I made owl cookies. They were time-consuming and tedious. They were finicky and miniature. They were quirky and questioning little beings that stared at me wide-eyed from the plate. I don’t suggest you make them. But they were awesome.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
|Please note, this bar expired in 1972. That's some bad-ass chocolate.|
Monday, October 24, 2011
So now, to the tarts: this spring, while living in Calgary and working for Sidewalk Citizen Bakery, I had the pleasure of meeting Shallon Cunningham, owner of Salt Food Photography and all-around lovely person.
Introduced by my friend/her cousin Marnie, we hit it off and planned a date: I, with some kitchen experience, would bake and food-style. Shallon, with her photography experience, would capture the whole process. It'd be a learning opportunity for both of us, and we'd have something luscious and sweet to snack on at the end. We decided on lemon tarts.
You can visit Shallon's website to see more of her impressive work, as well as her account of our afternoon on her blog, which has a recipe for the tarts.
Monday, September 19, 2011
This was the oft-repeated and rarely satisfying exchange between my parents and I on road-trips. As a child, I had a relentless fascination with decrepit old buildings. I wanted to know the age of every crumpled grey barn we passed, and the story of each tired-looking farmhouse. Maybe they didn’t even have one, and maybe I just read too much Little House on the Prairie, but my love affair with old spaces has endured to this day. Now, I get to live in one.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Tezzeron. Just saying it puts hair on your chest. Or in our case, fish on our plates. It’s one of the spots where my Dad and I went fishing last week; he wanted to show me where he’s been going with his buddies each September for the last ten years. It’s a beast of a lake with only a few rough cabins on its shore, and that day we had the entire thing to ourselves.
We set out with visions of five-pound trout in our heads, though these were quickly hammered away by a hailstorm en route to our spin-casting spot. My aggressively-parted French-braided scalp took a beating, but we finally found sunshine and set about hooking the big one. Within minutes my Dad had a bottom-feeder, which he released, then I made my first catch of the day: a clam.
Call me ignorant, but until that moment I didn’t realize there were clams in lakes. Now that I know there are, I’d like to point out the considerable skill it requires to hook one. They’re tiny, have no mouths, and can't chase after shiny objects like fish do. So really, well done me.
I didn’t reel in much more, though I caught a few small Kokanee the next day. By caught I really mean drown. One was so small I didn’t know he was there, and after 45 minutes of being dragged on my line the poor guy didn’t need a bop on the head to finish him off. He was already very much done. Guess I’m not much of a fisherman. Fisherwoman? Fisherlady.
Fortunately my Dad had better luck, and between my few Kokanee and his good-sized trout, we had a proper feast. At least I’m good at eating.
(Lack of) skills aside, fishing is really about enjoying the water, each other’s company, and snacking endlessly on a 2kg bag of trail mix. And clams! I now know it can be about clams too.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
My friend Linds and I have taken advantage of the weather by getting outside, enjoying the beach, and eating many delectable things. The other day we did the Grouse Grind, followed it up with a lunch of nachos and beer, and then made ice cream sandwiches.
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Twelve weeks later we’re done, and it’s time to re-enter the world. There were many things I looked forward to while at camp: couches, flushing toilets, and not having to worry about a bear potentially biting me while in bed (yes, that happened, and one planter now has the most wicked camp story ever) but off course there are more things I’ll miss. I spent nearly every day with my kitchen crew, Jess and Allison, and most of that time we were laughing. Sometimes out of pure exhaustion, but laughing nonetheless. Three people in one kitchen for fifteen hours a day are destined to either despise one another or fall madly in love, and we were blessed with the latter.
The poor weather meant no days off at Flatbed Creek, no hikes into our favourite waterfalls, and no adventurous campfire cooking. What the weather couldn’t discourage, however, was one very special camp event: Joel Gorrie’s 7th Annual Glacier Rapids Festival of Fine Wine and Poetry.
I contributed a bottle of Prosecco (a little homesick for Italy, I suppose) and decided to girl-up. I put on a dress, did my hair and makeup, found some earrings, and even wore perfume. The only ‘camp’ left on me were my gumboots, though I wasn’t about to give those up. I tried some great wines and chatted endlessly, then watched the inevitable Peter vs. Michelle 2a.m. mud-wrestling match, illuminated for the crowd by headlamps and seriously enjoyed by all.
It was my favourite wine fest yet. Amidst the music and Merlot-induced haze, my love for treeplanters’ joie de vivre and ingenuity grew even more. There are times when 3:45am wakeups and fields of mud become worth it, and this was one of them.
Goodbye camp, it’s been a slice. Now, to the real world.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
One more year, though of course that’s what I claimed during the 2009 season. Last summer I was in Norway, staring up at the cliffs from which base-jumpers were launching themselves and realizing that perhaps base-jumpers are the only people on earth crazier than tree planters. But when I returned from my year abroad, I shook my pockets and found no spare change in them. Not a penny. So I thought okaaay, one more summer.
It’s taken awhile to come around to the idea, but I’m actually looking forward to camp. Now that the snow is (nearly) gone, now that I’m well-equipped with base-layers, and now that I’m nearly convinced my body’s not too old for this, it’s time for optimism.
I like cooking for planters because they genuinely love food, and genuinely love you for cooking it. I like excusing myself from the world and hearing no news but news from the block. I like having strong arms and absolutely no regard for what I’m wearing. And I love days off around the campfire, with a motley-crew of planters playing music. Those are my chances to re-connect with life after sunset, and they're simplistically sweet.
There will be stories to tell.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011