Food Porn XIII

"Chovocado Pudding"

The pursuit of drug-free pain management continues. I stopped taking Aleve every other night after a scary bout of what might have been food poisoning but also checked every box for overuse of non-prescription meds. I don’t even take it occasionally, anymore. Once bitten, you know.

But once bitten, what was the alternative to my little blue pill? Once again, I looked to my diet. COVID restrictions have helped in one area: “take out” means more than a bacon cheeseburger for pickup. Now it means “prepare to be taken out for a day after eating take out”. It’s amazing how quickly my body responds to inflammatory foods, and tasty as that burger may be, it’s also loaded with salt, fat, dairy, and whatever the steer was fed before it became a beef patty. I’m basically shrink-wrapped for twenty-four hours after consuming one.

I also live with a food narc. Ter is a strong believer in food as medicine; she has a ton of books on the subject and has made it her personal mission to feed me all the right stuff. But she can’t control what I choose to consume on my own watch.

So on the morning when I announced I was giving up sugar, she almost wept with relief. The preceding few weeks had been fraught with pain, frustration, and desperation as my symptoms worsened and I stubbornly continued to ignore my inner voice. In fact, I had almost defiantly begun hoarding treats: muffins, cookies, granola bars, candy, chocolate – if sugar was the primary ingredient, I bought it. Finally, after a particularly rough weekend, I surrendered. Consulting one of Ter’s anti-inflammatory books, I determined that honey and maple syrup could stay on the list, but everything else had to go. No sugar? No problem.

And so to the “food porn” part of this post. I would never in a million years have imagined that a phenomenal chocolate pudding could result from five ingredients that exclude milk, cream, melted chocolate, sugar, or any of the other items on my verboten foods list. But it can, and it does:

One ripe avocado

3 tablespoons cocoa powder

2.5 to 3 tablespoons maple syrup

Pinch of salt

¼ to 1/3 cup almond or coconut milk (your preference)

Put everything into a food processor and blitz until smooth and creamy. (Note: the amount of almond milk depends on the size of the avocado and how creamy you like your pud.) Refrigerate for a couple of hours – it’s really good cold – and enjoy within a few days. Word is that it spoils fairly quickly, but mine has never lasted that long.

I dare yours to do the same.

COVID Hockey

 

Elliot comforts Basher (again)

Basher may be distraught, but I’m not. Not really. The Flyers didn’t make the playoffs (again) this year. The usual suspects – weak defence, iffy goaltending – are to blame; that, and too little production from the top guns. I think Jake Voracek was the team points leader and he didn’t hit double digits in the goal count. Same with Captain Claude ... but overall, I’m willing to blame the oddball circumstances of playing pro sports during a global pandemic. Momentum was broken by COVID delays as much as by injuries and consistently slow starts. Rarely did we score first, and while the boys were fully capable of coming back from a deficit, I don’t know how often (if at all) they actually held a lead straight out of the gate. Every first period I saw was a prime opportunity for the opposition to pounce as Philly spent twenty minutes getting their act together. Second and third periods were generally better.

I could speak more knowledgably if I subscribed to the NHL channel. Cardigan and Ter would be tormented with non-stop Flyer games, but I’d have a better idea of what went wrong if I’d seen every one. This year, Canadian fans of US teams were kinda cursed, though I must admit the revised format of a team playing within its own division made for some dandy, playoff-type rivalries. Philadelphia is in an ugly division, too. Boston, Washington and the Islanders make for way more swears from my chair, though I like Pittsburgh enough to forgive Sid Crosby for scoring in every game—sometimes twice!

At least I saw some Flyer games, via feeds picked up by Sportsnet from their American counterparts. Yikes, that’s another annoyance – listening to commentaries from the Boston, Washington or Pittsburgh crew. Philadelphia broadcasts must be contracted to a secret society or something, because I have yet to hear the play-by-play from their side. And it can be painful, listening to the man-crushes over players I’d like to slam through the boards. The best US broadcast team came out of Buffalo during back-to-back Sabres games: the guy doing the play by play was genuinely hilarious (opposed to thinking himself genuinely hilarious and being genuinely mistaken). He reminded me of Rod Phillips, who used to call the Oilers’ games in the days when Ter and I listened to them over the computer. Creative play by play is a true art form and Phillips was a master. We still use some of his sayings around the house, most notably the “dastardly defensive breakdown” when something goes awry in the kitchen.

Ah, well. This year’s irregular regular season is done and dusted for my boys. I’ll keep an eye on the playoff standings, and expect Ter and I will watch the finals. All was not lost, either. Cardigan has learned a ton of hockey jargon by osmosis; he and Basher often debated whether to pull the goalie and when, and darned if he didn’t hold his own against Basher’s blunt-edged logic.

He still doesn’t understand icing ... though I’m not sure Basher gets it, either.

The Importance of Tea XIII

 “Days Gone Chai”

You may or may not remember that in June of 2015, after extensive research at a number of outlets, I had determined that my favourite chai tea was steeped at a coffee place. Blenz had not only bettered franchise outlets like Starbucks and David’s, but had surpassed local tea giants Silk Road and Murchie’s for the best chai in town (in my opinion). Since that summer, David’s Tea has introduced their Organic Chai, which knocked their Saigon Chai out of the park but wasn’t able—despite a multitude of online orders in the past year—to surpass the Blenz blend as my No. 1 favourite. On my weekly day at the office, I am guaranteed to visit my regular pre-COVID haunt for a mid-morning cuppa, where the barista now adds the 3 raw sugars and substantial splash of cream I used to add myself.

In the halcyon days of 2019, when I occasionally ordered an Earl Grey with lavender syrup, owner/manager Jonathan would razz me whenever I ordered a chai. “With lavender?” he’d ask, dimpling impishly while I scowled at his impudence.

Things changed, of course. In a pandemic world where nothing is fun anymore, the Sussex shop managed to stay open through lockdowns and restrictions. Some staff had to be let go, and while the core crew remained, Jonathan took the afternoon shift. I chai in the morning, so I didn’t see him for ages.

My working from home also meant no more daily Mumbai chai. I don’t know how I coped to begin with, though the bulk of my online David’s organic orders occurred in those first few months. As the siege wore on, I realized I’d have to get a home supply of Mumbai, so I brought an empty tea tin to my next in-the-office day and asked for a hundred grams. That wasn’t quite enough to sustain me, apparently, as I brought in a second tin the following week, rotating through by refilling an empty when its twin reached the halfway mark.

Fast forward to March 2021. I am now coming to the office twice a week and some of the old gang have returned to Blenz—happy reunions on both sides of the counter. I stop in with my office buddy for coffee one rare afternoon and who do I see working the steamer but Jonathan! He’s wearing a mask, but I know he’s smirking when he asks if I’ve ordered a(nother) Mumbai chai. He adds that he orders twice as much of it since I’ve started buying it by the tin.

“No,” I reply, “but since you mention it, I’ve been thinking I need a whole bag of the loose stuff for home. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “An order came in this morning. I’m loaded.”

“Great!” I declare. “How much do you want for 500 grams?”

He’s so good to me. We settle on a price (reduced) and he throws in a box of compostable tea bags. My office buddy is mildly stunned by the whole transaction, but Ter isn’t fazed at all when I proudly produce the bag from my tote at the end of the day.

I’m halfway convinced they put crack in the mix, but ... oh well!

Desert Island Discs

 

Ter and I baked cookies yesterday. Before we started, she declared, “Baking music!” and popped a disc onto the kitchen stereo. Just as I asked what “baking music” was, the first notes of A Charlie Brown Christmas trickled from the speakers.

Well, duh.

Vince Guaraldi’s version of O Tannenbaum never fails to lift my spirits. In fact, every time I hear a track—any track—on the CBC album, I am transported to a tranquil world of joy and beauty that no other album can invoke. Ter often plays it while she’s cooking; I’ll hear it from my room and my whole being relaxes. We even play it in the car, cruising on the mellow notes of a recording we have both loved for-seeming-ever. I can’t explain why; it just is.

Which means it holds the top spot in my trio of “desert island discs”. You know, the perennial conversation-starter about what three albums you’d have if you were stranded on a pile of sand in the south Pacific. Yes, Virginia, a Christmas album is my top pick for indefinite isolation. I never get tired of it. My favourite track is the instrumental of Christmastime is Here, where the piano is played so casually, with such elegance, that it’s easy to picture my beloved Julian at the keyboard (sorry, Vince). And Hark! the Herald Angels almost always begins with Ter and I “loo loo loo-ing” along with the kids. As a twelve track album, it’s crammed with so many pleasant memories and good feelings that packing it past Tahiti is a no-brainer.

The trouble comes with choosing the second and third of my top three discs. Okay, Duran Duran for sure—but which album? Can I cheat and make my own lengthy “best of” playlist? Do home-made discs count, and if so, does a double-disc count as one or two? I might go with Notorious for its jazz-influenced riffs, but I actually prefer 21^st century DD to their earlier work. Even then, I can’t pick a single album because Astronaut, All You Need is Now and Paper Gods are all fabulous. (Red Carpet Massacre is only okay, though as an experiment it was brave attempt by the band to stay relevant.)

Assuming I can settle on a DD album in the second spot, my third choice is probably something by Ludovico Einaudi, whose instrumental work on piano ranges from delicate to epic depending on the track and whether or not an orchestra is involved. Every one of his albums inspires an award-winning story I have yet to write, so again, how do I choose one over the others?

I know, I know. It’s not likely to become an issue. I seriously doubt the island I get stranded on will be wired for sound, but whether it be cookies in the kitchen or sunning on the beach, A Charlie Brown Christmas is definitely music to bake by!

Short Notice

 

Not always, I hope!

For a woman who touts the practice of present moment mindfulness, I sure miss a lot. I seldom miss the obvious (I hope) and I suspect most of what does escape my notice stems from knowing all is well in my world rather than indifference to my surroundings.

It’s a running joke between Ter and me that I don’t notice things. Buildings, for instance. I distinctly recall walking up Georgia Street in Vancouver and Ter later asking me about some detail or other on one of the plate glass skyscrapers we had passed. For the life of me, I could not picture the building she was talking about, so had to plead the fifth for an answer. That was years ago, but I can cite more recent examples of less glaring omissions.

Take the box of Haagen-Daz bars lodged in the freezer door. Due to sugar sensitivities, Ter has to eat even a mini ice cream bar in two sittings. Sometimes we’ll split one between us, but it’s not unusual for me to spy a cling-wrapped morsel one day awaiting its demise on another. During this past summer, however, we realized we were consuming way too much dairy/sugar/naughty treats and stopped replenishing our stock. After we decided to cut back, I glanced into the box and noted a pair of bars remaining. A few days later, Ter confessed to finishing one of them. “That leaves the other one, then?” I asked.

She actually looked sheepish. “No, they’re both gone.”

The little muncher had stealthily nibbled away until the last of the bars were gone, but I had been in the freezer that morning and was certain the box had still been there. Another box appeared some days later, and I had to ask her when she’d bought it because I was sure the space had been empty that morning. To my relief, the answer was “Today.” Yet I can almost guarantee if the ice cream confession hadn’t occurred, I could not have said when the Haagen Daz bars became dry garlic pork ribs.

These are tiny examples, of course. Dozens more would be listed if I could remember them all, but it seems that my not noticing things has taken root in Ter’s subconscious. One night she dreamed we were stuck on a hill behind traffic at a standstill. I was driving, so Ter got out to see what the holdup was. Whatever the snarl was, it cleared while she was still investigating, and I drove away without her.

At first, dream-Ter couldn’t believe it ... until her little voice said, “I bet she hasn’t noticed I’m not in the car!”

I would like to express my offense and outrage at being so callously perceived by the one I love most, but I can’t. The notion is not as absurd as it is possible. Not likely, I must insist, but possible.

*sigh*

Resistance is Futile

 

BC’s daily numbers have surged during the past week, so it’s time to accept that I live in a COVID-19 universe.

It’s been a luxury to ignore it until now. I work primarily from home, heading into town once a week to visit the new office space and have tea with a couple of friends. It’s mostly a social thing that has helped me adapt to wearing a mask in public. It felt weird and strange and awkward for the first few months, and I still don’t like it, but for the first time ever, it felt almost natural during a weekend trip to the mall.

I have stuck pretty close to home since all this started. Truly, if not for my weekly sojourns—chauffeured by Ter to avoid public transit—I’d probably be a hermit. Ter has adapted more quickly, as she goes out every couple of days to get groceries and some fresh air (she’s always been more restless than me; apparently I can stay home for days on end but she needs to get out and breathe ... even in a mask).

Anyway, this past weekend, our PVR crapped out so to kill some time, we did what we used to do without ever thinking about it. We went to the mall. Ter’s parking karma was in full force, scoring us a spot right near the identified entrance that some folks were still using as an exit (sigh). As I pulled my mask from my purse and fixed it in place before leaving the car, I felt like I was preparing to rob a bank, but other than that, I’m so accustomed to a face covering that I forgot about it within minutes.

And I had a ball! Standing in line to get into the bookstore, spritzing sanitizer on my hands at every shop entrance, conversing with clerks through two layers of cloth and a sheet of plexiglass—all that was different, but in this suddenly oddball existence it felt like a trip to the mall always feels:

Normal.

I was particularly happy to order New York fries—my go-to snack in any food court, though this time it was to go and the clerk had to hand me the condiments on request. It’s been interesting at Blenz and Bucky’s too, having the barista add sugar and cream to my tea rather than me loading it up myself. I’m tapping my debit/credit card instead of forking over the cash—I’ve had the same twenty dollar bill in my wallet since March—and on Saturday I tapped up a storm as I restocked my home supply of Paris Afternoon tea and Purdy’s chocolate, tried cinnamon buns from a new foodie outlet, and couldn’t leave without getting the aforementioned NY fries.

Sure, the bulk of my purchases were comfort carbs ... but with my history, that was normal, too!

Watching a toddler weaving in her mother’s wake, I wondered what she’ll remember of her childhood when she grows up. No one wants COVID to become the norm, but right now, there’s less harm in adapting to the rules than there is in fighting them. So far in my life, I have found that if I give myself three days, I can adapt to anything.

With love (and fries),

Take the Fall

 

It’s pumpkin spice and everything nice. My favourite time of year is the fall. This weekend is especially precious, being Thanksgiving on Monday and me being grateful for nothing. The calendar is clear; I have four whole days to fill with whatever takes my fancy and right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than nothing.

Perhaps I sound ungrateful? I’m not. Truly, I’m not. Every day is stuffed with miracles, some too tiny to see and some so blatantly obvious that only a fool could deny them. Granted, the latter seem to appear less frequently, but the little ones, the ones I don’t always see, probably mean the most. They are the ones keeping everything in motion—and after the week I’ve had, I am ever so grateful for the passage of time!

It’s been a busy autumn despite COVID restrictions and working from home. Ter and I both have birthdays in the fall, and last week was particularly busy with appointments. I had some dental work done (more than expected, actually), Ter and I both had chiropractic treatments, and she did chauffeuring duty for a friend who had tests at the hospital on two separate days. And it’s only Friday!

So you see why a weekend of nothing is something for which to be grateful.

I could run my usual list: Ter, of course. My siblings and co-workers, my friends, my job in a pandemic where lots of folks lost theirs, my health (which is pretty good despite the daily bones), living in Canada rather than a few miles south of Canada. I’m even grateful for the petty bickering of politicians during our provincial election in contrast to the catastrophic numbskullery of the American presidential race. I dislike using a negative to promote the positive, but really? Compared to what the US populace is enduring, our troubles are puny indeed.

Yep, the fall is my favourite. We’ve had a good run of sun and high temperatures through the latter half of September into October, but now I’m ready for the rain. I want my hour back from April so it’s a bit lighter in the morning and the candles are lit earlier in the evening. I want fuzzy socks and big mugs of tea, fat winter novels and holidays specials on TV. The house smells of apples and cinnamon and, this Sunday, of stuffing!!

Spring is pretty, summer is lovely, winter is sleepy, but of the four seasons?

I’ll take the fall.