Blue Jean Chef

It doesn’t last long, but it’s happening right now! It’s Honeybell season.

As promised, juice dripped down my chin and through my fingers as I enjoyed my first Honeybell last week. It was, indeed, the juiciest “orange” I’ve ever eaten. No wonder the company that was selling my particular case of the fruit included two plastic bibs with the purchase. It did make me wonder, however. Two bibs? Did they expect me to eat twelve Honeybells in one sitting, or was I supposed to wash that thin plastic bib and re-use it? I resorted to eating over the sink.

A Honeybell is not actually an orange, though it looks much like one. It is in fact a hybrid cross between a Duncan Grapefruit and a Dancy Tangerine, which first appeared in Florida in the 1930s. Also known as a Minneola Tangelo, it is deep sunset orange in color, and feels noticeably heavy. That weight comes from all the juice inside, waiting to burst forth and turn you into a sticky mess. It is almost startling how much sweet and slightly tart juice can be squeezed out of one single Honeybell (about 5 oz!).

The season for Honeybells is short. They are available in January, and then they can’t be found again until the following year. That is Nature’s own brilliant marketing plan – the simple rule of supply and demand. Supply is short, and so demand is high. When the supply is only available for a limited time, however, the demand intensifies and creates a sense of urgency. Even if growers could extend the season, I would advise against it. They’ve got a good thing going, naturally.

Last week I came home with a case of Honeybells. That’s about 24 individual pieces of fruit. What was I thinking? How many tangelos can a girl and her dog eat… especially when the dog turns her nose up at anything citrus? While I love good fruit, and appreciate the limited supply of Honeybells, I’m also a strong believer in variety being the spice of life. It didn’t take me long to tire of eating oranges merely because they were sitting there on the counter. Sure, I could cut one open and enjoy a cool glass of fresh Honeybell juice, but somehow that felt wasteful. So much of the fruit gets tossed into the garbage can when you simply juice it. I started to think of all the ways I could use the tangelos – the segments went into salad; the zest went into a breading for chicken breast; the juice and zest, combined with butter and mint, turned into a delicious pasta recipe by Marcella Hazan. Still, it soon became crystal clear that I could only take so much Honeybell flavour in any one day. Apparently, you can have too much of a good thing. What to do?

It was my mother who gave me the best suggestion. (Isn’t that always the way?) Marmalade. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Probably because though I’ve made jams and jellies in the past, I’ve never actually made marmalade before. I pulled Delia down off the shelf and read what she had to say about making marmalade. Then I embarked on the project.

What most appealed to me about the endeavor was the sense of satisfaction that it brought. I used the entire fruit in the process. The juice formed the base. The seeds and pith were tied up with cheesecloth and simmered in the juice, later squeezed out to extract the pectin. The peel was sliced very thin and added to the pot – this was to be a chunky marmalade. I loved the fact that I wasn’t wasting a single part of the fruit that “comes but once a year”.

As each batch I made bubbled on the stovetop, the fragrance of tangy citrus wafted through my home. What a great bonus for the work! The sweet juice broadcast its scent all the way up to the third floor, overcoming whatever came before it. I left the house for a walk, just so that I could come back in and appreciate the aroma anew. As I entered, I stepped over the opened boxes of cookware, past the mail shredded by my loving dog, and over the carpet that so needed vacuuming. I ignored the growing stack of magazines that required sorting and recycling, and refused to acknowledge the tumbleweeds of dog hair staring at me from the corners of the room. In the kitchen, I didn’t see the sink of dishes waiting to be washed. I just inhaled the smell of Honeybells and thought “Wow. I’m a domestic goddess!” Take heed – making marmalade will make you feel (and smell) like a homemaking genius, despite the condition of the rest of your house.

Finally, the last reward comes in giving the finished product away. These days, how many of us have the time to stay at home and preserve fruit? Well, honestly, more of us should try to find that time. It’s not a difficult undertaking, and you’d be surprised at the pay-offs. I loved the look of surprise and gratitude that I saw on people’s faces when I handed them a pretty little jar of home-made marmalade. It’s a gift that is so unexpected…or perhaps people were just bewildered that it came from me? Well, regardless of what category of home-maker you fall into, I guarantee you won’t have to look far to find a welcoming recipient of the fruit of your labour (so to speak).

I’m on my third batch of marmalade as I write this. The last of the Honeybells are simmering away, waiting for the addition of sugar and, this time, some finely sliced fresh ginger. I’ll try to catch the marmalade at just the right point. The previous batch was a little runny, and the first batch I made should come with a warning – “steak knife required”.

Phew! The Honeybells are no longer hanging over my head, warning me that soon they’ll be unavailable. Strange how I can wait all year for their arrival, and then work so hard to rid myself of them as quickly as possible! This year, however, I’ll be able to enjoy the taste of Honeybells in the middle of July…if I manage to keep a jar of marmalade for myself.

Ingredients:
2 quarts of water
2.5 cups Honeybell juice (about 4 Honeybells)
3 lbs. sugar
2 – 3 inchs of fresh ginger, peeled and sliced into very thin strips
1 tsp. butter

Directions:
First, prepare the Honeybells by cutting them in half horizontally, and squeezing out all the juice through a strainer. Save the seeds and any pith that separates from the peel. Place the seeds and pith in a square of cheesecloth and save for later. Continue to juice to all four Honeybells. Pull all the loose pith from inside the squeezed Honeybells and add this to the cheesecloth. Tie the cheesecloth bundle up, leaving a strand of string to tie to the handle of the stockpot.

Slice all the Honeybell peels into thin strips. Slice the ginger into thin strips.

Place the water, Honeybell juice, Honeybell peel and half the ginger into the stockpot. Add the cheesecloth bundle to the juice, tying it to the stockpot for easy retrieval, and bring the mixture to a boil. Simmer for 2 hours.

When the peel is very soft, remove the cheesecloth bundle and let it cool. Add the sugar and the other half of the ginger to the pot. Stir this over low heat until all the sugar has dissolved. Increase the heat and bring to a boil. Don’t walk away at this point, as boiled over marmalade is not something you want to clean up (trust me!). Squeeze the cheesecloth bundle between two plates to extract all the syrupy pectin and juice and stir this into the marmalade.

Place the plates into the freezer and set the timer for 15 minutes. When the timer goes off, drop a little marmalade onto one cold plate. Place it in the fridge for a couple of minutes. If, after a minute or two, there is a skin on the marmalade when you drag your finger through it, the marmalade is finished. Otherwise, set the timer for an additional 10 minutes and repeat the process. Continue to do this until you see a skin on top of the marmalade.

Meanwhile, place all your clean, dry jars and lids into a 350 degree F oven for at least 5 minutes. When the marmalade is done, let it sit for about 15 minutes and remove the skin that has formed on the top, or stir in the butter, which will help the skin to dissolve. Fill the jars with the hot marmalade and seal. Cool in the refrigerator. Make nice labels. Give to friends. Make people happy.

I’m a person who likes lists. That’s no surprise to those of you who know me. I use lists everyday, enjoying the sense of satisfaction that comes from being able to cross things off, getting one step closer to a goal. What’s my goal? Well, I’m not sure, and I don’t let myself wonder about that too much. I guess the goal is just to finish my list, which is futile, come to think of it, since I’m constantly adding to it.

Lately, I’ve come across several lists of “Things to Do before You Die”. Lists like these are not uncommon. There are all kinds of businesses and organizations that put out such a register. In fact, you’ll find about 140,000 such catalogues if you search Google. Usually it is just there to promote whatever product or service the business is in the habit of selling. A travel company, for instance, simply has 100 places that you, without question, must see before you die. Newspapers and magazines put out the list because people are interested in reading it, to see if they’ve accomplished the things that are deemed so important. It’s an interesting phenomenon. If a list acts as a means of telling you how close you are to a goal, then why do we aspire to cross off the tasks on the “Things to Do before You Die” inventory?

Last month, I inadvertently accomplished a task from a list of “Places to Visit before You Die”. I spent a morning at the market in Cotignac, in the South of France. Upon my return, my brother informed me that I had come one step closer to a life of fulfillment, for the Cotignac market is on a list of important places. I’m not sure who designated Cotignac market as one of the top 100 destinations of a lifetime, but my brother told me it was on The Observer’s list, and I believe him. I did wonder about the designation, however. It seems that every little French village has a market on one of the days of the week. Who knew that the little town of Cotignac would hold such importance?

Cotignac is a picturesque little town in the Var, about 15 km east of Barjols, northeast of Marseilles. The most arresting quality of the village is the wall of rock that is its northern border. The cliff wall is made of tufa rock, calcium rich and full of holes and caves. The inhabitants of the village have lived in these caves, and even built their homes into the cliff wall since before recorded history. I used to be a lover of caves and tight places as a child, and yet the thought of living in a cave of sorts is quite alarming to me now. History has it, however, that the villagers lived in these caves to protect themselves from invading enemies, and to seek refuge from political controversies, religious wars, and even epidemics. Some of the lower dwellings are still lived in today. These homes of rock overlook the town of Cotignac and its main street, which is where the market is held every Tuesday.

Indeed, Cotignac holds a very pretty and quaint market. The stalls set up sold anything you might need for an average day in Provence: cooking equipment, from knives to strainers and bottle openers, fleece shirts (quite a bargain at 5 Euros each), hand-made baskets, linens, boiled wool slippers (on my feet as I write), local olive oil, sausages, cheeses, meats, and of course, fruit and vegetables galore.

Of all the vegetables I admired in Cotignac last month (and they were beautiful enough to admire), what stands out in my head most clearly are the leeks. Leeks have an elegant quality. They are subtle and yet strong. They are a member of the lily family along with the onion, and yet they have a much more delicate flavour than their bold cousin. As they protrude from the ground, they stand tall. The structure of this soldier is well-designed – the leaves, tightly wrapped around each other, produce a stalk that does not bend over or lean, but stands straight up, announcing its presence with a quiet pride. I don’t blame it. I think if I were a vegetable, I’d be proud to be a leek. Sure, they require a good cleaning to rid them of the sand or dirt trapped inside, but what interesting person doesn’t have a little grit on the inside, out of view?

The leeks in Cotignac were slender and beautiful. As I saw them resting side by side in their basket, I could picture them on a plate – beautiful grill marks, a confident vinaigrette drizzled over top, complimenting their onion aroma. I could even imagine the fillet of fish that would sit beside them on the plate. The image of these leeks must have stayed with me, for when I returned home to Philadelphia days later, I was drawn to the leeks in my local Whole Foods. Now, Whole Foods presents its produce beautifully, but unfortunately they are still no match to an open air market in the South of France. And yet, now I can say “been there, done that”. I can cross Cotignac market off my list of “Places to Visit before You Die”, and where does it get me? Hmmm… one step closer to finishing that list. I hope it takes me, well, a lifetime to finish that list, and I do hope that is in fact a long time.

Cotignac market has made me think differently about my lists. Perhaps I need to spend a little more time enjoying what it is I’m actually doing, than simply celebrating the completion of the task. Life is, after all, what you make it. And when this life is over, I want to be able to stand tall and proud in my second life…sort of like a leek.

I moved homes recently. I didn’t move far. In fact, only moving two blocks from my old apartment, I didn’t even leave the zip code. Still, whether moving two blocks or across the world, I had to pack up all my belongings nonetheless. Moving is hard, and packing is an ordeal. Despite the number of times I have relocated across the country, I still feel inexperienced in the art of packing. The good thing about this relocation, was that I had the luxury of time – an overlapping month in both places. This month was a luxury for which I paid, but it came with the dilemma of living in two places at one time. Where to sleep? Where to eat? When do I move my office? When should I carry over my bathroom supplies? There are challenges to bi-dwelling living and there were many decisions to make.

One of the most interesting decisions forced upon me involved my kitchen. I realize that there is a high probability that I have more kitchen equipment than most people, being in my current occupation as a cookware representative. That doesn’t mean, however, that I have extraneous kitchen supplies. I’m just very well equipped. There came a time last month when I had to decide what, in my kitchen was going into a box, and what items would be left out for daily use. What basic equipment did I need to get me through a couple of weeks? Here’s what I chose.

One 7 quart hard anodized aluminum stockpot with a stainless steel lid. I kept this pot out of the boxes because I felt the need for the security of a large pot. I think the last time I had more than two people over for dinner was some time in 2000, but you never know… maybe I’d suddenly be descended upon by swarms of guests and have to cook large quantities of food. (right.) Still, I might need to cook pasta or something else requiring lots of room, and well … I just needed the security, so the 7 quart stockpot escaped “the box”.

One 3 quart hard anodized aluminum saucepan with steamer insert. I don’t really steam foods often enough to warrant keeping this pan with me, but I like a 3 quart saucepan. It’s a useful size – in between large and small. I decided this pan would be my do-it-all pan (when I wasn’t entertaining crowds that is!).

One 9 inch hard anodized aluminum crêpe pan. Ok. This one was sort of a mistake. I had been holding a 10” skillet out of the box to use as my primary cooking piece, but I ended up giving it away to a friend. The 9” crêpe pan was left in its place. The crêpe pan wasn’t that effective at tossing foods around, unless I was actually aiming for the back of the stove and wall, but it did serve its purpose as a sautéing or frying surface. It worked more like a griddle than a skillet, but it got me by.

One wooden reamer. I love my wooden reamer. In the course of my career, I’ve been given most of my kitchenware, but this is one item that I actually bought. It could very well be the least expensive item in my kitchen (I can’t say I’m a big spender), but I would chose nothing over my reamer when juicing a lemon, lime, or orange. Did I use it during the two weeks of my relocation? Probably not, but I would take it with me to a desert island if need be, so it remained out of “the box”.

One metal wire whisk. I once visited my best friend long before she was married, and was shocked to discover in her kitchen the absence of not only a whisk, but a cutting board too. I felt a little restricted chopping garlic on the cardboard of a box of anchovies and not being able to whisk together a mayonnaise (why I felt the need to make a mayonnaise at that time is lost in memory), so I went out immediately and bought her both. I wasn’t going to be trapped in the same situation again, so during my move, my whisk was saved from being packed.

One plastic cutting board. Many people have multiple cutting boards. I am amongst them. I have three cutting boards (one is really a pizza peel), but the one that I kept out of the packing boxes was my bright orange plastic board with little rubber semicircles on the bottom which make it stable on any counter surface. At about 13 inches by 10 inches, it is the perfect size for daily jobs. The big cutting board and the pizza peel were packed.

One wooden spoon. There is no replacement for a wooden spoon, no matter what anyone says.

One can opener. This was another slip up on my part. I packed all my canned foods, but I kept my can opener. Now that’s thinking!

One pair of metal locking tongs with silicone handles. I can’t live in the kitchen without my tongs. In saying this, I apologize to Chef Michel, my chef mentor who hated tongs and wouldn’t let any of us use them in his presence. He maintained that if you start using tongs to grab food, you start using them for everything and they become a fixed extension of your hand. I have to admit, this is somewhat true. I haven’t yet brushed my teeth with tongs in my hand, but I have seen line cooks become so attached to their tongs that they keep them in their back pocket. I’d have to ban tongs from my kitchen too if I started acting like that, but so far I have too much respect for my clothing to fall prey to such behaviour.

One aluminum half sheet pan. I used to have many half sheet pans. I don’t know if I thought that one day I would go into catering and need a surplus of these pans, but I’ve collected them over the years. With this move, I downsized and got rid of most of my half sheet pans, keeping a total of two. One was packed. One stayed out to help me through the move.

One perfectly round stainless steel bowl. Of all the kitchen items I have sold and stumbled across in my career, this, believe it or not, is the item I use more than any other. I love this bowl. It is perfectly round and consequently sits on a ring stand so it doesn’t wobble all over the counter. It has a handle made out of part of the lip of the bowl and holds about 3 quarts. It is simple, but so useful. I toss salads in it. I mix batters in it. I mix everything in it. It will never leave my kitchen, but will forever sit on my counter like a trophy, ready for use at any moment. My mother says that leaving kitchen equipment out on the counter is the only way to really use it. She has a point, and that is probably a large part of the reason why this simple, perfectly round bowl is the most used item I own.

There you have it. My list of items I chose to keep on hand during my two block relocation – my kitchen security blanket, so to speak. I actually made the decision of what not to pack away very quickly when a friend came over to help me on the spur of the moment. Had I given the idea more thought, perhaps a few more items might have stayed out of boxes. Maybe a few items might have been packed away from the light of day until I reached my new home (like the can opener). Sometimes, however, the outcome of less thought is more telling. What I ended up with was a kitchen that could handle whatever was thrown at it. I did have a house guest during this time period – my cousin stayed with me for a week – and we ate quite well, and seemed to want for nothing. Maybe the crêpe pan wasn’t always the perfect pan for the job, but at least it got the job done. The one thing that all the items that made up my kitchen security blanket had in common was that they were all of high quality. They were all well-made, high performance cookware products, and they helped me through the stress of moving. I guess I chose them the same way I choose my friends – quality over quantity – and all you need are a few quality friends to get through a move.

The other day, my best friend participated in a team-building exercise at work. It was an “Amazing Race” of sorts which had her and her fellow employees running around Toronto on a wild goose chase, dashing into grocery stores to find specific items on the shelves, slipping into a Starbucks to order a high-impact list of “special needs” drinks from the poor unsuspecting baristas, and other similar tasks. As she told me the story of her day at the races, the one task that really grabbed my attention involved an Asian restaurant and a “horrible” drink. The teams were told to go to Saigon Palace, a Vietnamese restaurant in town, order a certain drink that has a “special” aroma, and between the four team members, drink it. Tanya couldn’t remember what it was called, but it “sounded something like dorian”. She said it was “disgusting”.

It’s been years since I’ve heard of or thought about durian. The first time I heard of this fruit (known by those who love it as “The King of Fruits”) was when I was working as a research assistant for a business professor who specialized in Southeast Asia. Of course, my professor wasn’t particularly interested in the durian, but I came across the fruit many times when conducting my research. Durian is the name of about 25 varieties of a tropical evergreen tree native to Southeast Asia. These trees bear fruit of the same name which have a hard thorny outer husk and can individually weigh 1 – 5 kg (2 – 10 pounds). Inside, there are sections of yellow curd-like flesh that surround a seed.

What peaked my curiosity about the fruit was the fact that its stench is apparently so powerful and unpleasant that it has been banned from public transportation systems in Singapore, as well as from many hotels and airlines. What kind of a fruit was this? Who could like and enjoy a fruit whose odor was so horrific that it was intolerable to the general public? Asia, after all, is a place where smokers abound and smoking has not been banned in public places. Could the smell of this fruit be more objectionable than sitting on a hot crowded bus with many smokers? I was fascinated. I felt like a small child, captivated by the disgusting; like a rubber-necker who must look at the terrible accident as they drive by; or like someone watching a horror flick and can’t take their eyes off the screen even though they don’t want to watch the movie anymore. I wanted to smell the disgusting.

It is now about fifteen years later and I still haven’t experienced the aroma, let alone the flavour of a durian. Mostly this has been because of lack of availability (a durian is not a fruit that you happen across in your regular grocery store), but I’d also forgotten about the durian. Out of sight, out of mind. Now, however, I am once again intrigued. It’s interesting to think that somewhere in Toronto there is a restaurant that serves a drink made with durian that smells horrible. Do they sell a lot of them? Who buys it? Only people on dares and amazing races, or regular customers too? Is the durian punishment or pleasure? I began to search for more information on the King of Fruit.

In a couple of minutes on the Internet, I found the following quotes on durians:

“It has the texture of a cold cow pat, it smells like a poorly maintained public convenience, but the taste is worse.”

“… it seems at first to smell like rotten onions…”

“… rotten onions with limburger cheese and low-tide seaweed…”

“On first tasting it I thought it like the flesh of some animal in a state of putrefaction.”

“… think clogged drains in August.”

“… the unique flavor is reminiscent of garlic, smoked ham, and rancid cheese.”

“… like eating custard in a sewer..”

The initial investigation was not clarifying why there is any human consumption of durian at all, though my interest in experiencing the disgusting was gaining momentum. Next, I discovered that durians grow on very tall trees and fall when ripe. Put those features together with their sharp spiky husks and weight of ten pounds and you have a dangerous situation. With a little more research, I discovered that people have indeed died from durians falling on their heads, and harvesters are required to wear helmets! This fruit is sounding more and more like a mean joke of Nature. It’s Nature’s stink bomb.

Just when it was sounding unpleasant enough, I found myself saying “…but wait, there’s more” in my very best sales voice. Apparently the durian should have warnings to accompany it. People with high blood pressure are advised to avoid durian due to its richness. The fruit has “heaty” properties for most people, or causes them to sweat. Moreover, everyone is advised to avoid all alcoholic beverages when and after eating a durian because the combination of the two may create dangerous internal gasses that could result in a bursting of the bowel. Is this fruit for real? Suddenly, durian was not only disgusting, but dangerous too.

How could this be? Is the durian the Machiavellian King of Fruit, feared rather than loved? That’s when I came across a tribute to the fruit: Durian Palace. The author of this site must be the durian’s number one fan and promoter. Shunyam Nirav describes the experience of eating durian in his introduction:

Imagine the best, most delicious, and sensuous banana pudding you can imagine, add just a touch of butterscotch, vanilla, peach, pineapple, strawberry, and almond flavors, and a surprising twist of — garlic??!! Like many of life’s greatest experiences, eating durian cannot be adequately described with words. Durian has a characteristic delicious flavor, creamy texture, and tantalizing fragrance that is just… durian! — the king of fruits, Nature’s most magnificent fruit gift.
- Shunyam Nirav

Now, Nirav’s description of the fruit’s flavour does not necessarily inspire me to run out in search of a durian right now (it was the garlic that threw me!), but it does express his love of the fruit, and anyone that passionate about something deserves an audience. In fact, his website is full of very interesting information, entirely in defense of the durian. He refutes the “Western” attitudes and opinions of durian, claiming that writers disparaging durian have not tasted the fruit in its prime. Nirav also gives very interesting uses for the fruit, from using the husk to help plant seeds, to using the leaves to get rid of a headache. Looking for a durian festival? Nirav can direct you to one. On top of all that, you can check out his poetry in tribute to the durian – a must read.

So, I’d found a lover of the durian. Was he the only one? Well, Nirav may be the most expressive about it, but he is certainly not the only lover of durian. I’ve since discovered many admirers of the odorous fruit. There are several accounts of trying durian for the first time on the Internet – all favourable once past the smell. I also located a whole host of articles, including recipes, although I couldn’t find one for the durian fruit shake that Tanya tried (tried to get down, that is!). I even found Durian jam from Pacific Rim Gourmet available on Amazon.com of all places. It seems to be something you either love with abandon or detest beyond all other things.

After learning as much as I have about durian, reading of the pleasures, the pains, even the deaths, one thing seems to prevail in my mind – durian is something that one just has to try. Turns out the BBC is in agreement with me: durian came in 42nd in their top “50 Things to Eat Before You Die” list. According to their list, I have nine more items to try. I’d better get started. Tanya’s already one ahead of me!

Of all the summer fruit that fills the supermarkets, my favourite by far are cherries. They are the kind of fruit that takes my breath away when I walk into the grocery store and see them sitting there in all their deep ruby splendor. Of course they are placed at the very front of the produce section in order to be the first beautiful item you see. How could you not pick up a bag and start filling it? They are not inexpensive, but having a bowl of cherries at home is a luxury that I cannot resist. I excitedly add them to my basket and have to use real self control not to pop one into my mouth before I get to the cash register, let alone before I get home – it doesn’t always work.

My brother and his family are currently in Michigan, near Traverse City, the Cherry Capital of the World and host to the National Cherry Festival, which wraps up tomorrow. This festival, on the shores of Lake Michigan, includes over 150 events from all-things-cherry recipe contests, to cherry pie-eating contests, to air show performances, to parades, to sporting events and constant stage entertainment. It seems even the pets of Traverse City join the fun with an event called “Dock Dog Jumping” – any dog with $20 saved up can enter the competition to make the longest jump off a dock. I wonder if they jump after a cherry, tossed into Lake Michigan. The National Cherry Festival is a busy week of celebration and was actually selected as the #1 Top Amazing Celebration in 2003 on the Food Network’s Top Five with Bobby Rivers.

So, it seems I am not alone in my love of cherries, and yet, I was surprised to learn that in 2003 the per capita consumption of cherries in the United States was merely 1.8 pounds. That seems low to me, for I know that I consume more than 1.8 pounds of cherries a year – indeed, I consume more than that some weeks! Perhaps cherries are a fruit that you either love or hate, but those that love them do love them so!

What is it about cherries that I find so appealing? Well, initially it is their beauty that attracts me. The deep red skin and purple-red flesh of the ever-popular Bing cherry has the lure of a sweet promise. I’m also captivated, however, by the yellow-pink skin of the more exclusive and expensive Rainier cherry, which is even sweeter than the Bing.

Then it is the lack of commitment and ease involved with eating cherries that appeals to me. Eating a cherry is a short-term commitment. A cherry doesn’t require peeling or cutting, and therefore needs no preparation. It takes no time to enjoy a cherry or two. A few cherries are something you can enjoy as you walk around the kitchen, or as you walk out the door, or chat on the phone – they are easy to eat at anytime. You don’t have to deal with juice running down your chin when you eat cherries, as you would with their drupe cousins, the plum and peach. The only thing you must deal with is the pit, but that can turn into the entertaining sport of cherry-spitting, as long as you’re appropriately situated. With a big bowl of cherries out on the table, you don’t have to eat more than one, but you’ll want to.

It takes a conscious decision to stop in the midst of a cherry eating indulgence, but even that appeals to me. An over-indulgence is just that – it spoils the experience, makes you “over” the indulgence. Why would anyone want to ruin the pleasure that comes with eating cherries? An over-indulgence must be avoided at all costs, and the restraint required to do so is a great exercise in self-discipline, building character in every cherry-lover.

Finally, what I adore about cherries is their individuality. They may look similar, but no two cherries are the same. Some are a little darker than others; some a little softer; some a little sweeter; some with a blemish; some joined to another at the stem; some joined to another at the flesh. Their differences make each and every cherry unique. I always find myself playing the game to finish with the perfect cherry, wondering if I should take the risk of tasting another to see if it might be more “perfect” than the last.

It is this last characteristic of cherries that, in my opinion, gives meaning to the phrase “life is a bowl of cherries”. Life IS a bowl of cherries. How so? Consider each cherry in the bowl as a day of your life. Some days are darker than others. Some days are sweeter than the one that came before. Some days have a blemish or two on them, but you eat them anyway. Some days run into the next as though they were attached. Some days seem perfect, and yet they just make us want to experience another such perfect day. You never really know how each day will turn out until you’re halfway into it. What about the pits, you say? Well, if you’re one like Erma Bombeck to say “if life is a bowl of cherries, what am I doing in the pits”, I say you’d better get sporty and practice your spitting!

When I was about 13 or 14 years old, one of my English assignments was to write a legend – a short story for children that explained, well, I don’t know, explained something. As a child with a brother seven years older than I who had already left our house for university, I’d been forced to rely on my imagination for entertainment. For instance, instead of tossing a baseball with a sibling, I used to throw it up on the roof and catch it as it rolled back down to me. I had to improvise. A sad scene, I know, but the point is that my overactive imagination and creative thinking was quite helpful when it came to writing short stories for school. For my legend assignment, I wrote a story called “The Boys who Became Seven Stars”. It explained the appearance of an imaginary constellation in the sky.

As the story goes, there was a tribe of people who lived somewhere at sometime (details were not my forte), and had been terrorized by a vicious monster for generations. The monster had never actually been seen by any member of the tribe, but it had cast its shadow over the people so many times that it was endangering their prosperity and indeed their survival. (I don’t think I described it like that when I was 13, but you get the idea – it was serious!). One of the traditions in this tribe was for all young boys to perform a courageous act when they turned 13 in order to prove their manhood. (Perhaps I was not a liberated teenage girl, or maybe I wisely selected which areas of women’s liberation were worth fighting for, or maybe I had just heard about bar mitzvahs?) Anyway, in the year of this story, there were seven boys in the tribe turning 13. They banded together and bravely decided that to prove their manhood they would fight and kill the monster and thereby save their tribe from extinction. They elected to fight the monster one at a time, with one boy going into the woods each night for seven nights, or a week (symbolic number choice on my part!). Now this probably wasn’t the best strategy, but they were only 13 after all. As you can guess, each night the boy was killed and never returned to the tribe, but before each boy fell, he did manage to injure a part of the monster. By the seventh night, the final terrified boy (who just happened to be the son of the tribe’s chief) went into the woods and just before the monster killed him, he speared the only uninjured part of the monster, its single eye, and the monster fell to the ground dead.

With no boys returning to the tribe, the men had finally had it (about time!) and together they marched into the woods to seek revenge on the monster (about time again!). What they found was devastating but filled them with pride, for although their boys were dead, they had killed the monster and the tribe was now free to roam wherever it was that they lived without fear. They returned to the women of the tribe (who were probably doing important things like cooking, knitting, playing bridge) and told them what had happened. The tribe went into mourning for seven days (see – the symbolic number again!) and lo and behold, on the seventh (again the number!!) night they looked up into the sky to see seven (yet again!) new stars in the form of an arrow. A new constellation had suddenly appeared and, obviously, was made from the souls of the seven boys (duh!). The tribe followed the direction of the arrow for the rest of their days and was kept safe from harm. Ahhh. Nice ending.

Well, the reason I remember this story is not because of the riveting plot, but because of the names I chose for the characters. It just didn’t seem right to use names like “John”, “Mark”, or “David” for the boys. Nor did it seem exciting to use traditional native people’s names like “Eaglefeather” or “Yellowneck”. So, I asked my mother for help. Being the brilliant mother that she was, she suggested I use names of Caribbean food dishes as names in my legend. Perfect! What an idea! My characters lined up nicely: Chief Callaloo; his son, Accra; not to be confused with his friend, Ackee; the other boys, Bammie, Foo-Foo, Buljol, Sancoche, and Pelau; and of course, the monster, the great and awesome Alupouri. Luckily, my teacher in Calgary had no West Indian connections. I received an “A”.

It’s now a little over twenty years later and these names mean much more to me. I just recently had my first experience actually making (rather than just eating) Alu Puri. Let me tell you, it is still a monster! Alu Puri is a bread. It is a roti that has a curried potato filling. It has a close relative called Dahl Puri which is a roti filled with a curried split pea filling – another monster. The challenge to making Alu Puri is to roll the dough thin enough with the filling inside without having the filling break through the dough. My first attempt at this was disastrous. I actually thought for a minute that perhaps the errors in my ways would create a new original dish – that’s how far from the original intent it ended up to be. In reality, I’d just created a mess. After much practice and making different doughs, I ended up with a result that pleased me. The key is patience. In typical West Indian fashion, take your time when making this bread. It is critical to let the dough rest between any handling or rolling so that the gluten can relax and let you roll it further in a little while. I’m not saying it will take seven days and seven nights to get this monster, but you will need to relax, sit back and expect this to take a few hours. If you do it right, you just might see stars!

Ingredients:
Filling:
3 Tbsp. cumin seed
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound potatoes
1 Tbsp. canola or vegetable oil
½ tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. black pepper
Dough:
2 cups all purpose flour (more as needed)
1 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
1 Tbsp. canola or vegetable oil
1 cup water, as needed
¼ cup butter, melted

Directions:
1. To make filling: toast the cumin seed in a dry saucepan. When fragrant, remove from the pan immediately and crush if desired or leave whole. Puree the garlic cloves. Boil the potatoes, drain and crush together with the cumin and the garlic. Add the oil and season with salt and pepper. Set aside.

2. To make the dough: combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Add the oil and water and knead until an elastic, medium-soft dough is formed. Let dough rest 30 – 60 minutes. Divide dough into 6 balls and allow the dough to rest again for at least 30 minutes.

3. Roll the balls out slightly and put some filling in the center of the circle.

4. Pinch the dough together to completely enclose the filling, twisting the dough to make sure that the dough is tightly sealed. Allow the filled balls to rest for another 30 minutes.

5. Carefully roll out the dough balls to flat circles. Try to get the dough as flat as possible. You might want to do this in two or three stages: roll each dough ball out to a circle; then go back and roll each dough ball out a little further.

6. Heat a griddle over medium high heat. Brush the dough circles with melted butter or ghee and bake on griddle until brown and risen, turning frequently. Wrap in a dish towel and keep warm until serving.

Makes 6 monsters

I love copper. I always have. Perhaps I’m just like a magpie, attracted to shiny things. But no, because I’m not really enthralled with diamonds (thank goodness!), and I don’t find copper beautiful only when polished and shiny. I’m actually quite fond of its tarnished look as well. I like to see copper when it’s a dull, dark orange, perhaps with a touch of that blue-ish green … what is that? Rust? Corrosion? You find copper like this in antique stores, and what draws you to them is the beauty that lies within, or beneath. What I really like about its ‘you’ve-let-yourself-go’ appearance is that copper can change from its dull look to the opposite extreme – a brilliant beauty that’s hard to resist (at least in my case). I once read in a magazine that in order to look consistently great, you shoudn’t try to look your best every day. If you are always trying to look your best, then on your lazy days everyone will notice the lapse in your appearance. It is better for them to notice the really good days instead. Copper is like that to me. I think I appreciate its newly polished beauty so much because I also see it on its relaxed everydays.

Copper is more than just a pretty face, however. It’s also incredibly functional, especially in cookware. It’s quite widely known that copper is one of the best metals from which to make pots and pans because it is an excellent conductor of heat. That means that it gets hot fast, and cools down quickly. Why is that important? Because it gives you more control. You’re better able to control the temperature of your food and therefore control how it is cooking. That’s why copper is often used in candy making, where the temperature of the sugar needs to be closely monitored. It is a pleasure to cook anything with a copper pan, however. I think that perhaps it is hard to really grasp how effective copper is as a cooking metal until you actually try it and see for yourself.

The first experience that I had with copper cookware was when I was working in a Michelin rated restaurant in France. At L’Ousteau de Beaumanière, the kitchen was designed in the traditional French manner. That means that instead of a “line”, where different stations were defined by the equipment they used (oven station, versus grill station, versus saute station) and were positioned in a line next to one another, they worked on a “piano”. The “piano” was a square cooking unit, with burners and a large griddle surface, and the cooking stations, defined by the food they were cooking, were across from one another. So, the fish station would be facing the meat station. At L’Ousteau, the meat station used stainless steel pans and the fish station used nothing but copper. These pans were washed by the dishwasher (a person, not a machine) and then polished by the pot polisher, another person whose job it was to solely polish each pot twice daily. When the kitchen closed for the afternoon or for the night, all the pots were left on the “piano” and looked beautiful. I still have photos of all those impressive copper pots in the squeeky clean kitchen waiting to be used for the next service period.

Copper is special and conjures up special memories for me. I still have the 4 quart copper saucepan with beautiful lid, made in France, that was a going away gift from my Chef when I left a restaurant in Berkelely, California to move to Vermont. Everyone oohed and aahhed when I opened the gift. Clearly, if the chef was giving me copper, it was a gift from her heart.

I also remember polishing my mother’s copper and brass with her years ago. It was a nice thing to do – sit with my Mum in front of the fire and chat while we each picked a piece to polish next.

I love letting copper tarnish and lose its brilliance just so that I can polish it up again and see the fruits of my labour. It’s immensely satisfying to me, and I think this is where I differ from other lovers of all things copper. (Indeed, I’ve been told that perhaps I should see someone about this problem!) I’ve heard people complain, saying that they would get copper cookware for its superior cooking qualities, but they don’t want to have to clean it. I don’t understand this. Don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t want to be the pot polisher at L’Ousteau de Baumanière, but I love cleaning copper. It is not hard to do. Simply take half a lemon and a little salt, sprinkle the salt on the lemon half and rub it on the copper. It’s as easy as that. I don’t know many things that take so little effort and give such great and immediate results. It’s something to do when you’re feeling unsuccessful or lacking in achievement. Nothing could boost your morale faster. Give it a try!

Still, I realize that time is a valued commodity in everyone’s life, and not everyone wants to clean copper. I also realize that I don’t have time to clean everyone’s copper for them. THAT’S why I’m so excited about tonight. Tonight we’re broadcasting our first full hour show of Technique cookware AND we’re launching a brand new line of cookware. I’m excited because it’s beautiful, brilliant, an excellent performer in the kitchen, and yes, it has a copper base. This is a pan that will make everyone happy, however, even those non-cleaning copper types. Why, you ask? Well, because we’ve put a new material on the very bottom of the pan that keeps it light weight, is durable, AND does not require cleaning. What could it be? What will they think of next? Kryptonite? No, wrong superhero. Think Wonder Woman.

The weather is starting to warm up and winter is just about ready to bid us adieu. Before it left us for another year, however, I ventured on a downhill skiing holiday with some friends. (I say “ventured” because the last time I had skis strapped to my feet was on a Grade 10 ski trip, twenty years ago.) Once in the Rockie Mountains of British Columbia, you’d never know that winter was almost over. We had beautiful skiing conditions and were even able to enjoy fresh snow, making “first tracks” on the hills in the mornings.

Many people will tell you that ski holidays are not so much about the skiing, but about the après ski hours. Me? I was so exhausted after my first day of skiing in twenty years that I could hardly speak, let alone enjoy a few drinks and laughs with my friends. Yet, I did manage to make dinner. That first night, we enjoyed a simple roast chicken dinner with herbed new potatoes, and green beans, with chocolate Easter eggs to finish it off.

We had ordered groceries for the week ahead of time. This proved to be a bigger challenge to me than I had expected. For some reason, buying (or ordering) food that far in advance taxed my brain. I’m used to buying food today for tonight and thinking about tomorrow’s meals tomorrow when I’m better able to decide what I will want to eat. Still, I did my best. When we first saw the food that had been delivered to the condominium, our mouths dropped. It seemed our grocery shopper had doubled up on a few things, like orange juice, oranges, Kaiser rolls, onions, and carrots. In the end, the quantity of food was quite accurate and we polished most of it off. We forced orange juice and oranges on each other every morning, scoring points when we consumed more than our allotment; carrots were glazed for dinners and I think we broke records for carrot sticks eaten in one week; the Kaiser rolls became croutons; and the onions…well, we left most of the onions there.

The best idea I had all week was to do tomorrow’s mise en place each night while dinner cooked. This made the entire cooking process so easy, and made each evening’s meal land on the table a little sooner than it would have otherwise. I’ve always told students that being prepared to cook, with a completed mise en place, makes the cooking process so much more enjoyable. This week, I practiced what I preach, a novel occurrence, and proved myself right.

By far, the favourite meal of the week – the one that was enjoyed twice – was a Turkey and White Bean Chili. I like chili – all kinds of chili. Now, many chili aficionados would consider this a blasphemous statement. How is it possible to like all kinds of chili? H. Allen Smith, who claims to know more about chili than anyone else (rather an extreme claim) says that “the chief ingredients of all chili are fiery envy, scalding jealousy, scorching contempt and sizzling scorn” and that “the quarreling that has gone on for generations over New England clam chowder versus Manhattan clam chowder … is but a minor spat alongside the raging feuds that have arisen out of chili recipes.” This certainly is true. Telling a chili cook that all chilies are the same is like saying that Americans and Canadians are the same. (If you have trouble telling Americans and Canadians apart, say that to a Canadian.)

We could go on and on about what makes a chili a chili. What chilies have to be in a chili? Is it better to use ground or hand cut meat? Should tomatoes be added or not? Do beans belong in chili, and if so, which type? There are even huge debates on how to spell chili. Some prefer “chile” or “chilli”. Chili experts can really get worked up about it all.

When it comes right down to it, however, does it really matter? If you like the meal, then you like the meal, no? If it brings pleasure, whether it is made with strips of pork, no tomatoes and lima beans, then so be it. I think it is fantastic that there can be so many different variations on one dish. It speaks to the passion that is stirred by this concoction of meats, peppers, beans and other ingredients, combined with chili powder. The “chili” that I made on the ski trip did not start chili debates. It did not cause voices or fists to be raised. I was not told that my chili “would pollute the waters of the Great Salt Lake”, that it “should be eaten through a straw”, nor that it “could be molded into balls and used to hold down tent flaps in a high wind”. No, it was just enjoyed the way it was, with ground turkey (God forbid!), chickpeas and white beans (gasp!), and no tomatoes (say it isn’t so!), topped with some Cheddar cheese and a dollop of sour cream (shock and horror!). It did have cumin seed and chili powder, however. If you’re of the belief that what I made can’t be called “chili”, well, just call it “Turkey and White Bean Stew”, or “Turkey and White Bean Not-So-Chili”.