After 28 years of growing up eating these, I finally got the recipe!
Ok, it's simple. But it's my Grandma's specialty - Christmas is NOT the same without these.
I had but one this past Christmas before my dog ate the rest.
Anyways, enough talk about Christmas. Sheesh.
Here's a little piece of heaven for the palate:
1/2 can Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk
1/2 cup butter
3 - 5cent size McIntosh Toffee bars or 1 & 1/2 10 cent size (dating this recipe a little, lol) Just use 3 regular sized bars.
1 bag large marshmallows
Bowl of Rice Krispies
Melt the first 3 ingredients in a double boiler (The first 3 ingredients ALONE elate me). Stir until thick. Using a fork, dip a large marshmallow into the mixture, then roll in Rice Krispies.
Will keep indefinitely in fridge or freezer.
Do it for the children.
October 27, 2007
October 24, 2007
No Reservations
I do not aspire to be Rachael Ray. That woman is f*#&ing annoying.
Anthony Bourdain bleeds passion - for life, for smoking, for food, for travel, for booze, for cynicism.
This guy is more my style.
Anthony Bourdain bleeds passion - for life, for smoking, for food, for travel, for booze, for cynicism.
This guy is more my style.
October 23, 2007
Asian-style Soup
This is the slow-cooker meal idea that I sent to my sister.
I'll warn you ahead of time, that my recipes aren't "recipes". Let's call them "developed ideas".
If you know how to cook, you'll understand. Don't like rice? Add noodles. Any kind you like. Don't like snow peas? Put some broccoli in there. Vegetarian? Add some TVP (Textured Vegetable Protein) or tofu. Use vegetable stock.
Make it yours.
Here goes!
Buy some frozen meatballs (see if they have plain ones. Italian ones will have oregano and basil and thyme in it and won‘t be as good).
If you have the time, make your own. Mix in some ginger, Chinese five-spice powder. Use your imagination.
Or dice up some chicken breast. Or dice up some sirloin. All would work for this recipe.
Before you go to bed, put the meat (whichever you want) in the crockpot.
Add some garlic, onion, ginger, pepper, soy sauce (maybe a 1/3 c), chicken stock (almost to the top) and hot chili sauce (if you want) over meat. Stir. Cover and store in the fridge overnight.
In the morning, set on low heat. When you arrive home – add snow peas, green onions and egg noodles or rice noodles. Set timer for 20 minutes. Serve with buns.
Try it tonight!
I'll warn you ahead of time, that my recipes aren't "recipes". Let's call them "developed ideas".
If you know how to cook, you'll understand. Don't like rice? Add noodles. Any kind you like. Don't like snow peas? Put some broccoli in there. Vegetarian? Add some TVP (Textured Vegetable Protein) or tofu. Use vegetable stock.
Make it yours.
Here goes!
Buy some frozen meatballs (see if they have plain ones. Italian ones will have oregano and basil and thyme in it and won‘t be as good).
If you have the time, make your own. Mix in some ginger, Chinese five-spice powder. Use your imagination.
Or dice up some chicken breast. Or dice up some sirloin. All would work for this recipe.
Before you go to bed, put the meat (whichever you want) in the crockpot.
Add some garlic, onion, ginger, pepper, soy sauce (maybe a 1/3 c), chicken stock (almost to the top) and hot chili sauce (if you want) over meat. Stir. Cover and store in the fridge overnight.
In the morning, set on low heat. When you arrive home – add snow peas, green onions and egg noodles or rice noodles. Set timer for 20 minutes. Serve with buns.
Try it tonight!
October 20, 2007
Consanguinean Connection
It's not about doing.
It's about sharing.
If you've read my earlier posts about what food means to me, you'll understand what I mean here.
I cook. That's what I "do".
Where the fulfillment comes in, where the passion lies, is in sharing what I do.
I was visiting family in Alberta about a month ago. My oldest sister was telling me how overwhelming it is for her being in University full-time, and coming home to a house full of hungry (mostly teen-age) tummies. She dreaded having to make dinner. She was sick of canned soup and hamburger helper. I told her that I would send her some ideas via email, once I got back home.
I have more pride for my sister than I have for anyone else. We live 3 provinces apart and there are times when we don't speak for months. Not out of any falling out. We just get busy with our own lives and know that the other will be there when we need her.
When we do talk, however, it's as if no time has passed. We talk of memories, we talk gossip, we talk about our frustrations, and about the good things that are happening. We laugh about our crazy family, and our even crazier lives.
We've dealt with issues that people shouldn't have to deal with. Teenage pregnancy, abuse, heartache, estrangement, sex, drugs and rock 'n roll.
My sister has never failed me. Ever.
There's no one on the planet that I can say that about.
She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, she's the reason you wish you were an only child. ~Barbara Alpert
What does this have to do with food?
I don't know how to repay my sister for what she's given me. These last couple of weeks, building meal plans and researching recipes, have been so fun and fulfilling. After trying one of the recipes (Asian-style Soup), she quickly emailed me to tell that it was the best thing she had ever come home to (except for her fiancee, of course).
She explained that, "I am finally looking forward to, instead of dreading, dinner".
I have made her life a little bit easier. From 3 provinces away. While having fun. Sharing.
Cool.
It's about sharing.
If you've read my earlier posts about what food means to me, you'll understand what I mean here.
I cook. That's what I "do".
Where the fulfillment comes in, where the passion lies, is in sharing what I do.
I was visiting family in Alberta about a month ago. My oldest sister was telling me how overwhelming it is for her being in University full-time, and coming home to a house full of hungry (mostly teen-age) tummies. She dreaded having to make dinner. She was sick of canned soup and hamburger helper. I told her that I would send her some ideas via email, once I got back home.
I have more pride for my sister than I have for anyone else. We live 3 provinces apart and there are times when we don't speak for months. Not out of any falling out. We just get busy with our own lives and know that the other will be there when we need her.
When we do talk, however, it's as if no time has passed. We talk of memories, we talk gossip, we talk about our frustrations, and about the good things that are happening. We laugh about our crazy family, and our even crazier lives.
We've dealt with issues that people shouldn't have to deal with. Teenage pregnancy, abuse, heartache, estrangement, sex, drugs and rock 'n roll.
My sister has never failed me. Ever.
There's no one on the planet that I can say that about.
She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, she's the reason you wish you were an only child. ~Barbara Alpert
What does this have to do with food?
I don't know how to repay my sister for what she's given me. These last couple of weeks, building meal plans and researching recipes, have been so fun and fulfilling. After trying one of the recipes (Asian-style Soup), she quickly emailed me to tell that it was the best thing she had ever come home to (except for her fiancee, of course).
She explained that, "I am finally looking forward to, instead of dreading, dinner".
I have made her life a little bit easier. From 3 provinces away. While having fun. Sharing.
Cool.
This is what food, and family, is all about.
I've been waiting to post a recipe; I wanted my first one to be a homerun. Well, here it is. And endorsed by my older sister. You can't ask for a better testimonial than that.
October 15, 2007
Deep Fried Heaven
We deep fried ice cream sandwiches at work today.
And a Mars bar.
And a Bounty bar.
We were done all of our prep for the day, had some extra batter, and went nuts - laughing all the way.
Whipped some cream with vanilla sugar, and topped our marvellous mound of gastronomic goodies.
The 3 of us ate out of one bowl, forks and spoons clinking together, all giggling at the ridiculousness of it all.
Love these days.
And a Mars bar.
And a Bounty bar.
We were done all of our prep for the day, had some extra batter, and went nuts - laughing all the way.
Whipped some cream with vanilla sugar, and topped our marvellous mound of gastronomic goodies.
The 3 of us ate out of one bowl, forks and spoons clinking together, all giggling at the ridiculousness of it all.
Love these days.
October 13, 2007
About Me
I’ll be blunt. I’m not a delicate person. OK. Maybe on the inside. Not when it comes to food. I devour it. I eat with my hands. I’ll drink the milk from the bottom of the cereal bowl. I’ll lick the plate clean. Sometimes in front of people. If I do, it means I love you.
I have a voracious appetite. At 16, I was eating more than my dad. I don’t count calories. I don’t skimp when it comes to cream, butter, or anything else bad for me. When you want to make a dish better, add booze or fat.
I am angered by picky eaters. Not annoyed, angered. It makes me want to scream.
I giggle when I’m eating a really good meal. I get butterflies. My adrenaline soars. Who needs skydiving?
I equated food with love at a very early age. At 4, I would dress up as a waiter - hair slicked back, tea towel draped over my arm, notepad in hand, and ask my mom (in my best English accent), “May I take your order ma’am?”
I was 5 when my mom woke up to me making French Toast in the kitchen. Alone. Then I went to kindergarten and wrote in my journal that the reason I love my mom and dad is because they let me make French Toast.
I traveled quite a bit as a youngster. I was always up for trying something new. Shepherd’s Pie in England. Haggis in Scotland. Homemade sausage and Clam Chowder in New England. Lobster in the Maritimes. Sushi in Toronto. Dim Sum in Vancouver.
Where I first became passionate about food was in Sault Ste. Marie, ON. Not the culinary apex of the world. But the population is 80-90% Italian. Those guys are serious about their food. I gained 40lbs in a matter of months.
The pizza there was something of a legend. I was working for an airline at the time and you could always guarantee that someone would bring a pizza onboard to share with the people meeting them at the arrivals gate. There is a Chinese restaurant there named, “The Hard Wok Café”. Owned by Italians. Just be warned, the sesame chicken comes topped with red sauce. This was a city where Garlic was king. Invited to a co-workers house for dinner one night, we had 40-clove garlic Chicken. One 4lb chicken. 40 cloves of slow, sweet roasted garlic. I thought I had to die to go to heaven. I was wrong.
Another move. This time to Windsor, ON. The self proclaimed armpit of Canada. I beg to differ.
I’ve traveled to many cities and Windsor should be proud to have such a diverse ethnic community with such a small population.
A lazy afternoon drive can take you to the many different vineyards in Essex County. In the summertime, you can’t drive more than 15min without seeing a roadside fruit and vegetable stand. The climate here is perfect for growing many items not available, fresh from the ground, in the rest of Canada. Tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, cucumbers, still warm from the earth’s heat.
On any night of the week, you can indulge in Indian, Ethiopian, Spanish, Greek, Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese, Irish, Croatian, French, and any other cultural delight you can think of. And no matter where you are, you can probably drive there in under 15 minutes.
So, I packed up my office and left the airline to devote my energy and passion to food. I am currently registered as an Apprentice and work at a restaurant that focuses on catering and take-out. We were just nominated as one of the “Best Gourmet Caterers” in the city. My Chef is one of the funniest, kindest, most generous men I know. Watching him cook makes me smile; inspires me. Plus, his idol is Gene Simmons. He dresses in full KISS costume on occasion. He’s one of the most talented and respected Chef’s in the area. It took me a year of badgering him for a job before he finally took a chance. It was worth it.
I have a voracious appetite. At 16, I was eating more than my dad. I don’t count calories. I don’t skimp when it comes to cream, butter, or anything else bad for me. When you want to make a dish better, add booze or fat.
I am angered by picky eaters. Not annoyed, angered. It makes me want to scream.
I giggle when I’m eating a really good meal. I get butterflies. My adrenaline soars. Who needs skydiving?
I equated food with love at a very early age. At 4, I would dress up as a waiter - hair slicked back, tea towel draped over my arm, notepad in hand, and ask my mom (in my best English accent), “May I take your order ma’am?”
I was 5 when my mom woke up to me making French Toast in the kitchen. Alone. Then I went to kindergarten and wrote in my journal that the reason I love my mom and dad is because they let me make French Toast.
I traveled quite a bit as a youngster. I was always up for trying something new. Shepherd’s Pie in England. Haggis in Scotland. Homemade sausage and Clam Chowder in New England. Lobster in the Maritimes. Sushi in Toronto. Dim Sum in Vancouver.
Where I first became passionate about food was in Sault Ste. Marie, ON. Not the culinary apex of the world. But the population is 80-90% Italian. Those guys are serious about their food. I gained 40lbs in a matter of months.
The pizza there was something of a legend. I was working for an airline at the time and you could always guarantee that someone would bring a pizza onboard to share with the people meeting them at the arrivals gate. There is a Chinese restaurant there named, “The Hard Wok Café”. Owned by Italians. Just be warned, the sesame chicken comes topped with red sauce. This was a city where Garlic was king. Invited to a co-workers house for dinner one night, we had 40-clove garlic Chicken. One 4lb chicken. 40 cloves of slow, sweet roasted garlic. I thought I had to die to go to heaven. I was wrong.
Another move. This time to Windsor, ON. The self proclaimed armpit of Canada. I beg to differ.
I’ve traveled to many cities and Windsor should be proud to have such a diverse ethnic community with such a small population.
A lazy afternoon drive can take you to the many different vineyards in Essex County. In the summertime, you can’t drive more than 15min without seeing a roadside fruit and vegetable stand. The climate here is perfect for growing many items not available, fresh from the ground, in the rest of Canada. Tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, cucumbers, still warm from the earth’s heat.
On any night of the week, you can indulge in Indian, Ethiopian, Spanish, Greek, Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese, Irish, Croatian, French, and any other cultural delight you can think of. And no matter where you are, you can probably drive there in under 15 minutes.
So, I packed up my office and left the airline to devote my energy and passion to food. I am currently registered as an Apprentice and work at a restaurant that focuses on catering and take-out. We were just nominated as one of the “Best Gourmet Caterers” in the city. My Chef is one of the funniest, kindest, most generous men I know. Watching him cook makes me smile; inspires me. Plus, his idol is Gene Simmons. He dresses in full KISS costume on occasion. He’s one of the most talented and respected Chef’s in the area. It took me a year of badgering him for a job before he finally took a chance. It was worth it.
October 10, 2007
October 8, 2007
Memories
My first memory of food is asking my mom whether the chicken we were eating that night was, "Moose, or Deer?".
My dad hunted moose every year. That was the staple that got us through the winter. Moose burger, sausage, pepperoni, roasts.
As kids, we helped clean the moose when it arrived (usually in the back of the pickup). We removed the silver skin. That was our job. I'd take the garbage out to the shed, and the bloody stumped legs would be hanging in there, right next to the antlers. I'd stare in awe.
We always had deer in the freezer as well. Bought by my dad, or traded for some of the moose. My dad never hunted deer. He shot one years ago and it screamed.
My second early food memory is of my friend Jenny, over to my house for dinner. Jenny, who, on the bus, would pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the outside of a Doritos bag.
Jenny choked on a piece of gristle. My mom started to get scared amidst the sounds of retching. Jenny calmly stuck her entire hand in her mouth, and pulled the piece of inedible meat from her throat.
There are 3 primary influences in my food life.
My dad, the hunter, the cowboy. The experimenter. The fish soup that no one could choke down. The hand cut pasta that no one could eat. The care and love of growing vegetables in the expansive garden. He taught me that the more color on your plate, the better the meal was for you. To this day, whenever I’m home, he’ll make me Mickey Mouse pancakes. He taught me to have fun in the kitchen. To be brave and not to care if anyone thinks it is good. He taught me to play, and be excited to take on new challenges.
My mom introduced me to different ethnic foods. To spice. Curries, lentils, stews, chilies. She introduced me to coffee. One liter lattes for a 12 year old girl right before bedtime. Sugary sweet, black tar Vietnamese coffee that dripped from the filter right before my eyes. She taught me what an exquisite experience dining can be. That the best times with friends can be had around a cup of coffee. That sometimes it's ok to eat with your hands, or to sit on the floor. That it's ok to eat pancakes for supper. To always try something new; be adventurous.
My grandma. 4 foot 11. Wears jeans, rode horses, and calls tampons, "plugs". To describe my grandma would be the same as describing how I feel about food. A warm cozy blanket wrapped around my heart. The grandchildren (over 30 of us now, plus great-grandchildren) come to Boxing day breakfast, salivating at the thought of grandma's creamed turkey on the butteriest toast you can imagine. She makes it from the leftover turkey carcass we pick clean the night before. Picked clean before we scrambled and fought amongst each other for the last caramel marshmallow ball. She taught me that food is love.
Food is comfort to look forward to. Food, love, and family.
Not necessarily in that order.
My dad hunted moose every year. That was the staple that got us through the winter. Moose burger, sausage, pepperoni, roasts.
As kids, we helped clean the moose when it arrived (usually in the back of the pickup). We removed the silver skin. That was our job. I'd take the garbage out to the shed, and the bloody stumped legs would be hanging in there, right next to the antlers. I'd stare in awe.
We always had deer in the freezer as well. Bought by my dad, or traded for some of the moose. My dad never hunted deer. He shot one years ago and it screamed.
My second early food memory is of my friend Jenny, over to my house for dinner. Jenny, who, on the bus, would pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the outside of a Doritos bag.
Jenny choked on a piece of gristle. My mom started to get scared amidst the sounds of retching. Jenny calmly stuck her entire hand in her mouth, and pulled the piece of inedible meat from her throat.
There are 3 primary influences in my food life.
My dad, the hunter, the cowboy. The experimenter. The fish soup that no one could choke down. The hand cut pasta that no one could eat. The care and love of growing vegetables in the expansive garden. He taught me that the more color on your plate, the better the meal was for you. To this day, whenever I’m home, he’ll make me Mickey Mouse pancakes. He taught me to have fun in the kitchen. To be brave and not to care if anyone thinks it is good. He taught me to play, and be excited to take on new challenges.
My mom introduced me to different ethnic foods. To spice. Curries, lentils, stews, chilies. She introduced me to coffee. One liter lattes for a 12 year old girl right before bedtime. Sugary sweet, black tar Vietnamese coffee that dripped from the filter right before my eyes. She taught me what an exquisite experience dining can be. That the best times with friends can be had around a cup of coffee. That sometimes it's ok to eat with your hands, or to sit on the floor. That it's ok to eat pancakes for supper. To always try something new; be adventurous.
My grandma. 4 foot 11. Wears jeans, rode horses, and calls tampons, "plugs". To describe my grandma would be the same as describing how I feel about food. A warm cozy blanket wrapped around my heart. The grandchildren (over 30 of us now, plus great-grandchildren) come to Boxing day breakfast, salivating at the thought of grandma's creamed turkey on the butteriest toast you can imagine. She makes it from the leftover turkey carcass we pick clean the night before. Picked clean before we scrambled and fought amongst each other for the last caramel marshmallow ball. She taught me that food is love.
Food is comfort to look forward to. Food, love, and family.
Not necessarily in that order.
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