Every now and then a recipe comes along that’s good enough to resurrect a defunct blog—a recipe that makes you break your diet (again) and vow to become the next Martha Stewart—Snoop Dog combo. And when that recipe is your grandmother’s once famous date and nut saucepan cookies, and your mother is here to make them, your resurrection is even sweeter still.
I was sixteen when Pierre Trudeau swept back into power in 1980. Months before the election, as a “Young Liberal,” I attended a fundraising dinner dressed in a shiny blue kimono-styled dress at the Ukrainian Hall in Sydney, Nova Scotia, the keynote speaker—Trudeau himself. On his way to the podium he stopped at my table and touched my arm. “I like your dress, ” he said, flashing that same devilish smile that had repatriated a constitution. I gazed up, my mouth full of Ukrainian food and smiled the way you do when you’ve been eating cabbage. He winked and went on his way. I’ve loved shiny dresses, cabbage rolls and Trudeaus’ ever since. Continue Reading…
My TV food fantasy game-show involves a handsome chef bursting through the door and offering to make dinner with whatever is in my cupboards. No trips to the grocery store allowed. In the fantasy, I stand back embarrassed by the emptiness of my refrigerator, but handsome chef only grins, pulls out a bottle of wine (allowed for the homeowner as per the rules of Let’s make a Meal) and tells me to sit back while he turns my barren shelves into a culinary orgasm.
In true Friday form, I’ve managed to get myself into trouble at a restaurant, only this time it’s with myself. With only a few weeks left in Miami before I head back to Bermuda, I decide to do some Christmas shopping. Of course, since I’m in Norstroms I must visit their bistro. I promise myself I will only stay if the soup of the day is something delicious and HEALTHY. With five weeks until Christmas there is still time to lose last Christmas’ weight. Continue Reading…
What has become apparent to me is that every time I venture outside of my apartment to eat, I come face to face with a blog post. Usually this is a positive experience. Other times….not so much. It’s Miami after all, and sometimes all of that Botox makes people a little crazy. Continue Reading…
Vegetarianism requires an exorbitant amount of work which might even cause you to ruin a perfectly good shellac manicure. I know this because I was one (a vegetarian, not a shellac manicure) for a day which is long enough. Okay, maybe it was for a meal, but even so, in that short time, I acquired adequate information to disseminate this advice. Plus, I have a blog, so that’s what I am required to do—as per blog law. Continue Reading…
After too many posts with titles longer than the post itself, I’ve decided to keep this one simple. The inspiration? Brasserie BC Central. I should be home enjoying a Lean Cuisine Turkey Tenderloin dinner, but nothing screams Canadian Thanksgiving more than Moules & Frites in a French Brasserie in the heart of Miami.
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First of all, let’s be honest, husbands never want to buy anything. They like the feeling of cold hard cash plastered against their ass like paper mache. So as a general rule, it’s wise to disregard their protests, especially when you’re in Newfoundland and you see a really great pot—rather, a cassoulet— and it’s on sale. You know that if you stuff the belly of that pot with undergarments everything will fit snugly into your carry-on. After all, what else are you going to buy in Newfoundland other than a seal skin handbag? Well, maybe you could buy a couple of really cute hand painted rocks that you could pop into the cups of that bra you’ll use to stuff your pot.Or maybe you could also buy a bird puzzle for your sister, or a super cute butter dish that looks like a genuine dinghy and a six pack of Quidi-Vidi beer that you’ll drink before you ever board the plane, but other than that—why not get the pot? It’s a cassoulet!
When I first decided to move to Miami to finish my masters, I had visions of a Mary Tyler Moore sort of life. Having married more or less around the age of ten, I’d never really had the chance to live an independent life—the chance to eat when I wanted, cook what I wanted or flit about throwing my tam in the air. Continue Reading…
When you have a food blog, it’s therapeutic to rant and rave about airlines, frats, writing and wine. Other times, (okay— maybe often) you get to poke fun at your husband and embarrass him with little anecdotes. After a while you start to worry that maybe your readership isn’t taking you seriously as the chef you are pretending to be. So in an effort to up your culinary game, you decide to challenge yourself and blog about something you love, but have never made—something like your mother’s Apple Pie and her Teeny-Tiny Cinnamon Rolls. Pure PIE PERFECTION!!!
Pie and Ice Cream