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