A Saucy, Smokey Victory.

BBQ is serious.  Just ask Texas, or either one of the Carolinas.  Should you be farther north in Vancouver, ask the people of Re-Up BBQ, because they put on a very serious grill-fest last Sunday at The Waldorf.  

 If they had just called it for what it was, a meat marathon, my friends and I would have won gold.  We were all business, dedicating ourselves to five hours of pulled pork tacos, chili, smoked chicken, brisket, and ribs, pausing briefly to argue over salad vs. meat consumption and sigh with contentment.  I ate more meat in one evening than I usually do in a month, eliminating any chance of the doctor telling me I’m anemic for a good long while.

                            

We sipped Tantalus Vineyard wines and swayed to some late summer tunes.  I can now cross Marathon: Meat or Otherwise off my bucket list, and credit the Re-Up BBQ team for this victory.  Thank you for helping me realize my potential.         

                                     

Hook, Line, and Drowner.

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.

Take Cookies, Take Ice Cream. Now Put them Together.

I arrived in Vancouver at the same time as summer, and the city is hiiiiigh on Vitamin D. I'd like to think the collective good mood is because of me, but I'll give credit where it's due. Sun, you are glorious.

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.

I'm not going to talk about the nachos because even though they're great, I don’t want them right now. I want two more coconut-oatmeal-chocolate chunk cookies stuffed with toasted coconut ice cream. That is what I want. There’s half of one in the freezer but that’s Lindsay’s, and good friends don’t eat their bff’s ice cream sandwich halves while they're at work. At least that’s what I’m telling myself while that damn thing laughs at me from the kitchen.

I’ve posted the cookie recipe below so you can make them too. If you wish to fill them with ice cream (which I highly recommend you do), let it soften a bit in the fridge, make the sandwiches, and freeze them on cookie sheets for a few hours to let them set. Then grab a sandwich, your bff, and go find some sun.

Chocolate Chunk Oatmeal Coconut Cookies Courtesy of Gourmet, via www.epicurious.com

2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened

1 cup packed brown sugar

6 tablespoons granulated sugar

2 large eggs

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup all-purpose flour

2 1/4 cups old-fashioned oats

1 1/2 cups packaged finely shredded unsweetened coconut

12 oz semisweet or bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened), cut into 1/2-inch chunks (about 2 cups)

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Beat together butter and sugars in a bowl with an electric mixer at high speed until fluffy. Add eggs and beat until just blended, then beat in vanilla, baking soda, and salt. Add flour and mix at low speed until just blended. Stir in oats, coconut, and chocolate.

Arrange 1/4-cup (*or smaller, this makes huuuuge cookies) mounds of cookie dough about 3 inches apart on 2 lightly buttered large baking sheets (about 8 cookies per sheet), then gently pat down each mound to about 1/2 inch thick. Bake in upper and lower thirds of oven, switching position and rotating pans halfway through baking, until golden, 15 to 18 minutes total.

Cool cookies on sheets 1 minute, then transfer with a spatula to racks to cool completely. Make more cookies in same manner.

To the Closet with You, Gumboots.

Well, It’s been awhile. I promised stories of camp life and then entered camp, my very own black hole. I should have known I wouldn’t write much during the season; my life becomes a tent, a kitchen, and eighty hungry tree planters. Though I managed to check the internet most weeks, Russia could have fallen off the earth and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

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.

Photo by Hannah Klassen

Camp conditions this year weren’t exactly ideal. First we were in a gravel pit, then in BC’s premier mosquito breeding grounds, then rained on for three weeks in Chetwynd. In just a few days our camp transformed into a slick mud-pit, greedily swallowing up sandals, trucks, and pretty much everyone’s dignity. There was no escaping the unstable black earth, and it became wearing after awhile.

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 7^th Annual Glacier Rapids Festival of Fine Wine and Poetry.

Photo by Tyler Wilson

Because of the mud, this traditionally creek-side party was moved into a spare semi-trailer filled with benches, a bar, and even two very posh bartenders. Joel decorated the place beautifully, finding a stage for performances and placing tea-lights in tart shells strung from logs. They gave the party a certain glow, a sort of Martha-meets-Mantracker aesthetic that shamed even the swankiest of parties I served at during university. People brought and shared wine, cheese made its appearance in the form of Goldfish crackers and cheesies, and countless musicians and poets proved the talent of our camp.

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.

Photo by Tyler Wilson

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.

Let the Camera do the Talking.

We're three weeks into the season. I'm having a great time but I'm tired. So, so tired. Because no one needs to hear the ramblings of an incoherent camp cook, I will give you some pictures instead, some of which were taken by my extraordinary kitchen-mate, Allison.

Stories to come. Someday. I promise.

One, Two, Tree, Four.

Soon, I won’t see the dark of night. That’s what happens when you go to bed at 8pm and wake-up at 4am. That’s what happens when you cook for tree planters.

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.

So here I go again: one more season, one more summer in a tent, and one more chance to blindly choose my outfits. I am absolutely, positively certain of one thing:

There will be stories to tell.

Sorry, bod.

I just finished at the bakery, and though I ate beautiful food for my three months there, the last seven days were epic. Or perhaps I should just say ridiculous, and highly disapproved of by my digestive system. I ate like I wouldn’t see food again until 2015, or ever again. Soon I’ll be at a tree planting camp and surrounded by more eggs, meat and cheese than Texas consumes in a day, but my brain neatly tucked this fact away and I let loose.  Here's a sampling.

Second two photos by the amazing Michal Lavi.