Saturday, December 19, 2015

Spinach Parsley Soup

SpinachParsleySoup (5 of 5)

Life is busier than ever and I'm loving it, but I'm also missing my sleep-in weekend mornings and other little comforts I've taken for granted for so long. Going back to school and working part-time has been a good perspective shift for me, but as a result, this little blog hasn't been getting any action.

My cooking tends to happen on Sunday nights in large batches, and I fill my shelf in the fridge with mason jars of ready lunches to keep me going through the week. It's a pretty good strategy, although I still sometimes cave and go out for dinner or lunch or somehow skip meals (I don't know how, since I'm basically an eating machine) and so sometimes my jar-lunches get neglected. It's a learning process, but it's always nice to come home and know I've got my dinner already taken care of.

Free time during the daylight hours for photography and cooking doesn't come by often, so I snapped these shots quickly. I miss creating and sharing recipes, so here's one that I've been making regularly. It was inspired by several Persian soup recipes I came across, gormeh sabzi and asheh reshteh. It uses an entire batch of parsley (whole damn thing, no joke) which I love, as my herbs usually wilt into a sad soggy mess in the fridge. So if you like herbs and green things, get on this soup already.

SpinachParsleySoup (3 of 5) SpinachParsleySoup (2 of 5)

Monday, June 1, 2015

Rhubarb Crisp

RhubarbCrisp (12 of 20)

Rhubarb grows at the edge of our house, popping up suddenly with an almost unexpected vigour to herald warmer spring weather. I've missed it, its flavour sharp and saucy and as full of attitude as the vegetable itself, growing wildly and resiliently in spite of northwestern Ontario's horrific winters and short summers.

I moved back home almost six months ago, and it's been a long, dreary winter, and summer has been slow to start in this far corner of the north. I'd grown used to the milder winters and hot summers of Toronto, and the last two months have been torturing us with inconsistency. We get blessedly beautiful days of sunshine and warmth only to be suddenly knocked with cold, snow, and rain. Just a few nights ago it went down to 1. My dad's been waking up at 3am to diligently sprinkle his garden with room temperature water to protect his budding crops from frost. Tonight I went out for a brisk walk and returned with numbed fingers. (I could barely keep them steady while Instagramming. Life is hard.)

rhubarb

However, in spite of the changing weather, the days are long and bright, and now there is rhubarb in my life again, which I sorely missed in the city. Sometimes, it's the little blessings like a having a plot of a bizarre vegetable by your house that can be turned into the best effing crisp or pie you've ever tasted that can make life good.

My awesome friend Anna, whom I've mentioned numerous times here, has also whipped up some ridiculously good vegan ice cream that would not go amiss if served alongside this crisp. Because let's be real, what is a good crisp without ice cream? Find her recipe here.

rhubarb crisp

Friday, April 10, 2015

How I Crashed an Indian Wedding

Udaipur (124 of 143)

This is the story of how I crashed an Indian wedding.

I was walking down a street in Udaipur with only a vague plan of taking the cable car ride up the mountain when a young man suddenly approached me and invited me to have chai. My initial reaction was to decline; he was about my age, eager, and I could already guess what he was interested in. And yet when he asked again, something in me caved. Why not? I thought. I had been on my own for several days, was bored, and something about this unexpected offer for chai seemed like an avenue for adventure that I was so badly craving.

And so I found myself in a tiny textile shop with this boy and the owner of the shop drinking piping hot chai, fresh from the chaiwallah just across the street. When they offered me a joint I shrugged internally and accepted. I was just smoking a joint in a scarf shop in India. It was so random and ridiculous, but I liked the sound of it in my head. Surely this was what travelling was all about: having insane and unexpected experiences. The sensible part of my brain told me I was being irresponsible, but I shrugged it off. I didn’t feel threatened or unsafe, but half the thrill of the moment, if I’m being honest, was the fact that it was edged with the possibility of danger, and that I was risking it.

This was all going on in the back of my mind, when about halfway through the conversation I just happened to mention that I’d always wanted to go to an Indian wedding.

“You should stay until tomorrow! The wedding’s tomorrow.”

Udaipur (138 of 143)