I began my cooking career in fine French restaurants during the mid 80s when the revolutionary ideas and techniques of France’s Nouvelle Cuisine movement were taking hold in Canadian kitchens. One of the most significant changes involved cooking vegetables—green ones in particular—for less time so that they retained their vibrant colour and pleasing texture. Anyone overcooking vegetables so all their natural appeal was discarded with the cooking water was thought déclassé. (Exemptions were made for grandmothers: Who had the courage to tell them times had changed?)

Cooking vegetables perfectly requires skill. Crunching on vegetables more raw than cooked is as disconcerting as eating those killed by overcooking. Ever had to wrestle with undercooked vegetables on a dinner plate? When a fork or knife can't penetrate, things can get very messy: carrots, broccoli or beans are projected, missile-like, across the table.

But there are times when vegetables are best cooked to completely tender. There's an essential pleasure in simmering or stewing them well beyond reason in dishes where the rich vegetable concentrate that results from long cooking is an integral part of the recipe, not to be drained away. These dishes, cooked in a manner the French call paysanne, have deep agrarian roots.

For me, there are three vegetable soups that deliver this kind of simple enjoyment. They're not the vibrant green or exotically spiced purées of celebrity chefs. They're made with little more than fresh vegetables, some good meat stock, and salt and pepper to taste.

The first is Marcella Hazan's Minestrone di Romagna. So dear is this soup to me (and to my father) that I used it to pay tribute to Marcella when she passed late last year. Here, a mixture of hardy roots and tender green vegetables are simmered over very low heat for three hours. Miraculously most of the vegetables retain their shape while hovering perilously close to deterioration. Because the simmer is slow and gentle, at the end of cooking discernible cubes of potato and zucchini remain along with the green beans. The vegetables that do meld into the base are the sliced caramelized onions that start the flavour-building process, and the shredded Savoy cabbage that marks the finish of the vegetable additions. They add sweetness and form a tender soft mush that is the soup’s underbelly. It's the kind of humble nourishing meal that would be found in the bowl of the farmer in the painting Il Mangiafagioli (The Bean Eater) by Annibale Carracci. Marcella writes that this soup "has a mellow dense flavour that recalls no vegetable in particular but all of them at once."[1]

That descriptor perfectly suits another soup that I adore. It comes from a book I think no discerning cook should be without: Simon Hopkinson's Week In, Week Out. His Simple Cream of Vegetable Soup would be on my deathbed menu. When fully cooked and puréed, its colour calls to mind the muted green and golden yellow of split pea soup, the two bunches of fresh watercress called for losing their brilliant spring green after an hour of cooking. Hopkinson claims to have learned how to prepare this soup "as a keen young apprentice at The Normandie, the renowned French restaurant near Bury, Lancashire, when I toiled there during a couple of school holidays in the 1970s."

Like its colour, the soup’s flavour is a gentle mix of sweet and earthy from leeks, carrots, mushrooms and watercress. Its smooth, slightly thickened texture owes much to being puréed in a food mill rather than a blender, and it's finished with a lavish amount of whipping cream, no surprise given its Normandy roots. It's a soup that speaks of another time and perhaps that's what I like best about it. It's a reminder of wonderful simple dinners in French bistros, and of mature chefs who cling with fierce pride to the dishes of their youth.

Simon Hopkinson's Cream of Vegetable Soup
The final vegetable soup comes from The Roux Brothers French Country Cooking by Albert and Michel Roux, who were seminal influences during my apprenticeship. I met Michel Roux once and when I asked him to sign this book (now sadly out of print), he beamed and told me that it was his favourite book because most of the recipes were his mother’s. It was a golden moment for me.

Their recipe for Soupe au Pistou is stuffed full of just that kind of Gallic charm. It stands head and shoulders above all other versions. Over time, I have made a few small revisions to the recipe—I use good-quality chicken stock instead of water and cook the pasta separately—believing the brothers would approve. The cooking time here is the shortest of the three vegetable soups so the broth remains clear. The final flourish of thick pesto, stirred in just prior to serving, is a triumph. As the soup arrives at the table, an ethereal herbaceous cloud, pungent with fresh basil, envelops the eater, stimulating the appetite. This soup was on a lunch menu I crafted when I worked at The Old Prune in Stratford, Ont., and customers would often wax poetic about it (and about the goat cheese soufflé from the wonderful chef Sally Clarke of London, England).

If there were little in my culinary repertoire besides these three vegetable soups, I'd still be considered a damn fine cook. They're old fashioned, elegant and accomplished. So complete that they need little else—a good loaf of bread, some fine butter, a piece of ripe cheese and local fruit to finish.

Much is made of modern chefs planting gardens and turning to vegetables as a primary source of inspiration. Chefs everywhere want to be seen with their kitchen clogs sinking into a garden’s dark loamy earth. This trend is often pitched as a revolutionary state, a modern innovation, like nothing we've seen before. And in its subtleties it could well be. But when I look into a bowl of one of these three vegetable soups, I can see its roots. I know with great certainty that, where vegetables are concerned, everything old is new again.

[1] Hazan, Marcella. The Classic Italian Cookbook. (New York: Ballantine Books, 1973) p. 63

There's a small window during early spring when I'm driven to irrational acts in the produce department of my local grocery store. I'm so tired of the limited contents of my winter fruit bowl; I begin to consider the out-of-season fruit on offer. I approach a display of melons, lifting a honeydew that is turning a soft yellow—a sign of maturity—and press the blossom end to my nose, hoping to inhale its honeyed scent. I smell nothing. Melons need the hot sun of high summer to ripen fully so I know that the good ones are still months away. Such is the state of my desire; I turn and consider the berries.

Fruit out of season is a taunt, a promise without the delivery. It's a caution against rushing the seasons. Harold McGee brings me back to this cold continent when he states that "quality depends mainly on how far [the fruit] had ripened on the plant. They're best when picked and shipped as ripe as possible."[1]

But ripeness is a state at odds with travel. Consider the great care needed to transport fruit that is fully ripe and tender the few short miles from local market to your home. It's like carrying a stack of porcelain teacups. So growers who have to ship their produce great distances harvest fruit before it reaches its "last, intense phase of life."[2] Its essential pleasure remains in the field, its natural cycle foreshortened. Edward Behr writes that "a melon that's picked only partly ripe will gain in juice off the vine but not in aroma or sugar"[3], so those under ripe specimens I was contemplating will never realize their potential as a "feast for our eye and palate."[4]

Ripeness is what I'm really after in the chill grey days of early April. When the tinge of spring green seems impossibly far off. I long to breathe in the soft floral fragrance of a melon warm from the sun, to have its juices run down my arm as I scoop the moist tangle of seeds and fibrous strands from its core and taste its succulence. I crave eating an entire melon in one day so that it won't sour or, worse, need refrigeration. Ripeness turns so quickly to rot.

My restlessness owes something to the fact that, come early spring, winter fruit starts to suffer its own deterioration. It loses moisture, a sure sign of months of storage under less-than-ideal conditions. The once thick, supple skin of Cara Cara oranges begins to thin and toughen; clinging so tightly to the juicy pulp it protects that peeling is tricky. Apples that should give with a pleasing crack and ooze milky sweet foam when bitten into are soft, dry and granular.

I'll have to be patient and wait the few weeks until rhubarb, Ontario’s first edible sign of spring, appears. Its deep pink colour at odds with its vegetable nature and the brownish-grey of a post-winter world. As kids we'd snap it from the patch and run inside to beg a bowl of sugar. We'd coat the moist end with enough white crystals to counter its acidic shock and the ensuing flood of saliva. Too much raw rhubarb and our tummies would ache.

So full of moisture is rhubarb in season that cooking should be gentle and brief. If cooked too long or over too high a heat, rhubarb quickly disintegrates into soft fibres that float like pink gossamer threads in sweet poaching liquid the colour of cherry blossoms.

After rhubarb come the local strawberries. Early last May I watched from the sidewalk in front of a local Asian fruit market as an employee picked berries out of a transparent clamshell from California and piled them into green fibreboard containers near a sign that read “Ontario.” There's profit to be made by tapping a desire that's not mine alone. I knew it was too early for Ontario’s strawberries. Those unnaturally large California berries were stripped of the fruit’s natural attraction: there was no discernible scent—fruit’s first lure.

Of strawberries Edward Behr writes:  "The most aromatic varieties are typically smaller, softer, more vulnerable."[5] They have a deep red pigment and sweet juices that ooze crimson liquid, bleeding through the container or paper bag. When eaten, their tiny seeds create an almost imperceptible crunch. I imagine macerating them with a little sugar, then watching as the soft red fruit and juices seep like watercolour pigment into fatty yogurt at breakfast.

Ripeness is exquisite; the desire it elicits ensures a fruit’s propagation. My response to its signals is ancient and hardwired. Harold McGee explains: "When the seeds become capable of growing on their own and the fruit is ready to attract animals to disperse them, the fruit is said to be mature."[6] I'm impatient with the current seasonal "progress from inedibility to deliciousness".[7] The destination is small consolation when we seem stuck somewhere on the front end of this journey. I feel like the kid in the back seat of the car: Are we there yet?

[1] McGee, Harold. On Food and Cooking. The Science and Lore of the Kitchen. (New York: Scribner, 2004) p. 353

[2] Ibid, p. 353

[3] Behr, Edward. 50 Foods. The Essentials of Good Taste. (New York: The Penguin Press, 2013) p. 84

[4] McGee, Harold. On Food and Cooking. The Science and Lore of the Kitchen. (New York: Scribner, 2004) p. 353

[5] Behr, Edward. 50 Foods. The Essentials of Good Taste. (New York: The Penguin Press, 2013) p. 365

Very soon Canadian foodies will find release from the long winter. Sunshine-filled, warm spring days will tempt them to throw open their doors and take to the woods in search of ramps. In short order, hip restaurants across this beautiful country will be stuffing their menus with this wild green, and ramp chatter will clog social media feeds. You'd think we still lived in a time when salt pork, navy beans and turnips were all that filled our winter larders.

Ramps, also known as wild leeks, are a perennial wild green that look like miniature green onions but with a wider, flatter dark green upper leaf. They can be used, like green onions, raw or quickly sautéed.

I don’t like ramps (or fiddleheads for that matter). Their flavour is far too pungent, like eating raw garlic cloves. But I do love them in the wild. There’s nothing better than going for spring's first mucky walk in the woods, clothed against the damp and chill in a warm and unstylish mix of long johns, worn jeans, lumpy wool sweaters, fleece and rubber boots (the red soled, black rubber kind sold at Canadian Tire). The white light from a clear blue sky, not yet filtered through the soft green leaf canopy of the trees, creates stark contrasts. Mounds of snow turn into grainy crystalized ice piles marking cool, shady places. And, those first licks of green emerge from a dark, loamy soil, covered with a thin ragged, gray-black blanket of decaying leaves. Ramps scent the air with a sulphuric tang and are the first sign of life after the earth’s long, cold sleep.

Writing that description is the closest I come to foraging. What I learned from having spent my formative years working and living in some of Canada’s most beautiful, wild places, is that we go to the woods to receive, not to take.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in foraging or marking the arrival of a new season with a feast. I love chef Michael Stadtlander’s annual Wild Leek Festival. I would happily eat anything (even ramps and fiddleheads) from thoughtful and sensitive forager-chefs like Michael Caballo of Toronto's Edulis; Jeremy Charles of Raymonds in St. John's; Nancy Hinton and François Brouillard from Les Jardins Sauvage near Montreal, or at Sinclair Philip’s Sooke Harbour House out west. I trust their connection to the land, and know their approach is educated and their harvest measured.

I’m reminded of my first trip to Europe and travelling east by train from Milan in early spring. As I rode across the countryside I'd occasionally catch sight of someone, usually elderly, stooped over in a culvert looking for what I soon learned were dandelion greens. Later, I enjoyed the green, cooked long and slow with lots of garlic, at Easter lunch with my host family. It was part of this feast because there were people at the table who knew war and hardship. They knew that wild greens made the body more robust, kept uncertainty and death at bay.

In her essay, Now, Forager, Charlotte Druckman points to the important role foraging played in the survival of American slaves. She considers the current culinary obsession through this lens and writes, "It’s the cavalier mis-appropriation of foraging as a trend that offends."

It's a feeble and desperate connection many modern chefs make to the wild. It's commercial survival that's the driver. How many take to the woods with any sense of what is enough or when to stop? The current market appetite can trump the need to leave enough for others or to ensure a return next spring. These trend-chasing wannabes are practicing what I’ve come to dub Noma-lite—a shallow rendering of Danish chef René Redzepi’s studied and thoughtful practice.

I shudder to think of the abuses heaped on our wild environs in the same way I cringe whenever I see Martha Stewart shilling some craft project that calls for found items from the forest. Amateur enthusiasts often don’t know that the wild is a tender place, lacking a defense against mindless culls.

The foragers I know are people who long to be in the wild. That need far exceeds anything the wild will yield. They often prefer the subtle communications of nature to that of humans. They’ve usually apprenticed to a master, never flaunt their expertise, and respect tradition. They know their place and their responsibilities to the cycle of life and death.

I’d be happy with less ramp madness this year. I’m encouraging enthusiastic urban dwellers to consume wild goods with a conscience—to eat and enjoy in a manner befitting a finite resource. I’d like everyone, including most chefs, to purchase from specialty purveyors like Forbes Wild Foods in Ontario, or to leave the preparation of wild ingredients to the few true forager-chefs. Urban dwellers can take to the woods by virtually trailing our few Canadian masters in the beautiful video series In The Weeds.

I don’t want to wonder, when I see bags of ramps sold in upscale grocery stores or spot a sauté on every corner bistro menu, if those green leaves have been stripped completely from my first spring walk in the woods.

I like cookbooks and own a lot of them—more than a 1,000 at last count. Several are written by chefs from internationally celebrated restaurants and are designed to highlight the author’s artistry. Cookbooks like these, from posh establishments, are a source of inspiration but I rarely cook from them. In fact, given their size, some of them are more suited to the coffee table than the kitchen table. Recipes from professional chefs can be intimidating, generally requiring a serious commitment of time and ingredients, not to mention confidence and skill in the kitchen.

There are exceptions. Thomas Keller’s recipes work, and I love some of the dishes in Martin Picard’s Au Pied De Cochon cookbook, especially his Tomato Tart. I also love chef Paul Wilson’s book Botanical from the namesake restaurant in Melbourne. I bought Wilson’s book in October 2008 (I inscribe the purchase date in all my books) and cooked from it a lot at first, the recipes I treasured most coming from the “Basics” section at the back. His book is sadly out of print but worth searching for in second-hand bookstores.

There’s something fresh, appealing and unaffected in Wilson’s cooking. I can easily look beyond the expensive ingredients and lengthy methods. This is a book from a celebrated kitchen, reflecting complex skill.

One recipe in particular, for chermoula marinade, is worth the price of the book ($110 dollars at the time). It takes time to prepare but I can’t imagine a better recipe exists anywhere. The results are spectacular. I care little if it’s not “traditional” and believe a more delicious result could only come from some aged woman working a charcoal brazier in a Marrakech souk.

Because grilling season has finally arrived in Canada I asked chef Paul Wilson if I could include his recipe in a post and he graciously agreed. I’ve tweaked the recipe to suit my own way of working (there’s a photo of the original recipe to compare). For instance, after chopping the onions and garlic, I run them both through the food processor for a finer chop, being careful not to over-process

Ras-el-hanout
to the point where the onion starts oozing liquid. I buy ras-el-hanout as a whole spice blend from the esteemed Quebecois spice purveyor Épices de Cru. It’s a gorgeous and exotic mixture that is worth the expense, and can be ordered online.

The chermoula recipe yields enough marinade for four meals. Divide it among four small containers and freeze what you don’t use immediately. It’s perfect to have on hand in the summer for a quick and delicious meal. I use it often on chicken but it’s also delicious on meaty fish or lamb. Put the meat to be marinated in a heavy- duty zipper-topped bag and add the chermoula. Seal the bag, rub the marinade into the meat and refrigerate overnight. The meat is best cooked over a charcoal fire but is delicious on a gas grill, rotisserie or roasted in the oven.

Chermoula
Adapted from Botanical by chef Paul Wilson (Hardie Grant Books)

1 bunch coriander (cilantro)
1/2 bunch Italian parsley
1/2 large bunch mint (or 1 small package)
350 mL extra virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons coriander seeds
3 tablespoons cumin seeds
2 tablespoons whole ras-el-hanout
2 red onions, chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
Grated zest of 2 lemons
Strained juice of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons smoked paprika
2 tablespoons cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons salt
1 tablespoon sweet paprika
Onions and garlic

Pick all the leaves from the herbs, discarding the stems. Soak the leaves in a bowl of cold water to clean them and dry in a salad spinner.

In a food processor, combine the leaves and enough oil to make a slurry, then process until the leaves are finely chopped (like pesto). Transfer the slurry, and any remaining oil, to a large bowl.

Place the coriander and cumin seeds, either together or separately, in a cast iron skillet and toast them over medium heat, shaking the skillet often to ensure the seeds don’t burn. When toasty and fragrant, remove the seeds from the skillet and process to a powder in a spice grinder. Add the ground seeds to the herb slurry.

Grind the ras-el-hanout to a powder in a spice grinder and add to the herb slurry.

Add the onions and garlic to the herb slurry, along with the lemon zest and juice.

Stir in the smoked paprika, cayenne pepper, salt and Hungarian paprika.

I’m up today at 6 a.m. Not normally an early riser, I love the night and fit easily into the rhythms of the restaurant business. Working until midnight, falling into bed at two or three in the morning and sleeping until after eleven all suit me.

I recall a time not so long ago when I slept like a babe in arms. Sleep’s a new frontier at mid-life. I’ve decided it’s futile to rail against this current state. Instead I try to accept it.

So I’m up and writing at daybreak. That hour some writers, overstuffed on self-righteousness, proclaim to be the most creative time. A night owl by nature, I generally don't rise until ten and wonder if my nocturnal leanings disqualify me for membership in that particular club. There’s a magnet on my fridge that reads: “Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.” God bless Oscar Wilde.

The restlessness I’m feeling is more pervasive than just this one night. It’s an energy that is shot through late winter, when all northern dwellers grow weary of the snow and cold. My landlord recently decided to switch from salt to sand for roughing the surface of the slick ice in abundant supply this season. The grey-brown waste on my walkway seems to sum it all up. Dirty pools of this snow-sand debris melt to muddy slurry on the white tiles in my foyer. How I long to wash it all away.

I rushed outside into brilliant sunshine two days ago, walking directly into its warming path. The light buoyed my flagging spirit and, for a moment, made an early end to this season seem within reach. The temperature rise softened the snow and ice underfoot making it crumble like shale as I walked. Out on the street in Bloor West Village, people unzipped their jackets and were soon carrying woolen hats and gloves in hand.

I’ve been thinking about my bike and warm night rides in the streets between my house and the Humber River. I’ve put my name on a waiting list for a garden allotment in High Park but won’t know until April if I’ll be plunging my hands into earth that’s my own this spring. I push down the desire to purchase dahlia tubers with wild abandon, imagining myself sitting in the shadow of their tall, heavy, multi-coloured flower heads in late summer bloom.

I’m stuck between the oppression of this endless winter and the too-far-off promise that is spring. This cold season can’t pass quickly enough for me. March surely must bring relief. The sun will hang high in the sky long enough to trigger epic melts. Snow banks will begin to recede, exposing a dirty and dormant terrain.

My restlessness finds temporary relief in marmalade making. I’ve pulled from my shelf a book whose title--Saving the Season--makes me chuckle. I like marmalade and it was the appearance in my local store of Seville oranges—with their distinct skin like cellulite on aging dames—that reminded me of this kitchen pleasure. I have a great recipe from Sally Clarke, one of Britain’s best cooks, that makes use of this prized citrus fruit from Spain. But truth is, orange marmalade is not my favourite. I prefer lemon and, when marmalade of my own making is in short supply, I purchase Robertson’s Silver Shred. There’s something less bitter, more acidic and fresh in preserves made with lemon. I have a recipe for a quick marmalade using Meyer lemons that I want to try. They’re an ideal flavour cross between an orange and a lemon: sweet and tart all at once. Meyer lemons’ skin is thin and tender and suited to a quick cooking preserve. I can imagine the marmalade’s pale orange translucence suspended with bits of soft, saturated citrus fruit.

I’ve also settled on making something new: Fine-Shred Lime and Ginger Marmalade from Kevin West’s extraordinary book.[1] It’s a three-day process, just the kind of project that will chip a few more days off this dreadful time of year. I learn from West that the spongy white pectin-rich pith that cushions the delicate inner fruit is called the albedo.[2] There’s something in the tumble of language he uses to describe the results that rallies my enthusiasm, making my mouth water in anticipation. This marmalade, he writes, is “a translucent mass suspending a tumult of finely shredded green peels—and the powerful flavours of raw lime and ginger become elegant through dilution.”[3] It’s a preserve tinged the delicate green of spring hope. There’s a Marmalade Cake that I want to try, imagining spectacular results using lime preserve instead of orange.

I know marmalade making is the right task for today. It will ease my weariness and leave me with the impression of productivity. I’m going to set out in search of the ingredients after another cup of tea. The city has issued an extreme cold weather alert (too many of those this year to track). There’s a storm bearing down on Toronto that’s promising to wreak havoc on our already frazzled systems. So today I’ll gather fruit from far-off sunny places and shake my wooden spoon at this fierce season. Winter be damned! In my kitchen for a time there’s the promise of sweeter, brighter, fresher things to come.

[1] Kevin West, Saving the Season (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2013) 477.

[2] Ibid. 477

[3] Ibid. 477

In 2007 Jeff Crump is in the kitchen at Heston Blumenthal's Michelin three star Fat Duck restaurant in Bray England. He's a stagiaire, a skilled cook undertaking a lengthy period of study with an international master in order to hone his skills. But Jeff's also a man on a mission having just signed a deal in Canada to produce the cookbook of his dreams. He's certain Heston can help.

Jeff plants a treasure from his cookbook collection on Heston's empty desk one day—a rare edition of The Physiology of Taste--at that time his most prized possession, with a value of $1200. Jeff knows he will likely never see that book for sale again in his lifetime.

He waits, watching Heston come and go from his office. As days pass he loses heart and wonders about ways to get the book back. On the third day Heston yells Jeff's name into the kitchen and Jeff steps forward. That magical exchange that Crump initiated "worked like a charm" he says, paving the way for Heston to make a lasting contribution to the Earth To Table cookbook.

It's a story big enough to fill the hole the book left in Crump's stellar cookbook collection. He'll continue to look for that book. But the looking is also an interesting thing. Crump eschews the Internet beyond its usefulness as a tool for research. He doesn't buy collectibles online. "You can get any book you want online," he says. Turns out that one of the best things about building a cookbook collection is the real life search.

It's a sentiment echoed by Elizabeth Crahan in a 1984 New York Times piece written on the sale of her late husband, Marcus Crahan's extraordinary gastronomic book collection. She states: "a lot of the fun is in the collecting itself." Crump's first edition copy of M.F.K Fisher's How To Cook A Wolf has a Marcus Crahan bookplate affixed to its inner cover. They are kindred souls separated by a couple of generations.

In fact the owning of a collection can raise some downright practical issues as anyone who's ever had to move a library well knows. Books are heavy and come in all shapes and sizes. A collection will inevitably expand. Up until quite recently Crump's collection was in boxes in the basement of his home. His new office—a calm, earthy, accomplished space—was built with the books in mind. He has roughly 1,000; most in this office but many in the kitchens of restaurants he manages. Jeff's passion is contagious—he's created a two-week sign out system for his cooks.

He knows it begins early. His own collection started with the purchase of Chez Panisse Cooking, the Random House paperback edition, while a student at the Stratford Chefs School. It's held together with duct tape and is full of stains and handwritten notes. The glorious 1988 hardcover of the same book—now a collectible itself—is also in Crump's possession. The search for that book is what lured him into serious collecting. But from the very start, even at just 7 books housed in a small apartment in Toronto, his cookbooks were his most prized possession. His current search for collectibles is for him a privilege born of success.

It's not about the physical books, the scale of the collection, or the monetary value. "If it was about the money you wouldn't collect cookbooks" Crump states. It's about a book's life—its content and passage through time.

While on a family trip to California several years ago Crump lands at San Francisco's Omnivore Books at the same time as several boxes of cookbooks from Jeremiah Tower's collection. He talks with wonder about standing among those boxes. The occasion seems much more than coincidence; it's serendipitous. Tower's was the first chef at Chez Panisse. From the boxes Crump purchases a copy of Richard Olney's French Menu Cookbook. The books original purchase date of 1970 recorded in the front cover by Tower's own hand; Chez Panisse opens in 1971. Crump knows that book was in the kitchen with Alice and Jeremiah when it all began—the stains on its pages the product of their labour. That's what Crump values–the life or soul of a cookbook.

He's taken with what he dubs "halo" books—famous books owned by famous people. Beyond the Tower's and Marcus Crahan purchases he has a copy of the Simple Art of Japanese Cooking by Shizuo Tsuji, once owned by the writer and gastronome Samuel Chamberlain famous for the cookbook Clémentine in the Kitchen.

But Crump remains unaffected by lofty purchases. He pulls a copy of the River Cafe Blue Book gifted to him by Anne Yarymowich from the shelves. As a line cook in the AGO kitchens he cooked that book, cover to cover. When he left, Anne replaced his used copy with a new one and taped a photo of the AGO kitchen crew to the book's front page. It's the kind of gesture that reaches right into his heart. He opens it up with great pride.

Before he leaves this earth he wants to own all of Elizabeth David and M.F.K. Fisher's first editions in mint condition. He has some but will repurchase books if they're in better condition. He's also on the hunt for first edition books from Michael Pollan and Anthony Bourdain. He looks for books that have staying power, that are of interest to those with little connection to the original. He uses White Heat from Marco Pierre White as an example of a cookbook many young people covet but were not old enough to recall that moment in time when Marco shared his youthful brilliance with a hungry world. Crump wonders if current books like Alinea and Noma will rise to collector status.

He thumbs through Chez Panisse Cooking to demonstrate the timeless quality of a great cookbook, landing on the recipe for "Marinated Veal Chops Grilled Over an Oak Fire."[1] He talks of the first appeal of that recipe in 1997 and then goes on to marvel at the practice of cooking over a wood fire—that skill now the thing that gives him pause.

He doesn't know what the collection's afterlife will be. He holds out hope that his sons might want it but doesn't want it to be a burden should they not. "This is only valuable to me because it is incredibly personal. I bought every book for a reason."

He shrugs off the notion that he is the keeper of tradition and proclaims himself a student, just as he was in the kitchen at the Fat Duck. "I'm a very committed student—that's what I've always been." It's an attitude that's led him to tremendous success. There's humility in the idea that the learning never ends and his cookbook collection tells a remarkable story of his passage through time.

[1] Paul Bertolli with Alice Waters, Chez Panisse Cooking, (New York: Random House, Inc., 1988) p. 234

The Tartelette aux Fraises sits on a well-worn, cream stoneware plate whose only embellishment is a burgundy band round its edge. The thick plate has the telltale grey hue of cutlery wear. Its surface holds the history of delicious bistro dishes enjoyed. It's a humble place for such a beautiful slice to land.

The 'raison d'être' is a tumble of strawberries spooned with seasonal abandon on top, hiding the dessert's sweet foundation. A suggestion of sugar has been applied that teases the flow of crimson juices from the fruit, wetting it down in a glistening cloak. The berries have the subtle tropical honey taste of ripe pineapple, occasionally punctuated by small shards of fresh mint.

This simple fruit salad rests on a soft mound of crème pâtissière. The egg yolks and whole milk turn the pudding the colour of butter, flavoured and flecked with black seeds from fresh vanilla. It's thickened just enough to bear the weight of the fruit. Crème pâtissière is a foundation preparation in French pastry — never the star, always the support. It's rarely this well made.

A crust of pâte sucrée, another classic French sweet preparation, supports it. It tastes of good butter and sugar and has a tender sandy crumble like the give of shale underfoot. Salt crystals hurry the flow of saliva and are a reminder of its importance as a counterpoint in great pastry making.

I know its promise even before I take a bite. When I do taste the Tartelette aux Fraises, I'm flush with a feeling of well-being I associate with fine French food. It's like meeting a friend long absent but still dear.

I'm reminded of why I spent years toiling in fine French kitchens. Because I can look upon a simple sweet like this and see straight through its flavour and technique to the innate perfection at the centre.

When I was 13 years old my parents bought me a wok for Christmas. It's what I had requested and they made the journey from Goderich to Toronto's Chinatown to buy a large carbon steel model. That Christmas I also received 2 vegetarian cookbooks, Anna Thomas' The Vegetarian Epicure, Book One and Two, because I had expressed an interest in trying this diet. My parents loved food and were happy to indulge me.

The wok was an expression of my newfound love for Chinese food. My parents had developed a friendship with a local couple, the Crabbe's, and Mrs. Crabbe was from Hong Kong. Every couple of months for a 2 year period, beginning when I was 12, we trailed the Crabbe family into Toronto's Chinatown for Chinese food and ingredients. We'd arrive in time for lunch or dim sum and Mrs. Crabbe assumed control of the ordering and eating. The Chinese food that came to our table looked nothing like the Chinese food in Goderich—no deep-fried wontons drenched in viscous, garnet coloured sweet and sour sauce. We didn't ask too many questions about what we were served and instead dove in to the utterly exotic and mostly delicious food with the sloppiness of early chopstick use. I know we ate lung once and sea cucumber. There were a few dishes that I didn't like, but my love for good Chinese cooking was born in those restaurants under her tutelage.

In 1976, the same year that I received the wok for Christmas, my mother began work. I was just beginning high school, and to earn my allowance, began preparing weekday dinners for my family. I did this up until I was 17 (when my family disbanded).

There was little in the way of convenience foods at that time, in spite of the futuristic fascination of the 70's. Convenience in my house meant Kraft Dinner, hotdogs, or Shake n Bake. My mother occasionally turned Kraft Dinner into a complete horror by adding a can of salmon, chopped canned tomatoes, and christening it Alaskan Dinner. (I wanted to be in Alaska on those evenings.) TV dinners were a rare treat reserved for nights when my father was away. That was the sum total of ready-made in my corner of small town Ontario. Our home-cooked dinner was not unusual.

My mother, an exceptional organizer, would sit down once a week with her favourite cookbooks and create menus and a shopping list. All the ingredients were purchased and a sheet with the date, recipe name, book title, and page number was pinned to the kitchen bulletin board. I had my marching orders and would come home from school to begin dinner preparation. I didn't mind the activity in the main but there were times in my teenage years where I hated being pulled from friends to get dinner on the table. It felt like a sizable and seriously adult imposition. That resentment could sometimes find its way in to the cooking, making for a less than stellar meal.

I had gleaned some kitchen basics from my parents. My father loved to cook and weekends were often given over to elaborate, adventurous, and utterly delicious meals like Chicken Kiev, Beef Wellington, and Cannelloni. But much of my early learning was from cookbooks. The books I remember cooking from most were:  Craig Claiborne’s The New York Times Cookbook (1961) and The New York Times Menu Cookbook (1966), Gourmet magazines The Gourmet Cookbook Vols. I & II (1974) and The Gourmet Menu Cookbook (1972), McCall's Cooking School Cookbook (1976), Dione Lucas' The Gourmet Cooking School Cookbook (1964), and Time Life's Foods of the World series (1968 - 1976). Julia Child's books were in the collection as well but not used much for weeknight meals.

I don't recall struggling to learn nor do I recall a lot of bad meals. Could be that deleting disasters from my memory bank allowed the young me to soldier on. The debris stained pages of those books tell the story of recipes that were family favourites:  "Beef Stroganoff" from the New York Times Cookbook (a note in the margin indicates that the sauce can be doubled), "Country Pork Chops" from the New York Times Menu Cookbook, "Chicken Tetrazzini" and "Our Favorite Lasagna" from McCall's Cooking School Cookbook, "Mandarin Spareribs" from The Gourmet Cookbook Vol. II, "Arroz con Pollo" and "Chicken Cacciatora" from The Gourmet Cookbook Vol. I.

They were solid cookbooks (and for the record contained almost no pictures) providing me terrific guidance. It was a largely solitary way of learning how to cook. Just the omnipresence of the cook whose lead I was following and me. It didn't seem that unusual an activity for a girl growing up in a family that had an insatiable hunger for delicious things.

But by today's standards it likely seems quaint. Learning to cook now is less a necessity and more a choice. Food programming on television has come a long way since the Galloping Gourmet. (I can't even imagine what would happen if I'd followed Graham Kerr's lead as a young girl—let's start by getting drunk.) Local cooking classes and online websites like Epicurious are expanding the learning options and cooking has evolved into a highly social leisure activity designed as much to entertain as to inform.

There's also little that isn't available in the way of ready-made meals. Most large grocery stores have devoted substantial (and prime) space to take-away food. Finding the ingredients to make dinner requires a wade through the convenience offerings. The lure away from weekday cooking is considerable.

If I were to compile an armful of cookbooks to learn from today I'd begin with the classics and round them out with a few reliable and interesting modern offerings added according to taste and interest. Even with all my years of professional experience, the first time through a recipe I always assume the cookbook writer has authority and follow their lead explicitly. After that I make modifications as I see fit.

A small but mighty cookbook collection could be assembled from the following:

One good, basic, all-purpose cookbook

The Joy of Cooking. Irma S. Rombauer
The Fanny Farmer Cookbook. Marion Cunningham

One slightly more sophisticated all-rounder cookbook

The Essential New York Times Cookbook. Amanda Hesser
Jamie Oliver's Dinners. Jamie Oliver
The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook. Ina Garten

Several quality international cookbooks

The Foods and Wines of Spain. Penelope Casas
Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking. Marcella Hazan
The Country Cooking of France. Anne Willan
Around My French Table. Dorie Greenspan
Bistro Cooking. Patricia Wells
Jerusalem, Ottolenghi, Plenty. Yotam Ottolenghi
The Food of India. Prya Wickramasinghe
Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco. Paula Wolfert
The Food and Wine of Greece. Diane Kochias

One or two quality baking/pastry books

Chez Panisse Desserts. Lindsay Shere
Bouchon Bakery. Thomas Keller
Butter Baked Goods: Nostalgic Recipes from a Little Neighbourhood Bakery. Rosie Daykin

One quality reference book

The Oxford Companion to Food. Alan Davidson
On Food and Cooking. Harold McGee

One or two food magazine subscriptions

Cooks Illustrated
Tauton's Fine Cooking
Saveur

Even though the Beef Stroganoff recipe pictured above has only 4 steps to completion, there's plenty of information missing from between those lines. Learning to cook from ordered, prepared ingredients—mise en place as professionals call it—would have been a process of trial and error. In the beginning I'd likely have had the flour and butter mixture (roux) hot before I'd even opened the consommé can. And just how did I know which pan to choose for the beef and onions? Did the word sauté ever seem foreign to me? Or was it stamped on my DNA, waiting for the right opportunity to fall from my tongue.

Craig Claiborne and his contemporaries guided my tender budding practice and together we found delicious answers to the never-ending question, 'what's for dinner'? When I look on those recipes now I'm amazed. I see the roots of what would become my life's practice. The stains on the pages hold the memory of where it all began for me.

The chef walks over to my station. It’s 5 p.m., roughly 30 minutes before we’ll see the first wave of customers in the restaurant. He’s here to taste my mise en place, to ensure I haven’t slipped up in flavour, texture or quality. I feel bitchy watching him sample this collage of ingredients. I’ve been in the kitchen since 10 a.m. and there’s been nothing for me to eat. I've spent seven hours in one of Canada’s best kitchens, producing the kind of food that will win praise in vaulted circles. But I’m on the wrong end of the dish and remain hungry. I’m expected to produce for the next two-and-a-half hours at breakneck speed and, by the time this dizzying service ends, it will be nine-and-a-half hours since I’ve had a meal.

I’d be blazing a lonely and difficult trail if I stepped out for lunch. The chef would likely add to my mise en place tasks, thinking I didn’t have enough to do. At this early stage in my career the workday begins at 10 a.m. and ends at 10 p.m. On the weekend my shift finishes closer to 1 a.m. I walk home in a stupor—often not cognizant of my route—and drop into bed. Grocery shopping, laundry, any other basic chores are relegated to Monday, my one day off.

The sous-chef is talented at the stove but entirely out of his league where leadership is concerned. He’s like the rest of us in that kitchen, working to win the crumbs of approval scantily scattered by the chef, the celebrated man of the stove. The sous is a ruthless character with a sadistic streak, and the task of ensuring we’re fed is his job. But he's a culinary anorexic, equating hunger with greatness. When he does put up something for us to gobble on the spot, it’s far below the standards of the kitchen we’re in. Gazing into our bowls of near-expired and ill-matched ingredients (generally bound together with pasta), there's no question what he thinks of us. Cooking for us is a task that impinges on his smoke breaks and those bowls are full to the brim of contempt.

What about the abundance of ingredients surrounding me? Can’t I snack on my five-star mise en place? Unfortunately eating the raw materials is frowned on. It's an extravagance that impacts profits. Anything worth eating, including the protein necessary to a good diet, is seriously off limits.

Is it an obligation that a restaurant feed their kitchen staff? Previously, I’d worked in three other great kitchens and never had to consider the question. The assumption was that there was always a meal for those tasked with preparing the food served in the restaurant.

Mind you, it wasn't always free. In one celebrated French kitchen in Toronto, $2 a day was deducted from our pay to feed us. I did question the mad frugality that inspired that $10 weekly deduction from my seriously slim apprentice wages. But it guaranteed a meal, and a good one at that. I recall with hunger that, on Saturday nights before service, we often had the best chicken and chips. A teetering pile of crisp pommes frites and golden, juicy roast chicken all moistened with a rich meaty jus. I approached my station for those mammoth Saturday night services—when four or five hours would pass without notice—well fed.

The marked difference in the meals I describe has everything to do with the character of the person tasked with making it. The chef in charge of staff meals in that French kitchen, knew that a well-fed team would likely lead to a less-stressed, more efficient dinner service. He also couldn’t stoop to a lowered standard, particularly not for his colleagues. Even when time was short—and even for the staff—he produced his best. I call that culinary esteem.

Time is always in short supply in a professional kitchen but I would come to learn that sitting down for a meal was a priority that an executive chef needed to demonstrate. And no matter the length of the to-do list or the press of potential customers, taking 30 minutes out of the day to enjoy the product of our talents was not time lost or wasted.

Staff meal is a demonstration of humanity. Where it’s lacking you’re sure to find a Sweeney Todd meat-grinder approach to work and sustenance. You’d be surprised where this kind of neglect surfaces. Consider it the next time you’re enjoying a great restaurant meal out or eating some high-end artisanal product. The person prepping it might be made to feel bad or lazy about needing nourishment. I visited an esteemed establishment not long ago where breaking for staff lunch was treated as an indulgence. Because I’m old and wise I broke the rule and sat to eat in the makeshift kitchen. A young girl followed my lead, joining me briefly while frantically cramming her sandwich down. She said to me in a hushed tone: “I’m glad you’re here; I needed to eat.”

I bookmark pictures of staff meals regularly—evidence that this Dickensian ideology is disappearing. For many young rising-star cooks, staff meal is a matter of pride, its production a point of friendly competition. They post photos to Twitter and Instagram of their daily repast, egging their peers on in this cordial and collegial pursuit. Staff meal is a place where great and humane strides are being made in our kitchens. In Toronto you’ll find practitioners like Graham Platt of the Gabardine, Rossy Earl of Mysteriously Yours, Matthew DeMille of Drake One Fifty. Further afield staff meal pictures are proudly posted from David Chang's Milk Bar, Sean Brock's Husk restaurant in Nashville, and even a video celebrating the daily break at Noma. The hashtag #staffmeal is a global repository of culinary mindfulness.

Most young cooks have discarded the proletariat label and simply call it “family meal.” That’s a shift. When an executive chef makes it a priority, finding time for preparing and enjoying this repast is easy. There’s a wonderful trickle-down effect too. Young chefs who’ve been fed well don’t give the practice a second thought when they’re charged to lead.

I’ve joked with Rossy Earl on more than one occasion that I want to work for her just to enjoy her family meals—they’re stunning. Did my work suffer all those years ago for lack of nourishment? Who knows? But its effects on my spirit are obvious. That lack of care and attention to all details left an impression. I can barely recall the food I cooked in that kitchen but I surely remember the food I was denied.

In 2011 I completed research to determine if there were gender differences in the pre-career ambitions and expectations of culinary students. One of my findings has continued to resonate with me, arousing an increased sense of responsibility. When it comes to imagining their futures, young women and men have the same dream of becoming an executive chef.[1] But in the eight to ten years between culinary school and top spot at the stove, young women either surrender that dream or it's squashed.

This gender hemorrhage, of which I am a part, is one of the harsher realities of our industry. Thankfully there is a growing intolerance for some of the practices that have led to the exodus.

It’s the journalists—American journalists in particular—who have shone a light on those dark corners of our kitchens where sexism thrives. They’re the real agitators for change. I have mixed feelings about this because it reminds me, a female chef, how my own fears made me complicit in the system. I longed to belong in the professional kitchen and went to great lengths, including self-denial and rejection, to make that happen.

The pressure from journalists appears to be working. It’s getting harder for chefs and our esteemed culinary institutions to continue with business as usual. There are signs that if change is not self-imposed, it will soon be litigated or legislated into being. It’s also getting economically riskier to piss off women, because they make important and informed decisions about where to spend dining and donation dollars.

Paula Forbes took on the James Beard Foundation by creating charts to track its change. She’s not the first person to accuse the respected foundation's annual awards of gender bias, but the deputy editor at Eater National’s original and effective approach in communicating with the masses is to be applauded. Businesses and institutions could easily track their progress in gender diversity by adopting this same rational approach. Why wait until a reporter comes calling? In the case of the James Beard Awards, I’m most impressed by the increasing number of women mentioned in the Rising Star Chef category. At this point in a typical culinary career, female representation is still quite high. These are the young women, still standing at the stove, whom we can nurture and champion to the top.

The Bloomberg columnist Ryan Sutton has also used a very rational approach by taking an inventory of the brigades of our best kitchens to determine how many women are in their senior ranks. His two-part piece for Bloomberg Luxury is revelatory. He writes: “There’s never been a female head chef at Daniel Boulud’s flagship Daniel; at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry or Per Se (though there is one at his Ad Hoc in Yountville, California); or at Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s namesake restaurant. In fact, there’s not a single female top chef at any of the 10 Boulud or 24 Vongerichten restaurants in the U.S. and Canada.”[2] We look to these chefs for leadership. They scour river and bog, and travel to far-flung places in search of diverse ingredients and yet turn a blind eye on the make-up of their brigades.

Sometimes industry members will manipulate statistics to paint a more promising picture. It’s important to remain cognizant of how results are achieved. Do the stats look specifically at women at the stoves in the kitchen brigade or is their reach broader? It’s surprising how often restaurants will tweak their numbers by including women in the pink ghetto—those in administrative support roles and pastry. These numbers yield results that on the surface appear promising but are little more than a foil for the bleak reality of women at the stove.

I’m sure this is the case for Tom Colicchio’s Craft group of restaurants. In his piece for Bloomberg Luxury, Ryan Sutton quotes Katie Grieco, Craft’s managing partner of operations and new projects worldwide, describing Craft as a “very female-friendly organization.”[3] That's nothing short of a lie if not a single woman is in charge of any of the eight Craft kitchens worldwide. She continues her defense by stating that this absence is “not for lack of trying.”[4] Surely Ms. Grieco knows that talent needs nurturing. Trying is not caring. It’s that safe place where intentions stand in for inadequate actions.

It's easy to spot establishments where gender balance is a priority. Women will be present in equal measure and will hold positions at all levels of command. Chefs who practice equitable hiring know it’s not that hard and the resulting kitchen culture is good. Katie Grieco also needs to consider how conservative Craft's practices appear in light of research that speaks to the economic and competitive advantages of gender-balanced businesses. Perhaps Paula Forbes could lend a hand in tracking Craft’s progress.

I know “we tried” is often a place to hide because I worked in a business that failed, through consecutive hiring campaigns, to recruit women into the senior ranks. It was claimed there were no suitable candidates when I knew of women with exceptional qualifications who'd lost out to male hires. I voiced my concern that they didn’t try hard enough and received a shockingly indignant and defensive response. For me, proof positive.

In a recent panel discussion on chefs and diversity, chef Marcus Samuelson recounted that his experience as a young and ambitious black chef in kitchens dominated by white European men led him to question his choice of employers. He believes that signs of intolerance and discrimination are an opportunity for young chefs to gain “clarity of where you should not work.”[5] I echo his sentiments in cautioning young women against entering any kitchen where there are no females in the senior ranks. Where gender equity is not being willingly adopted it’s likely to require external enforcement, and transitions that are imposed are rarely easy or pleasant.

I’d encourage all young women to stop spending their dollars—on cooking schools, dinner, cookbooks or events—where there appears to be no room for their kind at the executive chef level. Turn off networks that consider sexist messaging a good marketing ploy in 2014. Economic choice is powerful. Talk to those who love and support your dreams. Often my family has been even more outraged than I by the sexism and discrimination I’ve faced on my journey to become a chef.

I want young female chefs to act more assertively in laying claim to their spots at the stove. Don’t tolerate slow promotion. Let go of the adolescent notion that “father knows best.” I stayed in a great kitchen for five years watching young men rush past me, turning my career over to the care of a chef I was certain had my best interest at heart. I abandoned a lot of my dreams and ambitions there.

I also went it alone, which accounts for much of my fear to speak out. I didn’t have a mentor or allies among my peers. The guidance of a senior industry leader is invaluable. Choose someone who’s got what you want and knows just how you can get it too. Someone with no time for petty gossip or problems, who will actively work for your promotion.

Connect, work and stage with women chefs. I learned so much about female leadership by staging with Lydia Shire, Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray. When I studied with Lydia she was at the top of her career and had a toddler in tow. Besides the delicious things I learned at her stove, I discovered that having children and being a celebrated chef was hard, not impossible. I also understood that making decisions about childcare is far easier when you’re in the top office.

I want young women to negotiate their wages and to be particularly mindful of the 24 percent wage gap that widens in mid to late career. With 13 years of kitchen experience, and while holding a senior position in a restaurant, I was asked by a very successful businessperson from another industry how much I earned. The expression of shock on her face was a moment of great clarity for me. I suddenly woke up to the reality that where money was concerned I should have asked for more. I don’t want the hiring of women to serve as an economic advantage for businesses.

Most women exit the industry just before they reach the top. Charlene Johnson-Hadley says that a lot of young cooks “are not even taught or pushed to take that step towards saying ‘Listen, you’re awesome, people need to know what it is that you do.’ That concept doesn’t even cross their minds.”[6] Moving up takes a whole heap of confidence and support from above. Know your skills and leadership potential and make a plan for taking the next step. The world needs to taste your uniquely delicious stuff.

I’ve become far more outspoken in the four years since I began my research. Under its influence I started to use feminine pronouns in my writing and when teaching classes to young chefs. It’s a subtle and powerful action. I’ve seen the faces of young women light up under its influence. I know that all of my experience, good and bad, is invaluable. I’m also freer than I have ever been to speak my truth with confidence. I’m not politically motivated to tread lightly or exercise caution in causing offense. I’m no longer tiptoeing around white, middle-aged, European men. The dreams of so many young women have energized and inspired me. They are a treasure I've uncovered. They remind me that above all else, we need to act, to apply Thomas Keller's sense of urgency to the matter of gender imbalance in our kitchens.

 [1] Reid, Deborah and Lauren Wilson. Recipe for Success. Gender's Role in the Career Expectations of Culinary Students. (2010/11, George Brown College) p. 27

[2] Sutton, Ryan. "Most Exciting $700 Tasting Menus Made in America by Too Few Female Chefs." Bloomberg Luxury. 3 March 2014. Web.

[3] Ryan Sutton. "Women Everywhere in Food