The kind of week

Last Saturday, I bundled up and headed over to the Brick Works Farmer's Market. I don't recall whether this is true or not, but my memory says it was a lovely day, and so it was. I walked all the way to Greektown and took the shuttle bus up by Bridle Path. I have to say, it was quite the experience: I have never seen produce look so beautiful in all my life. That's saying something coming from a girl who grew up in the county. When I handed a five spot over to the man who sold me my sweet potatoes, he said "Red or white?" I'd never heard of white sweet potatoes before. Purple, yes; they're plentiful at most of the Asian markets in Chinatown. But never white.

Have you heard of rainbow-striped radishes? Did you know there are at least three varieties of baby spinach, and likely far more? I bought a pound of mixed kale, red and green and lacinato from a shy woman with blonde hair. Apples were piled high on three long tables at the back of the room, and I stopped in and snagged a litre of real apple cider -- you know, not overly sweet, still tasting of the orchard -- from two little boys who tried, with their best sales tactics, to get me to buy two. "Sorry boys, it's just me," I said.

A trip to the market is expensive; I looked down into my grocery bag and could barely believe what I'd paid. But what I bought can't be found at the supermarket. Mostly, I get stress at the grocery store. I get stress and anxiety and frustration. The aisles at downtown supermarkets are narrow and cramped. I can never find what I'm looking for, or they simply don't carry it (smoked paprika, cocoa powder), or the item isn't worth buying (drowned and rotting Romaine, overripe avocadoes). Heading to the market is an event. It makes sense, even if it isn't a bargain.
A Frenchman who runs Bee's Universe sells honey (evidently), rabbit and eggs. I know the combination sounds odd, but he does.
"People, you know, they don't want to buy rabbit. They think bunny bunny, but it's good. It's good in stews," he said.
"I'll make a note of it," I answered as I pushed my eggs to the bottom of the bag.
They are the best eggs I've ever eaten, the yolks thick and rich and full of flavour. I don't know about the rabbit -- maybe he's right -- but he was on the nose with those eggs.

There's the owner of an artisanal cheese operation, and another who sells half-decent gluten-free breads. It was really something. And the sweet potatoes? They were thrown in a stew with spicy sausage and spinach, and sweetened the broth ever so slightly. They were, for the record, the creamiest sweet potatoes I've ever tasted. We eat because we have to, and often forget how good things can taste all on their own. A little sea salt and a drizzle of good olive oil helps, certainly, but if something sings all on its own...that's magic, folks. The man who sold me my sweet potatoes had a sign saying, "Remember how good food used to taste?" or something of that description, and it was so apropos. I don't remember -- I grew up during industrialized times -- but I can well imagine.

It's been a good week. It's the kind of week where you sport your favourite little black belted dress mid-week, the one with the cowl neck you found for a steal last year at Ann Taylor in Michigan, and are met at lunch by a mysterious man on a secret mission. You spot each other in front of Scaccia, an Italian eatery, and hang out for a few minutes to appear perfectly covert. He encourages you to hide the evidence (kale caraway bread -- shh) as you return to your cubicle, everyone unsuspecting. No one notices. While he is in fact perfectly sane, this dress in particular inspires him to compare you to the likes of Ingrid Bergman and Audrey Hepburn, which causes you to blush all day long as though you were sixteen all over again and were just told that so-and-so thinks your kilt is pretty swell. Not so becoming for a very serious and sophisticated Marketing Coordinator, I should think, or rather an undercover spy (fortunately I've since recovered, though the Malbec I'm currently sipping on is inspiring its own particular brand of redness.) This man has been scorned for inappropriate conduct, rest assured. We can't have spies throwing their colleagues off missions, now can we? It's in our collective best interest to remain on guard at all times.

It's the kind of week that brings mushrooms baked in balsamic vinegar, and corn pasta tossed with a velvety tomato sauce, garnished with peppercress and parmesan cheese. 

It's the kind of week that sees to it that you have an espresso and ricotta cheesecake with a walnut crust on a Monday. It's the kind of week that is hectic, but makes you feel as though you are on the top of the world: finally, work feels familiar. It's the kind of week that requires Big Band music and ensures that you master knitting after all and the kind of week that gets in the way of your reading. It's the kind of week that interrupts the responses you are trying to write to your friends, and informs you you're lucky to even have friends, considering how busy you have been between trying to keep on top of things, working a full-time job, working a part-time job, and everything else in between.  It makes sure you laugh a lot. It makes sure you smile a lot. Probably more than is healthy.

It's been a chilly week in the city. This is for certain. But I skip and I jump and I leap. I sense it has something to do with the sweet potatoes, but I can't be sure. That goat cheese sure gives those potatoes a run for their money.

 Sweet Potato, Sausage and Spinach Soup
Adapted from Bon Appétit

Yields 4-5 bowls

2 large sweet potatoes, peeled, quartered lengthwise, cut crosswise into 1/4-inch-thick slices (about 1lb each)
1lb new potatoes, peeled, quartered lengthwise, cut crosswise into 1/4-inch-thick slices
6 cups (1.5 quarts) low-sodium chicken broth (I used Pacific)
1 large onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 sausage links (I used hot Italian, but chorizo would make a fine choice)
9oz fresh baby spinach, washed well and spun dry
1 tbsp lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper, to taste
Olive oil, as needed

In a Dutch oven or large stockpot, brown and cook the sausage over medium-high; set aside to drain. In the same pot, add oil if necessary and heat onion and garlic until softened and fragrant. Add chicken stock, sweet potatoes and potatoes and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and continue cooking until potatoes are tender. Using a potato masher, mash part of the potatoes to thicken the broth and to balance the consistency. Add sausage, spinach, lemon juice or wine vinegar and cook for an additional 15 minutes to allow the flavours to co-mingle and the spinach to grow tender. Taste, and adjust seasoning. Serve with crusty bread, if desired, to soak up the broth.

A toast

This week has been lovely.

There was one very sweet cake.



French toast that was crispy at the edges, spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon.



And, although my moving around and traveling has transformed me into quite the light packer, I managed to bring back to my apartment twice as much as I brought. As one might suspect, this additional baggage took the form of some very tasty, luxurious treats: two chocolate bars; a trio of vinegars from Italy; a pound of Guatemala coffee; spices from the bulk store; canned chipotle peppers in adobo; and a loaf of multigrain bread. Transporting all of these goods along with my suitcase and belongings was certainly an adventure, but no one puts vinegar in the corner.

I finished this week of absolute indulgence by having roasted chicken for dinner with a bowl of a barely edible, overly salty boxed vegetable soup and a slice of bread slathered with butter, thinly sliced and peppery radish, and sea salt. In the name of transparency, the chicken was store-bought. I may or may not have had too much wine at last night's annual, international wine festival. I may have even had a couple glasses of exceptionally delicious sangria. I didn't intend for it to be this way, but I sometimes wonder why this blog isn't called Chronicles of the Year Sarah Drank a Lot of Wine and Wrote About It.

There wasn't just wine, though. I ate sweet potato fries served with a mayonnaise and BBQ sauce concoction, and they made excellent bedfellows. Immediately, that hit of BBQ sauce reminded me of being in the South, pulling at pork ribs with my teeth. A woman I attended grade school with has a restaurant and a catering company, and I got the opportunity to try very delicious beef kofta with a mint and coconut drizzle. I'm salivating just thinking about it.

I also managed to get together with my high school girlfriends over ice cream at The Waterfront. I missed them.

I'm back in the Big Smoke, watching Julia Roberts in Something to Talk About. It turns out that I, too, have something to talk about (other than food): I've unofficially found full-time employment. The contract's being drawn up as we speak. After searching for work for over a year, this news feels terribly anti-climactic. Instead of cheersing with a bottle of Cava, I am drinking hot green tea and thumbing through my new set of library books. I'm currently reading Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant by Jenni Ferrari-Adler and Vanishing and Other Stories by Deborah Willis, a book of short fiction penned by a Calgary writer. However, I think I might prefer this low-key celebrating.

The Toronto Public Library has fortunately decided to continue feeding my love of food memoirs (!), as I also have in hand Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, a book I've waited ten weeks for, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. And, to end a perfectly lovely day of train rides and books and food, I received a belated birthday gift from Anne. It might only be September 10th, but it may as well be autumn. I had to rummage through my closet for a sweater, for crying out loud. I'm not-so-secretly pining for a couple more weeks of warm weather -- just enough time to get my full share of summer squash and to squeeze in a breezy summer romance or two.

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.