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!