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Agriculture: I’m doing it!

~ wellfedemily ~ 9 Comments

When I was sixteen I wanted to be a hippie like Jenny from Forrest Gump except without the domestic violence and heroin later on. Mostly I wanted her outfits, and to move to San Francisco and write poetry and wear flowers in my hair. It was all very awkward and embarrassing and I discovered that I need to actually brush my hair for it to not look like a nest for many small rodents, I don’t like Birkenstocks, and meat can be really, really tasty.

The hangover from that badly dressed time is a fantasy in which I am able to live in a cozy little house on a large plot of land (overlooking the ocean and not far from the water slides) and all my friends are there and we have goats and kittens and grow our own tomatoes and make cheese and bake bread and do artistic things in the sunshine. There is a permanent rainbow. And we never have to buy anything.

So when Nick’s friend from work, Kerri, offered us a plot in her garden, I imagined us becoming completely self-sufficient, most likely by September. In my mind, we were sitting in dirt, eating perfect vegetables fresh from the ground, and singing something by, like, Jefferson Airplane or Iron and Wine or something. In the background, the kittens and baby goats were frolicking, and the escalating chords of a movie soundtrack were bringing us to that revelatory moment, the climax of our entire lives, and it was carrots.

I went to the garden shop and bought seven kinds of seeds, and then we went to Kerri’s house and she showed us to our plot, which was bigger than I anticipated. She said it would take us a little over an hour, but thanks to Nick and my two to three hilarious jokes about Nick’s instincts for gardening stemming from his Dutch heritage, we had the whole thing weeded and turned and hoed in under an hour. We made a path of bricks, and then laid what was probably too many seeds in tidy little rows marked with popsicle sticks.

A great day. And my shrieking and enthusiasm didn’t even ruin it, for once.

So, please think happy thoughts for me. We planted late, and lack experience. I see no reason why we still shouldn’t end up with so many veggies.

Food is love, and I know that leggings aren’t really pants.

~ wellfedemily ~ 4 Comments

We’ve been away this week, in San Francisco and Las Vegas, and I am going to tell you all about it a little bit later. In particular, I will tell you about good olive oil, and a twist on anchoïade with sardines that will be perfect for eating on crostini with summer’s pitchers of sangria and large bowls of olives. Not today.

I made a soup today from recipe that I learned watching a cooking show in my hotel room in San Francisco, when everyone else was asleep and I was too tired to shower or put on pants just yet (little do you know that by pants, I mean leggings, which are nothing like pants except for the leg tubes you thrust your feet through). At that point, my stomach still mostly agreed with me, though after a day of bad airport burgers (the waitress told me afterward that the secret was microwaving) and plenty of happy hour libations, things were due to turn.

And I get why my grandma used to say “travel is broadening.” I love America, and I read all the time about how good the food is there. But for some reason, when I’m there, my diet consists almost exclusively of bread, cheese, seafood, meat, and beer. Heavy on the meat and beer, and man, if you could deep-fry beer I think I’d give up because that would itself be manna. Occasionally a tomato-based cocktail for nourishment, and more often than necessary a corn-dog or doughnut. Maybe it’s because vacations are a time to eat what you don’t get at home, or maybe nothing with lentils ever calls to me louder than anything with tartar sauce.

In any case, whenever I come home from a trip, a wholesome meal is the first thing I want. It comes before unpacking, just after sprawling on the floor for scratches behind ears and haunches, hers, and scratchy kitten kisses on the paws, mine. As I was chopping the carrots and testing the wine for freshness, it occurred to me that it is as much the food of the meal as it is the ritual that I take comfort in. Food is love, and not just in that “I eat to feel love” kind of way, which is supposed to be a sign of sadness or disordered eating. Personally, I think there’s nothing wrong with eating to feel the love of a piece of cold roast chicken from the refrigerator after midnight, or of a soft coddled egg for dinner on a Saturday night you’ve chosen to spend alone, or of the kind of chocolate you absolutely would not share – there is love in those things, for sure.

But food is also love in a different (and depending upon how you look at it, healthier) way, one that ties you to the idea of a place, a feeling of home. I believe that no matter where I am, if I can cut a ripe tomato, a piece of soft cheese, and a hunk of crusty bread, I am home. No, correction. In part. I believe that no matter where I am, if there are tomatoes and soft cheeses and bread and someone you like to share it all with, that is home. The looking forward to sharing a rather basic part of your existence with another person, in something so intimate as eating, is as rewarding as the melting of the flesh of that tomato into the chewy centre of the bread inside your mouth. I think that is why I like dinner parties – some of my best fun happens around a table of like-minded eaters, and the wine needs to be plentiful and only pretty much palatable to tie it all together.

We gather around food. At the end of a day in which I decide four times to spend my next paycheque on airfare and bugger off, it is reassuring to know that when I come home, and to my senses (ish), there will be a pot and a few ingredients and a knife, and a rather nice-looking other person to fantasize about San Francisco or London or Berlin or Seoul with. At the end of today, we ate an easy soup over steamed cabbage, the bowl rung with a little bit of good olive oil, shared a glass of less-than-palatable red wine, and talked to each other.

And that’s the thing. The talking. The sharing of ritual, of basic needs such as eating and company, and of more complicated needs like dirty jokes, witty banter, and tipsiness. Of getting to know a friend, a roommate, a life partner or a meantime someone a little bit better – the closeness of sitting an elbow’s length apart, just talking. Food is love, and not in that sick-squicky Hallmark way that makes you throw up just a little at the back of your throat. It is because food, most especially food that you create for yourself and another person, creates a feeling of home. I want you to eat – and I made this for you – because I like you.

So, come over. And if you’re too far away or are allergic to cats or uncomfortable with awkward sexual advances, invite someone to your place. You don’t have to make anything fancy – far better if you don’t, actually. The effort, your display of caring, will be more than enough. And you will feast marvelously, because at that point, it’s impossible not to.

Which reminds me. Food is love, and Nick is asleep, but there is a cat here who has been on me or between my feet since I arrived home eleven or so hours ago. It could be time for a cuddly moment of kippered herring, a fresh toy dipped in catnip, and a round of sedatives those of us who would rather not drink any more of this wine.

I am such a creepy, creepy weirdo.

~ wellfedemily ~ 3 Comments

As long as my real-life friends continue to not disown me/answer my calls and occasionally succumb to my edible whims, I’ll continue to think that I am a normal, healthy, well-functioning member of society. The Internet was made for harmless stalkery, and what better insight into the humans behind the blog posts than a glimpse into their fridges? A glance into mine reveals a sordid sort of laziness, pots with lids containing contents I was too distracted to scrape into containers, too many cartons of eggs, and condiments I like to pull out and admire more than I pull out to cook with. The idea comes from @kickpleat, via her post at ReadyMade, and it piqued a curiosity I hope you’ll indulge.

Fridge voyeurism. It’s getting to know you, in a peaking-through-your-underwear-drawer kind of way, but with food. Won’t you peak into my drawers doors?

A lot of children, none of whom are mine.
Those stupid bagels are always moldy. Even when the spot is occupied by brand-new bagels.
Fancy a bit of syrup? This is usually where we keep the wine, but we sort of ran out.
Nick organized the freezer, and I haven't had a chance to mess it all up.

Why don’t you share your fridgey little secret, and post it over at ReadyMade? I don’t think you’re allowed to self-edit, but isn’t that part of the fun? I think being honest about how many eggs and cheeses you eat or those food stains on the bottom shelf you were hoping someone else would deal with is kind of the point, right? Anyway. I’d love to snoop on you next.

A little list for the lovely Miss Rosa.

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

Dearest Miss Rosa,

Bated breath, you say? Desperation? Sure. I got your back. I’m glad you don’t think it’s all butter, bacon fat, and liver failure around here. It often is, but sometimes I like to give our livers something they can use.

Here are ten things you might enjoy, all of which you can adjust to fit the GI diet and your fabulous new figure. Whenever we’re cutting back, I increase the amount of spice that goes into things, which makes it easier to go without the fat. While there’s popular research that suggests certain spices affect one’s metabolism favourably, I find that the biggest thing is that we eat less and also more slowly when there’s more zing to things, which means that after 20 minutes of eating we feel satisfied, not disgustingly full. (Also, don’t forget that fat is your friend sometimes too, you know?)

Soups:

Avgolemono – this lemony chicken broth and rice soup is perfect when paired with a little whole grain bread and a salad (salads need not be boring … but that’s a whole other post). You can substitute vegetable stock, if you like. Also, homemade chicken stock goes a long way – start with better quality chicken (free-range/organic), and veggie scraps. I like homemade because you can control the salt and fat that goes into it. Better for dinners or weekend lunches, as it doesn’t re-heat as well as other soups.

Red bean soup – this soup contains an impressive amount of fibre, thanks to the red beans and sweet potatoes, and almost no fat. Reheats well, and if you use less liquid it’s versatile as a dip or spread.

Heartier fare:

Winter chili – similar in taste and ingredients to the red bean soup, to make this a little more GI-friendly, use low-carb beer or skip the beer all together and use stock or water.

Easy tomato curry – use low-fat coconut milk, yogurt, or buttermilk, and this will be all kinds of all right. Even better the next day, over whatever grain you like. We eat a lot of brown rice, but you could certainly serve it over barley, bulgur, or kasha.

Chana masala – another dish that’s even better the next day. Eat it as a side dish, or as a main dish with low-fat raita and brown rice.

Tomato sauce on pasta – well-tested by the Internet, this one is flavourful, and a complete cinch to make. It’s also super versatile. Best made with sub-par tomatoes, which benefit from a long cooking time. The longer you roast the tomatoes, the better. The olive oil unlocks the lycopene in the tomatoes, which makes the dish a cancer-fighting super entrée.

Lamb burgers – use fresh local lamb and whole wheat buns (make sure there’s no secret high-fructose corn syrup hidden in the ingredients list), and you will be all kinds of pleased. Alternately, if you make a few adjustments to the venison burgers (no butter, no brie, and do the duxelles with olive oil), they can be quite good for you as well.

Baked goods:

Leftovers muffins – when you end up with leftover rice or whatever, make these muffins. Use whole wheat flour instead of all-purpose, and applesauce instead of melted butter to cut calories, and low-fat yogurt or yogurt and buttermilk instead of the yogurt-milk combo, and honey instead of sugar.

Olive oil orange cookies – again, use whole wheat instead of white flour, a whole wheat pastry flour which will produce a nicer textured cookie. There’s also whole wheat flour now that’s ground so fine it can be used in place of all-purpose with relative ease – I’ve tried it and don’t mind it one bit. And use applesauce again, but this time instead of the wine. I haven’t tried liquid sugars like honey or agave syrup with this recipe yet, but if you do, let me know how it works out.

Carrot cake with blood orange – cut down the sugar by substituting honey, about 1/2-cup, and go with the whole wheat flour, which you won’t even notice here. You can make this into muffins if you want it to be more portable.

Of course, there are a million things you can do and a ton of resources online as well (I’d be happy to point you to some, or some others, if you’re interested, but I’ve already taken up a lot of space with no pictures). Stay tuned for a few wholesome, healthy recipes this week as well, as we’re tightening our belts a bit – nothing sexy about back fat in a bikini, as you may know. Tomorrow I’m making something like chana dal, and I’m pretty certain it will be a spicy little vegan number you will be able to carry to work with you. The day after will not be particularly healthy (probably), but I’ll keep you in mind so you don’t get too bored and fall off the wagon.

Love,

Emily

PS – because there weren’t any pictures here and this doesn’t count as a recipe post, here’s a picture of my cat. For visual interest. And because I don’t care who thinks I’m weird.

Lobster and sake: So this is February?

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

I wanted to show you something today, but I decided against it. I have a recipe I am working on, and I thought it was perfect, but the more I nibble, the more I think it could use another round and some new ingredients. So instead, I am going to show you what I did and drank today.

Those daffodils? They appeared in a garden outside one of the buildings on our block. It’s marvelous out, really fantastic, and spring has sprung, more than a month ahead of schedule.

We hopped on our bikes this morning, without our jackets, and we rode around in the sunshine, and ended up at Granville Island, which is a place I love very much, with its markets and fish mongers and wonderful places to buy beer, wine, and sake. It also doubles as a tourist destination, which is something I forgot about today, as it was crazy there, crammed full of Olympics-related festivities.

We bumbled around the market, eating free samples and soaking in sunshine, and happened upon The Lobster Man, where they were barbecuing lobsters, oysters, and other fishy things. We grabbed ourselves some lobster roll, and looked at all the delicious seafood swimming in its tanks.

We stopped in at all the usual places, and then detoured onto Railspur Alley, where there is an artisan sake maker who will let you sip from his whole collection for five dollars. Not small sips either – we were both slightly buzzed as we stumbled around the rest of the island afterward.

The sake is delicious, all of it, and quite worthy of the praise heaped on it by local media. We tried all three standard flavours, as well as the sparkling sake, which was so lovely I’m considering switching it in for regular sparkling wine come New Year’s eve. It was cold, and bright tasting, dry on the tongue but lively and slightly fruity, like sake but also like something else, though I’m not sure what. I wanted to take everything they had home with me, but I was on my bike, and had forgotten a bag.

It was a good day, and while I have no recipe this afternoon, I promise I will have one for you soon. I’ve been hoarding the good tuna, so I’ll have at least a spin on tonnato sauce to share, and maybe a fancypants but inexpensive tuna melt. Maybe. Or maybe something else! When it’s like this out, it’s hard to know where the mood will take us. Wheee!

Oh! I suppose it was Valentine’s Day!

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

Me oh my, I totally forgot. You see, this weekend, I fell madly in love.

Her name is Molly Waffles, and she is the reason I didn’t do anything on Valentine’s Day. I was going to make something nice for Nick, something meaty, maybe for breakfast. Nick had done something special for me – a beautiful bouquet of orange gerbera daisies and roses, and reservations at my very favourite restaurant, and we dressed up and even got a bottle of wine with dinner. It was lovely and I loved it and then we came home and played with the cat. I will tell you more about dinner later, in detail, with pictures, but right now, I am going to subject you to two to three more photos of my kitten, followed by a promise that this week, since I’m holidays, I’ll give you a couple of really fantastic recipes that you will love almost as much as you already love my kitten.



Okay, I’ll stop now. But Happy Valentine’s Day. From me, and Nick, and the adorable Molly Waffles. This will most likely be the last time I write a post on this food blog with only pictures of my cat.

This week, expect my best meatballs, a dessert or two, and maybe a cookie. Good things! Back soon. I have a kitten to cuddle.

We’re not so poor that we can’t help.

~ wellfedemily ~ 3 Comments

I don’t have any money, not really, but you know what? The cable bill can wait. We have enough to eat, and our home has not crumbled around us. Very poor people are in crisis, and Haiti is literally falling apart. Even if you can only spare a few dollars, please do.

If you’re here in Canada, donate online to the Canadian Red Cross. Until February 12, the Canadian government will match any donation you make to a registered charitable organization.

If in America, there are several ways to donate to the Red Cross.

And if there is any way that you can help save the children at BRESMA, or if you know of anyone who can help, there is a lot to do there and not very much time.

Thank you.

Love,

Emily

Happy New Year!

~ wellfedemily ~ 4 Comments

December 31 is never a very big deal for me, as I spend so much of the rest of my year compromising my health, integrity, and reputation by over-indulging and gluttonously ravaging tables full of food. I could take this day or leave it.

Nick, on the other hand, is pretty much a sixteen-year-old girl, and every time there’s a chance to get spiffy and go to parties, he gets all aflutter and spends extra long on his hair and whines when I suggest that we’d save money by just inviting a couple of other people over to eat food and split a couple of two-sixes. Apparently I don’t know where the line is between festive and sad. So, we’re going out this year. This post could alternately be titled: “Food blogger attempts to squeeze into party dress for NYE. Tears ensue.”

In any event, I wanted to wish you a happy new year. This year has been both awesome and at times kind of a bitch, and so as much as I am a little sad at the passing of time and all of that good crap, it’s nice to start anew, however symbolically. In 2009 we ate well, we laughed, we paid down a chunk of our debt and didn’t acquire any new obligations. We made new friends, kept old ones, and fought with our relatives only the normal amount. In 2010, something amazing might happen. Who knows. And I hope something amazing happens for you.

All the best, and Happy New Year!

No recipe here, just a quick note in which I prop up other people.

~ wellfedemily ~ 1 Comment

I was going to bake tonight but my life exploded and it didn’t work out. It happens, but I’ve purchased lottery tickets.

Anyway …

I went to a book launch today for Yarn Bombing, a super-rad book about knit graffiti by Mandy Moore and Leanne Prain (who I work with, but she’s not my boss so this kind of thing doesn’t even score me suck-up points). It’s beyond cool. Beyond awesome, even. Check it out.

Also …

My friend Kat Arnett launched her new healthy living site this week. It’s called fatGIRLskinny, and will make you love things that don’t even contain butter. Kat’s story is awesome, and her site is all kinds of pretty and interesting. She’s trying to convert me. I’m trying to convert her. We’re at an impasse. Someday, I’m hoping we’ll wrestle in a kiddie pool filled with warm beurre blanc.

So, that’s all, really. I hope to be back this weekend with a bit of peanut-butter-jelly-time, which you will surely be delighted to find out about. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and keep checking in!

xoxo,

Emily

August 6 was National Root Beer Float Day. Did you know? DID YOU CALL YOUR DAD?

~ wellfedemily ~ 2 Comments

And, most importantly, did you celebrate? I did everything except for the Dad-calling part because when I finally got around to celebrating it was after ten o’clock and he gets up at 4:30 in the morning because he’s insane.

I made a root beer float. Here are instructions. I know you know how to make one, but you’d be surprised what other people don’t know. I continue to be surprised by that.

ingredients.Root beer floats will forever be inextricably linked to dads. Particularly my dad, but I suppose you could replace my dad with your dad if you’re remembering, but if you want to remember my dad as an integral part of your childhood, I wouldn’t think anything of it.

There are a few things that I remember for their Dad-specificity – Cheez Whiz and marmalade sandwiches, long john doughnuts, Get Smart, sitting in front of my bedroom door to think about what I’d done while everyone else watched Star Trek … things that I’ve mentally filed next to “Parents > Dad” in my memory-bank, like that time I ordered kalamari at the Knight & Day on King George Highway on my twelfth birthday and I didn’t realize it was going to come out looking like spiders because I really didn’t know for sure what kalamari was at that point, or what a squid looked like, and I looked up with panicky eyes and my mom was all, “you don’t have to eat that,” but my dad made me eat it anyway because Knight & Day was even overpriced then, so I ate the spiders and tried to wash it all down with Orange Crush but then I got this gross feeling and threw up all over myself, and then I think my dad was going to make me eat the spiders that didn’t get covered in Crush-puke, but my mom was all, “it’s her birthday,” so I didn’t have to finish. My dad starts a lot of his stories with, “nobody else thought I was funny, but I laughed, and laughed, and laughed.”

Which is how I start a lot of my stories, actually.

Which I think means that my dad is hilarious.

He once ran for president of his union just to annoy the president, who ran every year unchallenged, and who had gotten just a tad too comfortable. He almost won. He would have had to move to Ottawa.

My dad is hilarious.

Dad didn’t just make me puke on myself, though. He made some good things, too. Like apple fritters, which were chunks of apple dipped in batter, then deep fried, and then sprinkled with powdered sugar. And bread, without a bread machine. He’d make the dough, and I wouldn’t be paying all that much attention, and then he’d stuff it in a huge, cleaned-out can, and then all of a sudden the house would smell like fresh bread and it was glorious, all yeasty and warm-smelling, and when it came out of the oven, it looked like a giant, super-tall muffin and he’d pop it out of the can and slice it up and we’d get to eat it with jam that my grandma had probably made and it was the best bread I’d ever had. I’ve never seen cans big enough to re-create his makeshift bread pans, and I’ve always kept my eye half-peeled. I bet when I find them, Nick and I will have to eat our way through a lot of baked beans.

Root beer always reminds me of Dad. The A&W kind, specifically, even though there are better root beers, and I can’t remember which parent introduced Henry Weinhardt’s into my life. But it’s A&W root beer when I think about floats, because that’s what we had (though sometimes we had floats with Orange Crush, or cream soda, and those were also quite good). That, and ice cream that comes in brick-form, or in those big buckets. I didn’t think ice cream came in either anymore. They do. And this was a very satisfying rediscovery.

You can make root beer floats fancy, but that’s not the point. There are some things that you have to think about as if you were eight years old, and they should never, ever change, like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Change sometimes equals bastardization (see TMNT), and to bastardize the root beer float would be unholy. It gets its own day. Like Christmas. And Father’s Day.

If you didn’t celebrate, it’s not too late. Just grab a brick of ice cream and a bottle of root beer, pour yourself a float, and call my dad.

This is a picture of me and my dad. He's the one in black. I don't think he reads this.
This is a picture of me and my dad. He's the one in black. I don't think he reads this. We're dancing here, which is weird, since neither of us actually knows how.