School's out for summer...

....and so am I.
Taking a break, and hoping to be back soon!
Thank you all for taking the time to read my musings.
Barbara

Happy Birthday to You!

To tell you the truth, I didn't expect to write anything at all this week. I was ready to take the week off...until just now. I started to think about my daughter's birthday, which is today, and then my mind went to...birthday cake.

Is it just me, or does birthday cake have to taste mediocre to be really good?

I was raised with a mother and grandmother who could bake the best of the best. We had 3 desserts every night at dinner (I swear, I'm telling the truth here...dessert was always and still is quite revered in my household). There was never a bad dessert that passed my lips. They were always homemade. Except for birthday cakes. We kids deemed that they HAD to be bought, because to us, bought cakes were decadent.

I have many fond memories peering through the window of the bakery at Dominion Store (do any exist anymore, anywhere in Canada?) as the brilliant ladies decorated birthday cakes. They glopped white icing on sheet cakes, added piping and coloured flowers faster than I could ever imagine. These were works of art! There was no such thing as Cake Boss back then. It was white or chocolate glop on a cake, with maybe a plastic something stuck on top. THAT was a birthday cake. And to me, it still is.

So, I didn't make my little girl a birthday cake today. She only gets the best from me...the best of the bought...glop and all!

Happy Birthday to you, my baby girl!

Embrace Your Banana!

I have never been an athlete. When it comes to moving, I subscribe to the 2000 Year Old Man's (Mel Brooks in famous interviews with Carl Reiner) explanation (well, one of them) as to his longevity. In order to live a long life, he believes one should 'never run for a bus. There will always be another'. I heartily agree, and so it is for that reason, plus not enjoying sweating that I do not run.

And I hate swimming. When I was a kid in swimming class and couldn't swim far, my instructor would step on my hand as I'd reach for the pool ledge. I can swim, but I don't enjoy it.

To quote my late father, "I hate the winter so much, I hate it from last year", so there goes all winter activities (although I have tried snowshoeing and enjoyed it, but that's an anomoly).

I do not play any sports. The only thing I really love to do is walk. I can walk long distances and truly enjoy it. And hiking. That's fun, too.

Now, enter New Hubby, the 'anti-me' when it comes to all things outdoors. He's a tri-athlete, which means he can swim, bike and run long distances. He has run marathons. He's even done Iron Man Canada--twice. He has also participated in the Princess Margaret Ride to Conquer Cancer every year since its inception.

For two years, I watched him train for that 200k ride, taking him from Toronto to Hamilton on Day 1, and then Hamilton to Niagara Falls on Day 2. I would meet him in Hamilton and then again at the finish line. It's quite impressive. And it's all for a good cause. I don't know what got into me, but last year when he finished the ride, I told him that I would do the ride with him this year, but with a catch--we would do it on his tandem--a bicycle built for two (I ain't getting on no bike myself...gave that up when I was twelve). The deal was simple; he would ride, and I would sip pina coladas and wave. He accepted, and I forgot all about it....until February, when he reminded me of my promise.

And so, we began to train. We started indoors--hated that. He tried so hard, letting me watch the Food Channel while we pedalled away. Anything to get me pumped. Didn't work. Still hated it.

Finally, the weather warmed up enough to start biking outdoors. Slowly, slowly I began to build up my strength and stamina. He took me on rides with beautiful scenery to make it interesting. He didn't overwork me. He gave me the 'spa' treatment...I didn't even have to fill my water bottle or get the snacks. He did it all. All I had to do was ride.

Before I knew it, I was conquering one challenge after another, training for the big day. First, I began building my stamina. Next, I attacked some pretty steep hills, including the dreaded (in my mind) Niagara Escarpment. I even succeeded riding through cold and wind. It seemed that I was almost ready for the Ride, until I had to face the final, unspoken personal challenge. I had to get through eating a banana.

As a child, my brother used to sing a little song to me, "Bananas are my favourite, because they have a-ppeal'. Well, not to me, they don't. I don't like them. I don't like how they smell and I don't like how they taste. The conundrum is however, that bananas are the absolute perfect cycling food.

Yes, bananas are considered a super-food for athletes. They contain three natural sugars, glucose, fructose and sucrose which provide enough carbs and sugar to fuel the ride. Also, they have lots of fibre, to keep you feeling full. Thjey are healthy, natural replacements for gels and drinks and such that athletes tend to use all the time. They just smell and taste gross.

So, it just so happened that we had some fairly firm, unripe bananas in the kitchen. New Hubby decided to take two of them on our last practice ride. When we stopped to snack, I downed half of my homemade granola bar, and thought we were done. That is, until the banana appeared. New Hubby peeled it and offered me some. I hesitated, but then imagined all of the other hurdles I had managed to conquer. I took a deep breath, took off a chunk and popped it into my mouth. And I am proud to report that it tasted......

....like a banana. But at least it wasn't too ripe, so it was okay. Another challenge ticked off the list.

Well dear readers, the only challenge that remains is the Ride itself. It takes place this weekend, June 9th and 10th. As I've said to all the wonderful donors who have sponsored me, none of what I'm doing compares to the challenges that cancer sufferers endure each day. New Hubby and I will put in the hours, climb the hills and brave the winds.

And maybe, I'll eat a banana or two along the way!

Aow, would it really be loverly?

Ok, here's the train of thought...

I am here at the computer trying to avoid noshing something else before dinner. As I daydream about what I would like to eat, I am taking a mental inventory of what is in my 'candy cupboard'. It is fairly well stocked right now, as my daughter and I recently visited our favourite bulk food store. In my mind, I am surveying the land, vacillating from from milk chocolate almonds to dried veggie chips and back to dried fruit, when all of a sudden in my sweet/salt stupor I'm stricken with the strangest thought: When did I start liking these foods? Have my tastes changed over the years? Since I know that I will never be what one might call 'sophisticated', have my tastes arrived before the rest of me?

In the years that it was on TV, I got a huge weekly kick out of watching the fictional Frasier and his brother Niles on, Frasier. These gastronomic geniuses knew their food and wine as well as any of the editors or columnists of Gourmet. And while we're on the topic of food snobs, I must admit, there is something really admirable about those judges on TV shows who can discern certain flavours, and compare one dish to another so expertly. I think it's really cool that some people have vast knowledge of different foods. Especially cool are those who know their spices. I'm galaxies away from being one of those people. Those are sophisticated people, with sophisticated palates.

So here I salivate, thinking about the snacks in my cupboard and wonder, what happened to Cheezies? Have I 'grown out of' Fritos Corn Chips? Does the term 'developing world' now refer to people's tastes in food?

I am going out on a limb here to say...no. People might like dried this and that, and yogurt covered you-name-its, but they still love chips and pretzels and cheezies. And here is what I'm basing it on. Bar Mitzvahs. Bear with me while I explain...

A sit down Bar (or Bat) Mitzvah meal in North America is usually one of beauty. Guests are served their beef, chicken or fish (or combination thereof) on a bed of something or another. There is almost always some jus de je ne sais quoi poured over the main, as well as a 'medley' of vegetables, served either beside or tucked underneath the star food. The presentation is always lovely. The guests ooh and aah, nod to their tablemates and then begin to tuck into their meals. For a few moments, all is well. But things change quickly. Before you know it, all heads begin to turn toward the kids' tables.

While the grown ups are being served their gourmet fare, the tots and teens are, more often than not, chowing down on chicken fingers or wings and french fries. As the meal progresses, the adults, who until now have been alternating between lively conversation and longing glances at the kiddie table, begin to conspire with the others at the table. The brave, designated adult gives the beckoning finger to their children from across the room. No, they don't want a hug, or even to say hi. All these parents really want are some of the chicken fingers and the french fries, and they want their children to fetch some for them. Sometimes surreptitiously, other times blatantly after the children refuse to comply, the grown ups make their way from their tables to their children's. The phrase, 'you're not going to eat all of these, are you?' is whispered, and so go the spoils.

You now ask, does anything change when it's time for dessert? The answer is simple. No, it does not. The fancy mousses are always traded in for the (pareve) ice cream sandwiches. My point here is clear; we may pretend that we like to eat fancy things and that our tastes are sophisticated, but when both options are put before us, the call of the basic and simple remains strong.

So, go ahead; tell me how wrong I am. You can say what you want, but this Eliza Doolittle won't hear you, because she's scrounging for goodies. Mmmmmm, Lots of choc'lates for me to eat.......

A Simple Pleasure if you Dare

This blog posting is coming to you late. To tell you the truth, I'm in a funk. I'm afraid that my Shavuot is not going to be the one I expected. Why, you may ask? It's Dare's fault.

Every year since I was a child, Shavuot meant Zebra cake. My mother would take her grey Melmac plate out of the cupboard. She would begin with chocolate wafer cookies and then alternate them with whipped cream. It was amazing how the plate was the exact right size to use up all the cookies. When the log was done, she would slather the whole thing with more whipped cream and some chocolate sprinkles on top. It would then go into the fridge overnight. Poof! The next day when the beast was cut in a slant, we would have the perfect Zebra cake.

I have enjoyed this cake every year since I was a child. I make it for my children (ok, it's as much for me as it is for them) using Dare's Simple Pleasures Chocolate Wafers. But not this year. I can't find the cookies.

I know they exist. I checked on the website, but I've had no luck. I have been to four or five grocery stores (and in different cities) looking for the cookies. Oh, I can find plain ones, and oatmeal ones. I'm sure they're tasty, but they are not chocolate. And I REFUSE to use those gawdawful chocolate petit beurres. They're too thick and not chocolatey enough. Besides, they are the absolute wrong shape.

I had hoped that this posting would have a happily ever after element to report. I was hoping that I could end this telling you that I found the cookies at the one place I had forgotten about. Alas, this is not to be.

I do have a few hours left. Maybe they'll magically appear..............Guess I'll be stuck eating rich, yummy cheese cake. One must always make sacrifices.
Wishing you all a wonderful Shavuot.

I need a ...something

The other night, I had made a simple dinner...gazpacho, smoked lake trout, fresh ciabatta buns and a platter of cheeses. One would think that after that, I would have been sated....but I wasn't. I wanted...a something. But what?

I went to my goodies cupboard, flung open the doors and stared at the shelves hoping that something would pop out at me, like magic. What was it that I could possibly want? Some dried fruit maybe? No...that wasn't it. A cookie? Nyaaa, not really. Some chocolate? Okay, why not? I took a piece of a chocolate bar with almonds--dark chocolate and nuts, two healthy alternatives in one treat! It was yummy, but no, I said to myself, licking my lips, that wasn't it, either.

Maybe the 'it' wasn't in the cupboard, I wondered. Maybe 'it' was in the fridge. Let's just say you can read the above paragraph and apply it to the refrigerator, except that there was no chocolate in there.

Sadly, there wasn't anything in the freezer that would help me with this problem. In the end, I made a cup of tea, ate an apple, turned on some country or another's Idol, cracked open a few pistachios (I don't know why anyone would eat pistachios already shelled...the action of opening those little guys releases a heck of a lot of tension) and eventually forgot about my plight, kinda sorta.

I started wondering, is there a particular element that is needed to make a treat the perfect something? Is it better if it's crunchy? Chewy? Cold? Hot? Smooth in texture? Dense (thinking cheese cake here)?What about salty, or does the word chocolate (or caramel, or a combination...) just do the trick?

One of the reasons my cookie jar is devoid of cookies at the moment is because my daughter has informed me that although my Ginger Snaps are yummy, they, so she says, are winter cookies. I must come up with a spring/summer one (suggestions anyone?). Perhaps her 'something' must be seasonal.

I'm not so sure of what elements might make up the perfect snack that could satisfy everyone. I suppose that's why the snack aisle at the grocery store is so enormous.

All I do know is that I'm in the mood for something.......

I'll have the Caesar Salad

When I was growing up, Airplane in the Hangar was a very popular game at the family dinner table. My brother was the designated stunt pilot. His mission was to coerce me, Miss Very Picky Eater, into finishing my meal. I was forever the reluctant diner. I maintained that food was simply a necessary waste of my time. However, in as much as I was completely disinterested in eating, my brother was sufficiently entertaining so as to get me to comply. He would fly that food-filled fork around in dizzying circles before landing it into my mouth. Needless to say, getting me to eat was a chore...except when we went to a restaurant.

It always baffled my mother that I never needed to be coaxed into eating when I was dining out. I would pleasantly chow down my food until there was nothing left on the plate and still have room for dessert. Now, one could understand this behaviour had my mother been a lousy cook; but that was not the case. Still, the one thing she knew for sure was that if she wanted me to eat, all she had to do was to take me out for a meal.

A couple of weeks ago, I was dining at a restaurant with New Hubby. As we were eating, I realized just how happy I was being out to dinner. Yes, of course, the company was fabulous and that most definitely helped to make the evening fantastic, but I needed to figure out where the giddiness was coming from. What makes restaurants so alluring? I decided to poll a few people and see what they thought.

The first answer was completely practical; restaurants mean no cooking, serving, and best of all, no cleaning up afterward. One simply sits down, eats and leaves. This reason makes a lot of sense, but begs the question, do people who have live-in help doing all of the food preparation, therefore erasing the need for any of the above chores, lack the desire to go to a restaurant? I'm not so sure about that one.

For some, going out to eat is about eating different foods than you get at home. I for one tend to order food that I usually don't make in my own kitchen. I find it a luxury to eat gnocchi, Pad Thai or something else that I consider too patchkadik to make.

New culinary experiences are always great reasons to visit a restaurant. Here in Greater Toronto, we are blessed with so many different and diverse cultures. Our city boasts many recent immigrants, so they as first generation Canadians bring their culture's authentic cooking to the city. It's a treat to explore the world through food right at home.

Another reason to eat at a restaurant is to enjoy a private conversation (even with yourself. Don't knock dining alone. I was never good at it, but I think it's an art when done well). One of my favourite quotes from The Great Gatsby explains this perfectly: "And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” The busier the restaurant, the more private the conversation can be.

Although the above are all valid reasons, for me, going to a restaurant is all about the experience itself. The excitement begins with the anticipation of going somewhere different than home. It could be somewhere familiar, where I know what to expect, or perhaps somewhere where a new culinary adventure awaits. Walking in the door of a restaurant is akin to entering a new world, with different people, different sights and unique aromas and tastes.

And then there's my favourite thing: the menu! The menu offers treats of all kinds. I love reading menus, and imagining how the description of a particular food item might translate into what will eventually tingle my taste buds. I love that there's a choice of what to eat, and that I get to choose what I want to eat. I think choosing what you want to eat is pretty decadent, don't you?

Once the meal is ordered, all that's left is the anticipation of the meal itself. I wait, hoping that what I have just ordered will be exactly what I had expected. That gamble, that little bit of the unknown adds to the suspense and eventual surprise as the meal arrives in front of me.

Of course, all of the other reasons mentioned come into play to make restaurant eating a wonderful way to spend some time. And if the meal turns out less than stellar or the service isn't what had been expected or the couple at the next table were acting in a ridiculous manner, it all becomes a topic of conversation which still provides entertainment.

And doesn't everyone likes a bit of entertainment now and then?

This is a crumby blog

The other day, I was parked here at my laptop as usual. Beside me was a plate formerly occupied by my lunch; a very tasty grilled cheese sandwich made with homemade bread http://allrecipes.com/recipe/hearty-multigrain-bread/detail.aspx. and some yummy cheddar cheese. As I was reading my emails and consciously dawdling to avoid more pressing activities, I realized that I had been absentmindedly and methodically picking at the leftover crumbs. I watched myself as I continued behaving somewhat like a squirrel and wondered, what is this strange attraction to crumbs?

The meticulous gathering of those tiny goodies got me to thinking and ultimately realizing that I love a variety of crumbs, both sweet and savory. My daughter and I, for example, fight over the very unhealthy, yet highly delicous crumbs that are left at the bottom of my Southern Fried Chicken pan (it's called fried, but it's baked...see the recipe below). These morsels have been known to be noshed surreptitiously in the kitchen while guests wait patiently to be served their meal in the dining room. Their crunchy, oily yumminess could easily be packaged and sold if I felt like clogging the world's arteries.

The topping on my challah is known in my family as 'Crumba Crumba'. I start with equal handfuls of flour and brown sugar. I then add cinnamon (eyeball it) and then slowly add oil (you can use margerine) until the desired consistency is achieved. Inevitably, some crumbs fall off the challah while cooking. Those end up missing in action before the challah has a chance to cool. And for some reason that I fail to understand, the crumbs that fall off the challah and go AWOL onto the challah board are extremely coveted by the partakers. The victor at the dinner table is the one who grabs the biggest crumb to place on top of his or her slice.

Of course, 'crumb' toppings are the essence of apple (or whatever fruit) 'crumbles'. Don't be fooled by those people who ooh and aah over the fruity sweetness. It's all a ploy to enjoy the crumble. It's the crumbs that make the dessert. The more I think about it, the more I believe that I'm not alone in this world. I think people like crumbs.

I haven't completely figured it all out, but I think eating crumbs is akin to licking a spoon. Somehow, whatever you're eating might be delicious, but finishing it off by licking the spoon makes whatever you're eating extra special. Same goes with crumbs. Just when you think you've finished, there's a teeny tiny treat still left to be enjoyed.

Crumbs. What an enigma...a nuisance to clean, but ever so tasty to eat!

Southern Fried Chicken
Skinless pieces dipped in vegetable oil flavoured with garlic powder and Pereg Barbecue Chicken spice, and then cornflake crumbs. Place on rack to let chicken crunch up and bake at 400 for 1 hour. Turn chicken half way through cooking

To Market, to Market, to buy a....necklace?

Hamilton Farmer's Market

When I was a little girl growing up in the bustling (sometimes I just crack myself up) metropolis of Hamilton, Ontario, one of my favourite treats would be to go downtown on a Saturday afternoon with my mother to shop at the Hamilton Farmer's Market.

'The Market' as we natives call it (it still thrives to this day), was a magical place. It was always packed with people and filled, aisle after aisle with the vibrant colours and the fantastic aroma of fresh food and flowers. On market day, farmers would gather from all over the Greater Hamilton Area selling their produce, after already having spent hours in the pre-dawn morning harvesting the goodies so that little girls like me could gawk and marvel at Mother Nature's creations.

I viewed our weekly trips as an adventure. Mini me would pad up and down the market rows, navigating through the jungle of belly buttons in my line of sight. I would valiantly try to keep up with my mother whilst attempting to espy some plum plums to purchase. My mother on the other hand, took our trip to the Market as a sort of safari. She was the bwana on a hunt for the perfect pepper (to pickle, of course). She had to get her 'pick' of the good stuff before it was gone. Mom elevated the purchase of everything from cucumbers to corn on the cob to an art form.

As I quickly became a repeat visitor, I realized that my mother had certain vendors that she frequented. I knew them simply as, 'her people'. They, as I would be regularly informed, had 'the best' of whatever it was she was looking for. There was the String Bean man, the Corn lady, the Raspberry lady and the Potato man. Each visit to the stall would include the explanation as to why that particular farmer had the best 'whatever'. I have to confess, this has always puzzled me. If my mother's 'man' or 'lady' had the best, 'whatevers', why did the other farmers need to be there? Why did they even bother showing up? After all, why would anyone want to buy something from the not-best person? These questions have plagued me for my entire life.

St. Lawrence Market

What I do know is that all of my trips to the Market as a young girl have endeared me to market shopping. No matter where I travel, I try to find a market, be it the Rialto Market in Venice, or the Rue Mouffetard Market in Paris (my daughter and I sang the score of Beauty and the Beast as we strolled that one!), Machane Yehudah in Jerusalem, or right here at home in good 'ol Toronto at St. Lawrence Market. Although I am not a 'regular' at the St. Lawrence Market, it seems that my mother has truly influenced me.  I have my Cheesemonger, my baker and  my fishmonger (I love all those 'monger' words). But now I have a new question...when did markets get so hoity toity?

Halifax Seaport Farmers Market

The Halifax Seaport Farmers Market, in Halifax, Nova Scotia, is tons of fun to visit. Along with the usual vegetables and fruits, there are fresh baked goods and even soy products to purchase. But who'da thunk you could also buy wine, cheese, aprons, art, jewellery (I bought a really nice necklace there) and even leather goods! This is one upscale market...which for some reason, seems to me to be....not quite right.

Don't get me wrong. Even though I love the classy olive oils, gourmet cheeses and the overall eye candy of the 'upscale', a.k.a. touristy markets, it remains difficult for me to wrap my head around boutiquing in something billed as a Farmers market. I realize of course, that in centuries gone by, the market was the place to buy any and all of one's needs from the most basic staples to high end goods. People gathered to shmooze as well as to shop. For me, however, the appeal of the simple calls. I continue to be most attracted to the local markets, including those stands at the edge of farm roads. I find them romantic in their simplicity.

Maybe my love of the local farmers market is just the little girl inside of me talking...or is it? While I don't proclaim to be a 'locavore', I know instinctively that local produce is truly fresher, tastier and better for you. So here's my suggestion: when you have a moment, find your nearest farmers market and get to know, support and promote your own favourite venders from Apple lady to Zucchini guy. And when you're done, take yourself to one of the trendy upscale markets, find the gourmet chocolate booth and buy yourself a treat! Long live the market....it's my kind of shopping!

Warning: This blog may contain nuts and is rated PG (or is it PB?)

Sitting down to a cup of tea and watching a bit of TV after work, eating a decadent dessert, or having someone pour you a cup of coffee; these are some of the simple pleasures of life!

Lately, I've been known to say, 'It's funny that 'they' say, don't sweat the small stuff, but isn't it ironic that it's the little things that count?' Oh sure, I can get all 'airy fairy' and talk about the beauty of watching little toddlers walk on feet that seem too small to withstand the weight of their bodies, or gush as I witness magnolia trees blossoming at the first blush of spring. I can wax poetic about the birds that warble as the sun rises each morning, or the majesty of a sunset over a lake. There are countless mini miracles in this world that delight and make us feel thankful that we're alive to experience them. But despite what one may feel is an endless list, one of these wonders stands out among all the others. That is, of course, the infinite, sinful, and dare I suggest sensual pleasure derived from being the lucky one to open a brand new, virginal jar of peanut butter.

Come and share this fantasy with me............

It's lunch time. Walking into the kitchen not knowing what to eat, it all of a sudden dawns on me that I have new jar of peanut butter, waiting to be opened. Not only that, I realize that I have fresh bread, too! That's it, I decide, I know what I want and I want it now! Filled with sudden desire, I yearn to find my love. I need to find my love.

Instinctively, I dash to the cupboard, fling open the doors and begin calling, 'Where are you?' to no avail. I frantically shove aside some tuna cans and tomato sauce jars, searching longingly and furiously, for within the myriad of boxes of pasta and tins of mushroom soup I know it must be there. All of a sudden, I espy my love's familiar colours and hear a beckoning call from behind a bag of sugar. I push the interloper away with an heroic gesture to expose my heart's desire. Yes, dear peanut butter, we have been reunited at last!

As my hands nervously approach the jar sitting demurely on the shelf, I immediately become filled with the anticipation and expectation of enjoying the fruit (legume) on the inside of the container. My love is as alluring as ever. With baited breath, I quickly, yet lovingly remove the lid, and ta-da! the jar is ajar.

Well, almost.

Just when I believe that I have been triumphant in getting to the gold, a chink in the armour appears. A second layer prevents me from the treasure...that is the tease known as the protective seal. I hate that seal; nevertheless, I begin by using my fingers to pry it open. When that doesn't work (and as I struggle with it I wonder if maybe 'they' don't want us to be able to open it. Maybe it's a plot!), I use my teeth to start it off (fine, so don't eat it at my house...more for me!...Doesn't matter, because it doesn't work anyway). When all of that fails, and it does, I grab a knife and start stabbing the stupid piece of cardboard like I'm Norman Bates. At least that works. Finally and with great satisfaction, I locate the Holy Grail. My eyes widen and a knowing smile appears on my face.

Let's pause for a moment to allow me to relish (I know, wrong condiment) at the marvel, as this pristine peanut butter is 'splayed* naked before me.

First, my eyes behold the beauty of it's smooth lines (I'm not into the chunky brands, so go with this visual for the moment) and shiny coating (and please, do not tell me why it looks that way). Those beautiful machines get that peanut butter in the jar so perfectly and artistically that it looks almost too good to eat (notice that I said, almost).

And then, I'm hit with its intoxicating smell! Did I mention peanut butter's mouth-watering aroma? That fabulous bouquet tickles my olfactory sense to the point of complete distraction. Ok, enough already! I can't stand it anymore! The foreplay is over. It is time!

I'm going out on a limb here to let you know that other than mixing peanut butter with chocolate (and frankly this isn't the forum for discussing that, because ladies don't talk about that in public) I'm a boring purist. I'm old fashioned. Yes, there are the jam lovers and (gasp) the banana people (not that there's anything wrong with that!). I, of course allow room for personal tastes, but at the same time fervently believe that peanut butter can stand alone on two pieces of fresh bread. I believe in simplicity. My only variation comes when I'm sick, and that's when I like my bread toasted. That way, when the peanut butter lands on the warm surface, it begins to melt and ooze out the sides. Be still my heart.......

Focus! Two slices of fresh bread stand ready. The knife is poised in my hand. After all the waiting, I'm finally there. No more anticipation. I am primed. My excitement is at a feverous pitch. I take that knife, and deftly, expertly guide it toward my goal. The knife dips into that jar and...Woo hoo! Nirvana!

It's complete and utter ecstasy! The satisfaction of being the first person to dig into that jar is positively and utterly tremendous. It's like dipping into a pool on a hot day, or getting into a hot shower on a cold one, or like........

.......sitting down to a cup of tea and a chocolate after work (what did you think I was going to say?).

I'm far too exhausted to discuss that first bite of my ever-so-perfect sandwich. Besides, some things must remain private. Simple pleasures, indeed!

*sic on the apostrophe...made up that double entendre

'Twas the day after Pesach

'Twas the day after Pesach, my kids were just tots
They woke wanting chometz, and they wanted lots.
Clad in pajamas and quite unbrushed hair
They were ready to follow the scent in the air.
.
They were excited, those kiddies, 'tho still half asleep
But this was a tradition they wanted to keep
For the day after matza was holy for us
This day was so special, we'd kick up a fuss.


Today was the day that we'd shop 'til we drop
For chometz of all kinds; chips, cookies and pop.
Mom wouldn't say no to their cereals of choosing
It was a day of treat shopping, there was no way of losing.

Just past dawn we'd start off, fresh bagels our quest
With cream cheese and lox, they're better than best
In line we would wait with our grins ear to ear
Besides birthdays this was the best day of the year.

With hot bagels in hand we'd hop back in the car
Heading home for some breakfast, but it was so far
So we'd eat a few bagels 'cuz they were so yummy
Filling the big chometz hole in our tummy

After breakfast was over, we'd head out again
To purchase the chometzdik foods that we yen
We'd begin very slowly, with crackers and bread
We'd pace ourselves well--there was much more ahead!

The shopping cart rolled, not missing an aisle
Restocking groceries was taking a while
But we didn't care, this was our magic day
And nothing and no one would get in our way.

We arrived at the bulk store, it was next on our list
And there we were careful that nothing was missed
This place was heaven on earth to my kids
For nuts, gum and candy lay under those lids.

Meticulously, carefully, row after row
They chose what they wanted, I never said 'No'
Gummies and chocolates and goodies galore
This was what, 'Day After Pesach' was for!

My kids are all grown, yet we still do our route
Returning with only one third of the loot
It's not as exciting, we admit that, it's true
But keeping tradition alive's what we do

And we'll do this each year 'til the grandchildren come
On the drive to get bagels and cookies and gum
'Cuz the day after Pesach is our special day
And nothing and no one will get in our way!

Pesach, Matza, Maror and...

You've cleaned until you couldn't anymore. You've cooked umpteen meals...and everyone is still hungry. The seders are over. Matza crumbs are all over the house, replicating faster than you thought humanly possible. And now the holiday is winding down. When all is said and done, I have to ask, is it all worthwhile?

Well, let's see. Year after year, we gather together at seders to experience a bit of slavery and freedom by rereading, retelling and reliving the story outlined in the Pesach Hagaddah. We partake of foods we haven't tasted since the year before. Some of us have cooked for days on end. By the time we sit down to eat, we're completely and utterly exhausted. We smile at our guests, but at the back of our minds are the mountains of dishes that will have to be washed, which translated means that bedtime will be three days from the moment we sit down to dinner. And this we call 'freedom'?

The first part of the seder is joyous but lengthy, and before we know it, the hour begins to grow late. By the time the main arrives, everyone is already full from the soup and the fish, but miraculously (and this is a holiday of miracles), the food dispappears. After feasting and enjoying, everyone happily complains that they have eaten too much, until (of course) the desserts roll out. Once again, smiles abound and all is consumed. It appears that all that work, all that preparation had not been in vain....until the inevitable happens. The trump card is played.

A simple, $1.99 box of coloured jelly fruit slices is placed on the table, and the crowd goes wild.

It appears, my dear friends, that Pesach is not about freedom, or spring or miracles. It is about jelly fruit slices. No matter how delicious the meal, or how sumptuous the desserts, everyone wants those jelly fruit slices.

And here's the kicker. No one really likes them! In fact, (with apologies to the companies who make them...and I'm sure they know it and don't care, and who blames them anyway, because we buy them despite how they taste) everyone makes it seem like royalty has arrived as they arrive at the table. There's the big fanfare, the oohs and ahhs at the sight of the box, followed by, 'I can't stand those things', and then, 'Can I have one'?

Next comes the argument. 'I hate the red ones. Give them to Savta because she likes them' or 'I only eat the green ones', and of course, 'Here, save the yellow ones for later in the week'. Why wasn't the same fuss made for the brisket?

What I have neglected to mention through all of this, is that I am the one who can't wait for those jellies, and it is I who utters those above comments. I'll admit it. Pesach just wouldn't be Pesach without those awful candies. And yes, I do ration them, so they'll last the entire week. But wouldn't you know it, with all the shopping, this year I forgot to buy them!

Enter, the little girl who doesn't like Froot Loops. The day before Pesach break, she walked in to my Before School programme and presented me with that precious box of jelly fruit slices. I gushed. I'm sure her father thought that I was simply trying to make his daughter feel good. Little did either of them know that they had singlehandedly saved Pesach. Thanks to them and those disgusting jelly fruit slices, the seder was complete.

Pesach, Matza, Maror and Jelly Fruit Slices. That's what Pesach is about.

Wishing everyone a joyous end of Pesach and Happy Chometz!

The Bread of Affliction Part 2

When last we met, I was going on about how the preparations for Pesach make me feel a bit unsettled, and how I thought that the uncomfortable feeling was crucial to understanding the holiday and celebrating it wholeheartedly. At the core of this feeling is my relationship with Matza. Of all the foods we eat at the seder and throughout Passover, I believe that Matza is the food that binds us (sorry, had to do that). While Passover, from preparation to celebration unsettles us in a wonderful way, Matza makes me feel unsettled, but for a very different reason.

For those of us who keep kosher, or for those who make an attempt at using Kosher for Passover products specifically because it's Pesach...or even for those hosting a seder, inviting people over, we all know the exorbitant costs involved in 'making Pesach'. I've never met anyone who hasn't grumbled over the prices of Passover food (at least here in Ontario...and I understand that we have it better than in other parts of the country). We all begrudgingly pay the prices...that is, we who can afford it. But what about those who can't?

The simple fact is that many, many people are simply not able to afford the elaborate feasts that you and I and everyone on the Facebook pages I frequent are preparing. More people than you may know cannot afford to make a seder at all. Many people in our communities rely on Kosher food banks to meet their needs each week, let alone on Pesach. That so many cannot afford to eat unsettles me greatly, but something else riles me, and that my friends, is the price of that 'bread of poverty'. Indeed, what upsets me is the price of Matza itself.

Perhaps one of you can explain it to me. Oh, I understand that companies need to make a profit, and well they should. I understand that the costs in keeping a factory kosher and kosher l'Pesach is very expensive, and I understand that, too. But the one food above all others that makes Pesach, Pesach is matza. Something has to be done to keep the price of a box of matza down to almost the price of a loaf of bread.


I aired my frustration to Kosher food guru and cookbook queen, Norene Gilletz, who informed me that some supermarkets in the United States subsidize the price of matza. We do it here too, but (unless I'm mistaken) only under the guise of 'Midnight Madness' sales prior to Pesach. Indeed, this year at one of our supermarkets, Shmura matza sold for one dollar a pound during the three hour sale. I'm not sure how high the price of matza is in other cities, but I believe that there must be some middle ground between the regular asking price and the 'Midnight Madness' price of matza. In my humble opinion, matza needs to be accessible to all who want to fulfill the mitzvah. I don't know how to make that happen and that frustrates me.

As we sit down to our seders, let us rejoice with our families once again this year. Let us remember that we eat matza because once we had no choice. We need to remember what it felt like to not have options, what it tasted like to not have the freedom of choice. And while we are remembering and celebrating, let's figure out how we can make it so that anyone who wants to celebrate Passover can do it with dignity, because it is their right.

Chag Kasher V'sameach!

The Bread of Affliction Part 1

Matza. 'Cardboard', as my father called it. In Hebrew, matza is referred to as, 'lechem oni' or the bread of 'poverty', for it is made from only two ingredients-- flour and water--coincidentally the same two ingredients used to make Papier-mâché paste. For the eight days (7 in Israel) of Passover, we are commanded to eat this glue that binds our gastro-intestinal system together. Some masochists actually think it tastes good. These people obviously suffer from some sort of taste bud disorder, but hey, in the end, and considering it must be eaten, they are the lucky ones and must be respected.

I will make no bones about it. I can't stand matza. I eat as little of it as possible (and yes, I've tried the different brands and the different kinds...actually settlling on Shmura matza as my best-of-the-worst). I like matza in matza balls...and that's it. Don't start selling me on the glories of matze brei. I hate the smell, and I hate how it looks. New Hubby is trying to convince me that matza pancakes are yummy. Let him enjoy.

While I'm on the topic, I don't comprehend why ANYONE would want to make matza bagels. I know, I know...YOURS are delicious...and if I tried them, I would change my mind. Well, forget it. The concept is simply gross. And I don't want to hear how I must crunch up matza in chocolate milk because it tastes just like Cocoa Puffs. Yeah, right. And while I'm sounding like Sam-I-Am, I don't want to smother my matza with anything to hide the taste.

I will concede that matza pizza is actually not too bad... matza cheese kugel is okay, too. However, the true test of any Pesach food is whether or not one would eat it AFTER Pesach. Guess what? I would not.

Having said all that, it is precisely because I hate matza that I love it so much. You see, I love that matza forces me out of my comfort zone, and I believe that this is what Pesach is all about.

Growing up, we weren't as 'fortunate' as we are today to have so many products on the shelves that can (theoretically) make Pesach more...palatable. Today, grocery stores are stocked with shelf after shelf of 'imitation chometz' (I made that up), aimed at tricking people into thinking that Pesadik food is as good as, and is as easy to make as the food we have the other 51 weeks of the year. Indeed, I myself have boasted about Pesadik things my mom makes, saying, 'You would never guess it was for Pesach! It takes good enough to have all year!" I obviously wasn't thinking straight. The more I think about it, the more I consider that the attitude I just described smacks of being a little, shall we say, 'anti-Pesadik'.

I'm certainly not advocating that anyone refrain from using any of these products or that we should only make what our grandmothers did. When we sing the Ma Nishtana, however, we need to remind ourselves that this night is different, and embrace the fact that not only the food is different, but that there's a reason for it.

Pesach means different shopping, different foods, and different preparation. It means forgetting where we put the 'whatever' when we put it away last year. It means remembering where we stored the 'thing', so we can retrieve it for cooking, or for the seders. Pesach forces us to operate just a bit differently, and I believe that's essential for us, even if the differences are only slight. We need to feel a bit unsettled. We need matza. We need that glue to keep us grounded.....

....Which leads me to Part 2 of this Matza rant. Stay tuned next week for the Erev Pesach post!

It's all about the Chicken Soup

'Passover is a holiday created by men for women'. These are the words my grandmother would mutter each year as she would deftly attach the hand grinder to the kitchen table to prepare the gefilte fish. Times have changed, to be sure, but the task of dealing with the holiday remains an enormous undertaking. Between cleaning and cooking, by the time we sit down to seder, everyone's exhausted.

When my kiddies were little, my preparation for Pesach began in December during Winter break (you read this correctly), when I would begin cleaning out the linen cupboard. The kids knew that as soon as the calendar turned to January, the decree they dreaded would be proclaimed: 'Pesach is coming. It is time to start using up the chometz. Henceforth, there will be no purchase of cereal (and believe me, we had a lovely assortment) until after Pesach'.

My geniuses also realized that the edict also meant a moratorium on the purchase of any junk food. There would be no more corn chips, cheese snacks, potato chips or bought cookies until after the holidays....except of course for the mountains of hamentashen and mishloach manot on Purim that would magically last until Pesach. The objective was clear...use up as much of the food in the pantry as we could. Once it was clean, the kitchen would be on its way to becoming kashered, or Passover-ready, which was and is the ultimate goal.

All of the above was and remains a mere preamble to the task of cooking for the seders. For me, the race to the finish begins with making chicken soup. I generally find it a chore-- time consuming and messy, so I feel a sense of acccomplishment when it's done. It seems I'm not the only one.

For many years, I had a race of sorts going with a friend and former parent of a student of mine. Each year, she would ask me just after Purim if I had made my soup yet. Invariably, I'd win by a day or two, and she would sigh. I soon realized that the race to make chicken soup was in and of itself part of the ritual of preparing for the holidays. That is, until now.

This year is different.

No, I'm not at the stage yet where my kids are making the seders. And no, I'm not going elsewhere for seders. This year, however, I'm not in the usual rush. This year my friends, for the first time, I will have the privilege of enjoying the luxury I've always dreamt about. This year, I have a Pesach kitchen...and I have to say, I feel like a gefilte fish out of water.

This brand new, second kitchen represents a freedom from bondage of a sorts to me. No doubt there will still be a race as there always is, but it will be more controlled. I don't feel the pressure that I've always felt. I don't feel the need to rush. I've purchased what I need, but I'm still procrastinating, still in denial. All I need to do is take that first leap, and when I do, I will be experiencing Pesach a bit differently than in all other years....a bit out of my comfort zone, but in a very good way.

And although I'm coming at this in a very decadent way, dealing with freedom is what this holiday is about. As I peel my vegetables, and plop the chicken in the pot, I'm going to think about all of my 'freedoms'--especially the one that allows me to put my thoughts to invisible paper and share them with you!

Happy preparations!

My Mom's Chicken Soup

1 (2 pkg) Soup chicken (mature chicken) Where I come from, mature chickens come frozen and in packages of half chickens, because they are much larger than regular chickens
1 pkg turkey bones (5 or 6)
3 pkg chicken bones (I actually collect them in bags as I go when I make chicken. I trim the breast bones and bag them....but that's during the year, not for Pesach)

8 stalks of celery
1 lb (one prepackaged bag) parsnips (peeled)
2 lbs carrots (peeled)
4 onions  (whole, peeled)
dill (optional and to your liking)
That's it...no salt, pepper or anything else.

Put chicken and bones (both chicken and turkey) in 16 quart pot (this recipe is easily halved, but why make soup so often?). Cover (but just) with water. Don't put too much water in! Boil.
When boiling, add veggies. Bring to a boil again and then reduce heat. Simmer for 3 hours. This, by the way, is why the ingredients remain simple. The right amount of water, and lengthy cooking time creates the flavourful soup.
Remove chicken and veggies, keeping the carrots. I used to skim the soup, but Emeril Lagasse says you don't, so I don't, and I think he's right. Besides, it saves time and mess....both a big Hurray! Cool soup and strain.
Later that day or the next, make chicken pot pie or stir fry or chicken salad with the boiled chicken...or give the chicken to a friend who likes it, so it shouldn't go to waste.
Cool soup and put in fridge for 24 hours.
Next day, skim fat, and then refrigerate or freeze. Don't forget the matza balls. I like Streit's best!

Left(overs) in the dark

Leftovers. Reruns, as I like to call them. They are the remnants of a meal that was. These are the forgotten soldiers that remain uneaten, doomed from the moment the meal is completed. Now that I am about to embark on cleaning out my fridge and freezer in preparation for Pesach, I feel that it's time to examine the plight of the lowly leftover. Today, I will attempt to shed some light on this often avoided, misunderstood and highly underrated food group.

The story is always the same. As the meal winds down and the diners begin to lean back on their chairs, rubbing their tummies in blissful satiation, the host and/or hostess peruses the food on the serving platters and suddenly realizes that a tactical error of miscalculation has been committed. Not all of the food has been eaten. A feable, final plea is issued, coercing and cajoling the already comatose partakers to have a little more, but to no avail. It quickly becomes clear that the inevitable is about to unfold.

With quiet nods indicating that the meal is indeed over, the platters are ceremonially lifted off of the table. The funerary march  is brief yet solemn. The food is somberly placed on the kitchen counter, one serving plate after another. Depending on the occasion and the number of diners and helpers, a wake of sorts springs forth. In a most macabre fashion, the meal now complete is jovially discussed whilst the leftovers sit forelornly on their platters, listening and lingering in utter jealousy and despair.

A party-like atmosphere is not always the case. Many times, there is only one person left in the kitchen to deal with the aftermath of the meal. The din of dining now becomes a quiet moment of reflection. Dirty dishes with scant remnants of the meal sit ready for washing. Those are happy plates, their emptiness signifying the smugness born of gustatory satisfaction. The eyes of the person in charge quickly move away from the dishes and flit from platter to platter, assessing the situation. An audible sigh is heard as the reality of the situation sinks in, and the big question is asked---do I have enough containers to hold all of this?

That question signals the next phase--packaging up the leftovers. Rarely is this task done with a smile. It's a chore, and the food is painfully aware of this. The physical torture that ensues is nothing less than heartbreaking. Vegetables that mere moments before were plated separately and artistically are now shoved and crammed together in a suffocating container that promises to lock in freshness. Lock-in indeed! Sauce is now mixed with meat. And sometimes, if there's enough room in the container, potatoes are tossed on top as an afterthought. It is utterly demeaning.

Finally, after all is tidied up, comes the step all leftovers dread--the move to the refrigerator...or even worse, the freezer. While the freezer is considered rerun food hell, the fridge is more of a type of purgatory, for the fridge is where food tends to get lost. Before the food is even aware of it, its container somehow begins to slip deep into the recesses of the fridge behind big bottles of ketchup, or newer, fresher food. By the time it resurfaces, it has become (sigh) inedible.

My friends, while the situation seems bleak, I'm here to tell you that it most certainly is not. Leftovers can live a vital life after retirement. Some foods re-used (like soup) remain perfect on their own. Paired with a fresh addition (salad and fresh bread), these foods are barely recognizable as leftovers. Other leftovers get a new life in exciting new ways. Challah becomes french toast. Boiled chicken becomes pot pie, or chicken salad or stir fry.....and the leftover brisket topped with leftover mashed potatoes becomes an awesome Shepherd's pie.

I admit that in the past, I looked at leftovers with disdain. I preferred to eat anything except that which I had eaten a day or two before. But people grow and change. I am now thrilled to report that I have been reborn. I have a whole new attitude toward reruns. I view leftovers as an opportunity.

Often, especially when I have a lot of people for dinner, I get preoccupied with the hosting, and don't concentrate on the food sitting on my plate. Leftovers give me the chance to enjoy the meal again, but this time quietly and in my own time. Not only do I not have to cook an entire meal again, but I can relive the dinner experience I had with every bite, sometimes months later when I unearth them from the bowels of my freezer. And all I have to do is reheat and enjoy! All the pots have already been washed. It's a beautiful thing.

There is one more great advantage to leftovers--sharing with others. I derive great satisfaction sharing leftovers with my newlywed daughter and her hubby. I'm stretching out a meal, stretching out the joy.

So dear friends, as you rummage through your freezer and unearth last month's dinner with the relatives, I urge you to raise the spirit of the rerun. Give it a new life, a new opportunity. Give leftovers a chance--today.

Hot Diggity Hamentash!

One of my great pleasures this year in my new capacity at work is the activity I've dubbed, 'Make-it-and-bake-it-Tuesdays'. Although we serve breakfast every day, each Tuesday morning my charges and I prepare a taste treat that will be baked during the day on Tuesday for breakfast the following day. As the year has progressed, the children and I (ages 2 1/2 to 11) have honed the menu according to their likes and dislikes.

After breakfast one day a couple of weeks ago, I had an idea and called my group together for a 'meeting'. I explained to them that I had been thinking about what to make for breakfast on the Tuesday before Purim. I had this brain wave of creating a 'breakfast' hamentash as a Purim treat and wanted their opinion as to what to use as a filling. At first, the children looked at me as if I were even more daft than they knew me to be, but when they realized that I was serious, they were eager to brainstorm.                      

I began with what I thought was a good idea. I explained that I envisioned taking the granola bars that have been a crowd pleaser all year and crushing them up, using them as the Hamentash filling. My concept was met with a resounding, "That sounds gross", which quite astounded me. In the end, I didn't listen to them and made them with the kids anyway. They were a big hit, but at the time I weakened a bit and countered with, "Alright then. Let's hear your suggestions".

A boy in Grade 2 became quite passionate about his idea that I fill the hamentashen with broccoli, which began as something amusing, but got us thinking in a different direction. A few moments later from somewhere in the crowd, someone called out, "Let's use hot dogs". This suggestion met with great enthusiasm by all. I started to wonder...a savory hamentash? It had never occurred to me. I supposed it would be possible....but wouldn't it be blasphemous? On the other hand I speculated, perhaps it's simply.... innovative! I told my gang that I would give it some thought and get back to them.

That evening, I sat down at the computer, looking up recipes that used hot dogs (I would be using veggie hot dogs as our school kitchen is dairy). I found a couple of recipes for sandwich fillings, the thought of which made me gag, but when I got my mind's eye away from the thought of something that would resemble the consistency and colour of dog food or Spam, I began to envision the bigger picture, and the idea for the Hot Dog Hamentashen started to gel.

My first decision was an easy one..I would use puff pastry as the dough. Off I went to the supermarket to buy the dough and the hot dogs. My children were home for Reading Week, so they would be the guinea pigs for this insane concoction.

I began my filling by making some mashed potatoes. Because this was meant for breakfast and is intended for young children, I made things as simple as possible. I flavoured the potato water with some Osem chicken soup, and then used some of the water to facilitate the mash, leaving out anything else adults might like (onions, especially). When the mash cooled, I added the cut up veggie dogs and added a couple of spoonfuls of relish to give it a bit of sweetness. I then cut the puff pastry into circles, stuffed them with the filling and put them in the oven at 425 for 15 minutes.

Lo and behold, the hamentashen kept their shape during the baking. I served them with a dab of ketchup and mustard, and my family gave them two thumbs up. But what would the kids at school think?

This morning, as the hamentashen were placed in front of them, mustard and ketchup on the side, they were initially met with the same skepticism that I had. But it didn't last. One brave child bit in. The eyes widened with surprise, and then came the declaration, "They're GOOOOD!!!!" It didn't take long for the rest of them to disappear.

Savory hamentashen? Not so unsavoury after all.
Purim Sameach to all!

Iron Chef-Kosher

Iron Chef is great entertainment. For those of you who haven't discovered it yet, it is (originally) a (Japanese) show where two great chefs face each other in a 'kitchen stadium' hosted by the 'Chairman'....or in America, the 'Chairman's nephew'. One contestant is an 'in house' Iron Chef, a specialist in a particular cuisine; the other, his or her challenger. The two must make a meal in 60 minutes using the 'secret ingredient' in each of their 4 or 5 dishes. The winner's cuisine reigns supreme! The entire event runs something like a sporting event, with the play-by-play being announced along the way. It's fantastically hokey. Truthfully, the American version doesn't hold a candle to the Japanese one, mostly because (a) we lose the horrible dubbing from the original, which is worth the watch in and of itself and (b) we are constantly wondering how the actor who played Jean Valjean in the Japanese production of Les Miz has suddenly been transformed into a Chairman.

Watching this show gives me a huge chuckle. Here are these chefs with their one or two underlings creating genius meals as the clock ticks down.  That in and of itself is not funny. But what is funny (at least to warped-minded me) is what I see in my mind's eye. While the TV chefs run around the kitchen so brilliantly focused, I envision every observant Jewish man or woman I've ever known or heard of, attempting to get a Shabbat or Yom tov meal cooked before it is time to light candles, when cooking must, by Jewish law, stop. I call this population, Iron Chefs-Kosher.

I don't know why it is, but no matter how early I begin cooking on a Friday, it's always the same;  Groundhog Day meets The Frisco Kid. As the sun begins to set and candle lighting draws near, I am always finding myself calling out 'Time?' or 'How many minutes?'. As I fly from pot to stove to oven, my eyes dart around the kitchen, from what I'm cooking, to the window to check how much sunlight remains, to the clock on the wall and back to what I'm cooking. At 60 seconds to candlelighting, I'm checking the soup to see if it's hot and making sure that everything in the oven is cooked. And when the timer hit's zero, just like the Iron Chefs on TV, the spoon goes down, the towel gets tossed, and voila, the meal is cooked and ready to be served.

The Iron Chefs on TV are exhausted preparing a meal for the Chairman and three judges, but just imagine if you will, making Shabbat for 75. No, this story isn't about the life of a caterer; it's about a McGill University student and her quest to prepare for the 'Ghetto Shul', her student-run synagogue's 'Sustainable Shabbat' dinner.

Ghetto Shul in Montreal has been around now for 11 years, catering to the student community at McGill University and Concordia. This year, The Ghetto Shul started a new initiative as a result of a grant. Instead of catering Shabbat meals, the students now cook the meals for their congregation.

This new initiative added a twist--it designated that the food be sustainable as well as Kosher. The task would be to create a meal that would use ingredients from the Montreal area, a challenging endeavour since this rules out staple ingredients such as soy sauce, lemon juice, vinegar, and margarine. The only exception to the Sustainable Shabbat project was the use of spices, which did not have to be local.

My daughter, Elana, offered to cook dinner and play Executive Chef. Elana has made dinner for the shul before, but not with the new sustainability rules. As we discussed the menu possibilities, we soon realized that coming up with the menu would not be difficult as we first imagined. Elana quickly assembled her ingredients and her sous chefs. So as the clock struck Thursday, with sustainability as the 'secret ingredient', the countdown to Shabbat began.

From Elana's numerous play-by-play phonecalls, it seemed that Ghetto Shul's 'kitchen stadium' was pretty heated. A small army of helpers came throughout Thursday night and Friday. Needless to say, things didn't always run smoothly. The clock ticked faster than expected.  But as the sun started to set and candles were ready to be lit, spoons were dropped and the aprons were tossed.

Indeed, thirteen hours later, the dinner was 'blech (hot plate) ready'. The menu included: 100 homemade challah rolls served with apple onion chutney and warm potato cabbage salad; 'Hoser' chicken, roasted potatoes and vegetables, and - the most interesting of the dishes - squash perogies previously known as ravioli (some improvisation was required). For dessert, apple biscotti.

The empty plates and lack of leftovers proved that the Sustainability Shabbat was a complete success. The Chairman would have been proud!

Enjoy 3 of the recipes, tailored for the Sustainable Shabbat!
Hoser Chicken
Chicken cut in 8ths
Montreal Chicken Spice
1 bottle strong beer
Maple Syrup

Place chicken in pan. Sprinkle Montreal Chicken Spice on to coat.
Pour bottle of beer over chicken.
Pour generous amount of maple syrup
Roast uncovered at 400 for an hour or until done. Baste half way through.

Apple Chutney (original recipe from Epicurious.com)

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Red-Onion-Apple-and-Raisin-Chutney-10347#ixzz1jvBJP7zr)

3 Tablespoons Apple juice

2 Tablespoons maple syrup

1/8 tsp. dried mint

pinch of dried cloves

2 pounds red onions, quartered lengthwise and sliced thin crosswise (about 4 cups)

3 Tablespoons vegetable oil

1 local apple

In a small bowl combine the apple juice (cider vinegar would be preferable), the maple syrup, the mint, and the cloves and let the mixture stand while cooking the onions. In a large skillet cook the onions in the oil, covered, over moderately low heat, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes, remove the lid, and continue to cook the onion, stirring, for 30 minutes, or until they are very soft. Stir in the remaining mixture and cook the mixture over moderate heat, stirring, until the liquid is almost evaporated and the apple is tender, and season the chutney with salt and pepper. The chutney may be made 3 days in advance, cooled, and kept covered and chilled. Serve the chutney at room temperature.

Spicy Potatoes, Cabbage and Carrots- http://localfoods.about.com/od/sidedishes/r/potcabcarrot.htm

Honey Garlic Miami Ribs: The Musical

This blog is dedicated to my Israeli nephew, Noam, on the occasion of his engagement to his beloved, Hadara.

The curtain rises. A fiddler is sitting on top of the roof of a little house in a European shtetl. Music.

(Barbara)
Honey Garlic Miami Ribs. Sounds crazy, no? But in our little home in Thornhill, you might say every one of us loves Miami Ribs, trying to eat as many of the yummy, sweet and tender morsels as possible without overeating. It isn't easy. You may ask, what's so special about them? It's because they are connected with so many wonderful, happy occasions..And why must they be served with green beans and rice? That I can tell you in one word...Tradition.

(Chorus)
Tradition, Honey Garlic Ribs, tradition
Tradition, Yummy ribs, tradition

(Barbara)
Because of this tradition, I've kept my butcher busy for many, many years. Here in Greater Toronto, Miami Ribs (aka Short ribs for some of you) are not always so easy to come by....sometimes it's the wrong day of the week, sometimes there were none on the delivery truck, sometimes even, it's too near a yom tov. For instance, once, when it was between Yom Kippur and Sukkot, at the last minute the family from Israel decided to come. I ALWAYS serve them Miami Ribs, so I called the butcher in a panic, but he said that he hadn't received his order....but then, miraculously he called, telling me that he had managed to find some for me....This shows my constant devotion to my butcher. You may ask, how did this tradition start? I'll tell you--I don't know. No wait, I do! I used to eat them at a favourite restaurant when I was a little girl, and I loved them. So I served them in my own home, and then my children loved them. Now, it's a tradition....Because of our traditions, my butcher knows that when the relatives are coming, we'll expect him to have some on hand for us.

(Barbara)
Who day and night
Must scramble for some short ribs
To feed the fam and children
And any other guests
And who has to drive
Out to the kosher butcher
So there will be enough for all?

(All)
This blogger, this blogger...tradition
This blogger, this blogger...tradition

(Barbara)
You must know the way to make it properly
You fry them first, 'til tenderly (it has to rhyme...give me a break!)
Then you drain the fat and add the VH Sauce
And cook and baste until they're nice and done

(All)
VH Sauce, VH Sauce....tradition
VH Sauce, VH Sauce....tradition

(My kids)
At three I used to cut them up
At ten I licked the plate
I like to dip green beans in them
I hope....they're crunchy

(All)
The children, the children....tradition
The children, the children....tradition

(The Butcher)
And who will sell the ribs
In small shops in the 'burbs?
Withholding them from one-offs
For faithful customers?

(All)
The Butcher, the Butcher...tradition
The Butcher, the Butcher...tradition

(Barbara)
And among ourselves, we get along perfectly well. Of course, there was the time when she insisted that ribs be eaten with the rice and he liked them plain, but that's all settled now. Now we live in simple peace and harmony and....

(Daughter)
Eat them with the rice!

(Son)
Just the ribs!

(Chorus)
Rice!
Ribs!
Rice!
Ribs!

Tradition, Honey Garlic Ribs, tradition!
Tradition, yummy ribs, tradition!

(Barbara)
Miami Ribs. Without this tradition, our lives would be as corny as....as a Food-ler writing spoofs!

My Secret Stash

As I was putting on my coat this morning, I reached into my pocket. Yes! My little piece of chocolate from last week's coffee date with my bff at Aroma was still there. I laced the wrapper through my fingers for a second or two like it was a worry bead and then off I went to begin my day with a grin of guilty pleasure on my face.

I've had a secret stash for as long as I can remember. When I was a little girl, I always kept a chocolate bar or two in my night table drawer. Why, you may ask? It was an insurance policy. I used to think that in case I'm sent to bed without dinner, I'll have something to tide me over until morning. Thing is, I was never, ever sent to my room (not that I didn't misbehave...let's get that straight from the get go), let alone sent without dinner. I have no idea where I got this thought in my head (TV?), but for years and years, there was an O Henry bar in my drawer. It never got eaten. It just sat there because, well, you never know.

This stash thing goes back generations in my family. We lived with my grandmother, and she always had what seemed to be an endless supply of mints in her purse that she would pull out at any given moment. And these weren't just any mints. They were clear, rectangular 'silver' mints that she would buy at Eaton's candy department. Invariably during car rides she would ask, "Would you like a mint?". Before anyone could answer, the clip of her purse would open. Nanny, as we called her, would dig in and pull out a few. "Here! Na!", she would say with a nod and a smile. Even if I didn't want one, I'd take one.

Some people and their stashes have made life extra special for me. Near the top of my list growing up was the 'old' man at shul (when you're 6, anyone over 20 is old) who had a magic tallis bag. He had an endless stash of candies for all of the little kids who passed by his seat. It was actually worth going to shul for the candies. This man had a great stash, no doubt about it, but there are stashes, and then there are magical stashes.

Far and above all others when it comes to stashes that appear out of nowhere, is our old neighbour and father to my bestest childhood friend. The man who my children call Uncle Jack is in a class by himself. From the day I met him as a little girl, to this very day in his very vibrant, early 90's, he has always been able to somehow produce candy at any given moment from every pocket of his clothing. Just when you think there couldn't be any more, Uncle Jack is able to make boxes of Smarties appear from nowhere. His can only be deemed a miracle stash!

For me, my secret stash has always been about 'just in case'. In our house, the last few drops of every pot of chicken soup goes into a small container and straight into the freezer. It's always just enough soup for one person. That little container of leftover liquid is not taken lightly; in fact, I believe I can safely say that my children consider it holy. It even has its own name; it's known affectionately as, 'emergency chicken soup'. If someone comes home from school or work feeling sick, there's always chicken soup if needed. It's soup stash.

And it seems as though the concept has managed to catch on to the next generation. I received a phonecall from a stuffy nosed daughter-o'-mine a while back, asking me what I had used as criteria for dipping in to the emergency chicken soup stash. "Do you have a fever?" I asked. "Okay", she replied, "I get it", thus ending the conversation. I don't know if she ended up using hers or not, but I suppose there must always be unwritten laws, even for secret stashes.

Secret stashes are naughty and comforting at the same time. They can, at the best of time, be used to delight and surprise others with their sudden appearance.

Does everyone have a secret stash, I wonder? Do you?