All Dressed Up. Nowhere to Go.

This time of year being what it is my email inbox gets flooded with newsletters of various recipes for holiday cooking, baking, decorating, et al.  To the point that I get overwhelemed, and start to rebel against all of it.  I’ll make a few of my tried and true favourites instead, and try to politely sidestep the new “twists” on old classics.  Usually it involves somehow incorporating anise or chipotle into something.

As part of my rebellion, I’m choosing not to post a recipe this week.  I AM overwhelmed by all the holiday recipes, and even though I have a few dishes made, photographed and waiting in the wings for posting, they’re not entirely festive.  Besides, I'm sure you already have your own favourites ready to go, as well as the more volatile, stress-inducing holiday experiments you're about to unleash on friends and family.

I want to somewhat embrace the essence of the season, but without resorting to gingerbread, anise-scented hams, or quirky shortbread variations which might be better suited for skeet shooting.

Our home is devoid of Christmas decorations this year.  Not from any sort of Scroogieness, but if last year can be viewed as an experiment, then it’s safe to say that to decorate again would be plain stupid. 

One of our cats does not deal with change well, and as such proceeds to puke and poop in all places but the litter box.

Another one LOVED the Christmas tree, and proceeded to assimilate it into her already high-energy gymnastics antics.  Bulbs were smashed, the tree itself toppled, and the angel at the top suddenly seemed to have a pleading look on her face like a Jane Doe from Law and Order SVU.

The Christmas cards have found their place strung along the mantel, but there is no garland to accentuate their papery greetings.  Two words: tinsel shit.

The other cat generally adapts, but ends up with her usual sleeping places usurped, and instead finds new territory to spread the shed.  I wore out two lint rollers last year.

I feel bad not having decorations up.  Not that I’m generally one of the most “Spirit of the Season” individuals, with a Santa hat, ugly-battery-powered-flashing reindeer vest, and omnipresent cup of egg nog.  I am however, something of a stickler for tradition(s) and a certain sense of decorum.  I worry this is dying, and I fear my non-participation contributes to its slow death.

One need only glance on the street and see the number of people sporting track pants and yoga gear as day wear to observe the swan-dive into mannerless oblivion taking place all around us.

I can’t help but get a certain twinge of longing when watching certain TV shows (ie: Masterpiece Theatre) where the people would dress up for dinner IN THEIR OWN HOME!

This wasn’t because company was over. 

It wasn’t even necessarily because it was a particularly special occasion. 

It was just because that was what you did. 

It was proper. 

It was an observation of respect.

Is being all dressed up with nowhere to go such a bad thing?

So this year, Dear Reader, in an aim to placate the nagging guilt (which inevitably comes from my mother), I encourage us all to wear the season.  Whether in the form of full proper dress-up, or absurd sweater.  Whether for a quiet dinner with a loved one, a full barrage of family, or reheated frozen lasagne for one. I personally won’t be heading out to buy batteries to power-up some insipid Rudolph hat’s nose, however. 

I wish you all the best over these next few weeks, whatever you choose to celebrate, or even if you don’t.

Oh, and if you DO choose to wear yoga pants while eating dinner in front of the TV, at least be watching Masterpiece Theatre.

Update: A confession of sorts.  I did end up embracing a certain aspect of Christmas tackiness, but in the best way ever.  This was my Christmas Day shirt: 

Jealous?  You know you are.  But you don't need to be.  Check out Tees.ca for tonnes of brilliant and fun shirts for holidays and otherwise!

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. 

Earning the right to eat

I’ve flirted with vegetarianism.  Given veganism my number.  Even had a steamy, tawdry affair with raw foods.  I do keep coming back to meat, though.  In different degrees, and based on an intuitive sense of what I can bring myself to consume.  I expect I’ll repeat the foray into meatlessness again at several points in the future.

Sometimes it was based on a certain guilt about consuming other creatures.  At others it was an issue of the quality of the products (non-organic, medicated, living conditions, processing techniques, ethics, etc).  Yet, something always brings me back to the land of the meat devourers.  Usually bacon.  Smoky, salty, sultry seductress…

I’ve set a few guidelines for myself as well, or rather, the guidelines have revealed themselves as personal truths.

For starters, I can’t bring myself to eat anything I’ve had as a pet.  Aside from the obvious dogs and cats, which can breathe a sigh of relief at this stay of execution, this also includes ducks and rabbits.

Technically we had chickens growing up, too, but they never responded to me (cold, distant snots) so apparently I’m fine to consign them to a roasted-until-golden gallows.

Personally, I think we should be made aware of food processing.  Even (no, especially) if it involves horrible, traumatizing, graphic visuals.  If you can see these things, and reconcile them with your own ethics and acceptability, then congratulations, you’ve earned the right to eat it!  Meat doesn’t grow in shrink-wrapped trays in the back of the grocery store.

On my recent time spent in Morocco this was blaringly displayed in the food markets where your meat is often freshly killed for you.  We had enrolled in a cooking course, which included shopping for the meal ingredients.  Knowing that I can’t bear witness to the carnage, I voted to go for the beef dish, as we didn’t have to make eye contact with our meal beforehand.  Only to reconcile the pieces being cut from the hanging carcass.

Yes, this was a wuss-out on my part.  I mean, it still came from SOMEwhere.  I’d just prefer my food to not have any memory of having seen me.

It’s easy enough to disassociate oneself when on unfamiliar territory, though.  Even back on the home front, however, this was brought into crisp focus when, on a trip to the JN&Z Deli on Commercial Drive, they were loading the pre-processed pigs into the store.  I watched as passerby quickened their step, averted their eyes, and generally pretended not to witness the offloading.

Photos courtesy of Michael C.

We like end results, and prefer ignorance to process.

I don’t claim to have achieved any sort of resolution within this post.  I don’t expect to do so until I have either a) become a complete devout vegetarian, or b) become a disconnected sociopath with no value for other creatures.

I do, however, allow these reflections to influence my/our eating habits.  There is an INSANE amount of time and thought put into sourcing the ingredients with which I cook.  At times, yes, it would be far easier to buy the warehouse pack of chicken pieces, or pre-seasoned miscellaneous meat appetizers.  Yet, if I am to wield totalitarian control within my kitchen, then I also need the same absolute control of what enters it. 

Simple.

A concerned parent wouldn’t enroll their child in a school without at least having some clue of the reputation of the teachers.  And so it is for me.

Now, I'm not quiiite as bad as these two... yet.  Give me time.