Hand To Mouth

Yesterday morning, my flatmate K burst into my room while I was blow-drying my hair, yelling gibberish nonsense words: “Mardi Gras!” “Fat Tuesday!” “Pancakes!”

Her reward was my open-mouthed confused silence — confused, I gaped at her, my hair dryer still raised halfway up to my head. I even wondered for a moment if she was playing some kind of word association game with me.

K, in her sweet excitement, tried again: “Pancakes!”

My power of speech returned. “K! It’s really early in the morning to be yelling random words at me!” I exclaimed.

K slowly explained. Fat Tuesday and Mardi Gras are also referred to as Shrove Tuesday (who knows why!), and Shrove Tuesday can also be known as Pancake Tuesday. My confused vision of Mardi Gras revelry conjoined with images of a Denny’s breakfast special faded. K wanted to eat pancakes, and she wanted me to help her do it.

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The breakfasts J. and I make are usually savory—aside from our love of all things egg-related, we’re typically drawn towards foods that skew towards the saltier side.

But yesterday at brunch (I might tell you where our favorite spot is someday, but I haven’t worked up the stones to reveal it just yet), we found ourselves gazing hungrily at the light golden waffles our friend A. had ordered. Glazed with honeyed maple syrup and covered with a thick carpet of spiced apples, they staggered us into stealing multiple forkfuls from his plate in between bites of our chilaquiles and huevos rancheros.

Unsurprisingly, when we found ourselves in a pantry-cleaning mood this morning, we threw together as many sweet and fruity things as we could, ending up with a stack of lacy, buttery pancakes and a pleasantly oozy apricot compote. The pancakes had a satisfying crunch from a handful of ground and sliced almonds that we impulsively added to the batter. They were mighty fine. I’m already thinking about the next time we make them, and how some tweaks—maybe a little orange zest, vanilla or cardamom—might work in the batter.

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I’m back in Canada again. Don’t ask, it’ll just make you sad. And strangely - instead of being in Toronto with my family, I’m in Montreal (a city I lived in for five years … five years ago) having a mini-vacation. Again, don’t ask - suffice to say, in two days I’m heading to Toronto to take care of some sad family affairs.

But for now, I’m making lemonade with lemons, visiting old friends and old eating favourites, and it’s interesting to hunt down my previous tried and true eating experiences on a cold, 5-year-old trail. This seems to have affected bar selection most, but I had a few nasty surprises when I tried to track down that old hole-in-the-wall eating place only to find it closed. Fortunately, there appear to be some institutions that continue to stand the test of time.

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There are certain holes in anyone’s culinary talents — things we weren’t taught, or haven’t had the energy to research … and then there are things we didn’t even know we didn’t know, if you will. Making omelettes is one of those skills I didn’t even realise I didn’t have. I thought I could make perfectly acceptable, passable omelettes, folded and fluffy, until I saw a video on Serious Eats explaining how to make a folded omelette and my eyes were opened. It was a whole new technique to explore — I was excited to try something new. And when I did, I realised I could never return to what I had previously defined as an ‘omelette.’

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J. and I were eating this for dinner tonight, and we began to talk about what we were eating as it disappeared with frightening speed from our bowls. He voiced best what I think many people find so compelling about chilaquiles: the texture is comforting, but the slowly fiery blurts of flavor surprise. Unlike mashed potatoes or macaroni and cheese, there isn’t anything neutral about the dish.

I think that’s why I make it so often.
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I love that almost all cultures have their convenience foods, the foods that hungry students, flurried mothers, lonely clerks and old married couples can all make with pantry and refrigerator staples. Kimchi chigae and thayir sadham, avgolemono and chilaquiles—all of these sprang from their respective cultures’ bulwark ingredients.

Convenience foods don’t present a challenge to put together, but they aren’t necessarily dishes that are swiftly made: some of the very best ones I know bubble for close to an hour before they’re just right. Shakshuka, one of my favorite discoveries, falls into that camp.

I first discovered shakshuka last year, when I lived in South Korea. There, every morning before walking to work, I made myself a cup of bori-cha — barley tea — and read The New York Times online. Wednesday mornings were my favorite, for obvious reasons. One Wednesday, I read an article about the entrance of Israeli street foods into restaurant menus, and stopped at a picture glowing arrestingly with red, yellow, and white. I had it for breakfast Thursday.

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A Proper Breakfast

Sourdough rolls filled with Valrhona chocolate, from the Levain Bakery.

Mango tea from Harrod’s.

Oranges from Fairway.

A Proper Lunch

Cilantro-lime hummus*.

Tzatziki*.

Stravecchio from Fairway.

Peppers from the Greenmarket.

Farmstand blueberries.

A Proper Dinner
Brown rice.

Rasam*.

Chayote-red pepper curry*.

*Recipes after the jump.

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(A Proper Breakfast)

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Normally I’m not the fondest of black-and-white takes on anything, unless it’s penguins, or Tintin.

Via tintin.be

But I staunchly believe in alpha cooks and beta cooks. I am so, so sorry to say that I am an alpha. I really do try to trump it. I fight the daily fight against the obnoxious personality traits associated with the type. It gets very crowded on my shoulders, with the seraphim and the imps of darkness and the scuttling and the duality, bless my soul.

Mostly, I hope that sweetness and light are my guiding principles when I make food with others—yet some things bubble to the surface, filling me with despair. I squirm to list these habits: I have been known to stand behind friends, good cooks in their own right, and watch as they saute onions. My hand spasms when I watch someone ‘over-whisk’ a vinaigrette, stopping before I grab a wrist, before anyone even sees … anyone but GOD, that is. And the evil eye.

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