Archives for category: Guts

Today, I am writing about a plant that inflicts bodily harm. Appropriate for spring, methinks.

The stinging nettle is a little green leafy thing that I’m honestly not terribly familiar with, but when I learned that my pal Andrea had purchased a huge bag of these angry painmongers at the Wychwood barns farmers’ market, I had to get in on the action. It’s a devlish little weed, covered in tiny hairs that become chemical-injecting needles when handled and, as a result, deliver quite the sting. How sci-fi of them, I know.

http://natureasmedicine.wordpress.com

Interestingly, the stinging nettle becomes a vitamin-laden (and pain free) superfood when cooked. It’s high in protein, vitamins A, C, D, and K, iron, potassium, manganese, and calcium, and has long been used to relieve pain from arthritis and rheumatism. The flavour falls somewhere in between adult spinach and garlic mustard. In other words, tasty.

I had a recipe for stinging nettle soup, so I made it. It looks kind of like potato leek soup, and it is damn tasty.

Wear-Gloves-While-You-Make-Me soup

  • 1/4 C butter
  • 1 huge cooking onion, chopped
  • 2 potatoes, chopped
  • 1.5 C nettle leaves (for the love of all that is holy, don’t touch these with bare hands!)
  • 3 C chicken stock
  • salt & pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a large saucepan, then cook the onions in there until soft. Throw in the potatoes and stock. Cover and cook for 25 minutes. Throw in the nettles and cook for 5 more minutes. Remove from heat, puree and serve. Easy!

The view outside my bedroom window is devastating:

Being of combined Latin and Slavic heritage, I tend towards an impassioned strain of melancholia. Images like this one help, but sometimes things are just too beautiful. You know?

My Latin half wants to photograph, to preserve, to absorb the springtime through the senses. My Slavic side wants to infuse vodka, and then drink it. My sane side, which was borne of careful cultivation, wants to do all of the above and then share the vodka with friends.

Today I bought a blood orange. I scrubbed its skin, sliced it up, tossed it in a Mason jar. Submerged the thing in Stoli. It will live there for the next hour or so, at which point its remnants will be strained out of the vodka and it will find a home in some soda water. I will share it with my squeeze and a couple of pals (including a certain incomparable Cuisinette) over a delicious dinner. We will be civilized grownups, and I will be in bed by 11.

April is a complicated month. Sure, it’s beautiful and brimming with promise for warm, outdoorsy months ahead. But let’s not pretend it isn’t a shock to the system.

Spring seems to be a stressful time for a lot of people, and I am certainly not exempt from this seasonal madness. All of a sudden, it’s harder to stay indoors and accomplish the things that need to get done, which leads to all sorts of panicky “what am I accomplishing with myself?” anxiety and fears of time wasted—a kind of self-evaluation mode that seems to become existential really fast. It’s also a time of transition as we emerge from the cozy, womb-y hibernation of winter to the super-intense social exposure of patio season. Plus, for the double-X’ers among us, there’s that whole “shit-I-have-six-weeks-to-fit-into-my-bikini” complex (I would pretend that I am above this pressure, but I totally just signed up for a pink camouflage instrument of demoralization called “Booty Camp“, so really who am I to judge?).

Anyway, apart from some daytime walks around my neighbourhood, I decided to stay in this weekend to give myself some thinking time. I saved some cash, rested up my lungs (another bronchial infection has befallen me), put Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps on an iTunes loop, and got to baking. I could have opted to make something light and springy, but I was in the mood for the more robust flavours of autumn. Plus, I had a gigantic can of pumpkin puree in my cupboard just begging to be brought to life. So I made pumpkin-banana-oat muffins.

These guys are light and healthy enough for spring (no oil! no butter! no sugar!), yet made interesting with some autumnal spice. If you’re fortunate enough to have access to the Quebec treat that is Liberté yogurt, I highly recommend topping these muffins with a dollop of the Méditerranée style in Dulce de Leche. However, a schmear  of all-natural peanut butter also works magic. Then, sit back, take a sip of coffee, and look out your window.

Fake Fall Muffins

Wet ingredients:

  • 2 cups pureed pumpkin
  • 2 ripe, mashed bananas
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • 1 egg
  • 1/2 cup milk or milk substitute
  • 2/3 cup maple syrup

Dry ingredients:

  • 1 cup flax meal (e.g. flax seeds+ coffee grinder)
  • 2 cups whole wheat flour
  • 1 cup oats
  • 1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional, but recommended)
  • 1 1/2 tsp baking powder
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1 tsp cinnamon
  • 1/2 tsp ground ginger
  • 1/4 tsp ground nutmeg
  • 1/4 tsp ground cloves

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Combine wet ingredients in a large mixing bowl. In a separate bowl, combine dry ingredients. Sift the dry into the wet and mix. Spoon into muffin tins and bake for approximately 20 minutes.


“I always lose weight in England. The food is TERRIBLE!”

Such were the sage observations of my friend Anne, a French expat, as we debated the finer points of European cuisine last night. Since I’d only returned to Toronto the night before, she wanted to know all about my trip. But of course, when you put a Frenchwoman and me together, the conversation will inevitably turn to food.

I know how defensive the French can be about food, but I must respectfully disagree with Anne about the eating habits of the Brits. I ate plenty in my 6 total days in the UK and, mostly, I ate well. I tried everything: from the addictive artificial sweetness of the McVitie’s Jaffa Cake to the three course, perfectly proper roast beef dinner (Yorkshire pudding and all). I ate sausages and chips at a pub. I mowed down on Party Rings. I waited patiently, time and again, for the slowest table service I’ve ever experienced in my life and, usually, it was worth it.

English food, in the traditional sense, might not be the most exotic, but after a day of walking in the rain (then sun, then rain, then sun, then rain again with a side of wind), nothing hits the spot like a really solid fatty protein-and-carb combo. I ate the best club sandwich of my life in London.

And, in Birmingham, I enjoyed the most fantastic curry I have ever tasted.

It’s tempting to think of the UK as a bastion of the bland–insert stereotypes of homogeneity, tea, and bad teeth–but once I actually got there, I found my preconceptions completely subverted. Like my proudly multicultural Canadian homebase, the cities I encountered in England were equally vibrant, varied, and multiethnic–which, as always, was beautifully reflected in their food.  As I was explained by Lizzie, my English friend and tour guide, Birmingham is all about the curry.

I ate curry in each of the three countries I visited on my trip (Germany, the Netherlands, and England), and the first two were terrible. While I had already heard rumours of England’s emerging curry tradition, I wasn’t quite ready to let down my guard. It’s hard to recover from a broken heart, and culinary disappointment can be pretty damn devastating.

Thankfully, English curry did not let me down. If anything, it gave me the strength to love and trust again–and by love and trust, I am referring specifically to my relationship with foreign curries.

There is hope, after all.

The curry in question

So, my homeland seems like it is finally making good on healthcare reform. While I am of course excited to see this happen, I am also concerned that it will prompt a backlash of government-fearing craziness. I find it difficult to be optimistic, but maybe I´ve just been negatively conditioned by my Bush-era coming-of-age.

On another, less health-positive note: sausage! I will soon be celebrating a sunny spring afternoon in Berlin with a walk through Tiergarten (kind of like Berlin´s equivalent of Central Park), where I plan on consuming a massive, meatloaf-style sausage and some tasty beer as I peoplewatch, al fresco. Very few combinations of events could make me this excited.

Auf wiedersehen for now!

I arrived in Berlin yesterday, after a wonderful jaunt in England. Reunited with my BFF, I am ready to conquer Deutschland.

First observation: this is a great place to be a beer-drinking carnivore. Within hours I was making digestive love to a streetside doner and wondering how I made 24 years without it. To borrow a phrase from my friend Chris, the doner might just be the reason food was invented; the stuff is like shwarma on delicious, delicious steroids.

From there, we went to a Clash tribute bar (called, well, Clash) and I was yelled at by a horrifying woman with hair horns and oddly placed facial piercings for taking a picture without asking permission first–apparently there’s some sculpture or something that isn’t supposed to be there. Brunhilde, Carmen calls her. I will try to get photographic evidence of this creature at some point–apparently she terrifies all living things who cross her path. It must be nice to have that power.

After the fear subsided, I was able to devote my attentions to the glorious wonder that is German beer (AKA holy water). All I can say is, damn. But with two syllables. DA-YUM.

I think I was made for this country.

I’m in the UK right now, doing that coming-of-age trip abroad that our culture seems to mandate for persons aged 17-29.  More on that later. Off to munch on Party Rings now.

[Warning: Text-heavy post. There's a recipe buried beneath this, but you're going to have to work for it. Sorry.]

A lot has happened in the ten days since my last entry. First off, my friends and I made a magazine (and I may or may not have modeled topless for its cover…). It is the last magazine issue of my student newspaper career, and possibly the best I’ve been a part of. I’m so pleased with the way it turned out, and feel completely honoured to have been able to work with such an awesome bunch of folks.

Early last week, I also put together a little feature on a site that allows kids to make comics in the classroom. That can be read here.

Then, last Wednesday, my choir and I sang with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra to debut the final work of a very recently deceased Quebec composer, Jacques Hétu. His entire family was there that night, decked in mourning black and listening attentively. While I don’t believe in life after death or reincarnation or ghosts, etc., there was a palpable sense of electricity in that room as our last note reverberated through the hall and I couldn’t help but feel a little supernatural something-or-other in the air. The experience was really something.

Then, Friday morning, I awoke with a hacking cough.

When I get sick, it takes a long time to get better. Why? Because I suck at resting. Anxious person that I am, I need to be doing at least three different things at once to keep panic attacks at bay. You know, to distract myself from myself. Anyway, being sick is the worst because I am forced to sit and be still with myself until I am better. Usually I simply neglect to do this and, as a result, it takes weeks to get over the most pathetic little colds. But, since I am going on a massive 3 week trip to Europe TOMORROW(!) I took this one seriously. There was bedrest, OJ, oil of oregano, Cold FX, echinacea tea. I made my bean and kale soup with chicken stock for double cold-combatting power. And, there was granola.

I make my own granola because I am particular. I like things a certain way, and if no one else can provide me with what I want, I will do it myself. This is the case with granola; store-bought varieties are either too sugary, too greasy, too complicated (granola should NEVER contain more than a handful of ingredients, and modified milk products should NEVER be among the list), or too expensive. That’s garbage; I like my granola to be hearty, wholesome, oaty, and nutritious. It should pack a nice crunch. It shouldn’t be too sweet.

So I make my own, because mine is better. Besides, it gives me a sense of purpose–and, when ill, I’ll take whatever I can get.

Purposeful Granola

  • 4 cups oats
  • 1 cup chopped walnuts (any nuts work)
  • 1 cup shredded, unsweetened cocount
  • 1/2 cup sunflower seeds (any seeds work)
  • 2/3 cup dried apricots, quartered (any dried fruit works)
  • 1/3 cup unsweetened applesauce (or any fruit puree)
  • 1/3 cup vegetable oil (safflower, canola, whatever)
  • 1/2 cup honey
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • cinnamon to taste
  1. Mix everything except the dried fruit in a large mixing bowl.
  2. Chuck your mixture onto a couple of cookie sheets. Spread a thin, even layer on each. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes, or until everything is golden brown. You will likely need to give your granola a nice stir halfway through so that it bakes evenly.
  3. Once granola has been baked and cooled, add your dried fruit. Voila!

I’m two dozen today. I celebrated with a brunch of bone marrow doughnuts and artisanal salamis. Life is soooo good.

This week got off to a manic start. For one, I had my hometown theatre houseguests stay over on Sunday and Monday nights, and of course the sky decided to spew a wet windstorm of disgusting late-February snow on southern Ontario on the one day I’d allotted for grocery shopping. Secondly, I had a difficult time arranging interviews for a totally harmless article I’m working on–and, on deadline, that’s never fun. Overwhelmed and overburdened, I needed something special to perk up my spirits. Once I realized bourbon could only go so far, I opted to buy a bag of chestnuts for roasting.

I’d never roasted chestnuts before, but the process is shockingly painless. You simply wash the nuts, score the tops with a knife for ventilation, and toss them on a baking pan. Bake at 475 F for 20 minutes or so, and presto! Roasted chestnuts. Once they cool, you can easily peel them by hand.

Roasted chestnuts are like nothing I’ve ever tasted before: slightly meaty, chewy, and sweet. In other words, not very nutlike but still totally enjoyable. And, best of all, chestnuts are super cheap–my 2/3 lb bag cost me just around 50 cents. Not too bad for a special pick-me-up!

I’ve been told these guys taste great with coffee. I also imagine they’re quite nice for baking. Being the purist (or lazy woman) that I am, I think I’ll just eat mine on their own.

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