Something('s) cooking

I'm pretty sure that my host family in Quebec thinks that I'm trying to burn their house down.  In my defense I want to say that it's not that I am doing it on purpose! It's just that every time I cook lately it seems to result in an ungodly amount of smoke and other burning things.  And it's not that I'm a bad cook either.  ... ... ...  Okay, so I'm not a great cook, but I can get by all right.  When I started travelling more I determined that I would start doing right by my body and stop eating popcorn and nachos for supper.  Like a proper adult I determined to start applying the fundamentals of healthy cuisine. It's amazing how many different ways you can use onion, pepper, rice, eggs, broccoli, and a bit of cheese.

No, the problem with my cooking is not my cooking.  The problem, I've determined, is trying to speak French and cook at the same time!  This is because the process of trying to speak French at a beginner's level is not all sunshine, roses and pamplemousse.  It requires patience, dedication, a constant technological lifeline, a ridiculous amount of repeating words over and over again, and absolute focus.  Focus, which cannot be spent on such trivial things as making sure the food that you are cooking doesn't catch on fire.

The first "incident" happened, incidentally, on the night of my birthday.  I had bought a 2 pound bag of carrots from the grocery store because it was on sale and seemed like a good idea at the time.  As I stood there contemplating what to make for dinner, however, I had to acknowledge the fact that I am actually not a person who eats a lot of carrots.  That probably would have been a good thought to have while I was at the grocery store. 

I knew that I  would have to come up with a strategy for consuming said carrots, or my very limited fridge space (which the carrots were commanding a majority of) would be perpetually lost forever.  I looked at my almost-completed dinner and decided that I really should try to include a generous helping of boiled carrots.  I peeled and chopped the carrots and put them on the stove, then sat down to eat my dinner with the rest of the family.

And we started talking, in French.  The French which, if you remember, requires absolute focus.  This time I was able to multi-task enough to remember to eat the dinner that was in front of me.  Unfortunately, I was not able to remember that there were, in-fact, carrots cooking on the stove.  Nope, I did not remember this until my female host Helene left the table, effectively pausing the conversation for a moment.  My brain thus freed up to think about other things than French, I suddenly recalled the carrots I had been cooking and turned around to see a cloud of smoke billowing out of a pot on the stove like someone had just let off a nuclear bomb.  Yikes!  I dashed over to the stove to try and stop the disaster in progress, madly turning on fans while the male host, Franck, ran over to the sliding glass door to vent the smoke into the freezing elements outside.

It was then, when I holding the smoking pot of carrots in my hand that Helene returned to the room with a birthday cake full of lit candles ready to burst into song.  I was caught: orange and black-handed.  For the record, it is probably the most awkward thing in the world to be in the process of burning your dinner while someone else is trying to sing to you Happy Birthday.

I wish I could say that this was the only time that I had nearly set off the smoke alarm in home here, but the sad fact it that within the first month of being in Quebec it has happened, oh, four, or five, or six, or seven, or eight times.  In fact, it's been so regular that Franck finally declared (in English) last week while I in the middle of diffusing another such incident: "When you are cooking, it's English time!"

"Yes sir!"

Even French immersion must yield to the force of nature that is me in a kitchen.

Proof that I can cook a decent meal when it has my full attention!

Something political (part 2)

It's already dark as I step out from the Toronto subway.  There is a hum of energy around as people walk down the sidewalks with purpose.  This is probably typical of Toronto, but for a moment I allow myself the illusion that they are headed to their destination with the same purpose I have: to imbibe on a refreshment of their choice (in my case popcorn, oh what a party animal I am!) and watch the election results.  I orient myself on my phone using the Google maps app and set out in the direction of the cinema.

There is a greeter at the door when I arrive.  I mention I am there to watch the election results and a big grin lights up her face.  "Welcome!" she enthuses as she quickly gives me an orientation on where I can buy my popcorn.  Popcorn: very important for an election night - I am glad that she recognizes this.  I walk to the popcorn line, which is empty.  I've arrived over 20 minutes early, being the keener I am, so that is no surprise.  I look at the sign on the cashier's desk.

MEDIUM POPCORN

$3.38

(The number of seats in the House of Commons)

 

FREE REFILLS!

 

Excellent, this night was starting out excellent!  I swiftly purchase my popcorn, yes extra butter please, and then I go pick out a seat in the sparsely populated theatre.

 

I am surprised to see that the screen is already on and election results are rolling in from the Maritimes.  A few of the ridings are being slightly schizophrenic, tumbling between a Liberal/Conservative identity crisis, but otherwise the Atlantic provinces are looking decidedly red.

 

Very little happens for the next 40 minutes.  I watch the commentary that the political analysts are providing on the tv as the Maritimes decide that they are going to be 100% Liberal after all.  The seats in the theatre around me fill up. A dull roar from the hum of voices surrounds me, it is becoming increasingly difficult to hear.  On my left a young couple settles down in their seats and pulls out their refreshments, a clear liquid in a soda bottle that is definitely not water and plastic cups to drink it with.  We chat a bit about our anticipations for the evening and he offers me something to drink from the bottle.  Nah, I'm happy with my popcorn, but thank you.  On my right three young girls of east Asian descent who look like they are barely out of high school and old enough to vote sit down.  They chatter loudly, enjoying their own refreshments, holding pieces of paper in their hands. I glance at the piece of paper "Election Bingo" it says.  HOLD THE PHONE! The cinema is giving out Election Bingo and I didn't get one?!  I briefly consider whether it is worth it getting up to hunt down my own piece of paper, but then I consider the swelling theatre population and decide the effort isn't worth it.  I like my seat too much.  Maybe I'll get one when I go for a popcorn refill.

 

The stage is set, my first helping of popcorn is almost finished, and there are only 10 seconds before the polls in Quebec and Ontario close.

 

"10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1."  The dissonant hum of voices unites into a singularity of anticipation and cheers echo as the announcer on the tv declares that the polls are now closed.  Now things get interesting.

 

Part 3 is up!

Something berry good

 

I have a fascination with berries.  Maybe it is due to my mountain upbringing, where every second berry plant you come upon the side of the trail is edible.  Or maybe I just think with my stomach.  But here in B.C. it is not uncommon to go for a stroll down the highway and BAM! in the ditch there is a daring bush full of delectable, juicy, ripe saskatoon berries just begging to be eaten on the spot.  Or to take walk near the beach by the tree line and ending up spending the entire afternoon huckleberry picking instead of swimming like you originally came for. True story.  And then there are the wild raspberries and wild strawberries - not as popular in some circles but a valid edible choice nonetheless.

 

The irony with this photo is that it was not taken in B.C., nor is it of an edible berry.  I took it in Calgary, AB near a place I used to work. I was fiddling around with my iphone on a lunch break, and these berries probably made me think of food.  After all, they are the exact colour and size of the huckleberry, which is my favourite of all the berries.  They have so much tastiness packed into such a small package, both tangy and sweet at the same time.  When you bite into them the flavour explodes into your mouth and fills it, and it is easy to get caught into the trap of eating them till your mouth turns blue. True story, many times.

 

The thing that I've learned about huckleberries is that not everyone appreciates them like I do.  If people have grown up in another province, say Saskatchewan, then the huckleberry is too tart for them.  Or maybe it's because the berry tends to grow on the sides of mountains, and people who have an attachment to the flat lands might hold a unconscious prejudice against things that will only grow in the not-so-flat lands.  That's another interesting fact about huckleberries - they refuse to be domesticated.  There is no such thing as a huckleberry farm, in the same way that there would be a blueberry farm.  No, if you want to pick a huckleberry, the best thing to do is to travel up a deserted logging road up the side of the mountain in your 4x4 and find one of those clear-cut areas that was cleared out a few years ago.  That's where all the best berries are.

 

This weekend I am going huckleberry picking.  And I am excited, because it is a family tradition.  And because I love huckleberries.