Diet, Dessert and Dogs

[How to indulge on a Sunday morning.]

Recently, a friend emailed me a link to this interview with Bel Kaufman (author of the legendary novel Up the Down Staircase). What struck me most about Kaufman (apart from the fact that she’s still vibrant and joking  at 100), was her comment about growing up in Russia during the revolution.  At the time, she said, ”Dead bodies were frozen in peculiar positions on the street. . . . But a child has no basis for comparison. Doesn’t every child step over dead bodies? I didn’t know any different.”

In the home where I grew up, my father’s near-ascetic approach to life (after surviving both the Depression and World War II) colored everything we did; we kids just accepted it as part of life. Our family feasted daily on odd cuts of meat (sweetbreads, anyone?), the hard ends of cheese blocks and other atypical fare (my mother became adept at baking with dozens of cracked eggs at one time) because those were the foods that his butcher-shop customers rejected, and of course “food can’t just go to waste.” My sisters and I learned quickly to amass factual evidence and then present a detailed, point-by-point argument to support every request we had because Dad would not permit any new purchases if we couldn’t first convince him that they were absolutely necessary (new boots: yes; bicycle: no; pencil case, yes; Spirograph set: unequivocally no).**

Sunday was established as “family time,” since it was the only day my father didn’t work.  Ironically, on those days (after we all had brunch), he chose to drive back to his butcher shop where he’d spent the previous six days, toting all three of us kids, so that our mother could conduct her weekly grocery shopping (in addition to meat, dairy and eggs, his store also carried a few European canned or packaged goods, which made up the bulk of our meals during the week.  We grew up snacking on Kosher dill pickles, munching on dense, dark rye bread, spooning out cherries in light syrup straight from the jar or eating chunks of polenta for breakfast).  

On the way home from the store, we’d invariably drive through the Town of Mount Royal (one of the nouveau riche areas of town) to admire the houses and then stop at the Mount Royal Cemetery, the three of us wedged into the station wagon’s back seat (the cargo area was, by then, replete with groceries), for our gratis entertainment. My father would inch along so that we could leisurely admire the myriad floral arrangements, stopping occasionally so we could exit the car and examine various headstones (“Hey, look, Mom, this guy’s last name is ‘Outhouse’!!”–”Ricki, this one is called ‘Vowels! Eh, Eeee! Aye, Oh, You. . . ha ha ha!“) or inhale the chaotic perfume from the variegated mounds of blossoms piled here and there.  When I was seven or eight, I once plucked a tulip from the mass of petals and leaves, thinking I’d preserve it in a vase once we got home.  One of the groundskeepers suddenly appeared, arms flailing, to warn me, “No touch! Belong to family! Big family!” and I immediately understood that we had been impinging on a private plot, and dropped the stem back down as if it had bitten me. 

What? Doesn’t every child wander through the cemetery for fun on Sunday afternoons?

[Porridge, fully loaded: here topped with spiced almond butter and goji berries.]

Despite my best efforts, it seems I’ve either inherited or adopted some of my father’s parsimonious ways.  When shopping, I can rarely bring myself to spend money on what I consider frivolous expenses (why pay for prepared foods when you can usually make your own? Why pay for patterns on your paper napkins when white ones are perfectly serviceable? Why pay for brand name plastic wrap when generic is just as good?). 

As a result, even small indulgences feel really big to me, and what I consider “indulgent” doesn’t necessarily require spending money.  To me,”indulgent” is buying canned beans (for the occasional bean butter) rather than soaking my own; or jarred organic applesauce for baking rather than cooking up a homemade batch. It means purchasing a copy of a novel rather than borrowing it from the library. It means lounging in PJs on a Sunday morning to read the paper with the HH–while sipping on Matcha Tea (huge indulgence!) instead of getting to work at the computer. 

And it means taking time to bake my porridge rather than simmering it on the stovetop.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve enjoyed several forms of grain-free porridge, after spying this recipe on Brittany’s site and then this one  on Gretchen’s.  Both dishes rely on squash or pumpkin as their base.  I loved the idea, but wanted to include grains (especially when I landed on Day Two of the Fab Detox, focusing on whole, gluten-free grains). My version here used acorn squash, but any kind will do; and more often than not, I enlist my beloved kabocha for the task. Of course, my baked porridge is no longer grain-free, but its luxurious, coconut milk richness and nubby texture works perfectly in tandem with the fragrant spices, and the natural sweetness of the squash makes it a perfect sugar-free treat. Eating a bowlful of this will make you feel very spoiled indeed. 

So go ahead, indulge.  (What? Doesn’t everyone eat squash-based porridge for breakfast?). 

(“Mum, we’d be happy to eat a bowlful of this porridge for breakfast–or any time! And I don’t know about you, but romping through a cemetery sounds pretty normal to us.”)

** Whenever we have an argument (shocking, I know–but it does happen), the HH inevitably tells me I should have been a lawyer given how I can debate an issue to the bitter end.  Thanks, Dad.

I’m sharing this recipe at Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays and Traditional Tuesdays.

Last Year at this Time: Cinnamon Spiced Coconut Bark (gluten free;ACD  all stages)

Two Years Ago: Gingery Beet Salad (gluten free;ACD  all stages)

Three Years Ago: Sauteed Greens with Onions and Apples (gluten free; ACD Stage 2 and beyond)

Four Years Ago: Dog Day: Freeloaders We Love

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

*Or, Corn Cubed Pancakes

*Or, You Don’t Need Math to Enjoy These Pancakes

[Unadorned corny goodness, tall and proud.]

I was one of those students who always did pretty well in math even though I didn’t understand most of it. In other words, I was a good memorizer. These days, I rejoice if I can remember what I ate for breakfast, but back then, even multiplication tables didn’t pose a challenge. The more advanced types of computation, however, were a complete mystery to me (which is why I dropped out of Calculus in CEGEP.  Yes, I altered my entire career path, from Psychology to English Literature, based solely on my fear of statistics).

These days, the “new math” leaves me both breathless and hyperventilating (sometimes simultaneously).  My friend Babe’s eleven year-old daughter conducts problems in long division using a multi-step process that involves drawing little lines, circles and boxes, seemingly much more complicated than the old-fashioned dividend/divisor (with remainders) method I learned in school. And even with all these new approaches, when the computer is down at our local video store, the cashier still has no idea how to make change for a cash purchase.

It’s times like those (when I can’t rent Bridesmaids, dammit) that I wish everyone could have a teacher like my eighth-grade functions instructor, Mrs. Klein.  Well, that was her actual name, but we all affectionately called her Mrs. Clown.  (No, she didn’t have a bulbous red nose and electro-shock hairstyle–though her hair was suspiciously white–but she did offer boundless energy, sweeping arm gestures, and a hilarious delivery that made us guffaw–at functions!).

[Topped with some Fresh Plum Sauce]

Unlike most math teachers, Mrs. Clown actually made learning about algorithms, formulas, cosines and exponents fun. When she wrote an equation on the board and asked for volunteers to come up and solve it in front of the class, everyone’s hand shot up. When she explained images and sets, we sat entranced, as she peppered her explanation with anecdotes about her husband fixing the car engine over the weekend, or compared variables in a math problem to specific student personalities in the class.  We students never sat through a single period in which we didn’t laugh out loud at least once or twice (and how many people can say that about their math class?). When the bell rang, we were genuinely surprised that the hour was up.

Mrs. Clown wrote notes on the board in huge, clear, print so that everyone–even spectacle-clad Norman at the back–could see it clearly; and she provided tips and tricks to ensure that we’d remember the rules. One of her favorite ways to point out a potential problem in a formula was by writing the word “SNAG” in all-caps and enclosing it in a box outline, like this:

When we spied those “SNAG” boxes, we knew we were in for an extra-lengthy anecdote.  In fact, we’d sometimes deliberately attempt to create a  “SNAG” situation in one of her problems, just so we could listen to another story about Mr. Clown.

Last week, when the HH and I received an organic cob of corn in our CSA, I decided to mix up these pancakes as an antidote to the overly greasy, heavy griddle cakes I ate a few weeks ago in New York City.  I’d been thinking about corn pancakes since then, and when I spied this recipe on Jess’s blog, I knew I had to give it a try.  Using her recipe as a template, I added two more types of corn (two corn “variables,” you might say) and was delighted with the results.  And while the pancakes themselves were delectable, they introduced a mathematical conundrum of their own: what to call them?  Are they “triple corn” pancakes?  Or, perhaps,  “corn cubed pancakes”?  Sadly, I never truly mastered exponents despite Mrs. Clown’s tutelage, so that’s one formula that shall remain unsolved.

Whatever you call them, they were fantastic.  The HH proclaimed these “the best pancakes you’ve made yet.” They’re incredibly fluffy, with a cakelike interior punctuated by a smattering of plump corn kernels (and do feel free to substitute blueberries if you prefer) and a subtle texture from the cornmeal.  I had never used corn flour before and found it imparted a lovely, delicate crumb and mild flavor.

Next time you’re in the mood for pancakes, go ahead and have a couple of these,  or three.  Okay, maybe not, since five is a lot of pancakes.  Oh, wait–SNAG–two PLUS three is five, not two OR three; I shouldn’t have added the numbers but rather divided the total batch of 12 into the single divisor of each serving instead (or was that “mulitply each serving”?). . .  . which would have ultimately made a total of 1746 calories per batch, which works out to how many per person?

Whatever.  The only equation you need to remember is:  pancakes + topping = delicious.

EAT.

[Inside that corny goodness.]

Last Year at this Time: Cheryl’s Cold Thai Rice Paper Rolls (ACD Stage 2; gluten free)

Two Years Ago: Flash in the Pan: Zucchini Bread Oatmeal (ACD Stage 2; gluten free)

Three Years Ago: Banana Daiquiri Ice Dream (from The Ice Dream Cookbook) (not ACD friendly)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Years ago, I saw a cartoon in a women’s magazine.  In the frame were two girls aged about 5 or 6, facing each other.

Girl One (self-satisfied smile on her face): My mommy lets me eat candy every day.

Girl Two:  (scowling): That’s not candy, stupid.  That’s broccoli.

Girl One (crushed):  You mean. . . broccoli isn’t candy?

I remember thinking, Ah, if only parents could convince their kids to eat broccoli that easily!

Even though I don’t have kids of my own (“What do you mean, Mum?  Aren’t we your kids?”), I’ve come to realize from being with my cousins’ and friends’ children that kids can have some pretty idiosyncratic eating habits indeed.

Way back in high school biology class, we learned that children’s taste buds are much more attuned to sweet tastes than are adult’s taste buds. So flavors that appeal to a child (I’m thinking Froot Loops, Jawbreakers, chocolate-covered marshmallows) can be cringe-inducing and lip-puckeringly sweet to a grown-up.  In addition, we tend to develop tastes for things as adults that we wouldn’t get close to as kids (artichokes, anyone? Or how about avocados? And I’m still amazed that I could have ever hated coconut!).

I’ll never forget visiting with my friend T’s family when I was around six.  Every weekend in the summer, T’s parents would lug me along with their brood to their country house up in the Laurentians. It was basically a big box made out of wood with a stove on one end and a sofa on the other; T and I slept up in the attic, which we loved, as if afforded us our own private bunkhouse where we’d occasionally retreat during the day as well, to escape T’s bratty younger brother, M.

One morning as we made our way down the ladder for breakfast, I spied T’s mother carrying out what looked like contorted performance art, flapping her elbow as she swirled a butter knife inside the peanut butter jar. When I asked what she was doing, she replied, “Well, M will only eat peanut butter from a new jar, with a smooth, fresh surface on top. So before he wakes up every morning,” (and with this, she smiled at me conspiratorially), I smooth it out for him so he’ll think it’s new.”  Even at age six, I remember thinking, “Wow, that is an awful lot of work just to convince a snotty-nosed four year-old to eat peanut butter.”

My friend Babe’s daughter, on the other hand, refuses to consume any kind of pasta dish but one: a specialty they call ”Aunty K’s Pasta,” a basic butter-and-cheese macaroni that her aunt prepares at home and delivers to Babe’s house once a week.  Babe then rewarms the pasta and serves it alongside whatever she’s made for dinner that night.

My own peculiar childhood culinary proclivities ran the gamut from cutting my mom’s homemade hamburgers into tiny, bite-sized pieces, then burying them in the accompanying mound of mashed potatoes before I’d scoop up the whole mess, forkful by forkful (even back  then, it seems, I didn’t want to see meat on my plate!); to casting out coconut (see above), to eschewing cheese cake (crazy, I know), to filling my chicken soup with so many crushed soda crackers that it resembled gruel more than soup; to spurning strawberry ice cream.

In fact, I hated any kind of fruit at all in ice cream in those days, but strawberry  was by far the worst offender. Chocolate was my one and only flavor of choice, and it was all I ever ordered when we were lucky enough to be taken to the local ice cream parlor. As the years went by, I broadened my scope a wee bit and would occasionally ask for Double Chocolate Chip (chocolate with a side of chocolate chips); Chocolate Swirl (chocolate with a side of chocolate sauce);  or Heavenly Hash (chocolate with a side of chocolate chips, chocolate sauce and chocolate brownie bits). Basically, it was all chocolate, all the time.

 As it turned out, my dad’s favorite ice cream was Neapolitan, with its equal stripes of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry; I had to make do. My tactic was to remove the entire box from the freezer, allow it to soften somewhat, then scrape along the outside edges of the chocolate and vanilla stripes, leaving the pink pariah virtually untouched.  Eventually, I’d eat almost all of the other two flavors, leaving a slightly melty mound of strawberry in the center surrounded by a kind of moat all around it, like those abandoned sand castles you see on the beach that were washed over by the tide a few times.

I’m glad to say that these days, my tastes in ice cream range far and wide (though a quick glance at this blog’s Recipe Index does suggest a heavy emphasis on chocolate-based  ice creams). Today’s recipe is one I developed for the Sweet Victory cleanse, and it’s been a huge hit here in the DDD household. Of its dense, creamy texture,  The HH remarked, ”It’s like a really good quality ice cream.” And one of the Sweet Victory participants wrote, “I loved the caramel ice cream (sort of like magic…I can’t figure how that combination turns into caramel, but it does). ”

In other words, don’t let the odd mix of ingredients here deter you. This really does taste like caramel!  And topped with the warm cinnamon-apple mix, it’s like pure comfort in a bowl. Of course, if you prefer not to combine your caramel with apples (or if you happen to have some fussy kids at home), just leave it off and have the ice cream on its own. Or add a handful of chocolate chips, or some chocolate sauce, or brownie bits. . . you know you just can’t go wrong with chocolate. 

“Mum, that ice cream sounds great and all, but what do you mean, broccoli isn’t candy? Next thing you’ll be telling us is that sweet potatoes aren’t meat!”

This is my contribution to this week’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesday and  Wellness Weekend event.

Last Year at this Time: Mint Chip Ice Cream–No Ice Cream Maker Required! (Gluten free; ACD All Stages)

Two Years Ago: ACD Update: A Return to Sweetness

You Might Also Like:Coconut Ice Cream (No Ice Cream Maker Required)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

The quaint old notion of friends “dropping in” for a visit seems to have disappeared somewhere around the same time as shoulder pads, Eight Tracks, or Electric Light Orchestra.

When I was a child, my mother and her friends would pop over to each other’s homes at a moment’s notice, stopping by without any embellishment (never any makeup, and sometimes still in their slippers and “housedresses,” which were basically just glorified pyjamas). Because, after all, it was just mom and the kids, and for whom would they need to get all decked out, anyway, if the men weren’t around?

In those days, people lived closer together, women were friends with their neighbors, coffee was always on, and there was invariably something home-baked on the counter. Mom’s best friend–who also happened to be her cousin–lived only 3 blocks away.  Ms. Cuz could call up at 9:20 AM and be at our house by 9:40.  In the interim, my mother would put up a fresh pot of coffee and get a cake mixed and into the oven. By the time Cuzzy arrived, the cake would be just about ready to come out of the oven; the women would sit down, light up a cig, pour a cup of coffee and catch up on respective kids and husbands–and by then it was time for cake.

Nowadays, it seems, that’s all changed. Everything in our lives is faster, everything requires instant gratification and everything is immediate–everything, that is, except human contact. I mean, you know it’s gotten bad when couples have to make an appointment just to have a date with each other. Gah!

A while back , I was asked by Marly of Namely Marly to join today’s “Our Panera’s Gluten Free Dream Day” event, which she co-created with Allyson of Manifest Vegan.  The idea was to create a gluten free (and in my case, sugar free, egg free and dairy free) baked good based on something from the Panera menu.  Well, needless to say, I was totally chuffed and couldn’t wait to get started! I took a gander through the online list and immediately hit upon “Cinnamon Crumb Coffee Cake.” 

Why did I choose this particular cake?  Well, it was one of my mom’s specialities when I was a kid, and even just thinking about it brought back a flood of memories.  My parents played cards every weekend with a group of friends, and when it was my mom’s turn to hostess, she always baked at least two sweet offerings for the socializing portion of the evening, after the game.  Without fail, the table held her “famous” Chiffon Cake, often paired with Farmer’s Cheesecake or perhaps fancy cookies, or–this coffee cake.

Well, okay, not exactly “this” coffee cake. My mom’s version was made with white (wheat) flour, white sugar, eggs, and Crisco shortening. It became a staple in my own home when I first moved out on my own, because it was cheap to make, tasted good, and could go from “idea-in-your-head” to “slice-on-your-plate” in under 30 minutes.

My modernized, gluten-free, sugar-free, vegan, ACD-friendly version is perfectly compatible with today’s fast-paced lifestyle, however.  As soon as you hang up from that impromptu invitation you issued to your neighbor, just start on the cake. This one takes a wee bit longer to execute than my mom’s–40 minutes versus my mom’s 30–but these days, it will take your friend that long to drive from her place over to yours, anyway.

When she arrives, be sure to offer her some cake.

“Mum, you know that Chaser and I could get there much faster than that if you ever invited us over for cake.  And we won’t need to put on makeup first, either.”

Here’s a list of the entire group of bloggers (and their recipes) who are part of today’s Dream Day (recipes will appear during the day):  

Bagels

Allyson Kramer — Jalapeno Cheddar Bagel

Muffins

Family Fresh Cooking — Wild Blueberry Muffins
Oh She Glows — Apple Crunch Muffins
Veggie Num Num — Pumpkin Muffin
Multiply Delicious — Chocolate Chunk Muffins

Scones

Heather Strang — Orange Scones

Breakfast Sweets

Namely Marly — Caramel Pecan Rolls
Diet Dessert Dogs — Cinnamon Crumb Cake

Souffles

Clean Green Simple — Spinach & Artichoke Souffle

Also, check out some other great Gluten-Free bloggers offering delicious recipes for café-type bread bar items:

• The Sensitive Pantry             Gluten Free Cinnamon Rolls
• Elana’s Pantry                      Chocolate Chippers
• The Gluten Free Goddess     Dark Chocolate Brownies
• Better Batter                        Pumpkin Muffins
• My Real Food Life                Carrot Muffins
• Gluten Free Girl                   Crusty Rosemary and Kalmata Olive Bread
• Shortbread Bakery               Blueberry Scones
• Simply Gluten Free              Strawberry Cupcakes

This recipe has also been submitted to Amy’s weekly event, Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays.

Last Year at this Time: SOS June Roundup: Rhubarb Recipes

Two Years Ago: Über Healthy Kale and Seaweed Salad (ACD All Stages)

Three Years Ago: The Staff of the DDD Household (Beer Bread with Olives and Sundried Tomatoes–not gluten free; not ACD friendly)

Y’all are familiar with oxymorons, right? (no, I’m not referring to your  neighbor who fires up that buzz saw at 6:30 AM all summer; or your coworker who spilled coffee all over your crucial report; or your Aunt Edna who practically yodelled the news that you were pregnant even before you told your best friend–those are all just plain “morons.”).  Oxymorons are those odd-but-true figures of speech that encapsulate two apparently contradictory terms (or opposites) in what turns out to contain actuality:

• That metal post was so cold that it burned my fingers.
• After his speech, the silence was deafening.
• (a gem from Woody Allen): “Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering–and it’s all over much too soon.”
• (on the same theme, from Ashley Montagu): “I want to die young at a ripe old age.”
• (. . . and, the classic from George Carlin): Jumbo Shrimp.

For me, one of the most memorable oxymorons in real life was what I call The Summer of Uncertainty. It was the summer I met an incredibly gorgeous, incredibly romantic man.

During the second summer of my PhD, I found myself living in the university residence. While all my friends were occupied with their current boyfriends, I, as usual, was single.  Why couldn’t I find a boyfriend, I wondered? I mean, wasn’t I as smart as my friends? Wasn’t I as funny? Wasn’t I (almost) as good looking? It just didn’t seem fair: they all had beaux, and I–none. (Why, it was sort of like an oxymoron!). I resigned myself to yet another summer alone.

And then, on a whim, I went with an old friend to a Saturday night bash at another friend’s house. Almost as soon as we arrived, I was approached by a tall, astonishingly handsome man (let’s call him “Rock.”)  Towering over me in a dusty blue T-shirt and black jeans, a tousle of slick, onxy-black hair and a jaw even more square than your grandparents morals, Rock beguiled me from the first instant, and didn’t leave my side all evening. I could barely concentrate on our witty repartee, I was so taken by his good looks.  Could he–was it possible?–be interested in l’il ole me? Naw, I thought, which freed me up for a great evening of conversation. At the end of the night, I said my goodbye.  Rock smiled and murmured that it had been great to meet me.

The following Monday, when I sauntered into the graduate English department, the secretary beckoned me to her desk. ”There’s this guy who keeps calling and asking for your number,” she said.  “He says he met you last Saturday–his name is Rock.”  My cheeks flushed crimson. ” Who the heck is this guy, anyway?” she asked. “Well, I told him I’d give his number to you if you wanted it.” She handed me a piece of paper.  If I wanted it?!  Was she kidding??!!

Maybe it was my scintillating conversational skills that had prompted him to track me down.  Or perhaps it was our mutual love of Modern American Literature.  Most likely it was the hot pink mini dress and white fishnet stockings I wore that evening. Whatever the reason, I didn’t care–I called him back immediately.  That call prompted a summer of romantic, entertaining, intense, exciting and confusing evenings.  

“Confusing”? Why, yes. You see, I never did quite figure out Rock’s motives. Let me give you an example: for our first date, Rock took me to a Bruce Springsteen concert (believe it or not, I didn’t know who The Boss was before that evening.  Of course, I realized immediately that I was familar with every single song he sang. Thrill!). After the concert ended, Rock walked me back to residence, rode up the elevator to my room, stood outside the door and gazed down into my (entirely mesmerized) eyes.  And then. . . he said, “This was fun. Goodnight.”  And walked away!  No “can I come in?”  No attempt to make a pass.  No kiss on the forehead.  No hug, even! “Okay,” I reasoned, “first date.”  No biggie.

Another rendez-vous was a custom picnic in Earle Bales Park, one of the largest and most beautiful parks in the city.  Rock’s basket was brimming with glass wine goblets, real silverware and china plates.  The food was from Toronto’s premier upper-crust shop at the time, Bersani & Carlevale. (Before that evening, I’d often passed by the shop and lingered, longingly, at the window, knowing I could never afford anything inside). Rock’s culinary choices included a good cabernet sauvignon, crusty bread with all manner of spreads and dips (artichoke-caper compote, oozy cambozola, giant, spicy, brined green olives and rabbit pâté–my first–and only–encounter with rabbit as food, which I declined to try, though I chose not to hold it against him).  We ate our feast on a blanket on the grass, then watched a live performance of Romeo and Juliet in the park. Seriously, what could be more romantic?

Or imagine this: after an hour-long, meandering midnight phone call (topics included TS Eliot, American Literature, Hemingway, the fact that Rock had had a poem published–good thing he couldn’t see me swoon over the phone–and Ezra Pound), I returned to my campus residence the next afternoon to discover my mailbox overflowing with a hand-painted card, a copy of Eliot’s The Wasteland, and one perfect red rose.  ”I thought you might enjoy this,” Rock had written inside. “Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee/ With a shower of rain.“  Swoon, Take Two.

And yet. . . every shared evening ended the same way, with Rock gazing into my eyes, thanking me–and promptly leaving.  By the end of August, I was more than perplexed; I was downright frustrated. One evening, I couldn’t resist posing The Question: just what, I wondered aloud, were his feelings toward me? (any woman who’s ever posed the question already knows it as “The Relationship Kiss of Death”).  Now he was the one who seemed perplexed.  “Well, I like you,” he stammered. Yep, clear as mud. Shortly thereafter, I returned to my PhD and Rock returned to his job; fairly quickly, the connection faded.  It wasn’t until many years later, my girlish naiveté finally evaporated, that it struck me: holy moly! What if Rock were gay?

I never did find out.  Instead, Rock left me with some unique memories of a summer filled with music, poetry, culture, and great food. In fact, it was he who served me one of the best pasta salads I’ve ever tasted, a combination of pesto, garlicky bruschetta tomatoes, and finely chopped vegetables, all mixed with Italian spices and a sprinkling of sass.  I had never tasted pesto before, and I was besotted. 

This 2011 iteration offers a creamy alternative highlighting the flavors of basil and cilantro. The smooth sauce hugs the pasta with just the right hint of richness and a little heat from the sriracha.  With the occasional crunch from fresh vegetables and a touch of citrus, the salad is delicious either cold or at room temperature. It’s the perfect dish for a buffet, or a quick dinner for two.

Rock, this one’s for you.  As you savor it, I hope you’ll experience both cool delight and the spark of spicy heat, all at the same time.  Think of it as my gift for that summer long ago, my own gastonomic oxymoron made just for you. 

This post is linked to Gluten-Free Wednesdays and Seasonal Sundays.

Last Year at this Time: Out of Character: Sweet and Sour Chickpeas

Two Years Ago: Blog Break

Three Years Ago: Lucky Comestible III (3): Mango Avocado Salad (Gluten free; not ACD Friendly)

*Or, When Pizza Crust Eludes You, Make Danish

[For those who missed it, there's a mega-giveaway going on until Friday: Win one of FOUR amazing books (cookbooks and more. . . ).  Check it out here!]

Despite our reputation as perhaps the most polite and tolerant folks on the face of the planet (and let’s not forget “the funniest,” too), we Canadians are still divided on certain issues.  For instance, which is the better team, the Canadiens or the Maple Leafs? (What? Did I hear someone say, ”Canucks“?).  Does my Canada include Quebec, or not? (Many Quebeckers think not). And which one is it–is our summer vacation getaway a ”country house,” a “cottage” or “camp”? Well, if you were born in Montreal, as I was, it’s definitely a “country house.” 

Throughout my childhood during July and August, that’s where my parents took me and my sisters while we were on vacation from school.  Our country houses were seasonal rentals in a little French town called Val Morin, nestled in the Laurentian mountains. My parents would pack up the station wagon with boxes of summer clothes, pots, pans, dishes, towels and toys for the kids, and we’d make the 2-1/2 hour trek up north (always stopping in St. Jerome for ice cream, of course) before slowing to a stop in front a nondescript wooden edifice that could barely be called a “house.”  As children, though, we didn’t mind–we loved the musty, woody smell of the walls, the rusted bathroom water that flowed for 5 minutes before we could brush our teeth, the flecks of grass strewn across the living room floor where we’d tracked them in with our bare feet (since we almost never donned shoes during the entire two months there). 

Once the boxes were unpacked and the kitchen set up, Dad would linger for the day and then, next morning, make the trip back to Montreal for the work week. From then on, we saw him on weekends only.

Our last summer up north, we rented one of six identical houses laid out in a horseshoe, in a meadow not too far from the beach. That house stands out in my mind for its lack of hot water during the first two weeks we lived there (Mom was not too happy, let me tell you), the wasps’ nest right beside the front door (which we learned to avoid by bending low to the ground as if scouting anthills, then swerving round from the waist and ducking through the open door with our hands clasped to our heads), and the bunk beds I shared with The Nurse.  In fact, it was that very summer when I first began to appreciate literature courtesy of my older sister: each night after we got into bed, The Nurse used a flashlight to read one chapter aloud from Little Women, complete with different accents for each character.  It was there in the dark that I fell in love with Jo and Laurie and Marmie, their disembodied voices wafting down from above, a beam of light flickering above me like a beacon transporting their words in the dark.

Val Morin was also remarkable for the few attractions in or near the village.  For instance, did you know that Val David was the summer residence of Santa Claus? It’s true: his eponymous Village was situated just before the final highway exit to the town. I never did manage to catch of glimpse of the rotund Red One during the summer (I was likely too busy making sand castles on the beach or toasting marshmallows in the evenings), but I did manage to enjoy the other major attraction, a huge Go-Kart track along the roadside which I was always too young to ride until the very last summer we spent there.  When I finally did whirl around the track a few times, I thought it hadn’t been worth all the hype (sort of like when I finally got my first boyfriend after being jealous of my friends all those years). 

The end of town was also where we found Blueberry Hill, one of the rolling hillsides that rose up suddenly like a movie set behind the post office and corner store. On weekends when my dad was in town, the CFO and I would each grab a plastic sandpail and trot along behind him along the dirt road, through the village to the foot of the hill.  Then we’d climb along the path to the top and work our way down, picking wild blueberrise as we went. Our intention was to each fill a pail with the tiny indigo gems and bring them back to my mom so she could bake up her famous Blueberry Coffee Cake for the weekend. 

Of course, the CFO and I couldn’t resist eating the supplies along the way, and inevitably we’d reach the bottom of the hill with our pails only half full, and our distended stomachs already in full protest after being stuffed with all the juicy, matte berries we could shove into our mouths (which were now unevenly lined with deep purple dye). Luckily, my dad always managed to fill his own large basket to the brim, so we never did without cake.

Even though my favorite way to consume blueberries is still fresh, on their own, I thought I’d re-create a favorite of the HH’s for this month’s SOS Challenge focusing on blueberries.  After he takes The Girls for their weekend jaunt through the local trails, the HH stops at Tim Hortons for a large coffee and a baked good; sometimes (but not too often) a Carrot Muffin, occasionally a croissant, or, most often, a blueberry and cream cheese danish. Aha! 

Those of you who follow me on Facebook or twitter may remember that I had been working on a bean-based pizza crust.  As I mentioned on Facebook, the flavor was great, but the texture was a bit too soft and cakelike for pizza. Well, I decided that the dough would be much more suited to a sweet treat than a pizza–and adding blueberries seemed like a great idea. Since the dough was too soft to roll out, I opted for a freeform shape. 

Once baked up, these pastries have a somewhat scone-like, somewhat cake-like texture: dense but not overly so, yet the perfect level of firmness to support a layer of cream cheese topped with a heap of blueberries.  When baked, the bottoms become deep golden, while the tops retain their pale hue (you can brush them with oil or milk if you prefer a browner surface). They’re not overly sweet–just a dusting of coconut sugar over the berries–but I loved the contrast of the fresh, juicy berry topper against the silky smooth “cheese” filling.

Although I wouldn’t say that these are actually much like ”real” danish–they aren’t flaky in the least–these confections are substantially fruity, creamy, and crusty in a way that evokes rural evenings in country, a lakeside breeze kissing your cheeks, sand between your toes.  Serve these up in the evening after a long day spent at the beach, or riding Go-Karts, or picking berries. Paired with a pitcher of fresh lemonade, they’re great served up to family and friends as they lounge out on the deck of your country house. Or cottage. 

This is my submission to Amy’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays.

******************************************************************

Last Year at this Time: Layered Mexican Casserole

Two Years Ago: Blog Break

Three Years Ago: Prufrock Special (Chilled Peach Soup)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

*Or, A Meal Fit for a King

Show of hands:  who watched the Royal Wedding this morning?  (I won’t tell anyone.)  I had set the PVR for 3:00 AM (Toronto time) just in case I slept through the alarm. . . which, of course, I did.  But even pre-recorded, it was a lovely affair, and Kate did look rather smashing in her Sarah Burton-designed wedding gown, didn’t she? And wasn’t it touching when Wills whispered, “You look lovely–you look beautiful” to her and then when she turned to him in the carriage and said, “Are you happy?” (thanks, lip readers)–because really, what person in their right mind in that situation wouldn’t be deliriously happy–I mean, seriously, people, she is going to be queen.  Oh, and kudos to her for not snorting through her nose when she uttered the “in richer or in poorer” part of the vows.

Although I made this dish for the HH and my Easter dinner, I thought it was perfectly fitting as a tribute to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.  In my mind, nut roasts are decidedly British.  Why?  Well, I think it has to do with one of my first cookbooks, bought from the remainder bin at Book City (English cookbooks are always cheap in Toronto, since most people still resist cooking exclusively in grams and millileters).  In fact, most of the nut roast recipes I’ve encountered (except those on blogs, of course) were from UK-based cookbooks–one doesn’t see the term “nut roast” too much in North American tomes.

This particular recipe is a throwback to the 1990s, when I cooked up a what was definitely an American take on the classic loaf, for a very artsy dinner party.  You see, back ithen I had the opportunity to teach English at the acclaimed OCA (later OCAD), or Ontario College of Art and Design, at one time welcoming institution to JEH MacDonald, Arthur Lismer, Michael Snow, and many other famous Canadian artists. Situated in the heart of the university district downtown and abutting Chinatown, it is a wellspring of creativity, eccentricity, emotional immaturity and oil paint.

I remember vividly the day of my interview.  I had applied for a one-year replacement position while the regular English teacher was on sabbatical.  Knowing that OCA was an art college and, therefore, the polar opposite of my usual place of employ (where I dealt mostly with computer studies students), I determined to jazz up my typical “interview uniform” consisting of black blazer, black knee-length skirt, black tights, black pumps, gold stud earrings (with black stones) and subdued makeup (black mascara but definitely no black nailpolish). Instead, I donned my one and only patterned suit jacket, a fitted collarless button-down featuring muted floral print in shades of beige, maroon. . . and black.

As I waited outside the boardroom in which a six-member panel interrogated grilled humiliated met with candidates, I could hear muffled chatter of the previous interview in progress. Every now and then, punctuating the murmurs and dull buzz came an eruption of laughter so sharp and so drawn out that I imagined Robin Williams had dropped in for some impromptu entertainment between questions about curriculum.

Finally, the door swung open and the previous candidate sashayed out, her face flush with victory. She barely glanced my way as she strode by, raised her eyebrowns and wrinkled her nose as if to say, “Sorry, sweetie, this one’s in the bag.” Before I could worry too much, I was ushered in to the room  and accosted with a barrage of questions. I walked away feeling as if I’d done my best–but sure my best was not enough. The following day, I received the call–I was hired!

I worked at OCA for two years, during which time I helped to launch the first Writing Center at the college (though I never did find out what happened to that other job applicant). I loved all the unconventional, offbeat students and professors there, with their scraggly hair that hung like tassels to their shoulders, their landscape tatoos, asymmetrical skirts, spiked hair and piercings in noses and eyebrows and lips and various other appendages that seemed just too bizarre at the time. 

I often lunched with one of my colleagues (I’ll just call him “Roman à Clef) when we wanted to escape the maelstrom of the college and have a proper chat.  Everything about Roman was soft and gentle, from his whisper-quiet voice to his pale blue eyes to his salt-and-pepper beard, full and plush like moss on a tree trunk.  Roman was also a vegetarian, a perfect lunch companion. 

Eventually, I felt comfortable enough to throw a dinner party for some of my OCA colleagues, but I still fretted about what I’d serve that could please everyone. I turned to my first (vegetarian) culinary hero, Mollie Katzen, and the original Moosewood Cookbook. In the book, Katzen offers a dish she calls “Carrot-Mushroom Loaf.”  Except it’s not a loaf; it’s baked in a rectangular pan and is more like a kugel, made with something like five eggs.  Nevertheless, I made the recipe and it was a collosal hit, not only with Roman (who wolfed down three pieces–each with a glass of wine–and then remarked, ”that was the best vegetarian meal I’ve ever had. . . if I were only twenty years younger, I’d ask you out about now”), but also with all the omnivores as well. 

Naturally, when I sought out a superb nutroast recipe for my submission to Johanna’s A Neb at Nut Roast II event, I returned to the Katzen recipe.  But I’d forgotten about the mushrooms in the loaf (verboten on the ACD); and there seemed no feasible way to replace all those eggs with ground flax.  So I began with the concept of “carrot + loaf” and took it from there.  I added pecans, a beloved but underused nut, and fresh dill, one of my favorite herbs to pair with carrots. For binding, I ground up a bunch of gluten free crackers, well, just to get rid of the broken ones hanging out at the bottom of the box.

I loved this loaf with its decidedly veggie slant.  If you’re expecting a meat analogue, this is not the loaf for you.  Still, even the flesh-loving HH enjoyed his slice with some caramelized onion gravy  and a healthy serving of celeri rémoulade.  Once baked, the slightly sweet carrots meld perfectly with the toasty nuts and herbs; and the slices hold up well the next day, perfect for sandwiches.  The cooked carrots also imbue the loaf with a lovely golden hue that’s rather festive–in fact, one might even say, somewhat royal. 

You’ve still got time to submit your own nutroast creations to the Neb at Nutroast II event–ongoing until May 5th!

Last Year at this Time: SOS Kitchen Challenge Roundup: BEETS

Two Years Ago: Vegetarian Veggie Burgers that are Made from Vegetables

Three Years Ago: Something’s Fishy: Raw Nori Rolls

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

[Raw Frosted Lemon-Poppyseed Bars--heavenly!]

Whew–where has the last week gone? Between end-of-term marking and a long holiday weekend, it’s been pretty busy here in the DDD household.  I hope you all enjoyed a stellar Passover and/or Easter holiday! This year, the HH and I celebrated both holidays, first with friends (we were invited to two seders this year) and then on our own (a holiday Easter dinner for just the two of us). 

As in other areas, when it comes to celebrating holidays, the HH is, shall we say, rather laissez-faire.  In other words, if not for me, we would probably have eaten cereal for dinner on Sunday instead of the fantastic repast we did have (nutroast and céléri remoulade, about which I’ll post in a day or two).  To top off our weekend, we went to see Water for Elephants with my friend Nutritionista and her hubby last night.  Since I had no preconceived notions about Robert Pattinson (having never seen any of the Twilight films) and since I love Reese Witherspoon, I really enjoyed the movie (though, is it just me, or is there something vaguely simian about his looks?).

Well, after all the heavy, rich foods of the past long weekend, I am so ready for something fresh, light, crisp–and raw!

I was delighted a while back when Brittany of Real Sustenance asked if I’d like to participate in her month-long tribute to raw foods, April in the Raw.  You see, raw foods (fresh fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds, and a few others), consumed in the same state as we’d find them in nature (technically, nothing heated above 115F46 C), are considered to provide optimum nutritional value while  retaining the natural enzymes that may help us to digest those same foods (when foods are cooked, your pancreas must take on this monumental task on its own–not too much fun for the l’il pancreas).

With spring in the air (okay, maybe not literally–what is it with the never ending winter this year?–but it’s coming, I just know it), this is as good a time as any to try out some raw recipes.  Besides, raw foods are ideal for those of us who plan to detox around this time of year–and I’ve decided that I really need to detox. How much do I need a cleanse right now?  In a show of hands, I’d have to throw in not just my hand, but probably the whole deck.  Yep, a cleanse is definitely in order for this gal.   

(“Mum, you don’t think we need a cleanse, do you?  Because, you know, we go swimming at least once a week in the pond, so that keeps us cleansed, doesn’t it?.  On the other hand, if you want to throw a little raw food our way, we’re all for it!’) 

[Raw Asparagus, Romaine and Grapefruit Salad--who knew?]

Most days, I aim for something raw at each meal, but that wasn’t always the case.  In fact, I didn’t discover the joy of raw foods until I was in nutrition school, during the “Alternative Diets” course.  The entire class was inspired by our prof, Miss Serenity (in opposition to my friends and me, collectively Misses Anxiety, Dissatisfaction, Self-Doubt, Insecurity, Impatience, Grumpy and Sleepy).  Miss Serenity was, herself, a raw foodist, and we all wanted to be like her. 

Miss Serenity was the image of radiant health, with a strong, toned physicque, luxurious hair the color of milk chocolate and the whitest smile I’ve ever seen; she was also the polar opposite of the stereotypical “vegan.”  Her skin shone with the pink glow of iron and oxygen-rich blood, she guffawed with great glee and was the last person one would consider “stuffy” or “preachy.” Yet she also taught yoga and meditated every day, she grew her own wheat grass and she owned a house painted in bold colors of the seven chakras. As soon as she announced that she was teaching a “Raw Foods Fundamentals” course in her home, I signed up.

Because of Miss Serenity, I decided to “go raw” for a month.  As a full-time student, I had the luxury to prepare all my food from scratch and could spend hours chopping, grating, puréeing, blending, processing, soaking, and juicing as I made recipe after recipe from Miss Serenity’s cookbook.  The food was delicious, but ultimately I abandoned the idea–I just didn’t have 2-3 extra hours a day to devote to food prep.

Since then, I’ve discovered that “uncooking” need not take exorbitant amounts of time.  The “original” raw foods–fruits and vegetables, raw nuts and seeds–can be eaten out of hand, exactly as they are the instant you pick them or shell them.  Somewhere between fresh-picked and three-hour prep is a happy medium: a bit of chopping, perhaps some peeling or prepping, along with fewer ingredients or foods eaten fresh and whole. (Even Miss Serenity occasionally brought a “mono-meal” for her lunch:  we’d watch, mesmerized, as she peeled and ate 4-5 mangoes at a sitting–and nothing else for that meal).

Today’s offering is meant to show you that raw food can be both simple and delicious.  First up, I’m including the quintessential raw dish: salad (but with a new twist).  Then, once you’ve eaten your greens, I think you deserve a fantastic dessert: these raw Frosted Lemon-Poppyseed Bars!  Even the HH loved them. 

The salad does a bit of double-duty, as it also contains this month’s SOS Kitchen Challenge ingredient, asparagus.  I had no idea one could eat raw asparagus until I came across a recipe for “Shaved Asparagus Salad with Orange-Tarragon Vinaigrette” in the May/June 2009 issue of Vegetarian Times. Well, that was all the incentive I needed to start playing with the recipe and come up with my own adaptation.  The ACD doesn’t allow oranges but does allow grapefruit for some bizarre reason, so that was the substitution I used. 

The resulting salad was crisp, fresh, and juicy, the slightly sweet shards of asparagus lending a decidedly springlike air (something we sorely need these rainy days!).  Fragrant with tarragon and grapefruit zest, the salad was a lively start to our meal.  I didn’t tell the HH it contained raw asparagus until he’d already dug in and proclaimed the dish “fantastic.”  I’d suggest you do the same when you serve this.  

To cap off your meal, how about these dazzling Lemon-Poppyseed Bars with Lemon Frosting?  All raw, of course!  Lemon and Poppyseed is one of the HH’s favorite combinations, so I decided to create a raw dessert that he’d love even more than the salad.  These little confections are firm and chewy with a sparkling crunch of poppyseeds in every bite.  The frosting firms up in the fridge, but left at room temperature softens to a creamy, smooth, entirely alluring topping.  Because they’re so rich, you can cut these into small cubes of one or two bites a piece, and you’ll still be satisfied. 

Thanks again to Brittany for allowing me to play along with April in the Raw this year!  It’s been so much fun focusing more on the raw foods in my diet.  In fact, I plan to keep up with more raw over the next few months.

To see the lineup of all the April in the Raw posts as well as links to readers’ recipes (or to link up your own), check out the April in the Raw main page!

I’m also submitting these bars to Amy’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays , Diane’s Real Food Weekly, Gluten-Free Homemaker’s Gluten-Free Wednesdays, Brittany’s Seasonal Sundays and the Simple Lives Thursday  events.(whew!)  :)

Last Year at this Time: SOS Kitchen Roundup: Beets! (24 recipes using the Ruby Root)

Two Years Ago: Flash in the Pan: Almond Crusted Root Vegetable “Fries” (one of the all-time most popular recipes on the blog)

Three Years Ago: Peanut Butter Biscuits (not gluten free; not ACD friendly)

[Perhaps imperfect, but recognizably egg-like in shape, right?]

One of my first paying jobs was working as a cashier at the local drugstore in a strip mall near my house, where, as it happened, three of my closest friends and I all got jobs. It wasn’t unusual for all four of us to work the same shift on a Saturday, two stationed on one side of the exit door, two on the other. We’d stand looking across at each other, our nonstop chatter filling the store like sound effects to rival the piped-in Muzak, as the sun streamed in through huge picture windows on the wall beside us.

We considered our boss, the Evil “Mr. M—r” (let’s just call him “Mr,” in a Color Purple sort of way), to be a veritable task master.  If he caught us talking to each other–or simply standing idle for more than 30 seconds (even if no customers were in sight),–we’d be instantly reprimanded.  “Go restock the toilet paper,” MR would bark, or “here, price this case of toothpaste tubes,”  or “Face the antacid shelves.”  If the store was really quiet, he’d have us do something even more demeaning, like mopping the floors in the back.  

We had our own methods of entertaining ourselves, of course, to which MR was never privy.  We’d assign code names to cute guys (“Rothmans,” the heavy-duty cigarettes smoked by steely blue-eyed cowboy types, was a favorite) or roll our eyes knowingly when the uppity girls from our high school sashayed into the store and stocked up on hair gel and mousses.  Or we’d sing our favorite duets, like “I Got You, Babe,”  or imitate MR’s nasal drawl (when he was out of the store, of course).  Years later, Sterlin and I decided we’d write a screenplay about our experiences there called The Phunny Pharm (as in, “pharmacy,” get it?  Oh, my, weren’t we just too hilarious!–I mean, phunny!).

Holiday weekends, with so many people off work, were notoriously unpredictable; they were either deadly boring or incredibly busy. One Easter Saturday, Sterlin and I were assigned opposite cashes.  By 8:15 AM, we’d already tidied the countertops, re-folded newspapers into neat piles and straightened out the candy bars.  

“MR will kill us if he comes in and sees that we’re not doing anything,” I mused.  But then we noticed the recent shipment of chocolate Easter bunnies piled unceremoniously on the floor near our cashes.  Even though there was a perfectly good display table at the end of the aisle, with a perfectly good tabletop on which they could have been stacked, most of the boxes had been strewn on the floor or worse, pushed right under it.  

Each box housed a cute little brown or white molded rabbit, some with blue candy eyes or pink candy noses, some with perky ears pointing straight up, others with one ear up and one pressed back against their heads. They were all made of that high-gloss, waxy compound “chocolatey” substance that, truth be told, I just loved; I could have eaten an entire (3/4 pound/340 g), $12.99-a-box, confection all by myself.  In fact, my love of chocolate bunnies was matched only by my love of Cadbury Creme Eggs, another Easter staple.

“Let’s fix the display!” Sterlin suggested.  So we spent the good part of an hour (there were no customers that early–we barely served a single “Rothmans” the entire time) carefully stacking the boxes in neat rows, pyramid-style, taking care to alternate between dark and light bunnies or those looking to the left and those looking to the right so they’d present incoming customers with an interesting tableau of shapes and sizes.

We had just congratulated ourselves on our initiative when the hoards suddenly appeared.  Our friends Babe and Angel were called into service as well, while I was deployed to the cosmetics department to help Claudette, the Parisian cosmetician who had immigrated to Montreal to be with her beau.  Glamorous and exotic (at least, to me), Claudette wore thick false eyelashes and eyelids frosted in baby blue, her platinum blond hair slicked back to reveal her perfect, model-like features.  For some reason, Claudette took a liking to me, so I was often gifted with samples of perfume, lipstick or eye shadow (actually intended for paying customers) to take home.

The hours flew by; by 8:30 PM when the store closed, we were all exhausted.  I was relieved that I’d spent the day in cosmetics, which meant I didn’t have money to count (though I had managed to score a free lipstick and aluminum-lined pouch of hand lotion).   While I waited for my friends to count up their tills, I wandered up and down the aisles.  Should I bring home some newly-priced toothpaste, I wondered? Or maybe my parents were out of Kleenex. . . as I strolled over to the cash registers at the front, I my eyes glanced toward the Easter bunny display. 

Only. . .

There was no bunny display any longer.

Oh, the boxes were still there, all right, still stacked in perfect rows, just as Sterlin and I had placed them that morning.  But the little plastic windows appeared empty. On closer examination, I witnessed cwhat an only be described as “a bunny massacre.”

[The easier option: cubes instead of ovoids. Still delicious.]

All of the perkly little rabbits in their boxes appeared deformed, morphed into shapeless blobs with awkward lumps and bumps where their ears had once been.  Others had completely lost their tails or their hind legs, flowing into puddles of muddy chocolate under them. 

It took me a second to realize what had precipitated that scene of lupin carnage: the huge, ceiling-to-floor, all-glass picture windows!  An entire day of brilliant sunshine! The sun had been shining for the better part of ten hours–directly on those boxes.  The poor rabbits had all succumbed to the heat and melted, like Oz’s Wicked Witch of the West. No wonder all those boxes had previously been placed under the table–in the shade.

I must have shrieked, before I myself succumbed to hystrical laughter. By then, Sterlin had come running over and spied the scene, screeching her hilarity.  Even Herbert, the normally staid pharmacist, couldn’t help but emit a snort and guffaw. 

The entire front row of chocolate bunnies (those that Sterlin and I had so meticulously placed on the shelf that morning) were  ruined.  I mean, who would be willing to purchase a blob of shapeless melted chocolate for $12.99? And although the maneuver had been unintentional, Sterlin and I couldn’t help but smirk at the thought that this error in our judgment would, in the end, mean that the Evil MR  received his just desserts (so to speak).

That night, I arrived home with three chocolate brnnnesss (that’s “Melted” for “bunnies.”)  I didn’t mind that my rabbits were deformed, looking like rejects from a GMO product-development experiment.  Later that evening, after dinner, everyone enjoyed a big blob of smooth, shapeless, waxy chocolate for dessert.

When I heard about Kelly’s Our Spunky Holiday event, in which readers were invited to submit a dessert for Easter or Passover, I immediately thought of those bunnies.  Sure, I realize I could never concoct something similar in my own kitchen (let alone reproduce that favorite waxy texture).  Instead, I opted for chocolate covered Easter eggs with a “cream cheese” filling, as close as I could get to the iconic Cadbury Creme eggs.

Unlike those unfortunate bunnies, these Easter Ovoids are only slightly misshapen, however. Because I don’t own egg molds  (and because I am basically lazy), my “eggs” turned out, oh, just a wee bit lumpy and bumpy.  But have no fear; just like the bunnies of yore, these confections still taste delicious.  Housing a soft, smooth, lemony “cream cheese” filling, they are perfect Easter treats. 

And–I promise you–no bunnies were harmed in the making of these eggs.

[Soft, creamy "cheesecake" interior. ]

[RECIPE UDATE, APRIL 20: Ack! I just noticed that I typed "orange juice' in the filling by mistake! While that's fine (it will taste great), for a more "cream cheese" like taste, use the lemon juice option (and if you're on the ACD, you're not allowed orange juice.  What was I thinking?!]

I’m also submitting this recipe to Diane’s Real Food Weekly event  for a real holiday treat, and to Amy’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays, where you’ll find healthier versions of all kinds of recipes. 

Last Year at this Time: Asparagus, Pea Shoot and Pea Salad

Two Years Ago: Anti-Candida Desserts: What Do You Eat?

Three Years Ago: Nut Roast Extraordinaire (GF, easily made ACD friendly)

*Or, This Is Not a President’s Choice Product**

*Or, See How Much I Want to Attend Eat, Write, Retreat  ?

[Voilà--homemade, veggie-based "beef" jerky.  Well, it looks like beef. . . ]

The other day, I was bemoaning the fact that there are a bunch of cool  blogger conferences coming up this spring—none of which I’m attending. Then I noticed a tweet for five (five!) scholarships to the upcoming Eat, Write, Retreat event. I was about to kick up my heels and dance a little jig when I noticed that the scholarships were sponsored by Canadian Beef.

Oops.

Pouting, I fired off a twitter retort: “Too bad you have to eat meat to qualify.” 

Well, couldn’t you have just knocked me over with a steak knife when I spied the following response: “not necessarily. . . . . Would love to see your entry !:)” 

I quickly re-read the contest rules and discovered that I could still enter by writing about a memory of Canadian Beef. And really, who better to write about “memories of beef” than the daughter of a butcher, someone who ate beef virtually every day of her childhood and adolescence—and who now lives with a meat-eater? Why, none other than moi, of course!

I just couldn’t resist. So here’s my “Best Memories of Beef from My Childhood” entry.

Hoping to see y’all at Eat, Write, Retreat!

* * * * * * * * * * * *  

[My dad and me, circa 2000, when he was 78.]

When I was a child, there was never any doubt about who was the boss in our family. With one disappointed glance, my father could cause my heart to ache for days. Conversely, he could also spark days of elation, my heart soaring, when I knew he was pleased with something I’d done. 

More than anything, my father was defined by the work he did. He spent six days a week at his little butcher shop on Jean Talon West in the Park Extension area of Montreal, leaving for the store long before we children even woke for school and returning after the rest of the family had finished our dinners. On the odd morning when I couldn’t sleep and the clinking of his coffee mug drew me in the direction of the kitchen, I’d stumble onto a scene of my dad, his windbreaker already zipped up, hunched over the kitchen table sipping his tea and snapping at his toast before he grabbed the lunch bag my mother had prepared and rushed out the door. 

On Thursdays and Fridays, when the store was open until 8:00 PM, my younger sister and I were often already in bed when he finally returned home.  The other nights, he’d arrive between 6:30 and 8:00 PM, his pant legs smeared with dried blood and the smell of sweat on his shirt, sawdust still clinging to his shoes. He’d go straight to the kitchen table, where my mother dished out the remnants of whatever we’d already eaten for dinner—a dried-up hamburger, veal chops, salmon patties and “potato boats,” or, if his stomach were acting up (as it often did when he felt stress), a bowl of rice and warm milk with honey.

I began to resent that my father never seemed to have much time for us kids when he was home. I learned at a young age that if I wanted to interact with him any day but Sunday, I had to see him at work. Since his store was en route between our house in St. Laurent and the Jean Talon Metro (in those days, the gateway to downtown shopping), my best friends Gemini I, Gemini II and I often dropped in at dad’s store on the way home after a day spent browsing at Simpsons, Eatons, and Ogilvie’s.  As eleven or twelve year-olds in those days, the hour-long bus and subway ride was a huge adventure, one our parents allowed without any 21st-Century angst, and a short pit stop at the butcher shop made the trip even more palatable in our minds.

[Jerky in the making: about halfway there.]

As soon as we pushed open the heavy glass door and the bell suspended above it announced our arrival, my father would stop what he was doing, wipe his palms on his apron and point in my direction.  “Ah, it’s Rick!” he’d declare, like an emcee calling out the team captain skating onto the ice at the Forum.  Then he began to crow.  He would boast to whomever was around—Mrs. Lubov (one of the rich customers) as she placed her weekend order; or Vasili, the owner of the Greek bakery down the way; or Joe, the hobo who always seemed to be sitting on the plastic stool in the corner no matter the day or time, as if he were a permanent store mascot in the window. “This is my middle daughter,” my father would say, “she’s going to be a Professor.” The customers nodded and smiled, the way parents do when their three year-old proffers an imaginary teacup. 

Within seconds, my friends and I were ushered to the back of the store behind the counter, between the freezer and wooden cutting block where the floor was cushioned with sawdust to absorb drips, grease and bloodstains from the meat. We knew the drill: we sat quietly on the old kitchen chairs against the wall until the store emptied out, whether it took 5, 10 or 25 minutes for my father to finish up with any customers who were waiting. Then he turned his attention to us.

“Okay, so what do you want to eat?” he’d ask with audible delight, as our eyes lit up with anticipation. He’d grab two Kaiser rolls from under the counter. Gemini I always asked for something unassuming like sliced turkey, but I’d go for my favorite, Montreal Smoked meat (made from Canadian Beef, of course). My father would slice the hunk of preternaturally pink flesh, its outside sheathed in a coating of slick black peppercorns softened by the smoking process, the thin sheets sliding out from beneath the swirling blade and onto his outstretched palm. With the rhythm of a dancer, he’d turn his hand over and slap each slice onto the open roll until he’d achieved a pile almost as thick as one of my school textbooks.  Then he’d march into the freezer and pull out the jar of mustard he kept there for his own lunches, smear the meat with the yellow topping, and replace the rest of the roll over it. 

[My dad on his 89th birthday, last year.]

The sandwiches were always too big for our gaping mouths no matter how wide we tried to open them, so we’d withdraw a few slices and eat them plain before turning back to the rest of the meal.  When we were done, if we were still hungry (and even if we weren’t), my father would treat each of us to a piece of karnatzel, the long, cigar-shaped, spicy salami that hung suspended from hooks above the meat counter, drying out in the air and sweating drops of pink-tinged oil on the ground beneath them.  With one snap of the thin log, we were each handed a hunk of the stuff to savor for another few minutes. The meat was crunchy, chewy and spicy, and I loved it back then.

With thanks and a pat on the back of the head, we headed out to the bus and the long ride home.

What I didn’t realize in those days, of course, was that my father’s absence at home grew from his desire to provide for his family, and in the store, he was expressing his love for me in the only way he knew how—by giving me food, the spoils of his labor.  When I arrived for my occasional visits at the shop, I offered him the chance not only to show me off to his customers, but also to show me how he spent his days making a living. 

Even though I don’t eat meat any more, I miss the times when I could drop in on my dad and observe him in his element; where he felt confident, efficient, capable and strong.  These days, he struggles to regain his former vigor as his body ages even while his mind remains sharp and vibrant.  I watch my elderly dad slowly shuffling across the hallway from bedroom to kitchen, where he hunches over the same kitchen table of my childhood, slowly cutting his dinner into small, manageable pieces. 

These days, beef is scarce on his own plate, too.  But the memories of those idyllic afternoons in the shop, when my father was still the boss of our house and king of the butcher shop, will forever remain in my heart. And with that memory, it still soars. 

[Wouldn't you just love a bite?] 

** For all you non-Ontario residents out there, the popular President’s Choice brand offers a line of sauces called “Memories Of. . . “

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