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.