It's How You Get to ‘Mmmmm...’
The Hot Hazy Days of Summer are here and it is time to relax – summer can’t possibly be anything other than time to relax, can it…? Trips to the cottage; excursions to the beach; early morning walks before it gets too warm out; late evening dining in the park…all of these amount to some seriously simple meals and even simpler desserts.
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As the moderately busy mom of a kindergartner, I tend to have a difficult time getting dinner put together most nights without someone throwing a temper tantrum (and by “someone” I mean either of us). Between work, school and social commitments, often the only time I am able to share quality time with Leith is during dinner.
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Sometimes the best recipes are those that don’t come from beautiful, well-photographed, graphically gorgeous, famous-chef endorsed cookbooks. Sometimes the best recipes aren’t those that you’ve seen used in ritzy restaurants, culinary cafes or gourmet gustatory shops. Usually — and correct me if I’m wrong here — the best recipes you will ever try are those that have been given to you by someone.
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“Life is pain, princess…anyone who tells you differently is selling something…”
I think someone pulled my plug. I feel drained. Used up. Ka-put. As though someone has sucked the life from me like Prince Humperdink did to Wesley in “The Princess Bride”…
I don’t want to feel this way; I hate feeling down. But I’m at the point of wallowing now and that is pathetic. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on one thing for any length of time and even finding it difficult to smile. It’s like it takes too much energy to do these things and it is energy that I cannot spare. I’m walking around in a sort of blue funk without really paying any attention to what is going on around me; and have been like this since last week sometime…maybe the weekend, but somehow I remember being happy on Sunday; or parts of Sunday at any rate. I don’t get like this often anymore; I used to go through this everyday. Every single day then was an effort at not crying or not just staying in bed and feeling rotten. Now it comes on, unexpectedly, rather forcefully and lasts a few days each time. It’s depression and it’s scary.
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It started to snow on the same day we decided to decorate our gingerbread house. As I sat at the dining room table with Leith, listening to Christmas music, watching him lopsidedly pipe icing and randomly stick candies and chocolates onto the house, minute flakes of snow began their meandering, lackadaisical summersaults from the sky. I’m not sure what caught my eye first: the huge maple trees’ limbs dancing in the park across the street or the flecks of white that went whirling around those limbs. Which ever it might have been, it all made me smile.
I got up from the table and left the child (and gum drops and marshmallows and gum balls and chocolate chips) for a few minutes. Everything has been so hectic and topsy-turvy lately and those brief minutes standing with my forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window were just what my whirling brain needed. I watched as the flakes grew larger and flew with stronger and more determined force around the neighbourhood. They never touched the ground, those wee flakes — they whirled and danced and flew and went up and down but never landed. Landing would surely mean melting and they were not about to turn to spots of water on my watch. Oh no.
My breath steamed up a small, dissipating circle on the glass pane as I stood there, hugging my chest and looking outside. I don’t know why these few moments meant so much to me, but they did. Maybe it’s the tumultuousness that has surrounded our lives for this past year. Problems with family, difficulties with friends, issues with co-workers, conversations with teachers, troubles with students…all the stress and all the love and all the problems and all the work. I think for the first time in a long time I had a moment to myself — and I indulged in it — completely and utterly without the stress that has been caused by life unfolding as it wants.
Does any of this make sense? I’m not sure. Just needed to get it out, I suppose. Enjoy yourself…and if you are somewhere where it isn’t going to snow, I feel for you. I really wish you could have been there with me yesterday.
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Mothers are notorious for making their children look dumb. They are truly exceptional at it, mostly because moms are smart and children are morons. It is when these children are dumb and stubborn that you get into trouble. I happened to be one of those (dumb and stubborn) children. Seriously, are you even remotely surprised?
When I was in grade school my mom taught me to make Nanaimo bars. They were my first dedicated foray into the world of baking; they were a recipe I could pull off a batch of without too much fuss and they always tasted delicious. I would tint the middle layer of icing pink for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s Day and purple for Easter. Sometimes I even added sprinkles or flavours. They were just so amazingly delicious and completely versatile. I would take batches of them to school dances, fundraisers, birthdays, picnics and end-of-school parties. I managed to do this through almost to the end of high school without any problems arising… without feeling like a right idiot, at least. Everyone loved them.
One day I took them to a pot-luck dinner at a friend’s house when I was almost finished high school. I had chosen dessert because I knew I didn’t have a lot of time before the party and that these would be simple yet delicious. I whipped them up and took them, proud of my Nanaimo Bars and feeling very much the domestic goddess because of them, for the umpteenth time.
The hostess brought them out to the table and referred to them as (and I quote) “Jennifer’s Brownies”. No, hang on a second, she actually called them “Jennifer’s I-thought-you-said-you-were-bringing-Nanaimo-Bars-and-all-you-brought-are-these-weird-brownies-instead Brownies”. I looked at her, and rather rudely said “Those are Nanaimo bars, you moron”. She went stomping into her mother’s kitchen, to return toting a Canadian Living cookbook/bible that had a recipe for Nanaimo bars. Flashing me a holier-than-thou look she presented to the company at hand a recipe for REAL Nanaimo bars, which while similar were not what I had brought. Apparently Nanaimo Bars have coconut, graham wafers and almonds in them. And they are topped with semi-sweet chocolate rather than unsweetened.
I never spoke to that girl again after that night. I went straight home, cheeks aflame, and asked my mother why she would do such a horrible thing as to lie to me. Her response to my tears and theatrics was her usual arch of an auburn eyebrow, a shrug of the shoulders and a defiant “well, I prefer them my way”. Something, by the way, that I am sure to repeat verbatim when Leith runs home to tell me I made him look dumb in front of his friends (although if I know him he’ll be the one schooling me on what is right and wrong long before his friends get the opportunity to school him).
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My most vivid memory of maple syrup is from when I was in grade school. Growing up in a household that proudly boasted a bedraggled original printing of the Laura Secord Canadian Cookbook allowed me to, at a very early age, discern the versatility of maple syrup – and the pleasure of it as well. Growing up in the same house as my mother only served to profoundly reinforce this particular philosophy.
I remember going out to the sugar bush with my class for the first time in grade 2; all bundled up in our warmest clothes in the earliest days of March. With snowsuits, long underwear, scarves, hats, mittens and boots, we huddled in the yellow school bus for warmth all the way to Oshawa. All day we ran around inside and outside, being taught the wonders of tapping maple trees, making beeswax candles and all sorts of general winter wonderland “stuff”. We went for horse-drawn wagon rides and made snow angels. It was a bright sunny day with a crisp chill that made everyone’s noses turn bright pink and our eyelashes crisp up with frost from our breath. I loved every minute of it.
I think my favourite part was the tapping of the trees. Well, if I’m being completely honest, my favourite part would have to be what came out of those trees, rather than the actual work of putting the taps in. We would run around – like miniature maniacs – with the people who worked in the bush and help them take down the pails that were full of sap. The sap would then be boiled down to syrup in front of our amazed eyes.
I vividly remember running behind the guy with the pot of syrup, to where he had a huge tray of fresh, clean packed snow. He poured a long narrow line of syrup on the snow, where it hardened and cooled instantly. “Take a piece…”, he said. I can still remember that taste. It was fresh like the snow — and cold with the ice crystals hanging off the bottom. And it was sweet like syrup but not like the stuff you buy in the grocery, more of a mellow, organic sweetness than a cloying sweetness. After that we would help out in the huge, warm, homey kitchen, making cornmeal buttermilk pancakes which would be topped with this gorgeous liquid gold we had helped to “create”.
When a friend returned from a recent sojourn to Trois-Rivieres in Quebec with a package for me I was delighted to find a small jar of Maple Butter enclosed. While it isn’t syrup, it is still delicious and I thank her for bringing those memories of trips into the sugar bush and tapping maple trees to mind with her thoughtful and – oh-so-very-sweet – gift.
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Recently I showed up at a friend’s house for dinner, and by the look on her husband’s face when he opened the door, I knew something was very wrong. Actually, allow me to rephrase that. Something was very wrong with me. He stammered a quick hello, smiled (laughed, if we’re being honest here) and let me in. I handed him the box I was carrying and rather self-consciously removed my hat, coat and scarf, peeking out from under my bangs at his still slightly dubious smirk. In my head I took imaginary stock of what he could be gawking at so malevolently.
Did I have paint in my hair? Something huge and disgusting stuck in my teeth? Only half of my makeup done? All were distinct possibilities.
Finally I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and asked him what the heck was the matter. He smiled (laughed…see above) and turned to his wife who was coming down the hall at that moment. She smiled at me, warmly, and turned me towards the hall mirror. I went white. Seriously – I had turned white in the few scant hours since I’d last looked in the mirror. Somehow the icing sugar from the pastries I had made that afternoon had ended up all over me. And I uh, forgot to look in the mirror before rushing out the door, the guilty-party-pastries boxed up for dessert.
Of course I laughed it off and managed to clean myself up in their hall bathroom before joining the rest of the dinner party. It (I) became a running joke that evening – everyone coming up with their own names for the light and airy pastries that had caused all the ruckus.
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Every summer, for about as long as I can remember, my parents have planted tomato plants in their backyard garden. That’s what Victoria Day is for — as long as it’s not pouring rain or freezing cold (both good possibilities up here in the great white north) — planting the vegetable and herb gardens.
On the south side of the yard, where the sun shines the strongest and where the soil has grown vegetables and herbs for more than forty years…that’s where they go. I would make the trip to the nursery and pick out each plant as though it might be a piece of beautiful jewelry, carrying them home in the plastic trays, watching them bounce up and down on the seat next to me. The smell was always what I loved most in the beginning — the smell of freshly growing tomato plants is something beautiful and simple…it’s the smell of sweet and savory combined in one.
Big Boys, Beefsteaks, Romas, Lemon Boys, San Marzanos, Pastes. Pick them late, having allowed them to ripen on the vine in the summer sunshine and bathe in the late August rain. Walking out to the yard at daybreak, after an early morning watering, the grass damp beneath your feet…picking a tomato fresh from the wine and smelling it in your hands is pure heaven. Taking it inside and eating it immediately on a toasted bagel with a little cream cheese and freshly cracked black pepper is divine.
BUT: keeping them (well, some of them) and drying them out with garlic and rosemary or pepper and lemon zest or just by themselves, and saving them for 6 months in the fridge, waiting to be used in a recipe like sun-dried tomato pesto, is unspeakably gorgeous and undeniably rewarding.
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Inspiration strikes in mysterious ways – many things wouldn’t exist without it. For me, when it comes to cooking, inspiration is doubly important because sometimes, frankly, I have no idea what to do. Many nights, inspiration is non-existent at 5pm when I get home from work and I’m tired and hungry. Picking Leith up at school, getting hats and mittens and boots on and getting him home is a trial in itself. At these times that bag of digestive cookies really looks quite a lot like dinner…maybe with an orange juice chaser for a vegetable/fruit course.
Some days before I leave work, I mentally tick off what is in the fridge or cupboards and wonder what to make for dinner. Sometimes I’ll venture over to the ‘net and type in one of the major ingredients that I think might be eager to be eaten, in an attempt to figure out something that is easy, quick and oh-so-tasty. Of course the food has to be Leith-friendly as well as me-friendly and sometimes that leaves dinner looking rather slim.
On the odd day inspiration strikes gold and I head home with a bounce in my step and a smile on my face, thinking – nay, knowing – that a delicious dinner is only a small amount of work and a very short time away (and doesn’t involve frozen fish sticks or peanut butter). Those days Leith somehow knows to wait patiently for dinner and he will be rewarded with something great. On those days something comes over me and I usually end up with a great dinner as well as cookies or a quick pie or cake whipped up for dessert, because I’m just that on top of my game. It’s a wonderful feeling.
Other days inspiration doesn’t strike… in fact it’s nowhere to be found. Inspiration some days walks out the door, down the hall and goes far, far away, probably to inspire someone in France or Italy. Maybe I need to move…maybe I’d be a better cook if inspiration could find me easier. Perhaps I should put a sign on my door: Inspiration, please strike here. Something to think about.
This week, inspiration struck right here; so close it almost knocked me over. A co-worker was wondering what to do with the tofu in her fridge that her kids kept turning their noses up at. We came up with a recipe that would satisfy her boys, herself and her husbands’ demands, and as I thought more and more about it, I realized I wanted the very same thing for dinner myself. I went home from work, a bounce in my step and a smile on my face. That evening I made a really delicious Asian-inspired Noodle Salad.
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I used to be dreadful with accepting change. Having a child, I am now a roller-with-the-puncher, a flyer-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of gal; the parent of an utterly astounding kinder. I always knew having a child would change my life. I knew that having a child would probably change the way I ate and the way I cooked – for myself as well as for him. I knew I would be the type of A-personality mum who made her child’s food with both gratification and determination…it’s purely who I am. Remember: I’m not good with change.
I just don’t think it ever dawned on me how thrilled I would be on the day my son ate something I had made for him. When he clapped his hands in excitement and smiled a heart-felt grin at me in appreciation when the food was ready. Or that when I put his dinner on the table and he exclaimed, "Mama, you made this? By yourself? It is good", just how much those words would tug at my heart strings. And amazingly, all this was in reference to real food � not macaroni or chicken fingers. Food, with a capital "F", that required prep time and cooking and spicing and even, dare I say it… presentation.
And lo the Domestic Baby was born and henceforth he shall be named "Leith" and he shall be called "Leithy" and "Leith-o the Potato" by his mother – mainly just to bug him.
My son is a foodie – at the ripe old age of nearly 4 �. He knows the difference between the boring low-fat cheese that mummy eats sometimes to make sure her jeans will continue to fit and the really good, well-aged cheddar she chops up for him to eat with his lunch. He is well versed in the sweet, salty, hot, sour paradigm and loves the flavours with vim and vigor. He has a weakness for chopped tomatoes in olive oil with a touch of salt and pepper, and adores hummus and baba ghanouj. This child will eat onions and broccoli and cauliflower. He won’t snub fish or chicken or lamb or beef and loves him some beef bacon, freshly fried, next to two, perfectly runny, sunny-side up eggs. And best of all – and this is the thing that makes my heart sing – he loves his mama’s cooking. Shepherd’s Pie, Turkey Burgers, Roast Chicken in Tomato-Basil Sauce and oh, please don’t you dare forget about mama’s Spaghetti and Meatballs.
I knew I could cook before I had a baby – of course I could cook. And I knew I enjoyed cooking for other people, it was just who I was. But now, I plan out meals that the two of us can eat together – that King Leith-o can eat and enjoy and expand his already blooming palate with. It was a challenge at first but now it comes as second nature to cook something he will eat and I will enjoy. It’s amazing, really…and something I had never expected would bring me such complete and unreserved delight.
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My favourite book as a child was about a family of bears who wander through the woods behind their house. They venture between the rocks, around the lake and up Spook Hill, where they encounter an owl who howls loudly (mimicked extremely well by my father at the time). The bears turn tail and run all the way, down Spook Hill, back around the lake and between the rocks…home through the window to their bed in their well-lit, completely safe home. I’m not sure if it was the howling, the suspense or the running home that grabbed my attention, but something in that book did. It grabbed me and held onto me virtually every night for many years of my childhood.
Last night I was awakened by a similar howling, coming from Leith’s room. I slowly emerged from the warm, comfortable sleep in which I was indulging and lay there in the dark, wondering what the noise was. I heard another long howl and my feet immediately hit the floor. I wasn’t quite awake when I found myself beside Leith’s bed, gazing down at my loveable son who was crying his little heart out. I bundled him up in his blanket and sat down with him in my lap and rocked him back and forth, whispering to him over and over that he was going to be okay.
After a few minutes he had calmed down, was heavy and warm in my arms and ready to go back to his bed. I tucked him in, said good night and went back to my own room. After about two minutes the crying started again – not as loud or as determined as before but still plaintive and heart wrenching. He stopped on his own this time but I couldn’t sleep anymore so I got up, put on my slippers and padded to the kitchen.
What do you do at 3 am when you can’t get back to sleep? I don’t find that the old warm milk trick does anything for me. A nice hot cup of peppermint tea is more my speed…and something sweet on the side to fill my belly enough that I can get back to sleep. Luckily, I keep some tidbits in my freezer for just these occasions. Slices of dessert bread or cookie dough, in small packages, ready for the oven; awaiting me when I need them most. All I have to do is turn on the toaster oven, pop one of these little beauties in for a few minutes (about as long as it takes to boil water for a cup of tea). Soon I’m seated, wrapped in my ruby red chenille throw, sipping my tea and munching on something sweet.
It calmed my nerves and obviously Leith’s as well because he didn’t wake again over night. I am still not sure what it was that woke him in the first place. The howling noises I made while reading his favourite book over and over? Another cold? Missing his father? Who knows. But he slept – much like a baby – the rest of the night, as did I after having my small, sweet treat and a few sips of tea.
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