The point is to live everything

I began my degree in the way I begin many things -- ardently, with good intent and little practicality. I let the glowing prospect of post-secondary billow and percolate for a long while until I settled on literature, and while I tossed around a few career possibilities (I can teach. I can edit? Maybe I'll write!) I assumed I had four years to figure it out and somehow along the way my purpose would just occur to me, like a caffeine hit half an hour in or a car accident or the sound of a heavy boot thumping against a wood plank.

It didn't occur to me.

It didn't occur to me by graduation, as others went off and pursued teaching degrees or padded off to law school or landed odd jobs. I pursued post-graduate work because I wanted to. I wasn't finished yet. I secretly (and somewhat naively) hoped that buying two more years would liberate me of my question, that at the end of the rainbow I'd strike gold.

Instead, I woke up each morning at 6:50 a.m. to make coffee and watch Laura Calder. I roasted a whole chicken for one. Like many others, I had my life changed irreparably in the summer of 2009 by the release of Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma, and the questions and cuorisites that emerged from my reading of it have never stopped.

It didn't occur to me by the end of my Master's degree, when most of my class had applied and been accepted to post-graduate programs across the continent, dispersed as efficiently as a murder of crows.

The thing about choice is that you are still limited to predetermined variables. What do you do with an English degree? This is not a foolish question. It's petrifying -- but immensely gratifying -- to forge your own path, to be forced through trial and error to discern what your talents are. I'd been an academic; what else might I be?

I enrolled in a post-graduate course in book publishing because I'd enjoyed the bit of editing I dabbled in while at Windsor, but while I put in the time, I derived little satisfaction from the experience. Witnessing the passion others had for books that I somehow lacked only made me loneliner.

I spent all of my time talking about food, reading about it, to the point where a classmate asked me why I hadn't gone to culinary school instead. "I don't want to be a chef," I answered, though the question lingered. Did I? Now that I've worked in a few restaurants and have served for catering companies across the city, I can say with great certainty that I do not want to be a chef. But I wondered at the time if I might want to get involved in food writing. Perhaps I'd move to British Columbia and edit cookbooks for Whitecap -- isn't that the dream? But I didn't do that, either.

As you might expect, I didn't find the answer at Humber, not in the classroom, not in the dorms, not on the sleepy Saturday mornings I spent eating breakfast and watching shoddy television in the communal living area, not in the one-on-one conversations I shared with the director of the program.

Unfortunately, these types of questions don't always inspire confidence in others. My mother in particular seemed a little concerned for a few years, which is mostly a given considering she has me for a daughter. And I've come up against a lot of people who seem very concerned with my career path. As it turns out, "I'm not really sure" is not an acceptable response at twenty-six the way it is at twenty. Nobody will tell you this, so consider this my public service announcement for the day.

Sometimes, as much as you resist things, they come hunting for you. It's your grandmother's voice that casts doubt on your decisions: "Are you sure she didn't go to school for the wrong thing?" It's the book -- on food -- that you submitted before your thesis committee. It's how you worked your way through a devastating break-up (or a few); it's the way you grew a friendship -- trips to the market, conversations over glasses of wine, shared meals; it's the bowl of chili that made a good man fall in love with you; it's the way you made it through four lonely months at Humber. It's the marinara sauce you made your first night in Tallahassee and the enchiladas that followed. It's the pots of beans and rice you lived on during the first few months in Toronto. It's the way you paid for school, the way you paid for New York City, the way you made new friends. You see with your own eyes that while you were preoccupied with trying to answer the question, you were living the answer.

"I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer." That's what Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in Letters to a Young Poet, and I think it's beautiful. Sometimes it is immensely comforting. It is especially comforting when you feel hard-pressed to arrive at the answers NOW, as if the present were the only available time for action, and particularly comforting to someone like me, who is, shall we say, hopelessly neurotic.


You have to love the questions first; you have to let them swim around you for a while, letting them live rent-free in your life until you are comfortable enough to think you could live without a defined answer. I like to walk around the city with a coffee in hand, really paying attention to the architecture and the churches. I like to walk around the market, even when I don't need anything, and come home with the wedge of cheese and container of olives that I bought because I couldn't resist. I love starting off the day not knowing where I will end up, or gasping for air after a long run. Stanley Kubrick proposed that we have to make our own light and I agree. Even if you are born exceptionally lucky, which many of us are, you still have to do the work. You still have to find the switch.

And then there is only forward.

Amazing Lentil Salad (or Best Lentil Salad, Ever) adapted ever so slightly from Sarah Britton, My New Roots

Serves 4-6

2 ¼ cups (1 lb.) Du Puy (French) lentils
1 medium red onion, diced finely
1 cup dried, unsweetened cranberries (or whatever dried fruit you have on hand)
1/3 cup capers, rinsed of their brine or salt and chopped if they are large
1/2 cup to 3/4 cup roughly chopped fresh cilantro

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1 Tbsp. real maple syrup
1 Tbsp. strong mustard (I use Double C from Kozlik's)
2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. pepper
1 tsp. ground cumin
1/2 tsp. turmeric
½ tsp ground cardamom
Pinch of cayenne pepper
¼ tsp. ground cloves
1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
¼ tsp. ground cinnamon

Directions:
1. Rinse lentils well, drain. Place in a pot and cover with a 3-4 inches of water, bring to a boil, reduce to simmer. Check lentils for doneness after 15 minutes, but they should take about 20 minutes in total. Most of the water will have been absorbed or evaporated by then.
2. While the lentils are simmering, make the dressing by placing all ingredients in a jar with a tight fitting lid and shaking vigorously to combine.
3. When the lentils are cooked, remove from heat, drain and place under cold running water to stop the cooking process. Once cooled slightly but still a little warm, place lentils in a large serving bowl and toss with dressing. Add other onion, capers, dried fruit, and cilantro. Let sit for at least a couple hours so the flavours have a chance to befriend each other. Eat, no question.

The sweet smell of September

I know you've gone a while without a recipe.

Sorry to starve you; it wasn't my intention.

I'm in the business of preparing for fall, dear readers, and it is a booming business indeed. Since the late spring and summer have been somewhat unkind to my friend Anne and I, we took it upon ourselves to declare the end of August the beginning of autumn. No matter that I'm still one with my clothing after walking three blocks. If I were living in Tallahassee and not Toronto, this would be perfectly acceptable fall weather, and since Anne resides in the Sunshine State, I'll let her call the shots.

As a girl who never tires of soaking up warm-weather rays, who loves nothing more than to sit on an outdoor patio sipping a drink, who adores beach-combing and house parties and walking around the city without donning a parka and four layers of clothing, whose excitement over an abundant display of summer produce borders on obscene, my cheering on of the next season might come as a bit surprising. But, oh, I'm so ready for it; I'm ready for full-time work, for writing with a cup of hot tea in hand, for baking and roasting and stewing and braising, for bundling up in a cozy sweater, for the onslaught of squash and root vegetables, and for picking apples and eating them, making apple crisps, and applesauce. Turns out there's a lot to love about this thing called fall, a season I didn't get to wholly experience last year when, to my dismay, the leaves on the Northern Florida trees did not change colours. To tell you the truth, while I appreciated the warm climate, I missed my autumn, however short that time can sometimes be in southwestern Ontario. I'm imagining High Park in October, and the fantasy makes me smile wide.



Even if I were to ignore it, there's other signs autumn is already on its way, veering across open roads. I have in my hands Put 'em Up! A Comprehensive Home Preserving Guide for the Creative Cook by Sherri Brooks Vinton, Recipes from the Root Cellar: 270 Fresh Ways to Enjoy Winter Vegetables by Andrea Chesman, and The Zuni Café Cookbook by the remarkably talented Judy Rodgers of the Zuni Café in San Francisco. I'm lingering a little too long around the tea section of the grocery store. I'm making lists of films I'd like to see. I'm drafting ideas for stories. I'm considering how I might go about throwing a holiday get-together with some friends of mine months down the road, gathering to watch holiday movies and eat popcorn and cookies. I'm even bookmarking promising recipes for candies and baked goods. Did I mention the mulled wine -- Glühwein -- and all of the hot toddies, made with Forty Creek or Crown? It's preposterous.



However, I'm still eating a copious amount of salads, which I love, especially lettuce-based ones. Some I've eaten with chopped avocado, black olives, goat cheese, cucumber, and bacon, drizzled with chipotle-ranch-lime dressing. Some include a chopped, hardboiled egg. I'm dreaming up a salad with chickpeas, grilled vegetables, hummus, kalamata olives, and lemon juice. And yesterday's was probably my favourite: Romaine lettuce, tangy goat cheese, a lemon-oregano vinaigrette, smoky bacon, and baked sweet potato fries tossed in cumin and chili powder.

Let's talk sweet potatoes. Baked and dressed with a brown butter vinaigrette, or roasted with sea salt and rosemary. Mashed with coconut milk and macadamia nuts, or baked with a crispy, brown sugar topping. I especially like sweet potato fries, as I've mentioned, and goat cheese -- mmm. It's a tough cheese to beat in my books. Sure, I love a great vintage cheddar, or Havarti, or Pecorino Romano, or anything, really, that doesn't taste overly barnyard-y. But goat cheese deserves its own line. Its own book. I can't remember quite when I first tried it -- not too long ago -- but it's fantastic on just about anything. I'm sure some will disagree; that's okay. However, I have to say -- if I had a genie in front of me, ala Aladdin, one of my wishes would be to have an endless supply of chèvre. I'd then trot back to my apartment and live happily ever after in my goat cheese-gorging domain. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Now, about tracking down that genie ...

Until fall officially announces its arrival, I'll be taking advantage of the abundance of lettuce still stocked at the stores, and be making salads all live long day. And you should make this one; it's yammy. Har har, I made an awful joke (and worse, it's copied from Big Fat Burrito.)

Salad with Baked Sweet Potato Fries & Goat Cheese
Adapted from Susan Anderson and Kevin at Closet Cooking

Serves 2

1 large sweet potato, peeled and sliced into fries
2 oz. goat cheese
2 slices bacon, cooked and roughly chopped (optional)
Two generous handfuls Romaine lettuce, washed and spun dry
1 tsp olive oil
1/4 tsp ground cumin
1/4 tsp chili powder
1/2 tsp sea or kosher salt

2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Juice from 1 juicy lemon
1 tsp dried oregano, or 1 tbsp fresh
1 garlic clove, minced
1/2 tsp Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper, to taste

Pre-heat oven (I used my trusty toaster oven) to 350°F/180°C. Toss fries with olive oil, cumin, chili powder, and salt. Layer the fries on an aluminum-lined tray and bake for 30-45 minutes, until crisp-tender.

While the fries bake, assemble the vinaigrette. Combine the lemon juice, oregano, garlic, and Dijon, and whisk to emulsify. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil. Taste, and season accordingly. Set aside for the flavours to mingle and become friendly.

Crumble goat cheese and bacon over Romaine lettuce, and top with sweet potato fries. Taste the vinaigrette one final time, season if necessary, and drizzle over the salad. Serve immediately.

An unlikely paradox: fashion and lentils

The Toronto I know and usually adore has transmutated into a muggy, humid hole of a place. But readers, like almost everything, it hasn't been all bad.

Outside, a car alarm beeps loudly and refuses to cease. I'm not generally a night owl, but I like this time -- a time when the city has quieted, and a new kind of beauty appears. It's not an obvious one; Toronto is rough around the edges. It's not easy to love, and it doesn't don the dresses and designer pantsuits it presents to its shoppers along Bloor St.

But there's that adorable, chubby little girl on Dufferin who made me smile wide. There's R., who works hard and talks about waking up to do yoga in the morning; who throws solo dance parties in the middle of service by salsa dancing on the concrete floors of the kitchen as caterers swirl a roasted garlic and dill aioli over tiny salmon cakes. Tonight I met Huiwot, a twentysomething who laughs more than anyone I've ever met and can be depended on to crack a solid joke just when you need one. She also happens to have a special knack for finding appropriate hiding places for leftover pastries. How do you turn your back on a city that begs you to see it for all of its splendid diversity? Sometimes, it turns out, all you need is two cardboard boxes filled with leftover food, a free ticket home, and a funny companion who grows increasingly excited by the possibility of meeting! the! final! four! tennis! champs!

As of right now, I have no fewer than fifteen borrowed books on my sofa as I type this. I'm not sure when I will read them, but I'm looking forward to whenever that is -- and happy that more and more, I am forced to make time for things, a sure sign that life is (!) moving ahead (!). I am holding on to these wings.

On Thursday night, I had the pleasure of attending the launch party of a fashion line, and was, wonder of wonders, the lone woman of the evening. I often love my job. A single girl among fifteen men! Oh my good luck. I also managed to fanagle an escort to my bus stop, which proves that either I have yet to lose my magic touch or have very good luck indeed. It was a fun evening that culminated with my supervisor sticking a gold star next to my name -- like kindergarten, but with booze.

What has been my sustenance through all of this excitement? A lentil salad -- a humble meal for one. I know what you might be thinking. Lentils? Really? Those things that taste of earth and stone? Yes, those things that taste of earth and stone! Before you call me crazy, know that this salad calls for bacon. Let me tell you: my love for bacon is deep-seeded and incorrigible, and I suspect yours might be, too. Hello, strips of crisp saltiness! Is there anything better than the sound of bacon crackling and spluttering in its own grease within a cast iron pan? Especially as you, still sleepy, sip on a cup of hot coffee and listen to the likes of Sia and Ingrid Michaelson, sun dappling the top of your kitchen island? I'm sure there is something better, but, oh, bacon, you come awfully close. Romancing one's self is underrated.



I also happen to be of the camp that loves lentils. French green lentils are the best, otherwise known as Puy lentils, but regular green or brown lentils work just as well in this recipe. Tossed with rendered bacon fat and red wine vinegar, and topped with a runny egg, it is a fabulous food for a roaster of a summer day.

I hope you like it as much I do.

Lentils with Bacon and Red Wine Vinegar

Serves 4

1 cup green lentils

3-4 strips thick-cut bacon, diced

Rendered bacon fat
1 tsp good quality Dijon mustard
2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1/4 cup red onion, finely diced
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
Sea salt and cracked black pepper, to taste

4 poached or fried eggs (optional)

Add the lentils to a pot, fill with water and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and continue cooking until lentils are tender, about 20-25 minutes. I like to add a dried bayleaf to my lentils, but this step is entirely optional.

While the lentils simmer, slowly cook the bacon over low heat. If you cook the bacon on too high a temperature, the fat will not render properly -- and trust me, you want the fat. Low and slow is the way to go.

As the bacon cooks, assemble the vinaigrette. Combine the mustard with the red wine vinegar to emulsify, and add the garlic and onion. When the bacon has finished cooking, remove the strips from the pan and set aside. Quickly whisk about 3-5 tablespoons of rendered bacon fat into the vinaigrette. Season to taste. Dice the bacon, add to the lentils, and pour the vinaigrette over the salad, tossing well to combine. Enjoy topped with a poached or fried egg if desired, or crumbled goat's cheese and toasted, chopped walnuts.

Lentils