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julia chews the fat

Monthly Archives: September 2014

Learning from Scratch

21 Sunday Sep 2014

Posted by julia chews the fat in Breakfast & Brunch, Cooking For Your Peeps, The Basics, Vegetarian

≈ 2 Comments

Like most kids, my brother and I spent our childhood and pre-teen years pleading for junk food. Fruit Roll-Ups, instant noodles, soda, Corn Pops – we wanted ALL of it. My mother, bearing the brunt of these junk food solicitations (“But everyone at school has them! Come onnnnnnn.”), was often the one who had to give the hard-line “no”. Despite all the begging and pleading (and possibly crying?), she stuck to her guns, filling the cart with items that were far removed from the world of high fructose corn syrup and red dye no.5.

Today, I’m thankful for her resolve. I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom was trying to instill in us the importance of eating well, and more specifically, eating well at home. Apart from the occasional night out or birthday party at the local St-Hubert BBQ (chicken fingers! fries! bright pink dipping sauce!) or Pizza Hut (stuffed-crust Hawaiian! all-you-can-eat ice cream bar!), dinner, lunch and breakfast in our house was largely homemade. It was never something that, as a kid, I considered a luxury; it was just the way things were (plus, I still had my eye on those Fruit Roll-Ups). But as an adult, I look back on that time and realise how inconceivably lucky we were. Boeuf bourgignon, whole roast chicken, roast beef with Yorkshire puddings; hand-rolled perogis, homemade pasta, spanakopita, pilafs, patates dauphinoises; minestrone, split pea, tortellini and French onion soups; coffee cakes, bundt cakes, layered birthday cakes and strudel; sticky baked beans, omelettes, tea biscuits and blueberry pancakes on the weekend. This is just a glimpse of the dozens of different dishes mom has made for us and others over the years. And while all this was considered everyday food in her mind, it goes without saying that we ate like kings.

It shouldn’t be a surprise then to learn that my mom was the one who first introduced me to cooking. She taught me how to make a quick cheat’s buttermilk and wrap fresh herbs in cheescloth to make a bouquet garni. She’s shown me how to stuff and truss a turkey, wrangle a pot roast, whip meringue into stiff peaks, blanch and “shock” vegetables and throw together a killer pancake batter from scratch in two minutes flat. She introduced me to the terms deglaze, dredge, al dente, mirepoix, roux, bain-marie and taught me that the secret to perfect Christmas stuffing is found in a Simon and Garfunkel song. You can still catch her humming it, off-key, while she’s rummaging through the spice rack at Christmastime.

Mom’s always been at ease in the kitchen, whipping around from stovetop to fridge to pantry and back again in a blur of focused energy. She’s been fundamental to my culinary education and, when I call her in the middle of a kitchen meltdown, is still keen to answer my questions about oven temperature, butter conversions, baking alternatives and expiry dates. All the while, she’s encouraged me to be bold in the kitchen and to improvise when a recipe goes awry right before the guests arrive. Most importantly though, she’s shown me how food can be an expression of love, something that becomes so much more when it’s shared.

—–

Another thing my mother has tried to instill in us is the importance of birthdays – to take the time to celebrate them, preferably with a bottle of bubbly or, failing that, a dry martini. And food. There has to be food.

Today I want to take a moment to wish my mum a very happy birthday. We’re never quite sure how you manage to do it all, but thank you for all of it.

Love you with all my heart.

Me & mumMom’s Blueberry Pancakes – makes approx. 10-12

In our house, pancakes were never from a box, but always made from scratch and served with real maple syrup – from a tree, not from Aunt Jemima.

recipepancake prep

1 1/3 cups flour
1 tsp salt
3 tsp baking powder
3 Tbsp sugar
3 Tbsp vegetable oil
1/2 tsp vanilla
1 egg
1 1/4 cup milk
1/3 cup fresh (or frozen) blueberries

Directions

Set a pan on medium heat.

Mix dry ingredients and add the blueberries, tossing them to coat. In a separate bowl, beat the egg; add oil, vanilla and milk to the egg. Make a well in the dry ingredients and slowly add the egg-milk mixture. Stir quickly until the ingredients are just mixed and the batter is still lumpy.

Once the pan is hot, add a lump of butter. When the butter starts to bubble, add ladlefuls of batter to the pan. Cook until little bubbles start to form on the top, then flip.

Note: You can keep the pancakes in a low oven to keep them warm while the others cook.

Blueberry Pancakes Blueberry Pancakes Blueberry Pancakes

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Amateur Gardening Hour

17 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by julia chews the fat in Beverage, The Basics

≈ 3 Comments

Back in April, one of our filmmakers in residence, Vali, sent out a mass email inviting us to build a vegetable garden in the interior courtyard at work. Well, “build” isn’t the most accurate way of putting it; we weren’t exactly knocking together pieces of 4×4 to make raised beds or fancy planter boxes. Instead, Vali suggested using individual geotextile bins called Smart Pots. If you’ve never heard of them, they’re essentially a form of container gardening, except that instead of growing your plants in plastic or ceramic pots, you use a large, sturdy, porous, reusable bag. (I know it doesn’t sound very sexy, but bear with me.)

At first, I was a bit reluctant to hop on the bandwagon – not because I didn’t like the idea, but mostly because I feared that my black thumb would slowly destroy everything it touched. I already had a bad track record with house plants (R.I.P Edgar, Lucinda, Phyllis, Thelonius III and Mike), some of whose shrivelled remains I ended up dumping in the shrubs of my back alleyway (shhh). And then there’s been my balcony herb garden, which, despite containing some of the easiest things to grow (rosemary, thyme, parsley, mint…), has gone through phases of clinging on for dear life. I seem to have a talent for killing the un-killable. At some point, I stopped naming my plants. The back-alley burials became easier after that.

Luckily, my quiet misgivings about becoming the Grim Reaper of the work-garden collective were outweighed by a genuine (though perhaps, latent) interest in making an honest go of gardening. Besides, working with a Smart Pot (I swear they don’t pay me to advertise) seemed relatively simple, even for an notorious plant-killer like myself. And the idea of growing my own vegetables was really appealing – no pesticides or weird chemicals, not to mention the unparalleled satisfaction of planting something small, watching it grow, then harvesting it and turning it into dinner.

It sounded rad.

And so, in early May, when the evening frosts of spring had subsided, about twenty of us rolled up our sleeves and went to work – hauling dirt, sorting, lifting, filling, planting, watering. Before long, we had a sizeable vegetable patch populated by different varieties of tomatoes, leafy greens, cucumbers and herbs. There were even a few eggplants, zucchini and squash, along with some carrots and spinach (which a very ambitious colleague planted by seed). We were all pretty chuffed with the results: what was once a barren area in a nondescript courtyard was now alive with edible plants. The space felt resuscitated and purposeful. It was also a heck of a lot prettier than the long, sad strip of gravel that used to be there.

Most importantly, though, we had a garden – a small, but functional, beautiful, food-producing space that would have otherwise gone unused. And frankly, that in and of itself, is a triumph.

mini gardenSo thus began my amateur gardening experiment.

Each afternoon, I’d duck out of the office for a few minutes to tend to my tiny pot – pruning, inspecting, adjusting, watering. It became the meditative pause in my day, where the only sound within earshot was the low rumble of bumble bees gliding from one flower to the next. With every visit, I’d eagerly investigate the progress, gasping (or squealing, depending) at each little glimmer of hope – a tiny cluster of cucumbers sprouting underneath a big prickly leaf, or delicate white flowers that began to give way to tender, svelte string beans. It might have been the honeymoon phase of the first-time gardener, but watching those plants slowly transform and blossom was nothing short of magic.

And despite one suicidal cucumber…

suicidal cucumber

…the garden grew and grew and (to my sincere surprise) actually flourished.

mini garden

—–

It was at this point in the process that I began to think a lot about my grandfather. He was, without a doubt, the green thumb of the family. I never knew anyone to adore plants the way grandpa Joe adored plants. When my brother and I were younger, we’d spend a good amount of the summer visiting our grandparents’ community garden, a large swath of earth divided neatly into individual plots, each with their own set of orderly rows. Their Italian roots dictated that they have a sizeable number of tomato plants, along with an equally large amount of basil, red bell peppers, chili peppers (pepperoncini), carrots, Italian celery, garlic and onions. My brother and I had a particular soft spot for the carrots. Any chance we’d get, we’d pluck one from the earth, rinse it under the hose and crunch into it. They were always sweet, earthy and, much to our delight, gnarly and goofy-looking. If we were lucky, we’d come across one that – if you used your imagination – looked like it had a phallus sprouting a long, thin hair. For two kids under the age of ten, this, dear readers, was choice entertainment.

When we weren’t laughing at carrots or running between narrow rows of tomato plants, our grandpa tried to teach us a thing or two about gardening, which was hard because we didn’t speak much Italian then and he didn’t speak much French (our common language at the time since they never spoke a lick of English), and while we tried to meet eachother somewhere in the middle, a lot was lost in translation. Then we were teenagers, and while our Italian got better, our interest in gardening took a back seat to other things (in my case, trying to memorize the lyrics to every single Smashing Pumpkins song, including the B-sides, and attempting, quite unsuccessfully, to sun-bleach my hair with lemons).

We might not have been aware of it (or appreciated it enough) at the time, but it’s fair to say grandpa was the mack daddy of gardening. His knowledge was effortless and intuitive. He knew which conditions made the most luscious vegetables, the prettiest flowers and the most aromatic herbs. He knew how to fend off pests and how to fix any plant problem. If something wasn’t yielding enough fruit or if a branch needed mending, he’d soon be rifling through his tool shed looking for the right implement for the job. His tool shed housed a vast collection of bits and bobs, many of which found their way into the garden – pieces of string, ribbon and tin, wooden sticks, electrical tape, homemade trelaces. There was even a makeshift squirrel trap at one point. (Relax – he wouldn’t kill them. He’d just wait for the squirrel to take the bait, throw a piece of cloth over the cage, get on a bus, and take the squirrel to the park, where I suppose he thought the squirrel rightfully belonged. This was grandpa’s (partially-humane) way of dealing with his arch-nemeses. Let’s ignore the fact that this was really, really far from each squirrel’s actual home, or that one of them actually died of cardiac arrest on that bumpy bus ride to the park. Details, people, details…)

With all of these measures, it was clear that he took great care to make sure his plants could thrive; with a close eye, he would look over them, carefully attending to each one. This was true not only of his plants in the community garden, but also the ones in his backyard garden, my parents’ yard, the neighbour’s yard, the local greenhouse, and the hundreds of plants he tended to in his work as a horticulturist for the city of Montreal.

Like I said – the mack daddy of gardening.

grandpa the gardener

On days when I’d be out pruning, watering and admiring my tiny little garden, I’d think of him and how much care and attention he gave to his plants. I tried to imagine what he would say if he could see me, his black-thumbed granddaughter, actually growing food.

When I think about my initial reluctance toward planting my own vegetable garden, I think that in some ways, it had a lot to do with him. Because, as it turns out, I just wanted to make him proud.

amateur gardener

garden cucumbers

Cucumber-infused gin and tonic – makes 4 drinks

This recipe is an adaptation of Heston Blumenthal’s gin and tonic, which uses a cold-infusion of cucumber and gin. Thanks to the cucumber, it’s lighter and more floral than your standard G&T. For this recipe, I used Hendricks gin, which is distilled using cucumber as one of the primary botanicals. If you don’t have Hendricks, you can still use any gin you have on hand.

  • 1 large cucumber, chopped (skin-on if pesticide-free; peeled if not)
  • 1/4 L (250 ml) gin
  • chilled tonic water (I’m partial to Fentimans)
  • 1/2 lemon
  • ice cubes
  • sprig of fresh rosemary (optional)

Infusion: Put the chopped cucumber into a blender*. Measure out the gin and pour over the cucumber pieces. Blend until smooth and then transfer into a Pyrex measuring cup or glass bowl. Cover and chill overnight to allow for the mixture to infuse.

Extraction: When the mixture is ready, remove from the fridge and strain it using a fine-mesh sieve. Put down on the pulp with a spoon to extract as much liquid as possible. Discard the pulp that’s left in the sieve.

Preparation: Prepare four highball glasses by stacking them to the top with ice cubes. fill the glass about halfway with the cucumber/gin mixture, then top up with the chilled tonic water. Squeeze a bit of lemon juice into each glass. Insert a long spring of rosemary into each drink and use it as a stir stick. Serve straight away.

*If you don’t have a blender, you can do this with a hand blender, aka a stick blender. If you don’t have that either, you could use a potato masher, or a fork, but it’ll be a bit more work. You might want to consider investing in a good hand blender (or asking Santa Claus for one). It’ll change your life.

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Peach Upside Down Cake

06 Saturday Sep 2014

Posted by julia chews the fat in Cooking For Your Peeps, Sweet Tooth, Vegetarian

≈ 3 Comments

It starts to get dark before dinner time; the outdoor pools are officially closed; the local ice cream parlour is readying its “See You Next Year!” sign. These are the annual harbingers that make us want to close our eyes, stick our fingers in our ears and go “la la la la la…I can’t heaaar you”. But, as we know, resistance is futile; whether we like it or not, we just have to suck it up, accept that summer’s days are numbered and put away the tan shorts.

Instead of hyperventilating at the prospect of losing the days of warm sunshine, late sunsets and Bo-bec’s mint chocolate chip, I’ve decided to focus on the last few gems of summer. After working my way through many pints of tiny, sweet blueberries and strawberries from Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been putting in some time with Ontario peaches, which are not only still available, but also still fragrant and lusciously sweet.

Last weekend, after an afternoon of prepping food for a family barbecue, I noticed that there were a few peaches hanging out in the fruit bowl, verging on overripeness. Figuring that a family barbecue would be a good occasion for cake, I pulled one together with the help of Ina Garten (not the person, but the recipe), with the sole purpose of using up the peaches slowly expiring on my countertop. What emerged was something that far surpassed my expectations – a tender, fluffy upside down cake, crowned with a layer of syrupy peaches. It was delectable. So much much so, that it had my grandmother, brother, and sister-in-law were raving about it for days later. (which, let’s be honest, is supremely gratifying to the home baker.)

Happy end of summer, lovely readers. Be sure to make it a sweet one.

Peach Upside Down Cake

Peach Upside Down Cake – adapted from Ina Garten

  • 3/4 stick unsalted butter, room temperature (plus extra for greasing the dish)
  • 5-6 ripe peaches cut in half, pitted and sliced
  • 1 cup granulated sugar (for the caramel)
  • 3/4 cup granulated sugar (for the cake)
  • 2 large eggs, room temperature
  • 1/3 cup sour cream
  • 1/2 teaspoon grated lemon zest
  • 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
  • 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
  • Confectioners’ sugar

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Generously butter a 9-inch glass or ceramic pie dish and arrange the peach slices in a circular pattern at the bottom of the dish.

050

Combine 1 cup of the granulated sugar and 1/3 cup water in a small saucepan and cook over medium-high heat until it turns a warm amber colour, about 360 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Swirl the pan but don’t stir. Pour evenly over the peaches. (Be careful not to burn the sugar – or yourself – while doing this. Caramel tends to quick more quickly near the end, so keep a close eye on things.). As it sets, the caramel will stiffen, like candy – don’t worry, it will become syrupy again as the cake bakes in the oven.

062

065

Meanwhile, cream the 6 tablespoons of butter and the remaining 3/4 cup of granulated sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, until light and fluffy. Lower the speed and beat in the eggs one at a time. Add the sour cream, zest, and vanilla and mix until combined. Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt and, with the mixer on low speed, add it to the butter mixture. Mix only until combined. Pour the cake batter evenly over the peaches.

Batter

Batter

Batter

Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until a cake tester comes out clean. Cool for 15 minutes, then invert the cake onto a flat plate. If a peach clings to the baking dish, ease it out and place it back in its spot on the top of the cake. Serve warm or at room temperature, dusted with confectioners’ sugar.

Peach Upside Down Cake

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