a meal in passing

the winter wind, chilled our feet and our cheeks. nearly frostbitten toes. father and son, alone, walked to her last resting place, holding each other by the arms, whispering. his black peacoat flapping in the january wind in the jewish cemetary. they slip on a patch of ice.

stones, small and large, lay on top of the marble headstones around us. placed by family, friends, lovers and foes.

back at home.

the table was adorned with the following dishes: pickled herring with stuffed olives and onions, chicken meatloaf with a mushroom and cheese topping,  a plate of cold cuts, sliced lamb roast, fish liver egg spread, a plate of rye bread, stuffed eggplant rice wraps, housemade quick white vinegar pickled whole plum tomatoes and cucumbers,  bbq chicken wings, boiled potatoes with dill, corn mayonnaise salad, moussaka, a bowl of cut up vegetables and onions.

a pot of chicken vegetable soup with chicken meatballs simmered on the stove. filling the air with the warmth of carefully prepared broth. the scent of carrots and celery.

sitting for shiva.

we each had a tiny shot glass by our plates. refilled with vodka and whiskey after a toast. as per tradition.

in memory of her.

stories of her achievements in the ukraine, her strong willed and sage like personality, the doting aunt, consultant confidant, sister, mother, best friend, wife, mathematician, scholar.

he sat there at the table, plate untouched, fork in hand mid-air. pensive with a slight smile on his face. staring off in the distance. surely thinking about an old memory. maybe of being in grade 3 again when they met one another as 9 year olds. thinking about how he can only seem to remember the beginning and the very end when she got really sick. but not quite remembering the 30+  intermediate years in between. reminiscing.

reaching across the table to squeeze each others’ hands.

eventually he was able to spoon the dill potatoes into his mouth. pushing the creamy potatoes with his knife onto his fork.

laughter & tears.

we later put out plates of cut up pears and apple slices on the table. a bowl of clementines. baklava and danish.

marshmallow meringue sweets nestled in a cream coloured box.

tea.

old photographs in shoe boxes. short hair, thick glasses, short shorts, stripped shirt. the proto-hipsters circa 70s in the old U.S.S.R.

the walls decorated with photographs of the early 1900s. solemn and stern faces. bow ties and dark suits. ceremonious war medals and accolades. uncanny resemblances, 3 generations. paintings of tomatoes on a cutting board, a lake in the old country, roses, a woman shrouded in purple. svelte legs up to there.

the small pine tree in the corner held in a ceramic vase, decorated with bulbs, looked pitiful. the top drooping to the side with its loose needles pooling on the floor.

the abundant fruit ripening in overflowing baskets and bowls in the kitchen. outliving. and dying.

Best baby part to eat according to a doctor

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At the annual doctor’s pizza party (organized by Carlos, who calls me his favourite archnemesis due to a 2010 pizza making altercation that involved basil….I like being an archnemesis) back in the fall, a bunch of us started arguing about what baby body part would be the best to eat.

It was deemed by Shreyas that undoubtedly the tastiest bit would be the thighs.

“Tender, they are.”

When you cut them open.

From the mouth of a pediatric surgeon.

Who could argue?

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Baby agrees?

IMG_8507(My brother and sister-in-law may never allow me to watch my niece alone ever)

Dryland farming as art

Sabrina took me to the Toronto International Art Fair last weekend. What a treat to see so many fabulous paintings, photographs, installations, what have you from world famous artists (some local too!), presented in such close quarters, comparatively to museums. Because the collections were on display by galleries from different cities, there was a wide breadth and range. What was also great, is that we got to see the prices listed on the pieces. Their value.  Anything from $1,400 to more than $140, 000 to “inquire within for a price”.

To be honest there was too much to take in one evening…as I get overwhelmed visually easily.

I loved the Edward Burtynsky (who is famous for capturing aerial shots of industrial sites the world over, and his documentary Manufactured Landscapes) photographs of Dryland Farming (#13) in Monegros County, Aragon, Spain. Because it looks like an oil painting, even up close, and I looked that closely, I am talking if I-stuck-my-tongue-out-I-could-of-licked-the-photo, it’s uncanny.

edward burtynsky dryland farming #13

(c/o artnet.com)


“Dryland farming has evolved as a set of techniques and management practices used by farmers to continually adapt to the presence or lack of moisture in a given crop cycle.”
This non-irrigated method of farming is dependent on natural rainfall of which there is little of in the arid regions where this is practiced, which blows my gardener’s mind, as someone who has only grown food in relatively wetter climates and has had access to municipal water.

The Burtynsky piece reminded me of the rice terrace farming in Sapa, Vietnam, along the mountains, of which I had the opportunity to trek through back in 2004, and elicits the memory of the smells of indigo dye and burning wood in the villages…at the time though I didn’t know I’d get into food growing and agriculture in a big way when I took this photo!

sapa agriculture 2004
(c/o photo of a photo taken with 35 mm)

halloweeniers

I walked over to your house, with my dismembered limbs hanging from my neck, taking in the kids walking with their parents, the groups of loud teenagers walking in clusters, and the ghoulish sounds emitting from the houses shrouded in cobwebs.

We sat on the porch giving out candy and chips to the neighbourhood children, youth, and the parents who were collecting candy on behalf of their under-a-year-old-infants in their strollers with no teeth (”suuuure the candy is for your baby” we cackled!), while drinking rum with orange juice ice cubes shaped like pumpkins, sipping pisco, and dipping chips in pesto. So fun to observe the waves of people coming up the stairs, some in identifiable costumes (i.e. 4 Batmans, 3 ice cream sundaes, innumerable witches, vampires and demons, a couple cowboys, your requisite 68539 Disney princesses etc.) and some in questionable non-sequitur attire. Funny to note how there are always gaggles of teenage girls dressed in their pajamas and hair in pigtails!

Every time you stepped inside the house, I’d sneak a chocolate bar or two into my pocket…for later, and stuff an eyeball shaped chocolate in my mouth and “test out” the other candy, to see what kids these days are eating. Research.

You would be quick to ask teenagers what they were dressed as(when they were obviously not dressed in anything but their normal wear), in that interrogative fashion that adults use where they want a justifiable and satisfying answer.  As a teen I remember thinking when that would happen, “hey, stop talking to me, you are slowing down my procurement of candy and chips…don’t you know I’m trying to collect as much junk as possible?” and roll my eyes impatiently. But, it’s part of the exchange and so they had to humour us, and I would encourage them to make stuff up, to counter your “serious” inquiries by whispering loudly behind your back “Make it up! Say you are dressed as the night sky! The colour black!”

My favourite:
“Uhhh…I am a 14 year old?!” stammered the pimply faced 14 year old boy who’s voice had barely started to break.

And then there was the following:

“I am a terrorist” — said offhandedly by a girl of 15 maybe, who looked of South Asian descent, dressed normally, covered in a beautiful long scarf which she wrapped around her face.

“I am Asian?” — said by Asian boy.

Very interesting and disturbing indeed! Perplexing too, because you’d have to wonder what they were thinking? The identity and cultural politics in me wants to dissect, evaluate, question their answers…nevertheless.

Parading down the streets afterwards, when most trick or treaters had gone home, and the sidewalks were littered with candy wrappers, the bars were filled with adults, some dressed in costume, smoking outside. The liquor kept pouring into our glasses and into our mouths.

You can be who you want to be.

Scar face kakai pumpkin!
scar face pumpkin

To read about other Halloweenie harvesting activities go here!

Doughnut World

I’ve been thinking about donuts lately (or doughnuts as it is spelled in other parts). How I have always maligned them in my mind, in favour of other pastries or baked goods: croissants, eclairs, cake, pies, cookies….god, even muffins! I did go through Boston cream, sugar twist and Canadian Maple phases at some points, but these donut stints were short-lived. Donut shops were to me mostly a back-up coffee provider. Not a dispenser of dough.

blood orange flavoured donut
My first experience with donuts
, really, or some facsimile were with beignets in the South of France. My cousins Olivier, Denis, Patrick and Philippe  lived in the Cote D’Azur, and we were lucky to have a place to congregate in the summer for week long affordable jaunts away from the city.

Memories of summers, of hanging out with my gang of cousins (it wouldn’t be unusual for multiple families to go down at the same time — so there could be anywhere between 6-9+ first French-born generation cousins of us in the south), running on sandy and pebbled roads in sandals, climbing rocky enclaves, playing table tennis and pranks on each other (my poor little brother often the recipient of terrible juvenile behaviour), going to the local fair and playing arcade games, fishing and peering in tidal pools for creatures, swimming in the Mediterranean and general lollylagging in the best of way under the sun and by the sea.

I remember sitting on the beach under a giant parasol with my mom, sand in my bathing suit of course, smelling of sunscreen, and having vendors dressed in white come up to our beach towels with their giant strapped boxed trays selling to you rounded pomme beignets, deep fried doughy goodness with a chunky apple filling, delightfully covered in sugar. Eating them, they tasted sweet and slightly salty because I had just come out of the water. They were always a little warm and greasy —oh so good!

Voici a salute to donuts of the present I have eaten in the last month. In visuals and some commentary.

Behold! Texas sized donuts that I spur of the moment ordered  going through the Country Time drive through for coffee with some buddies on our way to Tony’s Farm. I saw a sign saying “We sell Texas sized donuts here!” in bold letters and who could resist? I asked what flavours they had and they said they had chocolate and regular glaze. Why not get both? Eh?

But little were we prepared for these fake glossy beauties, that remind me of Barbie Dolls in their shiny sugary gloriousness. When our bill (including coffees!) came to above $18, I was initially scandalized and demanded to know how was that possible? The cashier gently told us the donuts were $5.99 each. And I was thinking total rip UNTIL, I saw two massive white square boxes coming towards my head. Each cradling a giant donut!

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Holy Hell!

Any doubt or scandalized thoughts immediately evaporated from my mind.

They ended up being awesome makeshift birthday cakes for Tony and Liz. Worth every penny, basically.

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They definitely would make great wedding cakes (cake-lettes?) too, as you can see. I do(nut)!

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Portable. Good for sharing.

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Remnants!

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Bites, oh bites, of donuts. Donut carcass?

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Moving on.

Hello blood orange donut from Dough in Brooklyn! I had the fortune to eat this lovely beast of a donut while visiting friends. Was skeptical about the flavour, as blood oranges are my favourite citrus. And I never would have thought of making them into a donut flavour.

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But I was not disappointed. With a delicious cortado to accompany my donut, a breakfast of champs!

Slightly off-topic about donuts, but taking place in a donut shop nonetheless at an ungodly hour i.e. Coffee Time: it goes without saying to not order rice pudding at such a place. Right?!?

But you know, sometimes you just want to live large and go with temptation and encourage friends to go for it…

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And yes it was tasteless and gummy, and barely salvaged with the addition of cream from those wee take-away mini cupcake like containers with the peel away lift tabs (there’s probably a shorter descriptor). But at 4:35 am, you can’t really ask for more. NO regrets!

In conclusion, I love donuts. And doughnut shops.

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Texas Donut Massacre!

In half an hour…

I am part of a weekly writing group with 9 other strangers. We are given a prompt, and anywhere between 15 to 45 minutes to write with the option to share our piece with the group right after.

Today’s prompt was “write about a shared meal”, and this is what I banged out in half an hour – impromptu styles!

That late spring night when you wordlessly placed the BBQ duck on my plate at 4 am, surrounded by our friends in Chinatown, did you know what it meant?

I come from a family that never expressed affection with words well, unless it consisted of pointing out flaws or some alleged wrongdoing. Nor were we capable of comfortably showing affection with hugs or kisses. It always seemed weird to see friends willingly hug their fathers, mothers or siblings, or to have them hug me. I’d stand there, stiff, arms outstretched, only capable of patting their backs with my hands, as awkwardly as possible.

Family shared meals usually consisted of deadly tense silence – my father eating quietly with a faraway distracted look in his eyes, the wrong noise or chatter set to irritate him and lead to some admonishment, and my mother picking apart or nagging us about dirty dishes, homework, a messy room, or warning us about some looming danger. My brother would be too busy inhaling/stuffing as much food down his big mouth as humanly possible. He once won a cherry pie eating competition when he was about 14, beating dozens of other competitors, all older and bigger than him, by far.

Despite these tense meals I still managed to learn about love from my family’s shared eating rituals. Communal eating is commonplace amongst Vietnamese families (as well as other Asian groups) – where various hot and cold dishes are placed in the middle of the table for everyone to share and pick up morsels of meat or mushrooms, bean sprouts and watercress or tofu with your own set of chopsticks to put into your own individual bowl of rice. What usually transpires, especially if you are a child, is that elders such as your mother, father, aunt or uncle will take care of you in those little moments: deftly picking a shrimp dumpling and placing it on your plate or bowl. One of my favourite cousins will consistently place without my asking the nicest piece of lobster tail in mine at family events. My grandmother, when I went to visit her in Vietnam distinctly picked the best roast pork pieces and gave them to me lovingly, meanwhile simultaneously commenting out loud how I needed a hair cut badly, question my choice of pant wear, and remark that my skin was too dark.

This eating exchange ritual doesn’t just happen from elder to child but can easily occur between husband and wife, sister to brother, friend to friend, lover to lover … It is a form of bonding and affection that I understand. It is also a way to woo someone….

So when you placed that crispy duck leg on my plate that night without a word, do you know what you were doing? Do you get it?

Your peach lady

veeglo peaches

Last Thursday I had the ultimate fortune of living out one of my fantasies of working the farmers’ market! My friend Abbey hooked me up to sell peaches for Wiecha farms (aka Niagara Lavender Farms) at Dufferin Grove! So much fun (I initially typed ’so much farm’) and such a pleasure to be pilfering peaches to the masses. I got to wear a cute little apron with lavender embroidered on the front, and tenderly place peaches “bums up” in quarts (so that they look more attractive according to Debbie the farmer), and be engulfed by the irresistible scent of sweet, sweet floral peaches. Seriously the best peaches you’ll ever eat in your goddamn life. What is not to like?

veeglos

Debbie & Jim grow various peach varieties organically as well as elderberries and multiple strains of lavender in the Niagara region, which is reputed to have the best soil for stone fruit due to geological/mineral sediment deposits from the last glacial melt. It is no coincidence that Winona, outside of Hamilton, is home to one of the world’s largest peach festivals.

The last four weeks or so I’ve been buying them by the basketfuls from Debbie, because I am neurotically greedy over Ontario peaches, and when not gorging, giving them away to friends, family, acquaintances, my youth staff, my landlords, students, strangers, whoever happened to cross my path when I’ve been carrying my surplus in my bag. My motive being that I get a kick of watching people biting into them awkwardly and seeing the juices spurt forth all over, and seeing what techniques people employ in their peach eating habits. The ever present anthropologist in me! I especially liked seeing my friend Steph and her partner Jesse taking a bite while walking down Bathurst street and recoiling backwards. It was almost like a horror gore scene, but peach juice for blood. If only!

veeglo peaches

The only downer of working the farmers’ market was at the end when we were down to our last ten baskets, and there was a somewhat seriously sombre and nervous line up of people, anxiously waiting to see if they’d get one of the baskets or if the person ahead of them would buy multiples, given that they were the last batch of the season from Wiecha farm! The nice thing is that two strangers amicably split the last basket at the end. Peaches bringing out harmony and sharing! Awww!

The highlight was possibly having a discussion about how eating too many peaches can give you diarrhea that I had with a certain long time Canadian alt-rocker. I said that was something my mom would say. And the man responded in a serious tone “Well, I am a dad”. Awww!

I am sad that this was a one-time gig…

peeeeaaaaaccches

I had put away 5 or so baskets of peaches for myself early on, knowing they would sell out, even if I felt a little ridiculous being that I live alone, and would have to carry them home…I managed to off load a couple baskets to a teacher I work with in the French School board, a biking acquaintance, and two of my favourite local seamstress buddies in the ‘hood as I trudged home with my load of precious goodies. The last bit of summer.

Table of peaches before market time.

veeglo peaches

This free stone (meaning the flesh come off the pit easily - an important feature if you plan to partake in canning and preservation) variety are Veeglos. You might be able to  note how they vary in size! The bigger ones come from ‘teenager’ trees, 4-5 years old, which produce about 5 fruits in a growing season while they go through their growth spurt.

Here is a selection of photos of people I’ve captured eating peaches:
peaches degustation

eating peaches

eating peaches

Night time snack time bed time:
pêche la nuit

pêche chomps le soir

Play time:
drippy pêches

drippy pêches

trois pêches

trois pêches

Oh la dégustation des pêches!

pêche la nuit

Condiments man

The other night, maybe just before 2 am, coming home from a righteous show at the Silver Dollar, I stopped by my local 24 hour fast food joint. Was engrossed fascinated by the following patron’s tray with his various collection of sauces and dips!

condiments man I met between 2:00 am- 3:00 am on a Thursday

“You should see my eating ritual. It is something to be seen”, the twenty-something boasted while we waited by the counter for our complete orders.

I left, before I could witness, which I am sure was something to be seen.

No doubt!

I biked with one hand through the Galleria Mall parking lot, stuffing my mouth with hot fries straight out of the paper bag with the other, zig zagging, music blaring in my ears.

A paraphrased text exchange with a friend last night

A paraphrased text exchange:

SK:  Are you on a date?

me: No, just in a hot dog eating competition. What makes you think I am on date?

SK: Your phone just pocket dialed me. I heard a man’s voice! Really?

me: Yes, for real!

SK:  How are you doing?

me: I gave in on my 7th. Competitor weighs twice more than me.

SK: That’s still pretty good!

me: I feel gross. Me and my big mouth.

I thought it would be a good idea and fun to challenge one of my best friend’s husband* to a spontaneous hot dog eating competition at a party last night.

I haven’t learned my lesson though and we are planning for a re-match, although I had to lie down on the couch for a little while, and had to endure joke offerings of hot dogs for the rest of the night. Not to mention the smell of hot dogs being freshly grilled for new guests that arrived later.

*He actually had made a promise to his wife years ago that he would no longer do eating competitions.

On eating late at night socially as an activity

after show poutine

When making non-eating social plans at night, I might chip in with ideas but inside my head I am already strategically obsessing over what in-direct food options there are.

I love eating late at night more than any other time — even mornings, when after hours of delicious slumber and no eating for a long stretch I am ravenous, my stomach crankily growling for sustenance and my mouth salivating. I love eating at night despite the widespread belief that it’s not good for you…

I am willing to undergo stomach aches (i.e. gas!), and face the repercussions of indulging in fries, poutine, chips, ice cream, cheese, indulgent custards and cream filled pastries and my ultimate favourite, Chinese BBQ duck. I eat at night knowing I will likely experience the post-queasy feeling of over-fullness, and ensuing regret. I once knew someone that insisted that whenever they ate late at night they’d always have nightmares or night terrors of some sort. But no matter.

Small pittance, I say, for that moment when you get to sink your teeth into deliciousness, eyes aglow. It is primordial. Your incisors tearing at the charred crisp and fatty skin in the wee hours of the night in wild abandon. Ever more enjoyable when you have co-conspirators surrounding you. Like pack animals.

Last week while doing NXNE, we debated going to another show, OR going to Kom Jug Yuen for some BBQ duck. It was well past 2 am. Thankfully, the decision was made to go eat! Between the four of us, we demolished a whole duck, as well as some bok choy and rice, and I was happy, happy as a clam, clams also being one of my favourite eats too. (Is drunk as a clam also a saying? *cough*.)

late, late night duck!

Luckily that aforementioned night there was friend food concurrence (I will one day post my thoughts on the notion of food friends…and a story about my food friend soulmate or very near soul-mate), but in times where I am flying solo with my hankering for something tasty, I have a contingency plan of snacks in my cupboards and fridge….and living in the city, quite a few 24 hour places within biking minutes of my apartment, routes mapped out in my mind.