That’s Port-aux-Basques for those of you not familiar with Newfoundland’s most famous port of entry for bruised and battered produce. A few days into the first leg of the rural NL tour and we packed up for a week’s stay at Shark Cove Suites. I loaded up on groceries and produce before we left Stephenville; it hit me halfway there that my grapes had left the ferry terminal, traveled to Stephenville and were heading back to Port-aux-Basques again. I felt like an even bigger idiot when I realized that the Coleman’s there actually kicks ass and the produce is all new and shiny and breathing a sigh of relief that it didn’t have to drive to St. John’s. Lesson learned. Strawberries are happier in the PAB than at Sobeys on Merrymeeting Road. They were so happy they lasted a whole week in the fridge.

We spent that week touring surrounding communities. Beautiful little spots on the south west coast that I’d never come close to. Rose Blanche, Cape Ray, Isle aux Morts, Margaree. Doing shows in church halls and community centres, kitchens for our dressing rooms. Church hall kitchens have a dazzling array of giant sized utensils for cold plate suppers and roast beef dinners. We found a potato masher so big it could’ve been used in a game of lacrosse. There was also a giant frying pan in St. George’s that I’m pretty sure was used to scramble eggs for an entire orphanage. Anglican Church Women are like an automatic bunch of nans. We got sent home most nights with trays of sandwiches, muffins and flats of pop. If this was any indication of how the rest of the summer would go I was going to have to invest in a pair of new running shoes. Or some new pants.

And the Catholic ones too. Are like nans. For the record, Anglican nans and Catholic nans are all awesome. My Anglican nan loves tea buns and Jesus and my Catholic nan swears like a sailor. I would like to take them both to Bermuda and make a short film, or feature length documentary.

Sunday off and I was dying to roast a chicken. It was clear and sunny but freezing so I wouldn’t have to take my pants off this time, har har. The Coleman’s was rocking out, even on a Sunday afternoon. The PAB doesn’t stop, I swear (the highlight of my day was hearing Adele’s “Someone Like You” blasting from some fella’s garage while he was out in the sun washing his Ford F-150). The only potatoes at the store came in a ten pound sack so I bought some loose sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes! I googled a bunch of recipes for roast chicken with sweet pataties, and decided to keep it simple. Salt, peppered and olive oiled everything, stuffed the chicken with a granny smith apple and half a lemon, after putting a few garlic cloves under the skin. Stuck it all in the oven on 375 F or so until the potatoes were tender and the chicken was cooked through. There was nothing fancy pants around the kitchen and nothing in my magic bag of travelling groceries to make gravy with…except bouillon cubes. I know they’re all salty and bad for you but I love them. Plus they travel so well and only cause mild alarm at airport security. Deadly. Anyways, boiled the giblets (gross, they’re so gross and only dads eat them, oh wait, Didi had some) in chicken broth made with the bouillon cubes and some drippings. Turns out my tour gravy turned into a real nice au jus. I hate the word au jus almost as much as I hate the word giblet, but that’s what it was and it was the best thing I made with my pants on since London.

Chocolate fondue was my go to dessert when I lived in Korea. Despite my teeny bachelor apartment I still loved to entertain, but with no oven, fondue was pretty much the only option when people popped by. Everyone would lose their minds when I made it and I felt like some kind of superhero when I melted chocolate and chopped up some fruit. And let’s face it, it’s common knowledge that anyone who doesn’t like chocolate fondue essentially has no soul. I was reared up on the stuff; Mom had the set with the little forks and the pot that you put a tea light under for keeping the chocolate all melty. Anything to get the kids to eat fruit I guess. My trick was to accidentally “lose” the piece of apple off the fork so you had to go fishing for it, recovering it sometime later dripping and oozing so much chocolate it ran down over your wrist and arm. Something weird happens to me when I eat fondue. I get all primal and territorial. It’s an event I can only share with the closest of friends. But after almost three months on tour, I felt the gang was ready for it. Everybody was full after eating and drinking our day off away, but we were still gangbusters for something sweet. Exit light, enter chicken. This shit was about to get real.

Melt your favourite chocolate in a double boiler with a enough two percent milk to make it satiny smooth. I usually never bother to double boil, but our cookware at Shark Cove was all thin and aluminum so I put in the extra effort. This was easy, as there was a strange abundance of big glass bowls (and yet no can opener to be found). Anyways, melt, chop favourite fruit. Affix goggles. Swan dive.

Everyone had a few pieces and sat back in contentment. I didn’t get it. How could anyone just leave a big bowl of melty chocolate? Dark, swirly, still perfectly not-too-hot chocolate? I waited twenty-seven seconds. “You guys done with this?” Nods all round. “Cool. This is gonna get a little disturbing. Sorry.” I ate the rest of the fruit plate, dunking like my life depended on it. The girls sauntered off to bed and when Rob and Darryl turned on the hockey game I nonchalantly grabbed the empty plate and chocolate bowl like I was going to clean up. I huddled in the corner of the kitchen like a hunted animal where no one could see me (they could totally see me) and ate the rest of the fondue chocolate with a spoon. Like a kid eating a pudding cup at lunchtime glee club rehearsal, scraping the sides with the spoon and then a finger. I remembered the raspberries in the bottom of my glass of prosecco. Into the chocolate. Oooh, there’s a boozy little surprise.

As all good surprises should be.

Installment two from the down and dirty streets of London. Leaving the soul-sucking bleakness of a St. John’s winter and arriving in Vancouver in January is one thing. But a freak heatwave in mid March in Ontario is enough to mess with your hardwiring. I’m not a complete idiot, I get how it works, it’s a big country. Winter’s different everywhere in Canada. And it’s the big fat reason why a rundown crackhouse in Vancouver costs a million dollars but you can still nab a sweet little piece of seaside in Newfoundland without completely selling your soul and the souls of your unborn children. But even Ryan Snodden would have agreed that this was some pretty crazy shit. We arrived in London on a mild spring evening, after a three week run in Orangeville; a place we all felt right at home mostly because it was bloody effing freezing. But spring rapidly turned into a week and a half of summer. In Hanoi. I tried walking around in jeans on day one of the heatwave and got so angry I had to go home and take a nap. The next day I bought some frozen yogurt and a sundress and I felt a little bit better. I ditched the sneakers for my flip flops, the ones usually reserved for walking around on questionable hotel carpet.

My biggest obstacle that week was cooking in the heat. On arrival in London I made a trip to the grocery store and bought supplies for the next three weeks. Lots of cheap and easies, meat and potatoes, stuff I could toss in the oven and bake with as little fuss as possible. I ate out a lot in London; it’s a great food city. Especially when it’s 28 degrees and you can lounge outside on a patio and drink pints of cold beer. But there was still a ton of food in the fridge and freezer that had to be eaten before we flew back to Newfoundland. So I found myself standing in a hot kitchen on several occasions, roasting something in a 400 degree oven and wondering how the hell people who live in Florida manage to cook anything at all. Or work in bakeries. I think if I lived in a place that was tropical all year round I’d just eat cold food unless someone else was cooking for me.

Karen had some really nice fresh asparagus and a bunch of chicken thighs in the freezer. One 25 degree afternoon I asked her if she was up for being a chicken-asparagus bake guinea pig and she agreed. She was probably in her glee that someone was stupid enough to cook something for supper. She went to take a nap. I put on the sundress I’d been wearing for the past five days and got to work.

Give this a go when it’s winter and turning on the oven doesn’t make you crooked as a tied up bag of sweaty weasels. Trim the tough ends of a bunch of fresh asparagus and toss with olive oil and salt and pepper. Do the same with some sliced red potatoes. Lightly grease a roasting pan with oil and line the asparagus on the bottom of the pan followed by the potatoes. Toss on a few sprigs of rosemary and some chopped shallots. Finely chop a few cloves of garlic and some rosemary and mix with a tablespoon or so of butter. Rub the butter mixture under the skin of four chicken thighs. Cover the thighs in slices of bacon (hey I’m Paula Deen) and place them on top of everything in the roasting pan and pop into the oven on 350-375 degrees (depending on your oven, this one was super hot and I had to turn everything down to 325 at one point). Bake until potatoes are tender and chicken is cooked through. Try not to overcook like I did. A really tasty easy meal for winter, or a mildly alarming bout of global warming in March.

Last night of the heatwave and we headed out for a few pints after the show. The idea of walking home at night in a t-shirt is still sort of a novelty to me; after nine summers on the Northern Peninsula I always forget what it’s like. It felt like Thailand or something walking home that night, I swear to God. Anyways, when I got back to Executive not-so Suites it was too hot and sticky to live. I was starved, there was garlic naan bread in the fridge and Karen was already in bed. I took off my pants and started to fashion myself a little midnight snack. Homemade pizza is hard to beat. Most times, not really a practical option though. I’m a sucker for those mini pizzas you can throw together in a couple of minutes, like on pita bread or a tortilla or if you’re really going old school, hamburger bun halves. With cut up wieners for toppings. Your mom did it too, don’t even try to deny it. But my favourite quick pizza crust by far is naan bread…the stuff you get at the grocery store that’s ready to go. Try the President’s Choice garlic stuff and you won’t ever look back. Except maybe fondly at wieners and hamburger buns. Use whatever’s in the fridge. I had some really nice farm fresh mozzarella from Covent Garden Market (the other one) and a ton of veggies that needed to be used. No pizza sauce but Karen had a bottle of Ragu and that got it done. I was standing in the kitchen in my underwear and using Ragu. I feel I could most definitely host my own cooking show.

The heat wave ended eventually and we had to go back to our winter woolies, trading flip flops for boots when it started to snow. I always thought that St. John’s won for weirdest weather, but I’ve learned my lesson. Didi and I took a little overnight trip to Stratford (the other one) to visit friends on our day off and it was freezing cold. More seasonable for something roasty in the oven for sure. Walking home from the train station in London that afternoon we stopped at the market to eat Thai food and homemade ice cream and pick up some food for a nice supper. I found a butcher shop with all organic meats and bought some gorgeous farmer sausages…I’ve often said in a perfect world I’d love to eat nothing but fish, game, and meat that was happy in its former life. Not always easy on the wallet, but you know, nice to know the cows and pigs got to be silly and roll around in the grass a bit.

Another one-pan wonder from Executive Suites. This turned out to be a meal I’ll make all the time, if I can ever learn to not cook meat within an inch of its life. According to what I hear from pals this is a common worry if you’ve been raised by a NL mother or grandmother (I didn’t eat a steak that wasn’t well done until I was 29). But man, pork’s a different story. Anyways, onwards and upwards, I’ll get there. I chopped up some potatoes and an apple, tossed them with olive oil, salt and pepper, some finely chopped rosemary and a squeeze of lemon juice. Threw it all in a roasting pan and put the sausages on top.

It’s all a bit of a blur after that…the temperature was too hot and the smoke detectors went off five minutes into the baking time. I spent the next half hour running back and forth from the oven to fanning the smoke detector, one shoulder to my ear to try and block the screeching, one hand fanning with a tea towel and my other hand wearing my winter gloves (no oven mittens). I gave up, took out the sausages and finished them off in a frying pan while the potatoes roasted a bit longer in the oven. Not exactly a one-pan wonder I guess, and things were overcooked and a little burnt around the edges, but mother of God the potatoes were really something else. I’ve heard that potatoes being roasted in duck fat are a big thing in England and I’m guessing that having them roasted in sausage fat might be the next best thing. Although duck fat has a prettier ring to it than sausage fat does. But hey, baby pigeon meat is called squab and people still eat that. Myself, I’ve never eaten squab. I would definitely try it, just to see what happens to a person’s face when I say “I ate a really nice squab there the other day.”

I haven’t cried over breakfast since the time our Newfoundland dog died when I was a kid and Mom eased me into it by telling me over chocolate chip pancakes. I came close the next morning when I ate these potatoes. Try frying them up in a pan with some eggs and eating them like hashbrowns. Something about the tang of the lemon juice and apples all loved up together in the sausage fat. Holy squab.

Absolutely baked in London and home again. Not really home-home, just Newfoundland home for now. No little red kitchen for me til this summer so the kitchen at Shark Cove Suites in Port-aux-Basques will do for now. There’s no can opener here either, but there are deadly moose burgers downstairs at the restaurant and a view of the ocean out the living room window. Off to Halifax this weekend and then back again to brave the Trans Labrador Highway. Hilarious, disastrous food adventures to follow, no doubt detailing flat tires and boil-ups on the side of the road. It’s a good think I kick ass at making bannock.

So I’m pining a little for the Best Western in Orangeville, with its plushy white robes and king size bed. The saltwater pool sure was nice. Especially after a sit in the steam room, or a few minutes in the hot tub. But if I’m really honest, I have to admit that the rooms here at Executive Suites in downtown London (the other one) make me feel like a film star. On the set of Dexter. Or CSI. The lovely waitress across the street at the pub told us she’s pretty sure they have hourly rates here, but hey, everyone needs a cup of tea and a shower once in a while, right? The guys around the corner at the halfway house seem best kind, and two Saturdays ago the front desk assured us that the police had already been called and were on standby for St. Paddy’s Day (turns out things were kinda peaceful here, as most revellers were blowing up news vans and throwing bricks at cops down on Fleming Drive). Lots of un-neutered pit bulls being walked down the street and they sure are cute, especially in their muzzles. Conversations in the parking lot of the Hasty Market next door never fail to entertain. Just a few nights ago Karen and I had a good chuckle when one fellow said to another, “What do you mean, man? I just got rid of all my drugs down the road.” It’s a good, honest, hardworking neighbourhood, you know? In fact our upstairs neighbours work so hard it sounds like they’re laying ceramic tile until 4:30 in the morning. Or maybe they’re playing drunk Twister and stabbing each other while throwing furniture. All I know is that I’m feeling pretty goddamn glamorous right now.

Seriously though, it’s not that bad (why am I so itchy?). We’ve been on the road now for close to two months and I’ve been in a variety of hotel rooms with varying degrees of kitchen. Despite the presence of multiple drug dealers on our corner, London wins for best cooking facilities. Now, the can opener doesn’t really work (but that’s what Didi’s for across the hall) and there’s no cheese grater. I had to go to the Superstore and buy a couple of those disposable foil roasting pans. No wine glasses, no big deal. I can drink wine out of a mug, sure it only reminds me of camping. But there is a big fridge and a working oven, and living near the other side of the tracks made me feel bad-ass enough to make spaghetti and meatballs. I thought briefly about inviting the upstairs neighbours. But I was afraid of getting stabbed.

There’ve been a few food adventures before hitting the beauteousness of downtown London. Starting off in Richmond BC was a treat in January. Lots of rain, nothing to shovel, and enough sushi to induce hysteria. We were a bit out of the way at an airport inn, but there was a South Asian market (good mangos!!) and a Vietnamese restaurant down the road so I was happy. A twenty minute walk away from the nearest skytrain station took us to downtown Vancouver, so we couldn’t complain. Even though being on tour makes you really, really good at that.

Cooking was limited to a mini-fridge and stove top in Richmond. Lots of boiled eggs for breakfast and reheated leftovers. I’m a fan of and have mastered the art of the bread and cheese supper, or as I like to call it the “I can’t afford to eat in restaurants because I’m a budget traveller in Europe” diet. It kind of reminds me of being in my twenties and having no money. So I had a few of those in front of Netflix, thinking how great it was for me to be sitting here reliving my twenties. Until I realized I was eating bread and cheese because I still have no money and I’m now in my thirties. So much for nostalgia.

I always marvel at produce on the mainland. Like myself, veggies are not a fan of the North Sydney to Port-aux-Basques ferry crossing. Think about it. Nobody gets off that boat all fresh-faced and cheery. You were kept up all night trying to sleep on the floor or in those awful chairs, but there were drunk people and toddlers (same same) everywhere. You’re crooked, tired and dirty. You need a wash. You get off the boat and have to drive for eight hours. Imagine how the mangos feel. If I got plucked off a tree in sunny Ecuador and had to spend my life in a trailer, on a ferry and then on a shelf at Sobeys I’d be sad and mushy too. Poor mangos. There’s just something about that last leg of the ferry journey to Newfoundland, or the eight hour drive over dirt road to Labrador that defeats the fruit and veg completely. The ataulfos looked a little perkier at the Fruiticana in Richmond. So did the cilantro. I almost peed when I saw the bunches of it, all misty and green, not wilty and slimy or encased in plastic and crying to get out. There’s no in-between with cilantro, you love it or loathe it. I have an altar to it in my house. With little candles and statues of deities. That night in Richmond I made a salad with greens, cilantro and a sweet, buttery ataulfo mango. Dressed it with salt and pepper, olive oil and fresh lemon juice. The gods were pleased.

Marinated mini bocconcini. I know!! I didn’t know bocconcini came that size! I didn’t know what I was starting when I bought a container at the Granville Island Market, but someone needs to point me in the direction of them when I get back to St. John’s or shit’s going to get real ugly real fast. Supper/midnight snack after the show that night: bocconcini with citrus marinated olives and a fresh rosemary loaf. I know!! I sound like a pretentious menu in the Napa Valley. I’ve never been, but I bet that’s on a menu somewhere. I got a great salad out of it too; bocconcini with avocado and cherry tomatoes, with the same dressing as before. Didi and I shared the last of the cheese babies in front of Netflix drinking gingerale and watching Everybody’s Fine with Robert Deniro and a box of Kleenex. Seriously, who tries to beat up Robert Deniro and take his heart pills in a bus station?? It’s a good thing the mini-cheeses made me so happy I didn’t completely burst any blood vessels while sobbing. And whoa, I must be some kind of pal. I can’t believe I even shared those.

What better way to celebrate the Superbowl than High Tea at the Fairmont Vancouver? Fancy pantsy, I know, and I was worried that I didn’t have the right shoes. Turns out we didn’t have to change out of our sneakers at the train station (what, like you’ve never) because no one at the hotel was looking down, everyone had their eyes glued to the mounted TVs for the halftime show. We sipped our tea like proper ladies (no sneakers see), ate our curried chicken and cream cheese sandwiches, pastries and scones while watching Madonna dance with her harem. Does harem still mean harem if it’s fellas? The food was unreal. Every single little bite made with what could only be love. The people who made that food had to love their jobs. It all tasted like they were glad they didn’t become doctors or something, you know? Our waiter (huge Madonna fan) told us that the Fairmont was after the Queen’s scone recipe for years, but they were refused every time they asked for it. How does one do that I wonder? Is there a phone number? Or do you have to go through the Governor General? I’m doubtful that the Queen actually makes them herself, I guess she gets her harem to do it for her. But how cool would that be, if she actually made scones? If that shit was on YouTube royal approval ratings would soar. I think it’s something for them to think about. Anyways, the Queen came to Vancouver and she was staying at the Fairmont so the Royal House (Royal Kitchen?) had to give up the recipe because she wanted her scones while she was there. Hence, the Fairmont still has the Queen’s scone recipe and they use it for High Tea! How sneaky and awesome is that? And how many people care who just read this? Anyways, the scones kicked ass. Now if I could just find out what kind of shampoo she uses I’d be set.

We went to the washroom to change back into our sneakers. Hopped back on the skytrain to meet our friend Alan down at Steamworks on the waterfront for a few beers. Several drinks in and we had forgotten how full of pastry we were. I ordered a plate of nachos the size of a preschooler. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the Queen’s recipe.

Steamworks is also the name of a gym/sauna/bathhouse for men. I was checking online for directions and guess which website I found first? I was a little confused (they do nachos too??) but figured it out in the end.

On to Orangeville, Ontario and the beloved Best Western. Kitchen facilities were downgraded to a mini-fridge and a microwave. But the hotel was amazing and we fell in love with the theatre there and everyone in it. I wasn’t about to complain about the king size bed and the heated saltwater pool. I lounged around a lot in my Best Western bathrobe and ate cheese and crackers on my bed while watching Turner Classic Movies (I have refrained from eating anything on my bed here at Executive Suites). The chances of me ever being able to afford a room with its very own bathrobe all for me are slim to none, so I soaked up what I could. Whenever I felt sad about not being able to cook I went for a swim and ate jerk chicken. In Orangeville! Jerk chicken! If you ever find yourself there (it’s quite a lovely town) get yourself over to Soulyve on Mill Street for fall off the bone jerk, roti, and the deadliest potato salad this side of my nan’s house.

http://soulyve.ca/

On to brick-throwing country (downtown London). I feel real bad for the cops here. I should have invited them over for spaghetti and meatballs.

Spaghetti With Bacon Sauce and Meatballs

Bacon sauce:

7 or 8 strips regular bacon
1 large onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 28 oz cans chunky ground tomatoes

Meatballs:

Oil, for greasing pan
2 pounds 80 percent lean ground beef
3/4 cup breadcrumbs
3/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
3/4 cup Italian parsley leaves, chopped
2 or 3 cloves garlic, minced
2 eggs
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 lb pasta (I used spaghettini)

For the bacon sauce: Cut the bacon into pieces. Using a big saute pan or skillet that has a cover, cook over medium heat until almost crispy. Don’t drain the fat. Add the onions to the pan. When the onions are almost cooked and start to become translucent, add the garlic and salt and pepper to taste. Cook for 1-2 minutes, and then add tomatoes and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat, cover and simmer on low for about an hour to an hour and a half.

For the meatballs: Preheat the oven to 425F. Grease a baking sheet. In a large bowl, combine the beef, breadcrumbs, Parmesan, parsley, garlic, eggs and some salt and pepper. Form into 1 to 1 1/2-inch meatballs and place on the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 5 minutes. Then turnout the oven down to 350F and bake for an additional 10 minutes. Make sure to turn every few minutes to brown on each side.

Cook the pasta according to package directions.

Serve the meatballs over the pasta with the bacon sauce on the side. Garnish with additional freshly grated Parmesan.

From the Food Network’s The Best Thing I Ever Made

Ok. So. I’d been craving this recipe ever since I saw it on the Food Network one night back in Richmond. The only thing that made me see past the drug dealers and the weird stains on the walls in London was the fact that I had a kitchen and got to make this. Beau Macmillan cooked it on The Best Thing I Ever Made and I couldn’t get it out of my head. The original recipe calls for bucatini, but pasta in the shape of a long tube just doesn’t do it for me and I love spaghettini more than anything, so use the pasta that makes you the happiest. My meatballs were too dry, but such is the fate of a woman raised on the fear of undercooked meat. I used lean, next time definitely not. And maybe with some pork thrown in as well? In any case, if anyone has any meatball tips, I’d be very, very happy to hear them. Me and red meat love each other dearly but we haven’t quite figured each other out yet. I’ve never cooked a good steak in my life (I effing know, I’m welling up myself a little here), but it’s my goal for the fall and my return to St. John’s. First I have to work on getting a barbecue. And a back door. But I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll never make another marinara sauce without bacon again. I’d make this recipe sans meatballs, and just make the bacon sauce. I don’t need to tell you how good bacon is in a tomato sauce. It’s bacon. Just this on pasta with a nice glass of red might be the best night in ever. It’s so, so simple, there’s no excuse not to try it. Just don’t skimp on good tomatoes. I halved the recipe and only needed one can, so I went organic. If you can get your hands on a can of the real high quality Italian ones, go for it.

I’m missing the little red kitchen dearly chickens, I’m not going to lie. It’s been an exciting couple of months on the road (hey someone’s drunk rapping down on the street as I write this) and I’m steeling myself for another four. That’s a lot of hotel rooms and lot of French fries at Jungle Jim’s. We’re gearing up for a run in Halifax at Neptune Theatre followed by a tour of rural Newfoundland and Labrador. The prospect of sharing Tempting Providence with so many people over so many months thrills me to no end. With that said, I might not be able to complete a new recipe every week, but the posts will keep coming. Not so fast but definitely furious. Hope you’ll all stay tuned. Could be interesting.

Sounds like there’s another drunk stabby-time Twister tournament happening upstairs. But I just heard the cops show up, so there might be some sleep tonight. Time to slip into my hazmat suit and crawl into bed, visions of meatballs dancing in my head. ‘Night all.

I never had the chance to have a cup of tea with her so I can’t say for certain, but I think Etta may have been singing about a lava cake and not some fella. This is the one, folks. This is the dessert that will realign your molecules. This is the dessert that makes me feel like the past 35 years have been empty. The infuriating thing is, I’ve known about the recipe for years but stupidly never gave it a go myself until a few weeks ago. My sister Robin has been making these for a few years and they’re her go-to dessert. She’s an amazing baker, but these babies only get pulled out for special occasions, when she’s really out to impress. She’ll watch people lose their minds at the table while she sits and says, “These things? They’re no big deal.” In the meantime people are falling off chairs. I finally got to try one a couple of years ago on a visit to Halifax. Robin didn’t take her eyes off me when I took my first bite. I shut my eyes, dropped my spoon and laid my forehead on the table. “I knew you’d do that.” she said. So yeah, these things are alright. And I will give myself the oh so slightest pat on the back for thinking to make them with a batch of homemade raspberry ice cream. Yep. You heard me.

When I was a kid my idea of chocolate was covered in foil and hidden in boots. I loved that shit. Ever find a year-old leftover Easter Mr. Fruit and Nut in your closet and eat the whole thing and wake up in the middle of the night covered in your own sick? Maybe that was just me. In any case, I should have learned my lesson back then. Although my mother would have missed out on the formative child-rearing experience of having a six year old walk down the hallway looking like Carrie. Note: chocolate gets old. That’s not a scientifically researched fact, I was there (I also haven’t eaten a sloppy joe since 1992, but that’s a food poisoning anecdote for another day). I’m not knocking milk chocolate, it’ll do in a pinch. A Dairy Milk with a cup of tea next to a fire after a five hour hike tastes like the angel Gabriel put it in front of you. However, taste buds evolve as you get older. They have to, right? Imagine a thirty-seven year old who only eats chicken nuggets. And real chocolate? With 70-80 percent cocoa solids? That stuff could start wars. I know people who swear by the 90 percent, but I can’t trust anyone who eats chocolate that tastes like dirt and enjoys it. You just…you need some sugar. Everyone got so excited when eating chocolate became a health trend. Do yourself a favour and pick up a Women’s Health magazine. Skim for a bit and you’ll find out a few pages in how much chocolate is good for you. One square of the 95 percent stuff, that’s what. Just once, I’d like them to say, “We know you’ve had a shitty day. Eat a Toblerone. A full one. Because you know what? We altered the photo on the cover. If Rachel Bilson’s waist was actually that small, she’d crack in half.”

It’s so easy you have no excuse. This is the easiest and most impressive dessert you will ever make. You can make it for anyone and if they don’t like it, you don’t need them in your life. I was watching an episode a while back of Come Dine With Me Canada and someone scoffed at the dessert choice of lava cakes. Who the hell scoffs at lava cakes? They said something along the lines of it being safe and boring. I wanted to reach through the screen and grab that arsehole by the throat. It tastes good, it looks pretty. Maybe it doesn’t have candy spun sugar in the shape of a crescent moon or sing you an Elton John song, but it tastes like angels singing in your pants. Don’t get on TV and say something stupid like that. Jesus.

I made the homemade raspberry ice cream the night before. You could give it a go the day of, but I like my ice cream hard. Soft, melty ice cream stresses me out. I don’t even like the twenty minute walk from Sobeys in winter when I have to carry it home. And in the case of lava cakes you need it good and hard to withstand the heat. For those of you who haven’t attempted the homemade eggless, machineless ice cream recipe I posted back in August, you really need to do yourself the favour of a quick trip to the store for supplies and a quick trip to your room for stretchy pants. Here it is, one more time. Beat 500 ml of whipping cream into not so stiff peaks. Add one can of sweetened condensed milk, and one teaspoon of pure vanilla extract or the seeds from one vanilla pod. Or both, if you’re cracked for vanilla (I am, so I did). Stir together well (make sure the little vanilla seeds are evenly distributed, they can be tricky and stick together in tiny clusters), place in a covered container (or a bowl with cling wrap) and freeze, stirring every hour or so for a few hours until frozen. Leave overnight for extra-firm ice cream.

The plain vanilla stuff is simple and perfect and I’m imagining would be really something with a lava cake. Even better if you chose a flavoured dark chocolate like mint, orange, or chilli. I had a handful of the chilli stuff at Sobeys until I thought of raspberries and decided at the last minute to pick up regular dark chocolate. The possibilities for this ice cream recipe are all up to you. I’ve made a few batches since the summer, one with wild strawberries and toasted walnuts and another with pureed mango. Just stir in whatever you like, it’ll all work out in the end. I might not be able to go back after the raspberries. Two packs of fresh raspberries, the ones in the plastic containers. Give them a quick wash, and puree them with the tiniest bit of water if you need to. Stir the puree into the ice cream mixture before you pop it into the freezer. Don’t add sugar, the ice cream will be sweet enough and the berries will tart it up just right. And there’s not much better in the world than tarted up ice cream.

Right. The lava. Robin got this recipe from one of her Nigella Lawson cookbooks. Nigella calls them “Chocohotopots.” I’ve tried saying that. It sounds stupid when I say it, I’m not British. So for our purposes, we’ll call them lava cakes. Robin’s sort of taken this recipe and played with it, made it her own, worked on the perfect conversion from grams to cups, all that stuff. I followed her instructions to a tee and I won’t change a thing when I come home from tour and make these things once a week.

Robin’s Chocolate Lava Cakes

1/2 cup plus 1 tbsp butter
125g good dark chocolate
2 eggs
2/3 cup minus 1 tbsp sugar
3 tbsp flour

Place a pan in the oven and preheat to 400F. Melt chocolate and butter together. Set aside and let cool a little. Mix eggs and sugar together then flour and cooled chocolate and butter. Divide the mixture between four oven-proof ramekins greased with butter. Place ramekins on the hot pan and bake for 15-20 minutes or until the tops are barely cracked like the top of a macaron. Serve immediately.

That, my chocolate dumplings, is it. I think this dessert works so well because it’s kind of the purest thing you could ever bake. Nothing fancy, just good stuff. Real butter. No margarine. Good dark chocolate. The stuff in bars is easy to divide up into the exact grams that you need; I used Lindt dark, 70 percent cocoa solids. Sugar, flour, eggs. The things you usually have in your house. I’m no baking snob and I can pound back a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips with the best of them, but I like making chocolate chip cookies with bars of dark chocolate, chopped up in chunks. Once you try it, you’ll keep a few bars in your baking cupboard too (try your favourite chocolate chip cookie recipe with chunks of the Lindt chilli stuff, or give this recipe a go with it; that’s my next experiment). All you need now are a few ramekins. Just be single and buy a house, you’ll get a shit ton of them for your housewarming and every Christmas after that.

Don’t over bake! Robin couldn’t stress this enough when she gave me the recipe over the phone. You’ll end up with a lovely little chocolate cake, but no molten lava. It will depend on your oven and how much you two hang out, but mine baked for 18 minutes exactly and turned out perfectly. Katie was the first to fall victim to the chocolate volcano. I was kind of nervous, this girl knows her desserts. I piled on a spoonful of pink raspberry ice cream and handed over a ramekin (wearing oven mittens of course, mind yourself). She took one bite and yelled, “The ice cream isn’t even melting because it doesn’t know what to do! It’s so happy!”

That about sums it up. And that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever yelled at me.

I took a few tentative steps into vegan territory with a terrifying and excellent food experience in mid-January. My friend Ruth was getting geared up to shoot a short film after Christmas. We had been on tour together a few months earlier and she asked me if I wanted to do craft services for the shoot. I jumped at the chance. I figured if I didn’t have to worry about the main meal of the day (the actual caterer’s job) I could certainly round up some snacks and make a few breakfast sandwiches to keep the crew happy. I had heard there would be twelve to fifteen people on set, nothing I couldn’t creatively handle in my kitchen the size of a shoe. I knew there would be dietary restrictions, had jotted down a few ideas, and was rearing to go for my first actual food gig. But by the time production week rolled around and I found out the crew had ballooned from fifteen to thirty, my stomach started to hurt. What if I let Ruth down? What if the grips yelled at me for running out of coffee? What if I accidentally gave bacon to one of the vegans? Then I found out Jeanne Beker had the lead in the film. What if I gave Jeanne Beker food poisoning??

Ok, so I’m a food safety nazi thanks to Mom and Nan and I managed to talk myself off the ledge, resting in the knowledge that no one was going to get ill. I could make thirty breakfast sandwiches. I could make thirty regular/vegetarian/vegan/non-dairy breakfast sandwiches, I was sure of it. But could I do it on a film schedule? I’ve only been on a few film sets, and they’re stressful at the best of times. You kind of have to throw yourself in headfirst, ask as few questions as possible, and expect to be yelled at by someone for doing something someone else told you to do. I’m kind of famous for holding grudges forever when someone yells at me (like that nun on my first day of kindergarten. I’m pretty sure Jesus wouldn’t approve, Sister. If that’s your real name). But the great thing about being yelled at in film is that it probably means you’re at the bottom of the food chain; no one will remember your name and you can start fresh on your next one with the hope that this time, you’ll nail it. Lucky for me, Ruth was insistent on having a positive set full of non-yellers. Everyone was really lovely and helpful. Most everyone knew it was my first time doing craft services and no one yelled at me. Even when the coffee ran out.

I try to be non-judgemental when it comes to people’s food choices (not so true at the grocery store…I love looking at shopping carts when I’m standing in line and wondering about the people with all the beige food). When it comes to meat, non-meat, lacto-ovo, pescatarian, vegan stuff, I try my best to get it. I’m puzzled sometimes when people give up food that they don’t really have to, food they’re not allergic to. I skimmed a copy of Skinny Bitch a few months ago and those ladies almost scared me into being a vegan. They made some excellent points, but they’re sort of mean (hungry). Was I really a lazy asshole if I drank coffee? And what? The only alcohol I can consume is wine from organic grapes squashed by the feet of milk-skinned cherubs? I got over it and ordered a pizza. But in all seriousness, I like the challenge of cooking for people with dietary restrictions. I do, I really do! Food should make everyone happy and it’s nice to figure it out for friends who can’t/won’t eat certain stuff. Which is all well and good when you have a few days to think about it and spend time making something halfway impressive.

I’ve never had to get up and cook at 4:30 in the morning before. I don’t how the hell bakers do it. And after the long day of shopping and baking I just had time to settle in for a two hour nap before the alarm went off at four-ish. I prayed to the gods of dietary restrictions that something genius would happen in my head. I had to be on set at 6 am with five breakfast sandwiches, two regular and four vegan. I had roasted a head of garlic and boiled some sweet potatoes the night before and the loose plan was to fashion a potato cake breakfast patty-type thing while the bacon and eggs were frying in a completely separate and far away place on my stove top. Because I guessed that someone who won’t eat honey wouldn’t appreciate a splatter of bacon grease in their sweet potato breakfast patty. I never understood why vegans won’t eat honey. Don’t bees make it for fun? And if everyone stopped eating it, what would they do for a laugh? But then I read that bees turn nectar into honey by a process of regurgitation. So I kind of get it. And here’s another fun-on-the-farm fact. Honey has been shown to be an effective treatment for conjunctivitis in rats. Gross. That’s probably the worst job I can think of.

So the long and short of it is, I made sweet potato breakfast patties topped with a little slice of soy cheese on English muffins (they’re egg and dairy-free, thanks be to Jesus). I was hoping that didn’t offend anybody. I know some vegetarians who won’t eat fake meat products, so would some of the vegans get mad if I made something with fake dairy? Did bees regurgitate soy and I just hadn’t known for all these years? Jesus, I was so scared. But luckily I was too tired and busy to worry about it and it all had to be done in an hour.

Try these for your vegan or vegetarian pals. Roast a head of garlic. Peel and boil two large sweet potatoes. Add the roasted cloves of garlic and a couple of teaspoons of vegan margarine. Add salt and pepper to taste and some smoked paprika (they’ll think for a second you’ve added bacon grease, so give a head’s up), a teaspoon and a half or so of flour and some chopped chives. Mash together, carefully form into patties, and fry in hot canola or vegetable oil until golden. Put on a toasted English muffin with one of those soy cheese slices. A McVegamuffin! I wish I had more time to perfect the recipe because they were a little mushy. Maybe a bit more flour and hotter oil with a longer frying time. I will perfect these at some point, but they got packed in foil and brought to set with high hopes that the vegans would find them somewhat enjoyable. They did! Sweet waves of relief. Not for long, it was time to get back to my kitchen and make thirty regular breakfast sandwiches for the rest of the crew. I forgot to take a photo in my rush to get things done, but for future reference a regulation size oven can hold upwards of thirty foil wrapped English muffins with bacon, egg and cheese. I cabbed it downtown to location where everyone was filming outside in -25. Another wave of relief when I realized that the sandwiches were good and hot and that’s all anyone cared about. I could have made them out of fried boot leather and the crew would have been happy.

Day 2! Not quite so early a call but still had to be on set with a few breakfast treats. I didn’t want to repeat the sweet potato patties so I had a go at some black beans. And as pleased as I was with myself for pleasing the vegans on morning one, I showed up on morning two and exclaimed “B’ys, I’m not gonna lie, these things kick ass.” Jeanne Beker (not a vegan, likes black beans) loved them. “Jeanne, smoked paprika will change your life.” Yep. I said it.

If your friends don’t like these you need new vegans in your life. Drain and rinse a can of black beans and zing them up with a bit of water (I used a hand blender, worked fine in a pinch and I didn’t have time for the food processor). Salt and pepper. Juice of half a lime. One teaspoon of ground cumin, one teaspoon of chilli powder, a liberal sprinkling of smoked paprika. Some chopped chives. Enough oatmeal that the mixture can be formed into patties. Fry them in hot vegetable or canola oil until golden brown. I wouldn’t hesitate to serve these to meat eaters. Black beans, man. Seriously. People are worried about bananas going extinct. I’m not a huge fan so I’d be ok. If black beans went extinct I think I’d die.

The vegans got sweet treats too. Cookies and muffins for everyone else, but I was too afraid to attempt vegan versions of those. Googled and chose the first vegan brownie recipe that popped up, from allrecipes.com.  A little too easy, and maybe too good to be true as you’ll find out soon enough. If you are a vegan who can’t eat a lot of sugar, I can’t help you. Maybe try honey? Shit! The bees. Right.

Vegan Brownies

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 cups white sugar
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 cup water
1 cup vegetable oil
1 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350F. In a large bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking powder and salt. Pour in water, vegetable oil and vanilla. Mix well until blended. Spread evenly in a 9×13 greased (with vegan margarine) pan. Bake for 25-30 minutes until the top is no longer shiny. Let cool for at least 10 minutes before cutting into squares.

Deadly brownies, vegan or no. I guess you can’t go wrong with that much oil and sugar. On the first morning I brought them in, one of the lovely make-up artists asked me if there was a lot of sugar in them. I blinked and said “Uh. Yes. But definitely no eggs. No sir.” Oh shit. So I only just this second read some of the online reviews that came with this recipe…one claims that these brownies are only vegan if you use raw sugar because animal bone char (what?) is used in the bleaching of regular white sugar. Seriously? So uh, sorry folks. Maybe they weren’t vegan. And as I can’t afford to buy raw sugar for all my baking needs, I guess I won’t be baking for vegans anymore. And if this fun-on-the-farm fact is actually true, we’re doomed as a species anyway. Just when I was feeling sorry for the bees.

I’m not tooting my own horn here (lies), but I kicked off the little red chicken 2012 kitchen adventures with the invention of a sandwich. A chicken sandwich, naturally. I’m a little hesitant to proclaim myself an inventor on the internet. I’m pretty sure I’ll get angry emails from people telling me this sandwich has already been invented by Jamie or Gordon or Nigella. But for now, I’m claiming full responsibility for the best chicken sandwich I have ever eaten.

It was that week in January when there’s a random assortment of holiday food in the house. There’d be no other reason for me to have mini ciabattas in my deepfreeze and chives sitting in my fridge. For shame! Chives are deadly! I had invited some family over for lunch a couple of days earlier and made two roast chickens. We wiped out one of them, but the other was sitting in my fridge, all forlorn-looking like a turkey on boxing day. Luckily nothing’s forlorn in my fridge for long, so one night the ciabattas came out of the freezer and the sandwich gods aligned my stars.

Some of you may have guessed by now that I have a strange obsession with smoked paprika. I’ve mentioned it in a few posts and I will continue to do so until I change the world one tin of smoked paprika at a time. It’s not just me; I made my smoky roasted potatoes for my sister and brother-in-law last year on a visit to Halifax and I left a tin of the stuff at their place. Shortly after, Robin emailed to tell me it had changed her life. And it could change yours. Especially if you’re a vegetarian/vegan and you miss bacon. I had a few vegetarian pals over for a meal last winter and made a baked black bean dip with cheese. Robert came too, and halfway through the appetizer he leaned over and whispered, “You didn’t put bacon in this did you?” Mildly insulted, I rolled my eyes and said “Jesus Robert, it’s the applewood smoked cheddar and smoked paprika.” Great for roasted potatoes, eggs, burritos, anywhere you want a deep smoky flavour. Used unapologetically and profusely in my kitchen, especially when I cook for vegetarians. I figure if you make everything taste like bacon without using meat, no one will be angry. Not even the vegans. I think.

On to the little red kitchen chicken sandwich. I made it to taste and you should too, depending on how smoky/salty/creamy you like your sandwiches. Chop up some leftover roast chicken. Add fresh cracked pepper, sea salt, 1-2 tablespoons of mayonnaise, some chopped chives and a generous amount of smoked paprika. Lightly toast some mini ciabatta buns in the oven, then add the chicken mixture and some greens.

I’m normally against all things labeled low-fat because they’re filled with weird and unpronounceable ingredients, but I like the Hellman’s half-fat olive oil mayonnaise. And for the love and honour don’t use Miracle Whip, or as I like to call it, The Childhood Mayonnaise of Newfoundlanders and Labradorians Everywhere. You don’t need tangy zip, you just need regular mayonnaise. I think I used McCormick’s brand smoked paprika; you can usually find it in the aisle with the regular spices at the grocery store. Look a little harder and you might find the La Chinata brand. It’s Spanish and gorgeous but it’s really hot. You might be up for it, but it might scare some people. Have a go, but take it easy.

Have with beer in front of the TV. Quick and impressive and you can be all “What, it’s just a chicken sandwich,” when deep in your heart you know you’ve just converted someone over to the smoky side. Yes, I just rolled my eyes at myself.

Week 52. A whole year of experimenting wrapped up with one final feast and the christening of a new holiday. Ever since I bought my place four years ago I’m getting a kick out of inventing new traditions. Like putting up my tacky powder-blue Christmas tree, so ugly it would make you weep. But when it’s all decorated and lit up, a Christmas miracle happens and wisemen start showing up at my house with myrrh and other assorted goodies. That’s how beautiful it looks, shining out the living room window in all its made-in-China glory. Another tradition was born when Mel and I were sans family this holiday season so we drank Bailey’s all day and made curry and samosas instead of a turkey. I loved it so much I’m doing it again next year.

So it was that December 30th became known as Lamb’s Eve in the little red kitchen. I wanted to have a crowd over for the last new recipe of the year; it needed to be a mildly impressive meal that would involve my new KitchenAid roaster (it’s the same colour red as my kitchen and makes me happier than licking a bowl of cake batter) and my brand-spanking new food processor (from Santa, he’s younger and cuter than you think). Admitting I’ve gone without one for so long is a little embarrassing, but then I think about how I made that flourless chocolate cake with a smoothie blender and I feel like MacGyver. Whatever I chose to make had to be marinated in something fun and it had to be big enough to fill the roaster. Lamb. There’s a celebratory piece of meat for you.

A Jamie Oliver recipe I’d been wanting to try forever. Jamie suggests strolling down to your local butcher, getting him to butterfly a fresh leg of local free-range meadow-fed certified very happy lamb, and picking up a fresh bouquet of flowers and a bottle of red from the shop on the way home. Or in my case a twenty minute walk to Sobeys in a blizzard and back, frozen New Zealand lamb legs, a giant butternut squash and two bottles of wine weighing me down like a sherpa on the walk home. And not a flower shop in sight. The idea of deboning and butterflying a leg of lamb was laughable, even after a half bottle of wine and some youtube tutorials, so I splurged on boneless. They looked smallish and I bought two to be safe; I was planning on feeding close to ten people and running out of meat is a pretty fast way to ruin a party. I figured this way if we had too much everyone could take home leftovers for cold lamb sandwiches.

The food processor? She got broke in real good. Lamb and marinade prep turned out to be the most exciting event the little red kitchen has seen thus far. Between the mess of blood on the counter and the big plastic bag for the meat, it looked alarmingly like an episode of Dexter. I hesitate to use the word “butterfly” to describe what I did; I took my sharpest knife and cut until everything lay a little bit flatter. I could hear that Australian guy from the youtube video yelling at me, but I only had a couple of hours of marinating time and I was desperate. I was doubling the recipe and I was so excited about my new food processor that I overfilled it. Everything was so green and pretty and fragrant. I kept sticking my finger in it and licking and thinking how great I was. I took the blade out and lifted the plastic handle to pour the marinade into my bag of lamb. Oh yeah, there’s a hole there. A cascade of green on the counter, down the cupboards, onto the floor. Me screaming, “No, no, no, NO!!!” There was nothing to do but move fast; I grabbed what was left in the plastic bowl and heaved it into the bag of lamb, throwing the bowl aside and grabbing the bag before it toppled and spilled on the floor. My only regret now is that I was alone and couldn’t get any action shots.

Lamb With Chickpeas, Yogurt and Pan-Roasted Veg

1 leg of lamb, butterflied and opened up like a book
2 tsp coriander seeds
3 gloves of garlic, peeled and finely chopped
a large bunch of fresh cilantro, chopped
a large bunch of fresh mint, chopped
1 14oz can of chickpeas, drained
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Juice of half a lemon
1 pint of natural plain yogurt
12 baby turnips, scrubbed
a bunch of baby carrots, scrubbed, tops left on
1 butternut squash, unpeeled, cut into 8 wedges
2 red onions, peeled and quartered
1 whole bulb of garlic, broken into cloves
2 tsp ground cumin
extra virgin olive oil

Score the lamb on both sides. Using either a mortar and pestle or a food processor, grind or whizz up the coriander seeds with the garlic, cilantro, mint and half the chickpeas until you have a paste. Season these paste or “marinade” with salt and pepper, then add the lemon juice and yogurt. Place half of this flavoured yogurt in a large plastic bag and add the lamb. Place the other half, covered, in the fridge. Tie the bag up to seal it and turn it around to allow the yogurt to coat all the lamb. Leave to marinate for at least an hour but up to 24 hours in the fridge. Preheat the oven to 400F. Place all the veg, chickpeas and garlic in roasting pan then sprinkle with the cumin, salt and pepper. Drizzle with olive oil and toss together to coat. Remove the lamb from the marinade, then place the meat directly on the oven rack with the pan of vegetables on the shelf below. Cook for about 1 hour, tossing the vegetable halfway through. Serve the lamb well cooked with the veg and flavoured yogurt on the side.

from Jamie’s Dinners (Penguin, 2004)

Belbin’s saved the day yet again. I didn’t even attempt Sobeys on the day before New Year’s Eve in my quest for fresh mint and cilantro and the lead up to the great food processing massacre of 2011. Chickpeas went in the marinade but not in the pan. I underestimated the super power of my new roaster and didn’t think there would be room so I left them out. I heard it laugh at me when I shut the oven door, but time was getting short and I had to shower. And it was a hair-washing day so there was no time to futz with garbanzos. That may be the weirdest sentence I’ve ever written. I don’t even know what a baby turnip is so I bought sweet potatoes instead. I did however think of Nell who loves to make fun of us settlers on the other side of the pond because what we NL’ers know as a turnip is actually and scientifically a swede or a rutabaga. I wondered how it evolved that way until I scientifically decided that rutabaga is just a silly word. Can you hear your nan or pop saying “rutabaga”? Neither can I. Discussion over.

Here’s the thing with the actual cooking of the lamb. Jamie suggests placing the meat directly on your oven rack and letting the pan of veg catch the drippings below. That’s fine and dandy if, along with your local butcher and flower shop, you have a kitchen staff to clean up your shitty mess afterwards. I thought about it for three and a half seconds. That’s probably how long it would take the smoke detectors to go off as soon as the meat hit the oven rack. In addition to my fire safety concerns, out of the five tenants who lived in my house between May and October, one kind soul had cleaned the oven (which sort of makes up for the fact that I still can’t find my shovel or favourite cereal bowl) and I just didn’t have the heart for it. For the sticky burnt mess I knew would happen. So I put the lamb directly on top of the all the vegetables. They didn’t roast so much as turn into a stew, but I didn’t have to use my fire extinguisher.

A tasty recipe to end the year.  Minted couscous on the side and Sandy and Didi brought some lovely salads. Dessert wasn’t new but a different version of a now favourite recipe. If anyone remembers the chimney sweep’s gelato blog from a few months back (homemade vanilla ice cream with espresso and whiskey), this time I gave the Jamaican version a try. And if anyone looked up the other meaning for Jamaican chimney sweep, I’m referring to the version with rum and not the one with the sock and the handstand.

There you have it. Fifty-two weeks of food, friends, successes and a couple of fun failures. A new holiday! Lamb’s eve! We decided that night to do it all again next year and every year after. December 30th. Same pals, and maybe a few more. A different lamb recipe perhaps, hopefully no cataclysmic mess to clean up. But lots of booze and food and a crowd to steam up the windows in the little red kitchen. And that makes this little chicken very, very happy.

February might be the bleakest month of the year. Unless you’re in Vancouver. I left St. John’s a week ago to go on tour and while I bask in the sun and buy marinated mini bocconcini at the Granville Island Market, I’m missing what is, by all accounts, the shittiest week of weather to have hit Newfoundland so far this year. I don’t know how long of a drive it was to actually get the athletes to the snow during the winter Olympics, but I still get confused when I see people on city buses with snowboards.

I’ve been feeling guilty for letting myself get behind on the blog this month because I know peace in the Middle East totally depends on it. I was thinking how embarrassing it would be to post Christmas recipes in early February until “The White Ninja” hit St. John’s last week and it occurred to me just how awesome my tardiness is. I would bring back Christmas to the masses, remind people of the booze, food and twinkling lights of a few short weeks ago. January is all about taking a breath and starting again and deciding that YES!! This is the year you will get in shape and look good in front of your ex and learn to speak a new language and trek the Himalayas. And if it all doesn’t happen by January 15th, you throw in the towel, put on soft pants and eat nachos until Lent rolls around. I think February should be the new December. I think people should keep the lights up til March, possibly April. Depriving yourself of the foods you hold near and dear to your heart in February is tantamount to sticking your tongue on a cold piece of freezing metal. Both are pretty stupid.

Two new recipes for the dwindling weeks of 2011. More Paula Deen cupcakes and Nan’s Christmas shortbread recipe that’s been in the family for years that I shamefully tried for the first time in December. When I called her to get the recipe (she’s on speed-dial next to Paula Deen) she told me it comes from Mila Mulroney…whether that means she read about it somewhere or Mila gave her the recipe over a cup of tea, I’m not sure. But the latter certainly wouldn’t surprise me.

Red Velvet Cupcakes with Vanilla Bean-Cream Cheese Frosting

1 cup butter, softened
2 cups sugar
1 tbsp vanilla extract
3 large eggs
1 tsp distilled white vinegar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup sour cream
1 (1 oz) bottle red food colouring

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line 2 (12-cup) muffin pans with paper liners. In a large bowl, beat butter, sugar and vanilla at medium speed with a mixer until fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vinegar. In a medium bowl, combine flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt. Add to butter mixture alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with the flour mixture, beating just until combined after each addition. Stir in sour cream and food colouring. Spoon batter into prepared muffin cups, filling two thirds full. Bake for 16 to 20 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in centre comes out clean. Cool in pans for 10 minutes. Remove cupcakes from pans, and cool completely on wire racks. Spread or pipe frosting over cupcakes. Garnish with cake crumbs, if desired. Store cupcakes, covered, in refrigerator up to 3 days.

For the frosting:

3/4 cup butter, softened
1 (8 oz) package cream cheese, softened
1 tbsp vanilla extract
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped, seeds reserved
7 cups confectioners’ sugar

In a large bowl, beat butter, cream cheese, vanilla extract and vanilla bean seeds at medium speed with a mixer until creamy. Gradually add confectioners’ sugar, beating until smooth (I reduced confectioners’ sugar to 6 cups and the frosting was plenty sweet…that Paula is one wild and crazy gal).

Paula Deen’s Holiday Baking, 2011 Special Collector’s Issue

I made these for the Fourth Annual Hobbit House Christmas Party. Hobbit is home to the little red kitchen and it’s the one magical night of the year when fifty-plus people can squeeze themselves into 792 square feet of fun. You’ll get over two dozen if you go with regulation-size muffin tins. In keeping with the festivities in the tiniest kitchen in St. John’s I made them mini and managed to get six and a half dozen (baking spray worked fine instead of papers and oven time was reduced to about ten minutes). If you’re expecting over fifty guests this will work out beautifully. Unless your crowd’s like my crowd in which case most people will eat three or four and leave crumbs and a bowl of leftover icing for the latecomers. Everyone loves red velvet cupcakes, even people who have a thing about food colouring. Sometimes red things just taste better, especially at Christmas and especially in a little red kitchen.

Nan’s Shortbread

1 cup butter
1/2 cup icing sugar
1 1/2 cups flour

Preheat oven to 350F. Beat for 10 minutes with handmixer. Top with a small piece of maraschino cherry. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until just golden around the edges. Best if eaten within a couple of days.

These cookies make me understand why kids sit in sandboxes and eat the stuff. If the golden sand of a Tahitian beach was a cookie, this would be it, kids. Real easy to make, just be sure to beat them for the full ten minutes and take them out of the oven when they’re barely golden. So light and fluffy and melt-in-your-mouth you’ll forget you’re eating anything at all and you’ll eat six just to remind yourself. Nan says they’re best the day you make them, and she knows best. Don’t push it more than three or you’ll lose that crispy-melty-buttery sort of feel.

February should be for belated Christmas parties. String up some lights, make some sweets and see how many people you can fit in your kitchen. Put on your soft pants and start fresh in March when there’s a little bit more light in the day. You need to store your energy for that Himalayan trek you’re planning anyway.

It’s not easy to take a good hard objective look at high school when you’re still in it. Looking back at the age of thirty-five (what?) I’m a little mortified at how much importance I placed on it all. I’m especially mortified at the importance I placed on perms and oversized red glasses. It makes me wonder if kids in twenty years time will look back and agonize over all the skinny jeans and hoodies. My mother always told me that high school wouldn’t matter so much, that the friends I’d make and keep for life would be the friends I’d meet in university and beyond. And to a certain extent she was right…but I think most of us are lucky enough to have held on to a few pals we shared all the bad perms with. Jennine, Joanne, Colleen and I (their perms were significantly hotter then mine) try to get together every few months or so for a meal and a laugh. If it was up to me it would be a once a week deal, but between being moms, having jobs, and living in four different parts of the city, it takes a lot of persistent planning. I’m carless (but a kick-ass pedestrian, just not entirely up for walking to Kilbride or Mount Pearl) so the ladies are great enough to make the trek downtown to the little red kitchen. The only condition being they have to carpool so they can share my one parking permit.

Joanne couldn’t make it to our gathering this time around, but it was a pre-Christmas miracle that the rest of us got together at all. Everyone was gunning to cook something so we decided on a little potluck. Hosting was a totally selfish act…I like leftovers more than I like some people and between the balsamic chicken and hashbrown casserole, I ate like a queen for the rest of the week. And frankly, I’m a little insulted that as I type the word ‘hashbrown’ it’s coming up underlined in red. I think its earned its place in our lexicon. It should be one word. They turned ‘bootylicious’ into a word.

My humble contribution to the evening was soup and a salad. A first crack at mulligatawny and a Jamie Oliver salad. A weird salty and sweet combination, but it worked with the chicken and the casserole. Four completely different dishes that you would never ever think to put together. Kind of like pals in high school.

Mulligatawny

1 kg chicken pieces
2 tbsp plain flour
2 tsp curry powder
1 tsp ground turmeric
1/2 tsp ground ginger
60g butter
12 black peppercorns
6 whole cloves
6 cups chicken stock
1 large apple, peeled, cored and chopped
2 tbsp lemon juice
1/2 cup cream

Trim the chicken of excess fat and sinew (gross…using the word sinew in a recipe is totally uncalled for). Combine the flour, curry powder, turmeric and ginger, and rub into the chicken. Heat the butter in a large pan and cook the chicken until lightly browned on all sides. Tie the peppercorns and cloves in a small piece of muslin and add to the pan with the stock. Bring to the boil, reduce the heat slightly and simmer, covered, for 1 hour. Add the apple and cook for 15 minutes further. Remove the chicken from the pan and discard the muslin bag. When cool enough, remove the skin from the chicken; finely shred the flesh (ewww, worse than sinew). Skim any fat from the surface of the soup. Return the chicken to the pan. Stir in the lemon juice and cream, and heat through gently. Garnish with thinly sliced ginger.

From The Curry and Chilli Cookbook (Bay Books, 2003)

If you’re slightly disturbed by the photo of the ‘Olde Tyme Pudding Bag’ you should be. I didn’t have any muslin and grabbed this at the store at the last minute. After putting 6 cloves and 12 black peppercorns in it and tossing it in the pot, I thought about how easier things would have been if I had just cut off a little corner and fashioned an ‘Olde Tyme Pudding Mini-Sac’. Too little, too late. At least now I know what a giant curried pudding bag looks like in my garbage can.

This recipe is from a little gem of a cookbook that came out of the sale bin at Coles almost nine years ago. Best five bucks I ever spent. Except for that yellow acrylic giraffe sweater I nabbed at Value Village in ’99. I used bouillon cubes for the stock and it was a titch too salty, so mind yourself and your salt. Other than that, really lovely. Don’t let the apple scare you, because it scared me (I have this thing about fruit in curry). It works. Use a granny smith for that extra tang. I sounded like such a foodie there that I just punched myself in the face.

Southern Pecan and Apple Salad

Olive oil
2 Tbsp butter
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1 cup pecan halves
2 red or green apples
2 heads Belgian endive, leaves removed, washed and spun dry
a couple of handfuls of mixed leaves, such as arugula and radicchio, washed and spun dry

For the dressing:

Zest and juice of 1 orange
1 tsp dijon mustard
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Lightly rub a sheet pan with some olive oil and put to one side. Put a large saucepan on a low heat and add your butter and sugar. Leave on a gentle simmer for a couple of minutes, stirring occasionally to stop it catching, until the sugar has completely dissolved and the mixture starts to darken. Gently stir in your pecans until they’re well coated in the caramel syrup. Be careful not to splash yourself, and don’t be tempted to have a taste because hot caramel can burn quite badly. Once coated, tip the nuts onto the oiled pan and use the back of a spoon to separate them out into one layer. Leave them to cool so the caramel can harden on the nuts. Meanwhile, make your dressing. Put your orange zest and juice, Dijon mustard, and white wine vinegar into a large salad bowl and add a good lug of extra virgin olive oil. Whisk them, then have a taste. You want to get a nice balance between the sharpness of the vinegar and the smoothness of the oil, so add a little more oil if needed, then season carefully with salt and pepper.

Core, quarter, and thinly slice your apples and add to the bowl with all your leaves. Break the cooled pecans apart, add half of them to the bowl, and use your hands to delicately toss and dress everything. Serve on one big platter, or divide up between plates, and finish by crumbling over the rest of your beautiful caramel pecans.

From Jamie’s America (Penguin, 2010)

I’m not going to say Jamie let me down a little on this one because we’re awesome pals and he might stop inviting me over for tea with Jools and the youngsters. I think it boils down to me and lack of perfect ingredients (Sobeys, I’m looking at you). No arugula in sight and really bitter radicchio. I think radicchio is supposed to be bitter, but this was bitter in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in that-oooh, you think you’re all exotic using this weird red cabbage thing when you should have just stuck with romaine-kind of uncomfortable. Maybe it was that particular batch. Or maybe it was that I’m not my friend Darka who uses radicchio all the time and makes it taste like angels singing in your pants. Dunno. And the dressing was a wee bit on the sweet side for me. I should have handsqueezed (I made up that word to piss off Merriam-Webster) the orange but I used my fancypants (so there) citrus juicer and may have gone a little overboard. But you know what? I’d make this again. With just arugula to counteract the sweetness and a little less orange juice/zest in the dressing. The Belgian endive was weird but didn’t morally offend me or anything. And you can’t go wrong with brown sugary pecan goodness.

And brownie sundaes for dessert. Food was never this good in high school. But neither was our taste in perms and eyewear. I guess everything gets a little bit better with age.

I never go to weddings. It’s sort of like, my thing now. Not because I’m not a fan or anything like that, but for some silly reason, everyone wants to get married in summer. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with a wedding in January in Newfoundland. Imagine all the photos people miss of bridesmaids standing knee deep in slush, or losing out on the chance to get salt stains on your wedding dress. I just don’t get it. My beef with summer weddings is that I can never go to them. I haven’t been to a summer wedding since Uncle Craig got married in 1993. I wore that cute little number from Smart Set in the Labrador Mall and broke it down hard core to such favourites as The Bird Dance and Mony Mony. My May to Septembers are now spent working theatre festivals, with only Mondays off and no room for nuptials. When my sister was trying to plan her post-elopement wedding reception last summer she asked when I could make it. I said “Monday.” She sighed. So I sent in a little video and that was nice.

I can’t say I was entirely surprised to miss the marriage of two dear friends, Katie and Duncan, this past September. Sorely disappointed yes, but not surprised. The fact that I arrived in town the very next day still makes me wish I had been a marine biologist. But food fixes everything, even missing important life events, so when I was home and settled in the fall I had them over for a nice meal as a belated wedding present. Nothing too fancy; Katie and I were in the middle of rehearsals for a children’s show and I was a tired crooked beast. My plans for a crack at coq au vin turned into a pretty simple roast chicken, but with those nice potato-berry clouds I wrote about a few months back. And I did manage a new appetizer and dessert to keep things mildly stressful.

Stuffed Mushrooms

(The Essential Mediterranean Cookbook, Bay Books, 2005)

8 large cap mushrooms
4 tablespoons olive oil
30g (1 oz) prosciutto, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed
2 tbsp soft fresh breadcrumbs
30g (1 oz) grated Parmesan
2 tbsp chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

Preheat the oven to 375F. Oil a baking dish. Remove the mushroom stalks and finely chop them. Heat 1 tbsp oil in a frying pan, add the prosciutto, garlic and mushroom stalks and cook for 5 minutes. Mix in a bowl with breadcrumbs, Parmesan and parsley. Brush the mushroom caps with 1 tbsp olive oil and place them gill-side-up on the baking dish. Divide the stuffing among the caps and bake for 20 minutes. Drizzle with the remaining olive oil and serve hot or warm.

These things look fancy, taste fancy, and are dead easy. I’ve made/eaten a lot of stuffed mushrooms, but there’s something about prosciutto that will make you and the mushrooms light up a little bit more (I used Piller’s smoked prosciutto…salty and smoky, you won’t need to season the stuffing mixture). I’d eat these as a main, maybe with a salad and a nice glass of white (shut up chicken).

I discovered last summer while living in Cow Head that I could watch Food Network cooking shows online. I don’t have cable at home (a little righteous, mostly cheap) but I’ve always said that if I could custom pick my cable (which should be allowed, seriously) I would choose two channels: the Food Network and TLC. On snowy days I would hole myself up in my house and cook everything I see on TV and then eat it while watching episodes of Say Yes to the Dress and I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. And until I can reach those heights of perfection, I will continue to come home from work in the summertime, make a couple of hot dogs, open a beer and watch my favourite food shows on a laptop.

Sophie Dahl. She’s so good looking it’s not really fair that she can cook too. I was pretty skeptical when I found out she had a show on the Food Network. I get my back up a little when models decide they want to be actors, but when models decide they want to host cooking shows? That’s just immoral. Like when Gwyneth Paltrow got to do that food tour of Spain with Mario Batali. What the hell macrobiotic vegetarians eat in Spain is what I’d like to know. Gwyneth? Anyways, I rolled my eyes a little while I ate my hot dog and clicked on The Delicious Miss Dahl. Turns out all her food looks as good as she does. She kind of makes you want to curl up with a cup of tea in her cozy English kitchen and have a chat while she makes you borscht. There you have it. Models can cook too. But I still don’t think I could hang out and eat hot dogs with Gwyneth Paltrow.

Sophie Dahl’s Flourless Chocolate Cake

Butter for greasing
300g broken plain chocolate
225g caster sugar
180ml boiling water
225g salted butter, cut into cubes
6 eggs, separated
1 tsp instant coffee powder
1 tbsp vanilla extract
unit each of raspberries, blackberries, strawberries
200ml creme fraiche

Grease and line the base of a solid-bottomed (heh heh) 23cm/9inch round cake tin (a springform is best). Preheat the oven to 180C/350F. In a large food processor, pulse the chocolate and sugar until fine. Add the boiling water, butter, egg yolks, coffee powder and vanilla extract. In a glass bowl, whisk the egg whites until stiff and then fold them into the chocolate mixture. Pour the mixture into the prepared cake tin and bake in the hot oven for 45-55 minutes. The top will be cracked like a desert fault line (dessert fault line ooh, hee hee). After you take the cake out of the oven it will collapse into itself quite a bit. This is ok. It’s not meant to be a proud cool cake, it’s meant to be slightly rough around the edges (like Sophie…ha!) and the creme fraiche and berries will hide any dips and cracks. Let the cake cool then put it in the fridge for a few hours. When you are ready to serve, remove from the tin, smother the top in creme fraiche and pile the berries on top. You can also grate some chocolate on top or dust with icing sugar.

This cake is perfect for so many reasons; it easy, it looks amazing, it’s gluten-free without even trying, and it’s the prettiest, most decadent thing you will ever lay eyes on. Sophie suggests a red-berry cake with red currants, raspberries and strawberries or a blueberry/blackberry one. I liked mixing up the colours and piled blackberries, raspberries and strawberries together. The only blueberries I had were in the freezer and I don’t think frozen berries would work very well for this one. And red currants? Hilarious to even think they could even be found in these parts. It will fall apart and maybe even crack off in pieces but like Sophie says, all the mistakes can be easily covered up. The cake is sweet and rich but the tangy creme fraiche and unsweetened berries even it out. You’ll find surprise chunks of chocolate in it (especially if you have no food processor and have to do it in batches in your smoothie blender-ahem) but I can think of worse things to find in a piece of chocolate cake. Here’s the link to the video if you want to watch Sophie make it. You’ll feel a little inadequate but a hot dog and a beer will help.

http://www.foodnetwork.ca/ontv/shows/delicious-miss-dahl/videos.html?titleid=266704

Stuffed mushrooms and chocolate cake might not be able to completely make up for missing a wedding (hot dogs?). But no one will complain when you invite them over for a good meal to make up for the fact that you weren’t there. If they actually remember that you weren’t there. Which they probably don’t. Maybe they should be making you a meal. That’s kind of mean, but hey, I missed my sister’s wedding, I’m a little immune. And at the end of the day, if it was me tying the knot, I’d rather get a flourless chocolate cake than a gravy boat.