For Lisa.

You know those people who blog about stupidly complicated recipes with 59 steps and 26 different ingredients?  Those people?  Well today I’m one of them. 

 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. 

Ever since I visited London's Cinnamon Tree Bakery I've had their famous shortbread on my mind, so for my friend Dana’s birthday I thought what the heck, let’s go crazy.  Let’s make some wicked little owl cookies. 

It was a long and annoying process, and I cursed my plan after all of eight minutes.  I made the dough, rolled it into a log, froze it, cut it, rolled out some more dough, dusted it with cocoa powder, cut out the eyes, put two on each cookie, finished the eyes with tiny chocolate chips, chopped almonds in half for the beaks, added slivered almond horns, made patterns on their bellies with the tip of a paring knife, baked them, cooled them, packaged them, then transported them to Dana’s house, anxious the entire way they’d fall and be ruined.  They survived the journey, however, and were received with much enthusiasm.  

It took a few re-designs to get them right (phase one creatures resembled muppets, not owls) but by the end they were sufficiently wise-looking.  I don’t suggest you make them yourself because frankly you probably have better things to do with your time, but here's the shortbread recipe I used, which is  actually quite simple.  Eat them plain, dip them in dark chocolate, or by all means, turn the little suckers into owls if you want.  Just don't say I did warn you.  

Hoot.  

Danger Chocolate.

If I had a nine year-old daughter who came to me and said "I'm going to be an expired Hershey bar for Halloween," I would fist-pump the air, high-five her Dad, and know she was destined for greatness.  

My friend Carey's parents experienced just that, and while I don't know how they reacted, the latter part has proven true.  Happy Belated Halloween, Carey.  I wish I'd known you as a kid.

Please note, this bar expired in 1972.  That's some bad-ass chocolate.

Lemon-y Autumn.

Lemon tarts are mid-summer sunshine, hardly at home with the pumpkins, kale, and slow-cooked stews of October.  I can't put off sharing these citrus beauties anymore, however, and I'm ashamed it's taken me so long already.  Absolutely ashamed.

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.

Photography + pastry + lemon curd + cream = a very nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon. 

Included in this post are a selection of photos from that day, as well as a few that Shallon took of my friend Sue's macarons.  Lush.  They're a nice punch of colour in these dusky Autumn days.

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.

Chez Moi.

How old do you think it is?

Not too sure.

That one? 

Couldn't tell you either.  

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. 

It’s not an abandoned farmhouse with its windows smashed in, but it’s still pretty great.  Two weeks ago I moved into a century-old house in Strathcona, Vancouver’s oldest neighbourhood.  I ponder the history of my home every single day, and feel satisfied each time I open its yellow front door.    

There are three of us in the house, plus a dear scruffy dog named Marsou.  My bedroom is small but lovely, with dental crown molding and a window overlooking Pender Street.  From it I watch people on the sidewalk below, and in this way I’ve come to learn how eclectic this area is. 

I still want desperately to know who lived here first, and what the sidewalk looked like then, but for now I’m just happy.  Happy to be in a home with creaks and quirks, and a kitchen that Laura Ingalls Wilder would have been happy baking pies in.   

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.