.

In those days, it seems we were outside as much as possible, roaming around the neighbourhood and exploring, making up games and pastimes as we went along. It wasn't unusual for kids to be yelled at by adults for 'trespassing' on their property and one of the games was certainly seeing just how far you could go without being caught.

But my Dad was never like that and I was awfully proud of him for that. He was so kind and friendly to the neighbourhood kids, and welcomed them to climb the trees, eat the cherries, and even take all they could back to their mothers so they could make cherry pies. I could tell the other kids were a little surprised, but absolutely delighted, by the silly things he would say to amuse them. Like: "Now, if you fall out of that tree and break your leg, don't come running to me!" That always produced a roar of laughter.

In the years since my Dad has been gone, I have had several occasions where people have approached me and told me that they were one of those kids back then. And they have invariably gone on to say how much Dad's kindness and generosity meant to them. And that made me feel even more proud.

I mentioned cherry pies just now, and I couldn't possibly end this post without telling you that my Mom made absolutely the very best and most perfect cherry pies in the known universe. That's a fact. I can so vividly remember her standing at our kitchen counter, whipping up the flakiest, most delectible pastry ever, in no time at all. What a fantastic memory! In my mind's nose I can still smell the intoxicating aroma of her cherry pies baking in our oven. Absolute heaven. I never eat cherry pies now. Why would I? The memory is enough.


Cheers!

Diane


As a child, every year at this time the cherry blossoms would bloom - exactly at the time of my brother Bill's birthday - May 5th - which is today. For as far back as I can remember, whenever I think of cherry trees, or cherry blossoms, I think of him. Happy Birthday, Bill!

And now I have a new person to think about as well. My dear friend, Winona, has a lovely daughter, Melanie, who is turning 10 today. Double digits! Cause for a celebration. Melanie is a bright young lady and a very gifted writer. Keep on writing, Melanie! The world needs to hear your voice.



This week's photo and recipe are courtesy of:

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/dried-cherry-cake/detail.aspx

It looks like a fantastic cake and I am keen to try it. My long-time friend, MaryAnn, has shared her absolute passion for dried cherries with me and I have to agree wholeheartedly. They are fantastic! And so, for Bill, and Melanie, and MaryAnn - this cake is for you. I hope you enjoy it!

"And Now for Something Completely Different!"

"It all comes back to the basic. Serve customers the best-tasting food at a good value in a clean, comfortable restaurant, and they'll keep coming back."

-- Dave Thomas




It seems to me that people tend to spend their lives walking a figurative tightrope between two extremes: comfort and adventure.

Some of us absolutely crave excitement and consistently shun the comforts of life in order to chase yet another adrenaline-charged thrill. And for others, the mere thought of such risk-taking behaviours gives us not a thrill, but a chill down our spines.

Between these opposites, I would imagine that the majority of us spend our lives somewhere in the middle; being seduced by the soothing comfort of familiar faces, places, and routines. But every once in awhile, we feel a desire to (however mildly) shake things up a bit.

Well, anyone who knows me personally at all will have no trouble choosing the category in which I feel the most comfortable. And for those of you who have yet to meet me, I have just given away the answer. I put a great value on safety, calm, and comfort, but as I said earlier, sometimes I pine for "something completely different."

This past weekend, Mark and I drove to Port Huron, Michigan, for an outing, really, and to do a little shopping - mostly grocery shopping. We headed out early (for us) on Saturday morning, stopping to pick up a take-away coffee before leaving the city. It was a pleasant drive and it was mid-morning when we arrived, at last, in Port Huron.

We found ourselves very hungry for breakfast by then, so naturally we wheeled straight in to the parking lot of the 'Daybreak Cafe' which I lauded in an earlier post. We were scarcely able to find a parking spot and we were worried that this was not a good sign. It was, in fact, a good sign for the Cafe as the restaurant was completely full and there was a line-up right up to the front door. It seemed as though the wait would be quite long and we would have been happy to endure it, but the woman ahead of us was so heavily perfumed that we just couldn't manage it.

Once outside, we decided that maybe we should, after all, be a little more adventurous and try another restaurant. We spied "Ted's Coney Island Diner" just down the street, so we set off optimistically. It actually sounded kind of cool. As we walked to the main entrance, we looked through the windows at the practically empty restaurant, and our optimism began to fade a bit. And when we walked inside and were greeted by a theatrical exhalation of smoke by a leathery-faced woman, we both turned and quickly walked out again without saying a word.

What should we do now? Well, there was a "Big Boy" restaurant across the street so we waited for the traffic to die down, then trotted across. It didn't look very appealing. And when the hostess asked us if we preferred 'smoking' or 'non-smoking' we hesitated, then chose 'non-smoking' and sat down with sinking hearts. We didn't like the fact that people were smoking just around the corner and it was a little unsettling. But when the waitress told us that there was, in fact, no breakfast menu, but a breakfast buffet over in the 'smoking' section, our decision was made for us and we quickly scurried out the door.

Back over to the 'Daybreak Cafe' where we found the line-up was gone, and we were seated right away. Ah! Familiar surroundings! Familiar great food! Warm and friendly staff! All that and fresh, hot coffee being constantly topped off. A little bit of breakfast heaven.

The rest of the long day we spent browsing through various stores and doing some shopping and were so busy and having so much fun that we didn't as much as stop for a drink of water. By dinnertime we were both feeling dehydrated and hungry and looking to sit down and relax a bit before organizing all of our purchases and heading home.

It was funny, but as much as we both wanted the comfort of the 'Daybreak' at breakfast, we both craved to eat dinner somewhere new. Somewhere different. Somewhere a little more exciting. And we both had the same idea at once. (As we so often do.)

About a year or so ago, when we were staying in Port Huron for the weekend, we had gone out for dinner at an Italian Restaurant on the Saturday evening, and had gone for a long walk afterward before heading back to the hotel. On the walk we happened upon "The Raven" - a coffeehouse, a pub, a restaurant - and it looked wonderfully appealing. We were delighted with the decor, the ambience, and the soft jazz music and were hoping to linger awhile over exotic coffees and soak in the atmosphere. Unfortunately, they were closing soon and not accepting any new customers. We walked out disappointed, but knew for sure we'd be back one day.

And that day was last Saturday. 'The Raven' is an amazing place! The owner took an old, broken-down building from the Civil War era, completely gutted it, and painstakingly transformed it into a 'magical' place that feels somewhere between an ancient pub in a quaint British village, and a cool, hip coffeehouse/restaurant somewhere in Greenwich Village. and it is, blissfully, smoke-free.

This is how their lovely brochure describes the atmosphere: "Adding to the richness of the interior decor are the stained glass facade windows....These are set off by the colorful tiffany lighting, eye-catching gargoyles and statuary, a virtual library of antique and classic books and dozens of eclectic photographic and poster art prints, secured from the poster galleries of Manhattan.....These elements are tied together by architectural designs incorporating an array of angles, elevations and special spaces, including an upper balcony level with a rear outside deck providing a view of the St. Clair and Black Rivers."

They have a seven page menu featuring real food!! Fresh local ingredients served in interesting, creative, and delicious ways. And they don't even have a deep fryer. Hallelujah!

Mark and I had a wonderful time at 'The Raven'. It was absolutely one of the most memorable places I have ever dined. It was incredibly interesting - so much to look at and talk about. Our waiter was superb; perfectly gracious and seemingly relaxed and in such a good mood, even though the place was hopping and he was seriously busy. And the food was absolutely exquisite. Even now, several days later, I can't stop thinking about our visit to 'The Raven.' It was fun, fun, fun!

I think Dave Thomas knew what he was talking about. 'The Raven' seems to be doing everything right. It is like nothing I've ever seen or experienced before. I strongly encourage any of you who are able to go there, to go. You will be enchanted. I know we were. And we simply can't wait to dine there again. And the next time, we will plan to stay over so we can dash back in the morning for breakfast. Sorry, 'Daybreak', but we're on a roll.

Cheers!

Diane


For my meal, I enjoyed a "Grilled Hummus Veggie Wrap". Now, having been a vegetarian for over 40 years now, I have eaten my fair share of veggie wraps, but nothing else could compare with the sheer deliciousness of this one. I don't have an actual recipe, of course, so I can only share the description on their menu:

"Your choice of our traditional or roasted red bell pepper hummus (my choice) with leaf lettuce, tomato, onion and cucumber in our sun dried tomato tortilla." They don't say, but my guess is that they also added salt and pepper and some chopped fresh cilantro. The wrap is all folded up nice and neatly, then grilled to perfection. The tortilla has slight char marks making it extra tasty, while the inside stays nice and chilled and crisp. A wonderful combination. I certainly plan to try it myself. And soon!

Please check out 'The Raven's' website for more information, and for more inspiration to make a trip there:

http://www.ravencafeph.com

This week's photos and recipe are courtesy of "The Raven", Port Huron, Michigan.


(The expression, "And now for something completely different" is, of course, from Monty Python's Flying Circus. Now, these were certainly lads who knew how to keep expanding their horizons!)

Sitting at the World's Table

"Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."

-- Sophia Loren



For the past six years, since I moved to the city, I have spent most Monday evenings volunteering to help new immigrants practise speaking English. It has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. Each week I have the opportunity to sit around a table at the Central Library and talk, listen, and laugh with an ever-changing group of people from all over the globe.

Over the years, I have noticed the differing patterns of immigration to London. In the early years, most of our newcomers were from Colombia; that was a very broad wave indeed. There are, in fact, so many Colombian immigrants here now that London has earned the nickname "Londombia." French may very well be the other Canadian official language, but you won't hear much French spoken on the streets of London. Our second language is Spanish.

Other years there have been more newcomers from Africa and the Middle East. There are always quite a few Asians, especially those from South Korea. And a few years ago, we enjoyed a large number of highly energized and hilarious young men from Japan. We don't generally have many Europeans, although at the moment we have a couple of great young European women.

I smile whenever I remember a particular European woman who decided to shake things up a bit and move to Canada from France. She had originally moved to Quebec so she could continue speaking her own language but she was quite shocked to find that the Quebecois spoke a very different sort of French. In fact, in her opinion, it was an inferior dialect so corrupted that she had a hard time listening to it without becoming intensely annoyed. She steadfastly refused to speak that way, held firmly to her Parisian French, and as a result succeeded in really annoying the Quebecois in her life who felt she was deliberately trying to sound 'uppity'.

In the end, she decided to solve the problem by moving to Ontario and learning English. At first it was practically impossible to converse with her because she knew so little English, and when six months went by and we hadn't seen her, I thought perhaps she had given up and moved back to France. But, no, she hadn't. She reappeared one Monday evening looking very bright and happy AND speaking English so well it was mind-boggling. I immediately asked her what on earth she had been doing to have achieved such an incredible improvement. Her eyes began to sparkle as she rather coquettishly replied, "O! Mon Dieu! I 'av foun' a English boyfren!"

It truly is a remarkable experience to be able to sit and talk with people who have come here from all over the earth. Every week the mix changes and that really makes it interesting. It feels something like a mini-U.N., but on a very casual and friendly level. It is a wonderful opportunity to explore a bit of the world without having to leave town.

The purpose of our 'Conversation Circle' sessions is simply that - to enjoy conversations with each other. And these conversations are a lot like our lunchroom chats at work. The topics vary widely and they constantly bounce all over the place. There is, however, one topic that pops up again, and again, and again, and never fails to elicit enthusiastic participation. And that is the subject of food.

Everyone loves to eat, and many people love to cook as well. It doesn't matter where people have come from, they always seem to become more passionate in their speech and their mannerisms when talking about their favourite foods and dishes from their homelands. We learn a lot about different food traditions, listen to stories about special occasions or humorous events - all revolving around food.

Sometimes recipes are shared. And on occasion, a few of us have had to dash upstairs to the cookbook section of the library to track down a dish that a newcomer loves dearly and wants to tell us about, but is unable to come up with a description in English. I have also had several participants bring me gifts of traditional foods and that is always a wonderful treat.

Two weeks ago I was at the table with the two lovely young European women I mentioned earlier. Adriana is a Hungarian formerly living in Slovakia, and Alessandra is an Italian, but very proudly from Sardinia. As usual, that evening we talked a lot about food. And what a fun conversation that was! Adrianna and Alessandra are very charming women whose extremely positive energy is quite a joy just to be around. They each have such a sparkling wit - even while speaking English! - that we spend a lot of time in thralls of laughter.

This particular evening, Alessandra was telling us about a traditional Sardinian dish - 'linguine al pesto' - and she was making us all very hungry with her description. She wondered if she could buy a pot of basil to grow at her apartment so she could cook with it, and make this dish. I told her where I had recently seen such pots of basil for sale and then another woman suggested that she could just buy pesto from that very supermarket. To be polite, I turned to Alessandra and agreed that, yes, she could indeed buy ready-made pesto at that store.

Alessandra then opened her eyes very wide in mock horror, and with a smile on her lips she playfully punched me on the arm. And then, with the well-known sweeping arm gesture of dismissal that her compatriots are famous for, she responded. "I would never buy pesto!!" she cried. "I am Italian!" Point taken. Point taken, indeed.

Cheers!!

Diane

This week in Alessandra's honour, I am giving you a recipe for 'Linguine al Pesto'. Alessandra strongly suggests that a peeled and chopped up potato be cooked along with the linguine as it apparently makes all the difference in the taste and texture of the dish.

This post's photo and recipe are courtesy of:

http://recipes.howstuffworks.com/classic-pesto-with-linguine-recipe.htm

I hope you will try it and enjoy the beautiful, fresh, springtime taste of the homemade pesto. And don't, for heaven's sake, even THINK about buying it!!!

The Spicy Samosa - A Little Taste of Nirvana

A yoga master stepped up to a samosa stall and said: "Make me one with everything." The vendor fixed a samosa and handed it to the yogi, who paid with a $20 bill.

The vendor put the bill in a cash drawer and closed the drawer. "Where's my change?" asked the yogi. The vendor smiled, "Change must come from within."

-- www.hinduismtoday.com


Last week I celebrated the 7th 'Annual Samosa Day' in style. I even dedicated a full four days to the event rather than the customary one. And, on top of that, I was celebrating well over two months early.

If you are scratching your head and wondering how this food festivity had slipped under your radar, don't worry. You will never have heard of it. To be honest, I, myself, represent half of 'Annual Samosa Day' celebrants. Let me explain.

Back in July of 2004, I began my current position at the university here in the city of London although I was still living 100 km away in a small town. I had been invited to come down for a morning, have a tour of the area, and meet some of my future colleagues. At the time I was very busy trying to keep my house presentable in the hope of selling it quickly, as well as getting rid of a lot of 'stuff' and trying to get organized enough to move. It was so much work! And I'm sure many of you can relate.

My plan had been to zip down to London on the sunny morning of June 23rd, have the tour, meet some folks, then head back a couple of hours later. I wasn't going to take the time for lunch. In fact, I was so stressed out in those days that I rarely ate at all! I had brought along a protein bar and felt that a quick stop at the mid-way Tim Horton's for a coffee would be enough to hold body and soul together.

As it turned out, a very warm, friendly, and funny professor named Dan (now a very close friend) showed me around the place and made all sorts of very gracious introductions. It was a little overwhelming, as it was such a big place with so many faculty and staff about, but I was encouraged by all of the kind smiles.

Suddenly it was noon, the tour was over, and I was all set to leave. Then, Dan suggested that we go to the 'Grad Club' for lunch with some others as it was right across the street from our building. I didn't know what to do! I had slipped only a five dollar bill into my wallet that morning as my only planned purchase was a cup of coffee.

I was a little (OK, a lot) intimidated by Dan's lofty status and I didn't want to be so bold as to ask him if he were footing the bill. I knew I had only $5 and I couldn't imagine what sort of paltry lunch item could be bought with that. I surveyed the menu board carefully and was absolutely thrilled to see this entry: "Samosas - 2 for $3". Great! I couldn't risk a beverage, what with taxes and all, so I opted for tap water.

Well, we ended up sitting on the patio and having a fun lunch, chatting with some other people and having some laughs. It was a very enjoyable time and it became even better later on when Dan, bless his heart, didn't even bat an eye at my $3 lunch and very handily picked up the tab.

Somewhere around mid-June of 2005 I felt comfortable enough with Dan to tell him the samosa story. We had a good laugh at the memory and decided that we should declare every June 23rd 'Annual Samosa Day'. The celebration was really nothing more than enjoying a pint at the 'Grad Club'. And occasionally we even had a samosa, too. I can scarcely believe that the 7th one will be coming up soon.

And now, back to last week. My son Daniel's friend, Richard, and his mother, Christine, were coming to stay overnight last Thursday. They were planning to have dinner at home before leaving, but I wanted to give them something interesting and tasty as an evening snack. I was thinking of samosas because earlier the same day, Winona, an Indian-Canadian friend from work, had brought some in for us to share. They were delicious. They are a wonderful Indian snack food - generally a nice curry of potatoes and peas wrapped in pastry and deep fried. I love to eat them, but I had never made them before.

I looked for a recipe on my favourite Indian food blog (see below) and found a great recipe for baked samosas made with wonton wrappers. I was pleased because it seemed they would be easy to make, much lighter and more delicate, but would still be intensely flavourful. I was right.

Daniel helped me put them together and we had quite an efficient assembly line going on. As we worked, we got talking about all kinds of topics, as we often do. Before we knew it, we had 5 dozen samosas sitting before us. Mind you, the kitchen smelled marvellously aromatic as they baked, and afterwards it was like samosa heaven.

In the end, Christine and I each enjoyed about 2 or 3 little samosas each, along with a nice glass of wine. And the boys, I believe, ate only 1 apiece before disappearing into Daniel's room to play guitar. That left quite a plethora of samosas yet to be consumed.

On Friday, I had samosas for lunch. And, when my partner, Mark, came down to London on Friday, we had samosas for dinner. We had them again for lunch on Saturday, though we did switch it up a bit Saturday evening by having just the (leftover) samosa filling over rice. I decided to freeze the remaining samosas on Sunday as I just couldn't face any more. And today my daughter, Abby, came to visit, so when I got home from work, I whipped up an easy chick pea curry and rice and baked up the remaining samosas.

I have to tell you, I'm actually pretty glad that the 7th 'Annual Samosa Day' is more than two months away. As much as I adore scrumptious samosas, I think it may take every one of those days to rekindle a fitting appetite for them.

Cheers,

Diane


I hope you will try this great recipe. It comes from a fantastic blog featuring Indian vegetarian cooking called "One Hot Stove". The writing is excellent, the photos wonderful, and the recipes more than tantalizing. Enjoy!!


http://onehotstove.blogspot.com/2005/02/experiment-baked-wonton-samosas.html

The wonderful photo collage is courtesy of "www.samosa-connection.com".

A Montreal Bagel? Merci Beaucoup!!

"The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight."

-- MFK Fisher
'The Art of Eating'


There wasn't much of a selection of bread when I was a young child back in the Fifties. Not like today when a person could spend a good half hour in a large supermarket's bakery section just trying to make a decision. No, we had no such choice. There was sliced white bread only, which was pretty boring indeed. But the cool thing was that we didn't have to venture out to a supermarket to buy our bread. Back then, our bread came to us.

Every day our family sat down at the kitchen table and had lunch together. And every week day at that time, a white van would pull up in front of our house. The van door would quickly open and shut and then we would see 'the baker' (as we kids erroneously called the bread delivery man). He would always come trotting up the walkway carrying a tray of bread, then would pop open our front door.

His name was 'Harold' and I remember his name so clearly for a reason. Each and every week day, Harold would burst into our kitchen with a big smile and bright attitude and call out to my Dad, "Hello, Harold!" To this, each and every time, my Dad would return, "Hello, Harold!" I remember thinking it was quite funny that they shared a name and I looked forward to this daily ritual.

When I was a young teen, our family suddenly went wildly crazy and we switched to 'brown' bread. It wasn't 'whole wheat' or 'whole grain' back then. It was simply 'brown'. So, really, living in a very small , very non-ethnic town, I had no broader knowledge of bread or bread products than this. Very, very narrow, I'm afraid. And it wasn't until I was 18 that my knowledge was cracked open a little wider.

That year I had become friends with Barb Samuels, a Jewish girl, who had been raised in Mount Forest, another small town in Southwestern Ontario. Because she was the first Jewish person I had ever met, and because I was curious about Judaism, I plied her with all kinds of questions and always got a blank stare in return. She had never even been to a synagogue. Living in this little town all her life had certainly not exposed her to any Jewish culture or community.

One summer day I planned to visit her and so I borrowed my Dad's car and drove to Mount Forest. Unfortunately, Barb was out doing some errands when I arrived, but her mother, Mrs. Samuels, very warmly welcomed me inside. I can still recall her kind, happy smile and her gracious hospitality.

She brought me to the living room and led me to a comfy chair. Next, she asked me if I'd care for a cup of tea. Absolutely. She bustled away to the kitchen to put on the kettle and soon returned with a nice steaming cup. As I sipped the hot tea, she continued to smile. It was obvious that she enjoyed visitors. Then, she startled me with a question that I did not understand. "Would you like a bagel?"

Such a simple question! It seems incredible to me now that I had no idea what she was talking about. She asked me again and I was still none the wiser. I was terribly shy in those days and quite reluctant to speak up. Plus, a few years before I had become a serious vegetarian and I was cautious about what I ate. At last I knew I just had to say something, so I ventured a very timid, "Ummmm......I wonder.....is a bagel.....ummmm.....meat?"

I thought poor Mrs. Samuels was going to fall down from her gales of laughter. She kept dabbing her eyes with the edge of her apron and every time our eyes met she laughed even harder.

Eventually she recovered sufficiently to head back to the kitchen to toast up a bagel and spread it with luscious cream cheese. (I did eat cheese.) I laughed myself when I saw what it was and then we both laughed some more. What a lot of fun, and all from a simple bagel. No, wait, I won't say 'simple' because it was a very special bagel, as Mrs. Samuels explained to me. It was a Montreal bagel - the best bagel of all.

For many, many years there has been a great rivalry between New York bagels and Montreal bagels. I don't even need to describe New York bagels to you at all because they are ubiquitous in these parts. Indeed in most parts.

But in the Montreal-Ottawa area they are precious commodities and many thousands of bagel lovers sing their praises. And rightfully so. Montreal bagels are almost always rolled by hand and before baking are boiled in bubbling cauldrons of water sweetened by pure honey. Then, they are brushed with a light sugar syrup, topped by either sesame seeds or poppy seeds (and, more recently, additional toppings), and baked in large, rustic wood ovens. The flames of the wood ovens cause the bagels to brown in a slightly uneven fashion and this adds a lot of interesting colour as well as flavour.

Montreal bagels are smaller, flatter, with a larger hole and a more irregular shape than the New York bagels. They are also much chewier with a delectable 'mouth feel' and flavour that will make you want to close your eyes and sigh. It's a texture and a flavour that you will remember and that you will crave. What is it exactly that makes a Montreal bagel such a magnificent creation?

Well, the method of preparation described above certainly does contribute to a scrumptious baked good. But anyone who has had the pleasure of tasting one will know that there is something else as well. It's definitely a little touch of 'je ne sais quois'. Of course it is! It's a Montreal bagel, after all.

Cheers!


Diane


Both the photo and the recipe are courtesy of "sevenspoons.net". Thanks to "Seven Spoons" you don't have to worry and fret that you live so far away from Montreal or Ottawa. You can put on an apron, roll up your sleeves, and bake yourself a batch of Montreal bagels in your own kitchen. Even if you don't happen to have a wood oven. Enjoy!!

http://sevenspoons.net/2009/07/not-moments-hesitation.html

As Southern as Pecan Pie

"I just clipped 2 articles from a current magazine. One is a diet guaranteed to drop 5 pounds off my body in a weekend. The other is a recipe for a 6 minute pecan pie."

-- Erma Bombeck


About a decade ago, and just about this time of year, I spent some days having an adventure in the American South. Oklahoma, to be precise. I was there with a small group to attend a business conference. Well, unfortunately, the business never did pan out for any of us, I've completely lost contact with all but one of my fellow travellers, and I don't remember a single thing about the conference. But the rest of my springtime trip to Oklahoma is still a delightful memory.

And speaking of memories, the very first thing we did upon our arrival in Oklahoma City was to visit the Oklahoma City National Memorial and pay our respects. It is a beautifully and sensitively created and well kept site - a very serene and elegant tribute. Although the Memorial was outdoors, as we approached it, it felt as though we were entering a majestic cathedral and it was impossible to speak above a soft whisper.

Next we took a bus trip to view the company's future building site. This was a little underwhelming as it was simply a chunk of land in the distant countryside. And, at least from my perspective, the 'rolling green hills of Oklahoma' were neither very green nor very rolling.

Well, after the 'viewing' we were all bussed to a large facility of some sort - like an enormous catering hall filled with simple tables and chairs. Along one wall was the bustling open kitchen with a long counter running across in front of it.

We all stood in line with thick paper plates and each server would ladle out a portion of the various food items. It will come as no surprise to you that the number one item on the menu was 'barbecue'. Great steaming mounds of saucy barbecued pork covered about three-quarters of each plate. That left a small space to be filled with creamy potato salad and bright green cole slaw, along with a soft plump bun slathered with butter.

I found myself suddenly at the end of the line, still with an empty plate in my hands. As a vegetarian, the barbecue was, of course, off limits to me. And as a perennial (although not wildly successful) weight watcher, I didn't fancy the potato salad or cole slaw with all that mayonnaise. And a white bun covered in butter? No, thanks.

A woman at the counter apparently noticed my plight and called over to me, "How're y'all doin' there, honey? Can I get y'all some barbecue?" I asked her if there were, by any chance, a vegetarian option? Well, quite clearly, this was a question she had never been asked before. She turned around to face the kitchen and called (very loudly): "Hey! Billy Bob! We all got us a veg-e-tar-i-an here!!" Suddenly about half a dozen kitchen workers dropped what they were doing and stepped a little closer in order to better eye up such a strange creature.

Some folks around me were chuckling, but my face was as red as the ubiquitous barbecue sauce. In my embarrassment at being centred out in this foreign environment, I found my decision-making skills being sharpened up quickly.

I immediately opted for the boring and horribly fattening meal of potato salad, cole slaw and an enormous white bun with its lashings of butter. And I can't say I enjoyed the cup of coffee in the styrofoam cup that came at the end of the meal.

However, I did rationalize that since my diet had been blown completely, and I was there to experience what I could of the Southern culture, I was jolly well going to have dessert. And it turned out to be a very good decision.

The kitchen ladies served up hearty slices of homemade pecan pie. Deliciously golden slices with the creamiest filling and freshly roasted pecans which had been picked from local trees. It was a little slice of pecan heaven right there in rural Oklahoma.

As far as I'm concerned, the "Okies" can keep their barbecued pork and their various side 'fixins' all to themselves. But I really would enjoy another slice of that wonderfully sinful pecan pie. I may never get back to Oklahoma but I'm hoping to visit South Carolina before too long. I will definitely have to keep my northern eyes open for a sighting of this truly decadent Southern treat. And then I'll be looking for a nap.


Cheers!

Diane

After reading this story, you may just have a craving to cook up a nice Southern pecan pie. But since it's the end of March here in Canada, why not add a little northern touch and make this luscious "Maple Pecan Pie". I hope you enjoy it!

Today's photo and recipe are courtesy of "about.com: southern food":

http://southernfood.about.com/od/pecanpies/r/bl51122b.htm