Slowing down

There's something about Detroit that haunts me. Not the way that Windsor haunts me, with the memories of poetry and fiction readings at Phog or Vermouth or the grad lounge, where we used to go before it was torn down, the medical building erected in its place. I remember the laughter. Half-full rock glasses clanging against the wooden tables, the nervous energy of a dozen quirky literature students, their anxieties quelled temporarily by the dreams on their shoulders. Violins played with such spark at the Dominion House by the red-headed son of a famous writer, who talks about geography the way someone might talk about romance, and with the kind of longing you might expect to hear from an unrequited love.

We picked at plates of French fries, dipped them in pools of mayonnaise and cleared our throats with swigs of hard cider. We walked home in the dead of winter, grounds covered in snow. Some say the city has no culture, but I say it's just a different sort of culture. It's not presented in the form of $27 entrees and chic coffee houses, names in fine typography; it's $5 pints of beer and boots stomping against the old, creaky floorboards and browsing antique shops in Walkerville. It's taking the boat out on Canada Day and inviting everyone you know to the twelve-foot bombfire. It's watching your friend's grandmother make homemade relish. Running through the cornfields at eight years old and eating rhubarb straight from the ground, no sugar. It's teaching your children to ice skate when the lake freezes over.

An ex-boyfriend of mine was fascinated by graffiti. We spent our weekends walking around the city taking photographs and analyzing signatures. I was curious at first as to why; I'd never given much thought to it. But it was reflective of the surrounding area and of those who lived there, of their experiences and their history. And if I had to characterize Windsor's culture, I'd say it's like that. I don't know that most people understand it or even pay attention to it. It seems people would rather cover it with white space or erase it and pretend it never happened and have everyone go on living the way they always have. But it's like that to me: anyone can get involved and anyone can have a say, and in that sense it's the People's Culture. Consumerism, capitalism, they have no value there; it's free-flowing beer on a hot day. It's honest expression.

Detroit doesn't haunt me that way because none of my memories were born there. I grew up across the river and consequently have never been Canadian enough for the Canadians nor American enough for a Green Card, and while two years in the Big Smoke have taught me something about real winter and celcius and have me listening to CBC and reading the Globe & Mail with some sort of regularity, I'm still a Windsorite, one who is continually moved and inspired by the broken working places -- like Windsor, like Detroit -- with holes that need patching and an economy in disrepair but a lot of soul. A whole lot of soul.

In a recent Food & Wine article, Phil Cooley, co-owner of Slow's in Detroit, mentioned that "Detroiters are way stronger than most people." I think it's true. I think it's sometimes true of Windsorites. I caught up with an old friend of mine last summer, and over ribs and red wine I mentioned that I was working two jobs; he laughed and said the same. "Around here, people are always asking me why," I said. He smiled and said, "it's because we're from Windsor, it's normal there."

Two years in the Big Smoke and I still think of Windsor as home. I don't yearn for it, but I feel a connection. The kind of thing that keeps you level-headed and mindful of the environment and community and homelessness. I guess all of the things that you'd file under the humanity umbrella.

And this chicken? She can compete with any bird. She's smokey and succulent and absolutely perfect with sweet potato coins roasted gently alongside her. My favourite thing to do with a whole bird is to brine it; I'm convinced of the difference it makes. Brining tenderizes the meat, yes, but it also flavours it fully and intensely. The spice mix created by chef Brian Perrone is also pretty exceptional. It's a bit of a jerk chicken riff -- the cayenne, the allspice -- but smokier. This recipe calls for a smoker, but I roasted mine at 400F for 20 minutes (uncovered) and turned the oven down to 350(covered) for the remainder of the time, about an hour (or longer, depending on size), until the legs come away from the cavity and the juices run clear. In the crazy heat we had this winter. Because I was lusting after chicken.

As three girls I know donned big white dresses this weekend, I went to a small white house party.

Everyone wore white -- except the woman dressed in black, who apparently didn't get the memo. In typical yuppie elitist fashion, the women, glamazons with perfectly toned bodies and designer clothes and long hair, were full on two cherry tomatoes and drank until they fell over and flashed a fake boob on their way down, and I ate smoked meat in the back room in my frumpy black uniform and cleaned up their cigarette butts and somehow felt like less of a woman because I'll never fill out a bikini top or figure out how to use a curling iron or be six feet tall. And that's really how it is here sometimes. And then I let it go, because honestly, there are more important things in life.

Like wine. For instance.

I arrived back at my apartment at 3am, sore and tired. So tired, in fact, that Sunday morning I was halfway through my protein shake before I realized my almond milk had in fact expired. One day I will disappear and someone will come to my rescue only to find me stuck to my bedsheets with "Body just gave up. Cheers, S." stuck to my backside.

But I insisted on this chicken, purchased from a good, reputable butcher. Sunday dinner -- the chicken, sweet potatoes, asparagus, and a fine glass of Chianti -- was perfect, and somehow made the beginning of a new week a little easier to swallow.

Detroit, you really know how to bring a girl to her knees.

Get the recipe here (I roasted a 3lb chicken and halved the recipe to great results.)

That sort of disarming thing

Whoosh! Weekends spent in my hometown are always far too brief. I'm aware that I'm unusually close to my family, but perhaps it's because I actually like them. We discuss local wine, new recipes and travel destinations. We play board games. There's a lot of yelling and carrying on.

They warm my cold, black heart. That sort of disarming thing.

Amherstburg is the kind of place where you meet up with decade-old friends at the local greasy spoon, the kind of place that still serves $5 breakfast (with coffee) on checkered table cloths and doesn't accept interact cards.

You follow your sister into the barber shop early, before the regulars pile in, and head to the back so she can trim your ends and make you look presentable. You ask her boss how he's doing. You say hello to her co-workers, and together discuss the merits of roasted red pepper hummus as someone gets their hair straightened to the sounds of Top 40s.

Before leaving for a party, someone might exclaim, "Take a roadie!" and so you do, tossing it under the seat, smiling while shaking your head.

And then, poof!, you arrive back in the Big Smoke, surrounded by skyscrapers and fellow transplants.

Now I'm going to talk about Brussels sprouts.

But wait! Don't leave! Just say it with me: Brussels sprouts. It sounds pretty. I think it has to do with the word sprouts. If they were called something different, perhaps Brussels blooms, maybe people would be more inclined to eat them. When I brought them up to a room full of co-workers, most cringed in disgust, repelled by the sprouts.

To be honest, I am not a big fan of the little cabbages. I like cabbage. I even like vegetables in miniature. Though people have tried to convince me over the years that Brussels sprouts are inherently delicious, I'm a reluctant believer. There's still not much of a gravitational pull. I've tried them roasted with a little olive oil, salt and pepper, sure that a simple preparation would win my heart. That didn't happen. I've eaten them with bacon. Meh, alright. My mom likes to boil or microwave them. There are no words to accurately describe my facial expression when the words "boil" and "sprouts" unite.

Fortunately, food authorities exist out there and Cook's Illustrated is really the foremost of them. It's one of those modern day rarities: no glossy photographs, no fuff, no advertisements (!) -- just plain good ol' teachings. What can I say? I may be woed by pretty things, but not indefinitely.

At over seven Canadian dollars, this magazine does not come cheap, folks (though my current library fees makes it look like a bargain.) But it is good quality. I often mosey over to Chapters on my lunch hour to peruse the cooking and art sections. I might grab a coffee and linger a while. It's a nice reprieve from Cubicleland. The good news is that these recipes are classics, which makes the magazine an investment -- unlike current favourites that publish predominantly sensational food news, appealing nearly exclusively to a bourgeois sensibility. I've stopped subscribing to these because I find the recipes are poorly constructed, flop or simply aren't good. Pretty pictures be damned (!).

The more I cook, the less I rely on your standard recipes. Yes, I love trying new things. I'll give a good-looking dish a go. But perfecting the basics is sometimes trickier and requires more diligence and patience than I may have been willing to muster in the past. I can find you a great chili recipe; I can make you a fish taco that will blow your socks off. However, ask your typical home cook how to properly roast Brussel's sprouts or cook scrambled eggs and they might look at you a little quizzically. Truthfully, anyone can follow a recipe; it isn't exactly hard. But acquiring skill -- identifying when something has finished cooking, tasting with intent, understanding the various components of a dish -- that takes experience and a little know-how. Cooking a fine, simple meal is an underrated thing.

And so, Brussels sprouts.

I've become a bit of an overnight fan.

By adding a bit of water, the sprouts are transformed. Magically, they are rendered tender and sweet, the bitterness removed entirely by the slow caramelization process. It helps to find yourself some nice Brussels sprouts, by which I mean fresh ones with tight leaves. I purchased mine at the local farmer's market, where they all looked delicious.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts
Adapted from Cook's Illustrated, Nov. 2011

Serves 2

1lb Brussels sprouts, cleaned, trimmed and halved
1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Drizzle of water
Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 500F. Using a sheet of aluminum paper, make a pouch. In a separate bowl, toss the sprouts with the olive oil until thoroughly combined. Season generously with salt and pepper. Add the sprouts to the pouch and drizzle with a splash of water. Nip the pouch shut. Roast for about 10 minutes, covered, and uncover for another 10, or until sprouts are tender-crisp and lightly caramelized. Serve immediately.

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.

Cake, wine, peaches, turkey: a homecoming

The weather may prove to be unreasonable, but that wasn't enough to keep two girls from getting together for a pic-nic lunch at Trinity Bellwoods, sitting in the giant pool of shade beneath an enormous tree, spreading out an orange blanket.

Of course, before we arrived, the day called for, at Julia's insistence, in-house grapefruit slush and peach ice cream from Wanda's Pie in the Sky and a trip to Nadège, a spectacularly clean, white French bakery on Queen West with a display case of homemade guimauves enrobed in chocolate, pains au chocolat and perfectly shaped macarons -- biting into one is like biting down on a perfectly sweetened cloud, at once dense and light. The employees all speak with a lovely French accent, and it reminds me, albeit briefly, of being in Paris.

For our pic-nic lunch, I threw together a quick salad of lettuces, black beans, baked tortilla strips and green peppers, tossed with a citrusy vinaigrette flecked with chili powder, garlic and cumin, and brought along some watermelon chunks. We drank white wine from Henry of Pelham and talked about food and publishing and weddings, and I left around 5pm feeling a little buzzed and light-headed. It was my first time sitting in Trinity Bellwoods, an exceptional place for people-watching. It felt ridiculously luxurious to be able to get together on a weekday while the rest of the city was stuck in heavily air-conditioned cubicles.

I think I need to head out there more often.

On the walk home, I smiled as I glanced over at the giant white signs hung across The Leslieville Cheese Market's window: FINALLY! GLUTEN-FREE GRILLED CHEESE ON NAVY BEAN BREAD. AMAZING GLUTEN-FREE BREAD! they declared. Oh, how the times have changed. When I first went gluten-free five years ago, nobody had heard of celiac. Tonight, I'll be eating my first real birthday cake in five years. I suppose it isn't a big deal; it's just cake. But I'm a sucker for ritual.

I'm in Windsor this week, the little city that could -- and, oh Windsor!, you sure know how to throw a girl a party. You welcomed me home with maple salmon, cooked on a cedar plank, and local wine made from Essex County's own grape. You had a loaf of multigrain bread at the ready, still warm from the oven. Tonight there will be a turkey, plump and juicy, and mashed potatoes. Green beans, chopped raw vegetables, and a peach crisp made from the last of the season's stone fruit. Peanut butter ice cream and fresh-picked, crunchy apples that smell like fall and taste like the orchard. Coffee from Guatemala with chocolate notes.

Alisa Smith and J. B. MacKinnon, authors of The 100-Mile Diet: A Year of Local Eating, were often asked during their 100-mile diet experiment whether they were bored of the food they were eating. It sounds sort of ironic when so many people eat predominantly out of boxes and cans, and anyway, despite our best efforts, we all often fall into food ruts. Increasingly, I dream about U-Pick farms, in-season peaches and earthy potatoes. Food that tastes like history, like home. James responds this way: "I might answer the question by telling people how I now liked to start the day. It wasn't with parsnip fritters anymore. Instead, I'd stumble out to the kitchen where a flat of blueberries awaited, warmed by the morning rays and burstingly ripe, thoroughly alive. Do the little fruits really, as some people claim, flush out toxins, fight cancer, plump my prostate like a pillow? I don't know, and I don't particularly care. I shovelled them into my mouth with both hands and I felt like I was adding years to my life."



As someone who craves stability and security, it might come as a surprise that I've moved seven times in the last two years, that for a long while I've been unable to plan anything beyond the short scope of two weeks. I've loved the experiences and, as a lucky side effect, I've become infinitely more adaptable than I ever fathomed myself capable of being, but it doesn't mean I haven't been stricken with anxiety so overwhelming it has rendered food unappetizing and sleep, impossible -- which is saying something coming from the girl who ends one meal by plotting the next. It doesn't mean I haven't been scared out of my mind. But! life goes on, as it turns out. However, it does leave one lingering question: what is home to me now?

Home is where the heart is, so they say, but my heart has been stretched across the continent like a rubber band. Really, home is a great meal, I might answer -- bits of my family, my friends, my landscape. Home is sitting around the dinner table with my family, eating perfectly seasoned turkey and chomping on carrots. Home is sitting with a friend in Trinity Bellwoods, eating the full share of the olives, or laughing with friends, old and new, in my apartment. It's reading a book about going back to the basics, and connecting with the people who ensure our very livelihood. Some of the happiest people I know are the ones who have endured the most severe of hardships, and it feels incomparably good to relax with them, sip on a glass of wine, take it all in. "Where thou art, that is home," Emily Dickinson wrote. I would agree with her.

All around us, it seems curses are blooming into blessings, a sort of reverse spring. Turns out, this September, I get to have my cake and eat it, too.

After breakfast

"Hope is a good breakfast," Aster Ketsela Belayneh, owner of Ethiopian restaurant Addis Ababa, says in The Recipe of Love: An Ethiopian Cookbook. That's a statement I can get behind.

I rise in the morning for strong coffee and breakfast, even if "strong coffee" means gulping from a travel mug as I power walk to the subway and act as though I am immune to humidity, and even if "breakfast" translates roughly into quickly devouring a bowl of plain yogurt laced with fresh peaches, cinnamon, chopped walnuts and a drizzle of clover honey, almost forgetting to chew.

I'm not sure what would get me out of bed otherwise. The promise of a beach day? A trip to the moon? It's hard to compete with breakfast. And coffee -- there is something about coffee brewing, perfuming the air with that lovely warm aroma, that sends my senses ablaze. It's comforting. Almost every morning, like clock work, I pull out my favourite green mug from the cupboard and pour in a little cream, anticipating that first rich taste. It's a small ritual, nearly insignificant, but I suppose that is when I hope -- when I dare to plant a mental seed for the day.



I hesitated for a while about posting this recipe, hoed and hummed a little. People tend to turn off whenever I broach the subject of vegetarian cuisine -- oh the controversy! However! This recipe is delicious. Very delicious. And, joy of joys, it comes with an anecdote.

Once upon a time, I was sixteen -- hard to believe, I know. I met a girl in my creative writing class in high school who seemed to speak another language; she was an outspoken environmental activist, a spirited writer and, fortunately for me, had excellent taste in music. We exchanged poetry and talked Tori Amos and violins, and she introduced me to Bob Dylan, a musician, who, surprise surprise, quickly became one of my great loves. So it came to pass that one Friday night in the winter of 2001 two smart women found themselves at Marathon, an Ethiopian restaurant on University Ave. in downtown Windsor, talking about projects and the future, our lives open before us like blank books.

I've gone back over the years. It's interesting to see the evolution from where I was at sixteen to who I am at twenty-four. I eventually lost touch with the girl when she left to plant trees up North one summer and we went our separate ways. But, she gave me Marathon, she gave me Mr. Dylan, and she provided me with this entry. She also managed to successfully accomplish a crucial and difficult feat: to make high school interesting.



To provide a bit of background on Ethiopian food for those of you who are unfamiliar: Ethiopian meals are served traditionally with injera, a thin pancake of a bread that bears some similarities to sourdough. Injera serves as both the plate and the utensil in this case. Diners huddle over one or two plates together, depending on the size of the group, and eat. This practice may sound odd to Westerners, but might appeal to those who often enjoy sharing meals. "People who eat off the same plate will never betray each other," a popular Ethiopian proverb goes.

My favourite dish and one I've come to rely on heavily over the last couple months is a red lentil stew called Miser Wat (see also Meser Wat, Yemiser Wat, Miser Watt and Miser Wet.) While the meat-based dishes are wonderful in and of themselves, it is the vegetarian ones that truly shine. I serve this stew hot over brown rice, but it's also fabulous with injera or served atop white rice (I recommend basmati.) The preparation is a little involved and time consuming, but, I promise, low-maintenance. As an added bonus, the stew freezes and re-heats extremely well, and apart from the requisite spices, the ingredients called for in most Ethiopian recipes are relatively inexpensive. If hope is a good breakfast, then perhaps peace is a good dinner.

And tomorrow? I'm going to wake up early and eat my breakfast.



Miser Wat

Serves 3-4 (1/2 cup servings)

2 tbsp clarified butter or ghee (unsalted butter is also fine)
1 cooking onion, diced
2-3 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 inch fresh ginger, peeled and minced
5-7 tbsp Berbere spice*
2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and chopped
1 tbsp tomato paste
1/8 cup heavy-bodied, dry red wine (optional)
1 cup red lentils
3-4 cups warm water or good tasting vegetable stock
1 tbsp sea salt + more to taste
Cayenne pepper or harissa, to taste (optional)

Rice or injera
Romaine lettuce, roughly chopped

5 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
3 tbsp fresh lemon juice + zest of the lemon
Sea salt and cracked black pepper to taste

In a large, high-rimmed skillet heat the butter or ghee over medium-high heat and add the onion. Cook the onion until it has softened and begins to caramelize, about five minutes, and add the ginger and garlic. Using a wooden spoon, mix the aromatics well to ensure everything is evenly coated in butter. Once fragrant, incorporate the Berbere spice. Add tomatoes, paste, wine (if using), lentils, and 3 cups of warm water or heated stock (you might need more) and bring to a boil. Reduce to a strong simmer and continue to cook, covered, for an additional 30-40 minutes, or until the structure of the lentils loosens. Keep an eye out on the liquid and add more water or stock as necessary, 1/2 cup at a time. The starch from the lentils will thicken the mixture substantially, but you're looking for a consistency similar to that of pea soup.

In the meantime, make the vinaigrette for an accompanying salad. Wat is generally served alongside collard greens (usually kale) and/or surrounded by a simple lettuce and tomato salad dressed with a very light-tasting vinaigrette. My preference is for regular Romaine lettuce hit with a more aggressive punch; the lemon juice cuts the spiciness of the dish extremely well and adds brightness to the stew. To assemble the vinaigrette, mix the lemon juice with the olive oil and whisk vigorously to emulsify. Add salt and cracked black pepper to taste, and adjust your vinegar/oil ratio to your preference. Dress the roughly chopped lettuce five minutes before the lentil dish is complete so that the lettuce has a chance to absorb the vinaigrette.

Once the lentils have finished cooking, stir in the salt and adjust the seasoning.

To serve, layer the plates with the salad, rice, and lentil stew in that order. If serving on injera, scoop the stew over the injera and place the salad separtely on the injera. Let cool to desired temperature and eat, adding cayenne pepper or harissa if desired and salting to taste. The amount of salt needed will depend on the spice mixture used; mine is salt-free, and so I tend to salt liberally.

Best consumed within five days or freeze for future use.

*You should be able to find Berbere spice at any spice store or international grocer, but if not, try this recipe. Start with 4-5 tablespoons and add more to taste. I know the spice mix calls for many different spices, but Berbere (pronounced BUR-berry) is incomparable to anything else out there and is an essential ingredient in many Ethiopian dishes.