Babette's Feast

When I was in my last year of University I had one class called The Sociology of Media ... or something like that.  Our major assignment for that class was to write a paper about "the media" and its "sociological influences".  Sigh.  Broad enough topic for you?  The Teacher (whom I had little respect for) seemed to think that the only form of "media" worth discussing were television shows.  No discussions about print publications or the 'newest fad' called "the internet".  Instead she prattled on about fictional characters, in fictional towns, in fictional times.  So the assignment sounds easy enough right?  Wrong. 

The problem?

I had one television channel.

One.

The local channel.

As a struggling student, working nearly 40 hours a week and attending Uni full-time my girlfriends that I lived with and I decided that we didn't need cable television. 

Need a break from studying?  Why not head into the living room, turn on 'the channel' and see if 'the show' that was on interested you.  It rarely did.  Just get home from a rough day of folding jeans at the store?  Why not turn on 'the channel' and watch the local politicians debate local issues?  *yawn*  Can't decide whether to listen to music or watch TV while preparing dinner?  Why not turn on 'the channel' and see if the local news broadcast person happens to be visiting a local restaurant ... they never did.

“If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him … the people who give you their food give you their heart.” ~ Cesar Chavez

ShortStack and Sarina ... circa Grade Six

And if those friends aren't EXACTLY in your area code, well, perhaps a miraculous Vegan-Food-Swap-Angel can help bring two long-lost friends together.  The story is this, dear readers ...

In a land fah-fah-away, there were two young girls ... I should clarify, the land was not the North Pole, despite the photo to the left ... I digress ...

Sarina and I met in Grade Four - we became instant friends and spent many an afternoon giggling, drawing (she was MUCH better than me ... like ... I thought she would become a world famous artist - move over Van Gogh, here comes Sarina!), playing in the pool and if we'd done all our homework her Mom would sometimes let us play on their computer.  That was MEGA exciting 'cause they had COMPUTER GAMES ... think 'black screen with rudimentary white characters that shot out single bullets' ... we're talking PRE-Tetris-awesome'ness ...

As time passed, as it has a habit of doing, we drifted apart.  By mid-Junior high, we didn't really see much of each other ... we went our separate ways ... and after high school we lost touch entirely.

Until ... a few weeks ago!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Sarina contacted me after reading one of my posts about the Vegan Food Swap.  After some generally hilarious backing and forthing on emails, we were teamed up for the August food swap.  And after discovering we lived fairly close to one another ... we decided ... to meet. <duhn-duhn-duhnnnnn>

Walkin' tall ... err ... well all 4'10" of me is trying to be as tall as possible.

Our story begins one sunny morning ... in a galaxy far, far away.  Actually, I lie.  It began in a Target parking lot in upstate New York.  The ShortStack's were headin' South for some Black Friday shopping.  And who better to share in the journey than two South Africans friends who share in our love of all things wine, shopping and Target.  Armed with credit cards, shopping lists, "sensible footwear", synchronized watches and the sheer will to survive the crowds, we left the True North Strong and Free, and headed South ...

 

We left no stone unturned.  No clothing rack un-spun.  No credit card unused.  Our feet throbbed.  Our backs ached.  Our arms felt as though they would fail under the sheer volume of bags we struggled to carry ... and yet, as if guided by only our shopping-instincts, we soldiered on.  It was truly ... a miracle of epic proportions.

Truth be told, I have never been a great shopper.  I find crowds overwhelming.  I'm a shop-local-fan.  And yet, somehow, I abandoned all that I knew to be true about myself ... I wrestled sweaters away from other ladies.  I snarled like a wildebeest at those whom I felt were going to pick-over the last of the knee-high-size-6 "pleather boots" I was eyeing.  I charged toward cashiers with my shopping buggy tires on fire.  I SCREAMED out to my friends when I saw a fresh pile of towels being put out on display ...

I didn't recognize myself ...

The road is long, with many a winding turn ...

I confess.  I love going to meetings.  Wait!  Let me clarify.  I love going to meetings at my "Up North Branch Office".  Not that meetings in Sunny-Brampton, Whimsical Whitby or Majestic-Mississauga are anything to sneeze at friends.  No!  In fact some of my favorite Clients work in the bowels of various Toronto suburbs ...

However, I know that I am not alone in the feeling that there is something horrific about sitting on any of the 400-series highways.  You taunt the angel of death as you try to manoeuvre into the HOV lane. 

You gasp and swerve as Mr. No-Signal veers into that same lane without doing so at the "enter here" zone so CLEARLY painted on the road!  The countless times you've narrowly averted a major pile-up caused by Little-Miss-Twitter-Updater as she sails along at warp speeds weaving in and out of lanes - her indicator light obviously broken as well ... and the oh-too-familiar-feeling of prying your cold-white-knuckles off the steering wheel as you finally pull into the safety of your driveway ...

Imagine for a moment friends, visiting Clients via country roads. 

Arriving to the aforementioned meetings with a smile on your face.  Your mascara not streaming down your face from the tears you wept as pieces of transport-truck-tire flew past you on the off ramp.  Where the only kind of traffic you'll encounter on the way home is a tractor ... a single, solitary tractor.  A tractor that pulls over and waves as you pass him, your windows down because the air is fresh and clean.

There is, however, a drawback to this idyllic scenario. 

So a rabbit walks into a bar ...

I am a sucker for a furry face. Our suburban backyard is an oasis for the neighbourhood "buns".  I could not be happier. I admit to spending a little bit too much time gazing out the kitchen windows watching "the buns" nibble on clover and lounge in the summer sun.  I've also seen what can only be described as "a bun-off" in which two "buns" jumped over one another over, and over, and over again, in some sort of dance.

(It was quote possibly a mating ritual, but this is a 'family blog' and so we'll leave it as "dance" and not really worry too much about what it's all about ...)

"Bun-spotting" has become somewhat of a sport at our house.  The thrill of seeing "bun" in the backyard is matched only by the excitement of seeing MULTIPLE BUNS in the backyard.  It is a thrill, like no other ...

Or so I thought, until a few weeks ago.


“(S)He was swimming in a sea of other people’s expectations. Men had drowned in seas like that.” ~Robert Jordan, New Springs

Perhaps, a tad dramatic, I admit.  But it's been a solid month of non-stop-go-go-go, and the cold-sore on my face means that I've hit a wall.  Although, judging by the size of this cold sore, it looks as though a wall hit me.  In a self-induced-pity-party the other night while doing dishes and making lunches for the next day, I exclaimed with a great sigh "HEAVEN HELP ME I NEED A BREAK!!!"  Then the phone rang.  There was a great discussion.  Then I got all excited about the possibility of a new business opportunity.  My mind began to race.  World domination was within my grasp!  (Or that's what it felt like ...) And when I told DH of my new plans, (a mere 10 minutes after my great exclamation of needing a break) he smiled, nodded his head and without even uttering a word, I knew ... that I was ... quite possibly ... the master of my own demise.  Were it not seconds ago that I believed the weight of the world was in fact resting solely on my shoulders?  The fear that if I stopped to catch my breath ... life as we know it would ACTUALLY come to a grinding halt!  Seas would churn.  Volcano's would begin to rumble.  Nickelback would release another album (snicker-snicker) ...

Brown paper packages, tied up with string ...

Getting mail.  By far - one of the best things ever.  I'm not talking about the over-priced Hydro bill (boo-hiss and what the heck is a 'debt retirement charge' anyways?), or the phone bill (why do we even HAVE a landline anymore?), or even what appears to be a genuine letter ... only to find out that it's a computer-generated-fake-signature letter from your local government representative (can you hear it hitting the side of the recycle bin?).

No friends, I'm talking about "real mail" ... "fun mail" ... like birthday cards from your grandma that have newspaper clippings stuffed inside ... like a postcard from your best friend who still sends you postcards when she's on holiday because she knows how much you love them ... and then ... there's the mother-load-of-awesome'ness ... a brown paper package ... too big to fit in the mailbox ... my heart skips a beat ...

In February, I signed up for a "Vegan Food Swap" - organized by the devilishly clever MeShell In Your City.  She's a Torontonian and a Vegan ... and in my opinion one of the coolest people in the universe for organizing this food swap.  Think "penpal that sends you food".  I know ... I know ... how did you exist so long without knowing about this?  While not a vegan (DH is the son of a butcher, so really, we're a meat-and-potatoes couple), I am a slave to veggies and totally curious about the vegan-lifestyle ... and one of my girlfriends has been a vegan for well over a year and this lady GLOWS, so there's gotta be something to it ... I digress ...

I signed-up for the food swap, not really knowing what to expect - but that was half-the fun ... the other half ... well to be perfectly honest, was panic.  What would I (the non-vegan) be able to send a REAL vegan that wasn't "done before"?  The last thing I wanted was for my new foodie-penpal to open their box and think "wow ... that sucks".   While I stewed about this potential disaster, I received my first email from MeShell ... my first vegan-foodie-penpal was Caroline - over at the Vegan Hammock.  I DASHED to my most fav. 100 mile market and began my hunt for 'vegan things' ...

A few days later, I arrived home to find THIS waiting for me on our messy kitchen table ...

A ShortStack Foodie field trip! A little bit of summer farmers market fun in January ...

Terra at Home Winter Market

No, I have not gone crazy.  No, I have not moved to the sunny south.  Yes, there is a winter-market in North Burlington.  Yes, I clapped my hands WILDLY when I found out.  And yes, I probably bought way more at the market yesterday than DH and I could ever eat ... in a month.  But not to worry - we don't have a month ... we have 5 days 'til we leave for NYC.  Not a problem ... we'll simply balance the vast array of cupcakes and butter tarts with kale salad and root vegetable soup.  That should negate the extra calories ... right?  RIGHT?  *sigh*  No, I didn't think so.  The market opens at 10am, at Terra, on Dundas in Burlington.  There's everything from baked goods like pies, tarts, treats, chocolate ... <pause> ... sorry I just got a little misty thinking about this one piece of peanut butter-marshmallow-fudge sitting on the kitchen counter ... I thought I heard it calling me ... where was I?  Oh yes ... there's smoked fish, winter veggies, sweet potato EVERYTHING, coffee, tea, lavender, popcorn, soaps, artisan crafty-type-things ... not to mention gorgeous potted plants, herbs, flowers ... all enclosed in a beautiful, warm greenhouse.  Ladies and gentlemen, heaven does exist ... it's in a greenhouse, and they're serving butter-tarts.

So what did I do with my haul of produce, meats 'n treats? Well ...

Henry Miller got it wrong ... but the Christmas spirit helped us get it oh-so-right.



Henry Miller once said "Americans can eat garbage, provided you sprinkle it liberally with ketchup, mustard, chili sauce, Tabasco sauce, cayenne pepper, or any other condiment which destroys the original flavor of the dish."  I'm going to say it.  He's wrong.  Really, really, really wrong.  Aside from having had some of the best meals of my life in the country to the South, and having a personal love affair with all things hot-sauce, this guy was not lucky enough to have tasted my chili sauce.  Otherwise he never would have said such horrible things.  Did that sound boastful?  *sigh*  Such a delicate and fine line between boastfulness and sheer-unadulterated PRIDE in a recipe that would bring you to your knees ... did I cross the line again?  *double sigh*  Let's begin our story ...

This past Christmas I was in charge of providing my French Canadian flock with baked beans and tourtière for our Réveillon dinner.  This is "my thing".  I've finally got the bean-recipe down to a science and while the tourtière recipe continues to evolve it always brings about great conversation 'round the dinner table that night.  (In all honesty, a table of "frenchies" and one too many festive-beverages normally results in seemingly endless discussions about less-than-earth-shattering-things ... but we'll save that conversation for the therapy couch ...)  Christmas dinner was to be a wondrous buffet of stinky cheeses, pickled delights, pâtés, fresh breads and a veggie-tray large enough to span the Grand Canyon.

My plans for world domination bean and tourtière prep were all in hand.  I knew what I had to tackle for the Christmas buffet.  The list of baking for the neighbours was taped to the kitchen cabinet.  The groceries were set to be delivered.  We were almost packed for our journey up North.  I could TOTALLY get all the baking and cooking done in 4 days.  All while continuing to wrap last minute presents, sip eggnog by the fire with DH and watch holiday films.  I could almost hear the Christmas carols playing in the distance.

Enter "the plague".