Do what you love... just make sure it's easy.

There’s a lot to be said for doing/creating what you love.  Whether as a career, as a hobby, or even in what you prepare in the kitchen, that sense of joy which only comes from willing purpose or accomplishment is key.

Trust me on this one.  As one who possesses a disastrous attention span, yet a creative spirit which has been said to be in a state of perpetual overdrive, I can safely attest to this.  The fact that you’re reading these words is my testimony to this sentiment.  Do I make money from this?  No.  Am I a professional?  No.  My love for all things food-related, as well as the written word are what compel me to put fingertip to keystroke, and a hope that maybe someone somewhere will glean something from my prattle.

Accomplishment doesn’t need to be synonymous with elaborate.  In fact, the simplest, almost seemingly stupid efforts can often yield the greatest accolades.  Don’t believe me?  Remember that school project you busted your ass on?  You stayed up late at night perfecting your diorama, sugar-cube castle, potato-powered lightbulb, and the kid who got all the attention was the one who rubbed a balloon on his head and stuck it to a wall.  Meanwhile your potato did little more than ooze starch and attract flies.  Or as I mentioned in the previous post: kids who play with the box the expensive toy came in.

Which brings us to todays post.

On occasion my husband takes treats in for his coworkers.  Usually it’s as a form of enticement to lure people into one of his teaching sessions.  He would often be up, late at night, scouring through recipe books, and would then disappear in a dense cloud of flour and icing sugar.  Emerging only sometime after midnight, with a pan of sugary bribery cooling on the counter. 

He got great reviews, but as with all things, there were the naysayers: “I could do this better…” “Oh yeah, well I make a _____ which is amazing…”

The gauntlet was thrown down.  A friendly bake-off was suggested, and my hubby promptly found himself in a very distracted room of inattentive, tittering, scheming would-be bakers.

Cut to the night before said bake-off.  Hubber was tired, and uninspired.  Every recipe in the “dress to impress” repertoire required a few hours of time which would inevitably cut in on the precious downtime of the eve.

I threw this little suggestion his way as a saviour of sanity, sleep and effort.

Hello Dolly Bars

½ cup butter

1 cup graham crumbs

2 cups chocolate chips

1 cup coconut

1 cup walnuts

1 can sweetened condensed milk

First of all you’ll want to make a crust.  The butter and graham crumbs listed above are for making a quick graham crust.  If you’re feeling somewhat ambitious, I’d recommend making a shortbread base instead, and partially baking it before adding the other toppings (as shown here).

*patpatpatpatpat*

If proceeding with the graham version, melt the butter, mix with graham crumbs and pat into a 9x13 inch baking pan.

Next scatter the chocolate, coconut and nuts over the base.  Most recipes encourage you to do it in layers, but I like to mix them together in a bowl first, and add the condensed milk to the mixture.  If you prefer the layer option, simply do so, then pour the condensed milk evenly over the top.

Bake at 350° for about 25 minutes, or until the condensed milk has bronzed itself into caramel.

Please also note that there is absolute flexibility in these ingredients.  Pecans often replace the walnuts.  Sometimes butterscotch chips make up about half the chip ratio.  Just have a good quantity of your fillers on hand and it’s kinda hard to go wrong.

By the way, he won.  Which I take as “WE won”.  Credit where credit is due, after all.

Ad-libbing in absentia (aka: Stove, I miss thee!)

As I write this, my stove is in the process of being repaired.  At last my new glass cooktop came in, and my repair guy (ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ken) is tinkering away in the kitchen as I try and figure out what the hell I’m putting on the table tonight. 

A quick perusal of the cupboards, an assessment of the stove situation (which basically entailed me leering behind Ken asking “So, uhhhh…WHEN exactly are you done with that thing?”) revealed that a) there was nothing in the house to be made since I wasn’t able to get groceries today, due to waiting for the illustrious Ken to show up, and b) neither I nor Ken knew when I’d be getting my kitchen back.  The Fascist’s kitchen is an occupied territory.  I am not okay with this.

It also turns out that none of my regular delivery places are actually delivering today.  So the 20 minutes I spent trying to rack my sushi order up to meet the $30 minimum were all for naught.  “Go out for sushi, then!” hear some of you suggest.  Not an option.  Read the previous post for my explanation why.

I don’t want to resort to pizza, but sometimes options are limited.

Thanks a lot, Ken.

So instead, here’s a lil sumthin I threw together last weekend when guests came over… on the bbq.

Flame roasted tomatoes with peas and herbs

*

*The above photo is admittedly a bit misleading.  There is no garlic in this recipe.  I hit the Vancouver Farmers Market and scored the ingredients for this, though, and this garlic was just too damn pretty NOT to have its photo taken.  Note the amazing zebra tomatoes.  You'll also note that the peas are absent from the photo, but I shucked 'em myself!

Cherry tomatoes to equal about 3-4 cups, halved

4-5 Large basil leaves, chopped

2 Large mint leaves, chopped

About 2 cups peas (preferably fresh)

1-2 Tbsp olive oil

salt

First of all, you’re going to need a basket for the grill which allows you to cook the tomatoes.  Something like the CharBroil wok topper basket.  If you don’t have something which will allow you to cook the tomatoes on a grill you could try roasting them in a high-heat oven, on a baking sheet.  Be sure to check on them regularly, and move ‘em around.

In a large bowl toss the halved tomatoes with olive oil, herbs and a pinch of salt (reserving a bit of the basil for later).

Over medium-high heat roast the tomatoes in the basket, turning frequently to allow to caramelize.

Meanwhile, make a foil pouch out of aluminum foil to put the peas in.  Add about ¼ cup water, and seal.  That is, close it up.  Don’t add seal meat.  That’s for dessert.

Place the pea-pouch on the grill.  When you hear the water inside boiling, allow to do so for a minute or two, then remove from the heat, and drain off any remaining water.  The peas are best when they retain that certain “pop” capacity.  Don’t allow them to boil down to an unrecognizable mush.  This is summer barbeque food, not dinner at the old folks home.

When the tomatoes have softened, and retained a bit of an umber scorch in places, transfer to a bowl, pour the peas over, add remaining basil, toss gently to combine, and adjust seasoning.

Pic courtesy of Mike C's iPhone

Despite the fact that I had made a seared, marinated pork tenderloin, as well as a from-scratch poutine, these tomatoes were the highlight of the meal.  Kind of like getting a kid a robot for his birthday and he plays with the box.  Oh well.  Noted.  Sometimes the quick and easy dish can be the scene-stealer, I suppose.

Sushi Sanctimony

I recall a day, not so very long ago, where eating sushi was a novelty.  Bordering even on the strange.  To have a California roll was to be adventurous.  Raw salmon was unthinkable.

I remember my first experience with sushi on the way back from the city with a couple friends (circa 1992).  We decided to venture into the unknown, went into a Japanese restaurant, declared ourselves as newbies, and placed our nervous selves at the mercy of the chef.  Of course he knew what to expect from us and therefore played it safe, serving us the ubiquitous California roll, miso soup, and most likely a tempura of some sort.

Aside from the new flavour palate, and moment of folly where I underestimated the potency of wasabi, it was uneventful.  I survived the unknown.  I now had a new thing to call my own (relatively).

I arrived back home, and told my family about what I had tried.  My Mom was wide-eyed, and somewhat disgusted, regardless of the fact that I assured her everything I had tried was cooked.  My Dad was slightly less surprised, but then we didn’t understand each other much at all back then.  I could’ve come home with a tap-dancing camel and his reaction would’ve been the same: “Why would you feel the need…?” I was encouraged to get checked for intestinal worms by both of them.

Later on, sushi and Japanese food in general would become comfort food.  My roommate at the time and I would go out for a home-cooked meal, brought to us by adorable, but completely non-Anglophonic staff.  The adventure continued, as we were often brought whatever the waitress felt like.  We would accept graciously, and tip absurdly.

There was a vibe to Japanese restaurants.  It was a place where the young and/or adventurous could be found, quietly but enthusiastically noshing on a variety of raw seafood, and miscellaneous tofu-based creations.

Time passes.  Perceptions change.  Friends tell friends.  Children tell their parents.  The once adventurous youth now have children of their own, and suddenly sushi restaurants are the Denny’s of the next generation.

Gone are the days of Bohemian solitude over a platter of thick slices of wild sockeye.  Now it’s a miracle to even have your chopsticks out of their wrapper before a strange child has managed to lob a piece of a cucumber roll onto your table.

I’m of two minds on this.  Well, three really.  

First: it’s exciting that the next generation has both the availability of a wide variety of foods, and that their parents are bringing them up to embrace it.  

Second: I really do miss the days of having a quiet sushi dinner.  My restaurant selection has become based upon previous experiences of roll-lobbing and screaming.  Really, some of these restaurants have become a ball-pit shy of being Chuck-E-Cheese.

And lastly, most importantly, yet briefly (because this IS a rant worthy of a post of its own): what happened to public etiquette?  When my brother and I were little and were taken out to a restaurant we were on our best behaviour.  Sure that sometimes meant we would rip the house to shreds afterwards, having kept all our brattiness inside for too long, but we understood what was expected of us.  Running over to someone else’s table to stare at their dinner, bellow across the restaurant “Mommy?  WHAT’S THIS?”, or climb around under tables was not an option.

What we’ve gained in broadness of thinking we seem to have sacrificed in manners.

I kinda want my quiet sushi joint back.