Getting it done

I am sneaking a few moments to myself.  I just put some stuffed peppers in the oven for dinner and while I wait for them to cook and before I start the ironing (okay, in today’s world, why am I still ironing shirts every week for work?), I thought I would quickly share my progress.  At last count, I am up to 87 recipes transcribed for the cookbook and all the pounds to show for it.  Not surprisingly I have the most entries in my desserts section and frankly with the Christmas season coming, they are the most fun to make right now.  I have done some work on the soups, salads and appetitizers section, and some recipes in my “what to eat while the game is on” section but it is the main courses section that is falling down.  Oh, I have all my favourites I just haven’t seemed to get to them yet. 

I have to admit though I have a few piles sitting around on my desk like lonely forgotten toys trailing behind a toddler that I have to attack.  I have pulled the recipes out but they are just sitting waiting for me to get to them.  Fortunately, I am almost done all my shopping for Christmas already, well, maybe that isn’t fortunate, maybe it just shows that I am over the top, obsessive about getting things done in advance!  It will be my downfall on this project I can see that already.  I really do like to have things done in advance; it reduces my stress and lets me enjoy it more.  But life keeps getting in the way of my free time to get this cookbook done!  If only there wasn’t so much cooking to do every day.  Oh, wait a minute, it is my love of cooking that got me in this mess in the first place!  A vicious but delicious circle.

True to form, if I have my shopping and wrapping done early, I can concentrate on transcribing and testing recipes in December while enjoying the holiday season.  See always a plan!  We are making progress folks, hang in there, we will see this one completed!

Food to spice up your dating life!

So the other day I joked about how peeling a pomegranate can give you some insight into how much you love your guy or perhaps where you will draw the line.  It got me to thinking about pomegranates and how I know so very little about them, despite enjoying at this time of year, every year, my hands almost permanently stained red from the juice.  So I did a little research and here is what I have learned!

In the Hebrew mystical tradition called Kabala, the "wife" of God is conceived as a pomegranate.  Ah, does that make the “husband” a paring knife?

Persephone, the daughter of Demeter, the Greek goddess of spring, was once frolicking near the entrance to the Underworld. Its lord, Hades, enticed her to come closer and offered her to eat three pomegranate seeds. The myth has it that because of eating these seeds, she became permanently betrothed to him and was forced to endure living with him in his hot, lonely home.  Clearly girls, be careful what you order on a first date!

The ancient Chinese believed that pomegranate juice contained a "soul concentrate" which could confer immortality. The Babylonians believed that chewing pomegranate seeds before battle made the soldiers invincible.  I believe chewing pomegranate seeds just results in juice running down my chin!

Originating in Persia, the pomegranate appears in the folklore of ancient Egypt, where it was used in burial.  Really, how does one mummify a pomegranate I wonder?

Garnet stone– Named from the Latin word for pomegranate, commonly occurring deep reds to purple red, the stone of fidelity, passion, faith, strength, determination.  May someday replace diamonds in engagement rings, uhm, good thing I already have mine!

According to Judaic tradition, each pomegranate contains 613 arils, as the seeds are called, the exact number of good deeds a Jew should perform in a lifetime.   Certainly an easy way to keep track of your progress!

Some Christian scholars believe it was a pomegranate and not an apple that tempted Eve. Some Christians also consider the fruit a symbol of fertility, resurrection and immortality.  Believe me, if Eve knew how much work it was to peel one, she would certainly have chosen the apple!

Buddhists consider the pomegranate a blessed fruit. One legend explains that Buddha gave a pomegranate to Hariti, a demon who devoured her children, to cure her of her wicked ways.   I give them to my husband to keep him quiet!

To the ancient Romans, the pomegranate signified marriage and brides decked themselves in pomegranate wreaths.  I assume the leaves, carrying around all those round balls of fruit on your head would get heavy fast!

In Greek myth, Orion's wife was very beautiful, even rivaling the beauty of Zeus's wife, Hera. For her daring to compete with Hera, her children were killed and she was persuaded to believe herself the culprit. In agony, she threw herself from a cliff. The location of her blood was where the first pomegranate tree grew.  All I can say is, festive!?!

In the modern-day traditions of many Greeks, it is customary to adorn the holiday table with pomegranates. The Greeks consider the pomegranate to be a symbol of abundance; a fruit that spills over in plenitude and good luck. They are set out in honor of the fertile land and its bounty. Pomegranates also make an appearance during weddings,  funerals, and New Year celebrations.  Really, these are the same people who just pushed Orion over a cliff and now they set them out as symbols of good luck. Remind me not to ask a Greek for any ideas to improve my luck!

Pomegranates in China are associated with fertility. One of these fruits, shown half-opened, is often a wedding gift, it means a hundred seeds, or more completely, a hundred sons. The word for seed and sons in Chinese is "zi", it is also the word for "sons."  Again, remind me to be careful what I eat.  Can you imagine how big the rice pot has to be to feed one hundred sons!

Ancient Arab women used pomegranate seeds to predict their own fertility. The pomegranate was dropped on the ground, in the center of a circle. When it broke open, the number of seeds that landed outside the circle, was the number of children she would have.  All the more reason to be careful in the kitchen and never let your fruit drop to the floor!

All in good fun but I have to admit I found it very interesting when I was doing some research.  I can’t even imagine what I could learn next about, say, carrots?

What a bowl!

It’s Sunday morning and I am feeling much better.  The flu has only slowed me down and, although this might make you laugh, I spent an awful lot of time while I was lying in bed unable to sleep, my nose dripping, a headache pounding in the lower back of my head, my throat scratchy and desirous of some flat ginger ale, thinking about recipes and my cookbook!  I know writing this cookbook may not be healthy for me.  At the expense of all else, I seem to be always dreaming of this project!

I got out of bed this morning and walked straight into the kitchen and reached into my lazy Susan and pulled out my favourite crockery bowl.  Swear.  I know I am even smiling at myself as I write this and shaking my head, seriously they may be something wrong with me.  Quite soon I am almost certain, little men, not in stark white coats smelling slightly of bleach and hand sanitizer and offering snug fitting coats that clasp at the back but rather in my case the little men in stark white aprons smelling slightly of flour and nutmeg and offering the newest in Teflon coated, raised cookie baking sheets will come suddenly through my front door and escort me out and into a sparkling clean doughnut truck to take me somewhere quiet for a rest! Anyway doesn’t everyone get out of bed and walk immediately into their kitchen and pull out their favourite bowl and feel comforted and pleased?

So I did.  I pulled out my bowl and just held it and look at it all around.  I suppose I must have been dreaming about it or thinking about it as I awoke.  It was my grandmother’s bowl. It is a thick crockery bowl, medium to large sized, cream-coloured with two thick blue bands around its lip.  The finish has been muted, almost buffed natural, by the endless washing that poor bowl has endured over its life.  It has a soft texture, the inside scored gently by spoons pushing around its sides.  I am not sure where Grandma ever got the bowl, whether it was a gift for Christmas or she bought it at Sears or whether it was a found, for a nickel, on a church bazaar table nestled besides hand knitted mittens and tea cozies. My cousin Heather who sometimes reads this blog will know the one!

But I remember that bowl throughout my childhood.  Coming in off the hills outside her house, cold from riding our sleigh, it would be on the counter, Grandma making us tea biscuits and hot chocolate when we came in from the cold, hot biscuits covered in butter and honey emerging from that bowl, and served to us at the table to warm up.  I know she would have made pies and desserts, dinners and lunches in that bowl for my own mother when she was a child, Mom’s favourites emerging from that bowl.  Grandma’s hands would have washed it, standing at her sink looking out the window at the garden and the bush beyond.  My hands travel where hers once did as I clean it after feeding my guy.  My mother gave me the bowl when Grandma passed away. I had just left for university and I am sure my mother, ever practical, gifted me the bowl knowing that I would be setting up my apartment and, having nothing, needed everything.  But Mom gave me much more.  I have a piece of my history, my mother’s and my grandmother’s history.  I have a deep affection for that bowl, almost for the bowl itself.  I love each chip out of the crockery and the marks inside, the way the blue is fading.  I will almost always choose that bowl over any other even when it is the wrong bowl to choose by size or by design.  Some dishes you simply need a wooden bowl for in order to get the right roughness for blending ingredients, but even then, I will often choose my favourite and have less than perfect results.

Does it seem strange to be rising from my flu and the first thing I did this morning is walk to the kitchen and get out my bowl?  And now frankly I have talked about it for paragraphs!  Yes, something is deeply off centre in me!  Perhaps I just find the bowl comforting.  And in this world, I take comfort from what I can.  It makes me happy.  Hope you have a similar bowl.  

Sick, ugh

Well I’ve done it, I am sick.  The flu has me in its grip.  And the only consolation is that I get to reach for some homemade, butternut squash soup in the freezer and when I spread jam on my toast, I know I made it with my own hands.  It is incredibly important to me to know what is in my food and what I am feeding my guy.  I make all my own homemade jams and relishes.  I love the smell of a homemade soup on the stove simmering, promising relief and nourishment.  At this time of year, as the days are getting colder, nothing tastes quite so good as a big bowl of steaming soup and a thick piece of bread and cheese!  I am yawning as I write this so I will keep this one short.  I will be back soon; just have to fight off this pesky flu!

Do it for you!

The last couple of days at work have incredibly trying.  Last night I was so tired when I got home, I just ate something easy and then sat down on the couch and watched television, which is something I almost never do. Today I still feel exhausted.  It is just a really busy time of year at work with a number of things coming to an end but it is coupled with lots of pressure from other parts of the company and just the exhaustion of the end of the year.  I was sitting in a meeting yesterday at a round conference table.  I started looking at myself as a reflection in the window against the dark grey sky and realized, wait a minute, I am getting fat.  I actually tried to decide am I am getting fat or is it just the way I am sitting.  I think testing all these recipes is starting to show but in the end I was completely okay with the extra pounds.  Not that I won’t in a few weeks suddenly decide that it is a crisis and I need to lose the weight but right now I was perfectly happy with it.

It has become so clear for me over the last few days exactly how important this project is to me.  Work will always be work with its ups and downs, its stresses and rewards.  And work is important, good and a necessary part of anyone’s life.  But I realized this passion is just for me.  I will not make excuses for it but likewise, amid all the running around of the holiday season, the demands of work, home and friendships, I am always going to carve time out for my project.  It would be so easy to sacrifice it to the other demands.  But that is sacrificing something that is just for me, to give up what I love for every other priority, for something other.  I love what I am doing.  I hope others will enjoy what I have created when it is finished but first and foremost it is for me.  Something I am giving myself.  I want to do it just for me and if it feels selfish to demand that I make time for it everyday, then I believe it is a healthy selfishness.  I also realized I need to do this project.  It is my escape, my dream, my priority.  Of course I will have to figure out the balance.  I was angry the last two days that I didn’t have the time to dedicate to it but my realization this morning is that I gave away the priority.  I let others decide for me.  And I am taking it back.  I feel tired and probably sound tired.  But at least in tiredness I can see what gives me energy and chasing this dream and giving life to this passion is what will keep me interested, balanced, really my best me.  

Tea, cookies and the couch for me

What a craptacular day, a completely horrendous day today at work.  I was miserable all day and the grey, overcast gloomy day did nothing to improve my mood.  I walked in the door, pulled out my cream and blue crockery bowl and whipped up a batch of peanut butter.  I know peanut butter is pretty much taboo these days in a lots of place but honestly there is nothing like a peanut butter cookie.  I made some crunchy for tea and some soft and chewy.  My guy came home with our friend Carmela and we sampled them all.  It made the day seem a little brighter.  Otherwise I have done nothing on the cookbook today.  I think the rest of evening just looks like me sitting on the couch eating cookies!  

The pomegranate test!

Just a quick laugh, mostly tongue in cheek but perhaps also a little too true. Do you want to know exactly how much you love your guy, then offer to peel and de-seed a pomegranate for him!  I love pomegranates and it has become a tradition for my guy and I to enjoy them at this time of year.  But truly, standing in the kitchen de-seeding a pomegranate is like going through all the phases of dating and a relationship in the time it takes to prepare one!  You start off looking at it, admiring its rosy colour, its soft roundness, wondering where it came from and how it made its journey to you.  You cut into it and it sprays sweet juice all over the counter and your hands, giving you a chance to slowly lick your fingers and taste its promise.  And then the work begins.  You peel back the first layers of skin, exposing the seeds, but somehow you are always on the wrong side of the row.  You have to turn it around, and push them out with your fingers.  You start to get a rhythm only to come across a particularly thick-skinned area.  You start to get frustrated, wondering why you ever started.  You try not to glance at the other half sitting on the counter waiting its turn.  You back starts to twinge standing on the tile floor.  You recommit and keep at it.  You just focus on finding the right way to peel it.  One half done and you pick up the other piece.  You have learned how this one is set up and know where to attack the rows first.  This half seems easier; it is more familiar.  You don’t notice the time you are expending and somehow your back eases.  The bowl is starting to look full and you feel a sense of satisfaction at your progress.  You remember why you started, why you wanted to share it with your guy.  You are in the home stretch suddenly and you start to anticipate sharing the bowl together, your hands covered in a familiar sweet stickiness now, the bowl overflowing with promise.  You rinse your hands to say you are done.  Put two spoons in the bowl and walk to the living room to share the pomegranate, a smile on your face.  And you know you love him when he insists you take the first delicious spoonful.  

Life happens in kneading

It has been a pretty good day today.  I got up early when the house was quiet and my guy still sleeping and padded into the kitchen. I woke with thoughts of fresh bread in my mind.  I have always enjoyed making bread and so, this morning, I made some herb and onion bread. 

I am fascinated with bread.  Sifting the dry ingredients, I watch the texture of the flour change, becoming gradually softer, rounder.  Smelling the yeast sponge begin to expand reminds me of change.  Mixing it together, I marvel at how the dry and the wet at first clump, grab and finally stick.  Rolling it onto the counter in the flour dust is where the magic begins.  If you have never made bread from scratch before, you must at least once do so.  Life happens in kneading.  I know it sounds dramatic but, honestly, there is nothing in this world like the feeling of bread dough under your hands, moving from sticky and suddenly becoming elastic.  The dough warms and you can feel it start to breathe.  With each knead, your body rocks with the thrust and your hands cup this new feeling.  You inhale as your rock back and exhale as you push the knead through the dough.  It warms further under your hands and becomes something altogether different.  You can almost feel the moment when the loaf is born under your hands and you know intuitively that you are finished.  I love setting it in a warm bowl to rise, the smell of the yeast diffusing through the kitchen.  By the time my guy woke this morning, my bread had been kneaded twice and was ready for the oven.  It rose and baked as we sat talking, sipping coffee.

Now that I am married, I think bread is starting to mean something else to me.  In making it, I realize that it teaches me, through my hands, that I can add to our life, that I can shape our future, that I can create something entirely new from seemingly unrelated ingredients, create something that will sustain and support us. It is a determined act to bake bread when it is easily and more cheaply found at the grocery store but I believe it is this same determined action to create from scratch something new which will be the same impulse I need to make my marriage grow.  

Venetian marvels

I realized yesterday that I have neglected to tell you about our time in Venice during the honeymoon. Where can I begin to sing the glories of Venice or to describe the time we passed in her embrace?  How is that for a lead in!

We spent four wonderful days in Venice following our cruise of the Holy land.  Once our ship docked at the port, we disembarked and took a local vaporetto to the land quay at St Mark’s square and in the early morning sunlight wove our way through the narrow streets to our hotel.  Throwing open our shutters, and leaning out our window, we overlooked endless tiled roofs, the domes of St Mark’s basilica gleaming to our left and counted quickly four bell towers nearby.  As if on cue, the bells began to toll our arrival and I knew we were in for an incredible time.  

To be honest, although we did a bit of sightseeing, we mostly poked along the canals, strolling slowly together, stopping for frequent pastries.  Our first was a lovely lemon creamed, sugary confection that we shared, avidly licking the last morsels from our fingers, drinking cappuccino in the quiet, morning streets.  I learned that Italians generally only drink cappuccino in the morning, essentially taking their milk for the day, and for the remainder, espresso was on order.  We stopped to peer in store windows at shelves lined with nut and fruit chocolates, sweets, marzipans, giant meringues and nut filled pastries, at rows of cheeses, meats and oils, lined like orphans at a convent door, hair brightly slicked down, with pleading eyes, hoping to be chosen and taken home.  Bouquets of fiery, red chilies arranged like flowers made me laugh. We ate hot fresh pizzas, seated atop the portable sidewalks stacked around the city, anticipating flooding but just then unneeded, the cheese burning the roof of our mouths as we gulped it down, watching the water traffic near the Rialto bridge.  Evenings brought quiet, slow dinners, lit by candlelight, the fruity red wines slipping past my tongue.  In grocery stores, I smiled at cartons of eggs, four single eggs nestled together, making me think about our habit of stocking up rather than celebrating food each day with trips to bakeries, cheese shops and butchers.

One warm evening, we settled ourselves at a table for two, outdoors in St Mark’s square, the stars shining in the sky, the air warm.  Listening to a live quartet of strings play classical and popular music, we ordered refreshments to pass the night.  Arriving on a gleaming silver tray, an aromatic coffee for my guy and for me a tall glass of hot chocolate, liquid chocolate to be honest topped with six inches of whipped cream, garnished with shaved chocolate.  The carafe of cold water supplied along side was welcome, since this was one rich hot chocolate.  I will never forget the feeling of sitting there with the man I love, listening to sweet music, the tastes of chocolate on my tongue, his laughing words; it was a wonderful evening.  Food always finds its place at celebrations or in moments of intimacy.  

We shared that evening with a woman, a stranger who caught my eye.  She arrived in the square, and strode over to a table, her husband, lover or boyfriend in tow, to greet two friends already seated.  Her joy in seeing them was evident and I was fascinated to watch her chatting with them, touching their arms to make a point, catching her throat as she laughed, and as if on command, food arrived and added to their pleasure.  For ourselves, we spent the rest of our time there, wandering the city slowly, stopping to enjoy food and each other, exploring the local areas away from the tourists, in sunshine and under grey skies, days filled with misty weather.  We left in the early hours one morning, St Mark’s square flooded, hauling our suitcases upon the elevated sidewalks, the glow of the lamps shining on the dark water lapping in the square.  It was a marvelous time, filled with wonderful food, with new sights and experiences, with time spent alone.  If you can believe I took as many pictures of food as sights in Venice!  It showed me that slowing down is what fills life with its moments, and made me realize that the recipes in my cookbook and the time to create the book both should be filled with a reverence for the moments they create.

Happy

Today I don’t have a lot to talk about concerning the cookbook but I do have something to tell you.  I am happy.  I have been thinking today about how much I have to be thankful for:  a guy I love more than I ever imagined possible, a terrific family, loyal and supportive friends, work that I enjoy, good health, and this new passion, this passion to create this cookbook.  My mind feels fired up by it, I am always thinking, planning, imagining.  I feel alive with it, something so simple.  And I enjoy it.  A lot!  For certain, tomorrow, I could stand to lose a few pounds, to be better at returning phone calls, keep a tidier house, more organized at work, run around less and listen more.  But those are improvements for tomorrow.  Today I am enjoying this adventure so much.  Today I am grateful for my many blessings.  Today I am very happy.  And I haven’t even told you yet about our adventures in Venice during our honeymoon!

And now, I'm a creative director!

Wowwy, wowwy, wowwy, I am so excited. This will likely be a quick entry but I just had to tell you.  I just got in from meeting with Lesley the photographer who is going to shoot the cookbook cover for me.  She is awesome!  We talked about the shoot, sketched story board ideas while eating pastries, brainstormed where to get some commercial models, what food to prepare, where and when to shoot it.  She is so amazing, has all the right ideas and makes it so easy.  Have to get ourselves a make up artist and hair stylist and figure out where to rent the lamps to light the kitchen but it seems like it is really going to happen. Probably the first weekend of January.  I am so excited; it was so much fun talking with her.  This idea is really coming together.  Wooohoooo.  

Back at it

Yesterday I got back to work.  I spent some time researching how to apply for a copyright and the areas in which they are applicable and their terms.  I also investigated applying for trademarks in the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom and I also looked into how to apply for an ISBN, the unique number assigned to all books so you can identify it for sale.  Overall, this is going to be a very expensive process!!!  Just those things along are going to cost more than a thousand dollars.  Oh, the poor credit card!

Tomorrow night I have arranged a coffee with the photographer I want to use to shoot the cover of the cookbook.  Lesley did our wedding photos and she is amazing at capturing candid moments.  I want to use that same talent to capture people enjoying recipes from my cookbook for the cover!  We are going to meet at Pusateri’s a gourmet food shop nearby (hey may as well eat while talking, never pass up an opportunity!) and we are going to talk through the story boards, and how to shoot it, and what I would like. I am pretty excited about it.  Next I am going to have to figure out what recipes to prepare for the cover and where on earth am I going to get models for the cover?  I could always rope in unsuspecting friends to be on the cover.  

I was also thinking last night that I should develop and release a website dedicated to the cookbook to compliment this blog and the Facebook page.  Oh so much to do, and so much to learn.  I have no idea how to have a cookbook cover shoot, or develop a website and the legalese of the ISBN, copyright and trademarks is going to take a few quiet nights on the couch to understand!  But in full swing now.  If only I could find time to transcribe recipes and learn InDesign – I wonder if sleep is optional.

Yawning chasms and small shoes

Okay today I am feeling better!  Yesterday I have to admit felt like a down day, pretty overwhelming but, as always, today I am coming up with a plan! Some time with family, a good cuddle before bed, a great night’s sleep and this morning, the day looks bright.

On my way to work this morning, I was thinking about perseverance.  When I was around seven or eight years old, we lived for a few years in a small, country village called Inglewood.  It was a quiet place, nestled amid rolling country hills, a small town with a church, a corner store to buy candy, a post office, a skating arena and not much else.  It was an ideal place to grow up, safe; lots of wild places to explore, great hills to you’re your sleigh down, a place where you could walk to Sunday school alone.  I remember one autumn day getting a phone call from my mother.  She had been out, not sure where, telling me that our trusty, old green car had broken down on the highway and she was walking back home.  She asked that I take a set of old, abandoned rail tracks through the fields and meet her halfway.  I readily set out on what felt like an adventure.

I remember walking through the fields on the old rail bed, quite pleased.  I have always enjoyed walking and particularly enjoy walking in the country.  I do, however, remember very clearly coming to a train trestle along the rain bed.  Walking up to the flat rails passing over a small stream, the day turned cold.  Looking back, I am sure the channel was no more than eight feet deep, but at the time, it was a chasm to me.  I am paralyzed by heights, deathly afraid.  Stretching out ahead of me were the black, railroad ties, like a scar on the countryside, light shining up between the yawning gaps between them.  I remember the yellowing weeds in the ditch, the last purple cornflowers and browning golden rod.  I stood there.

I had promised to meet my mother, walking toward me.  I swallowed. My hands started to sweat.  My feet went cold.  I placed my running shoe on the first tie, my white shoes stark against the black tar-stained tie.  I swung my foot to meet its mate.  I stood.  I shivered.  I looked down and away.  I reached out and placed my foot on the second tie and swung its waiting mate.  Slowly, one tie at a time, this is how I crossed the trestle, never looking down, eyes firmly fixed on the horizon.  In a blink I was across and a great whoosh of breath left me and a burden was lifted from my shoulders.  I walked light hearted the rest of the way and, seeing Mom in the distance coming toward me, I had kept my promise. 

I will remember those yawning, black timbers and, today, place my foot firmly on the first one. I have to remember to keep my promises, especially to myself, and keep going. 

Ahhhhhhhh

Sunday morning.  I’m up early, thinking.  Yesterday we celebrated a milestone birthday for a great and life-long friend and it was great fun.  I made a double layer cherry chip cake with vanilla and coconut frosting and we enjoyed a great meal of turkey, stuffing, tones of vegetables including squash baked with maple syrup that I adore.  It was a great time, noisy, lots of laughter and love at the party.

Old friends are dear to me.  During the hectic activity of the party, I was deeply aware that I was celebrating a friend that I have know since university, that has seen me struggle with career, relationships and the many changes that happen during your adult life.  I know that those eyes have seen me at my strongest, my most hopeful, my most despairing, have seen my eyes cry with hurt and disappointment and have also seen them shine with anticipation and joy.  Those eyes without speaking give me encouragement to pursue my dreams and to keep moving forward.

I have to admit I have been feeling anxious about the cookbook these last few days.  I tend to set artificial deadlines for myself, which I suppose is my nature, but then I feel the very real stress of trying to meet those deadlines.  I have been lazy.  I have procrastinated.  I suddenly feel very behind in developing my cookbook and it is all my own pressure.  But for me, it is no less real.  I keep thinking suddenly of all I have left to do.  And today, as well, we are going to have a great day with family.  And yet I feel a misplaced guilt that I am not working on the cookbook.  I keep re-negotiating with myself on how many recipes to transcribe and how to get them finished by December so I can start working on the next phases.  I keep reminding myself to take a breath.  This adventure is supposed to be fun!  Sometimes I really feel like I am going in circles on this book; who knew it would be this crazy.  And I feel like a crazy person at times lol  I have to remind myself to take a breath.  You know what, easy solution, go find some breakfast!

Food fixes everything

Ugh, what a day at work!  The smooth, warm feeling of the honeymoon is wearing off fast!  Work has accelerated and now feels like a tsunami of deadlines, meetings and work washing over me.  I was so rested and relaxed coming back to work and to be honest I keep that feeling right up to 11 am this morning.  Then I could I could start to feel it slipping away like the edges of a pleasant dream in those first few moments after you wake.

Time to take a quick day dream vacation back to a glorious day in Split, Croatia on our honeymoon.  I had no expectations of Split, knowing nothing about the city or even the country of Croatia and, wow, what a great surprise.  We spent the morning in a small, medieval town about thirty minutes outside of Split named Trogir.  How wonderful to wander around the tiny medieval streets, slipping on cobblestones, walking in and out of the bright fall sunshine with my guy.  We had a great time and of course took the chance to stop and buy some cherry and cheese pastries.  We took them over to a little café beside a marina of sailboats bobbing behind us, ordered coffees and enjoyed nibbling away the morning.  I spotted over my guy’s shoulder a local grocery store and always one who finds wandering the aisles of foreign grocery stores more enjoyable than any local tour off I tottered to have a look around.  Once I had passed by the café, but before I reached the store on the other side of a busy thoroughfare, I found myself in an outdoor local farmer’s market.  I was in heaven.  I walked up and down the aisles looking at the produce, the fruits, honeys, strings of drying garlic, cheese mongers and deli meats on display.  I went back and got my guy and showed him all my great piles of carrots and cabbages that had made me so absurdly excited.  

Next we visited an old water powered mill and sampled some local wines, cheese, freshly baked bread and prosciutto.  We sat outdoors, by the rushing water, and enjoyed our selves, throwing the leftovers to the patient geese on the millpond.  Finally we found ourselves back in Split where we spent a lovely afternoon wandering the streets, talking with vendors in the fish market, examining the remains of Diocletian’s palace and most importantly eating more crème filled desserts on the promenade.  The sun was bright on the Adriactic, the wind fresh, and we sat on benches, flakes falling from our mouths to our shirt fronts, amid palm trees, white marble walkways and travelers from around the world.  It is so etched in my mind that day, a perfect day for relaxing and desserts.

And these memories are keeping me from working.  Here I am at work bludging and not doing what I should be and thinking about holidays. And I have been a bit lazy as well transcribing recipes.  I need to get myself back in the swing of things and hard at it.  Wishing will not make it so and I have lots ahead of me to finish.  It is going to be a busy couple of months with the cookbook.  I am going to meet with the photographer hopefully next week to talk about concepts and I have been thinking I should probably develop a website for the cookbook as well.  See I can add to my own personal to do list of work while my boss adds to mine at work!  I better run and stop wasting company time writing this note. Hunh, just talking about food and travel has relaxed me.  Better get back to work!

Lest we forget

Today, on Remembrance Day, I have been thinking about the sacrifices so many have made for our country and our freedoms.  

Even at home, our lives were changed by the war.  Did you know that whipped cream became unknown from 1939 to 1948 as well as chocolates and cakes with rich crèmes?  Coffee became unavailable and most people created a substitute from roasted ground down barley seeds and acorns.  Many people kept rabbits at home as meat became scarce and almost everyone had a Victory garden for their own vegetables.  Citrus fruits and bananas were rare; in fact, any oranges sold were intended only for children.

Soldiers always had an emergency ration called a D-ration which included a highly caloric and energy boosting chocolate bar that was so hard some troops had to soak it in hot coffee or water in order to eat it or use a bayonet to cut it.  Rationing caused long lines at shops.  The first foods to be rations included bacon, sugar, tea, butter and meat.  One egg a week was the ration in 1941.  With eggs rationed, people used dried egg powder.  One packet of egg powder was equal to 12 fresh eggs.  With the introduction of tinned meats like Spam, breakfast could be scrambled eggs from powder eggs and fried Spam.  More likely, it was dinner. 

In so many ways, the sacrifices of those who have gone before have provided our freedoms and rights, our way of life and, in countless, small, unacknowledged ways, have ensured that the little luxuries which add comfort to our lives are available to us.  The extent of the gift they have given us should give us pause.  Thank you.  Lest we forget. 

Life is for living

So here it is, lunch hour, and I am sitting at my desk, day dreaming about Greece.  It wasn’t long ago that my guy and I were in the shade of an ancient olive tree, happily slurping on our ice cream treats.  From our vantage point, I could look up at the Acropolis where we had just spent the last three hours.

I studied classical civilizations as my major at university and to have the chance to visit the Acropolis and see and touch the Parthenon was truly amazing to me.  To imagine the effort, intellect and determination that was required to build that perfect edifice and to keep a group of people focused for forty years on its construction spoke to me of our capacity to create, to dream and to make our dreams reality.  It is a testament to what we can achieve when we set our minds to it.  Awesome.  Inspiring.  Motivating.  I have friends who have done the Ironman or cycle for charity, who paint or sing or dance, who build with their hands or minds: so many friends who in their own ways have found their inspiration and chased it.

And sitting there, in that sun-dappled shade, eating my ice cream and looking at the Parthenon, I was reminded to keep chasing my dream.  But only for an instant, because honestly, I was caught in the spell of Greece, the olives turning purple above me, the light of the stones, the absolute blue sky framing the temple, the warm sun, the cool breeze and my lover at my side.  It wasn’t long before we got up, ambled down the road, and eventually found a sticky, sweet piece of baklava to share.  Sometimes life is not for thinking, not for planning.  Sometimes life is just for living.   

Souks, sweets and supper

One glorious afternoon, we got to wander slowly through the souk and ancient Jewish market in the Old City of Jerusalem.  Passing through the Jaffa gate was like stepping back into a forgotten time:  narrow, cobblestone streets worn smooth by the endless feet of pilgrims from three faiths journeying through the city, loud vendors calling their wares, dust, donkey dung, incense hanging in the air, flowers blooming riotously on the old walls.  We tread slowly through the souk, the bright autumn sun almost completely shut out by the stalls of merchants selling everything from radios to leather goods, from bras to sweets.  I was assaulted by the smells from the spice merchant, cardamom, cinnamon, peppers, nutmegs, cumin, coriander, herbal teas, salad spices, each one filling my nose with promise.  Bakeries with olive pizzas and manoush, flat breads covered with zatar, a spice mixture of oregano.  I could pick my way through piles of dates, pistachios, dried nuts, apricots, figs, mangos, kiwis, sample halwa, sesame snacks with pistachios or fruit in them or leisurely choose loosely-piled candies of every sort.  No plastic wrappers here: simply dig and select. 

There is something about shopping in a market that has stood for thousands of years, and something else again to shop in the market, aware of the thousands of pilgrims, Crusaders, defenders, thieves, adventurers, poets and families that have come for evening dinner through the centuries.  I fell in love with Jerusalem, with its three great faiths shouldered one against the other, its storied walls, narrow streets, surprising squares and history everywhere you turned. In a little shop, on a well-trodden side street, I stuck my pinkie finger into date honey and fell in love.  Date honeys are also mixed with caramel or sesame and deliciously spread over toast in the morning with strong coffee.  I felt as though I had stuck my pinkie finger into Jerusalem and got the most fleeting but sweet taste of the place. 

We ate later that day at an Armenian restaurant, aptly located in the Armenian quarter.  We nibbled on appetizers of sour cabbage, pickled carrots, potato salad, cucumbers, beautiful hummus and freshly baked pita breads.  A cold local beer, a breeze from the backyard patio through the open window, the cool of the stone-vaulted roof overhead and lunch with new friends was underway.   I understand completely now the ancient Jewish saying, next year, Jerusalem.  I fell in love with the place.  All my senses were afire there: the hue of the light, the multi-coloured goods in the souk, the call to prayer, the bells, the singing wailing wall in your ears, the feel of history underfoot, the texture of the walls, streets, water splashing over your hands in fountains, but more than all, the smells of spices, sweets, meats, bread, life in the air. 

Mouthfuls of history

Egypt, fabled land of pyramids, camels, the Nile, souks and donkeys.  Egypt was the first stop on our honeymoon cruise and I was filled with anticipation to finally see the land that I had studied, imagined and re-created in my day dreams.

I just loved seeing the food in Egypt.  As we would speed alongside a dusty, sluggish canal, traveling to an ancient site to see pyramids or mastaba, I was fascinated by the irrigated fields flashing by.  Rows of date palms stood in orderly rows for miles like sentinels on watch. Cabbages, grain or beans lay lush between well-ordered fields, the eternal sun glinting off the water in the ditches.  Groves of fruit trees shouldered against the canals, pomegranates ripening in the sun.  Everywhere, I saw history living out its endless cycle.  It is an ancient land filled with ancient food. Whenever we stopped to eat, I could taste the history.  I was struck by the continuity of this cuisine, food that has nourished this people for over five thousand years and continues to strengthen arms and fill stomachs. 

It was a land of contrasts for me.  Chaotic, bustling cities filled with people bumping against each other like so many balls in a pinball machine, each bouncing from one to the next in an endless sea of movement.  Quiet, eternal countryside, reminding the city dwellers of the changeless nature of Egypt, of continuity, of patience, of calm.  Restaurants with cuisine from around the world, the ubiquitous Chinese restaurant, English breakfasts, French pastries, and there, nestled proudly among these visitors, rich, garlicky hummus, stewed lentils, crisp greens with chickpeas glistening atop, sticky date pastries, rich in your mouth and warm in your hands.  It was for me an endless opportunity to watch trucks and donkey carts scamper past filled with dates, cabbages, grapes, pomegranates, chickens and goats, heading to markets and ultimately someone’s counter in their kitchen to be transformed into the evening meal.  Feeding their guy.  The same eternal cycle played out in a different kitchen but animated with the same love. 

Egypt, at first blush, was shocking to me, vastly different, rapid, noisy, dusty, demanding.  But under the surface, I saw home.  I saw the same love of food and family.  The same tastes that I enjoy in restaurants were here commonplace, ancient and available.  In the early mornings, the smell of warm bread often filled the air while the call to prayer sounded above the city.  There was a feeling of history that seems soaked into the land and the cuisine was no different; a stew of lentils that graced the tables of nobles in pharaoh’s Egypt was found for me on buffet tables and sidewalk restaurants.  The food had that the flavour of time, of olive oil, dates and chickpeas, of Nile fish, lamb and fowl.  Egypt that began so alien to me ended as a lesson in history, in continuity, in the power of food to define us and give us a place in our own histories.

Hello dear friends

We are back!  I have so much to tell you and can hardly decide where to begin, Oh the sights, the wondrous food, the drinks, the Mediterranean sea at sunset, the salacious details of our private life that I dare not reveal here for fear of dull, grey-suited censors with sharp red pencils. We had a glorious time on our cruise of the Holy land.  And like a fine Venetian pastry, we finished off our time away with a few amazing days, alone in Venice, free to discover the city and ourselves slowly. 

Our holiday was also a time of confirmation for me.  As we visited each of the amazing destinations on our cruise, I found myself sampling the local cuisine, inquiring into how it is prepared, thinking to myself that I would have to share this insight or recipe with you, how I could incorporate this new flavour or technique into my own cooking or considered whether it should be included in my cookbook.  I found myself seeing the world around me through the prism of this adventure I am on.  To be fair, I often laughed at myself for my seemingly obsessed view of food but it confirmed for me that writing this cookbook is exactly the right thing I should be doing for myself at this time.  The journey to write this cookbook is becoming an opportunity to reflect on my marriage and on my life through a passion for food.  And I decided I don’t need to apologize for it.  Candidly, I did as forecast, I over-ate, and over-indulged, and basically made a pig of myself.  But I could hardly stand not to do so.  After all it is food!

So here I am back, among my favourite recipes, sitting at my desk, staring down the instruction manual for InDesign that remains to be tackled, and my yellow stickie notes strewn across the desktop reminding me of the next things to do.  And I am happy.  Very happy.  I feel calmer about writing this cookbook.  Well at least for today.  I think I can do it.  And perhaps in the future, should not even a single copy sell, it will still have been an amazing journey for me.  It is time to go and wander around in my kitchen and say hello to my favourite pans and sniff the spices in the cupboard.  It is time to be home.