Cepes and buttons and girolles, oh my…

Just a little while ago, after a day or two of steady rain, I ventured out into a French field, dotted with massive cow droppings, to find myself some fresh mushrooms. I was so excited, as foraging for mushrooms was something I had always wanted to do. Actually, hold on, that’s a lie. That’s something I’ve wanted to do for about 8 months now, since I developed an eager appreciation for mushrooms.

I, like most people, had nothing but disgust for mushrooms when I was young. I thought they were ugly, the texture was weird, and they lacked any trace of flavour except gross. But now, as an adult, I absolutely crave mushrooms and could eat them at every meal without complaint. How did this happen?

After putting some thought into it, I think my acceptance of mushrooms is a symptom of ‘the change’. I think I have finally, hold onto your hats, grown up. I know this sounds like it may be a bit of a stretch for mushrooms, but I believe it fits into a larger picture of adulthood quite easily. There comes a point in life, after having spent the post-adolescent years trying to experience as many things as you can, when you can start to look back over some of the things you thought you had crossed off your list. And they start to look different.

For example (mushrooms aside), when I was 22, I thought I was born and bred to live in the city. Every morning, I wanted to be able to walk out my front door and have a coffee in my hand before I had walked farther than 3 blocks. Oh, and I wanted someone to see how cute I looked doing it. I imagined that nothing happened outside the city that I wanted to be a part of; that everything worth doing and seeing was condensed into the island of Montreal.

And now, I’m sitting in The Middle of Nowhere, France, wearing dirty clothes every day, arms sore from insulating a house, bangs pinned back (quel horreur!), miles away from anything including cell phone reception. And I’m happy. No one, including myself, would have thought that I could honestly claim to be living in harmony with the mice and mosquitoes without a hint of sarcasm. I could say the same for my love of mushrooms, considering how many I have wasted by pulling them off pizzas, out of sauces and chilies, or clandestinely wrapping in a napkin under the table.

Because I am a person who, let’s face it, would live a fairly joyless existence if my taste buds fell off,  I feel like I can use mushrooms as a metaphor for adulthood. I could also use olives, or yoghurt, or lobster as there has never been any room on my plate for any of these items. Except lately I’ve been trying olives, because I feel like I’m missing out on something I should love. And I guess I’ve had a yoghurt or two because the French have a ‘thing’ with yoghurt. Lobster…  I’m not there yet.

As an adult, I can no longer justify my dismissal of certain things based on the simple notion that up until now, I haven’t liked it. There are just too many things I thought I didn’t appreciate when I was younger that I thoroughly enjoy now. Like eggplant, blue cheese, volumizing mousse, and Springsteen records (excellent together or on their own).

When I turned 25, I didn’t like mushrooms. I’ll turn 26 in two weeks, and if I have my way, my birthday dinner will include at least two varieties of champignons. Here’s hoping that on my 27^th, I can look back at the previous year and shake my head in disbelief that I ever chose to avoid something I absolutely cannot get enough of.

The Nose Knows

I’m not sure where I heard this first, but I believe it to be very accurate. They say our sense of smell is very closely linked to memory, so a quick whiff of something that you encountered as a kid can transport you back to a time and place long past. For me, one of the most powerful scents is freshly baked bread. It is almost transformative, beaming me back to 1989 and directly into the centre of my grandmother’s kitchen where she baked for her family.  

My grandmother, who insisted that I call her Grandmere (which I shortened to Grom), used to bake beautful batches of white bread that she would divvy up between her children. Along with these loaves came one of the most memorable things I have ever tasted, ‘rise-dough pancakes’ (pronounced rizz-doe). These were made of pieces of bread dough that didn’t make it into a loaf. My grandmother would fry them on the stove top until they were golden brown on both sides and soft and chewy in the middle. Because they were made of leftovers, there were never more than 6-7 of these small pancakes around at once. And for these few, the fight was on. Thankfully for me and my father, my Mom had no interest in these little treasures. My Dad, having no idea the monster he would create, told me to heat them up a touch and dip them in molasses. After that I couldn’t get enough, and I would fight him hard for one of those things, especially the last at the bottom of the bag.

So I, like many young ladies my age, have drawn inspiration from other generations and decided to learn how to bake bread from scratch. I wish I had my grandmother here to teach me how to do it, but she has moved on from baking bread. She is much too busy for such trivialities now, what with going to church and travelling around with her boyfriend. Can hardly blame her.

So, I am learning on my own, with some supervision from Agnes, the lovely and very knowledgeable lady I’m living with in France. It’s all about trial and error, as I’m learning, and copious amounts of patience. Because I don’t believe in taking things slowly, but am a true believer in the value of presentation, the first bread I ever made looked like this:

(Excuse the photography). I had grand illusions (delusions) of a shiny, crusty, golden braid emerging from the oven, just waiting to be slathered in butter and jam and gobbled down before it had a chance to cool. What I got was a dull, dense and pale log that just about took the teeth off the serrated knife. Don’t ask about the taste.

That’s ok, that’s ok…

I tried again, with much better results. And in keeping with my tendency to ‘not leave well enough alone’, I decided to put my own spin on the recipe.  So I added about a handful of sesame seeds and some honey. Hardly pushing any flavour boundaries here, but  it added a bit of personality to it.

And guess what? Rave reviews! Everyone liked it. Looked and tasted great. It turns out that the secret to shiny bread is to spray it with water. Who knew? (Agnes knew). Having made a lovely bread that I could be proud of, I felt like I had really accomplished something. I’d gained a skill that seems so basic that many people overlook it. That was it, I never wanted to buy another loaf of bread again! I can make it myself! It’s easy! I’m a capable young woman!

Then reality slapped me back down to Earth. Third bread=fail. May-jer fail. This time though, I know what mistakes I made and (hopefully) will not repeat them. Remember what I said about trial and error?

All of this to say: Thanks Grom. I now have a much better appreciation for all the work that you did. I understand why you got up at 5:30 in the morning to check on it too. And even though the familial wars that erupted over who got more or less of your fresh bread must have been some reward in itself, here is my formal gratitude, published for the world to read. I bet I’m the only one that’s done that, aren’t I? …. Maybe just one more rise-dough pancake for old times sake?

An attempt at resuscitation…

 Kitschinthekitchen 2.0

… Where did I leave off? I think it was something about sausages. Wow, a lot has happened since then: I left my beloved Montreal, moved to Edinburgh, became a vegetarian, learned to love the Dirty Projectors, and acquired a taste for whisky. Now I’m living in France, eating meat again (a little bit…it’s France, I had no choice), acquiring a taste for Roquefort, weeding the garden of a lovely lady named Agnes in exchange for a beautiful room where I’m never bored, and the food is delicious. Seems like the time to start blogging again is upon me.

I could go back over the past year and really fill you in on the details but, dear reader, I promise you that nothing is as exciting as this little gem that I concocted the other day:

Homemade Nutella! As someone who, despite my best efforts, can’t seem to shake my insatiable appetite for chocolate, this is a revelation. Instead of having to shell out for  an over-processed, under-developed chocolatey spread, I went out into the yard and collected some hazelnuts to make some ‘Nutella Maison’.

After removing the shell and roasting them for about 20 minutes in the oven, I put them into a food processor with some sugar, cocoa, sunflower oil and milk. It turned out perfectly, much better than my tastebuds had expected. Creamy, thick, and not too sweet. And oh-so nutty. Those lazy bastards over at Ferrero couldn’t be bothered to put more than 50 hazelnuts in a jar of Nutella! My version has double that. AND I have a nut-cracking injury to prove it. That’s right. And I’ll provide the grisly evidence:

Anyway, little did I know, but it turns out I was making a political statement with my Nutella Maison. I’ve been informed that in France, as in many other countries around the world, some consumers have been leaving Nutella on the epicerie shelves because it contains palm oil. (For more information: http://www.treehugger.com/files/2007/01/palm_oil_a_rain.php ) So not only have I proved my self-sufficienct DIY skills, and demonstrated my kitchen prowess,  I have essentially helped save the lives of Indonesian orangutans who would otherwise have fallen victim to palm oil-related deforestation. As strange as that sounds, it makes me want to want to go collect more hazelnuts.

It also makes me want to write more. And as I sit here at a little desk in a French country house with a glass of red wine and a full belly, I’m starting to wonder why I ever stopped.

Oh to be healthy…

Do you ever come across one type of food that is so delicious, so exciting, you can’t resist eating it as often as possible? Ad nauseum, almost? Me too.

A few weeks ago, my friend Adam and I waltzed into the Atwater Market on a hunt for something tasty to barbeque for St. Jean Baptiste day. Every terrace in our neighbourhood was filled with happy Quebeckers drinking cold beer, and the beautiful weather would have been wasted without joining in and throwing something thick and juicy on the grill. So, Adam and I perused the market’s many meat counters which included all varieties of pork, chicken, beef, lamb, rabbit, deer…. you name it, it was there. While almost everything tempted our taste buds, we found one special shop that stopped us in our tracks.

Unfortunately, I can’t tell you the name of this spot. Not because I don’t want to share this new found pleasure with you, but because my eyes have never wandered north of the display case. Ok, so I’m talking about sausages. I am obsessed with gourmet sausages.

That day, Adam and I bought Wild Boar with Stout Beer and Apple Bacon sausages (deserving of the capitals, trust me). Since then, we have feasted on Cranberry Apple, Lamb with Mint, Veal with White Wine and Shallots, and Honey Garlic.  These little numbers are a splurge, but they are worth every penny. Fresh off the barbeque, they will test your patience and self-control to keep your fingers off them until they reach your plate.

As someone whose love for tubular pork products is usually restricted to breakfast sausages, I shouldn’t be so surprised at my new guilty pleasure. Sausages and I have a history, I guess. Once upon a time, while enjoying a dirty breakfast with friends, I decided to forgo my option of two different breakfast meats in favour of just one (“Hi, yes, I would like to order the two eggs with meat, please. But instead of bacon and sausages, could I just have all sausages? Thanks.”). Gross? Probably, but you’ve got to pick your battles and this is not where I choose to focus my energy.

All this to say that, sadly, I’m giving them up. For the next week my meals will look more like this:

I’m trying to be a little more healthy in my food choices, so I thought I would try out a raw diet for a week. That means, no bread, chips, chocolate, Timbits, or any other carb-and-sugar-loaded food I regularly allow to pass my lips. Now its going to be smoothies, salads, dips and spreads, and dehydrated crackers. Yes, this was definitely a good decision. I’m sure it will pay off, right?

New Job!

Here is a visual representation of my new job. That’s right, I’m a dishwasher! There is a little place called Crudessence (pronounced CRUD-essence, or CROOD-essence depending on my mood) on the Plateau that serves strictly vegan, organic, raw food where I can be found on Saturday and Sunday evenings, raking in the money hand over fist. Qualifications to get such a job? Waterproof hands (check), willingness to bike up the Parc hill (check, ish), and the ability to eat a free macaroon at the end of your shift (CHECK). Wooooooo!

Fun summer dress

This dress makes me want to make an apple pie while drinking afternoon cocktails and listening to She & Him. If only… sigh.

Feel-good comfort food

As someone who grew up on the East Coast and came into my appreciation of seafood late in life, I am quite proud to be able to say that I can make a good fishcake. For the past two years, I have dabbled in fishcakery, with varying results. The one in the photograph above has been my best yet, and I’m taking to the internet to brag. This fishcake is made with salt cod, a food that has a long history where I come from. Before refrigerators were invented, salting the catch of the day was the most viable method of preservation. It also permitted families to enjoy fish year round, as most fishing was done in the summer months.  Salt fish has been a maritime tradition for years, and it is still readily available in grocery and specialty stores.

A while ago, I asked my Dad for a recipe so I could make my own fishcakes. He gave me a list of the main ingredients, an approximate fish-to-potato ratio, and some suggested additives, if I felt so inclined. Somehow I managed to confuse the carefully dictated instructions, and ended up with cakes so salty they bordered on inedible. I should have tried them myself first, but my poor guests, whose expectations I had raised with promises of a down-home culinary delight, were gracious enough to smile and nod when I asked if they were delicious.

That’s ok, though. It’s a learning process. A few more attempts yielded better results, but nothing outstanding. My goal was to rival the Golden Standard: the droolworthy fishcakes served up at The Knot pub in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Those things are legendary, locally at least, and I wanted to bring the taste of them back to Montreal to see how they would translate in the land of poutine and foie gras.

Well, they held their own. I made them with the aforementioned salt cod, which was purchased for me by my Dad. On our way to the airport, where I would fly back to my adopted home, my Dad pulled the truck over on the the side of the road and bought me a full pound of the salted fish out of the back of a pick-up. He assured me it was great stuff, and he was right. I soaked the fish overnight, something I had not done before, and it made a monumental difference in the taste of the final product. While the saltiness was still there, it was not the main flavour as it had been in previous editions.

Next, I peeled/cut/boiled the potatoes, chopped an onion, and fried a few long strips of bacon. I mashed the potatoes and onions together, added the bacon bits (maple flavoured, of course), and threw in some dill, chili flakes, and black pepper. After digging my hands in the bowl and carefully shaping the mixture into perfectly rounded little cakes, I pressed each side into bread crumbs to provide an extra crispy outer layer. Then I fried them in the unholy goodness that is bacon fat, and served them piping hot with green tomato chow.  Delicious… if I may say so myself.

A kitschier kitchen

Yesterday, something wonderful happened: I got a new kitchen floor. Let me just say, I think I have a great apartment, but in the back of my mind hides a list of things that require tending to. The kitchen floor was one of them. To your left, you have the previous peel-and-stick vinyl vomit that violated my eyes every time I was entered the kitchen. Although it’s a little hard to discern how faded and yellow these tiles have become, trust me when I say they don’t come clean. Nice. To the right, you can see the newly installed black-and-white motif tiles that give the room a nice little punch. I can’t keep my feet off them.

Suggested soundtrack for putting down flooring: Something epic that captures the magnitude of the moment. Try some David Bowie.

Iced Tea!

With all the great weather we have been getting in Montreal, I thought it would be a great opportunity to make some iced tea. I went with three different flavours: lemon, lemon-raspberry, and blueberry-lime. All were tasty, but the blueberry stood out as it was surprisingly strong and refreshing. Yum!

If you can’t get enough chocolate…

… then you need to make this dessert/afternoon delight immediately. Don’t be like me and buy 90% of your ingredients (dark chocolate, essentially) and let it sit on your kitchen counter for a few days. Not the wisest decision if your self-control tends to take a back seat to impulsive indulgence in the presence of sweets.

For my first real food post, I was determined to create something so delicious, so irresistible, that I had to find a recipe that piqued both my curiosity and my taste buds. Well, voila: Chocolate Basil Tortelette with Raspberry Coulis. When I found this recipe online, my mouth began to water, so I knew I had found the winner. After skimming over the instructions, it also seemed like it would be easy enough to conjure up from scratch, so I made a short list of ingredients and biked to my favourite grocery store (the budget-friendly Supermarche PA downtown).

Once I found some spare time (actually, some spare money to re-buy some of the chocolate I had gobbled) to start baking, I realized that the deceptively simple instructions were going to be trickier than I had imagined. You see, although I love cooking, I do not have all the tools of the trade. In fact, I have very few of them. I have learned over the years to use some smart substitutes, but the one machine there doesn’t seem to be a stand-in for is a good ol’ food processor. My apartment is equipped with no less than three alternate options: a hand-mixer, a blender, and the latest addition, a Magic Bullet. I thought that one of these grinders would do the job, but in fact, after trying them all, none did.

The key to making this intense delight is the basil sugar that one makes by combining fresh basil leaves with sugar to create a slightly wet and very green concoction that compliments the bitterness of the chocolate. After tossing the leaves and raw sugar into the Magic Bullet, I pushed start and waited for a swirly green snow to dance inside, like a storm inside a snow globe. Unfortunately for my poetic sensibilities, the ingredients sat in a lifeless clump at the bottom of the plastic container while the blades spun noisily. It was not a good moment.

Anyway, that was the only major problem I came across while creating this truly decadent dessert. It was quickly resolved when I dumped the sugar/basil mess onto a cutting board and chopped the shit out of it. It worked out in the end, so maybe my best weapons in the fight against food processors are big knifes and a steady hand. This was my own adaptation of an online recipe you can find here: http://www.cookthink.com/recipe/9543/Flourless_Chocolate-Basil_Torte. Instead of making a torte, I made “tortelettes” in a muffin pan for better portion control (it made 9 servings). Also, I halved the amount of basil this recipe calls for, and would do the same if I were to make it again. Half a cup, or even 2/3, is a great amount, whereas one full cup would be overbearing. I decided against the chocolate ganache because I wanted something lighter for fear that these tortelettes would be simply too rich. So, instead, I made a chocolate whipped cream. To counter-balance all that chocolate, and add another flavour and colour, I created a raspberry coulis.

This turned out to be a real smile-inducing small-crowd pleaser, and I will file it away for future consumption.

Suggested Soundtrack: Charles Aznavour- Aznavour (there is just something so francais about melting all that butter and chocolate on a warm sunny day).