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Should I have made the pie?

I didn’t make it, but it was fantastic all the same. Maybe because I didn’t make it…

Yes.

Now that is out of the way, now that we are done with the dinner, I think some musing on Thanksgiving are in order. Not the existential commentary on what we’re thankful for (healthfamilykidslife) but more musing on the zeitgeist of producing a turkey dinner and just how much suffering has to go into the creation of it.

In Canada we generally have two yearly occasions for turkey: Thanksgiving and Christmas. It feels like I have had more than my share of turkeys and several of those I have made myself. In fact, one Thanksgiving about 15 years ago we had 3 turkey dinners in 3 days – none of which I had to cook. Thereafter it was known as the tri-turkey weekend and we promised ourselves (that is, my wife and I) we would never do it again. Mae West might have been on to something but when it comes to turkey you can have too much. The Thanksgiving following the tri-turkey weekend we spent at a beach apartment in Tofino on Vancouver Island – one of the most amazing places on this planet. It remains one of the most magical Thanksgivings we have ever had. Oh, I boiled up some crab for dinner that year. It was epic.

This year my folks could finally come for dinner and we had them over along with my nephew who is studying nearby. They joined my family – my older daughter was back from university for the weekend. Plus the dog, of course. Her counter-surfing is shameless but rather impressive in its effectiveness.

I digress. We did the turkey in the oven following the recipe out of The Best Recipe cookbook. Ditto on the gravy and the stuffing. The brussels sprouts were a recipe from Nightingale Restaurant here in Vancouver (roasted, with concord grapes) and the squash was from the cookbook Nopi, by Yotam Ottolenghi. Mashed potatoes were done by the spud-master himself, my father. My kids snickered (actually snickered. It was audible) when I suggested I could mash the potatoes. Apparently there were plans in place to stage a coup if I reached for the potato masher. That’s the thanks you get for being in the kitchen all day. Cranberry sauce was the recipe from The Silver Palate Cookbook.

Everything was… Perfect. Well, the bird was cooked about an hour too early but a large metal mixing bowl and a beach towel took care of that issue. It rested. For quite some time. I also scorched the bread for the stuffing (I don’t stuff the bird – you get a better tasting turkey when it isn’t stuffed). That required a bit of fancy footwork, but we avoided catastrophe. (Lucky). Besides, what were the guests going to do? Not pay the bill? Put a negative review on Yelp? Feel free.

It got me thinking, as these things sometimes do, about festive meals gone by and how they seem to have an importance much more than what one might find at a non-festive meal. It isn’t Christmas time yet, so I don’t want to get too carried away about how challenging Christmas can be, but for Thanksgiving (and we’re talking Canadian Thanksgiving – a lite version of the American holiday, for sure) it’s rather interesting.

How important is authenticity? What I mean by that is how important is it for things to be from scratch and to be from the hand of the chef? My mother often talks about how great it would be to order everything from Whole Foods and have it delivered, ready to eat. But then in her defence she has done more than her fair share of turkey dinners and many of the early ones for her involved intoxicated family members arguing vehemently over the design of the flag (the Maple Leaf, that is) or whether or not the Prime Minister was a communist.

Can you imagine trying to put the dinner on the table in that household? And would you get any thanks for it afterwards? I somehow doubt it. Any food item would suffice in those circumstances.

Thankfully sober heads prevail these days and I can cook with relative abandon.

This year’s choice of pie, though, got me thinking. What happened is that Rosa, who cuts my wife’s hair and who has excellent taste in fine food, suggested that a local chain restaurant not known to me for their pumpkin pies had fantastic pumpkin pie. Worthy of buying and serving to guests and close family, no less.

And it was excellent. The turkey was fabulous as well, even if it wasn’t organic. Still cost $85, though.

But to what end must one go for the perfect mashed potatoes? Or the perfect brussels sprouts? (full disclosure, I like brussels but they do need to be roasted to near-oblivion and a good dose of bacon never hurt).

If it is about the family and if I’m fairly certain the reviews will be good regardless of the level of ingredients then perhaps it’s not out of the question to buy the pie once in a while. Or to just bake the damn brussels and be done with them.

But I draw the line at a processed turkey, pre-stuffed and cooked from frozen. That’s heresy. My mother-in-law had one a couple of years ago. I don’t know what got into her. Perhaps she has tired of the unending work involved in getting a Thanksgiving dinner on the table. She is 80, after all.

And now I must grudgingly admit that the turkey was amazing. Must have been the hand of the chef. It’s the only possible explaination.

S

c

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Every year, about this time

40 jars out of 5 boxes of tomatoes. I was going for more pulp, but there is a little water in there… Live and learn

Every year, about this time (Late August, September) I do a couple of things: I read, The Closing Down of Summer by Alistair MacLeod. It’s a melancholy reminiscence of a hard-rock miner, touching on all kinds of themes, but the one that I hear is the simple notion of leaving a comfortable existence behind and having to get back to work. Or ‘Back to porridge’ as my wife would say.

The other end-of-summer thing I do is I can some tomatoes. Yes, they’re actually in jars but somehow ‘jarring’ tomatoes makes me think that the tomatoes are going to do something to surprise me.

I’ll detail the process in a later post, but for now I have 40 new jars of tomatoes to go downstairs. Throughout the year, whenever we need tomatoes, up a jar comes. That’s pizza sauce, chili, any soup or sauce that requires tomatoes – here they are.

Ripe (actually, they sort of got away from me and I had about 10% of them spoil – never happened to me before), organic, perfect.

If I ran the numbers on the tomatoes, I would probably find that buying them by the case in actual cans would be more cost-effective.

But that’s not really the point. For me, the jars are a year’s worth of potential, waiting to be tapped. Like a pre-paid account at a resort or summer camp, I never have to worry about whether or not we have enough. There always seems to be another jar. Having a basement full of preserves is comforting. We’re ready as we can be for the coming winter. Well, we’re more ready now that the tomato cupboard is full.

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My childhood, contained in a single cookie.

Happiness in oatmeal.

Actually there were other cookies. My mother made Lunch Box cookies that were pretty darn tasty, too.

…but these! These chocolate chip cookies rule. They are just the right amount of chewy and substantive, with enough oatmeal to make you *think* you’re eating something that isn’t terrible for you. The 4 cups of sugar (but only 2 cups of white sugar. Brown for the other 2 cups) in the recipe and the 4 cups of chocolate chips don’t do anything to help the healthy street-cred of these treats.

I think it was my grandmother’s recipe, on my mother’s side. Which is noteworthy, because my mom never really talks about her mother and her mother’s cooking. I get the impression that things in mom’s childhood home weren’t really that great kitchen-wise (and, quite possibly in other ways) which is why my mom had to cook from an early age and (possibly) why she never really cared for it. Being forced to cook is a different beast than choosing to cook.

At any rate, my maternal grandmother’s recipe. If it’s not the case then it really doesn’t matter. Honestly, I don’t have it in front of me but I’ll try to post it when I track it down.

Regardless, they are a challenge to make, as the recipe makes enough batter for like 5 dozen cookies. Thankfully, having that many tidbits means the sugar and chocolate chips are spread out among a great number of final cookies.

My mom made these continuiously when I was growing up. My brother and I ate them faster than she could make them. We lived on them. Before school, after school. In later years it was with a cup of coffee (heck, it was my pre-breakfast snack this morning, but I limited myself to just one rather than the half-dozen I would have when I was 12)

it wasn’t long before I was making them, myself. I would churn out a batch on a regular basis. Once I made them a few times it got to the point where they were always the same. Same process, same ingredients (which were always stockpiled – thanks mom!) and 9 minutes in the oven at 375. My wife made the most recent batch – she was achieving superstar status yesterday with both a batch of cookies and a huge pot of hamburger soup. (another post will be forthcoming regarding that recipe)

The cookie I had this morning – It brought me directly back to my parents’ kitchen 4 decades ago. Tasted exactly the same way, and I had exactly the same response.

“Damn, I love these things.”

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These aren’t like Grandpas. Nothing personal, dad.

A truly ugly photo of the raw ingredients.

My dad makes the best mashed potatoes. When he comes for dinner and mashed potatoes are on the menu, he is deputized to do the work. My children insist.

He does it with aplomb, and uses only the most basic ingredients. I’m always trying to get him to put in some white pepper or sour cream… He just uses a bit of butter, some milk and maybe a pinch of salt.

No gooeyness, no lumps, it’s amazing how he can get them just right. Much as I try to compete, I’m always outgunned. But in the hierarchy of mashing potatoes, at least I’m ahead of my siblings. I remember a story about my younger brother, mashing potatoes with a hammer, as he didn’t have a proper masher. Apparently the pot was saved only because he had overcooked the potatoes and a protective layer of starch had been cooked to the bottom of the pot. Lucky guy. I understand they weren’t much good, but the tools do make a difference.

Here’s the irony. Well, maybe not an irony, per se, but an interesting situation. I hate to tell too many tales, but when I was a kid my mom would rice potatoes for us. She would boil them up and then put them in a ricer (basically a huge garlic press) and we would then have this dry, nearly unpalatable mound on the plate, along with whatever was being served that evening.

We would beg for mashed potatoes. My mother would refuse, insisting that mashed potatoes were, ‘denatured’. And then she would remind us that in Ireland they had a potato ricer mounted to the countertop in some homes. As if, somehow, that made any difference to me wanting mashed potatoes. It wasn’t my fault the Irish have strange kitchen conventions.

I remember, even as a young kid, thinking that some academic level mind-bending was going on here. For goodness’ sake! It’s almost the same thing. And then once we slathered them in butter it really made no difference.

But alas, it was not to be. The best potato masher in the family had his skills ignored for years. They were brought out only at holiday meals when the extended family – those for whom mashed potatoes were a regular table occurrence – had us over for turkey dinner. It was only later that I guess my mom had her Damascene moment and allowed mashed spuds at the family table again. I wasn’t around to see it, but I do remember being served mashed potatoes at their house one day and thinking to myself that an earth-shattering moment had happened. I just wish I had been around to witness it.

Regardless, the net effect was just fine with me and my kids, as my dad hadn’t lost any of his skills in those fallow years.

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Eggs on Toast I

Breakfast favourite at our house

I’ll be brief. Eggs. Toast. Salt. Pepper. Breakfast.

And a little background… Empires have been torn apart over the appropriate way to boil an egg. Do you put the egg in cold water and bring it to the boil? Or drop it into boiling water? 3 minutes? 7 minutes? Both techniques have pros and cons (cold water won’t break open a cold egg and have it spill everywhere; water that is already boiling doesn’t have to be watched so carefully to see when it’s actually boiling before you start the clock.

Wait. Maybe I’m not making sense.

Two egg cooking techniques exist:

  • One is where you put an egg into a pot of cold or lukewarm water. You turn on the heat and once the water starts boiling, you set your timer for 3 minutes. This is how my father and my sister boil an egg.
  • The other is where you boil the water and then drop in the egg for 7 minutes, while the pot simmers away. This is my wife’s technique.

I use my wife’s technique, because I see her in the morning more often than I see my dad or my sister.

But the rest of the recipe is easy. Good piece of toast – hot out of the toaster (unless you’re my dad who likes his toast cold) bit of butter… Peel the egg, chop it roughly, sea salt and pepper. Enjoy.

Breakfast of champions because it’s almost as quick as a bowl of cereal and it’s different than cereal. Variety being the spice of life and all that…

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They Don’t Make Them Like They Used To.

From before I was born, that’s for sure.

This is a theme that I’ll return to again and again, I fear. Namely, how important is the equipment you use in the kitchen? Hang on, that’s not quite right. The equipment is super-important – try cooking without even the most rudimentary gear. What I mean by that is when one asks the age-old question:

“If I buy this piece of gear, will it make me a better cook, or should I stay with what I have?

The answer, of course, is ‘yes’. Because shiny new things are great. We all know, however, that being a better cook is more about cooking than what you use to cook with.

In my other life I work as a photographer. And the siren song of new cameras, compelling me to buy new gear is incessant and almost impossible to ignore.

But struggle against it I must – for any number of reasons:

  • It’s expensive.
  • It makes you a better cook right up until it doesn’t, which for me happens nearly immediately.
  • It is prettier, but popularity contests don’t do much to get dinner on the table.
  • It sometimes doesn’t work as well as the original piece of equipment.

I had a 9-inch French knife that my mom bought me when I was married. For 20 years I used it practically every day – didn’t give it any thought… Until it got to the point that it had been sharpened so many times the blade no longer reliably chopped. The hilt of the blade was proud of the edge of the knife and it made for some awful chopping.

So I bought a new knife, a cool one. Different shape.

I hate it. Well, I don’t hate it – it’s a great knife, but I don’t love it like the old one. I mean, my mom didn’t give me the new one, but I don’t think that’s why. I thought I would like the new technology and I found I didn’t really care for the upgrade. I’m searching for a new knife, or maybe I’ll just grind the old one down and see how that goes.

As for these beaters, the ones in the photo. As far as I know, they’re still going strong at my mother-in-law’s house… And they’re a far sight better than the new set she has. They have better speed control, they’re better balanced and you can’t beat that retro styling.

They do make a ton of noise and I fear they might not last forever, but I’ll use them until they die.

They certainly don’t make them like they used to. In some cases that’s a good thing, like in the case of automobiles. But when it comes to kitchen implements, I’m more of a traditionalist, even if ‘tradition’ is a set of beaters or a knife from a few decades ago.

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Pizza Dough

I finally managed to make a decent dough for my pizza. Took a few tries to get it right. A friend of mine told me to write this down. Few thoughts:

The recipe often leaves things out. I remember chatting with a friend not that long ago and she commented that the biggest problem that chefs have with cookbooks is trying to make their recipes work for the home cook. It’s easy to do a pizza dough if you’re making 100 pies. Lot harder if you’re making 2 and trying to describe a process that you do every single day by memory into a few lines that the home cook can pick up and understand.

But here’s the trick: You have to proof the yeast. The dough I was making is an overnight in the fridge slow-rise dough and I had trouble getting a good rise ever since I started using this recipe. Sometimes it worked better than others, but generally it was pretty unimpressive. The recipe called for traditional yeast but neglected to remind you to let the yeast proof before you mix the whole works together.

What is proofing? Well, you need to make it active in water before you continue the recipe. Often it takes quite some time. Like 10 minutes or so. As in, mix water, sugar, yeast, oil together and then let it sit until you see activity. In my case it looked like someone was stirring the water, but the water was still.

At that point I mixed everything together and hey-presto, it worked like a charm. It rose overnight in the fridge and it rolled out and make a superior pie.

It was lucky, but it was also the product of making the dough at least a dozen times – including a particularly disastrous situation with the in-laws where the dough didn’t rise at all. Still tasted pretty good, and I wasn’t asking for the youngest daughter’s hand in marriage (thankfully that happened more than two decades previously) but still it was a bit embarrassing. Won’t let that happen again.

Soon.

Unless I’m rushing things.

Which I almost always do in the kitchen.

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