Happy New Food Year!

I returned to my parents' house last month with the lingering memories of their teeny tiny 1950's kitchen and all the family members we crammed in it while rendering dish after dish of soul-soothing food.

What I found on arrival was a brand new kitchen, replete with six-burner professional grade gas range, granite counter tops, self-closing drawers, and a huge a-symmetrical island with a second prep sink built-in.

I wasn't exactly surprised. In fact, I'd dragged my sorry self out of bed many a Saturday morning to meet with their designer to get my ideas into the mix.

I'm so proud of them for finishing this. Kudos to my mother who, god love her, is the most notorious pack rat that ever was.
It took a lot for her to throw and give away so much of the past. But in the end, everyone will benefit. And what a workspace...

What you see here are the peels of 15 pounds of potatoes. My mom, my sister, and I fried latkahs for two hours one morning while I was back in preparation for the big family Chanukah party.


Normally when my mom makes latkahs, the smell of fried potatoes and onions is detectable at the end of the street and the scent lingers in our hair and on our clothes for a week. But I have to hand it to them, my mom and dad went all in on their renovation and the overhead fan they installed left nary a trace even twenty minutes after we finished frying.

Using a food processor, shred 5 pounds of russet potatoes and a bag of regular yellow onions.

Transfer to a large bowl, add a couple of eggs, about a half a cup of flour and about 2 tablespoons of baking powder. The baking powder helps them crisp.

Form into palm-sized flat cakes, squeezing out all excess liquid. Fry in hot vegetable oil. Use a lot, but don't cover them completely. Remember to tap down the centre of the patty so that the thickness is dispersed and the latkahs cook evenly.

Turn with caution. Use a spatula and a long fork. When cooked to golden brown on both sides, remove from frying pan and transfer to paper towel covered plate.














I returned to Montreal just in time for Christmas. J's family was extremely generous with me as this was our first Christmas together here. We had a wonderful meal with his mom and the whole day was very merry. The gift giving, of course, was just wonderful. I didn't even get to see my nieces and nephew open the gifts we gave them on account of being so busy opening presents of my own. Two of the highlights were the popcorn hot air popper for J's sister Melissa and the bread making machine from J's grandmother, Nanny. I've only ever made bread the old fashioned way. It takes forever, which is why I hardly ever do it. But fresh bread is just about the most enticing smell ever to be emitted from any kitchen, and so I'm so happy to now be able to just toss the ingredients in, push a few buttons, and let it do its thing. Hurray for robot kitchen helpers! J's mom got me my first food processor. I can't wait to make spanikopita with that thing. Stay tuned...

What I love about the end of the year is all the marvelous best-of lists that come out. So you can imagine my glee when I came across "The Best of America's Test Kitchen: Best Recipes and Reviews 2012"

First to be made was their "Ultimate Banana Bread" recipe. So simple. The tricky part was that it calls for a microwaving step. I've never had a microwave in any of my kitchens, so I had to use the stove instead. In the end I don't think it made that much of a difference.

1 3/4 C all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
6 large, over-ripe bananas (I freeze mine when they get to this stage, if you do too, only use 5 from the freezer and use one fresher one)
8 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2 large eggs
3/4 C packed light brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/5 C walnuts, toasted and chopped coarse (I skipped this)
2 tsp granulated sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees with the rack in the middle position. Spray a 8 1/2 inch by 4 1/2 inch loaf pan with vegetable oil spray. Combine first 3 ingredients in a large bowl.
Place 5 peeled bananas in a large bowl and cover with plastic wrap, poking vents in the top for steam. Microwave until bananas are soft with liquid released in the bowl, about 5 minutes. I mashed the bananas and let them simmer on the stove for 5 minutes instead.
Place a fine mesh strainer over a medium size bowl and transfer hot bananas to the strainer to drain out the liquid into the bowl, stirring occasionally. Let it drain for 15 minutes. At the end you should have about 3.4 C of liquid. Transfer banana solids to a bowl.
Pour liquid into a saucepan and cook over medium-high heat for 5 minutes. Liquid should be reduced to 1/4 C at this time. Now pour the reduced liquid back in with the bananas and mash together. I know this sounds silly, but what you've just done is extracted a lot of intense banana flavour, caramelized and intensified the flavour, and returned it to the mix.
Add butter, eggs, sugar, and vanilla to the banana mixture. Stir to combine. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and stir until just a little white is visible. Transfer to prepared loaf pan. Top with final banana, making two lines of banana slices, 1/4 inch think, arranged in a shingle pattern, one slice layered slightly on top of the one before.
Make sure to leave the middle clear to allow steam to evaporate as the batter bakes and ensure an even rise. Sprinkle the whole top with granulated sugar.
Bake until a toothpick comes out clean, about one hour. Rotate the pan halfway through baking. Cool in pan.

I also plan on using my slow cooker a lot more this winter. The spaghetti and slow cooked meatballs I made recently were so good and the convenience of having food for another two days after is very reassuring as school gets more demanding. And they were so juicy... even David couldn't resist climbing down off the bookshelf to get a closer look.

There are so many things to try. I would really like to expand my repertoire to include some new things on my list of go-to meals. That's what trying new things is all about, after all.

post-holiday recovery

The holiday season lasts really long. Especially in the hospitality and service industry. From the end of November until now, I basically have not had two days off in a row. Except for the little bit of time when my family all together. I mean the full family - sisters, partners, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

And do you know what I learned? My family is really big and really hungry pretty much all the time. I mean even when we're in a smaller arrangement of the family, say parents, partners, and grandparents, we're still pretty boistrous and at once slightly peckish.

So for the past couple of months I've done little but cook, eat, serve, and discuss food, but because I've been so busy doing that... I haven't had time to write. Not cool.
Now that things are finally settling down on all fronts, I can settle in, catch up, ad take stock of what a trip it all was.

Let's see, there was the obscene amount of food that I served at work the weeks leading up to Christmas. And the fact that I was hired at a fine wine and spirits shop in the neighbourhood I grew up in. That exciting news in itself is worthy of a post. More to come about Crestwood Fine Wines and Spirits...

I cooked dinner for Joey, my sister Sarah and her partner Ed on the first night of Channukah. My parents were away so my mom's traditional role of racing home after work to make dozens of latkahs fell to me. I made crispy cornflake crumb chicken baked in the oven and we ate latkahs was apple sauce and sour cream until we each had to unbutton the top buttons of our pants.

Then there was the big fat family vacation on a Caribbean cruise over Christmas. My grandmother decided to take us all on vacation to celebrate her 80th birthday. There was a cocktail of trepidation and curiosity about what the experience would be like. In a way it met every expectation. But then again, in other ways it was a total surprise. Sometime soon I will spend some time telling the tales of the MS Noordam. But I think those will have to wait. Let me tease you by saying we ate a lot of lobster, beef tenderloin on board but my favourite meal was the snack bar lunch on the beach in Cozumel, which was comprised of cheese and chicken quesadillas, salsa, guacamole, tostadas, fish tacos, and Sol beer with fresh limes.

Oh yes, and of course we could not have gotten on that ship if we did not first travel halfway across North America to board from the port of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Do you know what else is in Florida? Orlando. Do you know what marvelously terrifying park is built in Orlando? Universal Studios. My sisters and I spent an entire day roadtripping to and from Universal to spend an afternoon at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. That's right, the Dolgirls went to Hogwarts. It was amazing. Surely a day I will never forget. I have never done anything like that and I don't know if I would do anything like it ever again. I had so much butterbeer that eventually I couldn't drink anymore. And there were whole turkey legs. People were walking around with them in their hands. Peering and surveying the length of lineups with greasy skin and bits of turkey meat smeared all over their faces. That was super gross. But we did try them in the Three Broomsticks tavern, and they were actually quite tasty.

I want to tell you all about all of this. But let me take my time, now that I finally have some to myself again. More soon...

combatting brain drain with smoked meat sandwiches

I saw a very delicious story on the news the other day. Amid stories of natural disaster, corrupt bankers and politicians, and a flailing economy, this warmed the cockles of my heart.

Click here to watch the news piece

I turns out that the greatest smoked meat sandwich to be had in New York is found at neither Carnegie nor Katz's delis, but at a new spot called Mile End Delicatessen that opened last January in Brooklyn. CBC reported that the deli received its top rating from Zagat, the authority in food and travel guides, described by CBC's David Common as the "gastronomic bible of New York City."

Owners Noah Bermanoff and Rae Cohen are Montreal ex-pats who sell the iconic smoked meat as well as St. Viatur bagels, hand delivered either by FedEx or quite often by friends who drive through the night from Montreal ensure their fresh and speedy arrival each morning.

The main attraction at the tiny hot spot is their beef brisket smoked meat. Also on the menu: poutine with real cheese curds, borscht, and sandwichs names like the "Ruth Wilensky" which is sliced salami on an onion roll (10 cents extra for no mustard) and "The Beauty" - lox on a bagel with cream cheese, tomato, red onion & capers served either open or close-faced.

The format is simple, the price is right, and the food looks amazing. It looks as though they've come up with a winning strategy as they are currently planning the opening of a second location. Too bad it's not up the street from my house. I miss Montreal smoked meat all the time.

Photo Credits:
Daniel Kreiger
Michelle V. Agins/The New York Times
brownstoner.com

calling all matzo balls!

I am a woman on a mission. Passover is rapidly approaching and I must somehow create an eggless matzo ball for my sister's partner. The poor thing is allergic to eggs and so far I have done quite well in making substitutions when I know he is joining us for dinner. But Passover is a whole other story. Everything has to have egg in it. It's our sneaky way around eating things with leavening. While us Ashkenazi Jews spend most of the year thriving on egg bread (challah), pasta, sandwiches, and cake, this one time of year we must put our carbohydrates aside in observance of religious tradition.

The tradition of eating matzo came from the actual biblical story of the exodus. As the ancient Jews prepared to flee slavery under the Egyptian Pharaohs, they prepared dough to make bread for the long journey (little did they realize just how long...). They soon discovered that when Moses asked Pharaoh to "let my people go" and Pharaoh agreed, he meant right now. The freed slaves had to rush and leave at once, before the bread dough had time to rise. The story goes on to say that the heat of the dessert sun actually baked the bread on their backs, resulting in the much-maligned matzo that we eat today.

While companies like Manischewitz have developed countless yeast-less cakes, egg noodles, and macaroons, one wonders just how much processing and refinement these products must endure before they reach the grocery store shelf. I have found that the easiest way to get through the seemingly endless 8 days of no-pasta is by eating more fruits and vegetables. It's easy enough. I don't actually eat much of those store-bought bread substitutes that are so successfully marketed to Jews the world over. But there is one thing that not only to I make an exception for, I actually crave throughout the year.

The delicate art of matzo ball making is something that I have yet to master. While I was away at university, I would try to duplicate my mom's matzo balls, but they were never quite as fluffy as hers. The secret is the eggs, you see. The dumplings are made of ground matzo (matzo meal), chicken soup, salt, pepper, and egg whites. Mixed together, rolled into golf ball sized shapes, and then boiled in chicken soup for 20-30 minutes, they always seemed to be taking too long and I would remove them from the pot too early. This results in matzo balls of a rather hockey-puck type consistency.
* photos courtesy of Smitten Kitchen

But what will we do this year? We have a very nice guest, whom we like very much, who will otherwise have to go matzo ball-less. I certainly don't want to make him sick, but he can't miss out on matzo ball soup! It's the best part of the very long, drawn out, ceremony-filled meal. It's better than the turkey or the meatballs or the strange cakes and sweet meringues that end the dinner. They should not be given up just because of some silly little gastrointestinal incompatibility. What can I do? This is where you come in, dear readers. If anyone out there in cyberland knows of any eggless matzo ball recipes, I'd be forever indebted to you. Someone must have already faced this problem. I am a doer; I know there is a solution to this problem. I just need some help finding it.

new things

May I begin by wishing you a happy and sweet New Year. Every September, the elm tree across the street from my bedroom window begins to turn yellow in its highest branches and the green drains from its leaves and pours out its trunk. Fall comes to this river valley and with it brings sounds and feelings of great harvests, lonely, following moons, and canola fields being gathered up. All these are tremendous yellow visions will be seen across this vast country and indeed around the world. But what September also brings to mind is the beginning of the new lunar year, the start of the Jewish calendar, and of course, a whole new year of magnificent family feasts that seem to go on for days. Rosh Hashanah is Hebrew for "head of the year", a new beginning to coincide with the harvest and the moon. These thoughts of family, new clothes, and afternoon naps have remained just that while I was away at university. When you are a student, September will illicit thoughts of crisp leaves and chilly bike rides and new book smell. I am not a student anymore, and so was sad to find those feelings absent this fall. But I am home again, looking once more at the big elm tree out my bedroom window.
I grew up across the street from my grandparents, both at home and in synagogue. One set of grandparents lived literally across the street, and the other set went to the other synagogue around the corner from my family's. During Rosh Hashanah we go to synagogue, think about what it means to be Jewish, visit with friends who we haven't seen since last year at this time, and meditate on the things we have done in the past year that warrant forgiveness in the days leading up to Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. With all of these important things, one might imagine the sort of hunger that begins to churn in one's stomach. Waking up early and getting dressed up is all well and good, but to then sit and stand and smile and visit for anywhere from 3 to six hours with your great-aunt's bridge friends and see people who picked on you when you were younger, of course takes a great deal of resilience and stamina. By the end of the synagogue service, all you can think of is your hunger, and the promise of your grandmother's table.
The Rosh Hashanah lunch is a joyful afternoon in my library of food memories. My grandmother's sweet peas are always in full bloom on her patio out the dining room window. To this day, the smell of them reminds me of this meal. Everyone slowly staggers their arrials from synagogue. My dad is always the first to get there, so naturally, he is the first to leave. Depending on if my grams puts lunch in the oven before she leaves, she often arrives for just a couple hours near the end or at the beginning. Cousins trickle in and go straight to the television. My eldest sister is always away, so we usually hear from her with a phone call sometime during the afternoon. This year my cousin is away on exchange for her Design program, so my aunt set up Skype in my grandpa's old office. Everyone is called and anywhere from twelve to twenty cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, and "aunts" sit down to a punny, gregarious, sun-drenched lunch together.
First, there is always a salad plate with gefilte fish, fuscia coloured horseradish, some cucumber and tomato slices. I don't know why the horseradish is bright pink. It certainly does not come that way from the plant. The plant is white and sort of like a cross between parsnip and ginger. Neither, having anything to do with bright pink. But there it is, that is the kind of thing one just comes to expect at Rosh Hashanah lunch. But this year, while helping my grams shop for the holy day, I saw the strangest thing. There was no pink horseradish, anywhere in the city. All the other Jewish grandmothers had beat mine to it and so she begrudgingly bought the white kind. I considered it a personal victory, but I kept this to myself.
The exquisite, golden braided bread that you often see and associate with Jewish food culture is called challah. It is three strands of egg loaf folded over each other and then brushed with egg wash before baking. It is a a bread that I have not yet built up the skills to make. I am lucky that my mom love sit so much, buying it for us for as long as I can remember. On Rosh Hashanah, because the day is so special, they take the dough and folt it into a big, domed circle. Often they will add raisins to the dough too, as a way of wishing you a sweet New Year. This is also why we eat apple slices dipped in honey.
After the challah bread, apples and honey, and strange gelatinous fish (that is actually quite delicious once or twice a year) comes my mom's chicken soup. My sisters, the older girl cousins, and I get up and serve the youngest kids and parents and grandparents. Chicken noodle soup is, without a doubt, one of the greatest healing potions ever concocted. As a cure for whatever ails you, I will stand by my mother's recipe for chicken soup until the day I die.
Once these preliminary courses are over, the real eating begins. Brisket, potatoes and gravy, mashed turnip, stewed sweet potatoes, overcooked broccoli, meatballs in tomato sauce, and usually some simple iceberg lettuce salad are always moving around the table, again and again. This year, in order to show off my culinary prowess, I offered to make a salad... which, of course knocked their socks off. The best part was surely the maple candied walnuts that I lovingly turned and baked for an hour that morning before synagogue. Once we cannot eat any more, dessert and tea are served. Many little cousins rush off to the tv room or to giggle and visit elsewhere, but us stalwart few stick around for the rainbow platter of fruit - melons, pineapple, grapes, strawberries, and if my mom is feeling creative, some nectarines, kiwis, or mango - as well as several cakes, squares, brownies and meringues. When the only way to move is to crawl or be rolled, my sisters and I place our orders with the aunts in the kitchen packaging up leftovers for each family, get our shoes and coats on, and go home. The rest of the holy day is kind of a haze of tv, snuggles, and lazy afternoon dozing.
When I finally come to after Rosh Hashanah is over (remember, the holy day lasts for two days and nights - that's two days of synagogue, lunches, and family), I look out my window and see a little more yellow in the tree outside my window, across the street. It's like a thermometer of the season, or a timer counting down until the next occasion to celebrate and eat together.