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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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Friday Night Couch Cocktails

21 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by julia chews the fat in Beverage, The Basics

≈ 4 Comments

A couple of Fridays ago, I had a dinner date with my close friend, Sophie. We were supposed to meet at the tapas bar after work, but at the last minute, we decided to meet at my place first, for a couple of well-earned, end-of-week drinks. I scoured the fridge and pantry things to snack on, scraping together a plate of olives, walnuts, Gruyère and some rye Knäckebröd, that much-maligned Scandinavian cracker that a lot of people say tastes like cardboard, but that I have a real soft spot for. (Knäckebröd actually falls into a category I call my “old lady favourites”, along with stewed prunes, steel-cut oatmeal and Ovaltine. But I digress.)

We settled on the living room couch, cocktails in hand, with a mix of Louis Prima, Bruce Springsteen and Laura Mvula to keep us company. Luckily, my questionable DJ skills went unnoticed as we quickly got lost in chit chat – about everything and nothing and all the bits in between. We laughed like mad, catching up, reminiscing, and plotting the future. For those next couple of hours, neither of us had a care in the world. I was reminded how good it felt to be by eachother’s side, and how some friendships, somewhat miraculously, manage to stand the test of time.

When I was first getting to know Sophie, the first thing that struck me was how openly frank and uninhibited she could be, even with people she’d just met. This isn’t to say she was rude. Far from it. She just had an aptitude for stripping away the unnecessary layers that a lot of us tend to get twisted up in. It was refreshing. Even now, her candour is something that I marvel at; she’s bold and I love that about her. As we’ve grown into our 20s and 30s together, I’ve borne witness to her ability to take things in stride, put things into perspective and pick her battles – not an easy task whilst navigating the growing pains of early adulthood. I’ve also always admired the way she parents – with big doses of love and encouragement. I’m doubly impressed at how she manages to wrangle her kids when things get out of control, diffusing tantrums like a pro. Perhaps most importantly, she’s able to see past the superficial in things and people, knowing how to appreciate the little things. Like a really good nap, or a low-key summer dinner in the backyard…

…or a cocktail on the couch on a Friday night.

I’ve known Sophie for thirteen years. Aside from my family members, that’s longer than I’ve known any other person. I inherited her friendship through a former boyfriend, but she’s the kind of person you’d think had always been around, from the very beginning. She is one of the strongest, sincerest, beautiful people I know, and though we’re not related in the traditional sense, it is with pride that I call her my sister from another mister. She keeps me grounded and reminds me how to distill what’s important from all the dust that gets kicked up in the air. We can only be so lucky to have people like her in our lives.

This one’s for you, ma belle. Stay bold. Je t’aime. xx

Lemon Gin Fizz

Lemon Gin Fizz (serves 2) 

4 ounces gin
2 ounces fresh squeezed lemon juice
2 ounces Lillet Blanc
1 egg white
2-3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters (or Angostura)

Directions

1) Add all ingredients to a cocktail shaker without ice and dry shake for 10 to 15 seconds to emulsify the egg.

2) Add ice and shake again

3) Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with a lemon twist.

225

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Campari per la stronza

15 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by julia chews the fat in Beverage, The Basics

≈ 1 Comment

Bitter is a contentious flavour, dividing people into two camps – the lovers and the haters. To justify their aversion, the haters will point to anthropology, arguing that bitterness is the sensory cue for poison, and so humans are biologically hard-wired to avoid it. They will say that scrunching our noses and spitting out something that’s bitter is a normal, natural survival mechanism that helps us stay alive.

Sorry, haters, but by that logic, I (and most of my relatives) would’ve croaked a long time ago.

Bitter foodstuffs are my kryptonite. It comes part and parcel with being mezza italiana. I’d be hard-pressed to imagine a world without rapini, raddichio, dandelion greens, or chicory; grapefruit, lemon peel, licorice, or chinotto, espresso, and quinine. To me, and a lot of people out there, these things are just totally exquisite. Euphoric, even. The first sip of an IPA is enough to send me into a blissful trance. And don’t even get me started on marmalades, or we’ll be here all day.

Another one of my favourites in the world of bitter things – especially on a hot, blistering day like today – is that ruby-red elixir, Campari. I happen to know a lot of people that think Campari is completely revolting – specifically, “supertasters“, anthropology nerds (see 1st paragraph) and those who have made the ill-fated decision to knock back several glasses at a party – straight, no chaser – only to suffer the consequences of Campari sans modération. If that did happen to you, I don’t expect you to fall in love with Campari. But I also suspect that there are a lot of you out there who don’t drink it basically because you don’t know what to do with it. If that’s the case, I’d like to introduce you to the cocktail below.

This drink strikes the balance between bitter and sweet and is enjoyed undiluted (i.e. without watery or fizzy things added). The name comes from a former paramour who, despite being initially confused by my obsession with bitter drinks, came to cultivate a fondness for them too. The cocktail was improvised on a day we wanted to make Negronis, but were out of gin. He baptised it “La Stronza” and, well, the name sort of stuck. It’s a cross between a traditional Negroni and an Americano, the difference being that you nix the club soda and you switch the gin for some dry vermouth. Served on ice, it’s one of the best ways to quench mid-summer heat AND get your bitterness fix.

Negroni

La Stronza – serves one

  • 1 oz Campari
  • 1 oz sweet (red) vermouth
  • 1 oz dry (white) vermouth
  • 1 orange peel twist
  • dash of orange bitters (optional)
  • ice cubes

Prep an Old-Fashioned (lowball) glass with ice cubes. In a chilled cocktail shaker or pint glass, stir together the sweet, dry vermouth and Campari until well combined. Pour over ice and garnish with orange twist.

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Surviving Christmas dinner

29 Saturday Dec 2012

Posted by julia chews the fat in Beverage, Cooking For Your Peeps, Lunch & Dinner, Snacking, Vegetarian

≈ 2 Comments

Christmas dinner for 10, survived. But I’m not going to lie – the day after its execution, when I first sat down to write this, I had a knocker of a headache and pretty much just stared at the screen, mouth-breathing. I’m glad to have had these couple of days to step back and regroup.

So here we are, dear readers, on December 29th; I come to you with a sense of calm and sanity that I was unable to muster three days ago when the cooking parade was over and the kitchen looked like it had the worst hangover of its life. All I wanted to do was drink coffee and nap and watch bad movies until I felt functional again.

If nothing else, it was an interesting exercise in love and motivation – from the early-morning grocery shopping marathon, to the chopping, zesting, de-seeding, roasting, whipping, cocktail-shaking and family-wrangling – I have a new-found appreciation for the people who do this every holiday. People with kids, full-time jobs, partners…extra-curriculars. People who spend days, back-to-back, confined in their kitchen cube, but still manage to look like Doris Day when they set it all out on the table, maintaining polite conversation with their guests and smiling pleasantly throughout. You guys rule. Cha-peau!

That said, when you’re doing something out of love, the hard work is worth it. You might be a little worse for wear (box-grater wounds, oil burns, mental collapse) but you’ll recover. Plus, when your grandmother eats your food, puts her hand on your shoulder and very gently calls you “Brava”, all the bad melts away.

—–

Now since it’s almost New Year’s, I thought it’d be a good idea to lay out some (simple, sanity-friendly) recipes that you might find useful for your NYE entertaining. From the menu posted here, I’ve extracted a few delicious little things that would fit an end of year schmooze – whether you’re hosting for two, or a dozen (or even if you’re home sick and entertaining a party of one) – here are some tasty treats to say “Au revoir, 2012” and “Oh well, hello there, handsome 2013”.

Satsuma & Pomegranate Campari Cocktails – serves 6-8 (adapted from Baker’s Royale)

juiced satsuma

  • 4 parts satsuma (about 12), freshly squeezed, sieved and chilled*
  • 2 parts pomegranate juice**, freshly pressed, sieved and chilled
  • 2 parts Campari
  • 1 part white vermouth
  • fresh ice
  • strands of orange zest (optional)

*I know, I know…juicing fruit seems like a lot of work. But once you get into the swing of it, it ain’t that bad. And it makes the drinks so, so much better. Trust me on this one. Put on some music and karaoke your way through it if you want to. It’ll be worth it.

**Tips to de-seed and juice a pomegranate:

1) Remove any light-coloured clothing and put on an apron – things might get a little messy (à la slasher film).

2) Cut the pomegranate in half, hold it cut-side down with both hands over a large bowl and gently press the center, lifting the sides up slightly. This will help release the seeds from the pulp.

3) Holding the pomegranate over the bowl with one hand, cut-side down, firmly whack the skin-side (facing up, towards you) with the back of a wooden spoon until all of the seeds have fallen out into your hand and the bowl. Remove any little bits of pulp that may have found their way into the bowl (there shouldn’t be many).

4) Reserve about 1/4 of the seeds for serving. Pour the remaining seeds into a food processor and liquefy. Push the juice through a sieve to dispose of the tougher bits (the actual seeds within the juice-filled pod). Chill before use.

Serving the cocktail:

1) Divide the reserved pomegranate pods and orange zest strands evenly between 6-8 glasses (martini glasses or champagne coupes are pretty dapper).

2) Fill a cocktail shaker 1/4 full with ice.

3) Pour in the juices, the Campari and the vermouth. Shake until combined.

4) Serve in the prepared glasses. Bottoms up, baby.

pomegranate cocktail3

Persimmon and pear and caprese toasts (makes approx. 20 canapés) – adapted from Joy the Baker

  • 1 semi-firm persimmon, sliced + each slice cut into quarters
  • 1 medium pear (Bartlett or Anjou), sliced
  • 4-5 small bocconcini, sliced
  • 1 baguette, sliced thinly
  • 1/4 cup pesto (best way to revive frozen pesto from the summer)
  • basalmic vinegar (the best you can afford)
  • olive oil for brushing
  • fleur de sel and freshly cracked black pepper

persimmon toats detail

Directions

1) Preheat the oven to 350° F. Lay baguette slices on a pizza tray or baking sheet; brush with olive oil and bake for about 8 minutes, or until golden brown. Set aside to cool (if you want to do these ahead, conserve them in a brown paper bag until use).

2) Put pesto in a small bowl and brush onto the toasts. Next, toss the bocconcini slices into the bowl and stir to coat the cheese with pesto.

3) Arrange toasts on a serving platter and layer with a slice of persimmon, pear and bocconcini. Sprinkle with fleur de sel and cracked pepper. Finish with a gentle drizzle of balsamic vinegar*

(*if you have the time, it’s worth reducing the vinegar by heating it in a pan until it becomes a bit syrupy.)

Smoky sweet potato hummus – adapted from Blissful Eats

smokey hummus

Makes 4 cups

  • 1 pound sweet potatoes (about 2 medium)
  • 1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
  • 1 tsp chopped chipotle chili, canned in adobo sauce
  • 1 garlic clove, chopped
  • 2 Tbsp fresh lime juice
  • 2 Tbsp olive oil
  • 2 Tbsp tahini
  • coarse sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Directions:

Pre-heat the oven to 350° F.

Pierce potatoes several times with a fork; place on a foil lined baking sheet.  Bake until tender (about 45 mins).  Cool slightly, then peel and add to the bowl of a food processor.  Add chickpeas, lime juice, tahini, olive oil, chipotle and garlic.  Purée until smooth, adding up to 2 tablespoons of water if necessary. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with a drizzle of olive oil and smoked paprika before serving.

Pita chips (makes about 60 chips)

  • 2 bags of pita bread (whole wheat and/or white)
  • herbes de Provence
  • olive oil
  • fleur de sel

Directions

1) Preheat the oven to 350° F.

3) Place pita slices on a pizza tray or baking sheet; brush with olive oil and sprinkle with herbes de Provence and fleur de sel. Bake for about 6 minutes, or until golden brown. Allow to cool and reserve in brown paper bags. Serve with smoky sweet potato hummus.

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Cappuccino in casa

22 Sunday Apr 2012

Posted by julia chews the fat in Beverage, Breakfast & Brunch

≈ 1 Comment

I’m not a fancy girl; I can live without fancy things. There are, however, a handful of humble luxuries that I hold close to my heart, including hot showers, toast and marmalade, down pillows and Negronis. They might not be what most people consider luxuries, buy hey, I’m a cheap date.

Homemade cappuccinos also rank high on the list of simple things that I could certainly live without, but choose not to. It’s 10am on a Sunday and I find myself jonseing for one – a Pavlovian side-effect from making them nearly every weekend for the last 2 years. But not this weekend. The problem being that my enfeebled arm is at least a couple of weeks away from doing any vigorous whisking; from a medical standpoint, making cappuccino is verboten until I can move my arm sideways without wincing. The one thing I can do, without reprimand from my physiotherapist, is click through my unpublished food photos and dream about the day when I’ll be able to make cappuccino again. That, and share one with you.

To make cappuccino, you do not need any special implements or gadgets (like that 3$ battery-operated hand frother that you got at last year’s Secret Santa). All you need is a good arm and a whisk. It helps if you have some residual stress from the week to work out; this will produce a more impressive foam. Make sure your partner, kids and/or out-of-town couch surfers are out of bed, because you will make quite a racket. (unless the point is to wake them up, in which case, go for it.)

Cappuccino

  • 1/2 cup whole milk*
  • 1/2 cup freshly brewed coffee (from a stove-top percolator)
  • unrefined sugar (if desired)
  • a wire whisk

*Notes: organic milk takes longer to foam that regular milk – I haven’t figured out why, but it just does. Milk with a higher fat content will also take longer to froth up, due to a higher concentration of glycerol – but don’t let this dissuade you; whole milk is the lovelier option. Just make sure it isn’t hovering around the expiry date, or else you’ll have problems getting it to foam properly.

Directions

In a small saucepan, set the milk over medium-high heat.  Let the milk heat up gently, taking care not to let the milk boil. When it starts to steam slightly, start whisking. If your arm gets tired, alternate between whisking in a cranking action and a side-to-side action. As you whisk, the bubbles will get smaller and the foam will get thicker. Once you’ve gained a nice layer of foam, remove the milk from the heat.

Find your favourite mug; pour coffee into it. If you take your coffee with sugar, add it now & stir. Tilt the saucepan over the mug, holding back the foam with a spoon, and pouring the steamed milk into the mug until it’s about 2/3 full. Spoon on the foam from the saucepan.

(Side note: I highly encourage you to resist sullying your carefully prepared, pristine white foam with cinnamon. As far as I know, adding cinnamon to cappuccino is not an Italian flourish, but rather an adulterant used by baristas to mask a bad cup of coffee.)

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