A change in seasons

It's easy to feel disconnected in a large city, I think -- to feel distanced from everything that matters, some social graces or common courtesy. A trip to the market can offer a sort of cure-all for the disease that is City Irritation, a remedy for those plagued by stress and anxiety.

I woke up with the sun this morning. It usually happens despite my best intentions. I sat around drinking strongly brewed chai tea, made breakfast in a clean kitchen, read the Globe and Mail online and caught up on my reading. I walked to St. Lawrence, grabbing a coffee along the way -- you can say what you will about Starbucks, but hats off to Howard Schultz for carving that empire -- and walking by St. James Church, admiring the architecture.

I love that at the market, you are confronted by choices you once never thought possible. Freestone or clingstone peaches? Early Redhaven, Garnet Beauty, Harrow Dawn. They sound like beautiful women in a fairytale. I like the small peaches that first come out in July the best. They're amazingly sweet and the juice runs down your arm freely with wild abandon. I buy a few, but I'll need to wait a few weeks for the canning variety, I'm told. No freestones yet.

There's melons of every variety - cantaloupes, muskmelons, sugar baby, watermelon. Heirloom tomatoes and fava beans. Fresh garlic, strawberries still holding on, baby cucumbers slightly soft to the touch, corn-on-the-cob. A man stops me when he realizes I'm blindly picking my cobs. "You'd think they're all the same," he says, "but they're not." He pulls back the husk on one to expose a few black bits. "Here, this is a good one." I leave with six ears of good corn.

The blackberries have grown bigger since a couple of weeks ago. The first of the season were tiny and tart, like the Shiro plums just coming into season. These blackberries are plumper than the ones are the grocery store but still tender to the touch, still delicate, but extremely sweet.

I pick up a large cucumber from a man who drives all the way into the city from Leamington, close to my home town. I always try to purchase something from him. Maybe that's the nostalgia in me talking. Jalapenos and poblano peppers. Beautiful purple flowers from the Mennonite growers who are here every week selling the most gorgeous bouquets. They are always busy, the barrels filled with female gawkers. When you don't have a garden, it's the next best thing.

Where the living is easy

Nights in spent catching up with an old friend. Watching Mad Men over a meal of salty canned clams and corn pasta, arugula standing in for the black pepper. It's common food around here, delicious and economical, but it kind of sings in its own way. I like the taste of clams with corn pasta done al dente, the way the parmesan interacts with the arugula and the chili flakes. I love the garlic butter that resonates in the background, the way it pulls all of the ingredients together, and I like the bite of the pasta against the softness of the sauce. Consumed with a glass of VQA red wine while sprawled on the couch, it feels absolutely luxurious. A couple of dark chocolate squares for dessert? Mais oui!

There've been many good moments lately. My sister came to visit this past weekend and I made her coconut blueberry pancakes, a recipe I'll share later this week. Blueberries aren't in season quite yet around these parts of what I can tell, and the crappy ones from Oregon made for a lousy substitute, but I can envision them being made with good blueberries, the tart-sweet variety, the kind that leaves blueberry juice stained on your clothes. I've been reading more these days, and trying to catch more films, and find myself taking short walks in the early evening just as people finish their al fresco dinners, gulp back that last taste of wine. It's nice to breathe in the summer air, a little humid and still but gentler this year. It's nice to walk aimlessly and conjure up wishes. Romantic, isn't it? I like to listen to jazz while making dinner, glass of wine in hand, or to country music as I mop my floors. This is summertime in Toronto. Drinking mediocre sangria on a large patio with an old friend. Walking around and witnessing the Pride festivities over the weekend, eating a small scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream and happily lapping up the sunshine. Reading about M.F.K. Fisher's life over a lunch hour; reading about women who eat over another. Gearing up to pick mulberries. Contemplating the fall, considering my future. Making lists and planning projects. Is this what happiness looks like? I think so, indeed I do, and I am glad for it.

A change in the weather

This past weekend – a day at the beach, a morning at the farmer’s market, a lazy day spent leisurely cooking – has totally put me in the summer mood. There’s still plenty of work going on around here; I’m dusting my boots off as we speak. But a year in and I’m finally getting settled in my apartment. I’m looking at paint chips and searching for fabric and it’s all very fun and exciting, at least to me. This “fun and exciting” bit includes, but is not limited to, drooling over The Rug Company website, browsing pages of beautiful furniture I can’t afford, and dreaming up a little writer’s spot, which I envision will pretty well look the way it does now – a chair, a dining table and a laptop – but with peonies and a magical and amazing coffee genie. It’s the little things.
I digress.

When I search for recipes, I cull through blogs and pages for ones that are, as clichéd as it sounds, fresh, simple and innovative. I’m interested in new methods and techniques, in adding a little charm to the everyday. It’s the French toast dipped in orange blossom water, or a vibrant spice blend, or a tablespoon of vinegar that cuts through the richness of a stew, enlivening it with a new dimension. I’m not really into long preparation times or multiple steps. Sometimes it’s nice to devote an entire day to prepping and cooking, but it doesn’t usually interest me. I probably pass over most of the recipes I would have gobbled up hungrily just a couple short years ago.

This recipe is adapted from Kary Osmond’s show. If I could come back as someone else, I might like to come back as Kary Osmond.

This one is a true winner. It’s filling and tasty, full of vibrant colours and comforting textures. Last week I threw together salads on the fly for my lunches, and one day I landed on a stunning and somewhat surprising combination: shredded leftover chicken Diablo, black beans, avocado, and mango tossed in a quick white wine vinaigrette. I loved the way the mango and the avocado played off each other – the tanginess of the mango with the buttery, mellow flavor of the avocado. Mashed with the chicken and black beans, it was fantastic. This one is pretty good, too, but a little more economical and less fussy to put together.

Basically, you open a couple of cans, rinse, and do a bit of chopping. It requires a bit of effort, but it’s worth it. I’ve been taking this salad for lunch, but I imagine it would also be quite nice served up next to some roasted chicken or grilled fish. Alternatively, you could throw a scoopful on some greens or on a baked sweet potato. I thought that might grab your attention.

Black Bean, Chickpea and Avocado Salad with Mango
Adapted from Canadian Living
Yields 4-6 servings


1 – 16oz can of black beans, or about 1.5 cups cooked and salted
1 – 16oz can of chickpeas (garbanzo beans), or about 1.5 cooked and salted
1 ripe avocado, peeled and cubed
½ mango, diced (optional)
1 jalapeno, diced, or to taste
1 brightly coloured bell pepper, cleaned and diced
½ cup chopped fresh cilantro (coriander)
Zest (rind) of 1 lime
Juice of 1 lime
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper, to taste


Toss everything except for the lime juice and olive oil in a bowl and mix thoroughly.


In a separate bowl, whisk together lime juice and oil. Add to the salad. Chill for at least one hour.

"yes, you can feel happy / with one piece of your heart"

I'm not sure if this has come across yet on this blog, but I often feel I belong to a different generation – one where no one wore sweatpants outside the home, cell phones hadn't yet been invented, courting was prized, and jazz music reigned (oh Dizzy, I love your cheeks!) I realize this might make me a bit of an anomaly, if not a little square.

Another anomaly? Downtown Toronto on the weekends. During the week, the sidewalks are filled with pedestrians who may or may not know where they are going or headed to, and the streets are packed, bumper to bumper, with cars. It's a dangerous place for someone like myself. I've almost been hit three times in the last month by ambivalent, distracted drivers. I glare at them, I stomp my feet, I raise my voice and express my disapproval in an über-polite manner ("I have the goddamn right of way, asshole!"), but still, it continues. My mother wasn't kidding when she told me to look both ways before crossing the road.

On the weekends, the hustle and bustle of the city relaxes.

The streets mellow out into a drug-induced haze, and I can walk freely without being bumped into. After accompanying a lovely friend to the subway station the morning after a rowdy party (or a girls' night of Sex and the City and wine, where everyone who's leaving has left by midnight), I went to the public library and walked around Yorkville, ooo-ing and aww-ing at the Anthroplogie store and all of its gorgeous, overpriced offerings. I picked up plain yogurt. And then I walked back to meet up with another friend whom I haven't seen since the winter holidays for an afternoon of egg sandwiches and conversation. It's been a nice weekend, one that reminded me that my life is round and full.



To demonstrate just how crazy I have become, I made soup. Yes, soup. It was 30°C all of last week (that’s around 86°F for you Americans) and felt about 10, 000°something with the humidity. So I made soup, naturally.

This insanity began innocently enough: it started with a Greek fava spread. Michael Psilakis, who bears a striking resemblance to celebrity chef Michael Symon, suggests spreading the mixture over pita bread and garnishing it with a sprig of dill. However, when I got to the notes and learned the spread also makes for a divine pea soup, I was sold. I love a good dip, but I love pea soup even more. Not even this spontaneous Toronto heat wave can stop me – take that, heat. My kitchen did not love the idea so much, but it came around.

I first came across Michael Psilakis months ago when his cookbook, How to Roast a Lamb, received some serious critical acclaim. He’s known for revolutionizing Greek cuisine in North America and it’s easy to see why. His recipes are shockingly easy to follow, even for the most amateur of home cooks. The ingredients are mostly common and relatively inexpensive, with the exception of the use of olive oil, olives, and cheese. For those who are interested, many of the recipes are vegetarian or vegan. How to Roast a Lamb? It may or may not be the most fantastic title, but the contents more than make up for it.

I finally got my hands on this book last month when I found it at my local library, and I’ve been salivating all over the pages ever since. It’s just that kind of cookbook.

Like most of us pea soup-lovin’ kind, I assume, I grew up with ham and pea soup, or sometimes pea soup with bacon. If you’re ever fortunate enough, I might divulge my ham and pea soup recipe, but in the meantime, you get this one – a garlicky, slick soup made from basic ingredients. Quite frankly, the way it comes alive on the tongue puts all other pea soups to shame. If you’re a very sane person and uninterested in eating soup at this time of year, try it as a spread or bookmark the recipe for the cooler months. You won’t be sorry.



Fava Spread/Soup

Adapted from Michael Psilakis

I realize this recipe really isn’t fooling around with the garlic; don’t be scared. Yes, you’ll be equipped to ward off vampires with your breath, but it’s worth it. Once garlic is cooked, the sharpness mellows quite a bit and sweetens up. However, as a warning, the garlic flavour intensifies the longer the mixture sits in the fridge, so if preparing it in advance, I’d recommend scaling back on the aromatics to account for this. You can always add more minced garlic just before serving.

Secondly, Psilakis originally calls for the use of shallots instead of onion. I had (a very strong) onion on hand, so that’s what I used. If you’re unfamiliar with shallots, they’re small, mild-flavoured onions, and in my experience are significantly easier on the tear ducts. If you’re interested in using shallots, replace the onion called for at the beginning of the ingredients list with 10 shallots.

2 tbsp oil (I used olive oil)
1 onion, finely chopped
6 garlic cloves, minced
1lb yellow split peas, rinsed
7 cups of water
4 dried bay leaves

Sea salt and cracked black pepper

7 cloves of garlic
¼ onion, or 2 shallots, chopped
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
2 pepperoncini (pickled yellow peppers) roughly chopped (I used pickled jalapenos)
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 tsp dried dill

In a heavy-bottomed, large pot (such as Dutch oven), warm the oil over medium-high heat and add the onion and garlic. Cook until the aromatics have softened but haven’t yet browned, about 4-5 minutes. Add split peas and stir for a couple minutes. Rip the bay leaves slightly to release their flavours, and add them along with the water, 1 tbsp sea salt, and a few grindings of black pepper. Cover the mixture and bring to a boil; reduce to a simmer and let cook for about 50 minutes – 1 hour, until the peas are fully cooked but haven’t yet lost their structure. Drain well and let sit until the water has completely drained out, about 30 minutes. Remove the bay leaves.

Combine one third of the mixture with the garlic, onion (or shallots), lemon juice, and pepperoncini in a food processor or blender and pulse until smooth. Add the olive oil with the motor running as if you were making a salad dressing. Mix with the rest of the pea mixture and add the dried drill. Taste, and adjust your seasonings (dill, salt and pepper.) Michael calls for another tablespoon of salt to be added here, but my mixture was plenty salty. If making soup, thin the mixture using water, milk or cream to the desired consistency. Top with a dollop of plain, Greek-style yogurt or a sprinkling of smoked paprika if desired. If using as a spread, serve with pita bread, pita chips or even corn tortilla chips. It would also be tasty with raw vegetables. Use within the week or freeze.

Yields 1 quart.

*The title of this entry comes from "Miracle Ice Cream", a poem by confessional writer Adrienne Rich.