playdate

Let's Get Sauced!

So what are you doing tonight? A good book? A glass of wine and some tv? Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing – I’m spending the night with some peelers. Yeah, that’s what I said. And I’m going to tart it up, too. That’s right; things might get a little fleshy, and I’m definitely going to be turning up the heat. Oh, and I will undoubtedly be ending the night with a little pot. I’m totally getting sauced.

Play With Your Food

True Story:
The first time my husband (then my new(ish) boyfriend) ever joined my family for a big meal, my grandfather told a story about winning the war with my aunt’s matzo balls because they were harder than cannons, and my aunt dropped a scoop of ice cream onto my sister’s lap, who, in turn, gave a shriek and threw it, hot cold potato-style, across the table onto my mother’s plate. We laughed, and my nice, civilized future husband gawked. Eventually he came to realize that we are gauche we have no class dinner at my house is often chaotic, always a laugh, and nobody ever stands on any sort of ceremony. He learned that sometimes it is ok to play with your food.

Meals to Fall For

I find this time of year both beautiful and depressing, probably for the same reasons that most other people do. It’s hard to wave goodbye to the summer and fight the urge to just go inside and hibernate - especially in Toronto, where summer lasts a whopping 10-12 weeks and winter, a bone-numbing 40. So I try to look for the good in the autumn – the gorgeous colours; the coziness of a big, comfy sweater; curling up in front of a fire, and of course, the food. No, smartass – I do not mean the pilfered morsels of my daughter’s Hallowe’en loot. I mean the food.

Taking It Slow

On the day that your husband gets a vasectomy, many things must be prepared. Preparations must be made to have someone watch your children while you accompany your husband to his, er, procedure. Ice packs – many, many ice packs – must be prepared. You must be prepared to allow the remainder of your reproductive years to languish in a state of flux somewhere between unrequited baby-lust and unadulterated relief. And of course, there is always dinner.

Road Test: Bonnie Stern's Friday Night Dinners

After being in the Southern United States for two weeks, I was going to use today’s post to tell you all about how we fared with the fare (Okra! Oysters! Golden Corral!), but when I got home, this was waiting for me, complements of Random House Canada.

Hushpuppies, grits and a two-week hiatus from meal planning quickly forgotten, I bit straight into this beautiful book and reclaimed my rightful place as Queen of the World Kgirl Kitchen.

Atonement

On this, the eve of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year, the day of atonement, I thought it only fitting that I confess my sins – my food sins, that is.

Now, don’t go clicking away in horror – It’s been a rough year for me and my family, but I feel like I’ve made my peace. I’m down with the G-O-D. This is not about blaspheme. This is about…gastropheme. And there’s plenty of forgiveness to ask for there.

Pickled Pink!

If you haven’t figured it out already, I am a dork. I am a dork with a long history of good ideas gone wrong; good intentions gone totally retarded. I have another one to add to the list: it began with a bright idea that swiftly went dim, and 10 pounds of beets that narrowly averted an unfortunate, and premature, trip to the great green bin in the sky.

I decided to pickle, and can, beets.

Great idea, right? The delicious little beasties are very much in season right now, and I am a domestic goddess. What could go wrong?

Disney Does Something Right

There are very few things I like about the Disney empire: Walt was a card-carrying member of the Nazi party; birth records in the ‘90s and now playgrounds everywhere are drenched with little girls (over)named Jasmine and Ariel, and when our daughters do finally tire of all those fucking princesses, we have High School Musical and The Jonas Brothers to look forward to. I shudder to think how far a 3-year-old’s capacity for consumerism might extend if we actually took her to The Most Commercial Place On Earth.

I Was A 50's Housewife

Imagine coming home from work and finding out that you are having the following for dinner: Meat Soufflé with Buttered Broccoli Spears, Creamed Potatoes, Denver Buns, and for dessert, the alluringly named, Glamorous Fruit Cup. Wow. That would be something. Now imagine cooking this meal. Not only would you need shortening, Bisquick, salt pork, undiluted frozen limeade and sifted Gold Medal flour on hand, but you’d need a whole afternoon to assemble this feast and a floral apron and protective head scarf to wear while doing so (optional).

While the above menu and ingredients sound unappetizing and downright bizarre for a meal today, I am quite sure that in 1958 a spread such as that would entice words of pleasure and approval from the mouths for whom the spread was intended.

When Good Ideas Go Bad

Tonight’s dinner was supposed to be highlighted by a lovely maple-glazed squash dish, but the whole thing turned into a bit of a snafu (make that, snafood), and I had to go for backup.

No, I did not order a pizza. Sometimes, that is indeed my backup plan, and you know what? Sometimes that’s my only plan. But tonight was different. I was in the mood to cook, I was ready to cook, and because it’s Farmers’ Market day, I actually had lots of fresh ingredients on hand.