Last year when our family attended a ringette tournament in St. Catherines, we resolved to try what we thought might be an independent Mexican restaurant: La Cocina de Mama. It turned out to be Colombian -- different, but still very delicious, cuisine.
More than that, however, we were made to feel like welcome guests. The owner asked us our preferences, and explained the nature of the Colombian kitchen. We sampled all sorts of food before settling on our chosen menu. And the conversation was as nourishing as the meal.
I don't know what percentage of St. Catharine's population comes from Colombia, but they all seem to frequent La Cocina. As we sat there on a Saturday morning, the door never stayed closed for long. "Everyone who walks in here has a smile on their face," I said to my wife.
She agreed. "They come in with open faces," she said.
One year later my daughters still talk about La Cocina de Mama. Strangers in a strange town couldn't do any better than spending an hour or two in "Mama's Kitchen."
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Grillier Than Thou
It's Father's Day, so let's talk a little about barbecuing.
My wife has been hanging with a video crew from Australia. One of their more popular side projects was a whimsical series on how to barbecue. The producer said, “We just got weary of eating lousy barbecue, so . . . see a need, fill a need.” My wife watched a few of these instructional snippets and admitted they were clever.
“If you want the entire series I can load it onto your computer,” said Producer-Man.
“Is the series strictly about gas barbecues?” asked my wife.
“Yeah. Why? What do you use?”
“We use charcoal.”
“Charcoal? Whatever for?”
Said my wife, “Well, it's all about the flavor, isn't it?”
Yes, that is indeed what it's all about. And perhaps I should be reticent about enlarging my carbon footprint and endangering my family's health with carcinogen-infused meats and vegetables. But if it's all about the flavor, it must be said: nothing imparts flavor like charcoal.
I bought this Weber drum 11 years ago. I clean it every spring, and use it once or twice a week in the summer. It couldn't be simpler to use — pile the briquettes on an electric starter, plug in for 10 minutes, wait another 15 or so for the pile to reach a white heat, then spread 'em and start grilling. If I'm in an exotic mood I'll soak some mesquite or hickory chips and toss them on the charcoal, but that's hardly necessary for good barbecue.
On the downside, charcoal requires a little more forethought than a gas range does. If you're a dual-income family on the scramble between soccer and softball practices, you'll probably opt for frozen patties searing over propane flames. But even so, a little planning can go a very long distance, and a charcoal drum is a simple, inexpensive indulgence during a pleasurable weekend. If you doubt me, just ask my daughters who makes the best hamburgers in town. The patties are usually ground pork, with a little salt and pepper. But now you know my secret ingredient: charcoal flame.
My wife has been hanging with a video crew from Australia. One of their more popular side projects was a whimsical series on how to barbecue. The producer said, “We just got weary of eating lousy barbecue, so . . . see a need, fill a need.” My wife watched a few of these instructional snippets and admitted they were clever.
“If you want the entire series I can load it onto your computer,” said Producer-Man.“Is the series strictly about gas barbecues?” asked my wife.
“Yeah. Why? What do you use?”
“We use charcoal.”
“Charcoal? Whatever for?”
Said my wife, “Well, it's all about the flavor, isn't it?”
Yes, that is indeed what it's all about. And perhaps I should be reticent about enlarging my carbon footprint and endangering my family's health with carcinogen-infused meats and vegetables. But if it's all about the flavor, it must be said: nothing imparts flavor like charcoal.
I bought this Weber drum 11 years ago. I clean it every spring, and use it once or twice a week in the summer. It couldn't be simpler to use — pile the briquettes on an electric starter, plug in for 10 minutes, wait another 15 or so for the pile to reach a white heat, then spread 'em and start grilling. If I'm in an exotic mood I'll soak some mesquite or hickory chips and toss them on the charcoal, but that's hardly necessary for good barbecue.
On the downside, charcoal requires a little more forethought than a gas range does. If you're a dual-income family on the scramble between soccer and softball practices, you'll probably opt for frozen patties searing over propane flames. But even so, a little planning can go a very long distance, and a charcoal drum is a simple, inexpensive indulgence during a pleasurable weekend. If you doubt me, just ask my daughters who makes the best hamburgers in town. The patties are usually ground pork, with a little salt and pepper. But now you know my secret ingredient: charcoal flame.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Lit-Quick: Tides Of War by Steven Pressfield
The soldier thinks he knows fear. Tell that to the farmer. I have corked off at battle's eve and snoozed sound as stone; now on my landsman's bunk I tossed, sleepless as Cerberus. The farmer greets the dawn with one query only: what calamity has struck overnight?
So intones Polemides, the chief narrator of Stephen Pressfield's Tides Of War (A). Polemides then provides a litany of the farmer's woes which is as entertaining and as depressing as anything George Carlin cooked up in his prime, and concludes with a punchline that is note-perfect in its absurdity and acuity. The jacket blurbs extol Pressfield's portraits of ancient battle, and although they are what the reader remembers most immediately Pressfield's real genius is exercised in his gradually persuading the reader of a seemingly "foreign" point of view.
Why would a farmer, who has already experienced the torments of the battlefield, return to war on an enterprise that seems shaky from the outset? How, then, do the survivors of the debacle then persuade themselves to re-engage in battle? How do we, the "Army Of One" generation, understand a culture that commits itself to war through an ideology cultivated beneath a skein of temperamental gods? What sort of genius takes possession of the one man who acts as catalyst for all these terrible engagements? Pressfield's evocation of the emotional lives and metaphysical musings of his ancient subjects subtlety lulls the modern reader into a state of self-recognition. And that, I think, is what makes Stephen Pressfield one of America's finest living novelists.
So intones Polemides, the chief narrator of Stephen Pressfield's Tides Of War (A). Polemides then provides a litany of the farmer's woes which is as entertaining and as depressing as anything George Carlin cooked up in his prime, and concludes with a punchline that is note-perfect in its absurdity and acuity. The jacket blurbs extol Pressfield's portraits of ancient battle, and although they are what the reader remembers most immediately Pressfield's real genius is exercised in his gradually persuading the reader of a seemingly "foreign" point of view.
Why would a farmer, who has already experienced the torments of the battlefield, return to war on an enterprise that seems shaky from the outset? How, then, do the survivors of the debacle then persuade themselves to re-engage in battle? How do we, the "Army Of One" generation, understand a culture that commits itself to war through an ideology cultivated beneath a skein of temperamental gods? What sort of genius takes possession of the one man who acts as catalyst for all these terrible engagements? Pressfield's evocation of the emotional lives and metaphysical musings of his ancient subjects subtlety lulls the modern reader into a state of self-recognition. And that, I think, is what makes Stephen Pressfield one of America's finest living novelists.
Friday, October 19, 2007
"Fillsome" Foods
My wife returns from Milan in a couple of days. Yesterday at the grocery store I stopped by the ice cream freezer and considered purchasing a tub of Häagen-Dazs (Vanilla Swiss Almond being my comfort food of choice). Then I considered how crappy I'd feel after consuming the ice cream. Then I wondered how crappy I'd feel if I made, from scratch, and ate my childhood comfort food: tapioca pudding. I bought some tapioca beads from the local bulk foods store, went home and got to work.
Tapioca custard is ridiculously easy to make. The beads have to soak in water for two hours, but that's as fussy as it gets. After that, you scald two cups of milk, stir in 1/3 cup of sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla, two eggs and the drained tapioca. It gets thick pretty quickly, and smells wonderful. The girls were curious, so I let them dip a spoon into the mix. "I want extra much!" said the younger.
I gave each of them about a third of a cup, and myself about a half cup. They tucked in, but were unable to finish. "Sorry dad," said the one who'd asked for extra much. "It's really good, but it's also really fillsome."
It certainly is. I had no trouble finishing my portion, but I also had no desire for more. Contrast this with the ice cream. Man, when I get started on the HD, it's difficult to quit before I finish the little tub.
The more I think about that, the stranger it all seems. The basic ingredients, if the HD label is to be believed, are more or less identical: milk, sugar, eggs, flavoring. Tapioca is a glutinous thickening agent, but it doesn't add that much body to the custard. How is it that something I make on the stove is more filling than something made in a factory? What, exactly, is the "process" that makes processed foods more binge-able?
Tapioca custard is ridiculously easy to make. The beads have to soak in water for two hours, but that's as fussy as it gets. After that, you scald two cups of milk, stir in 1/3 cup of sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla, two eggs and the drained tapioca. It gets thick pretty quickly, and smells wonderful. The girls were curious, so I let them dip a spoon into the mix. "I want extra much!" said the younger.
I gave each of them about a third of a cup, and myself about a half cup. They tucked in, but were unable to finish. "Sorry dad," said the one who'd asked for extra much. "It's really good, but it's also really fillsome."
It certainly is. I had no trouble finishing my portion, but I also had no desire for more. Contrast this with the ice cream. Man, when I get started on the HD, it's difficult to quit before I finish the little tub.
The more I think about that, the stranger it all seems. The basic ingredients, if the HD label is to be believed, are more or less identical: milk, sugar, eggs, flavoring. Tapioca is a glutinous thickening agent, but it doesn't add that much body to the custard. How is it that something I make on the stove is more filling than something made in a factory? What, exactly, is the "process" that makes processed foods more binge-able?
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