My first honest-to-goodness lavish eating experience was in France when I was sixteen. I had never been overseas before, and it was one of those chaperoned jobbies where I spent a week on a bus with a bunch of American teenagers and then we all separated to spend three weeks with a host family. I hit the jackpot with my placement; a lovely upper middle class family in Toulon on the Mediterranean with a pool and a sailboat. They were so quintessentially Southern France I thought they would kick me out of their house as soon as they saw how fast I sunburned. They oozed glamour out of their pores. They took me on sailing trips and gave me French Champagne on my seventeenth birthday. Everyone smoked and looked like movie stars when they did it. The older sister, Delphine was nineteen and generally wanted nothing to do with me, but sometimes she’d drive me around in her jeep so she could practice her English. She looked like Brigitte Bardot and I was in love with her. Not in a sexually confused way, more like a I-want-to-be-you-so-bad-I-could-die sort of way. The parents, Guy and Martine, let me and my other host sister Charlotte have pool parties when they went to work. They’d leave the liquor cabinet open and a bunch of Charlotte’s pals would come over. Everyone was tanned and beautiful and would greet each other with kisses on the cheeks then go topless while I sat poolside in my Northern Reflections t-shirt and burned with Catholic shame.

So I didn’t quite learn to loosen up that summer, but I did have a lot of formative food experiences. I was shocked to learn how good ripe peaches were, and that the juice did in fact run down your arm when you bit into one. I ate more fresh fruit and vegetables in those three weeks than I ate in one year back home in Labrador. One night Martine and Guy had a fancy dinner party and my job was to peel the avocados. I had never seen one in my life and couldn’t believe no one had ever told me there was an oily vegetable (fruit?) that you could put a knife through like butter. Besides the one day it rained, we ate supper outside every single evening.

Everyone has thought of running off to France to live at one point or another and I’m no exception. It comes up often when I play the “When I Win an Obnoxious Amount of Money” game. I’ll have a big beautiful house on the Mediterranean with a yard full of cypress trees and all the fresh peaches I can eat. In reality, the last time I was in France I was backpacking and booked a bunk at the “Aloha Hostel” (that should have been my first warning) in Paris. I didn’t see a pillow on my bed and when I went to the front desk to inquire I was yelled at with an emphatic “WEE DUN’T ‘AVE PEELOWS”. It’s a good thing there were fresh baguettes and stupidly good coffee for breakfast, otherwise I might have walked away with a bad impression of Parisians.

The whole embarrassing point to this story (more embarrassing than the Northern Reflections t-shirt…it was fuchsia) is that Newfoundland is so close to France it’s almost silly. So close all these years and I only made it to St. Pierre this past summer while I was on tour. Our day off happened to be in Fortune and we were a short drive from the ferry terminal. Let me tell you, this little trip to France was a well-needed mini vacation after a hellish couple of days on the road. My birthday had been two days earlier and the celebrations included a five hour drive from Grand Falls to the Burin Peninsula, getting drunk by myself at a dinner theatre, and staying at a moldy B&B being run by a couple more suited to running a prison camp. They hated each other, they hated us, and they were drunk. Well so was I when I got locked out in the cold that night, but it was my birthday and I was allowed. Hi Nan.

A cold and grey day on the ferry, but not so bad. I was just glad to be out of the moldy house where people yelled at us. The minute we docked the fog cleared, the sun came out, and it was like some little French cheruby angels flew a banner across the sky that read, “Welcome! We’re sorry about your shitty birthday. We will make it today, non?” Oui! Bonne Fête to moi! I was functioning on three hours sleep but I kicked it into high gear. Dumped my bag at the Hotel Robert, grabbed my camera and took to the streets. Three months on the road in rural Newfoundland and all I wanted was a coffee that didn’t come from a gas station. Two espressos, one ham and cheese baguette and a chocolate croissant later and I started walking. Glad to be in the sun, out of the country, and full of the best food I’d eaten in months. I hung out by the lighthouse for a while and then backtracked to poke around in town a bit. I even found my own little red poulet…

I made myself a promise when I went through customs that I wouldn’t be afraid to use my French. Turns out I’m pretty fearless when it comes to ordering food and even a language barrier won’t get in my way. I’d probably haul Mandarin out of my ass if I had to. A lot of folks speak English at the tourist spots, but I always tried to beat them to the punch and start in French, telling myself it might be a while before I could practice again. I managed to order a tarte au citron and a café noisette at Les Délices de Joséphine without passing out. And what the what, café noisette? How have I never known about you? Kids probably get one on their first day of Kindergarten in France and I had never tried one? I have a food blog? Jesus. Sometimes I embarrass myself. I definitely embarrassed myself by pretending to read a French Elle magazine and only looking at the pictures.

A belated birthday supper that night at Saveur des Isles with Didi and Darryl. Course after decadent course of what I can only explain as the exact polar opposite of every hot turkey sandwich I had eaten on tour. A prosciutto and melon salad with fried chèvre to start, lamb with pommes frites and two mousses for dessert. Or would it be two mousse for dessert, like two moose? I argued with Darryl about whether the frites were done in duck fat and if they were, I mean how hard would it be to get duck fat in Newfoundland? Why did St. Pierre and Miquelon get to have all this great food and I had to wait until Thursdays in Cow Head to buy a banana? I’ll tell you why. Because the French don’t eff around, that’s why. If they wouldn’t let Marie Antoinette have her cake and eat it too, they’re not going to let living on a tiny island 3800 kilometres from the Motherland change the way they eat.

I think giving five year olds café noisettes might just be a step in the right direction.

For who, you say? Which Sheila? Is she coming to dinner? Will she bring a nice bottle of Merlot? No, but she will dash all hopes of approaching spring with an apocalyptic dumping of snow never before seen by mankind. Or at least never seen since this time last year. We’re talking Sheila’s Brush, of course; a Newfoundland legend that predicts one final storm hitting around St. Paddy’s Day, as Sheila brushes away winter and ushers in spring. We know what Sheila does, and we know she’s related or connected to St. Patrick, but no one seems to know if she’s his mother, sister, wife, mistress, or housekeeper. Jesus, the poor woman. I’d dump snow on everyone too. She must have been in an awful mood in the summer of 1987 when she snowed on us at girl guide camp that afternoon they made us dig ditches. I can’t remember what bothered me more, that it was snowing in August or that we were digging ditches. Either way, I think I prayed real hard to Sheila that night to send more snow so I wouldn’t have to spend one more night in a freezing cold tent with these bitches who made fun of me for being homesick (and not being able to poop in an outhouse). She didn’t answer my prayers, but I did pee in my pants. Luckily Kendra and the two Leslies were fast asleep.

Sheila rears her head and brush in mysterious ways. She’s not likely to hit Newfoundland in August, but I can recall snowy afternoons walking home from rehearsal in Cow Head as late as May. Five years ago she swept in exactly on time, slamming St. John’s on St. Paddy’s Day. A cup of tea in the afternoon at Didi’s turned into a boozy sleepover when I realized the storm hit before I could make it home. I was only a twenty minute walk away, but my dad had called in hysterics, telling me to stay put or I might “lose my breath” on the way home. He also told me as a child that I’d get scurvy if I didn’t eat my potato skins. I stayed at Di’s to keep him happy, and Dad was right…the streets were buried. I’m not sure about breathing, but walking and driving were impossible. We made it across the street to Halliday’s to grab supplies to make nachos and chocolate chip cookies. We played scrabble and drank beer and were kind of grateful to be holed up for the night. Sheila seemed pretty pleased with herself and was gone before morning, leaving the city to dig itself out and fight over parking spots. Didi’s mom Helga was visiting from the Northern Peninsula (where the heartiest Newfoundland winters happen) and even she was impressed with the size of the snowbanks.

We all like to cling to the hope that when Sheila comes on or around St. Paddy’s day, that’s it, we’re good! Winter’s over! Put away the snow blower, break out the barbecue, put on some shorts and take off your socks. St. John’s: going sockless and pantless in April is not cool. Everyone thinks you’re an idiot, except all the other people drinking with you on the patio at the Sundance. Put your clothes back on and layer accordingly until July.

Whether winter’s done in March or June is completely up to herself, and while you can’t do much about warming up the outside, you can warm up your insides plenty. Here’s a quick and easy soup that will do the job, especially if you’re feeling a cold coming on. I’m a bit old fashioned when it comes to medicating myself. I make it a personal mission to try and fight an illness naturally before I reach for the Neocitran (I love love, it makes me so warm and sleepy). Sometimes I fail when that voice in my head says “put down the echinacea hippie and have some of that warm lemon drink” but I’m trying harder with every flu. One night a few months ago I was feeling a cold coming on before a trip out of town and I was desperate to jump on it before it took hold. I opened my baking/medication cupboard (yeah, so?) and there was a ziploc bag full of Life brand cherry-flavoured sleepy time fun medicine packets. I resisted and poked around in my fridge; I was feeling a Thai style curry soup, but I had no lime and no cilantro. What I did have was some fresh mint and a few lemons. And after a couple of bowls of soup, what I didn’t feel the next morning was a cold coming on.

Not many exact ingredients or measurements here, but give this a go the next time you’re trying to fight a cold. Finely chop one onion and as much garlic, ginger and chillies as you can handle (I used about 6 cloves of garlic oh yeeeeah, a one inch piece of ginger and one small red Fresno) and saute in a little olive oil in a medium sized pot. Add some baby red potatoes cut in half. Season with soya sauce and some turmeric and a heaping tablespoon of red curry paste or a little less, depending on your heat tolerance. Give everything a stir, then top up with chicken or veg broth and a little coconut milk. Simmer until the potatoes are tender, then add the juice from one lemon (half a lemon if you like, but I like the huge hit of citrus, especially when I’m sick). Spoon into bowls and sprinkle with chopped fresh mint (If you can’t find fresh mint that day at the grocery store, cilantro and lemon balm are pretty good substitutions). Serve with a small bowl of basmati rice.

This soup is pretty intense, so unless your kids are super adventurous they might not go for it. As for yourself, don’t be afraid of all the garlic and chillies…garlic is so good for fighting a cold, and if you’re not used to chillies, be brave! Now is the best time to start working on your spice tolerance. The rice helps lessen the heat a little, or if you’re completely hopeless, leave out the chilli. I joke, you’re not completely hopeless. Never pay attention to someone who keeps her meds and baking chocolate in the same kitchen cupboard. Anyways, this soup works. The spicy, salty, citrusy combination is really something, especially when the fresh mint hits the hot soup and everything gets all lovely and aromatic. I’ve made this a few times in the past few months, even when I’m not sick and want something to warm up my belly when it’s miserable out.

When it’s cold, salad doesn’t cut it. It’s difficult to eat seasonally in Newfoundland, but there’s always soup and there’s always stew. I love going the traditional route using good moose, beef or chicken, but doing something a bit more exotic in winter and experimenting with different flavours and spices is what prevents me from having a seasonal nervous breakdown. I crank the heat, buy a case of beer from somewhere hot and far away, put on Balkan Beat Box, and make something that’s bursting with something other than salt and pepper. Surprisingly not that hard in St. John’s if you don’t mind making your way to a few shops in search of the perfect spices. A couple of months ago I was poking around on the Ottolenghi website (my latest obsession and newest cookbook, sweet mother, just beautiful) and found a recipe for shakshuka. His is done with ground beef and roasted eggplant and between Food for Thought and Belbin’s, I was able to find sumac and preserved lemons. If you can’t find an ingredient at either of those spots, it generally can’t be found in town and if either of them ever shut down I’m leaving the province.

Pair this one with a dead easy recipe for Middle Eastern style flatbread and you’re good to go. Anna Olson’s recipe uses baking powder so you don’t have to fuss around with yeast. And you can make a pile of them ahead of time and heat them up in the oven when your shakshuka or curry is ready. I didn’t have any coriander seeds banging around, but they were super tasty with cumin seeds. Both the shashuka and the flatbread reheated beautifully the next day over a tray of tea candles in the oven when the power went out for fourteen hours. Hopefully Sheila won’t brush us that hard in the next few weeks.

So keep the halter tops and sandals away a little while longer. Think of Sheila’s Brush as another small blessing and use her as an excuse to break out your cold meds and softpants. It could be worse, you could be digging ditches at girl guide camp. Enjoy your shakshuka!

Everywhere you go! Although folks on my street prefer animal print pajama pants. And it’s more like a year-round event. I don’t think it’s fair for one’s property assessment to go up eighty percent when eighty percent of one’s neighbourhood still think it’s ok to wear nightwear in public. But now let’s talk about when it’s perfectly acceptable to wear pj bottoms in public. That would be never. Except if your house is burning down and you’re standing distraught on a sidewalk holding a cat. In private? All the time. Unless you have a nice beat-in pair of jeans that are so comfy it’s like you’re not even wearing jeans. Yeah I know, I can’t fit into mine anymore either. Especially after this particular Christmas season, sweet baby Jesus and all the saints. And even though tour’s been over for quite a few months now, I’m really enjoying blaming the seven months I spent on the road this year. I now have a fear of sitting in cars, French fries (ha ha not really), gas stations, and changing my clothes in parish halls. Throw that together with seven months of being away from my kitchen and you have a recipe for an excellent, comfortable disaster. All I want to do is stay home, wear soft pants and cook. In the past five months, I’ve cooked more than I ever have in my life. I’ve perfected lava cakes, made my first risotto, my first prime rib roast, learned to sear lamb chops, and become obsessed with French food and buttermilk pancakes with raspberries. Coincidentally, I’ve also discovered the joys of leggings.

Helping with my smooth transition to soft pants are a whole host of recipes I tried this past fall, but I was too busy eating to write about any of them. So let’s have a look at what delights did me in this past Christmas, shall we? Cupcakes were involved, naturally. Cupcakes of the mini variety. Psychologically they’re fabulous, as four of them kind of equal one. Women’s Health magazine would probably tell you to forgo the cupcakes this holiday season and head to the veggie tray. That way you can eat a pound of baby carrots (minus the ranch dip), drink half a glass of red wine, and waltz out the door completely guilt-free. My Christmas bash this year fell on December 21st. If the Mayan Apocalypse was going to hit, I wanted to go out in a blaze of pink cupcakes and not a pile of vegetables.

Last year we went with a massive pile of mini red velvet, so this time I wanted to try something different. Chocolate was my first choice but at the last minute I decided to go with yellow cupcakes. I got it in my head to use pink buttercream and there was something about the pink and yellow together that made me happy. Not necessarily Christmasy, but still pretty and festive. I’ve tried this recipe a few times now and with a cup of sour cream and 6 eggs, they’re a no-brainer for end of the world parties. Or kids’ birthday parties according to George Geary in his big beautiful The Complete Baking Cookbook.

Yellow Cupcakes

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 tbsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 cup unsalted butter, softened
2 cups granulated sugar
2 eggs
4 egg yolks
1 cup sour cream
2 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350ºF. In a bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside. In a mixer bowl fitted with paddle attachment (I used a handmixer), cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs and egg yolks, one at a time, beating well between each addition. Beat in sour cream and vanilla on low speed. Using a wooden spoon, gradually stir in flour mixture just until blended. Scoop batter evenly into prepared muffin tins. Bake in preheated oven until a toothpick inserted into centre comes out clean, 20 to 25 minutes. Let cool in tin on a wire rack for 10 minutes before transferring to rack to cool completely.

(I used mini muffin tins, greased well and baked for about ten minutes. Keep a good eye on them, the minis don’t take very long.)

From The Complete Baking Cookbook (Robert Rose, 2007)

Vanilla Buttercream

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
6-8 cups confectioners’ sugar
1/2 cup milk
2 tsp vanilla extract

Place the butter in a large mixing bowl. Add 4 cups of sugar and then the milk and vanilla. On the medium speed of an electric mixer, beat until smooth and creamy, about 3-5 minutes. Gradually add the remaining sugar, 1 cup at a time, beating well after each addition (about 2 minutes), until the icing is thick enough to be of good spreading consistency. You may not need to add all of the sugar. If desired, add a few drops of food colouring and mix thoroughly. Use and store the icing at room temperature because icing will set if chilled. icing can be stored in an airtight container for up to 3 days.

The Complete Magnolia Bakery Cookbook (Simon and Schuster, 2009)

George wasn’t joking about kids going mental for these things. The wee ones who came to the Hobbit House festivities early with their parents were cracked for them. Oddly enough most of the youngsters wanted to eat them like muffins, plain with no icing. I thought this was the weirdest phenomenon ever, and it made me start worrying that maybe the Mayans were right after all. Lena however, had zero problem with the icing and was fascinated by the pomegranate seeds I decided to sprinkle on the minis for a bit of sparkle. I told her that that they were like eating little pink jewels, but that she should definitely not try eating other jewellery. She deseeded a whole pomegranate for me (one of my most hated tasks) and I’m hoping she visits soon because there’s one more in my fridge that will probably sit there until August.

This recipe will make two dozen regular cupcakes, or over sixty minis. Sixty-seven little bites of festive goodness to be exact. With a few drops of food colouring in the icing to match your mood or the season; cheesy Chanel pink was how I was rolling that day. I’d say go with the minis for a big party. If everyone shows a little restraint, you might even have some left for the carollers who show up at midnight.

The day after Boxing day and a pile of leftovers in the fridge. Justin’s parents were leaving for Florida and we got every single scrap of food left after Christmas dinner. We’ve all smiled and nodded and said “Sure, I’ll take some turkey.” It’s that silent agreement that ensures that as the host, you aren’t stuck with the shame of throwing out perfectly good food. Sure, that’s your guest’s job! Not me, no sir, not this year. I was armed with the knowledge that can only come from watching Christmas special marathons on the Food Network. When Justin’s mom asked how much I wanted I said, “I’ll take all of it.” I wasn’t scared. And neither were my soft pants. There isn’t a Newfoundland mom or nan out there who doesn’t cook for an army when they cook a turkey dinner. I’m eternally grateful for the bounty that is food in the Western world, but you can only reheat or make hash so many times before stuff gets real boring real fast. I think if you poke around a little online and take the time to get creative, leftovers can make some of the best meals going. And if you ask me, Newfoundlanders and Labradorians are a pretty lucky bunch. Ever make breakfast hash browns out of leftover potatoes from a Jiggs dinner? You will now! Just think about it. Perfectly salty, tender potatoes, drizzled in olive oil, seasoned with (only a touch) of salt and pepper, and baked until they’re all roasty and crispy and golden brown. The perfect breakfast potato. I felt bad for the rest of the world when I ate those.

And here’s a little tidbit that’ll make eggs a lot more fun. Rachel Khoo’s Oeufs en Cocotte. You can make them with whatever’s in the fridge, but check out the recipe for specifics. I used creme fraiche and tarragon and threw whatever herbs were left in some mayo for hash brown dipping. Made breadsticks out of a leftover whole wheat baguette. Poof! Breakfast at three in the afternoon; good with orange juice or beer.

Don’t put those pants on yet, kids. There’s bound to be a couple of turkey dinners in your future this year; maybe Easter, maybe sooner. When this happens and when the leftovers need a home, grab every scrap that you can and take a look at this Jamie Oliver recipe for turkey and sweet leek pie. You won’t groan and roll your eyes the next time your mom pushes you out the door with her biggest tupperware container. You’ll tell her to fill it to the brim. She might think you’re doing drugs, but you will end up with a new appreciation for turkey, I promise.

Mind your salt with this one because you can bet that turkey dinner is a bit of a saltier affair here than in the UK. Same goes for the broth in the recipe, especially if you use pot liquor like I did…wow. No thyme, used tarragon. No creme fraiche, used sour cream. And of course couldn’t nail down chestnuts or sage so I just used pre-rolled puff pastry (President’s Choice brand from Dominion works wonders) for the topping. You’ll figure it out and you’ll eat it every day until the entire pie is gone. It lasted us until the day before New Year’s Eve and then I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I put on pajama pants and made a leg of lamb.

It sure was great to make that resolution on January 1st. It was even better to break it on January 2nd. The best thing of all? Putting on some soft pants and deciding to wait until Chinese New Year.

It’s the most magical time of the year. Christmas? Sort of. Imagine all the good food you eat at Christmas, except prepared by Newfoundland and Canada’s top chefs. The best part? No presents to buy for anyone, just one big fat present to yourself. And no fruitcake. The annual Roots, Rants and Roars Festival in Elliston arrived this year with sunny skies and sold out crowds. I left the tent home this time and instead brought one sister, one mom and one very brave boyfriend.

Registration on Friday night and a glass of Champagne to start (sorry France, sparkling Canadian wine, can you please just let us say it). An awesome addition to this year’s festivities? Oh a wineyard, I’d say. A what what? A wineyard! Like a lanyard, except it holds a glass of wine instead of a name tag. A little keepsake from Elliston and something guaranteed to start conversations when worn to parties. Mostly conversations about you maybe being an alcoholic. Onward! Into the park and the start of the King of Cod festivities.

Business time. First line we hit, Mark McCrowe of Aqua. Tempura miso cod with Thai mango salad and fried cashews. Just…what. God. No words. Not surprising to anyone who’s eaten at Aqua, this guy wasn’t messing around. Just like last year, the first bite made the trip worth it. It felt like home already.

I’ll tell you something, Jeremy Charles (Raymonds) was out to impress, and it doesn’t get more impressive than deep fried cod face for a couple of hundred people. His spin on fish and chips turned a few heads. “Face and Chips” came with a cod head, tongue, sweet corn, snow crab, potato salad and wild leek aioli. Sweet Mother. I’ve been lucky enough to have eaten at Raymonds and I know that everything this guy touches turns to gold, but Robin was a little skeptical. “I don’t know about the whole eating the face thing.” We all have memories of crying over a plate of cod tongues as a kid, being scolded about the poor little kids in Africa who had no cod tongues and would we like to eat our cod tongues or wear them? Or you know, maybe your mom relented and made you hot dogs, but mine never backed down and I like to think she has something to do with my grown-up palate. And here we all were, lacing into a cod head each and no one had to wear their supper at all.

Chris Chafe (Magnum and Steins) worked his station like a rockstar. This guy’s a 23 year old ninja-chef and makes me feel like I’ve accomplished nothing in life, so thanks for that Chris. He made cod tostada with guacamole, black bean and pork chilli, queso fresco and pickled onion and tomato salsa, which I’ve decided I would like to put in a piñata for my next birthday. It was because of this dish that Justin and I went to Magnum and Steins last weekend for the first time. When the waitress asked how I liked my heirloom tomato and pancetta caprese salad with balsamic caviar I told her I wanted to marry it.

Roary MacPherson killed it with a chimichurri glazed cod with minted couscous and pickled veg. He was churning food out like a drill sergeant, fast enough that rumours started circulating early that his cod was going to be the one to beat. Roary’s was the very first RRR dish I tasted last year…cod poached in olive oil on a bed of split pea masala, so for that, he will always hold a special place in my heart.

A friend told me to get over to the Chinched station (Shaun Hussey and Michelle LeBlanc) because they were running out of food; we made it over just in time to grab the last little taste, but the four of us had to huddle over the bowl and share. The cod was something salty and buttery and beautiful that came with sausages (which we sadly never got to try). Word on the field was that they were gorgeous and I’m not surprised. Chinched Bistro might be my favourite place to eat in St. John’s and if anything it gave me a good excuse to make another reservation when I got back to town.

No desserts last year, but this time there was unlimited cotton candy. I can’t think of anything better after an evening of cod as rich and filling as this one was. I don’t think anyone had room left for a creme brulee, but there sure were a scatter few sticky blue faces in the crowd.

I agonized over who to vote for as The King of Cod. Jeremy Charles punched it in the face last year, but there was something about the dishes this year, how absolutely different they were. The kind of thing where one would be your favourite on a Monday, but on Thursday it would be the other, depending on your mood. Like, parents, how do you choose a favourite child? This is what I was pondering as I ate my second cotton candy. The end of the night came and…no ballots? But…why? I heard something about no prize this year because it would show favouritism. What the what? I won’t lie, it took the wind out of my sails a little. Kind of like sports day at school these days, where everyone gets a ribbon instead of just the kid who ran the fastest. These chefs are tough, I think they can handle it. Bring back the $1000 prize! Make them mud wrestle! Come on! Everyone loves a competition, and if the ante is upped, the food gets better. See? Everybody wins!

The crowds this year were huge; I was really feeling for the chefs. Taken from the controlled chaos of their own kitchens and plunked down in the middle of an outdoor municipal park where hundreds of people were waiting to be fed some of the best food of their lives? I think someone needs to write a letter to the Queen on their behalf or something, seriously. Well done guys.

Next day: Food Hike. Probably the most sought after ticket of the weekend, according to pleas for last minute spares on Facebook and Twitter. The food and weather gods collided in the best way possible and the day was perfect; sunny, warm and breezy. Chuck Hughes (host of the Food Network’s Chuck’s Day Off) was manning the station closest to the municipal park’s entrance. I bet Chuck was wishing it really was his day off when he saw the line of people waiting to be impressed. Three-quarters of the line was supposed to be put on a bus and dropped at the other end of the hike to even things out, but no one was budging. I think they might need a bullhorn next year. Or a herd of bulls.

I was so pleased to round a corner and find the man himself running a station this year. How it is that Todd Perrin managed to find the time to cook is beyond me, but his deep fried capelin were just the best example ever of taking something every Newfoundlander knows about and making it something every Newfoundlander should know about. Even Robin ate them, face and all.

Martin Juneau was the only chef who gave halibut a go on the hike. He’s a Montreal based chef at Pastaga, which I’m pretty sure is Italian for “Don’t hate me because I’m this handsome and can cook too”.  Justin and Mom’s favourite. Bacon marmalade gets the moms every time, Martin.

Jonathan Gushue’s dish (I’m guessing he has a restaurant next to Martin’s) was the prettiest and most colourful thing I’ve ever eaten. Cold poached salt cod with buttermilk and leek oil, garnished with wildflowers. If Roary MacPherson’s olive oil poached cod baffled me last year, this stuff just made me question my beliefs. Here’s the thing; Jonathan Gushue made me get it. This fish was melt in your mouth, perfectly salty and savoury, tangy, bursty, everything. This guy can bring it. The dish was so, so beautiful that I was afraid to eat it, afraid it wouldn’t taste like the thing I was staring at. I think this is what happens when a Newfoundland chef decides to take everything about traditional food and completely embrace it and own it. And just as a side note, Jonathan Gushue was interviewed by the Globe and Mail and he said that only one of the six cooking students he was working with at RRR would try his dish. The fact that I didn’t see five unconscious young people lying on the grass around his station is a testament to the fact that he must be an awfully nice guy. Can you imagine? I wonder if they went home after the food hike and had chicken nuggets and fries. Oooh, we still have so much work to do.

And look at Grant Van Gameren! Making chocolate blood pudding! Now there’s a brazen one. You should have seen Mom’s face, I almost had to kick her in the leg. Our cousin’s husband Philip was one of Grant’s sous chefs and scammed Mom a plate with just the white chocolate aerated mousse stuff it came with, but I couldn’t back down. I don’t think it’ll replace lava cakes in my life or anything, but this guy would have gotten mega brownie points from the judges on Iron Chef for originality. Heh heh, or blood pudding points. And I’m willing to bet there were a few people who might have been fooled into thinking it was  real chocolate (Mom) if the rumours of a meat dessert hadn’t jumped the hike like wildfire.

Ahh, liquor control boards. Ruining fun since the dawn of time. They nixed the wine tastings on the hike this year…something to do with the crowd, too many people. This makes as much sense to me as Rona Ambrose having a job. And sort of just gets people to discreetly hide their own booze instead of sampling new wines and encouraging the purchase of new products. Exceptions for major tourist events? No? I would kind of get it if it was a bible camp hike and not a foodie hike…but anyways, let me put down this flask of Jim Beam and say that the RRR folks handled the problem beautifully, giving out a very generous amount of drink tickets for the weekend. And having a pit stop on the hike with your choice of Quidi Vidi iceberg beer or a cocktail with homemade blueberry puree. Well done, RRR. And hey, liquor board, can’t we all just get along?

Mom is scarred from making friends with the family farm animals as a child and then having to eat them for supper, so she opted out of the roast that night. I’m of the school that if you eat it, you should be able to look it in the eye instead of in the plastic wrap, but we took her drink tickets and sent her home. And it’s a good thing too, because I’m not sure she would have dug the pig head with the apple in its mouth and knife in its head. Hey pssst, wanna see a picture that’ll make a vegan turn whiter than Mitt Romney?

I’ve always felt weird about not owning a rolling pin, but watching Jeremy Charles use a wine bottle to roll dough for flatbread made me feel a bit more like a badass and less like a boozehound. His lamb kebab was the last dish I tried before hitting the meat wall later that night. I can’t think of a better way to hit a wall.

The roast was insane and the lines were long, but I was hellbent on getting a taste of everything. The line up towards the back of the park was a mishmash of people not really knowing if they were lining up for the beer can chicken or the barbecued pork, but the mood was pretty easy going thanks to the proximity to the beer tent. The chicken was definitely worth the wait, but Roary MacPherson gets the biggest, fattest shout out from me for the fast moving line of moose sliders with a side of Jigg’s dinner. Yes, on the side. Sunday dinner in my house may never be the same.

No doubt everyone will be rooting (and ranting and roaring) for more food adventures next fall. Another whole year til Christmas. I guess the one in December will have to do me for now.

My theory is that pie fixes everything. I mean it doesn’t guarantee that Mitt Romney won’t take over the world, or ensure world peace or anything, but it fixes a lot. Like a shitty day, a bad break-up, bankruptcy, a case of ebola. I jest of course, but you get what I’m saying. I think pie is the perfect dessert. It’s one of the most perfect things in life, like a new puppy or a really nice tree. Not one of these store-bought deals that lazy people bring to potlucks, but a real live pie that’s been fretted over and made with love and lust and maybe even a few tears. That’s how I feel about pie and that is how I try to make pie. I don’t think you should make one if you’re not in love with it. Go buy a bag of Jam Jams.

Three years ago my friend Susie bought me a Jamie Oliver cookbook for my birthday. Hers rolled around a couple of months later and when I asked what she wanted for her birthday dinner she picked a bunch of recipes from the book that had jumped out at her and told me to go crazy. One of the desserts she’d pointed out was a toffee apple tart…a pie with vanilla bean shortcrust pastry, dulce de leche filling, topped off with apples tossed in icing sugar. It looked a little intimidating, but it was on the birthday list and I couldn’t back down from the challenge and take a nap like I normally do. Me and pastry are like that bomb diffuser guy in The Hurt Locker. He manages to pull it off every time, but you know in your guts that one of these days it’s going to end in disaster. I totally get why people go to school to learn how to make pastry. It’s an art form, and anyone who tells you otherwise should not be allowed in your house. Grandmothers know how to do it instinctively, and even some moms. The women (and a few of the men) in my family are geniuses at it, but I don’t do it as much as I should so I’m not great at it. It’s like parallel parking. If I could make a perfect pie pastry and parallel park, man I would be so happy.

And then there’s the dulce de leche. Popular in Europe, Latin America, and Bonavista North. One of the most divine and terrifying sweets known to mankind. Terrifying in that making it involves ignoring the warning label on the can that says “DO NOT BOIL UNOPENED CAN, IT MAY EXPLODE” and boiling the unopened can. It’s a little hard to describe how it tastes…sweet and creamy, tangy, almost like someone swirled a little cream cheese in. There’s this famous scene that didn’t make the cut in Castaway where Tom Hanks gets pulled off the raft and when the guys get him on the big tanker, there’s yelling and a big commotion and this shot of the cook running down to the kitchen and grabbing a can of already caramelized condensed milk. As he’s running he’s pulling off the flip top lid, he takes a spoon out of the ass pocket of his jeans and gets a spoonful into Tom and saves his life. Not really, but that’s how good it tastes. So perfect it’s worth the possibility of a small kitchen explosion. In South America grandmothers use dulce de leche to make alfajores. In Pound Cove on the northern end of Bonavista Bay, my nan spooned it into homemade pie pastry, or little mini tartlets. Whether South American nans wear freshly laundered underwear on their heads and sing “Jesus Loves the Little Children” while kneading bread is still a mystery to me, but I like to think I’ll find out someday.

I met a guy at a potluck recently, let’s call him Will, because that’s his name. Will was the foodie of the group and made my smoky paprika roast potatoes look like kindergarten next to his perfectly cooked beef kabobs. It was like Miley Cyrus and Judi Dench showing up at the same party. We got to chatting about the obvious and our conversation turned to pastries and the like. I asked him if he’d ever tried Jamie Oliver’s magic pie with homemade dulce de leche. He said no, but that he had made his own dulce de leche before.

“Me too!! So stressful though you know?”

“Holy shit, do you do it closed in the can? That shit can explode everywhere.”

I was confused. If Jamie Oliver said it was ok, and my nan said it was ok…wasn’t that ok? Will proceeded to tell me he did his in a can but with a few puncture holes in the top to ease the pressure and avoid kitchen explosions.

“Really? Because Nan would put a dozen in a pressure cooker on Sunday and go to church.”

Will was speechless. One point for Nanny.

Toffee Apple Tart

For the shortcrust pastry:

1 vanilla bean
5 tbsp butter
1 cup powdered sugar
a small pinch of salt
2 scant cups flour
zest of 1/2 a lemon (optional)
2 egg yolks
2 tbsp cold milk or water

For the filling:

2 14 oz cans of sweetened condensed milk
4 medium-sized cooking apples
2 heaping tbsp powdered sugar

Peel off the labels and put your unopened cans of condensed milk in a high-sided pan, covered with water. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer constantly for about 3 hours with a lid on top. It’s very important to remember to keep checking the pan, as you don’t want it to boil dry – otherwise the cans will explode. It will give you the most amazing toffee. Put the cans to one side and allow to cool. Make your pastry. Score down the length of the vanilla bean and remove the seeds by scraping a knife down the inside of each half (keep the pod for making vanilla sugar). Cream together the butter, powdered sugar and and salt and then rub in the flour, vanilla seeds, lemon zest and egg yolks – you can do all this by hand or in a food processor. When the mixture looks like coarse breadcrumbs, add the cold milk or water. Pat and gently work the mixture together until you have a ball of dough, then flour it lightly and roll it into a large sausage shape – don’t work the pastry too much otherwise it will become too elastic and chewy, not flaky and short as you want it to be. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and place in the fridge to rest for at least an hour. Remove it from the fridge, slice it up and line an 11 inch tart mold with the slivers. Push them together, then tidy up the sides by trimming off any excess. Place the tart mold in the freezer for an hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Peel and quarter the apples and remove the cores, then slice finely and toss in the powdered sugar. Remove the pastry base from the freezer and smear the caramel from both cans of sweetened condensed milk over it. Place the apples on top and pour any remaining juices over. Cook at the bottom of the preheated oven for about 40 minutes, to give you a crispy base and bubbling toffee over the apples. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

From Jamie’s Dinners (Hyperion, 2004)

This was maybe my fourth time making the magic pie and my first time trying the pastry with a food processor. Although there was no exploding lamb marinade like the first time I broke it out, I think I pulsed the the first ingredients a little too much; not so much coarse breadcrumbs, more like fine powder. Strike one. Strike two, I generally suck at pastry and came close to tears, but pie is supposed to be made with tears, right? Strike three, when I took the sorry looking log out of the fridge my dad was over for a coffee and I cracked under the pressure of slicing and forming the pastry in front of the man who’d probably seen his mom make thousands of perfect pies. Maybe I should have put underwear on my head, I don’t know. Next time no food processor, no witnesses, more patience, and a pair of drawers.

Dulce de leche is so good that you could spread it on Masonite and people would still love it. Which is a good thing because that’s kind of what the pastry felt like to me. No complaints from Justin and supper guests Katie and Duncan, but I think Gordon Ramsay might have thrown a pot at my head.

I’m not one for people posting, but these pics of Duncan and the dulce de leche were too good not to share with the world. This was what Tom Hanks’ face looked like after the first spoonful. He was so happy he was like, “Wilson who?”

Don’t be scared. Give this one a go and you won’t be sorry. I’m afraid of everything (raw chicken and coffee grinders) so if I pulled this shit off, anyone can. I wouldn’t recommend a pressure cooker while you’re at mass, but maybe a glass of whisky and a clean pair of underwear.

It was a long old haul from January 29th to July 3rd, but I made it home in one piece; road weary, a little snugger in my jeans and a little alarmed by the deepening of my forehead wrinkles. Welcome back! Five days of rest before heading out on tour for another three and a half weeks. And by rest I mean three shows and two days off to try and squeeze in all the people I love. Too many people (lucky girl) and not enough days! Strange first of all to see St. John’s in July. The Northern Peninsula has been my world from May to September for years and I was curious to see what my house looked and felt like in summer. Leaves on the trees, skeety kids skateboarding in the cul-de-sac, and 29 degrees on the thermostat in my little red kitchen. Jesus, that doesn’t even happen during my squishy Christmas party. This summer thing was really something. And friends keep telling me that sometimes you get more than those allotted two days in Cow Head.

Robert was staying at my place for the summer and my boyfriend had bought a new house while I was away, so I stayed there. The same boyfriend who didn’t blink an eye when I said. “So, I gotta go on tour for six months. We cool?” I was excited to get to know a new kitchen, and I’m pretty sure Justin was equally excited to have five months of tour explode all over his house. For sure baking him the very first batch of cookies in his brand new house would make up for my mess. I used my fail-safe, Michael Smith’s oatmeal chocolate chip cookies; the easiest recipe out there for a quick fix when someone drops by for tea, or you need a few spoonfuls of cookie dough after a shit day at work. This was going to be awesome! I was such an excellent girlfriend. We were headed to Melanie and Mark’s house the next day for a barbecue and I was in charge of dessert. I had made a batch of homemade raspberry ice cream earlier that would be squashed between cookies to make little ice cream sandwiches. I was so pleased with myself I thought about doing something I’ve never done before…tweeting one of my favourite chefs. I asked Justin if it would be weird or dorky or a little sad if, after the dessert was a raging success, it would make me a complete loser if I tweeted Michael Smith to let him know I used his recipe for the ice cream sandwiches.

“I think it would be adorable.”

“What? Adorable? Ok, well then I won’t do it.”

“Cool, I mean it would really cool.”

“I’m totally gonna do it.”

It took me a while to get around to this Twitter thing. Not surprising, as I still haven’t figured out how to put it out there on the huge blank white space to your right. Melanie finally convinced me to give it a try on Christmas Day when I was at her place, full of red wine and chicken lababdar. At that moment I could easily have been convinced to run shoeless through the streets of downtown for a laugh, but instead I opened a Twitter account. But you know what? The whole 140 characters makes it hard for me to gush about food sometimes. When I went over the character limit that first time the little bird told me “I’d have to be more clever.” So what, I was supposed to OMG and LOL and WTF? If that was clever I wanted nothing more to do with it and said so to my computer before throwing it into Melanie’s fireplace. Right, so nothing got thrown in the fireplace and I finally figured out that Twitter was harmless enough and if anything it was a fun way to get new recipes from your favourite chefs, or waste hours of time reading about people’s farts.

So that was it. I would tweet Michael, he would retweet (I know…humanity’s doomed), and we’d become instant pals. Too bad I burnt the shit out of the cookies. New kitchen, new oven, lots of places to lay the blame except squarely where it belonged. I should have raised the rack, I should have lowered the temperature until I was used to the oven, I should have kept a closer eye, blah blah. Crushing disappointment on all sides. No tweeting, no smell of homemade cookies wafting through my fella’s kitchen. Just me crooked as sin with myself for screwing up the simplest of desserts. Really. This simple.

Michael Smith’s Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 stick butter (1/2 cup)
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp molasses
1 cup flour
1 cup oats
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 egg
1 tbsp vanilla
1 cup chocolate chips

Preheat your oven to 375 F. Cream the butter, sugar and molasses together in a stand mixer (I used a hand mixer). Beat until well combined and creamy. If you don’t have a stand mixer beat vigorously by hand in a large bowl. Meanwhile whisk the flour, oats, baking powder and salt together in a separate bowl. Add the egg and vanilla to the butter mixture and continue beating until well combined. Scrape down the bowl and gradually add the flour mix, beating just until combined. Stir in the chocolate chips by hand. You may try using ground oats if you prefer a smoother texture cookie. Using a tablespoon, scoop out a ball of the dough and drop onto a lightly greased cookie tray. Flatten slightly, leaving lots of room in between for the cookies to expand. Bake for 12-15 minutes. Cool for 2 minutes then remove from the tray.

The best tasting cookie dough you will ever eat. Ever. Mind the the heat in your oven, or you too will look like an arsehole in front of friends and loved ones.

Justin said they still tasted great and I told him he was supposed to say that because he was my boyfriend. I agonized over the waste of good butter and chocolate and I think I may have filled up at one point. I almost threw them out and started from scratch, but I was tired and I still had to put the chicken in to marinate for the next day. Let’s see if I could do this without looking like an 8 year old.

At Didi’s birthday party in Halifax our friend Mary-colin made these amazing chicken thighs marinated in buttermilk and turmeric and probably a bunch of other nice stuff that I didn’t quite catch through the haze of Red Stripe. This stuff was amazing on the barbecue and I knew I had to borrow the idea and give it a go. We all know how I feel about chicken breasts, but Mel really likes them and I figured if the marinade worked, they’d be tender enough to make curried barbecued chicken sandwiches. Or something. After the burnt cookies I had no hope for the universe. Anyway, it all worked out in the end, so give this a go and it’ll be something different at your next barbecue. A good recipe to have if you have friends who don’t eat red meat.

I had about five big fat chicken breasts that I put in a large bowl and stabbed with a fork a few times. Salted and peppered them and poured in enough buttermilk until they were covered (buy a one litre and save the rest for pancakes). Here’s where you can go a little crazy with whatever spices you have…just make sure turmeric is one of them so when the chicken is grilled it’ll have that really vibrant curry colour. I used whatever was in my magic tour bag of spices: 2 tsp of turmeric, 1 1/2 tsp chilli powder, 1 1/2 tsp ground cumin, 1 1/2 tsp paprika and 1 1/2 tsp of crushed chillis. I love everything absolutely bursting with spice and heat, but you can ease up and go 1 tsp each or even a half each for a subtler flavour. I think ground cardamom and coriander might be nice.

These babies marinated overnight, but you’d be good with a couple of hours in a pinch. We piled everything in the car the next afternoon and managed to make it to the liquor store and then Mel and Mark’s without spilling buttermilk chicken juice all over Justin’s car. I poured a glass of Prosecco when I got there and made some lime mint cilantro mayonnaise for the chicken burgers. As easy as it sounds, unless you’re going to make your own homemade in which case well aren’t you something. If you’ve had a couple of glasses of Prosecco on an empty stomach, just squeeze some lime juice and throw some fresh chopped mint and cilantro into a few tablespoons of your favourite jarred mayonnaise (no tangy zip please) and poof, you’re done.

Barbecuing is up there with small engine repair for me, so I got Mark to cook them. I knew he wouldn’t give us salmonella poisoning and that’s a hell of a lot of trust coming from me. He thought they were overcooked but I thought they were perfect. And not dry boring chicken breasts at all…juicy and tasty and the way a chicken breast should be, not poached next to a pile of green beans on the cover of a health magazine.

I cut up the chicken in burger-sized pieces and we ate them on big toasted Italian rolls with the mayonnaise and some arugula. Mel had hers with tomato, but I kept mine a little more naked. Served with Melanie’s favourite “yogi secret shame” macaroni salad from those clear plastic tubs. You won’t see that on a cover of a health magazine any time soon, but it’ll make you happier than green beans, that’s for sure.

Michael. I’m sorry I burnt the cookies. I’m sorry I forgot to take the ice cream out of the freezer to soften. I’m sorry I had too much Prosecco and couldn’t fashion little ice cream sandwiches. But you will be happy to know, that a few scoops of homemade raspberry ice cream on top of your burnt cookies made a whole lot of people happy.

Regards,

@lttlredchicken

Back in Cow Head after two trips across the Trans-Labrador Highway and I was good and ready to light some shit on fire. Nothing too serious, just a little boil up to reassure myself that I was still hardcore, even though I’m afraid of bears and helicopters. A walk out to the head for a little fire on the beach. What? There are coyotes now? The kids aren’t allowed out at recess anymore? Jesus. I get taking away peanut butter, but can we give them back their slingshots and let them play outside? Anyways, I like to think I could take one down if I had to (a coyote, not a child). But I did run away from a fox that one time when I was jogging because I was afraid of getting rabies. Looks like somebody’s all talk and needs to fashion a slingshot herself. I ended up keeping it kind of local and just walked down to the beach…the part that’s around the corner from the national park where you won’t get in trouble for having a little fire and where there’s enough driftwood to cook yourself a little something and make a cup of tea. All I wanted in the world was to toast the croissants I had bought in Blanc Sablon on the fire and spread them with Nutella. I would punch a coyote in the face for that.

Most of my camping supplies were packed away in my friend Adrian’s basement; I knew I needed to get to the beach now or I would fall into a Trans-Labrador Highway induced coma (we had only just driven from the ferry that morning). I grabbed some matches, packed a bag and headed out. Lit a small fire and put my croissant next to to it, laid on a rock. Caveman cooking. But the chocolate was melty and the croissant was toasty, as toasty and melty as my little heart when I took my first bite. I didn’t even mind the soot and tiny pieces of wood.

Curry for supper! A little jaunt down the road I suppose, to see what lovely produce I could procure from the Riteway. Potatoes it is! Oh, Cow Head you do have an Idaho potato like no other. I unpacked my groceries and took out the spices I had grabbed at the epicerie at the last second. Here’s what happened.

Quick and Dirty Curry

3-4 tbsp olive oil
5 garlic cloves, minced
2 medium sized onions, chopped
9 medium sized potatoes, in chunks
1 1/2 tsp cumin
1 1/2 tsp turmeric
1/4 tsp crushed dried chilis
1 tsp chili powder
1/2 tsp paprika
3 cups vegetable or chicken broth
1 cup cream
salt and pepper

Heat oil in a fair sized pot. Add garlic and onion and cook until onion is soft. Add the potatoes, spices, and season with salt and pepper, stirring well. Stir in the broth and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until potatoes are cooked through, about 10-15 minutes. Pour in cream and let it gently heat, but not boil. You’re done. Serve with rice and sprinkle with chopped fresh coriander.

You could easily half this, but I had a bunch of food that needed to be used right away, before I hit a hotel room with no fridge and food I couldn’t cook. I think it would be great with coconut milk too…not as rich and a little bit sweeter. Tasty a couple of days later but a little thick once the potatoes broke down. It’s a heavy curry, one more suited for curling up in November under a blanket. I’ve come to realize that I suck at seasonal eating and it gets even worse on tour. That’s a lie, I haven’t come to realize that, I’ve known it along. It’s something I will work on when I live in a place that doesn’t have winter eight months of the year and is warm enough to grow a tomato without a greenhouse. I’m so, so sorry Nigel Slater. I try so hard. I buy the strawberries from Peru in January at Sobeys. I can’t stop myself. And the little bags of clementines from Israel. What the hell? We get fruit in Newfoundland from Israel. That is just so wrong and weird and excellent. I wonder if they would like our salt beef, because for sure that stuff is Kosher.

I’ll be trying this on tour again but maybe with chicken and fresh green beans or vegetables that are a little bit crunchy. Or ooh! Some fresh cod, with the coconut milk. And
I can’t believe I just realized that all these years I thought it was tumeric. It’s turmeric. I feel me and Bal Arneson could never be friends now.

Also, Dainty Rice? You are bullshit.

Up the Great Northern Peninsula a few days later (or down depending on who you’re talking to) and a miserable cold day in St. Anthony. The sight that greeted us when we pulled into our guesthouse: two youngsters in snowsuits jumping on a trampoline. Which I strongly feel should be the image for the next Newfoundland and Labrador tourism campaign.

Wally had picked up some moose sausages from his father-in-law in Hawke’s Bay and he asked if I wanted a couple. Sweet Mother, yes!! Sausages might be up there with my favourite foods, but they’re always eaten with a little guilt. We don’t need to get into the reasons here, but it doesn’t take a Michelin chef to figure out that a moose having a laugh in the woods makes a better sausage than a sad little piglet in a pen.

So I started making this pasta a few years back and it has become a staple ever since. I’ve said before it’s only recently that I kinda get pasta…how simple is always better. Not that I don’t enjoy going face and eyes into a huge plate of spaghetti and meat sauce every now and then, I do. But if there’s good butter, garlic and fresh Parmesan, you’re never stuck. Even if it’s three in the morning and you’ve just gotten home and feel confident enough in your cooking ability that you won’t burn your house down. Nothing fills your belly better after a night of too much whisky than a hot bowl of pasta before bedtime. I use Jamie Oliver’s Pasta Bianca recipe as a guideline for this one. You just need pasta (I like spaghettini), butter (salted), a couple of cloves of minced garlic and a handful of freshly grated parmesan. For simplicity’s sake I never let myself add more than two extra ingredients; I can picture a little old Italian lady standing over my shoulder getting ready to smack me in the back of the head if I get too heavy handed with the extras. This can be very scary, especially during a three in the morning whisky scenario. Then she looks more like James Gandolfini in a dress and holding a weapon. I broke this rule in St. Anthony only because I had moose sausages and there were lovely cherry tomatoes and fresh basil at the store. James didn’t get angry, she merely raised an eyebrow and nodded at me to continue. Alarmingly, I wasn’t even on the whisky that night.

I tripled the recipe because I was cooking for myself, Wally and Karen, but here’s the rough, very rough recipe for one. For those late nights at home apres bar. Easy to double if you’ve had an especially good night out, and miles more impressive than bringing home plastic bags of Subway. I make it by taste and always go heavy on the garlic and Parmesan. And butter. I go heavy on everything, I’m not scared. Put a pot of salted water on to boil. Gently warm a couple of cloves of minced garlic in a tablespoon (or more) of butter in a large frying pan. Gently, gently! You don’t want the garlic to brown. Cook a single serving of your favourite pasta al dente and drain, reserving a little of the pasta water. Add the drained pasta to the garlicky butter pan, along with the handful of Parmesan and some freshly ground salt and pepper. Stir everything together while adding a little of the reserved pasta water. When it mixes with the buttery, cheesy pasta, everything turns glossy and creamy. Serve immediately.

Cooking this pasta will make you feel like a rockstar (not Tom Cruise rockstar on the cover of W magazine, I’m still having nightmares). I go through phases where I eat this three or four nights in a row (and that’s not three in the morning thank you very much, I’ve also been known to dine at regular hours). It’s so lovely on its own, but depending on what’s in your kitchen, mess around and toss some fun stuff in. Just keep looking over your shoulder and don’t get overzealous. Leftover cooked bacon, fresh basil, dried chilis, little cherry tomatoes cut in half. Throw them in right before serving. Especially important for the cherry tomatoes; you don’t want them to cook and make the pasta all watery. Pancetta’s great too, but crisp it up a little first with the butter and garlic.

Tonight was basil, cherry tomatoes and slices of cooked moose sausage. I’m pleased to report that for the first time in my life, I didn’t overcook the meat. No need to be afraid of undercooked moose I guess, or if there is I don’t want to know. I would like to remain blissful in my happy meat ignorance.

It was Wally’s first little red chicken meal. He said “Yeah, I was a little red chicken virgin. I guess you could say I’ve been clucked.” HAA! Yes.