Among the newspapers and books piled on Theo’s footstool in her living room in Fonthill were copies of Canada’s History magazine. She was a subscriber. My love for the subject is another inheritance. I have a story I'd like to write for them in time. Imagining my grandmother after dinner with her feet up, apron on, inhaling a Peter Jackson while reading it is a pleasure, like eating poached apricots and custard in July. *** A good memory from first-year university is sitting in a Catherine Parr Trail College classroom and listening to Alan Wilson share his passion. The class was small enough to be held in the history department office. Maybe 12 of us around a large teak table in a quiet room with Danish floating bookcases, woven wall hangings, and big windows with a lush backdrop of trees and shrubs. A seasonal theatre for his animation. Canada came to life in that room (mostly settler history in 1983). One of the essays I wrote for him was about Nellie McClung. Teachers like that are a gift. *** Going to the Toronto Reference Library beats the loneliness of my desk by a lot. I'm reading a dense and delicious book over visits about how we tell history, The Past Is A Foreign Country, by David Lowenthal. It's adjacent reading and has made me laugh out loud in the Quiet Area. *** Women Non-White Non-binary Immigrants Refugees Journalists Academics Librarians Anyone in a war zone Among the people I worry about, along with all the other stuff in my life. Being of aid to humans fleeing oppression might happen on a scale. Are you having those conversations? History is each day that passes. *** I wish the Jacob Bank's song went on — I could listen to it for an hour. It led me to versions sung by Mahalia Jackson and Elvis. The horns and percussion on Loaded are all that. Stitching these three together was nice. 202419991991In my first year of university, I worked part-time in a health food store. My cookbook collection at the time filled half a milk crate and included Moosewood, Laurel's Kitchen, and the Tassajara bread book. I was mostly vegetarian (and I still cook that way). I was 21 and was hired just as the business was derailing. That didn't come up in the interview. The manager called me late one Saturday night, asking where the cash bag was. After closing on the busiest day of the week I'd hid the brown paper bag of cash and coins in the usual spot in the dry stores, and it wasn't there. That had nothing to do with me. I don't know what happened after I locked the door that evening. But the call was my first clue that something dark was going down between the partners. They folded soon after. I don't remember if any of us got our final pay. Sometimes endings are messy. *** www.estherperel.com/podcasts/hw-s2-episode-8-im-your-special-one This conversation Esther Perel mediates between artist and gallerist is honest. I felt like I was listening to myself when they discussed work, children, and intimate partnership — a subject ripe with complications for women. I was sure I did not want children long before I began cooking in restaurants. It was a solid gold decision — young wisdom that calls for a party and lots of gifts. As a cook, the disadvantage was obvious. Women who left the line to have babies rarely came back. *** WAIT: Why Am I Talking? An acronym via Anne Lamott. Also, a good question. *** I had a new release lined up — a rock and roll anthem that makes me feel like a teenager. Then, in radio mode, I was reminded of Donny Hathaway. My father played the duet album he recorded with Roberta Flack often. I hope this remix makes you want to turn it up and dance. The second song is extraordinary and was written by Leon Russel. 20241971Ripeness lasts the length of a shiver with strawberries. A light jostle, and they bleed. Someone who knew a few things about their business tossed these with a whisper of sugar. I stumbled into a strawberry social at a small church — a homely wooden building with half a dozen pews. On a grassy slope behind the rectory was a scattering of white plastic tables under craft fair tents. Everyone was cast in a blue watercolour wash, sitting under their shade. The person in charge of crème Chantilly had a big spoon and generous heart. We know the same hunger. The chiffon cake was ethereal — light, buttery, and hardly sweet. I went looking for the baker to extend congratulations. I was told many people in the parish bake according to their own recipes. I'm thinking of all the cakes arriving through the morning. Sitting on melamine counters alongside flats of berries. The scent of a few weeks in the season. Parishioners bringing them through the kitchen door. The local chatter competing with the whirr of an electric mixer. I am no big church person but good things can happen in their basements. I've met wise and loving humans in a few of them. They helped get me here. This photo is filed under well-being in my dictionary. An earthly blessing. *** One of the best parts of writing is research. It can also be frustrating — a time suck and you have to establish limits because the distractions are real. But the Stacks at the Toronto Reference Library is a place that makes me believe in magic. I try to imagine where the books are stored. How much space does it require? What determines the life cycle? The business of a library is fascinating. This week, I went looking for three books. The first had a sixty-page chapter that addressed a specific interest. It was a bit academic and just what I needed. The second book was written by a statistician. There was lots of information, but it was super dull, and I returned it quickly. After finishing the first chapter of the third I found a copy used online. I love a good historical story — especially one starring women — and I'll gallop through it in a day or two. Things come up while I read. I scribble ideas longhand in a journal beside me. Pulling on those threads might lead to more discovery. *** I'm late to this wonderful Design Matters interview Debbie Millman did with Gloria Steinem last year. It's moving listening to her talk about her mother and the unlived lives many women of that generation faced. Not too long ago my mom told me she had to quit her job with the Bank of Canada in Shelburne, Nova Scotia when she got married. What the... https://www.designmattersmedia.com/podcast/2023/gloria-steinem *** I heard this song last weekend. Not for the first time. It fits my mood right now. 1996White wine vibrates. After dinner reflection. It still does not interest me. I hope that doesn’t bother you. *** Fumbling around the internet, I found this tribute to Mimi Sheraton written by Norman Van Aken. I’m late to it, and it’s gorgeous. *** A few times, I’ve witnessed a female food writer speak in a manner I recognize as superior. Conveying a fresh depth of character. Self-confident without the gross defence many women, including myself, practice to boredom. It’s attractive. One was a woman on a food panel. She’d won a James Beard award. I think one of the first for this country. Listening to the different perspectives on Canadian food was fascinating — each wrote with a singular voice. Imperative in a small place (or anywhere). As instructive was watching them interact. Sometimes, I miss Gina Mallet. She was forthright, had opinions, rose to a challenge, and looked good asserting authority. I feel the same way about Mimi Sheraton. She was fearless. Both had clear boundaries around likability. They knew themselves. I asked someone about Mallet recently, and they were happy for the reminder. *** “…the past with its pains and joys has a place and a voice that the present should and can allow.” I can’t stop thinking about Celia Paul’s Self Portrait. I knew nothing of her and bought the book based on a blurb — finished it in two days on long subway rides. It’s hard not to admire her conviction. Art is central to her life. As a student, she became involved with the artist/painter/teacher Lucian Freud. There’s very little anger in the reading. Is it fair to wonder what would have happened had a powerful man exercised some measure of control over his appetites? Chose not to mess around with a young woman’s discovery and learning. Is that a welcome message? *** I can’t stop listening to Yamê. Or Billy Eilish. 20242023Friday night...engine revving...waiting for the checkered flag to drop. About to enter flow. How to make two hours vanish. I still love it. Coming on forty years. *** I’ve told you before that my friends get me. One of them sent me this beautiful piece of music writing about the song Wichita Lineman. Thank you, Neil Crossley, for distilling the song’s brilliance. It reads like magic. That it came together so quickly for Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell feels like a miracle worth crying over. I especially admire the detail about the bassist Carol Kaye. An accomplished woman. Just look at her photo. On the version of the song below a listener posted this comment: I remember too. Not in the same way. I was seven in 1970. We listened to AM radio as a family going for drives (at that age in the Gran Torino). *** I've been writing 'today' on the subway rides to work and back. A tap on the shoulder. *** My mom’s recovering nicely. There's more time for her to tell me she loves me always. Thank you to everyone who checked in with me in the last few weeks. Sometimes the distance between family members feels impossible to bridge. My gratitude for a handful of women in Strathmore is boundless. One of them has cooked her a couple of good meals — mashed potatoes, roast chicken, and a slice of pie. She dropped in one day with homemade brownies. And another acts as a surrogate daughter — we talk and problem solve together. Today my mom and I are playing Yahtzee online for the first time in almost a month. Is there a better reason to put off cleaning for another hour? 1968Mateo Granados, Healdsburg Farmer’s Market, Breakfast, May 22, 2010. I’d read about Chef Granados in Edward Behr’s The Art of Eating. I’d put a visit to his stall on my California wish list. The photo speaks to my sense of pleasure — the tiny branches of candy-pink flowers nestled in the greens. We sat in the sun at an oilcloth-covered picnic table with our huevos rancheros and hibiscus iced tea. I was visiting my aunt at her home in St. Helena. I arrived at night. When I opened my bedroom curtains the first morning this was the view. I stood there for a long time — astonishing beauty. Did I wake up in paradise? *** This is for my Toronto friends, Remember when David Miller took the TTC to city hall? We all saw him. I saw him more times than I can count. There was something reassuring in it. Like he knew what life was like for us. If you travel to work or to medical appointments or school on the TTC, I see you. The only way to describe the experience is awful. I spent more than $100 this week on taxis because of scheduled and emergency subway closures, random stops in the tunnel, and delays. The cost to travel in this city more than doubled for me. What jar do I take that out of? I like that Olivia Chow rides her bike. I want that infrastructure too. But I have no sense she understands what it's like to commute by public transit in the city of Toronto. The cost of living here is high. Many of us must live at a distance to work. I have a cook-friend who travels from Scarborough to Bloor West Village for work, and lately it’s taken him more than two hours to travel one way. That’s less time with his young children. His eight-hour day stretches to twelve. There is no regard for our time or well-being. Public transportation isn’t a darling of the extractive ruling class at Queen’s Park. They get hot for the private sector...the grocer barons and Roger's board members. They like us best in cars. Meanwhile "the better way" means abject mediocrity. We're held captive in a failing system. And there's radio silence from the mayor, Mr. Rick Leary, and Rob’s older brother. *** I'd put a French mini moto logo on my chef jacket. Just saying I'm open to transportation sponsorship. It would look cute parked out front of the restaurant. Colour to be negotiated. *** I’ve been loving this new-to-me song this week. 2020Royal Hospital Road, Michelin 2-Star, solo lunch, spring 2000. I was a stagiaire at the River Cafe. The brilliant Rose was alive. Both women on the cusp of releasing the Green Book. A pre-tour excitement in the air. Part of the study was going to restaurants. Feeling hugely self-conscious approaching the door in my stagiaire good clothes. IYKYK Then I met Jean-Philippe. For me, the grand master. I cannot untangle him from the good feelings I have about the experience. He was the antidote. The room was calm. Gordon was in the kitchen. I went in to say hello. Looked around for my kind. None in sight. A new generation of Paul Bocuse. *** I missed you. It’s still Sunday. *** Steve Winwood was born to sing. Look at the percussion section. 1972It’s been a grey flannel January in Toronto. Still, there are small things that make it better. Here are a few from right now: My building has a hot water heating system. There are three cast-iron radiators in my apartment. Through the summer there was an expensive upgrade to the system. Now, the radiators are too hot for my cat to lounge on. The heat it generates is nice — right behind a wood stove or fireplace. I keep my hat and gloves on it so the first few minutes outside are extra warm. I do the same thing with my inside clothes before I go out for a walk. Putting on something toasty when my body temperature has dropped and I’m sweaty is nice. So is a warm towel after a bath. I wish it had a bread warmer. Homemade strawberry jam in local organic yogurt makes me believe January is as good as early June. My appreciation is sharper in the winter because every market isn’t selling gorgeous Île d’Orléans strawberries. “The first thing I remember tasting and then wanting to taste again is the grayish-pink fuzz my grandmother skimmed from a spitting kettle of strawberry jam.” Until recently, I had a top-five desert island book list that includes A Fine Balance and All The Light We Cannot See. Now, it’s a top-six list because I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead. No surprise she won the Pulitzer Prize. The writing is exquisite. I pay attention to her structure and technique. I’m not alone in saying the story makes my heart ache. Ezra Klein perfectly expresses the experience of reading it in the introduction to this interview with her. She is powerfully empathetic to opioid addicts and talks a lot of sense, including about the benefits of harm reduction. Japanese sweet potatoes. The simmered, sweet soy-saturated shards served as banchan — Gamja Jorim — makes me wish I could make the short subway ride to Tofu Village. I’m still searching for a restaurant replacement. Alice Choi put me on to baking the sweet potatoes. The dense golden flesh is a good lunch after a cold walk. I dip them warm into a mayonnaise sauce. Here are two I like (the second is my favourite): Kimchi mayo — mayonnaise, finely chopped kimchi and green onion, and Korean red chili pepper flakes. Goma mayo — mayonnaise, Goma sauce (bought at Sanko on Queen St. W.), finely chopped garlic and ginger, toasted sesame seeds, and sesame oil. The plum, rose and apricot tints that spread like watercolours in the sky on my late afternoon walks along the Humber River. I stopped in my tracks last week when a pack of coyotes started howling and yipping in the near distance. They had the frenzied sound of feasting. *** One of the benefits of writing 'today' is that I listen to a lot of music in a week. This song came to me through a reel on Instagram. There's a lot of depth in the sound — long live De La Soul. It's another feel-good dance song. 2018During the pandemic, I read Elizabeth David's French Country Cooking from cover to cover as a writing exercise. I was looking at the words and the structure and punctuation. After a while, I could see her hand. The intimacy was a pleasure. I collected three-to-five-word phrases while reading, saving them in a document that is 25 pages long. I was thinking about poetry but know nothing about the form. I don't know if what follows is proper, but it was fun to create. And to see our words mingle is a thrill. My dad’s cast-iron Dutch oven is “a fat comfortable-looking pot”[1] with a charcoal surface buffed to a patent leather sheen “nothing cooked in it could possibly go wrong.”[2] A Fibonacci sequence of use from two generations of braises, soups and stews “imparting a very special flavour”[3] beginning with a glug-glug of oil or “a nut of butter.”[4] The ghost of his onions sizzles with mine, along with “a suspicion of garlic[5] fine-tuning the heat dial until the bubbles reverberate at the right pitch and cirrus cloud steam rises from the crescent moon gap between pot and lid the “rich aromas of slow cooking” are a signal to set the table.[6] *** When cooking, let the bean’s character bloom. Be generous with the flavourings and amplify the ingredients in the final recipe. This batch of navy beans was destined for an Italian-inspired dish. Ingredients: Carrots with a bit of their tops, cooking onions in their golden skin, a head of garlic halved horizontally, celery stalks, Campari tomatoes on their pungent, vegetal stalks, Italian parsley, thyme, and rosemary tied in a bundle, bay leaves, a shard of kombu for umami. Cooking method: Soak the beans in lots of cold water overnight. Drain and discard the soaking liquid. Put the beans in a pot and cover with plenty of cold water. Bring to a boil and skim the foam off the surface. When the foam subsides, add the flavouring ingredients. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Skim as needed and cook for 30 to 45 minutes or until tender — the age of the beans determines the cooking time. Turn the heat off and season liberally with salt. Leave the beans to cool completely in the cooking liquid. Remove and discard the flavouring ingredients. Store in their liquid. The beans freeze beautifully. *** Would you please consider subscribing to ‘today’ or sharing it on social media? *** Look at the smiles in that concert hall. I’d love to be in that crowd. What a message to leave an audience with. It’s the energy to take into 2024. I adore you! __________ [1] David, Elizabeth. French Country Cooking. Illustrated ed. (London: Dorling Kindersley Limited, 1987). p. 49 [2] Ibid., p. 25 [3] Ibid., p. 48 [4] Ibid., p. 65 [5] Ibid., p. 117 [6] Ibid., p. 103 2023A 2-minute and 12-second read. Home cooking is what I have to give to my mom. Two weeks of good meals and a freezer full to carry her another month. I've made lots of vegetables and salads. She ate all the fish, including the crispy skin, which she declared "delicious." I made a stew and put rutabaga in it — a vegetable she didn't like until I cooked it. I still have a bunch of dishes to make, including a Tortilla Española, chicken-barley soup, and a rösti potato for New Year's Day. We talk a lot, too. **** Some of what follows is behind a paywall. Putting words together with this skill costs. Here are a few stories I loved this year (all by women): "Plenty of folks tell me confidently that I could write anything I wanted about them. I have come to understand that what they actually mean is that I have their permission to write anything about them that they can imagine I might." A Big Shitty Party by Melissa Febos is essential reading if you're a memoirist. It's full of wisdom and the writing is on fire. "It's also unsentimental. This is what Moshfegh does. Her universe, both in fiction and nonfiction, is a brutal one, and highlights the ugliness that many other writers leave out. This includes the ugliness within ourselves that most people are unwilling to examine. In reality, ours is not a moral universe. People do not get what they deserve, and evil is rewarded constantly." I'm a big fan of Summer Brennan's writing. "I worked hard to get out of it, quitting the restaurant I had put so much of myself into with little reward, knowing I had to get out. I needed to care about myself. I found new places to work, slowly found friends to be trusted and counted on." The harsh realities of the restaurant business are recounted in Almost No One Makes It Out by Millicent Souris. "It is harder to be a man today, and in many ways, that is a good thing: Finally, the freer sex is being held to a higher standard." Christine Emba's Men are lost. Here's a way out of the wilderness. "My husband has great taste in women, I thought." Stunning writing from Jean Garnett, Scenes from an Open Marriage. What a talent. *** Just for pleasure, here's a petit four image of Dolly Parton. Nigel Slater wins food photo of the year. (Imagine the day when an editor/paper uses it as the header photo.) *** I try hard to give good Stories on Instagram. Some of you send me nice notes about it. My "following" feed reflects my interests and leans heavily toward the arts. These are a few of the accounts I shared in 2023: The playlist I draw the music from is 457 songs long this year. There's no organization — it's like the cupboard you don't want to open. *** Politically and environmentally, we are facing another challenging year in 2024. May our concern for each other grow. *** My mom would dance with me to this song when it came on the radio. In 1964, I was one year old. I don't remember, but she told me I would put my arms up like I wanted to be picked up when it came on. We listened to it tonight together. Happy new year. 1964 |
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