jeudi 10 novembre 2011

Xuxo Ciccio: L'Espagne


Que Bon Dia!

You casually stroll along the streets of Barcelona when you pass a bakery. You pause, double take, and then stare at the window, no longer casual. There, upon a pedestal, separated by only a thin pane of glass, is the pleasure grail. It has brown rough matte skin which only that penetrated by pure sin at high temperatures can obtain, but puffy and with a seemingly flaky texture. Yes, it is a croissant... but also a doughnut? From one side it seems to be stuffed with custard!

Welcome sinners, to the Xuxo (pronounced shoosho), my now favourite all-time dessert: proper croissant dough wrapped around a sparingly sweetened crema catalana, deep fried and sprinkled with coarse sugar. It’s possibly one of the most sophisticatedly rich desserts ever. These climax-causing pastries are so light you could eat them all the way to the operating table. When I asked the baker what they were, I heard the name (quite appropriately) as the Italian word 'Ciccio', an endearing word that means 'little fatty'. Actually, it has nothing to do with that term. Xuxo is used to mimic the sound a fat person’s jowls enhance when they try to speak.

Pastries aside, the Catalan culture is one filled with excellence and pride. A pass to the 7 major museums in Barcelona costs 25 euros and you get to skip all the lines. It’s a brilliant idea because it promotes the Catalan masters and gives you a true understanding of their culture and circumstance. If you don’t leave here with a better knowledge of the civil war, you probably picked up the Catalan audioguide by accident.

It is such a fulfilling experience. All they need is Xuxo stands inside the expositions and their population would triple, unhindered by the rise in coronary bypasses.

Catalan croissant creativity is nothing to sneer at. Perhaps the French might take issue with the sullied purity of their repertoire, but by Satan these mutilated croissants sure are heavenly! Croissant de sopressata is a note-worthy example. Again here as in Tuscany, sopressata refers to head cheese, which is not true elsewhere in Europe. Catalan Sopressata is prepared more as a paprika-heavy pâté than anything else, but it sure makes for an interesting way of enjoying the ‘cut’.

This pastry version is divine. It’s a beautifully made croissant, light, fluffy, crisp, and flavourful: buttery just like the French variety. Only this croissant is stuffed with the staining goodness of a healthy portion of sopresatta. Its fat seeps into the lower area of the croissant and crisps the base a beautiful crimson. The rest of the inside seems to be lightly steamed by the pâté. The whole thing is a mess of meat and yummy. Esta molto bo.

Language. Catalan is a stewed language. It comes from Latin. Alors, like all the rest of Europe the base is the usual mirepoix, but at times, it seems as though many ingredients were thrown in the pot. The crock pot for this forbidden language is Spain, and so the accent sounds kind of like Castilian, but there is so much more to it. One simple sentence: ‘it’s really beautiful’, to my eye seems to contain three nearby culture’s languages. Esta (Spanish), molto (Italian), bo (French), but it’s had enough time in the pot that the flavours have melded beautifully. The only ingredient missing is English which, lets face it, has no place in a European stew.

I’m staying with Joesp in Barcelona. His generosity and warmth are supposedly typical of the Catalan people (so he says). It’s really special. Together, we took a trip to the north to visit Basque Country which contains the other oppressed people of Spain. There is certainly an unspoken love affair amongst the two. I got to see both coasts of Spain in the same week. I was also privileged enough to visit his family’s land near Taragona and drive across the length of Spain. We sat at century-old cafés and visited the Guggenheim. How did I become so lucky? I ate a FRESH olive. We pigged out on pintxos and Spanish cider. We wandered ancient streets and modern water worlds. I ate BABY eels.

People seem to speak French (the vacation language), Castilian and Euskara up there in Bilbao/San Sebastian. Euskara though (the Basque language) is far from being at all comprehensible. I suppose it lacks the usual mirepoix. Now, those people are damned privileged. Everything there is excellent: scenery, food, and culture. Living there is almost unimaginable. Unfortunately, it was too quick a trip to go into great detail but Basque country is quite simply excellent.

Barcelona too is absolutely incredible: ancient neighbourhoods seamlessly connected by an efficient grid and a frequent metro, packed with public squares and modernist architecture. A mélange of cultures immigrating from around the world creates a cornucopia of cuisines. I had the best dil bahar of my life here. I wasn’t expecting that. It was the freshest yet and its centre was filled with proper whipped cream. It makes me wonder about the freshness of the dil bahar back home.

There is a secret as to how late people eat supper in Spain: the 4 o’clock xurro (churro). Xurrerias are open in the afternoon, and it’s quite normal to stop in here as a ‘treat’ mid-day. When you order xurros amb xocolata, you might expect a doughnut and hot chocolate, but what you receive is many doughnuts: fresh and crisp, long, thin, and juicy, these basically unsweetened pastries dip beautifully into your mid-day creamy-sweet bevvie. This way you’re less hungry after work and can afford to get some things done in the evening and thus eat dinner at a ‘reasonable’ hour. I don’t know if you’ve yet realized, but that makes four meals a day. I'm not arguing and I don't mean to implicate anyone here. It is only natural. It's just not really supper if it's number four is it?

To start a supper in Barcelona without bread and tomato is like Christmas without Yorkshire puddings. It just leaves you feeling unfulfilled. Pa amb tomàquet, is essentially a tomato’s juices and a garlic clove’s oils rubbed into the pores of sliced bread. It is then dipped or covered in good olive oil and it is every meal’s appetizer. If you’re lucky, you get around to eating this course around 9 o’clock… but dinner guests are usually late.

Fideuà is hopefully on the menu of your Catalan dindo. Maria Dolores, Josep’s mum, made this dish for me and her family while I was visiting and it’s really terrific: a mixture of small fish and pasta cooked in fish broth, fried, and topped with strong aioli. This dish generally replaces paella in these parts. Truly scrumptious. Seafood always tastes better when you can hear the ocean.

In short, Spain = incredible. The food is unique, time honoured, and filled with desire. There are many peoples with different histories linked in struggle and creation. Its scenery is ever-changing and stunning. The people are charming and beautiful. I don't know if the next language I want to learn is Castilian or Catalan. One way or another, I'll be back.

Adéu. Vagi bé.

jeudi 3 novembre 2011

Palermo Peccati

Mountains and sea, Mountains and sea, Cobblestone and crags, Sicilians and me. Al' anima trovato.
- Giacomo Barrington

"Un taglio e un barba costano quanto?" I ask the elderly Sicilian barber in my broken Italian. He looks at me confused, as though no-one has ever asked before. "Tredici?" he half answers, half questions. I wasn't about to argue with him on price; it would cost at least three times as much at home.
I sit down to the best shave of my life and a quick "back and sides". Sitting next to me is a man with damaged vocal chords; either that or he's looking to perfect his voice for the next Palermian community theatre Puzo-palooza. I knew I wanted to get a shave in Sicily, but I didn't realize it would be so easy to find this kind of place. Whether or not any of these guys have ever been involved in anything criminal, they all act like made men.

Sicilian men greet in an extremely tender (and yet manly) way. They don't touch each others hands or body, but walk over to the acquaintance and lean, presenting a cheek. The man opposite leans over and a touch of one cheek to another occurs (kissing noise optional). Then of course, they begin to argue.

The Hotel Firenze is a hotel in Palermo with a colourful group of people you will assuredly make friends with. There are two terraces, a kitchen, one dollar beers, and it costs about 20 bucks canadian a night. It is located in the very centre of Palermo. Walking around Palermo you find a lot of neat squares and markets. My new friend Diane lovingly calls them "Bourdain-worthy". Too right she is. Fluorescent-lit markets serve freshly grilled fish next to picnic tables in front of the neighbourhood depanneur. The only condiment is a bowl of limes. It's the least you'll pay for food in Italy and it's probably the best dining experience too. The ambiance immediately puts you at ease.

Carts peddle pizza alla Siciliana. It has a thick and doughy but surprisingly light crumb. Mammoth portions of the pizza are baked in the morning and then piled up onto carts and spread out around the city. The slices are coated in a salty tomato pesto. When you order a slice, the man opens his cart to where a griddle is hidden, drizzles some olive oil and then fries both sides of the pizza. Yeah - it's pretty cool.

Sicilian cuisine is no bullshit cookery: to the point, delicious, eat it or don't. Nobody seems to bother with lots of ingredients or new takes on old classics. The way it is done is just fine. Why move the airport? It's been behind those mountains next to the sea-shore a long time. who cares if it makes pilots nervous? It's character building. The Don doesn't have a problem with it. Do you have a problem with the Don?

Case Pan Cà Meusa are everywhere- a Palermian classic. These "restaurants" serve one thing. You walk in and you ask for "uno, per piacere" What they're serving, translated into Italian (from Sicilian) is panini con la milza. A man standing in front of four ingredients combines them on the spot. He tongs thinly sliced calf's spleen out of the lard bath it simmers in onto a fresh sesame seed bun, adds a knife's-end of unrefined sea salt, and hands it to you next to a bowl of lime slices.

The milza panino is really excellent. I'm not just saying that because it's such an exciting way of using the whole beast, but because it is REALLY good. It becomes so tender from being a confit and loses whatever- well- undesirable flavours it may have previously contained. When garnished so simply and freshly, almost like fish, it transforms the thing into a snack suitable for all occasions. I'm craving it now as I write. I know! I'm craving spleen! weird.

Sicilian cuisine isn't dominated by the savoury though, as this is where the canolo was born. If you go to Sicily I only have one recommendation, save yourself for one particular canolo. Don't just buy one right away. Casa del Brodo is a very reasonably priced trattoria that serves an amazing canolo. It's mammoth, as is the tradition. It isn't "chalk"-full (mind the pun) of icing sugar though. It's light, whipped ricotta with the consistency of just-underwhipped cream stuffed into a freshly fried cookie and coated with shaved dark chocolate. It's a timeless restaurant so don't worry, you've got one lifetime to visit.

Casa del Brodo is so named after Tortelini con brodo - the Sicilian wonton soup. It really is exactly the same as wonton soup except for the shape of the dumplings and the addition of mirpoix to the broth. It's a really nice dish after a long day of walking.

I found something I fell in love with that apparently is not a common dish - or at least an internet search proves useless. For my generation, if it isn't on Google, it's make believe of the most obscure variety. It's called crochina di fragole: an extra crisp, sort of thin rice-crispy crust, filled with sweet whipped ricotta and sprinkled with wild strawberries - so perfect. The same incredible bakery has a pastry that is sort of like a jelly roll. Instead of jelly though, it's rolled with Nutella. It's coated with dark chocolate, capped with cream, and dipped in pistachios. Who are these people? Did I make them up?

This is my last morning in Italy. It may also be the final moment in my selective assimilation of its culture. When I woke, I dressed and walked to the nearest caffè. With one heel on the pole at the foot of the bar and opposite fist on hip, I ordered my usual morning fare. I proceeded to laugh at whatever the other old Sicilians had chosen to laugh at this morning. I ordered an arancino for the road and went on my way.

Arancini are a bit like suppli. They are deep fried rice balls but also so much more. Instead of mozzarella (and sometimes along with mozzarella) the ball is stuffed with a beef and vegetable ragu. The tomato is thus in the filling and not the rice which helps to give a sense of contrast between the layers, and it's breaded and fried in the shape of an orange, thus the name arancino. The new shape and size definitely makes it a more substantial snack, less of a one bite fritter - more a fourth meal of the day.

In the bus on the way to the airport I had much to reflect on. My time in Italy now seems like a dream, one that I awoke from with a new outlook and perhaps some new skills. As the ocean twilight reflects on the distant sky, the sea-worn Palermian houses crawl up the mountain like fireflies against the morning darkness. I have learned to enjoy watching people wake. It's like you're watching the true progression of time in the most human of terms.

mercredi 19 octobre 2011

Get thee behind me Roma!

Firenze

With the museums I wanted to see today closed, I decided to have a food day. Walking through Firenze is ever pleasant, but passing piazza Ambrosio to find a traditional outdoor market is perfect, yes perfect.

My favourite snack in Italy is a handful of grape tomatoes with a ball of fresh buffalo mozzarella. It's as though someone stole a piece of cloud from the heavens and added salt. Walking about with these two miracles of modern man in your hands is like holding yin and yang. With the syrupy insides of each alternating from bite to bite, it's indecent to please yourself so much in public.

I came upon a salumeria in the market with not only the highest quality of boucheries I've seen yet, but also everything is unrefrigerated and cut by hand. It makes the process slow, methodical, and more worthwhile, with each meaty slice unique.

The Porchetta, oh the porchetta. The skin perfectly crisp with the flavour of christmas potatoes; the loin, tender with the juices of pesto and rosemary, tied with string and left on a board never to be refrigerated and thus dry up or lose its texture.

Sopressata, sweet sopressata: with every humble flavour and texture the boiled down head of a pig can offer. These guys, somehow manage to stuff fresh herbs in between the layers of yummy perfection.

I think it's worthy to note here that everything you know about Italian cured meats is wrong. At least, depending on which region you're in one word can mean many things, and it certainly doesn't mean the same thing from region to region. Never use a meat's name as you know it. You will be laughed at. Sopressata is different in Tuscany than it is anywhere else, and I'm pretty sure that it's what Roman's call coppa "alla romana" but I'm sure that Italy would disagree.

Pranzo was at a local Trattoria that was once known for local Toscana cuisine. I had roast potatoes, (roasted in fat), and porchina (thinly sliced pork chops), again the most tender I have ever had. These guys know pork! Tuscany, land of the happy hog, wondrous Wilbur.


Earlier this week I spent much of my time with my friend Renato who was eager to come along with me to Firenze. He has a friend that does all sorts of really neat sculptures here and he enjoys staying at his workshop. We spent the better part of his stay biking around together, to lookout points, on the river, and so forth, exchanging in Italian and English.

The thing about Firenze is that it's lost in time in the most spectacularly functional way. Here, men in tweed suits ride old singlespeeds, the only excuse for dieting is poverty, shoes are always taken to a cobbler, and with a couple beers, the church steps are the ultimate Sunday hangout spot.

I miei giorni sono passato in giro sul ciottolo, guardando gli fabbricati chi paiono come opere d'arte, qualche volte mi siedo sul lungo dal fiuve.

My mornings are spent in a spacious sunny garden, with espresso and a book. Cats scurry around playing in what seems like a paradise. I'm being housed by the loveliest of people, Serenella and her three beautiful daughters. Every evening they sit down for multicourse meals together, sharing stories, talking about what they're learning at school and enjoying their mother's cooking. They invite me to join them on the daily, and how could I resist, considering that Serenella's "quick" home cooking is the best I've had yet in all of Italy: a true Toscana mama, with a taste for simple delicious traditional foods. I had my first Pappa al pomodoro here, my first biscotti alla toscana, my first saltinbocca alla romana, my first true pesto alla genovese, and my first truly peaceful week since I arrived in Italy.

samedi 15 octobre 2011

7 AM Venezia


Listen. Can you hear how beautiful it is? Let me describe it for you then.

Your feet patter against the cobblestone, and with every few steps the acoustics of the echo broaden or narrow, over each bridge, behind every narrow turn. The sounds of cars, airplanes, and scooters are only a memory. The bristles of a sweep shuffle near a caffè preparing for the day. Down a corridor where only water can pass, you hear faint whispers in Italian: Venetians waking, rising, and of course, bickering. An old man walks a cart of vegetables past youngsters unlatching gondolas, allowing for the lightest ripple of a tamed ocean.

E come sei trasportato a una età antica, semplice, diversa, e bellisima.

Then ten o'clock rolls around, and all you hear is tourists, but it still looks beautiful.

Chaque fois que je rencontre des Français en Europe, ils sont géniales. Des Français en Italie enfin, sont les meilleurs.

Ce matin, j’étaie en train de regarder d'une fenêtre grille, un sculpture de David avec la tête coupée de Ronald Mcdonald (génial, non?) quand j'ai rencontré Michel. Avec ces deux cameras extrêmement fortes, lui aussi prenait en avantage le matin vénitien.

Après un couple d'heures on a retrouver son amie, aussi de Provence, Carole. Donc, on est rendu un trio fabuleux et c'était claire que la journée avait un grand potentiel palpable. On a passé la journée en plein style, marchant dans les ruelles, mangeant de tiramisu, et marinant dans la beauté de Venise.







mercredi 5 octobre 2011

Appertura e Pizza Tonda

t seems that in most things, greatness comes in surges or spurts. One shouldn't seek to create always in times of negativity. Negativity is easy and can become a habit.

As today was probably the best day I have spent in Roma, it is also probably the day I should write about. Wednesdays always seem to be my best day in Roma, largely because it is the day of the week that the cyclopicnic falls upon. The cyclopicnic is a devout but small group of picnickers that believe in the bike revolution and good eats, but today's wonderfulness had many parts.

This morning I went to Andremo's pizzeria, in Travestere, and spent a few hours talking to Andremo about pizza and Italian food while he shaped countless pizzas to order and in taglio. Witnessing his work gave me confirmation that working with dough is a tender sort of therapy, that creating and shaping the most supple of culinary goods is next to godliness; dough is after all a living thing.

Probably the most exciting part of Andremo's method is his oven. He carefully calculates the temperature of his oven for each type of pizza. Hovering around a whopping 300 degrees celcius, his pizza proves that an electric oven can create blistered, extra crispy, ultra-risen, pizza with less energy and waste than a wood oven. Obviously wood oven pizza is very different, but the use of electricity is a noble pursuit, looked down on by some, and acknowledged by others for what it is: the future.

I have never seen a more pleasant afternoon in a restaurant: one man cooking to his heart's content and another schmoozing with the customers. It was a social centre of Zza.


I walked along the river after with my friend Francesco a bit, talking about Dante and movies and Italian culture, eventually he hooked me up with an internet connection and some movies to watch: one of the most generous souls I've met thus far.

I took a moment to read some of my book, "Mi chiamano la signora delle erbe. Non perché io abbia conoscenze di botanica, o erboristeria, o magia naturale, ma semplicemente perché ho imparato a vivere con le erbe e delle erbe, ad amarle e rispertarle, a chiamarle per nome, ad aiutarle quando posso, a cibarmene, a curarmi con loro."

I got lost along the river with my bike, a pleasant sort of lost as I was early for my picnic. I was basically on the lachine canal but in Rome (so it was deserted as their were no bikes). I eventually made it to Villa Borghese to sit with like-minded individuals to enjoy food and wine in the grass.

It seems that other than these select few, nobody bikes in this city. Long gone are the days that the bicycle was the main transportation necessity of a man. Now everyone rides motorbikes and scooters. I honestly think this is Europe's biggest problem. Many blame the rising numbers in obesity on the onslaught of American fast food corporations, and they may be right to do so (fast food is Satan), but if you look deep down into the culture of Italy, you might find the bigger piece of the puzzle. Italian culture has never been one to worry about fat or carbs. Let me stop you before you scream, "Sugar!" at me.
-nor sugar-
Buying juice at a supermarket is something I flat out refuse to do. The common juices, or at least any juice I've seen in the last month are mostly sugar. The ingredients usually list water and sugar within the first three, so the idea that the sugar in soda pop is a new ingredient for Italians is silly. Sweets are part of their culture. Cornetti, the popular breakfast food are just croissants coated in sugar syrup and stuffed with sweet custard. You don't taste the butter (if there is any), only the sweet. Thus perhaps it isn't the way Italians eat that is changing their country's physique from fab to flab, but the way they go from A to B.

In any case when you do see a bike it's either straight out of ladri di bicicletti (vechio o vintage) or a mountain bike. Who can blame them?

Shocks are important on cobblestone.

It is a frequent occurrence that a roman street is repaved to just about two feet away from the extremities of the length of the road. Whenever I'm biking along one of these streets I envision the man in charge of repaving the road. His workers ask him, "Why don't we repave this road all the way to the curb?" He taps his cigar and ash falls to the cobblestone. He answers, "Per che non mi piace le bicci."

vendredi 23 septembre 2011

The Old Country


Paris was a week of wandering the streets with baguete in hand and a bottle of wine capped in my bag sometimes with a destination othertimes seeing where sandy city paths would take me. Cheese grows on trees in France and timeless pieces of art are a dime a dozen in Paris. Parks are groomed like poodles and the metro is basically free if you can hop a turnstyle.

Avec les Parisiens, j'ai dû changer mon accent. Chaque fois que je disais un mot, les Parisiens auraient dû la repeter avec leur accent pour mieux comprendre. Avec temps, j'ai réussis à diminuer le "hein" et à augmenter le "onh".

I stayed with the loveliest of people in Paris and we did some beautiful cooking a couple of nights. They made me Soufflé! - the simplest and most delicious of my life.

Les Européans sont obssedés avec la simplicité. La petit déjeuner en France et toujours compris d'un café et un baguette avec tartinade, riens de plus. Après l'avoir essayer, enfin, on peut voir que c'est la meilleure façon du monde à commencer une journée.

Ryanair was brill. I don't know what people have against it. It was a short flight but all the same I fell asleep and when I woke up we were arriving -early at that! Best value ever!

Italy was scary at first, sitting outside hotels and caffès to better steal an internet connection, hopelessly searching for rooms that don't require a year long inhabitance. Calling up numbers with the fuzzy signal of my burner trying to convince people in broken Italian that I wasn't a bad guy. I eventually learned a few key phrases that would help me hustle my way into an abode:

"Posso pagare i prima 3 mesi adesso. Sono Canadese con un lavoro in Canada sul' internet." Finalmente, sono arrivato qui: una camera piccola con bagno a 300 euro. Passo degli giorni sul balcone, studiano l'italiano e cercano un lavoro sul' internet


Young Italians have a stigma in the rest of the world for living with their parents, often into their thirties. Children sleep in the same bed as their parents and families are tightly knit. This matter is a question of necessity and has little to do with maturity. It is so difficult to find a job, let alone a job that can support an adult life, that parents are forced to keep their children close to keep them under a roof.

L'italia ha paura degli stranieri e con il crisi economica chi sta crescendo, che posso fare come un straniero? Tutti gli annunci di cucina dicono sempre, "deve essere italiano."

I have witnessed three police chases since I arrived. All of them fraudulent merchants fleeing busy piazzas with trinkets, watches and sunglasses. Generally, they get away. Perhaps if the systems of power put more money into creating real jobs and spent less time chasing those that are forced to create their own work, the economy wouldn't be going down the tubes.
La mozerella di buffalo fatto di giorno è la cosa il piu delizioso che mangievo nella vita. sul' una pizza fatto di farina dura italiana, con passata densa di pomodori, speck profumato di ginepro, e un buon vino rosso gassificato, beh, potrésti benissimo morire.

Markets are a big deal here which helps me feel at home. I'm eating only fresh local produce which makes me happy. it is interesting to see what Italians like to eat. It is so specific and yet so complex. Supermarkets only have small greenish brown lentils (like dupuys), but they have maybe ten different types within that category. You don't buy a zucchini unless the flower on it is intact, full of colour, and ready to fry. Peaches come in so many delicious varieties. 4 aisles of pasta types but not a jar of peanut butter!

Till the next!

jeudi 7 juillet 2011



Fresh food in the summer should be an entitlement. Local farmers need to be supported for our economy to be self sustaining and for our communities to be at peace with the planet.
The free market is failing us. If we cannot adapt we will perish.

Garlic flower hummus with tomatoes.


mercredi 6 juillet 2011

Mon petit radis blanc


This is Fergus Henderson's guide on how to eat fresh radishes. Dip in butter. Sprinkle with salt.
Now that's a recipe!

Choux fleur au tamarin

vendredi 10 juin 2011

Fridge shot: The local bachelor

'And this is a very small cookbook for Trout Fishing in America as if Trout Fishing in America were a rich gourmet and Trout Fishing in America had Maria Callas for a girlfriend and they ate together on a marble table with beautiful candles.'
-Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America

Sprung Spring


Feves de soja avec asperge chinois


Orties haché dans un bouillon de gingembre


jeudi 2 juin 2011

The Reason for the Season


Fiddlehead Poutine


Szechuan Fiddleheads


Fiddlehead Saurkraut Fairmount Bagel

Fiddlehead Madness


Late Night Fryup, Fiddlehead Hashbrowns


Fiddlehead Maple Syrup Omelette


Snax


mardi 8 mars 2011

Meditation II

We are Mexico.
We are California.
We are gassed tomatoes and waxed oranges.
We are the price of petrol from Cali - one way at a time of war.
We are California.
We are Mexico.
We are what we eat.

March

This time of year is so depressing. Desperately I scrounge to acquire boxes of bruised eggplants for double the price from Mexico. Restaurants everywhere panic as atrocities in Libya mean they'll fail to acquire their creature comforts at unreasonably reasonable prices: imported baby vegetables and fresh lettuces grown hydroponically that use up more fuel to create than the jets they use to ship them.
Walking through the supermarket, fluorescent lights soberly illuminate brains of Andyboy cauliflower that taste of sand and chalk, still humid with the pesticides they received in California.
Of course, the alternative is too much to bare. Should we just eat root vegetables in the winter? only dried herbs, beans and grains? Meats, Cheese, and fish? Spices, sweets, and preserves? frozen grade A veg. frozen minutes away from picking and blanching? should we confine ourselves to foods that fail to sparkle like the ice beneath our feet? With what shall we garnish? Dried Mint? Preposterous.