Friday night...engine revving...waiting for the checkered flag to drop. About to enter flow. How to make two hours vanish. I still love it. Coming on forty years. *** I’ve told you before that my friends get me. One of them sent me this beautiful piece of music writing about the song Wichita Lineman. Thank you, Neil Crossley, for distilling the song’s brilliance. It reads like magic. That it came together so quickly for Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell feels like a miracle worth crying over. I especially admire the detail about the bassist Carol Kaye. An accomplished woman. Just look at her photo. On the version of the song below a listener posted this comment: I remember too. Not in the same way. I was seven in 1970. We listened to AM radio as a family going for drives (at that age in the Gran Torino). *** I've been writing 'today' on the subway rides to work and back. A tap on the shoulder. *** My mom’s recovering nicely. There's more time for her to tell me she loves me always. Thank you to everyone who checked in with me in the last few weeks. Sometimes the distance between family members feels impossible to bridge. My gratitude for a handful of women in Strathmore is boundless. One of them has cooked her a couple of good meals — mashed potatoes, roast chicken, and a slice of pie. She dropped in one day with homemade brownies. And another acts as a surrogate daughter — we talk and problem solve together. Today my mom and I are playing Yahtzee online for the first time in almost a month. Is there a better reason to put off cleaning for another hour? 1968Mateo Granados, Healdsburg Farmer’s Market, Breakfast, May 22, 2010. I’d read about Chef Granados in Edward Behr’s The Art of Eating. I’d put a visit to his stall on my California wish list. The photo speaks to my sense of pleasure — the tiny branches of candy-pink flowers nestled in the greens. We sat in the sun at an oilcloth-covered picnic table with our huevos rancheros and hibiscus iced tea. I was visiting my aunt at her home in St. Helena. I arrived at night. When I opened my bedroom curtains the first morning this was the view. I stood there for a long time — astonishing beauty. Did I wake up in paradise? *** This is for my Toronto friends, Remember when David Miller took the TTC to city hall? We all saw him. I saw him more times than I can count. There was something reassuring in it. Like he knew what life was like for us. If you travel to work or to medical appointments or school on the TTC, I see you. The only way to describe the experience is awful. I spent more than $100 this week on taxis because of scheduled and emergency subway closures, random stops in the tunnel, and delays. The cost to travel in this city more than doubled for me. What jar do I take that out of? I like that Olivia Chow rides her bike. I want that infrastructure too. But I have no sense she understands what it's like to commute by public transit in the city of Toronto. The cost of living here is high. Many of us must live at a distance to work. I have a cook-friend who travels from Scarborough to Bloor West Village for work, and lately it’s taken him more than two hours to travel one way. That’s less time with his young children. His eight-hour day stretches to twelve. There is no regard for our time or well-being. Public transportation isn’t a darling of the extractive ruling class at Queen’s Park. They get hot for the private sector...the grocer barons and Roger's board members. They like us best in cars. Meanwhile "the better way" means abject mediocrity. We're held captive in a failing system. And there's radio silence from the mayor, Mr. Rick Leary, and Rob’s older brother. *** I'd put a French mini moto logo on my chef jacket. Just saying I'm open to transportation sponsorship. It would look cute parked out front of the restaurant. Colour to be negotiated. *** I’ve been loving this new-to-me song this week. 2020Royal Hospital Road, Michelin 2-Star, solo lunch, spring 2000. I was a stagiaire at the River Cafe. The brilliant Rose was alive. Both women on the cusp of releasing the Green Book. A pre-tour excitement in the air. Part of the study was going to restaurants. Feeling hugely self-conscious approaching the door in my stagiaire good clothes. IYKYK Then I met Jean-Philippe. For me, the grand master. I cannot untangle him from the good feelings I have about the experience. He was the antidote. The room was calm. Gordon was in the kitchen. I went in to say hello. Looked around for my kind. None in sight. A new generation of Paul Bocuse. *** I missed you. It’s still Sunday. *** Steve Winwood was born to sing. Look at the percussion section. 1972It’s been a grey flannel January in Toronto. Still, there are small things that make it better. Here are a few from right now: My building has a hot water heating system. There are three cast-iron radiators in my apartment. Through the summer there was an expensive upgrade to the system. Now, the radiators are too hot for my cat to lounge on. The heat it generates is nice — right behind a wood stove or fireplace. I keep my hat and gloves on it so the first few minutes outside are extra warm. I do the same thing with my inside clothes before I go out for a walk. Putting on something toasty when my body temperature has dropped and I’m sweaty is nice. So is a warm towel after a bath. I wish it had a bread warmer. Homemade strawberry jam in local organic yogurt makes me believe January is as good as early June. My appreciation is sharper in the winter because every market isn’t selling gorgeous Île d’Orléans strawberries. “The first thing I remember tasting and then wanting to taste again is the grayish-pink fuzz my grandmother skimmed from a spitting kettle of strawberry jam.” Until recently, I had a top-five desert island book list that includes A Fine Balance and All The Light We Cannot See. Now, it’s a top-six list because I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead. No surprise she won the Pulitzer Prize. The writing is exquisite. I pay attention to her structure and technique. I’m not alone in saying the story makes my heart ache. Ezra Klein perfectly expresses the experience of reading it in the introduction to this interview with her. She is powerfully empathetic to opioid addicts and talks a lot of sense, including about the benefits of harm reduction. Japanese sweet potatoes. The simmered, sweet soy-saturated shards served as banchan — Gamja Jorim — makes me wish I could make the short subway ride to Tofu Village. I’m still searching for a restaurant replacement. Alice Choi put me on to baking the sweet potatoes. The dense golden flesh is a good lunch after a cold walk. I dip them warm into a mayonnaise sauce. Here are two I like (the second is my favourite): Kimchi mayo — mayonnaise, finely chopped kimchi and green onion, and Korean red chili pepper flakes. Goma mayo — mayonnaise, Goma sauce (bought at Sanko on Queen St. W.), finely chopped garlic and ginger, toasted sesame seeds, and sesame oil. The plum, rose and apricot tints that spread like watercolours in the sky on my late afternoon walks along the Humber River. I stopped in my tracks last week when a pack of coyotes started howling and yipping in the near distance. They had the frenzied sound of feasting. *** One of the benefits of writing 'today' is that I listen to a lot of music in a week. This song came to me through a reel on Instagram. There's a lot of depth in the sound — long live De La Soul. It's another feel-good dance song. 2018During the pandemic, I read Elizabeth David's French Country Cooking from cover to cover as a writing exercise. I was looking at the words and the structure and punctuation. After a while, I could see her hand. The intimacy was a pleasure. I collected three-to-five-word phrases while reading, saving them in a document that is 25 pages long. I was thinking about poetry but know nothing about the form. I don't know if what follows is proper, but it was fun to create. And to see our words mingle is a thrill. My dad’s cast-iron Dutch oven is “a fat comfortable-looking pot”[1] with a charcoal surface buffed to a patent leather sheen “nothing cooked in it could possibly go wrong.”[2] A Fibonacci sequence of use from two generations of braises, soups and stews “imparting a very special flavour”[3] beginning with a glug-glug of oil or “a nut of butter.”[4] The ghost of his onions sizzles with mine, along with “a suspicion of garlic[5] fine-tuning the heat dial until the bubbles reverberate at the right pitch and cirrus cloud steam rises from the crescent moon gap between pot and lid the “rich aromas of slow cooking” are a signal to set the table.[6] *** When cooking, let the bean’s character bloom. Be generous with the flavourings and amplify the ingredients in the final recipe. This batch of navy beans was destined for an Italian-inspired dish. Ingredients: Carrots with a bit of their tops, cooking onions in their golden skin, a head of garlic halved horizontally, celery stalks, Campari tomatoes on their pungent, vegetal stalks, Italian parsley, thyme, and rosemary tied in a bundle, bay leaves, a shard of kombu for umami. Cooking method: Soak the beans in lots of cold water overnight. Drain and discard the soaking liquid. Put the beans in a pot and cover with plenty of cold water. Bring to a boil and skim the foam off the surface. When the foam subsides, add the flavouring ingredients. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Skim as needed and cook for 30 to 45 minutes or until tender — the age of the beans determines the cooking time. Turn the heat off and season liberally with salt. Leave the beans to cool completely in the cooking liquid. Remove and discard the flavouring ingredients. Store in their liquid. The beans freeze beautifully. *** Would you please consider subscribing to ‘today’ or sharing it on social media? *** Look at the smiles in that concert hall. I’d love to be in that crowd. What a message to leave an audience with. It’s the energy to take into 2024. I adore you! __________ [1] David, Elizabeth. French Country Cooking. Illustrated ed. (London: Dorling Kindersley Limited, 1987). p. 49 [2] Ibid., p. 25 [3] Ibid., p. 48 [4] Ibid., p. 65 [5] Ibid., p. 117 [6] Ibid., p. 103 2023A 2-minute and 12-second read. Home cooking is what I have to give to my mom. Two weeks of good meals and a freezer full to carry her another month. I've made lots of vegetables and salads. She ate all the fish, including the crispy skin, which she declared "delicious." I made a stew and put rutabaga in it — a vegetable she didn't like until I cooked it. I still have a bunch of dishes to make, including a Tortilla Española, chicken-barley soup, and a rösti potato for New Year's Day. We talk a lot, too. **** Some of what follows is behind a paywall. Putting words together with this skill costs. Here are a few stories I loved this year (all by women): "Plenty of folks tell me confidently that I could write anything I wanted about them. I have come to understand that what they actually mean is that I have their permission to write anything about them that they can imagine I might." A Big Shitty Party by Melissa Febos is essential reading if you're a memoirist. It's full of wisdom and the writing is on fire. "It's also unsentimental. This is what Moshfegh does. Her universe, both in fiction and nonfiction, is a brutal one, and highlights the ugliness that many other writers leave out. This includes the ugliness within ourselves that most people are unwilling to examine. In reality, ours is not a moral universe. People do not get what they deserve, and evil is rewarded constantly." I'm a big fan of Summer Brennan's writing. "I worked hard to get out of it, quitting the restaurant I had put so much of myself into with little reward, knowing I had to get out. I needed to care about myself. I found new places to work, slowly found friends to be trusted and counted on." The harsh realities of the restaurant business are recounted in Almost No One Makes It Out by Millicent Souris. "It is harder to be a man today, and in many ways, that is a good thing: Finally, the freer sex is being held to a higher standard." Christine Emba's Men are lost. Here's a way out of the wilderness. "My husband has great taste in women, I thought." Stunning writing from Jean Garnett, Scenes from an Open Marriage. What a talent. *** Just for pleasure, here's a petit four image of Dolly Parton. Nigel Slater wins food photo of the year. (Imagine the day when an editor/paper uses it as the header photo.) *** I try hard to give good Stories on Instagram. Some of you send me nice notes about it. My "following" feed reflects my interests and leans heavily toward the arts. These are a few of the accounts I shared in 2023: The playlist I draw the music from is 457 songs long this year. There's no organization — it's like the cupboard you don't want to open. *** Politically and environmentally, we are facing another challenging year in 2024. May our concern for each other grow. *** My mom would dance with me to this song when it came on the radio. In 1964, I was one year old. I don't remember, but she told me I would put my arms up like I wanted to be picked up when it came on. We listened to it tonight together. Happy new year. 1964We hit the jackpot. My mom loved Christmas. Our house was a bonanza of homemade decorations. Angels made from foil wrapped Galliano bottles. Remember when people drank it with orange juice? I knew how to make a Harvey Wallbanger by age eight. Blech! Gail made candles in milk cartons. They looked like a block of Swiss cheese spray painted gold in a cold garage. At some point, holiday tunes from Liberace or Ferrante & Teicher would be spinning on the stereo. The presents under the tree had heavy ‘70s holiday vibes — wrapped in coordinating colours and patterns. My mom dropped serious cash at the Hallmark store. She went the distance for all of us. I asked her recently how she and my dad worked it out between them about what to get us. She said, “I shopped, and he didn’t put limits on it.” My dad was a good union guy. Chuck made my Chrissy doll dreams come true. In my family, the real party began after the midnight endurance fest. An hours-long showboat event with men in flash robes swinging a thurible of incense, smoking like a bong. We paid good money all year for this pageant. Eight-year-old me sucking back a lungful of frankincense. The wretched cloud you had to pass through to get food and presents — the catholic way. I’ve got a photo of us kids, including my cousins and an uncle, doing crazy things. It’s a brilliant snapshot with a Christmas tree in the background. It oozes fun. That’s why I keep it for myself. Private. *** I’m in Alberta with my mom for the holidays. We’re doing road trips to visit historic grain elevators. *** The Sly & The Family Stone song was on the charts in December 1971, the Christmas when I was eight, almost nine. There are infinite iterations of what family means. I hope you’re with your best people. And if you’re alone, I’ve been there too. Be good to yourself. You are worth it. 19711969There’s nothing like being with people who’ve made something of their own from scratch. Looking at the world through the eyes of a cheese, bread, wine, cabinet maker, potter, or painter. Understanding their unique expression of care and attention. Sometimes there’s generational history — a maturing of craft over time. The passion is personal and what they make is nourishing and soulful. I’m grateful to have had that experience more than once including on a private group tour of Bernachon in Lyon. I’d pressed gently for its inclusion in a program. We were greeted in the shop by Mme Bocuse-Bernachon who was a vision of French elegance. For me her welcome was a surprise and an honour. Then we went into the production space behind the shop and with no sense of hurry they showed us their métier. There was a fearless transparency. They were confident that beyond the process was the finger print of the maker. The myriad decisions that gave the chocolate its enduring character. It felt like an atelier. A place of mastery and grand tradition. Seductions were everywhere — the scent of cocoa beans roasting, the natural light from the back windows facing on to a quiet street, the women in pastel work dresses with kerchiefs over their hair, jars of fruit steeping in liqueur, stainless-steel two-pronged forks deftly dipping into basins of tempered chocolate, the velvet coating dripping off batons of orange peel. Being in their care was sublime. It was haute hospitality. My mind trips into the pleasures of that afternoon when I think of their Mendiant — the Cleopatra of fruit and nut bars. An embossed ribbon from a box of their chocolates is secreted in a cookbook on my shelf. *** Hands up if you are feeling vulnerable. I thought getting through the pandemic was hard. Then along came Fall 2023. I’m tired in new ways. I have a few weeks in big sky country on the western edge of the prairies — buttery sunshine and apricot jam sunsets. There will be parental love and care. And a reprieve from the early morning alarm. *** The extraordinary performance by Jacques Brel found me after midnight on Friday. I’d been searching for the music for most of the week. The writing had stalled. The song revived me — woke my heart up. It sent me down a Jacques Brel rabbit hole for a lovely few hours. Maysa Matarazzo’s version is another beautiful expression. Finding all the covers of this song is another rabbit hole. The story behind the song is heartbreaking. We all know this kind of loss. 19721966Dear Toronto Public Library: I'm that woman who puts all kinds of books on hold and forgets to pick some of them up. Sorry. Also, I like paying your fines. Charge me double. And as hard as I try, I sometimes can't read a brand-new book in three weeks. Apologies to whoever had to wait for Ann Patchett's Tom Lake. I know what you're thinking, 'that was not a big book.' September was busy in my world. Again, this is an opportunity to extract more cash from me. I'm down for it. I heard your system's been hacked. And it won’t be back up and running until sometime in the early new year. I'm sending you all the good vibes. When you recover, I'll be in the great race to greet you. This week, my mom's computer and phone were hacked for the second time. Last year was scary. We learned some hard lessons together and at a distance. Thankfully, this time it was minor. I get mad when people and institutions I love are attacked by brutal cyber criminals. I hope soon we'll get serious about dealing with the sinister individuals behind it. Doing hard time should be the cost for targeting seniors, the vulnerable, and institutions that serve the public good. One thing I can't get down with is an attack on knowledge. We are up to our necks in that these days. Stupid is not cool. My mom lives outside of Calgary, and every week, a volunteer from the library brings a stack of new books to her senior's residence. They call her on Thursday and come around on Friday. It makes my heart light up. We talk about what she's reading often — what a pleasure. She's only discovered reading in the last couple of years and is in hot pursuit of lost time. We did a daytrip to Calgary in 2018 with a few of her friends to see the new library. Is there a more gorgeous building in all of Canada right now? The spirit of the city is in it. Snøhetta was an imaginative and bold choice for architects. If there was a Michelin Guide for libraries, it would be three stars. It's a destination. I hope to return for a visit at the end of this month. If I sound jealous, remember I live near the Toronto Reference Library. An exquisite public space. A cathedral of democracy. Working in it is a dream. Raymond Moriyama was the local architect. He passed this year and left a beautiful legacy in this city, country, and far beyond. Watching this TVO documentary of his life is an hour well spent. "I must instill the idea of using architecture to express a potential hope for all of us," Moriyama said. Some would like to see libraries torn down. At heart, that's what a hack is. The same goes for municipal budget cuts. Politicians and their sycophants throw up barriers to prevent the spread of knowledge. Hire hackers. Stupid is cool to a few. *** There's great need everywhere (including at home) during this holiday season. But if you can give a local library is an excellent choice. More dollars can go some way to increase online security. Our collective intelligence, a repository for culture, needs protecting. *** December is the month when I light candles on my desk at dusk. I keep the blinds up after dark to watch the car lights snake along Bloor St. during rush hour. I've visited Lyon, France, several times and have a dream that one day, I will be there for the Fêtes des lumières in December. Also, to taste Reynon’s magnificent pâté en croûte, l’Oreiller de la belle Aurore. When we turn toward the sun again on December 21st, it's a day for celebration. *** The honey voice of Roy Orbison. I've been dancing in my kitchen to this song. Music, like reading, is a refuge. It engages my imagination. Makes me feel things. Mostly alive. 1963I knew what I was giving up with alcohol. I had a fabulous education in wine. And I liked getting drunk. Growing up in Niagara, I knew grapes as the delicious fruit bought at the Saturday morning market in Welland or Hamilton. Then, it was mostly Italians growing them for wine. Good earth and lush green vines under a cornmeal-yellow sun. I was taught wine tasting by Billy Munnelly at the Stratford Chefs School. It's hard to express how much I learned. Fuck. Like a fantastic Irish conversationalist, he talked to us about the grape and gave us a thirst to imagine the relationship with food. It left an imprint on me. Giving up drink was an acute loss. It felt like a funeral. Initially, I thought I might have to say goodbye to cooking and restaurants. I cried so hard with my addiction counsellor about that. Who was I without those things? From a very early stage in recovery, I did things that would get me serious side eye in some circles. I took the suggestion to make the experience my own seriously. I had to learn how to do restaurants all over again. People in Stratford taught me that glassware was important. I could drink sparkling water out of crystal wine glasses. What a gift. I needed the lesson to feel comfortable eating out. Then, I had some exceptional experiences in Europe. I went to places where care was taken with non-drinkers. At Aubergine on Royal Hospital Road in London, I met the standard bearer of grace, Jean-Philippe. He gave me a sense of belonging and to this day remains the high-water mark. (At the time, Gordon was in the kitchen and ranting in the media about not hiring women.) I can't remember when I decided I could smell wine. Again, I think it was sitting in the aroma cloud hanging over a restaurant table. Watching the amorphous shapes of red wine through glass dance on a white tablecloth — in the afterglow of dinner. A deep seduction. Now I ask for THE glass with a puddle of wine in it. On a rare occasion, I've needed a spittoon. A lot of the industry in North America couldn't figure out what to make of me in the '90s. I was an impossible problem to some. You can't imagine the mountain of scuffed Libby water glasses I've had to drink from in beautiful restaurants. Do not put one down in front of me now. In 2000, I was offered a champagne flute of fresh squeezed blood orange juice and sparkling water instead of Prosecco at a River Cafe send-off. Soon after, in restaurants, I began asking for something nice before dinner that wasn't a Shirley Temple or cranberry and soda and still getting blank stares from waiters. Sell me something, please. Isn't that why I'm here? The problem was never my not drinking alcohol. It was a commercial defect of character in restaurateurs and chefs. An absence of business imagination that was costly mostly because of how long it went on. The choice of beverages now thrills me. My favourites include local kombucha. There are curated alcohol-free tastings and superb non-alcoholic beer and wines. What a relief the whole thing has caught on. It's such a pleasure knowing other sober restaurant people. I felt lonely for the longest time. I make a boozy fruitcake at Christmas. Some summers, I make Rumtopf. I enjoy both without apology. I would run a mile with knee replacements for Baba au Rhum from Edulis or Abel in Lyon. You get the idea. So many things I couldn't admit for a long time. Does that annul my membership of almost three decades? Does how I live mean I need to return all my chips? This is what I'm trying to discern. I want to be myself. But do I still qualify? *** Today: Jay sent me this wonderful video of Stephen Fry reading a letter written by Nick Cave. "Even though the creative act requires considerable effort, you will be contributing to the vast network of love that supports human existence." Alyssa sent me a video text of Halo-Halo from a new Phillipino restaurant in the East End. My people get me. *** This song is poetry. Image credit: composite image, Blackbird Turdus merula isolated on a white background, © Shutterstock. 1968 |
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