Christmas Salad

It's almost Christmas, which maybe gives me some grace on my blogging absence - not blogging is much like not going to the gym: first you miss a day, then a week.. then you have a baby and suddenly it's been almost 6 years. Humour me and let me think that you've all been pining next to your computers; I don't know if it's a Reems trait, or an oldest child trait, but I do my best work under a cloak of guilt and expectations.

Now, for my return I needed to pull out all the stops, and I guarantee that this is 100% Haley Inspired Brilliance. Sheer gastronomic and seasonal genius combined, I am totally wasted changing diapers.The kids and I were sharing their first pomegranate experience this afternoon; while we were delving into the fun and messiness that is eating a pomegranate, the lightning bolt struck - CHRISTMAS SALAD. Red, White, Green. Even Finn, who normally shies away from salads loved it.I encourage you to make this for Christmas dinner.

Christmas Salad (Pomegranate Hazelnut Spinach Salad)

Adjust amounts to your groups, this will serve 4

Green:
Baby Spinach - 4 cups
1/2 sliced avocado
White:
1/3 cup roughly chopped toasted hazelnuts (bragging time, the ones in this salad came from the trees in the park behind our house)
1/4 cup crumbled feta (or chevre)
Red:
 pomegranate - 1/3 or so of the seeds
1/4 cup thinly sliced red onions (or sub chopped green onions)
1/4 cup julienned red pepper

Dressing: 3 T balsamic vinegar, 3T olive oil, dash honey, tiny pinch sea salt
(You could substitute a bottled vinaigrette)

Toss with dressing. Serve. Raise a glass to me. Merry Christmas!

Roast Chicken for les Paresseaux

Usually, I don't pick the easy route. Like, why drive when you can bike through the dark, wet morning? Or buy sliced and bagged bakery bread if you can spend your Saturday kneading, punching down, and waiting by the oven? Or walk the beach if you can be in the water, eating bottom beneath a giant wave?

The above list sounds cute, happy-go-lucky, even. Well step back because there lurks a dark underbelly. (Can a dark underbelly lurk? Probably.) The dark underbelly's a tense one, a tich manic, a lot uptight, basically an undiagnosed anxiety-plagued soul. If you're after a five am wake up call, don't pick the easy road because you'd rather be wide-eyed in the dark running through your day, mentally confirming the purple-pants selection, sticky-noting your brain with don't-forget-to's, while worrying that you're up to early and so must inevitably crash sometime this afternoon and in that case how will you get it all done?

It's rough.

But don't worry, I'm chilling out, drinking more tea, pausing to enjoy the moment -- like the feel of hot water in a sink of dishes, or the darkness of an early morning ride, or the scent of Borax as I scrub out the tub. Nope, not an easy task, living in the moment, but I'm on it. Oh wait, I'm trying to be a little less on it.

Which brings me to dinner and how I took a chicken out of the freezer on Sunday, and so it was all thawed out today and ready for the oven. I had Dorrie Greenspan's lovely French cookbook in front of me. I wanted to follow the recipe that instructed a ring of dough be placed around the edge of the pot. The dough is meant to seal up the pot so everything inside becomes incredibly delicious. Dorrie advises the reader to make a big splash with her guests by breaking the dough seal at the table and allowing the mouthwatering aromas to waft forward. Well, I didn't have any guests, just potatoes and two carrots.

A second recipe caught my eye: Roast Chicken for les Paresseux, which translates to: Roast Chicken for Lazy People. Exactly, I thought, exactly what I need.

So I stuffed everything in the pot and popped it in a 450 degree, oven looked at the clock and realized I had just enough time. I whipped into a pair of shorts and pulled my runners from beneath the heater. Thanks to Dorrie, I managed to get a ten km run in and cook dinner.

I love this new life outlook.

Really, Dorrie's recipe led me to do basically what I always do when roasting a chicken, but I did add the veg to the pot. Thanks for that, Dorrie.

Roasted Chicken with Two Veggies

1 chicken
salt and pepper
rosemary if you have it
half a lemon in two piece
4-8 cloves of peeled garlic, half whole, half diced
6 small potatoes (obviously you can choose how many potatoes you want; just don't overload the pot)

2 carrots
1 onion, quartered (or leave it out if you're not partial)

Preheat the oven to 450.

Rub the chicken all over with salt and pepper. This includes pushing your fingers under the skin over the breast and rubbing the skin of the breast. If your fingers are long, lean, and nibble like mine, also try to reach and rub under the skin over the legs. Put the whole garlic and the lemon inside the chicken.

Rub a dutch oven or pot of your choice with olive oil and put the chicken and the rosemary inside.

Toss the veggies with a little olive oil and plenty of salt and pepper and tuck them in the pot with the chicken.

Roast for 30-90 minutes depending on the size of your chick.

The Blanket Fog Affect

(Hungry mouths beat the camera to this loaf)

When you ignore your blog for three months a lot can happen. For instance, you can turn up in Vancouver on UBC campus, suddenly a student again and loving it -- not to mention the sushi and all that caffeine charging you from the cafes stamped on every corner. Then suddenly you best pal has a baby and you're creeping on thirty and feeling sentimental before you stash a bunch of junk in your van and drive to California to bob in the waves and watch sunsets and forget you're almost thirty because everyone you meet is offering you money, dinner, advice, and a bag of Jelly Bellies. When you're finally back sleeping in your own king-sized bed it's almost a let down because September keeps winking at you and there's a new job, which sucks you like a whirlpool the minute you step in through the school doors because the whole staff already knows your name and the students actually come to the library to read and when you suggest titles, they're actually interested and actually take the books out and actually read them.

Whew.

And that's what it's been like.

Which is probably why I took a nap yesterday afternoon. I never nap. But it felt good. Even waking in a puddle of drool before dragging, no ripping, my lazy carcass from the king felt good. I think I'm ready to slow the pace and feel a little less frenzied and a little more regular. After all, it finally rained. An entire September without rain and constant sunshine is enough to throw anyone into a bit of a whirlwind.

So I made White Fog Bread, which involves quinoa and apparently hearkens from Eastern Canada, an entirely foggy place. Each loaf is divided into three pieces so you can tear off a hunk (if you're an east-coast working man), put it in a lunch pail, and head out for the day.

White Fog Bread
 From Beth Hensperger's Bread for All Seasons

1 cup water
1 Tbsp yeast
pinch sugar
1 cup warm buttermilk
1/4 cup oil
1/4 cup honey
3 tsp salt
1 3/4 cup cooked quinoa
2 cups whole wheat flour
3 cups white flour

Combine the yeast and water in a small bowl.

In a large bowl, stir together the buttermilk, oil, honey, salt and quinoa. Mix in the yeast mixture and the whole wheat flour. Add the remaining flour half a cup at a time.

Knead for 3-5 minutes.

Let the dough rise until doubled (1.5 to 2 hours).

Shape the dough by dividing it into three parts. Divide each of those three part into another three pieces. Shape each piece into a long rectangle then roll it up to form a fat square. Fit three squares into one greased bread pan. Repeat with the remaining pieces.

Let the loaves rise until doubled -- another hour. Then bake at 350 for 45 minutes.

Let the bread mostly cool before slicing it, if at all possible.

Mermaid Cake

Mermaid Cake

The promised mermaid cake. Turns out regular blogging was a lofty promise. Of course I hadn't factored on a subtropical October. Lounging on the deck; throwing rocks at the river.. and making mermaid cakes. It's a tough life. 

Meet Mermaid,  kind of an Ariel-meets-Raggedy Ann.

I have to confess, making this cake took precedent over all other 3-year-old party plans. This is including the ridiculous amount of time I spent wandering the bulk candy aisle at Superstore. And of course, I had to make two giant sheet cakes in order to produce enough cake to make two layers, because I love a cake with a filling. This mermaid wasn't just a pretty face, no she was delish: Vanilla cake; Buttercream frosting; and Joan's filling.

Joan's Pudding Filling 
 (If you mention this filling to Joan she'll look at you blankly, feigning ignorance due to high sugar content)

1 package instant vanilla pudding
1 cup milk
1 cup sour cream, low fat or regular

Prepare pudding but instead of 2 cups milk use 1 cup milk and 1 cup sour cream.
So good I could eat this straight from the bowl. Actually, I did.

On a related but somewhat awkward note: Mermaid boobs. I went with a discreet smarty bikini-style top with licorice straps. I think it worked.

Thanks for waiting..

If you're still following us, thanks. We've had a long hiatus. Too long, but we're almost back, almost.. And we promise to return with great goals of regular posting, updates, exciting glimpses into our lives and kitchens. The drama! The excitement!

I'm going to give you a teaser. This is the spider cake creation from Finn's birthday bash last June. Because every post needs to have a picture. And the Spider Cake deserved a post. It was awesome. And this weekend I will be attempting (cue suspenseful music): The mermaid cake Stay tuned.

Spider Cake

Crabby

Last week I had two amazing seafood feasts. I'm trying to decide which was better. The first was a solo meal -yup, just me, and a crab (no, not Mike), and a deck overlooking the sea. Three days later I was sitting on a patio with my sister, dishing in Kitsilano at Chewies over crabcakes and a plate of raw Fanny Bay oysters. Yup, raw oysters. I was a raw oyster virgin, and Rach, experienced in the area of oyster slurping, held my hand through it all. The first was a bit rough, but the third... The third oyster slid down quite nicely.

How to Cook and Eat Crab

1) Take crab - the fresher the better. Plucked from its happy home moments before your plate? Perfect.
2) Boil water with a pinch of sea salt
3) Pop crab in for 10 minutes
4) Crack those legs, suck those juices. Savour - and push aside the herbed butter. A crab this fresh doesn't need anything except your adoration.

1 Ingredient Ice Cream

Today we finally had summer. Finn looked at me, slightly cross-eyed with exhaustion, but happy "Mommy, today was awesome. I had THREE water fights." Watching Finn, the newly minted 5-year-old "water fight" is entertaining. Two thirds of the time he is stoic, he is dodging, he is spraying - but the other third of the time is spent alternating between high pitched shrieking and the occasional wail. Water fighting against your 8-year-old  and 10-year-old buddies, while mostly awesome, has a few drawbacks. You're a little slower on the super soaker re-fill, and a little behind in the dodging. You occasionally find yourself in a chilly deluge. And of course your mean mommy makes you use hose water, not the requested warm tap water. She was brought up on water fights; being sprayed down by her siblings, and of course the biggest bully- Dad, who was always good for a bucket full of cold water on the head. Water fights are good for you - character building really.

Here's a different kind of summer awesome - 1 ingredient Ice Cream. Yes, you're clever, you've already got that ingredient figured out. Bananas. The ingredient always at the top of my grocery list, right after milk.

I saw the recipe for 1-Ingredient Ice cream on Apartment Therapy and made a mental note to try it. It combines my love of ice cream with my love of bananas. A no-brainer, really. Since then I've seen a few clever additions - a scoop of peanut butter or nutella, a dash of cocoa. But of course that would make it 2-ingredient, or even 3-ingredient ice cream.

So for the coolness of this post I've stuck to 1-Ingredient. Bananas. Yup, that's it, and it tastes great, creamy and delicious with kind of a gelato texture. And the kids don't know it's good for them . Perfect. Of course, since it was so healthy I figured a handful of chocolate chips was a requirement.

Recipe? Take some bananas. Slice them. Freeze them - about 2 hours is perfect, if longer like I do because I forget they'll just take a bit more time in your food processor or blender. Blend (processor or blender with a bit of side scraping). Eat. Log onto your computer. Go to this post and tell me how much you love me in the comments section.

Chipotle Caesar

We're still learning about deer, it seems. Upon moving to the cabin (yes, in the woods) last July, one primary impression of deer formed in the minds of my dearest husband and I. Deer are cute. Trite, but fundamentally true. Deer wandered through our property in a small herd, two big (parents) and three little (offspring). As we began our new life in the country it seemed fitting that we should spy in on the goings-ons of this deer family. The image was so simple, beautiful, and natural -- all characteristics we'd anticipated of our new home. When Caleb or I, or I or Caleb, would spot a hooved and antlered soul wandering out from the woods, the alarm: "Deer!" would be sounded and we'd rush out to the deck for a closer glimpse.

While our working definition of deer was taking shape, another classification was hinted at; warnings were given. My Aunt was the first. "They're dangerous," she told us. We laughed.

"It's true," my brother echoed, later. He cited a story of a man attacked by a rampaging buck.

Weeks went by before Caleb was confronted by the stag (okay, some sort of male deer). It hobbled out from the bush, weaving like a drunk-test failure. One antler torn and bleeding, the buck stopped short to lock eyes with Caleb before it pawing the earth and beginning its charge. Fortunately, the railing of our deck provided protection and afforded Caleb enough time to duck in through the front door. Safely inside, he peered past the curtain to watch the buck stagger back into the bush.

The possibility of violence had reared it's deerish head. I remained unconvinced until one dark morning in November, from the seat of my bike I watched two bucks crash horns across Lochside Drive (picture that terrible scene in Bambi). A shadow was cast. Deer...who were they?

As the year wore on our misgivings faded with our remembrances of long summer days and minted mohitos. Deer joined the backdrop of our lives. They grazed through our field and out again. No longer exclaimed upon, and no longer watched for evidence of Hyde-like behaviour, the deer had simply been forgotten.

We turned our efforts to improving the house -- a new shower was installed -- and playing with the yard. With the master's path nearly completing it's route about the house, we turned our eyes to a garden. It took a number of days before an area was cleared and the grass broken to soil. We were nearly ready to begin. We had the seeds. I'd bought garden gloves. We'd enlisted help. It was time to fence.

Here is were I pause to reflect upon what we knew of deer: deceptively cute, potentially dangerous. Deception, potential: these words remain central to my now expanded understanding of deer. These are the traits we failed to account for when we cut the beams for our fence and dug them into the earth. While the beams was a good start (the logs were solid and well supported and stood about ten feet tall), we went wrong with the string. At the time, it seemed best to avoid buying costly fencing equipment such as chicken wire or bamboo or any type of filler, really. Instead, we elected to run crisscrossing lines of coloured thread between the posts. Our garden now looked like it belonged in a compounded from a dystopian society. Uncertain about the strength of the string, we added intersecting branches to the fence. The holes were small and impenetrable, we thought.

Happy with our work we planted and watered and waited. It wasn't long before the kale and lettuce pushed through the grown. The wheat (a madcap expriment) was doing particularly well. We waited and waited, but the greens didn't seem to be getting much bigger. Examining the soil in the kale box one afternoon, Caleb refelcted that it almost seemed as if something had gotten in for a nibble. A rabbit we thought, or a cat. Did cat's like kale?

Deceptively cute, potentialy dangerous.

Deep into a Sunday afternoon, lazy from a nap, Caleb steps out onto the deck. There is a moment of calm before he looks to the garden. In that glance he takes in the absurd lines of colour, the mangle of sticks, and a brown body curled in the lettuce box, finishing its own afternoon nap. With a leap Caleb is on the gravel, running, shouting, ready to strangle the deer with his bare hands. But he's no match. No match for the deception of stillness, in a flash the deer is moving, or the potential for maneuvers, the deep steps through a small space between one pink and one yellow string in a hoof beat. With the flag of his tail flying, the deer vanishes into the thickness of the forest.

Since, we've added a layer of chicken wire to our dystopian fence and when the deer come visiting, it isn't 'deer, comes see,' that we shout.

I bought the lettuce for this salad at Michell's farm.

Chipotle Caesar

Croutons:

Cut up some bread into pieces, toss it in a bowl with olive oil, salt, pepper, and chopped herbs. Spread it on a baking sheet and bake for about 15 minutes at 300, or until the bread is cruchy.

Dressing (Adapted from the Rebar Cookbook):

1 head of garlic roasted
1 tsp salt
2 tsp dijon
2 Tbsp pureed chipoltes
1/3 cup grated asiago cheese
1 cup olive oil

Put all the ingredients except the olive oil in a food processor and process unitl smooth. With the blender running, slowly add the olive oil. It should emulsify as you pour.

Choose your favorite lettuce, tare it into bite sized pieces, toss with dressing and garnish with croutons and more grated cheese. Yum.

Happy Birthday Rachel!

Happy Birthday Rachel! While I know that our  4 years apart is constant, it still doesn't register that you're old enough to be 29. So Happy 29th Dear Sister. I'm sure that Caleb spoiled you, and catered to your every whim. You still have valuable birthday hours left so I hope you savour them. It's days like today when I wished that I lived in town with you. I would be standing on your doorstep right now, oblies in hand, off-key 'Happy Birthday' on my lips. But alas, I will have to tempt you to coming to the Wack to pick up your birthday oblies. I am hiding them in my freezer for you, so yes, come see us. Please. If only to eat oblies (tea biscuit topped with a mocha butter filling dipped in chocolate - who else is tempted?)

I'm a procrastinator, I respond to deadlines. So this is me - squeaking just in time for your birthday deadline. As per your request I made oblies, a Victoria- or at least a Pacific Christian School- 1980s favourite (I have many oblie related questions - What is the origin of the name oblie? Do they exist in the rest of the world? Are they Dutch? Google gave me nothing). Grandma would oblige and make these for birthday school treats -it's only now, as mother who has had to provide daycare and preschool birthday treats to share, in addition to party cake, that I realize the wisdom of having Grandma step in to lend a hand in the treat department.

I've cut and pasted Heather's recipe, graciously provided in our comments section a few years back. Sorry Heath, I should have given you a heads-up before posting this. For those that don't know Heather you might pick up in her recipe that as well as being an expert baker, she is a geologist. She makes this sound a bit too easy, I can easily picture her nibbling a biscotti cuppy as she single-handedly pipes mocha filling onto tea biscuits. My attempts weren't so pretty, I have come to terms with not being great at anything requiring fiddling - and these do. So mine didn't look quite so symmetrical or have as 'even' profile as I remember Grandma and Heather's.. but they sure tasted delicious.

(Warning: Some, those without the sweet tooth gene that seems to be our Dutch inheritence, might find these a tad sweet).

Heather's Oblie Recipe
OK. Eating a biscotti cuppy as I write. Those suckers make the best Christmas gifts! Or, in this case, 'we forgot to give Jamie's teacher a Christmas gift' gift.
Anyhow- here's the oblie recipe (pronounced ooobley, and no, I don't know why) Makes about 40 cookies.

2 pkgs Maria biscuits (tea biscuits, get those, though, the right thickness and size)

Cream 1 cup butter, softened.

Add 2 level tbsp instant coffee, dissolved completely in a tiny bit of water

Add 2 cups icing sugar. Beat by hand until thick and smooth, like peanut butter.

Put into a large freezer Ziploc, smush down towards one corner, cut a 1 cm hole out of the corner and pipe mixture onto the cookies. Perhaps about 2 tbsp onto middle of each cookie? You'll get a feel for it after a few batches ;) Use a table knife to smooth the cream out towards the edge of each cookie, leaving a peak in the middle. The whole thing should look like a Hawaiian volcano- low slope, even profile. All this should be done as quickly as possible before the butter starts to get all melty.

Freeze on a baking tray.

Melt 350g semi-sweet choc chips and a bit of shortening in double boiler, so it's smooth and runny. Put whole almonds in a pile on the countertop, as many as cookies you made.

Dip cookie, upside-down, in chocolate so all cream is covered. Immediately plunk an almond on top, trying NOT to get chocolate on it. The almond is the la-di-dah finger-hold so you can eat these without getting incriminating chocolate evidence all over your fingers.

Once they're all dipped and topped, put them in the freezer again on the tray until really solid. Then they're containerable.

Enjoy!

Haley's notes - I used about a tablespoon filling per cookie. I'm skipping the ziplock and just using a teaspoon next time, the ziplock/mocha filling turned into a disaster in my hands. I also didn't get the chocolate consistency quite right, mine was a bit thick. I needed to do a quick spread in addition to the chocolate 'dip.'

Fig Cookies and a Challenge

May has arrived and I've begun to detect  a whiff of birthday in the air. When others might step out into a spring day to be rushed with aromas of grass and open flowers, I am smacked with the smell of birthday. I used to smell track meet but I've since grown out of of track meets, but each spring my younger self was ambushed by nerves and excitement. The nervous sensation is lessening as gardens and bike trips replace running races but the promise of a birthday still manages to get me buzzing. Last year I spent June third, the all important day, biking San Juan Island. This year I've got my tires pointed towards Saltspring Island. Planning is definitely part of the fun. So is remembering, which makes me think of one of my best birthday memories.

Mom says my birthday is always nice. The year I turned six was hot, hot enough for shorts and bathing suits on June third, which isn't always the case. I remember Mom and Auntie Wiena tying up balloons around the picnic table. I'm helping with napkins or cups or something I can manage. Today is my first 'school' birthday. I'm old enough to have classmates over rather than the previous ritual of mom's friends and their children. There will be a cake. It's inside and I haven't seen it yet but Mom and Brent and Haley were up late last night slathering icing over the passenger cars and the locomotive, and lining the edges with candy.

I've already got my suit on under my shorts and t-shirts (I'll have to take it off and lend it to Rebecca K. who forgot hers and I'll change into my second-best. This is a little upsetting but surmountable.) A slip and slide waits beside the wading pool on the back lawn.

We are nearly finished. Guest will soon arrive. The sound of a car in the cauld-a-sack and my best-friend for the year rounds the corner. Her large round face is flushed by the heat and the effort of walking with the gigantic inflatable duck squeezed around her cutely-chubby middle. I'm surprised that Laura, her nanny, let her make the trip around the side of the house alone.

It is then that Angie demands to see the pool and Mom and Wiena's suppressed giggles burst into laughter. I join them. I'm not sure, yet, exactly why this is funny; in later years, I'll understand the effect of this sweating, chubby, rich girl anticipating a pool in our modest backyard. But for now I am six, Angie is here and she brought a duck, there are balloons, candy is coming, so are more friends, and gifts, and lots of sun and blue sky. There is a chair at the end of the table. From the chair hangs a sign. The sign reads, 'Happy Birthday, Rachel.' What could be happier?

It was Mom who made those signs. She hung the balloons (ALWAYS balloons) mixed up two cakes, one for the friend party and one for the family part, plus a giant batch of cupcakes or rice crispy squares to be dished up to the class. She shopped, bought gifts, planned games, and then cleaned up after it all. I always assumed she enjoyed the whole shebang. I seem to remember her smiling and orchestrating people and events. But now when I think about it (the signs, and the balloons, and the baking, and the shopping, and the hot dogs) this seems less certain. She was probably stressed, and tired, and ready for the whole thing to be over before it began. I'm certain this is true. Just as I'm certain that our pleasure (Haley's, Brent's, mine's, Carmen's) in the slip and slide, the street hockey, or foam pit at Falcons Gymnastics made the whole rigmarole worthwhile.

Naturally my siblings and I have adopted the whole thing about birthdays. We make a fuss. We call each other and leave high-pitched renditions of 'the song' on the celebrated one's voice mail. We throw parties. I lavish Caleb with birthday love by hosting a dinner party, involving a table laden with ancient Christmas candles. This December eighth ritual has since bee cryptically named, The Burning. It's really quite fun and not at all creepy. Check out what Haley did for her Princess Coby. Birthdays are silly. But in the strangeness of the rituals of sugar and balloons it becomes easier than other days to say, you are special, you are loved.

Anyhow, it's almost May and after that comes June and three days into the month I'll have songs on my voice mail and some sort of cake and hopefully chocolate... But better than chocolate would be a certain batch of cookies. When I turned six, mom didn't make the treat I marched proudly into the kindergarten class. Grandma did. The treat was cookies. And the cookies were Dutch. They consisted of a flat biscuit-type cookie, topped by a heavenly icing (or mousse?), which was then topped by hard chocolate and capped with a smartie. I don't know how to spell the name of these cookies. But Haley, my sister and fellow blogger, I'm certain you do. You were older and probably got to eat more of these than I ever did. And so I am tossing out this challenge to you: find the spelling and find the recipe. The sooner the better, but at least complete the task before June third.

I made these this weekend and they're my favourite cookie besides the aforementioned cookie.

Fig Cookies 
Adapted from Nick Malageri's, Cookies Unlimited

For the dough
2 1/4 cups flour
2/3 cups packed brown sugar
pinch salt
1 tsp baking powder
10 tbsp cold butter, cut in 10 pieces
1 large egg
1 tsp vanilla

In the bowl of a food processor, whiz the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder. Add the butter and pulse to incorporate. The butter should be in 1/4 inch pieces. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg and the vanilla. Add the egg mixture to the processor and pulse to combine. The dough should start to come together. If it doesn't, add a few teaspoons of cream. The dough should not yet have fully come together. Turn it out onto your counter top and use your hands to knead and work the dough into a disk. Do not over work the dough.

Chill the dough for a least an hour and up to a couple days.

For the filling
12 ounces (about 2 cups) dried figs
5 ounces (1 and 1/4 cups) walnut pieces, toasted
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
3 Tbsp cocoa powder
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1 tsp coriander
1/2 tsp cloves
2/3 cup honey

Combine all the ingredients in the bowl of the food processor and whiz to combine.

To assemble
On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough into a 12x16 rectangle. Cut the rectangle into 3 strips, 16 inches long. Spread some filling down the center of each strip. You should use half the filling. Save the rest for the next time you make cookies. It freezes well. Fold the dough to cover the filling and pinch shut. Turn the filled log over and place it on a cookie sheet. Cover and refrigerate the cookies for at least one hour.

Slice the logs into pieces, about one and a half to two inches wide, or however you'd like them. Place the cookies an inch apart on a parchment covered cookie sheet and bake at 350 for 15 to 20 minutes. They should be lightly browned when ready.

Dutch Meatballs

Recently, Haley threw a challenge at me: Grandma's meatball recipe. (See previous post).

As Haley explains, Grandma's meatballs were perfect. This is a fact. It can not be disputed. Do not try. We don't know exactly how Grandma achieved the tight crust of the meatball; nor the soft, even textured center; nor the completely round proportions. I believe these secrets to be linked closely to who Grandma was: an individual, surely; a spitfire, granted; and a good cook, which was an indisputable fact.

You see, Grandma was an original who employed a strong and often inflexible will. Over the years, which included war and immigration, Grandma gathered some observations and self-proclaimed truths about life. These governed her goings-ons and came to rule mine as well.
Here are some:

1. NEVER be late. More decidedly, never keep Grandma waiting. Ever. Little matter that you have spent four hours in the pool dragging victims onto the deck before shivering through CPR and the instructor keeps you late to add extraneous points to tomorrow's pass or fail test, Grandma has come to pick you up. Respect that, even if it mean pulling a pair of jeans over a soaking-wet bathingsuit.

2. Get a job. Also, make sure you date then marry someone who has a job. A man should provide.

I admit, this one had me a little worried. I certainly loved Caleb but the whole artist gig wasn't really lining up in Grandma's eyes as a job. Initially, there were a few interrogations as to the hours put in and the sales made. She would not have objected to Caleb submitting a weekly time-sheet for her inspection. Somewhere along the way, he charmed her.I think it was the Babe's honey runs. Every so often he'd swing by her place and they'd toodle out to Babe's honey farm where Grandma would purchase her beloved jar of Babe's honey. Regardless, she took to referring to Caleb's work as 'his business.' He'd become self-employed in her mind. This was a happy situation for everyone and so we left it at that.

3. Be quick about it. Grandma walked really fast. Her speed could be attributed in part to her extraordinarily long legs. Now, don't imagine Grandma to have been a tall women. At her tallest, before the spine began to contract, reducing her total size by about a quarter-inch yearly, she couldn't have been more than five feet and three inches. No, her legs were long in ratio to her total body size. Her waist sat where you or I might indicate the middle of our ribs. On account of this disproportion she seemed to stride across the earth with the speed of a giraffe or ostrich.

When I was quite small, this speed was a little daunting. Heading off to pick berries with Grandma required a jogging pace. Walking through town or a crowded market, Grandma kept an iron grip on my hand to ensure I maintained the pace. It was later, probably around the age of ten that I began to experience the payoff of walks with Grandma. Somewhere along the way I too had become fast. First to race across the grass the the playground ensured I was never 'it' for can't-touch-the-ground tag (a superior form of the game). The discipline in maintaining a pace also served me well in school cross-country meets, earning me blue ribbons and a new touch of status amongst my peers. Speed, dedication, and perseverance, these were the lessons learned in this chapter of my years with grandma.

4. Eat one hot meal a day. I get this. I really do. Look, there's room for flexibility. The meal can be taken at lunch, as Grandma's often was. No, breakfast doesn't work and brunch is not in the vocabulary. If you're out, Tim Horton (deliberate omission of the plural as per Grandma's pronunciation) counts. On a Sunday, a fried egg counts, too. Actually, you shouldn't really do much beyond fry and egg or warm some soup on a Sunday.

5. Finally, probably the most important, is: ALWAYS HAVE YOUR KEY READY. No one wants to wait in the dark, rain lashing from above, as the unprepared driver roots through her purse for a key. In Grandma's world, and now mine, this constitutes a dishonorable and barely-forgivable act. I have imparted this lesson to me spouse. We can often be heard shouting in a darkened parking lot or on the side of a wind-swept street: Do you have your key ready?

I have found Grandma's life lessons, if difficult at times, to be sound and indicative of a happy, measured life. On many occasions, I have found myself positioned beside Grandma and held up for comparison by an irksome family member. The phrase, 'You're just like Grandma,' used to boil my blood. Typically, this observation was cast upon me as evidence of my fussiness, my uneven temper, or my strong opinions. In time I have come to see 'fussy' as careful or deliberate. An uneven temper can be irksome but it also ensures a strength of character and an ability to stand up or speak out against wrong-doers and meanies. Opinions, as demonstrated above, also have their place. As does speed and when Grandma and I are compared on this point, it is often done with a wisp of admiration.

Another point which Grandma and I tended to agree upon was meat and potatoes. They are good. At a family dinner at the Macaroni Grill (As a child, I likened KD to poison and spaghetti only a step above) Grandma and I both ordered mashed potatoes and... I don't remember. The potatoes were mashed with their skins still on. I was impressed by this culinary innovation. I remember exchanging a smile with Grandma across the table. 'Meat and potatoes,' she said. 'Tastes good.'


Grandma made the best meatballs. Sadly, she is gone. I never took the opportunity to learn the technique from her capable hands but I will try to remember the other lessons she left me with. To her they added value and texture to life and so she imparted them with energy and vigor, and also as a gift, much as she used to pop a baseball-sized meatball onto my plate beside a mound of mashed potatoes and a lashing of 'shoo' (gravy). Maybe, somewhere in the remembering my hands will find a path to the perfectly round meatball. If not, it would be enough for Grandma that I tried. For her, food was mostly about warmth and love and good flavour.

To find a place to begin my Dutch meatballs, I turned to another woman who shared my Grandma's name, her faith, and her love of a hot meal. Here is a recipe that Johanna Duits gave me. Johanna is also Dutch and knows the value of a giant, delicious meatballs. Hers aren't perfectly round, but then Johanna is never labeled as 'fussy.' A good Dutch meatball will always be different depending on the maker. Nonetheless, it will always be delicious.

Johanna's Meatballs

1 pound ground beef (Johanna uses any amount of beef)
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground pepper
1/2 a tsp chili powder
a little grated nutmeg
a dash of maggy (my addition because Grandma always had it in the fridge and I can't think what else she would have used it for)
1/4 cup dried bread crumbs
1 egg

Put all the ingredients in a bowl and mix them with your hands. Shape the meatballs a little smaller than baseballs. Fry them in butter or oil, turning the balls often if you want them to be round. Johanna says to crack one open to see if they're done. So I did. It takes about twenty-five minutes, depending on the size of your meatballs.

Hot Cross Bun Reminder

The sun was shining today and all was right with the world. On Monday we had a rough start getting back to routine after enjoying two weeks with Daddy over spring break, but today was lovely; we had lunch at the park, and spent the afternoon pounding the culd-de-sac pavement and gardening. The kiddies played nicely - only the usual spats over the purple little tykes car and who got to hold the bag of chalk. And Asher - those chubby cheeks are the sweetest.

It's Good Friday tomorrow and in true Reems fashion I will be making Hot Cross buns. I'm including a link to Joan's recipe that I usually I make and one from Rachel. I noticed that Rachel omitted any raisins/dried fruit in her recipe, so I recommend adding a cup or two before kneading, the amount according to your mood.
I'm going to try a combo of the two. I'm sticking with regular flour, Rachel's is whole wheat, but I want to try kneading the butter in at the end of the recipe as per her method and I also want to try her honey glaze.

Joan's Hot Cross Bun Recipe

Rachel's (courtesy of Laurel)

Dutch meatball challenge

Rach -

A few weeks ago we lost Grandma - physically, anyway. We lost our spunky little grandmother slowly over the past few years, dementia taking her away from us. For those of us that loved her, our grief over her death was tempered with relief, the relief that she is again her whole self - I'm sure she has Heaven in good order, sitting cozily with Oma as they continue to monitor our lives from above.

As well as a meticulous housekeeper, Grandma was an amazing cook. She loved to cook for her family and we all have a lengthy list of our favourites - dutch pancakes, appelflappen, apple tart, booterkoek, borecole, her chicken (I loved that chicken).. this is just the start of a long list. When we were reminiscing a few weeks ago I mentioned THE MEATBALL; others in our family nodded knowingly, they had been in on the meatball the whole time. Mom recalled meatball nights as being her favourite nights growing up. I confess I felt a bit like I missed the boat on this one - I didn't experience Grandma's meatball perfection until more recently. The truth is, I'd never been a huge meatball fan- they were fine, but nothing to rave about.

And then I had Grandma's meatball. Meatball, singular. I'm talking about a large ball with a crispy, brown crusty outside and a soft melt-in-your mouth inside meaty inside. I'm almost positive that they were baked - I recall a small corningware dish with exactly 2 meatballs of perfection, one for her and one for me. And the drippings or 'shoo' as we called it, to be served over the boiled potatoes. Ahh, meatball bliss. And that was it, my one experience of Grandma's meatball. And alas, there won't be any more.

Which brings me to the challenge. Grandma's meatball. Go.

Duck Part Deux

My apologies, the delay wasn't an attempt to up the suspense. To refresh: Rachel challenged me to cook a duck. It was cooked. It was eaten. It was good. I reported on the getting of the duck, but here is my second duck installment, on the cooking of the duck -

After some cookbook and internet perusal I decided that for the best duck advice I needed to go to the expert - Julia Child. Mastering the Art of French Cooking was my tome of choice - Caneton l'orange was the method. This was my first foray with Julia. It was long overdue and I solemnly promise that it will not be my last. Julia did not disappoint. Her instructions were clear and comprehensive (comprehensive meaning a little on the long side, but she leaves nothing to speculation).

Duck Life Lesson 2: Consult the authority on a subject.

According to Julia, the most important element of the meal is the sauce. I totally concur with her on this point. While the sauce was the most labour intensive part of the dish, involving the julienning and boiling of the orange peel, as well as the creation of a duck stock, the effort was worthwhile - it was delicious. Before I even started to cook Duck  I set about making stock from the neck, gizzard, heat and various organs. Before my duck journey, I felt a bit queasy with the thought of dealing with these bits and pieces, but when I was in the moment I was having a grand old time. Part of the experience of cooking the duck was just that: the experience of cooking a duck. Sometimes you just need to step out of your regular routine and go for it. Or as my co-worker and friend Jocelyn used to always tell me: 'Expand your bubble.'

Duck Life Lesson 3: Try something new. Expand your bubble.

Now, if I cook another duck I'll try to be a bit more nonchalant about the whole affair. This particular duck got the royal treatment. I was taking out the fat every 15 minutes. I was peeking. I was poking. Poor Duck couldn't get a break. All the attention did pay off- the skin was nice and brown, a la Julia. If I do cook duck again I might follow the advice I read online and cook the duck slightly rarer - however, as a novice I lumped duck in the poultry category and didn't want to send our company home with any salmonella. 

Final Duck Life Lesson: Break bread (or in this case duck) together.

Having our friends the Vermettes join us for Duck Wednesday payed off for a few reasons - First of all, I knew that our buddy Jeff was going to be a top-notch duck carver, and this was true. Secondly, there isn't anything better then sitting a round the table, getting full, having a glass of vino, sharing tales, putting you daughter in time out for pinching other children, and having a great time with friends. AND Maria's a great photographer (bottom duck photo credits go to her). AND if you make enough of an impression on the Vermettes you might get featured in Maria's weekly scrapbook. I just checked her blog, we made the cut (basically to make her digital scrapbook you need to be the best thing they do that week, so don't hang out with them when they have too much else on the go).

I'm way too lazy to write out the whole recipe, instead I'm going to direct you to this site where someone else did the typing for me: Caneton ` l'Orange

I made a few modifications: Mike missed the voicemail directing him to the liquor store to buy port, so this duck sauce was the non-alcoholic version. I subbed fresh squeezed orange juice and would like to argue that my version gives Julia's some competition. Secondly, I didn't have arrowroot and used cornstarch as the thickening agent in the sauce. For the actual duck roasting - I didn't switch the duck from side-to-side every 15 minutes, but did tilt it up on one side at the end of the cooking which made the bottom nice and brown. I also followed Auntie Judy's advice and put the duck on a small rack inserted into my roaster, so that it didn't stew in the fat.

Will I be making duck again? Yes, it turns out that duck isn't so scary after all -plus I learned a few things along the way. Rach, thanks for the challenge.

Oh, and no, as anticipated, Mike did not try the duck. He did, however, compliment the potatoes roasted in duck fat.

 

 

The Duck - Part 1

Duck Wednesday finally dawned- February 29th - when the calendar gifts you an extra day, what better way to spend it than to cook a duck?

First things first, I needed a duck. When Rachel first proposed the duck challenge I did some sleuthing, and discovered that in order to cook a duck in Chilliwack you need to go to the Duck farm. That is, the Fraser Valley Duck and Goose farm which is located in Yarrow, a scenic little village outside of Chilliwack. I had idyllic images of the duck and geese flock meandering through the countryside. This was going to be great - what a learning opportunity for the kids - from the farm to the table.

Duck Wednesday arrived - the predicted snow/rain was nowhere to be seen- everything was in alignment for the perfect outing. The baby had napped, the snacks were prepared, the camera charged, and with children all snug in the mini van, we were off.

We had the perfect country drive. First great thing - the train. Unlike many Canadians, I have never lived in a town bisected by the railway. While I still do an inward groan when those railway lights start flashing, the kids are always overjoyed at the sight of a train, and I am once again reminded to stop being a grump and to enjoy the little things. After counting cars and speculating on the contents, our party proceeded. We saw bald eagles in trees, at least 10. We passed a gravel pit. We discussed where gravel comes from. We passed a hydro truck - we talked about Chief (Grandpa Campbell, our family lineman). We played the tractor game (not hard to do in Chilliwack, first one to spot a tractor wins). And at last, after a few more curves in the road - there it was, the Duck farm. To greet us, in the open field in front of the farm was the biggest bald eagle that I have seen. I decided it was a statue and turned into the farm.

Now, at the sight of the farm my romantic notions of running among the duck flock vanished, this was no mom and pop operation. No, this was a parking packed with employee cars at a full-on duck and geese operation (in fact I suspect that Fraser Valley Duck and Goose is the primary Yarrow employer). So with nary a feathered fowl in sight we entered the little store and selected 'The Duck'. It was fresh and ready for my oven. The duck lady was helpful in the selection process but not so helpful in my request to actually see the live ducklings.

 

While driving away I did see a bird of a different sort:  the eagle was not a statue. He had moved- and the beady stare he gave seemed to acknowledge us - from one Duck connoisseur to another (upon moving to Chilliwack Mike and I have been educated that you will spot the most bald eagles at chicken farms, waiting for the 'remnants', I inferred that an eagle at a duck farm would be operating in the same carnivorous-ish fashion).

Duck Life Lesson #1 - It's often about the journey, not the destination.

To be continued.... 

(I know the suspense is driving you crazy right now)

Cake Decorating (it's just like milking a cow)

Rach - the Duck is in the works. There are very few hours that go by in a day lately where 'THE DUCK' doesn't pop into my head. Yes, capitalized. Imagine, trying to go about your day with 'THE DUCK' hanging over you; it's more than a bit disconcerting. I know, I know, just get it done already. There are a few poultry details to sort out first. So stay tuned. From ducks to cake decorating-

I attend a weekly ladies group every Wednesday morning. We drink coffee. We eat. We gab. We have a Bible study. We laugh, sometimes we cry. Recently we learned how to decorate cakes.

While my rose petals need some practice, I did learn how to hold a bag full of frosting. I was again reminded that we live in farm country- The most common advice was: 'hold the bag like you're milking a cow.' These girls weren't referring to milking in the abstract, no their wise words came from an intimate knowledge of Bessy's utters. I appreciated that it was just taken for granted that I would have such a skill set.

Note to self: Learn how to milk a cow

Milk Chocolate Frozen Yogurt

I queried a class of grade sixers: Who believes someone loves Mrs. Speller enough to send her a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates? A box so big it eclipsed the entire surface of the round table?

From a class of fifteen, four hands shot up, waving frantically: see me, I believe in you. Or maybe, I believe in love? Or maybe, I'm in love with chocolate?

I am in love with chocolate. I can relate. But not to the other sixers who stared at me blankly. Except for one who said, that's a lie.

My father, a teacher, was loved enough to receive a giant box (as big as the top of a round table) of Purdys Chocolates every Valentines Day. No, not my mother, a wealthy family of Malaysian descent who bought up the top of Broadmead Hill, cleared the houses and build a mansion. They were very kind, throwing parties, giving gifts, launching teachers into retirement with in-mansion mini dramas. I still find small remains of those days amongst my things: a canvass bag, a parrot-topped pen...

This milk chocolate yogurt is not as good as the giant chocolate heart. Nothing is, really. But it's delicious enough.

Milk Chocolate Frozen Yogurt

1/3 cup plus 1/4 cup milk
1 cup heavy cream
6 ounce milk chocolate, finely chopped
2 cups plain yogurt
1 large pinch kosher salt
3 tbsp sugar
3 ounces dark chocolate, finely chopped

Heat the milk and cream in saucepan over medium heat until almost simmering. Remove from heat and whisk in milk chocolate. Transfer to a bowl and whisk in yogurt, salt, and sugar. Let cool.
Regerate until cold, about two hours. You can also hold the mixture in the fridge overnight.

Freeze the chocolate pieces.

Churn the yogurt according to the specifics of your icecream maker.

Fold in the chocolate pieces.

Kitchen Challenge Take Two

A rush of wildlife sightings have occurred of late in my neck of the woods. The deer were not deterred by the snow and continued to camp out under the evergreens at the edge of the yard. If you read my last post you know wildlife encounters are not always pleasant in these parts, but neither Caleb or I have been attacked or molested by a deer, anyways. I'm still keeping an eye out for the gray squirrel, who I neither trust nor encourage to roam freely about the property, which he does. I spotted him bounding along the roof of the cabin the other day and my blood ran cold.

Perhaps I'm hyper aware of the creatures around me due to the viewing of two nature embracing films. The first was The Cove, very chilling and sad and makes one wonder about sushi. The second was Winged Migration, quite the opposite, rather inspiring and beautiful in a boring sort of way. Although my opinion on nature documentaries is not to be trusted. In all honesty, I find Blue Planet ho hum. Look, not a popular point of view, I know, but the truth.

With winged migration in mind I was particularly impressed when upon walking up to Elk Lake on Victoria's single blissful snow day, hoards of duck and geese were winging in and out of the lake. The honk of the goose is quite chilling in the snow as wind whips across the lake. If only I could learn to imitate it. But some things are not meant to be.

It is with these wonderful creatures in mind that I propose the next challenge.

Haley: Prepare yourself. This will be wonderful. Consider the call of the goose, and prepare to prepare your:

duck, duck, duck Goose! duck.

Bibimbap

I know that putting a fried egg on top of a bowl of pretty much anything is pretty trendy right now, a trend that I've embraced wholeheartedly in the past few years. I've been cracking eggs on risotto, on fried rice, I've even cracked a few on a pizza (I know you're skeptical, but it was good). I may be jumping on a foodie bandwagon, but full credit to this one goes to the Koreans. They've been cracking eggs on top of rice bowls for years.

It's Lunar New Year today, and to celebrate we had my first attempt at a traditional Korean dish - Bibimbap. Made from scratch it is a bit fussy, though according to Grace, in Korea this meal is made with leftover side-dishes, ones that are present with every Korean meal. This is Grace's dad's go to meal when her mom is away-

Campbell-Choi Bibimbap

Ingredients:

Veggies-
2 carrots, cut into thin strips
1 zuchinni, cut into thin strips
1 handful of sliced mushrooms (more if EVERYONE in your family likes mushrooms)
bean sprouts (handful per person)
spinach - I used aprox 3 cups fresh

ground beef, aprox 1 pound

eggs, 1 per person

Korean chili paste, found in your city's Korean grocery store, unless you live in Chilliwack.

Sesame oil, with a pinch of salt and pepper

Get Cooking:

1) Make some sticky rice - Korean rice has a stickier texture than Chines, from my Korean taste testers I have found that Calrose rice is the one that most approximates Korean rice texture.

2) Fry the ground beef. Grace reports that this should not be seasoned, as the seasoning comes later but I couldn't resist and added a shot of soy sauce and a pinch of sugar.

3) Cook your veggies. Now, in some of the recipes I saw online some of the veggies were sauteed in sesame oil, but we made Choi-style Bibimbap, which means that veggies were blanched in boiling water. I used one pot with salted boiling water and just rotated the different veggies through, pulling them out with a slotted spoon to a platter when the preceeding veg was cooked.

4) Fry the eggs, sunny-side up style

5) Assemble. On a bowl of rice add the veggies, the beef, a shot of sesame oil, a shot of chili paste, and finally an egg.

6) Mix! See the second photo of our lovely Korean model for the proper mixing technique. I offered to go get chop sticks but was informed that this meal is NOT eaten with chop sticks.

Rach - I'm still waiting on that reciprocal challenge. Guess you're just afraid with what I'm going to come back with. And you should be, afraid that is. Very afraid.

Turnip and Parsnip Latkes with Pomegranate Seeds

It's been brought! If you read our last post, you know that Haley threw down the gauntlet and Rachel was to respond by crafting a dish combining the two seemingly contradictory ingredients, of turnips and pomegranate. Read on to discover the surprisingly delicious results.

Dearest Haley,
Yikes:
A massive squirrel is shimying down the tree outside my window. He's huge. Hmmm. Perhaps this nature sighting could prove insightful for the challenge I put forth to you. In France they eat pigeon...

Ever since Dad declared war on the grey squirrel dominating our neighbourhood and theiving from our cherry tree, I've found the rodents rather repulsive. They're so sneaky. And greedy. For instance, this squirrel in the tree outside my window, he's a big boy, like mondo, overweight, bottom heavy. Oh gross. He just pooed. Sorry.

Anyhow, turnips are a bit like gray squirrels with me. A tad repulsive. Sure, I'll toss one back in a stew and later mistake it for a potato, but I've never consciously thought, 'Mmmm. Turnips.' Have you? Well, after you challenged me to pair the frumpy turnip with the delicious pomegranate, I think I developed a new appreciation for that rather plain veggie. I discovered it has a little spice, a little more something-to-it than your potato. Nonetheless, it is happy to take the role of backdrop, providing a canvass, so to speak, for other showier veggies, fruits (in this case), or meats.

With this in mind, I created a dish composed of turnip latkes, topped with coconut curry sauce and a pomegranate salsa. I was so bold as to offer up this startling combination to dinner guests and, my goodness gracious, they loved it!
Turnip and Parsnip Latkes
4 medium potatoes, grated
2 turnips, grated
1 parsnip, peeled and grated
(2 pounds of vegetables in total)
1 small onion, thinly sliced
1 tsp salt
1 tsp curry powder
1/4 cup flour
1 egg, lightly beaten

Combine all the ingredient in a large bowl. Shape into small paddies and place on two greased cookie sheets. Bake at 370 for thirty minutes, flipping the latkes half way through baking time, or until golden brown.

Good toppings include: pomegranate seeds with balsamic vinegar, sour cream, butter, cheese, anything you'd like!

Kitchen Challenge

Rach,

Channel yourself back to your grade 8 self.

You're at a slumber party, probably at the DeBoer's.

Truth or Dare? Do you pour your heart out, or prank call Caleb Speller? You chose the dare of course.

Now back to 2012, it's time for the first round of Reems Eats Truth or Dare. Truth would be fun, but let's save that for my visit at the end of the month. Here is your first dare: I'm going easy on you with my first foodie challenge, we have to gain momentum after all. All this requires is a quick jaunt down to your favourite Red Barn to shop for the following 2 items that you need to include in a single meal this week:

Go!

(I'm not sure why I thought that photographing myself would lend anything to this post - this particular shot was culled from a ridiculous amount of wasted memory card space - I tried to look tough, which resulted in a strange facial grimace; I tried to give a challenging stare, which brought out an astounding amount of wrinkles, including some odd ones in my neck. Trust me, my face behind paper was the best option)