Buttered Up

On the other side of the Pacific

2012-03-13T12:51:00.003-04:00

When I get asked, “Where are you from?” it always makes my heart clench. I want to give a simple answer and move the rest of the conversation along, but it’s not that easy. Born in Hong Kong, my parents and I immigrated to Toronto when I was still wearing diapers, then we moved back to Hong Kong for a brief time, packed up and moved to Canada again, and just as I finished grade three, we moved across the Pacific Ocean, this time to Shanghai and stayed for a solid nine years before I moved to Montréal for school and left to Toronto for work. Phew. I'm only 24 now, who knows where else I will call home.

Having lived on both sides of the world, I’ve only lived in my birthplace less than two years. Most of my memories remain from my short visits. I was there briefly last week and couldn't help but have mixed feelings as I always do. It’s beautiful in some ways, like the 25°C weather when I stepped off the plane and drove by an island surrounded by shockingly turquoise water, tall swaying palm trees, and a long stretch of beach, like something out of a travel magazine (but sadly, it was foggy, gloomy, icky-sticky-humid the remainder of my trip, I so desperately wanted to take night shots).

The food is also to die for. At my cousin’s wedding, the dinner had twelve courses with tongue twisting names like stir-fried sliced pigeon with sweet walnut in X.O. chilli sauce or braised scallop with seasonal vegetables in abalone sauce. When the deep-fried chicken rolled along, I fell asleep with my arms splayed out on the table, don't judge me, it was the jet lag.

Then there’s my childhood favorite which ranked top of the list of Must Eat Savagely in Hong Kong: 雞蛋仔 or what I like to call Waffle Babies. I suspect they are made from something close to a waffle batter, but cooked in round waffle irons to produce golden nuggets that are crispy and crackly on the outside with chewy, eggy and dense insides. They remind me of my grandpa presssing a 10 dollar coin in the middle of my palm and rushing me off to buy a bag from the corner store, and how I cradled the paper bag in both hands, savoring each nubby round on my walk from the subway to the doorstep home. They’re kind of a big deal.

There was also 撈麵 or lo mein, I ordered shrimp egg wonton lo mein and had a revelation. This plate has raised the bar, I will never see egg noodles the same way and demand all egg noodles to taste this good: fresh, springy, and silky smooth exactly how noodles should be. The shrimp eggs gave the dish a bit of crunch and an extra hit of saltiness. And don’t get me started on the wontons (hiding under that beautiful plop of noodles). Toronto has nothing on these shrimp dumplings; these were smaller, not greedily stuffed with shrimp and the wrapping was slippery on the tongue. I could eat five plates and call it a day. My cousin had a beef lo mein, I didn't taste it because I was too engrossed on my order, but they sure looked good.

Food aside, Hong Kong haunts me. This is where those mixed feelings come in, I always feel like a foreigner which is ironic since I was born there. Even though I speak the language, my gwei lo (foreigner) accent seems to deceive me. Besides, food poisoning isn’t the ideal way to spend your vacation, especially when you’re travelling in a city where food is a huge part of the culture. I prefer not to spend my time off popping fourteen multicolored pills everyday to tame the violent diarrhea that follows me everywhere. But you know, shit happens.

Still, stomach bugs aside, Hong Kong is a marvel. There’s always something to look at, something to do, something to eat, and places to go. If you’re planning a trip there sometime soon, my advice--which holds true wherever you travel--is to go there hungry and be open try everything, you'll be amazed by what you take home with you.

*I just noticed Blogger added a new function where if you click any of these photos, it automatically enlarges and you can view all photos together in a slideshow--sweeet!

Boeuf Bourguinon and Steamed Baby Potatoes in Parchment

2012-02-26T10:12:00.001-05:00

This stew would have been much easier to make if I wasn’t distracted by Charlize Theron’s charming good looks. Let me explain. I don’t own a fancy wine opener, the only one I have is a cheap one I purchased at the LCBO a few years ago, it’s fairly dependable given I’ve successfully uncorked a number of wine bottles since then, but then I learned that when an awesome movie like The Italian Job is playing on TV, my focus should really be on opening the wine.

The wine opener I had was a simple metal corkscrew with a little lever that leaned on the bottle’s lips to lift up the cork. If I was smart enough, I would have began twisting at the cork’s centerpoint, but alas, Ms. Theron took my breath away and I had started twisted the cork to the side. When I tugged it out, there was a loud crack and I was left with a broken corkscrew in one hand and the remaining metal stuck snuggly in the cork (enter loud swearing).

I looked on YouTube, Google, and Chowhound on ways to solve my problem. Nothing. So for the next painstaking 93 minutes, I dug through the cork with a knife, scattering cork debris all over the kitchen instead of marinating the beef and vegetables for the stew. It took me the full length of the movie (and commercial breaks) to get through the damn cork. I hate cork.

But I don’t hate boeuf bourguinon. It’s miraculous how the simplicity of time can make everything taste so much better (except mold, I suspect that’s not very delicious, except I suppose cheese, since it is technically “mold” but I digress). From Clotilde Dusoulier of Chocolate and Zucchini (who I had the honor of ~~pouncing on~~ meeting), comes a beef stew that makes all that stubborn cork-fighting worth it.

I first made this in university, when I was discovering my love for food and all things culinary. As I danced in my slippers filling the kitchen with the salty, irresistible smells of bacon from my roomie’s fire engine red Le Creuset dutch oven, I was intoxicated from not the whole bottle of wine that marinated the chunky meat overnight, but by the sheer excitement of cooking something new, something different. I remember tucking into a steaming bowl of bourguinon hours later, sopping up the juices with a hunk of bread, oblivious to the loud, raucous behavior from nobody other than my drunk neighbours.

This time I was just as thrilled to make bourguinon, there was also dancing around the sizzling pot and The Weeknd blasting in my apartment for added effect (music makes food taste so much better, you should try it). I gave the bourguinon a Canadian touch and sweetened it with maple syrup instead of chocolate as Clotilde suggests. It’s marvelous. Even though I don’t have a super palate and can’t distinguish the syrup, the sugar is a must to tease out the complex layers of fruity wine, earthy carrots and sweet onions (and Ruth Reichl gives additional tips on how to bring your stew to the next level).

As a side dish, I bought baby potatoes (Purple! Potatoes!) and used David Tanis’s recipe for an alternative to roasting them. Coating them in olive oil, sea salt, and a slurry of herbs, you wrap them up in parchment paper and steam in the oven to allow those simple flavours to meld and infuse. It’s so good it’s ridiculous. Although the purple potatoes are surprisingly bland and drier compared to the red skinned variety, I still love their color and they make a beautiful accompaniment to the boeuf bourguinon. In fact, I can’t get enough of them.

As with most stews, this bourguinon tastes even better with age. They made delicious leftovers the following day, I didn’t even offer my coworkers to sample a taste, I hoarded it all to myself (and that’s saying a lot since I often share). Just don’t be like me and screw up the wine opening ceremony, unless cork-stabbing is your favorite thing to do.

Recipe here!

The Delicious Project: Rice Pudding

2012-02-23T08:28:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine who is also a dietitian and a major food lover proposed the world's best idea. Lisa writes Confessions of Dietitian, chronicling if store-bought foods are any better or easier than foods made from scratch, this time, inviting a couple of her favourite food photographers along with sassy food blogger, Meghan, to take pictures and taste test various foods. I jumped on the opportunity, you should have seen me reply to her email, my fingers looked like they were on Ritalin, "COUNT ME IN!!!! I’LL BE THEREEE!!"

The following months, we will be cooking/taste testing/food photographing/oohing-and-ahhing over both sweet and savoury foods and you get to join us, in what I call The Delicious Project.

I had lots of fun for the first challenge not just from taking photos while lying on Lisa’s living room floor to get the perfect shot, but these girls are immensely fun to work with. For nearly four hours, we giggled, cheered and cringed over five (5!!) rice puddings and believe me when I say there was a lot of pudding. You can go here to find out which puddings prevailed.

Next month, we’ll be making…wait, you ready? Are you sitting down? We Meghan and Lisa are making pulled pork. PULLED PORK!! I’m mad excited.

Lemon Rosemary Muffins

2012-02-20T11:38:00.000-05:00

I have a theory about muffin eaters. I believe that the world is divided into two types of people: Muffin Split Top/Bottom Eaters and Just Give Me My Muffin Damnit Eaters. The latter of which of course, are people who don’t care much for muffin-eating artistry and mindlessly hack their way through whatever muffin they have in their hand (the horror!) while sipping plain coffee in the other. They don’t give much thought into its texture, flavours, nor the harmony of ingredients, instead, they leave a trail of precious muffin crumbs behind them while rushing to wherever they have to be.

The former category, the Muffin Split Top/Bottom Eaters are people who are much more refined, they study the craft of not just muffin-eating, but muffin-making, muffin-mixing and let’s not forget, muffin-paper-liner-situations. You know what I’m talking about, those paper liners that cling desperately to muffin bottoms, a clear sign it’s over, you’re doomed, the muffin will taste rubbery and heavy with fat, leaving a thick film of grease on your tongue. Oh woe is me! Sometimes I lie awake at night tossing and turning, mulling over this catastrophic problem. Am I the only one who feels so strongly about muffin-paper-liner-situations?

But back to the Muffin Split Top/Bottom Eaters. as you may have deduced by my fine category name, these people split the muffin into two, one side being the muffin bottom, the other is the muffin top, and if you are well versed in muffin craft, it is the best part of muffins. The crackly top is almost crumble-like, rough and crispy along the golden edges, because really, it’s the only reason why muffins are made. I’d share with you a recipe for Lemon and Rosemary Muffin Tops, but I’ll save that for a later time, like when the world is coming to an end and we’ve hit a muffin top crisis.

Which brings me to these muffins. Ever since this beauty, I’ve been toying with the idea of using rosemary in a baked good again, I devoted hours of serious research on Google, but failed to find something that held my attention for more than two seconds. Then I looked to my trusty friend Epicurious and stumbled on a recipe for lemon muffins. It originally tops the muffins with raspberries, which I left out and replaced it with lemon sugar, which is essentially a simple mash of lemon zest and sugar and my new favorite thing.

The last few desserts featured here haven’t been aromatically strong, so I’ve missed the smell of butter and sugar doing its magic, but within minutes in the oven, my home smelled like a candy factory. The lemonyness is undeniably good in the muffins, the crumb is delicate and soft (which I suspect comes from the oat flour), and the muffin top is glorious, sprinkled with the lemon sugar, it’s a beautiful glistening crown.

The rosemary isn’t obvious here, it’s so subtle you have to squint your eyes and tell your taste buds to search really hard for it. I was hoping for the same gentle herbyness that knocked my socks off like this rosemary olive oil cake (swoon!) though I think the generous amount of olive oil helped bring out the rosemary, because this time, the sugar seemed to overpower the herb. Either way, these lemon muffins are superb and deserve a permanent spot in your recipe arsenal, and don’t worry, we can all sleep well tonight, muffin-paper-liner-situations have no place here.

*Psst! I've been mentioned by Acquired Taste Magazine! It was the highlight of my week and there's more good news coming soon--stay tuned!

Recipe here!

Iced Nougat Cubes

2012-02-15T08:03:00.002-05:00

My dad, like me, can’tlive without sweets. I can’t imagine ~~a week~~ a day without chocolate, cakes orcookies, the sheer thought of it chills me to the bone. In addition to our insatiable sweet tooth, we like foods with texture, say dark chocolate withraisins and almonds or crunchy peanut butter. Life is just more interestingwith some crunch.

My dad frequently eatssomething before bedtime while lounging on the couch (a major culprit to his rotundbelly), a typical snack would be milky scoops of ice cream sprinkled withtoasted hazelnuts or broken bits of chocolate chip cookies. As he’s digginginto the dessert bowl, he looks like a 5 year old ripping through Christmasgift wrap on Boxing Day, in other words, hilarious and charming. I prefer something less rich, say a square of Lindt dark chocolate in either the sea salt or intense mint flavour. I slowly nibble off each corner and let it melt on my tongue, prolonging the pleasure and I swear, I sleep much more soundly with a little extra sugar running through my veins.

I’ve owned French Food at Home for a number of years and still, I’m always intrigued by Laura Calder’s delicious ideas wheneverI flip through her book for inspiration. Armed with a mandatory post-itdispenser, I frantically bookmark all the recipes that jump to my attention, whichis to say, quite a few.

One particular recipe that stood out for me were these IceNougat Cubes. Doesn't it sound like it belongs on the Queen's dinner menu every night? Its name practically beckons you to dash to the grocery store and buyall the ingredients so you can have it ready to eat the following day (you know, in case the Queen stops by for a visit). Thesenougats are more of a frozen dessert than candy, they are fluffier than icecream and the flurry of dried fruits, almond brittle and nuts make it fun to eat as the various chewy and nutty textures jostle for attention in your mouth. The best part is its not cloyingsweet, so you won’t feel guilty for lying on your bed and mistakenlywhiz through three or four of these jewelled cubes.

It’s a shame it took memore than four years to make these nougats, but like that old saying, good thingscome to those who wait.

Recipe here!

Brown Sugar Sandwich Cookies

2012-02-06T19:05:00.000-05:00

In case you haven’tbeen following me for long, I’m a registered dietitian. I graduated about twoyears ago and went through a somewhat tough time doubting if what Ichose as a profession was suitable to me. I knew from my internship that Ilove seeing patients, I love food, and I love that immense sense of rewardknowing that I was helping people in need, but sometimes it's hard to control where you can release those feel-good vibes.

I’ve already vented about my unhappiness before, but I recently landed a new job and I’m happy to say I love waking up to it. You know how there are jobs out there that eternally drain you as if someone pulled the plug from a swimming pool? The job slowly and painfully tugs at your insides, exhausting you from head to toe till you don’t have the energy to do anything else when you get home. That’s the kind of job I used to have. It’s kind of a haunting, sickening feeling at the pit of your stomach.

When I graduated, I was chosen by my classmates to speak at our ceremony. At my low point a few months ago, I retrieved the speech I reminded myself: Have passion in what you do. When you love what you do, time flies by, but it also gives you a great sense of satisfaction that makes your life easier and so much better (by the way, though I’m a dietitian, the recipes and food I blog here don’t necessarily reflect my diet nor what I recommend to clients. Buttered Up is a place for me to share, explore and showcase my passion for food and all things sweet).

Anyway, enough of my preachyness. I was browsing through Heidi’s blog for interesting cookies and stumbled upon these lovelies: brown sugar sandwich cookies. The initial game plan was to ditch the chocolate filling (ridiculous, I know) but when I nibbled on a cookie and realized they were better smeared with chocolate, I hopped on the chance to chop up some dark chocolate.

These cookies, made with spelt flour and all-purpose flour aren’t sweet at all, they carry a hint of sweet butter and graininess and the poppy seeds give it an itty bitty crunch that despite sticking between your teeth, is actually quite fun and make them very special. I imagine these would make perfect gifts for your friends, seeing as how my colleagues swooned when I brought them into work. You can make them in any shape, but it's hard to say no to heart-shaped cookies, especially when Valentine's day coming up...hint hint!

Recipe here!

Pear, Pistachio and Ginger Blondies

2012-01-23T16:24:00.000-05:00

Meet my grandpa (or inCantonese, my yeye). He passed awaymore than five years ago, I didn’t even go to the funeral, I was inschool and the ceremony was in Hong Kong. Mydad went alone instead. This photo was taken at Centre Island,when I was four and attached to neon green objects (note: polkadot capris and tennis balls) and also very close to my grandpa (who breathescoolness with his shades and coke).

Yeye was a quiet,kind-hearted man. You would have liked him, maybe even spent an afternoonwatching cartoons like Bugs Bunny and Tom and Jerry while splayed out on the carpet. He’s the kind of grandpa that would pick you up from school at 3pm everyweekday and walk the thirty minutes back home. No matter what the weather conditions were, be it sunny or thick snow that piled to knee height, he still walked with you because that’s what families do (and when both parentsare working). He took you home despite how you purposelydelayed the walk to play in the snow, or you ‘accidently’ have to tighten yourboots or you spotted 'something' in the snow.

But once, he told on me.He ratted out to my mom that I ate snow, and not just any snow, but snow straightfrom the sidewalk (hey, I was curious!). So much for being my best friend. Mymom threw a fit, yelled at me for not knowing the difference between clean anddirty and punished me by forcing me to write Chinese poems 50 times over. Yuck.

When he wasn’t being asnitch, he would give in to my pleas for candy. My parents rarely gave in to my desires for fancy packaged candy since they had zero nutrients save for sugar and corn syrup. When I pointed at fruitgushers, I got a pink gumball that lost its flavour within a minute of chewing. I even tried to trade my seaweed at snacktime for a teeny piece of Fruit Roll-Ups from theblond girl in pigtails. I lived a sad candy-deprived childhood.

So, with no sweets athome, my yeye gave me a bowl and filled it with three spoonfuls of sugar. Icrushed the sugar into white powder, smashing a spoon against the table, thendabbed my fingers before licking them clean, anything to prolong my treat.

Ifhe was here today, I think he would be proud that I moved on from eating snowto making my own treats, like these blondies. Sitting in thecakey, soft cookie-like batter are chewy bits of dried pear along with crunchynuts, not to mention the spicy kick of crystallized ginger (which I lurve), a combination that would make any grandparent happy.

This recipe is fromMartha Stewart and also where these treasures were born. I made these blondies last week for a friend’s birthday and gave some away to other friends too. One friend inparticular sneaked a bite for breakfast, mumbled how yummy it was because itwasn’t too cloying, returned it to its foil packaging, went on to eat two bowlsof cereal and milk for a real breakfast and then without missing a beat, reached for the blondies again for whatI can only assume was dessert for breakfast. I approve.

By the way, happy Chinese new year! May the new year bring you and your family happiness and prosperity. I just got home from a very filling dinner of roast chicken and steamed fish marinated in a ridiculously scrumptious tomato and coconut broth. In other words, may the new year bring you lots of good food too.

Recipe here!

Rosemary Olive Oil Cake

2012-01-15T20:11:00.002-05:00

For the longest time I’ve been mixing, beating, creaming andaerating cakes, cookie batters and egg whites with an electronic handheldwhisk. It’s been with me since my parents bought it for me and has tagged alongin the 13 places I’ve called home over the years. When it’s not busy whisking,its bottom can be detached to function as a food processor or a blender (thoughI sadly lost that part in Montreal).

Though my mixer has served me well, I’ve spent many hours onmy laptop yearning for KitchenAid mixers. I’ve also hung out at The Bay formuch longer than socially acceptable admiring the rows of mixers that light upthe kitchen department as if they were trophies. I’ve swooned over the limited edition satin copper mixer at Williams-Sonoma, a spotlight directly over it, casting amagical aura over it.

Then, as if Santa missed the deadline, a KitchenAid mixerarrived at my doorstep. I was still asleep but roused awake when my mom,confused, repeated to the deliver boy: we didn’t order it, I didn’t order it! Turnsout a good friend of mine generously bought it for me and had it sent to mydoor. I wish I could tell you I tore open the box like a grizzly bear on Ritalin,but I didn’t. Instead, I waited 11 hours later to rip through the packing tapeand cardboard, I swear bells and angels sang as I lifted the mixerfrom its styrofoam shell and placed it carefully on the corner of my kitchencounter beside the rice cooker. It’s a thing of beauty and a lovely addition tomy baking arsenal (move aside handheld mixer!)

I would totally spoon it to sleep, take it everywhere I golike a security blanket, and take it out to parties, but I don’t think its whatnormal people do. I do however, look forward to many years of mixing, pouringand quicker clean-ups with my brand-spanking new mixer, knowing that there willbe plenty of breads and desserts (maybe I’ll successfully master macarons) towhip up in the very sweet future.

Take this cake for example, I don’t know what takes me solong to amble my way through my ridiculously long list of Must Make Now, but I’ve got to thank Heidifor this amazzzing creation. The cake is part herby, part sweet and a riddledwith chunks of rich chocolate, in other words, nothing could go wrong.

With the recent plummeting temperatures, nothing beats thewoodsy, rustic smell of rosemary and in combination with olive oil, it’s simplysensational. Not to mention that this cake is mostly whole grain (which is evenbetter if you’re into that kinda thing). The best part are the crunchy granulesof sugar and itty bitty bits of rosemary that you would think is overpowering,but rather, infuses a smoothing flavour in just the right amount. Trust me whenI say you ought to make this. Like now. Stat. 1, 2, 3, GO!

Recipe here!

Cranberry and Pistachio Biscotti plus Other Adventures

2012-01-03T11:18:00.000-05:00

I’ve wanted to share thisrecipe for a while, it’s very dear to me because it was one of my first loves whenI was in Montreal.I had browsed through recipes on Epicurious and baked my first of many batchesat my cousin’s apartment, wrapped in layers of cotton and wool since thekitchen lacked heat and the best way to stay warm was bake with the oven on atfull force.

But lately, there hasn’tbeen much need for that. If you’re like me, live in Toronto, you will know that the winter has beenunusually warm. We got a day of furious snowfall right after Christmas, butit’s already starting to melt into little rivers on the streets and given theremarkably good weather, I’ve been doing some exploring.

I couldn’t stop staring atthe ROM.It’s a beautiful building that sits on Bloor and Queen's Park, with crystal like structures spilling on the street, its design inspired by the museum's collectionof gemstones. I’ve passed by many times but never really tookit in till this last week.

On the same day,exhausted from hours of walking up and down Bloor street, my friend and I stumbledinto Carole’s Cheesecake Café tucked in a little nook on Cumberland street. Theircheesecake has been named the best cheesecake in the city and boy, does it liveup to that title.

I ordered a Taffy Applecheesecake and oh lordy lord, thefilling was fluffier than clouds and as light as whipped cream, but the bestpart was the topping. There was crunchy toffee and crystallized apples tocontrast against the soft filling and then just when your tongue can’t handlethe sensory overload, there are slivers of soft cooked apples with a hint ofcinnamon. I polished it off my slice in record time. This is serious cheesecakepeople.

Laterin the week, I discovered a shop that sells imported Dutch products including Speculoos(!!!!). If you remember my love letter, you would know about my mad lovefor all things Speculoos. A very kindblogger from across the border also sent me Trader Joe’s version of Speculoosaka Cookie Butter (I love that name) for Christmas. I’ve been scooping it outof the jar with my finger spoon everyday...whoops! So much for making ice cream outof it.

There’s also been a lotof lobster. Lobster bisque, lobster soup, lobster hot pot, and lobster cooked in soy sauce. You should see my parents attack lobster, it's as if it was the end of theworld, in other words, hilarious. My mom has the biggest grin and my dad turns into a kidin a toy store.

In between meals and finding little gems in what is now my hometown, I’ve beennibbling on these dynamite biscotti. They are insanely addictive, crunchy,crumbly in all the right places, and intoxicate your mouth with the sweet smellof baked eggs and butter. They are undoubtedly festive cookies and would makewonderful treats to ring in the new years say at a potluck. I bet you will have people fightingto get the recipe from you. I certainly would.

Happy new year and thanks for reading, drooling, commenting and stopping by. May 2012 bring us more luscious and saliva-inducing sweets!

Recipe here!

Whole Grain Upside Down Cranberry Cake

2011-12-27T09:31:00.000-05:00

I’ve spent the past fewdays giggling a lot, most times with my dad, at my dad and also behind hisback. If you met him, you would know right away he’s a funny man, he doesn’ttry to be, he just naturally is.

My friend Bonnie loves totell the story of the time when she called my house looking for me. My dadpicked up the phone and for fun, crooned in a high-pitched girly tone, “moshi moshi?” (Japanese for hello on the phone). Bonnieburst into a fitful of giggles and between breaths asked for me, my dad blushedand handed over the phone to me. We proceeded laughing for a good five minutes andten years later, we still laugh about it.

The photo above was taken in Beijing during my summer vacation when I was visiting my parents, just in time to catch the Olympics. My dad still works in China and visits every year, though it's not easy to living on opposite sides of the world, we Skype everyday, sometimes with webcam (then again my mom and I can't help butpoke fun at his baldness so he rarely turns it on). My mom hates it when we goout and people say we look nothing alike, they never guess that we’re motherand daughter. What do you think? I look a lot like my dad, the same eyes, the same round face, I talk like him toosometimes and I like to think I got his DNA for seekingadventurous foods.

Last week was his birthdayand of course, I love birthdays because that means food. We shared a 5 lblobster cooked in soy sauce plus lots of garlic and scallions, and soon enough,our plates were teetering with gnarly lobster shells and legs. There was a look of deep concentration hanging on my mom's face as she wrestled out succlent pieces of lobster meat, because even though we were therefor my dad's birthday, my mom had long since planned to go to this restaurantfor its lobster, it's definitely her favorite food.

When we got home, therewas a cake waiting. I’ve been meaning to make this cake since I cracked openAlice Water’s The Art of Simple Food and nothing says it’s the holidays quitelike cranberries. In keeping with my experiment of whole grain flours, Iswitched out the all-purpose flour with a mixture of oat, spelt and whole wheatflours, dialled down the sugar in the cake just a tad and added orange zest tothe topping for a little kick.

We invited my parents’friends over to share some cake and of course, they obligingly said yes. They wolfed down their first slice and asked for seconds, I don't blame them, I had it for breakfast everyday with a dollop of plain yogurt. It’s a nice cake to have when you don’t want somethingtoo cloying, when you crave some fruit and something low-keyand rustic. The sour fruit is brought to life with orange juice and a carameltopping and then paired with a moist cake batter that is just right, not toosweet and not too dry. The flours give the cake a nutty, grainy texture thatcrumbles to bite-sized pieces, perfect for your fork to stab at.

It might not be theprettiest cake, but when you make it for someone who you haven’t seen in awhile and manages to cheer you up instantly when you had a bad day, it doesn’tmatter.

Happy holidays folks!

Recipe here!

Pasta with Squash and Brown Butter

2011-12-19T13:47:00.000-05:00

When I was forced to cook for myself back in my undergrad years, and soup noodles with boiled bokchoy and canned sardines was getting tedious, I would escape from dorm and stay with my cousin Sandra in downtown Montreal for the weekend.

We would pore over foodmagazines, Epicurious, cookbooks or just bounced dinner ideas back and forthbased on our cravings. One food magazine we flipped through for inspirationeven in the frigid December was a summer issue of Donna Hay. She’s my first food idol, herpictures are always alluring, simple and clean, her menu ideas entertaining andfresh.

A while ago, Sandra haddated a tall, handsome fellow with the finest manners, even the Queen couldn’tstifle a crush on him. He had a sexy, deep chuckle to complimentSandra’s shrill laughter and he always made her smile in a way that even hereyes twinkled. For her birthday, he bought her Donna Hay’s InstantCook and on the inside front cover scribbled in thick black Sharpie was a lovenote that went something like this:

Happy birthday, may you cook many moredrool-worthy meals…so you can share it all with your friends, especially me.

I treated that cookbooklike my own, I studied each page like a textbook, furiously bookmarking recipesthat caught my attention. Sometimes I used my old Canon point and shoot tophotograph a recipe like the eggplant ricotta and parmesan bake.

However, my impatience tohave my own cookbook grew too strong. One quiet morning, I succumbedto my unrelenting ~~desire~~ need for the beautiful books, so rather thanmemorizing the chemical structure of branched-chain amino acids and how manyATP are produced from 1 glucose molecule (Biochem anyone?), I jumped onIndigo.com and purchased not one-but two Donna Hay books. I convinced myself: they are an early Christmas gift…theshipping is free…I’ve been mostly frugal this month!

Soon enough, a slendercardboard package arrived at my front door. I tore threw it like a kid on BoxingDay and jumped up and down. They might not have endearing notes scrawled on theinside, but they belonged to me, and it wasn’t long before I bought more of herbooks including Entertainingand ModernClassics Volume 1.

One of the things I loveabout Donna Hay is the inspiring, easily adaptable recipes. I first made this pasta on Thanksgiving weekend back in October (we Canadianscelebrate the holiday a month before our neighbors). If you were here on theEast coast, you may recall how oddly warm that weekend was, so warm in fact, Isat outside on the balcony in my pajama shorts and a t-shirt (short sleeves! inthe fall!) and slurped my pasta with the sun beaming on my face. And of course, the best partof this dish is the brown butter. Did I get your attention? Repeat after mefolks, brown butter. Brown butter. Brownbutter. I don’t think I need to explain, it really is the best thing ever.

The brown butter is lacedinto every noodle, the squash accentuating its caramelized flavour and theparmesan tones down the sweetness with its salty pungency. This sauce is sophenomenal, so brilliant, it will knockyour socks off. Don’t wear socks? Pants! It will knock your pants off!

The procedure is abreeze: golden fat is slowly melted to a beautiful deep color, turning your kitchen into a nutty, sweet heaven. Then this liquid gold is tossedwith pasta and cubed squash plus a generous handful of sharp parmesan. Tada! That's it.

Just remember,brown butter makes everything tasteridiculously good. If it was drenched over cardboard, I bet you would like it too (but notadvised).

Recipe here!

Chocolate Espresso Black Pepper Cookies

2011-12-13T09:54:00.000-05:00

Everyone seems to have a strong opinion of coffee. I havefriends who don’t touch it at all or those who use it like a drug to help them getthrough a night of cramming for exams, then there are people who depend on caffeine to jolt themawake lest they crash with a mind-numbing headache. I fall in neither of thosecategories, although when I do drink it, I want it strong and bold,with nothing else but milk swirled in.

I am particularly fond of café au lait. At Premiere Moisson,you can order it in a cup or bowl, and of course being a Francophile, I order abowl, because what is better than sipping a bowlof coffee alongside your chocolatine? I could dive into that café andlather myself in that milky foam. I haven't discovered many cafes here in Toronto that offers the same thing, but if you do, please share!

I’m not an expert in coffee, but I’ve been a loyal consumer of Lazzavacoffee for a while, particularly the 100% Arabica brand, vacuum packed ingold foil, shining brightly on the supermarket aisle like a piece of the yellowbrick road. Its dizzying aroma and sweet, almost vanilla-like flavour was my go-to comfort drink. But then I met Kicking Horse and I can’t seem to goback.

A few weeks ago, I went to Longo’s to pick up a few items,among them was coffee. I was hovering around the coffee station, eyeing Frenchpresses and milk foamers (I excel at hovering and eyeing kitchen equipment)and the man at the coffee counter, Michel, came bustling over, bellowed Hello! and offered to give me a Coffee101 class, to which I responded why of course.

I learned: the best coffee are made from 100% Arabica beans and roasted beans should always be bought in small quantities to retain freshness, theyshould never be stored in the fridge and depending on what machine is used tobrew coffee, the degree to which the beans are ground varies. For example,I use a percolator at home and as opposed to the powdery coffee in the Lazzavabrand, the beans should be ground to a slightly coarser texture, which means I've been doing it all wrong the past few years.

I left with pound of Kicking Horse coffee, its scent intoxicating my car on the ride home. I was thrilled with my new purchase andcharmed by Michel’s passion, his eyes shone with joy as he talked about coffeeand his enthusiasm was contagious. He bid me farewell with ashot of espresso, leaving my mouth winey and tannic.

I chose Kicking Horse for a two reasons: I wanted somethingnew and local. I don’t know what took me so long to buy real coffee beans, but now they're the sole reason I get up in the mornings and they make one hell of abaking ingredient. I usually add a little coffee to chocolate desserts like Idid here, enhancing the chocolatleyness. Besides, ifyou’re a coffee fiend, why wouldn't you?

These cookies are originally called Chocolate Black PepperCookies, yet that didn’t do justice to the brillant addition ofcoffee so I added espresso to its name. These are icebox cookies, meaning the dough is shaped into a log, chilled and then sliced and baked to your heart's desire. What you get are cakey, crumbly nibbles, an adult version of chocolate wafercookies if you will. A hefty dose of pepper dials down the sweetness, there’s plenty ofespresso powder to give that unique, grainy texture and the ring of sugarcrystals sparking around each cookie adds an extra crunch.

I know you won't need me to tell you that these make a fineaccompaniment to coffee. So go on, roll up your sleeves and march to the kitchen, they await.

Recipe here!

Apple Spelt Cake

2011-12-06T09:32:00.000-05:00

I can’t handle alcohol.Not only do I lack the enzyme to break it down (alcohol dehydrogenase, in caseyou were wondering), the stuff discolours my face to a bright red, not unlikethat of a tomato. My neck and legs morph into blotchy map of continents andoceans. I know I know, I exhibit Asian glow at its finest.

On an empty stomach,alcohol gives me a severe bout nausea, impaired hearing, dizziness andseveral trips to the bathroom. I don’t touch it unless I have food in my belly, so the alcohol hassomething to soak up.

I learned the hard wayhow careful I have to be when alcohol is nearby. A few years ago, I was about to board a 12 hourflight from Toronto to Shanghai and I had not eaten in severalhours, because I refused to given in to the tasteless sandwiches and overpricedfast food at the airport. My carry-on bag was heavy with snacks to carry methrough the arduous flight. While my neighbours unfurled the foil-wrappedchicken and rice that smelled nothing like chicken and rice, I was digging intomy carrot salad, dressed with just a touch of lemon and cumin. As they stabbedrubbery gray pieces of lifeless meat with plastic forks, I was feasting onhomemade granola, infused with shredded coconut and roasted almonds.

I don’t like thestuffiness and foreignness of airports. I don’t like flying since I usually flyalone and it gets dreadfully lonely. I especially despise the unflatteringlights of the airplane washrooms (Is that me in the mirror? When did I look sosplotchy? Where did that pimple come from?). So to amuse myself 30,000ft abovethe ground, I bring homemade snacks, it’s the only thing I look forward to whenI fly economy.

Don’t go thinking that thefree flow of liquor makes flying bearable. It ain’t so fun when you get up touse the bathroom, faint and bang your head smack dab on the door, the impactreverberating the plane’s cabin and you tumble to the carpet for two seconds, wakeup, crawl back to your seat in style (on all fours, no less) and pretend nothinghappened even though all eyes are on you, staring with the same wonderment,“WTF?!”

It turns out thatchugging down that gin and tonic was a baaad idea (I thought it would be niceto sleep through the flight). I had to endure a nagging, sickening feeling of nauseafor the remaining 10 friggin’ hours of my trip. Apparently, the high altitudeand cabin pressure heightens the effect of alcohol. Liquor: 1 Girl with Pathetically LowAlcohol Tolerance : 0

So, moral of the story, Itry to be cautious with alcohol. I don’t touch gin and tonics anymore, thedrink is ruined for me. I do however bake with it. In fact, this cake has 3 (!!)tablespoons of rum. Captain Morgan evaporates in the oven and leaves behind a richand subtlety dark flavour to the cake, something you wouldn’t expect from aname simply called Apple Cake.

It’s not exactly a prettycake, definitely not a cake you would ask out on a date. It’s kind of rougharound the edges, a little imperfect, but the more you coax her, the morecharming she is. Apple pieces are wedged into a buttery batter, making the cakeextra moist. I switched out the all-purpose flour with spelt and whole wheat flourto add nuttiness to the cake and it worked beautifully, each squidgy biteful alittle nibbly and grainy and bursting with crisp apple flavour.

You ought to try thiscake too, it makes a good breakfast especially with a dollop of plain yogurt. Ipromise no fainting, no raucous behaviour, just save the rum for the cake.

Recipe here!

Peter Reinhart's Bagels

2011-11-29T12:49:00.000-05:00

Back in January this year, when fireworks lit up the midnight sky with sparks of color to ring in the New Year, I was staying at the Hilton by Niagara Falls with my parents and a girlfriend. We had a huge dinner at the hotel, stuffing our faces with pastasand pizzas and garlic bread. Then we spent the rest of the nightin our suite playing poker and drinking ice wine, and when sleepiness set in, we bid each other goodnight and crawled into our plush king sized beds.

I was just slipping into REM sleep when I wasstartled by eardrum-blasting fire alarms. My eyes flew open in panic, I jumpedout of bed, pulled on my jeans and wool coat, zipped up my bootswith my friend just one shoe behind me. My parents awoke, still intheir pajamas, blearily eyed and irritated. Finally, a voice boomed over the PAsystem advising guests to stay put while the fire departmentinvestigated the situation. We paced the room, poked our heads into thehallway, to see what other guests were up to, but they seemed just as oblivious aswe were. At this point, the alarms were still ringing at full blast andcontinued to do so for twenty painful minutes.

Before long, the same voice announced it was just afalse alarm. What a lovely way to spend the New Year’s, sitting at the foot mybed, arms crossed over my chest, fuming at my disturbed sleep because someretard drunk moron asswipe decided it would be fun to wake up the entire hotel.

So you can imagine my utter dislike for smoke alarms.In fact, when I made these bagels, they set off the smoke alarm leading me to callthem a whole slew of nasty names. The moment I opened the oven to rotate the baking sheet, the alarm burst at full force, I dashed to unlock the balcony door which thankfully,helped dissipate the smoke (my gut told me not to set the oven at 500°F, but Iwas adamant about following this recipe) and the alarm shut off.

Minor cardiac arrest aside, these are ridiculously good bagels. They arecrispy and golden on the outside, dense and sesamey on the inside. They arewhat perfection tastes like. It was an epiphany for me, the simplicity of only fiveingredients and the magical thing that time does to create crusty, chewy bagels. They sitcomfortably in the fridge overnight to stretch out the fermentation process andhelp bring out the subtle flavours in wheat, so I was excited, exhilaratedeven, to start my day baking. The smells of warm flour and yeast comingled, fillingmy home with an aroma not unlike a boulangerie.

They are not as good as Fairmount Bagels (which areseriously life changing bagels, hello?It’s open 24 hours! And nothing can compare to a 2am post-party bagel feast spentwith friends to help soak up the liquor running through my veins). These bagels are noteven close, but they bring back such dear memories of me hugging a paper bagfilled with a dozen fresh sesame bagels so warm, they are not only smelledamazing, but doubled as a furnace which is quite handy, since the Montrealwinters can be brutal.

I ate two bagels in one sitting and fought the urgeto inhale another. They need nothing else but salted butter smeared on top, they might even be worth setting off the smokealarm (but try not to call them names, this one bagel gave me the finger).

Recipe here!

Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies

2011-11-23T20:23:00.000-05:00

Neither of my parents are bakers. They don’t followrecipes, nor have they owned more than five cookbooks in their lifetime. Unlikeme, you will find my night table teetering with cookbooks and food memoirs,because nothing says sweet dreams more than a post-it plastered cookbook.

My parents are Chinese and cook what they grew upeating. They don’t need instructions to tell them to chop up a quarter cup ofbutton mushrooms and fry it with a clove of garlic over a sizzling hot wok witha tablespoon of oil. To finish a dish, my parents always eyeballed howmuch oyster sauce to dollop into a bowl, followed by cornstarch and water, thenstirred with chopsticks and added to the wok contents to create a sauce binding all the ingredients together. When I lend a hand, my mom would look overmy shoulder, order me to add more water, which I did, then bark at me again, more water! more water! Because heavenforbid if the sauce thickens too much, coating the dish with an icky sheen ofcornstarch.

My parents move around the kitchen in fluidmovements, like the way my dad ‘whisks’ eggs with chopsticks to make an omelet,furiously breaking up the yolk and adding a dash of salt to the bowl. This wasone of the first things he taught me in the kitchen, reminding me to only whiskthe eggs in one direction, if you start clockwise, don't changedirections and whisk counterclockwise. Why? He didn’t even know, apparently hissister told him it was bad luck to switch directions. It’s just a habit thatstayed with him and something I always think about when I whisk eggs.

One night, I was helping with dinner and became thedesignated egg beater. I grasped the wooden chopsticks between my fingers and tried with allmight to aerate the eggs the same way my dad did, with gusto, determined to conjure up a flurry of pale yellow bubbles. But alas, a 7 year old lacked those critical wrist skills. It took me many years tomaster the ease of whisking eggs into a milky mixture with nothing more thanchopsticks.

There are more than twenty dishes that myfamily makes often, none of which are recorded on paper. I could neverreplicate the dishes since I would have to go by feel and guesstimation.As a frequent baker, I like following recipes, I enjoy the detailed flow ofingredients and though I may stray from a few ingredients, tinkering and addingmy own ideas, the essence of the dessert I’m making is still there so I canalways recreate it and bring back those memories tied to them.

These cookies have been on my mind for a while. They’re100% whole wheat, another quality that intrigues me, I’ve always had aninterest in using whole grain flours, but never use them frequently. But Ithink that’s about to change. I found a recipe for a recipe for buckwheatcookies from Bojon Gourmet, although I’ve only eaten buckwheat flour in crepe-form,folded over ham, cheese and asparagus (a real treat if you ask me), I wasstoked to bake with it.

I didn’t quite know what to expect at first. Thedough looked gray, like It’s Overcast and Gloomy Skies gray, definitely not thehappy cookie dough that begs to be baked immediately. Still, I made a batch and despite not intoxicating my apartment with that alluring buttery scent hovering from every corner, theywere simply endearing. They won me over.

When I opened the oven door to turn the baking sheets,their middles puffed like giant, floating parachutes and when I took them outto cool, their bellies deflated, leaving behind cute dimples. They are goldenbrown on the outside, magical rings that I swear, are almost godlike haloes.These go suitably well with coffee andare even better when distributed to people you are very fond of.

There’s a considerable amount of buckwheat,bestowing the cookies with its undeniably gritty, nuttiness, and just when youwallow in its soft pillowy insides, there is a subtle heartiness from the wholewheat flour. These cookies aren’t overly sweet, which makes me like them evenmore, a mellow, earthy sweetness is punctuated by the combination of brown and white sugar. A pocket of chocolate teases your tongue in each bite,followed by, my favourite part, a speck of saltiness, which I think sets thesecookies apart from their typically sugar-laden cousins.

Go on, bake a batch and let them charm you too.

Recipe here!

Cinnamon Rolls with Cream Cheese Glaze

2011-11-15T17:41:00.000-05:00

Whenever the heavyrubber-lipped subway doors spring open at Eglinton station here in Toronto, a gust of sweetcinnamon fills the train. Other passengers don’t seem to notice, no one’s eyeslight up, nor does anyone breathe deeply, taking in the sugary scent, or how,like me, I immediately perk up from my seat, a smile slowly spreading across my face and worries of my tardiness to myappointment dissipates as the buttery aroma of fresh, yeasty rolls float intothe TTC.

There is a Cinnabon orsomething with the similar name on the basement level of a mall in Montréal(another evil decoy to tease hungry subway goers), always luring me to stop byand buy a cinnamon roll but I’ve always resisted the urge. The only time I didgive in to its seductive scent was at the Cinnabon at Union Station. I boughtone with my then-boyfriend, an impulse purchase in our morning rush to someevent we were on our way to.

The cinnamon roll was given to us in a largeturquoise box, similar to the paper boxes that McDonald’s packages its BigMacs, and for a second, I thought we bought a quarter pounder, the box washeavy and as I peeked at the cinnamon bun, it was massive, large enough to feeda family of four. Its microwave warmth numbed my hands and I grabbed a handfulof napkins to clean up the thick, glossy syrup seeping through the folds of thecinnamon roll.

Yet I don’t remember how it tasted at all. Clearly, it wasn't enough for me to turn back on myheels and demand the young cinnabon server to hand me over the recipe lest Icall the cops for his disobedience.

So I made these cinnamonrolls, yeasty buns to be shared with friends and family and even a stranger ortwo. I promise they will be remembered, engraved in your palate memory for manyyears to come, you won’t be able to resist their sticky, cinnamony fun. From the daythese bad boys are baked to the end of their lifespan, they will be the reasonto get up in the morning. Forget coffee, forget breakfast, forget work, thesecinnamon rolls my friends, is your new reason to live.

Written by one of myfavourite food bloggers, Molly Wizenberg (whose book the Homemade Life made mecry when she pours her heart out about the French boy who broke her heart),this recipe has been sitting in my ridiculously long list of “Must-Make”recipes for a much too long. If you start on it now, you could have fresh,warm, cinnamon rolls in less than three hours. To help you pass the time, youcould busy yourself reading this (hilarious!) or this (heartbreaking!) while the dough rises or make plentyof this to enjoy with the rolls, and trust me, the three hours will passvery quickly.

You don’t even need astand mixer (though I’m counting on you Santa), since the dough easily comestogether in a few steps. Besides, who doesn’t like playing with food? Or revellingin that soft, silky feeling of flour between your fingers? Or the way a sticky,raggedy mess transforms into a smooth ball with just the kneading of yourpalms? This takes a bit more time than say, quick breads, but it was well worththe extra effort. Really.

In other news! Guess whoI had the honour of meeting last week? Another of my favourite food bloggers:Clotilde Dusoulier of Chocolate and Zucchini. She gave a talk on the Art ofFood Blogging and George Brown College,part of the Stratford Chef School Joseph Hoare Gastronomic Writer in Residence.I’ve never pounced onanyone before, not even James Franco (Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drool onyou). She’s the sweetest, kindest person and I’m glad she didn’t call onsecurity given the eager way I urged her to sign my cookbook. Thanks to Lisa for takingthe picture!

Recipe here!

Spicy Chai Latte

2011-11-09T10:44:00.000-05:00

Ispend most of my weekdays at the computer. I sit next to a window thatfaces west, so on a clear night like today, I take a break from studying to watch the sun dip below the horizon, leaving behind purple, pink and orange streaks across the cerulean sky. It’s a little different everynight as the clouds dabble with the dramatic effect of shadows and light. I catch the show around 5pm and its definitely a highlight of my day.

Sofar, this month has been odd. The air is nippy with a bitter chill in thegusty winds, and then just as you’re about to complain that winter ain’t toofar away, the weathergods tease you with remarkably sunny and warm temperatures.So warm in fact, I can leave the house with just two layers and a scarf tiedloosely around my neck. It’s November people!Then there are some days when it’s miserable and gloomy outside, water dropletspitter patter on the window and on the street, people dash for cover, escapingthe rain that failed to give any warning whatsoever.

Onthese cold yucky days I pile on layers of cotton pajamas and furry socks and athick sweatshirt just to stay warm. I also saunter to the kitchen and make acup of coffee topped with frothy milk, then, last week it struck me that I haveyet to make some chai. Tea spiked with ginger, cardamom, cloves, blackpeppercorns and cinnamon, a combination sure to warm my toes. A while ago, Imade an apple crumble and had planned to make some chai tea usingthe same spices but I never got around to it since I was distracted by abirthday every week.

I’vemade homemade chai before yet I could never find the right ratio of spices thatI enjoyed. Like Goldilocks, I found the chai too bland, too watery, lackedthat kick, or just didn’t taste right. Chai to me (the way I like it and notnecessary how it is made traditionally) should be based on a deep earthyflavour from the black tea, then layered with homey spices that commingle totickle every nerve in your body.

Sometimelast week, bundled in my pajamas, I was prompted to turn on the kettle and pullout the necessary spices from my pantry. The whole process took no morethan 20 minutes: I bashed the spice mixture, tossed them into the saucepanalong with hot milk and let them steep. Before long, I held a steaming mug ofchai in my hands, satisfied with the tea, the blend of spices, and the touch ofsweetness from the honey. No amount of rain falling from murky clouds couldbother me and I promise this chai is sure to enliven your senses too.

Recipe here!

Marble Cake

2011-11-03T13:56:00.000-04:00

Years ago when I lived in Shanghai, my parents and I would go to theWestin hotel for lunch. There weren't a lot of dimsum restaurants back then anda twenty minute taxi ride wasn’t too bad. Besides, this place was prettydecent, there was good service, velvet curtains that hung from the tallwindows, soft piano music played in the background, and the manager came by our table to exchange pleasantries. Of course, what kept usgoing back were the juicy shrimp dumplings, steamed BBQ pork buns, and spare ribs with blackbean sauce that the chef consistently pumped out every time.

After lunch, we walked down to the bakery on the secondfloor and pondered over thick crusty loafs of rye, sourdough breads, andbaguettes, some dressed in sesame seeds or in a flurry of sunflower and poppyseeds, or just baring it all naked. On the other side of the room were homemadechocolates, heaping boxes of truffles for Valentine's day, chocolate bunnieswrapped in pink, yellow, and baby blue foil for Easter, plus little packets of orangettes,chocolate-covered mint patties and chocolate-covered almonds perfect for gifts.

There was also a table teeming with quickbreads, though they might as well have been called cakes, given the generous ratio of butter to flour. There was coconut bread, bananabread, pound cake, carefully arranged on display and each wrapped in cellophane, adorned with a gold label, tied with blue ribbons curled at the end like ringlets. We usually took home the marble cake, a heavy, nine-inch loaf with a gorgeous golden colour, an irregular crack running downthe middle, and the mysterious curves of vanilla and chocolate that hypnotized me on the ride home.

I don't remember how it tasted, but I do recall my momcutting me a piece for breakfast. Really, that's all I had. I hated milk back then, yogurt was out of the question, I didn't even eat fruit unless it was peeled for me (I'm a wee bit spoiled). The nutritionalcontent of my morning meals were the least of my mom's concerns back then-- time wasfar more important. School mornings were a mad dash, she had to rouse me awakeat six am, make sure I didn't 'accidentally' crawl back under the warm covers when I was supposed to get dressed, then she had to put breakfast on the table and usher me to the bus stop lest I miss it and shamelessly cab it to school,wasting $17 (a hefty sum in China).

The recipe is pretty simple: A basic white cake mix isprepared, chocolate added to some reserved batter, and then silky scoopsof vanilla and chocolate batter are dumped into the loaf pan like a checkerboard. Thebest part is the twisting and twirling of the two flavors; a moment to pretendto be a famous artist, using a knife to swirl the batters all around the pan…Etviola! An edible impressionist cake masterpiece!

My mom ~~likes~~ ~~loves~~ LURRRRVES marble cake. She's been urging me to make this cake whenever she spots me rolling up my sleeves and take out the flour the pantry. So being the awesome (albeit sometimes spoiled) daughter that I am, I baked this cake not once, but twice in a week. Once for her birthday celebration with her friends and a second time for her real birthday. You would make this cake everyday if you could. The cake is velvelty smooth, buttery and rich, yet not too heavy that it fills you with regret, in fact, just one slice is enough to satisfy the sweet tooth that never seems to go away.

Recipe here!

Chocolate Guinness Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

2011-10-25T12:09:00.003-04:00

I was intrigued when Ifirst saw this cake in Nigella Lawson’s book, then it popped up again onAthena’s blog in which I was redirected to Design Sponge and ding ding! that’s when I knew it was asign for me to make this cake. A cake like this beauty, reminiscent of a tallglass of stout, a cake with a glowing halo above it begs to be baked and frosted and shared among friends.

Despite the inky, lava-likebatter threatening to overflow my mixing bowl, the cakes turned outbeautifully. I did make one booboo though. One cake pan was actually larger indiameter than the other, so when I stacked them on top of another, it turnedout wonky, not to mention that the cake itself is quite delicate and as Itransferred it to my brand spanking new cake plate, I nearly split it in half.I’m not one to have the patience over layered cakes, I’m the kinda girl whoprefers her desserts simple and rustic, but it’s always fun to have beautifulcakes, especially for birthdays (like me and my mom’s).

For the first time in mylife, I used fancy cocoa powder. Byfancy, I mean I-treated-myself-as-if-I-were-the-Queen fancy. I went to theDelicious Food Show on Friday with a classmate and walked away with a kilo ofCacoa Barry Extra Brute cocoa powder and a spring in my step. I know that ideally, the bestquality chocolate should be used in baked goods, though sometimes I can’tafford to buy expensive ingredients, there was something about the dark, muskyscent of cocoa that lured me to splurge and splurge I did.

Nigella describes thiscake having a “resonant, ferrous tang” and Katie deems it “one of the bestchocolate cakes recipes out there” so comeon, isn’t that enough to urge you to make it too?

This cake is dreamy. In the oven, the signaturebitterness of the Guinness evaporates, replaced with a cake that is moist, dense,with a soft, delicate crumb. This cake could be a fatal cavity-inducing treat ineach bite, yet the beer adorns it with an unmistakable dampness, leaving it notoverly sweet, but just right.

I suspect the use of fancy cocoa powder amps up the richnessof the cake. The white frothy frosting gives a striking contrast to the dark, charcoallayers and on your tongue, there’s the undeniable twang from silky creamcheese. And when the sparkler candleswent off, it was a like a mini fireworks show. But nothing beats a chocolatebirthday cake more than a night surrounded by the kindest, the funniest, thesweetest friends you could ever hope for.

Recipe here!

Devil's Food Cupcakes with Peanut Butter Frosting

2011-10-18T13:10:00.000-04:00

When I was young, waybefore I learned to cook or even had the slightest interest in food, I had asmall list of favourite snacks. Among them were peanut butter crackersandwiches, really nothing special, just Skippy peanut butter squeezed between saltine crackers. Its taste was far from myconcerns, rather, it was the sheer fun of playing with food that kept memaking them, one after another, slowly and quietly in the hot, stuffy kitchen.

As the only child, I’velearned early on to find ways to keep myself amused and making these squaresandwiches was one of them. There was the ritual of opening the cracker package, I gingerly tore apart thethin, plastic wrapping, determined to keepthe conjoined crackers intact. When I succeeded, I broke apart two crackers and with one swift hand, a thick,glossy layer of peanut butter covered one cracker; just enough to fill thesandwich, but not too much that it would squeeze out when pressed together.Finally I aligned another cracker on top, addingjust enough pressure for the peanut butter to seep through the crackerpeepholes but not too hard that it broke the layers.

I’d proudly stack 5 or 6sandwiches on a plate, make my way to the living room, change my mind andrearrange them into a flat circle, lest they topple over. Sometimes, I’d makeextra and save them for my dad, who like me, loved snacks and his eyes lit up when he found the leaning tower of crackers by the bedside table. I think that was one of the earliest moments where I recognized the satisfaction and pride in watchingsomeone eat something you made.

Aside from themethodological measuring and mixing of flours, creaming butter and sugar tocreate air, baking is more than a science. It’s soothing, de-stressing and a little magical. My heart flutters like a butterfly when I watch myfriends sink their teeth into a cake I made, the satisfied sounds that erupt,the empty dessert plates, the crumbs on the floor, a smear of icing on thenose, baking is all about sharing.

I take any opportunity Ican to honour a special occasion, and what says happy birthday better than achocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting? I like cakes with a bit moreheft, denser and strong in flavour and these cupcakes hit the spot. Based onJill O’Connor’s recipe for Devil’s Food Cake, there’s a hint of coffee in thebatter to enhance the chocolate flavour and brown sugar to give thecake dark and richer notes. I adjusted the amount of white sugar and replaced alittle with malted chocolate powder.

For the first time, thisfrosting won me over. I find frostings too sweet, burning mythroat, but this frosting from the popular Baked stole the show. The creamcheese gives it that tangy, lush quality, yet the peanut butter manages to tonedown the cloying sweetness. On top of cupcakes, it’s like they were meant tobe: chocolate and peanut butter.

At my friend’s birthdayparty, we held our cupcakes high in the air and toasted. There were moans,groans and big sighs of satisfaction, compliments flew my way and I smiled. I can feel the magic.

Recipe here!

Chai-Spiced Apple Crumble

2011-10-12T10:46:00.001-04:00

In my undergrad years, myroomie and I lived on the Celestial Seasonings Bengal Spice herb tea. It wascaffeine free, ergo, bedtime beverage approved. We went through a box in just aweek, infusing our breaths with the comforting, homey scents of cinnamon,ginger, cloves and cardamom. It’s a surprise we didn’t empty the boxsooner, since Montrealwinters are famous for plummeting to -40°C.

I was inspired with theidea of a chai spiced dessert using the bounty of apples this fall. But I’m nottoo keen on warm fruit. Warm pies make me cringe. Grilled pineapples make meshudder. Hot crepes with soft banana slices make me gag. There’s somethingabout the texture of cooked fruit that I have major issues with, I prefereating fruit plain and cold.

I can’t say I never cookwith fruit, since I like to showcase the best of what the season has to offer.If I do bake with fruit, I make sure that the dessert is served at roomtemperature, like this blueberry galette or this peach clafouti.

But I digress. This applecrumble goes beyond the usual addition of cinnamon in the crumble mixture.Here, a flurry of other ground spices joined the oat-crumble topping: ginger,cloves, and cardamom, similar flavourings as the Bengal Spice tea. When Imassaged butter into pea-sized bits with the rolled oats, puffs of flour filledthe air, tickling my nose with the spices. I chopped up apples, tossed in sugarand cornstarch (to help thicken the sauce), dumped the crumble mixture on topand baked it at 425°F. In half an hour, my nose was more than just tickled; itwas seduced with the sweet perfume ofapples and spices.

The pan bubbled andsqueaked with hot fruit juices as I pulled it out of the oven. I waited impatientlyfor it to cool, but unfortunately, the apples turned out too syrupy sweet(from excess of sugar, but Eureka! Apple crumble dolloped on plainyogurt makes a superb breakfast!). On the bright side, the topping transformedinto beautiful crunchy, nubby bits of gold, the pungent mix of spices huggedthe apples in all the right places, giving it that exotic zing, that hit ofsomething different other than the old stand by of cinnamon and apples.

I wonder if I make crumble only for the topping, which I could eatall day long, especially if it’s spiked with chai--I just couldn’t refuse.

Recipe here!

Speculoos cookies

2011-10-05T10:21:00.001-04:00

My dearest Speculoos,

It was love at first sight. There you stood quietly, among your friends on the gleaming aisles of Le Grand Epicerie, stacked neatly, row after row, waiting to be devoured. Your ribbed red lid, your perfect round curves, the label that spelled out your glorious name: Speculoos.

My fingers shook with glee as I undid your cap, tore open the foil seal, revealing the most gorgeous caramel color I've ever laid my eyes on. Impatiently, I dipped my forefinger into your glossy, soft, luscious insides, and brought you to my lips. Oh! How you stole my heart. You were sweet! You were sticky! (akin to peanut butter, with a little less goo) And the best part of all, you had that kick of spice. It took me a while to figure it out, but lo and behold, it was cinnamon. You're scrumptious on bread. You're magnificent on a spoon. You're the sunshine in my mornings, afternoon and night.

You accompanied me on Parisian picnics, kept me happy on afternoon snacks in Prague, and filled me up on many breakfasts in Budapest. So you can imagine how petrified I was when your jar held nothing but a few dregs of Speculoos left. You can't be bought in Canada and buying you on the internet costs just as much as the shipping (!!) BUT then Dorie Greenspan, that lovely lady, came out with this recipe. When we first met, you were a spread, thick and viscous, the consistency of nutella. I'll do anything to taste you again, even if it means in the form of a cookie.

So I mixed and kneaded dough to produce little Speculoos cookies to honor our love affair. I was giddy with excitement, dancing on my tippy toes as I watched you turn golden in the oven. Your irresistible cinnamony scent wafting through my home brought tears to my eyes. You were nearly done! Only one more minute till the timer announces your arrival! My own homemade Speculoos! Come to mama!

HM MMM! You were fine. Fine like a hot sexy lady in hot sexy stilettos. You are crispy, sweet little bites of pure happiness. I would have preferred you with a bit more feistiness (ground ginger and cloves), but you are beautiful just the way you are.

I heart you Speculoos.

Yours forever,

Jane

P.S. You are the epitome of beauty, just like this linen tea towel I won from Athena Pilchta's giveaway, courtesy of Linea Carta! (Thanks Athena!)

Recipe here!

Vanilla Bean Bundt Cake

2011-09-27T11:39:00.002-04:00

When I grew up, my family occasionally bought a tri-colored ice cream sold in a oval plastic container, how three flavours managed to comfortably fit in a box always bewildered me as a kid. When you peeled back the lid, a dull chocolate sat on your left, pallor in flavor and left a bitter alkaline aftertaste in your mouth. To that wash away, you could have a spoonful of the fairy-pink concoction to the right, its taste screamed artificial, but its label said Strawberry. Finally, sandwiched between the two was plain ol' vanilla, which was no better than it's neighbors.

I typically dived into the chocolate and strawberry ice creams first, devouring their exciting, albeit cheap, airy tastes. The container was no longer pristine, there was a mudslide on one end and a cotton candy disaster on the other, the vanilla sat untouched in the middle. I left it for later use, like thickening my milkshakes or dolloping over waffles.

Vanilla just didn't do it for me. The flavour, to me, was something better suited for wimps too scared to try exhilarating tastes like dark swirls of chocolate fudge dotted with chunks of nutty clusters, or speckles of strawberry, cold but chewy on the teeth. Even now, if given the option between chocolate or vanilla cake, I'd give you a disgusted look, roll my eyes and serve you a hefty dose of sarcasm, “DUH. Chocolate. Stoopid.” Vanilla to me is a bland, white sheet of paper.

Initially, I wanted to make this chocolate expresso bundt cake, but since I already spoiled you with this tart, I thought vanilla would be a nice change. Despite using my own vanilla extract for months now, I've never used the nitty black vanilla seeds before. So I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the wrinkly pods, their dark, enchanting, musky scent overwhelming my nostrils.

Just when I thought the scent of vanilla beans was overpowering, it's magnified 238 times when baked in a cake. Within minutes after sliding the pan into the oven, a heady sweetness filled my apartment, from the front door all the way to the balcony on the other side. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything else but deep breaths of warm butter and sugar.

The worst part was not being able to taste it until much later, at my family's potluck dinner. I had to wait nine (9!!) hours to take a bite of this sucker, but boy, was it worth the wait. The golden ring surrounding the yellow cake was pure beauty, the grain (those little holes) was smooth and uniform. You could even see the vanilla seeds freckling each buttery slice. If there are angels, I imagine they would have this cake to accompany their afternoon tea, exclaiming how undeniably moist, light, and fluffy it is. They will dreamingly sigh how the cake glows with charm, its taste is simple and clean, not bombarded with other conflicting flavors, and then they will dainty pick up the remaining crumbs on their plates, lick their fingers and call it the Best Vanilla Cake on Earth.

This is the kind of dessert you want to enjoy with legs tucked underneath you, surrounded by a family that you adore because they share the same sense of humor with you, and it's just the thing to settle your aching heart after a long, hard week. I suppose vanilla isn't so bad after all (it's so good in fact, I had to change my blog header, so it could strut its stuff).

Recipe here!

A Dinner to Please Any Crowd

2011-09-20T13:36:00.002-04:00

One major epiphany I had in my university days as I swam languidly in cookbooks, finding my passion for food and cooking, was the magic of something called slow-roasted tomatoes. I don't recall exactly how I came about making them, but I do remember sinking my teeth into one, still warm from the oven. My heart skipped a beat, I couldn’t believe the candy-like juices swirling in my mouth and how the flavor of seemingly innocent everyday tomatoes had increased ten-fold while sunbathing in the oven. It was like my first kiss, that excitement, that rush to do it again, how it wasn't at all like what you expected.

Cooking tomatoes at a low temperature for an unusually long time concentrates its sweetness, turning even butt ugly tomatoes into the white swan of all tomato cookery. You don’t even need a recipe (but I'll give you one anyway), just fresh, meaty tomatoes, the Roma variety will do the trick. All you need to do is halve them, gut out the seeds and juices, brush with minced garlic, sea salt and olive oil, roast at 200°F for at least 5 hours. It will look pretty dull for a while, but soon, its skins will shrivel and the peppery scent of tomatoes will linger as you cook the rest of your dinner.

I served them as crostinis for my friends this weekend as an appetizer. I rubbed garlic onto baguette slices, topped with slabs of the wrinkled tomatoes adorned with basil. There was a loud orchestra of crunching and bread munching across the table, including a mumbling words that sounded vaguely like “Mmm...SOO...good!” If there was a tomato god, I suspect he would approve and feast on these crostinis everyday.

For the main course, I decided on parsley risotto with roasted mushrooms. I don't make risotto often, but I've always been obsessed with its creaminess, its warmth, its comforting goopy texture. I like trying new recipes and wanted to take a swing at Jamie Oliver's risotto for a while, and it did not disappoint. The herb does duo duty with its vibrant pop of color while perfuming the rice with grassy notes, and when it reaches your mouth, it releases its sharp, clean flavors, reminiscent of dashing meadows and sunshine. Button mushrooms enhance its earthiness, adding a slight meaty texture to the otherwise smooth risotto.

But no dinner is complete without a side of vegetables and roasted cauliflower could be your new best friend. They were crispy on the outside, yet still soft to the teeth, caramelized even, and entirely transformed from your old stand-by of raw vegetable sticks. Despite the explosion of miniature white trees descending on the counter, when I chopped them into bite-sized pieces, they charmed me 30 minutes later, sizzling in the pan, fiery hot and seared to golden perfection.

When the time came for dessert, oohs! and ahhs! chimed from the dining table like a christmas choir as I unfurled the Earl Grey-Infused Chocolate Tart. Then, as if on cue, the salted caramel sandwiched between the chocolate ganache and the pâte sablée (short pastry) oozed out like hot lava, only it wasn't hot, it was a cool, dark liquid, sticking to your fingers the way only good things should.

As I sliced triangles onto mismatched dessert plates, my friends exchanged excited chatter. Sadly, I lost a good amount of the caramel, as evidenced by the pool of copper liquid moving amoeba-like from the pan, to the cutting board, to the granite tabletop.

Armed with forks, we dug in. Though it was more like we hammered in. The pâte sablée was rock solid and stubbornly refused to break apart, but oh dear gawd, was it goood. I could feel every muscle, every ligament, every bone in my body relax. Even my brain shut up.

The ganache was cold to the tongue, but it melted ever so slowly, teasingly, just like Lindt truffles do so well. The caramel cut through the sweetness of the chocolate like a knife, bestowing it with notes of amber and a hint of salt. The buttery crust added a stark contrast to the silkiness of the other layers, its crumbly, sandy, even nutty texture, reminded one friend of the Almond Rocha candies.

For a few moments, it was quiet. There was only the clinking and clanging of forks scraping empty plates for caramel. There's no denying it, this is a sinfully rich dessert and may leave your friends clamoring for more, but one thing's for sure, I will definitely be making this tart again and again.

But the best part of all was the rhythm of chit-chat, the eruption of giggles, the tension when someone reached the climax of a story, and the undeniable chemistry between my friends was something I haven't felt in a while. At least not in my own home. The last time I hosted a dinner party with friends was nearly two years ago, in Montreal. It was something I loved, bringing friends together made me very happy, very satisfied, solidifying my home. It's taken sometime and a few unexpected turns to get to this point, but I can safely say, that I've settled in Toronto. It feels like home.

Recipe here!

Almond Coconut Granola

2011-09-12T11:30:00.000-04:00

There was a time when I was fervently passionate about my profession. I went to school to be a dietitian*, moved to Toronto, but particular circumstances has slashed my love for nutrition. Some days I feel like it's wringing out all my juices, till nothing but the bitter peel is left, even the pulp is a pile of mush lying neglected and tasteless.

Some days, I just want to throw up my arms in the air and call it quits, discard the title that took me 6 years to achieve. Self doubt kicks in, I wonder whether I am really destined to be a dietitian, then, I wallow at my misfortune that seems to have parked a permanent spot in my life.

But yesterday my dad said something to me that put things in perspective. I'm in my early twenties, this is merely but a minor bump in the road, a small hurdle in my career, I am still a dietitian, I need to be positive and find a way over that towering stone wall. Which is true. So true, sometimes I just need a reminder that my life isn't over. It's also a reminder that my parents are very wise and I love them so.

So to make the world a better place and to numb my cocktail mix of emotions, I made granola.

There's been a nip in the air lately. I grudgingly watched the sun cast a blood red sky across the horizon by 7pm instead of 9pm. Even the leaves have started to shed their emerald green colors in exchange for gold and rusty shades. Folks, autumn is upon us and granola is a brilliant way to welcome the new season.

Store-bought granola, to me, is overly sweet or laden with ingredients that you can't pronounce, but this recipe, from Leite's Culinaria is a just the remedy to satisfy that breakfast crunch.

There's cinnamon and coconut to give the granola flavor and aroma. Roasted almonds are crucial, providing a much needed crisp in each mouthful, I added sunflower seeds to amp up the nuttiness. And finally, dried fruits are a must, they add contrast to the otherwise tedious noshing of hard ingredients. I tweaked the recipe by using less sugar, confident that the quarter cup of honey will suffice.

My favorite kind of recipes are the ones you can easily adjust to suit your tastes or whatever is sitting in your pantry. If you, like me, wanted to make exotic granola using crystallized ginger, but they suddenly disappeared because you used them for this and couldn't help but suck on them as a snack, wincing in its spicy heat, you can use other dried fruits. I used dried blueberries, which aren't my favorite, but dried apricots, raisins, and cranberries would be excellent choices.

I had a generous cup of granola with an equally generous amount of yogurt for breakfast, and I must say, even with the early arrival of fall, I think I'll be ok, as long as I have this to keep me satisfied.

*Disclaimer alert! I am a registered dietitian, but this site was created as a space for me to showcase my love for food and photography and occasionally, lament about life, it is not intended as nutritional advice.

Recipe here!

Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger

2011-09-05T16:27:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite things about baking isn't the methodical measuring and mixing of ingredients, nor is it the pouring of thick, glossy batter into a greased pan, but the sharing of the goods. As I wrap them in foil to give away to friends, I imagine how their lips turn upwards into a smile, how their eyes flash with excitement, how some people unfurl the cookie wrapping and without missing a beat, stuff it into their mouths, complimenting me mid-crunch, followed by a cascade of crumbs.

My mom falls in the latter category. If I made cake, she will declare it the best thing she ever ate, without even biting into it. She will wield her fork not at one slice, but at two slices of cake, demanding a glass of milk to wash it down.

With equal authority, mom will push me to make banana bread. There's always a familiar pattern, beginning with her incessant scolding. First goes: Eat the bananas! They're going bad! Then: why aren't you eating them? Are you saving them for something else? And finally: For goodness sakes, the bananas are moldy, make banana bread now!

And I thought I was impatient. Sometimes I wonder if my mom intentionally buys a superfluous amount of bananas.

I've discovered a new banana bread recipe, though not really “new” per se, as I've dog-earred Molly's recipe for years now and just baked it last week. But I hope you agree that you can never be short of banana bread recipes in your arsenal.

This stands out from other banana breads in its addition of ginger. Crystallized ginger. Chopped bits of the spicy root popping in each bite, its sharpness mellowed by bittersweet chocolate.

I replaced some of the all-purpose flour with whole-wheat flour, favoring it's nuttiness and to trick myself into believing it would be more wholesome. Oh baby, was this banana bread good. My mom had two generous pieces in one sitting. I've been eating it everyday, in fact, I just had it as a post-lunch snack.

I urge you, with a little less anger than my mom used, to go use up that pile of freckled and mushy fruit, still conjoined by their wrinkly stem, its funk permeating all corners of the kitchen. Overripe bananas begged to be married with chocolate and ginger, and promptly introduced to your friends.

Recipe here!

Corn Soup with Dill & Blueberry Galette

2011-08-28T11:12:00.000-04:00

I cooked dinner for my relatives last weekend, however, the irony is that the star of the show, namely, roast chicken, failed. The real star turned out to be something unexpected, something that was the byproduct of the ideas jostling in my head.

There was supposed to be roast chicken. Ridiculously moist roast chicken. This roast chicken. Judy Rodger's Roast Chicken. Salted 24 hours before, the bird absorbs the salt, which is then released back to the skin, rendering it the crispiest, most tender meat you will ever lay your hands on (and I say hands because that's the only way to eat chicken).

Then for the fourth time in my life, the chicken threw a fit. It set off the fire alarm, its fat smoking. I wish I could say smoking hot, but that would be inaccurate, it was emitting-plumes-of-heavy-smoke-I'm-going-to-suffocate smoking. And it didn't taste bad, but it wasn't spectacular either, I've used the recipe many times and this time, it let me down. I'll share it with you another day, meanwhile, there are other dishes that I promise, won't have you cursing 235 times under your breath.

Like this corn soup. I looked here and here for inspiration, strapped on my apron, husked and chopped corn, spraying juices left right and center, as kernels bounced off the floor. I sliced up an onion, followed promptly by a stream of tears. I sauteed the gangly rings until translucent, added the heaping pile of golden nubs, dumped in chicken broth, blended the mixture, and added more liquid to reach a thinner consistency.

But the magic step was the addition of feathery dill. Simmering the herb drawed out its grassy, floral notes, levitating the soup to a new heights of freshness. Without it, the soup is passable, but throw in a few sprigs and it's like crowning it with Tiffany jewels--simply ravishing.

Next time though, I'll try roasting the corn in their husks first, because when the kernels caramelize (Oooh did you just go weak in the knees?) I think we will have struck gold. And why not simmer the cobs in water to leech out as much corn flavor? Or try these ingenious tips.

For dessert, there was blueberry galette, which uses I Loathe Making This, also known as sweet pastry dough or pâte sucrée. Harry Potter is to Lord Voldemort as I am to Pastry Dough. Since I began baking leisurely 6 years ago, it has always cursed me with migraines, bruises, and cuts. It haunts my dreams. It's temperamental, it doesn't like to form into a smooth ball, it likes to crack before the touch of a rolling pin, and no matter which recipe I tackle, making sweet pastry dough is akin to wrestling a bear, what's the point?

I tried a new recipe for pastry dough from Baking with Julia and immediately, my hands felt the difference. Perhaps it was the addition of yogurt, but as I massaged the cold butter into the flour mixture, adding tablespoons of cold yogurt and water, it came together slowly but surely. It's never been such a cinch to roll out pastry dough, it was obedient, it barely broke apart, it was as silky as a baby's skin. After forming it into a thin round, I dumped blueberries into the centre, folded the sides over and baked it. Minutes later, as I removed the baking sheet, a hot breath of fruit swirled around me, the berries had shriveled, it's deep purple nectar seeping through the pastry creating its own a jammy river.

We ate it at room temperature, when the blueberry juices had congealed to the texture of barely cooked jam, like homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving, but not nearly as sweet, more tame, more chunky. The pastry dough was a bit too soft for my taste, I prefer it a bit crispier, but it sure was flaky, the yogurt makes a brief appearanace, lending the galette a slight tang. And the best part? It was one less thing to worry about.

Recipe here!

Strawberry Jam

2011-08-22T10:00:00.000-04:00

When I think of jam, I think of my dad. With gusto, he would slather on strawberry jam on white bread (which he prefers over whole wheat) either for breakfast or sometimes as a late-night snack. Jam covered every nook and cranny of the toast, instead of seeing a golden border of bread around the red jelly, you would see, well, only the red jelly. There was also evidence of his messy tendencies: jam stains on the plate, a smear on his unshaven chin, the drip on the kitchen floor, and occasionally, a blotch on his pajamas.

I've never really been fond of jam, I find it cloyingly sweet, so much so that it burns my throat. But then this jam came along and I fell in love. L-O-V-E. Like Natalie Cole's Love. It's fruity, chunky, and the cherries taste as though they were just plucked from a tree and tossed with a touch of sugar. And since I've emptied the jar with my spatula, finger, and tongue, I've been a little blue. Nothing to sweeten my yogurt! Nothing to motivate me to wake up in the morning! Life will never be the same again!

I've been hankering over jam for weeks and weeks now and though Bonne Maman is my favorite, it's too expensive here. So, I consulted various websites as any determined jam-maker would do and rolled up my sleeves.

The moment I began mashing the strawberry chunks, releasing it's ruby juices, the kitchen smelled like a trail of grass, golden fields, and fresh berries, an enchanted garden, if you will. But I should have known, making jam isn't meant to be a clean matter.

No matter how many times I rinsed my hands, red sticky blotches always managed to stick to my skin, eventually, I gave up on cleaning every time I skimmed pink foam off the simmering pot of fruit. Much to my mother's disapproval, puddles of juice splattered everywhere on the kitchen counter, I can't help but make a mess (Did I tell you how I tried to paint my fingernails but ended up adding bright pink highlights to my hair?). As the undeniably fruity aroma of berries exploded in the air, I grew impatient, something best avoided when jam jars are sterilizing in a roaring pot of water. The jam wasn't gelling after several tests, so I continued to stir the pot grudgingly.

But finally, I scooped globs of cooked fruit into the jars and had enough jam to give away as gifts. In the morning, I jumped out of bed, and like my dad, dolloped a thick layer of strawberry jam on buttered toast, doing my best to avoid staining my shirt, I leaned over the sink and took a bite. There's only one word to describe eating something homemade and as easy as strawberries stewed in sugar: satisfaction.

Recipe here!

Mustard Glazed Salmon

2011-08-17T14:00:00.000-04:00

I'm a liar. My pants are on fire. I promised to share recipes from my cookbooks, but frankly, I haven't toyed with new ideas just yet. Instead, I'm going to share some fish with you.

One of the most popular ways to cook fish in Chinese cuisine is to steam the whole thing, and pour in a sauce, or rather, a mix of heated ingredients consisting of sesame oil, soy sauce, fresh ginger and whispers of green onions. That's all. A recipe isn't even needed, my parents can cook fish this way blindfolded if they wanted to, it's intuitive, unpretentious and easy.

As my fellow Asian friends can attest, the most prized part of the fish are the cheeks. These are meatiest portions and if someone at the dinner table were to pick this for you and leave it in your rice bowl, you were obliged to say “thank you”, lest a slap on the wrist for seeming disrespectful. My parents used to save this cheeky part for me all the time, perhaps I have the answer to my undeniably round cheeks, as my friends always lovingly tease me about.

To the contrary, my favorite part of the fish is the belly. When steamed, the heat vapors seem to transform this ordinary part into meat so silky, its slippery in your mouth, as though the fish has sprung to life. Dabbed in just a touch of soy sauce, the fish tastes even sweeter and nothing completes the meal better than a bowl of long-grain rice. My parents have never been fond of the fish belly, whereas I dig in headfirst (or rather, belly-first) once the fish is set on the table. They do however, remind me that my grandpa used to love the fish belly too, which I makes me glow inside because I miss him.

This recipe is about salmon however, and though there isn't the bright kick of green onions, it's pretty darn good too. My mom has been begging me to find new ways to bake salmon, since it's something we eat once a week, and to be honest, salmon dressed with a few squirts of lemon juice can get old pretty quickly.

I tried this a few times already and knew I'd be arrested if I didn't tell you about it. It's simple and you ought to make it dinner tonight. The fish we buy is salmon steak, a beautiful slab of pearly orange meat, practically glowing in the afternoon light. It's seasoned with a dash of wine, salt and pepper, then smothered with mustard, covered with foil and baked. Meanwhile, you can prepare the rest of your meal, be it rice, pasta or salad, anything will do. In the last few minutes before the fish is done, take it out from the oven, carefully unwrap the foil, brush with honey, cover it up again and allow it to bake a few more moments.

I'll admit, I prefer how the salmon looks when it's still raw, but when it's cooked, oh my is it sensational. The mustard I used is spiked with chives and fennel, a souvenir I bought for myself in Paris (le sigh), and it's wonderful on the fish, adding a creamy flair, kind of like how pinning a flower to your hair, or topping your outfit with a fedora makes you stand out in the crowd. The brush of honey embellishes the fish with a coat of sweetness, heightening the softness of the flesh. And don't forget to wrap the salmon with foil to trap in all the moisture as it bakes, lending the fish a velvety texture throughout.

My favorite part of the dish is picking at the tail ends of the steak, you know, those unattractive narrowed ends of the salmon, lying there innocently. It's the most tender bit of the fish and I love lapping it up with the extra marinade left in a pool on the plate.

We ate the fish with some vegetables and rice, then promptly left the empty dishes behind, so we wouldn't miss this breathtaking view.

Recipe here!

Whole Wheat Chocolate Chunk Cookies

2011-08-11T11:22:00.000-04:00

Last Tuesday, I woke up at 7:52am and made myself breakfast. I considered my options, I could toast the lone butt slice of bread lying forlorn on the bottom of the fridge, or pour myself some sugar frosted wheat cereal. Though the latter seemed more enticing, there was no plate, no bowl, no spoons in the kitchen. What could I eat it out of? My palm? My mouthwash cup?

I emptied the styrofoam box that held lunch leftovers and dropped a handful of shredded wheats into one side, drowned it in milk and ate each square with my fingers. I never eat breakfast standing up, but since I've been packing, wrapping and taping up all my belongings to for a new home, I didn't have a choice. The kitchen cabinets were stripped bare, and my mom had foolishly forgotten to leave out a bowl and a spoon on our moving day so we could fuel up for our big move.

Random items like pens, magazines, old letters, and eyeliner sharpeners, scattered the table, abandoned, because I had no idea where to pack them. Just to get to the couch, I had to snake through the maze of cardboard boxes that covered every flat surface in the living room. In hopes of killing the bedbugs who ruined my life last year and who may have found their new home in the pages of my cookbooks, I stored my books in garbage bags and left them on the balcony for a year, allowing the damned insects to die a painful death in the long winter months. Finally, last week, on a hot summer afternoon, I had a mini reunion with my cookbooks, my heart skipped a beat when I saw their beautiful front covers again.

As I recovered the chocolate cookbook that my friend Claudia bought for me, I yelped with glee as I flipped through the 167 glossy pages devoted to chocolate desserts in all forms conceivable: soft, sticky, runny, chewy, crunchy, oozing, cakey, and fudgy.

But I haven't been able to decide on what to make from my cookbooks yet, though I do have something else just for you, dear readers, I got whole wheat chocolate chunk cookies.

Repeat after me: whole wheat chocolate chunk cookies. Don't you love how that rolls off your tongue? Actually, it sounds ten times better in a British accent. Whole wheat chocolate chunk cookies. I'm licking my lips just thinking about them.

I baked nearly 3 dozen cookies and gave half a dozen to my aunt who promptly tore threw one particularly plump cookie while watching tv, talking to me and leaving a shower of crumbs on her floor. I gave one cookie to my friend, Liz. Her treat was still warm from the oven and because I was in a rush to meet her, it didn't have time to cool. So when she unwrapped it for a mandatory snack break, the chocolate had melted and clung to the foil, without hesitation, she smeared her cookie into the chocolate and popped it into her mouth. On the same day, my mom went to the movies alone—well not really alone, she brought two cookies with her and nibbled the first one ever so slowly, fighting the urge to finish the second one right away. Take that buttered popcorn!

These cookies are like those tall handsome men you eye from across the bar, with impeccable wavy hair like McDreamy, with a smile so striking, it gives you goosebumps (in a good way) and those piercing green eyes seem to beckon you to walk over and croon Oh hellooo there.

But before you run to your kitchen and dig out your measuring cups, consider yourself warned. These are lethal. Lethal in a sense that they will permeate your walls with the irresistible aromatic combination that is butter, sugar and chocolate (Essence of Butsulate? Harhar, how I amuse myself). Your home will still smell like these cookies hours later. And if you dare bite into one, it will make you weak in the knees, its thick exterior gives way to a soft, chewy cookie, riddled with bittersweet chocolate, the whole wheat flour adds a dimension of subtle nuttiness and complexity you don't normally expect from an innocent looking chocolate chip cookie.

And while we're at it, go get some ice cream (you need to cool down after talking to that handsome fellow anyway), scoop a hefty portion onto a cookie, press another cookie roughly the same size on top, and treat yourself to an ice cream sandwich--it is summer after all.

So friends, go bake yourself a batch of these dangerous cookies. Meanwhile, I'll be scouring my cookbooks for the next best thing.

Recipe here!

Peach Clafouti

2011-08-04T13:00:00.000-04:00

There's an old picture of me wearing a frilly dress dotted with pink roses, lacy socks up to my ankles and a straw hat fit snugly on my head. I wasn't posing for the school yearbook nor was it my 4th birthday. I was picking strawberries with my parents and their friends, in fact, you can see me squatting between the rows of berry bushes, the dry leaves crunching beneath my sandals, as I sucked on my red-stained fingers, clearly oblivious to the pay-first-then-eat policy on the farm.

I still eat fruit with wild abandon. In China, one of the best summer fruits are peaches, literally named water honey peaches in Chinese and they grow to the size of engorged baseballs. They need to be stored carefully, because one careless nudge will bruise them forever. The only proper way to eat honey peaches is with both hands and a big napkin. I ate two a day, refusing to share (selfish, I know), I revelled in its juiciness, even though its nectar-sweet syrup once splashed my new white shirt and the stain never went away.

I haven't seen those beauties since moving back to Canada and I miss them. Clingstone peaches however, are in season and thankfully, are not as delicate. Their yellow flesh is stronger and may withstand serious activities such as baking, which is always a good thing.

A few weeks ago, my friend Hayley invited me for a rooftop barbeque and it would just be plain rude if I declined. So I enlisted my other good friend for inspiration on baked peaches and that's when everything fell into place. I made peach clafouti, a French dessert with fruit baked in an egg-custard.

I've always wanted to make boozy fruit but the peaches I picked up at the store were still quite firm. I rolled up my sleeves and improvised. My sous chef sliced up the fruit, I simmered half of them with sugar and Grand Marnier, allowing the fruit to soften, then I made the custard, heating up milk and cream, adding it to eggs, flour, sugar, and lemon zest. I dumped all the fruit into a baking dish followed by the milky liquid--très simple.

It puffed up unevenly in the oven, giving it a rustic charm. The peach slices wrinkled in the oven, the custard turned a golden color, soaking up the peach juices. As it cools, the custard deflates a little; you can add some powdered sugar at the end to dress it up, or save some of that boozey syrup to drizzle on your plate.

Milos and I wrapped up the clafouti and brought it to Hayley's place. We sat on the patio watching the sun set behind a pink horizon, the scent of caramelized meat intoxicating us (or was it the orange sangria?), and then large portions of beef kebabs, roasted potato salad and cucumber and cherry tomato salad appeared on our dinner plates. We tucked in happily.

The time for The Best Part of Dinner took forever. All I wanted to do was to rip off the plastic covering the clafouti and dig in with my hands. But being the civilized lady that I am, I made new friends, sipped my sangria politely, giggled at appropriate moments and lapped up everything on my plate.

Finally, when the time finally came, I cut squares of peach clafouti and passed them around the table. Immediately, compliments flew here and there (I can’t help it, who doesn’t like hearing compliments?). I jumped back in my seat and took a bite for myself. It tasted like the lovechild between pancakes and puddings, fluffy clouds infused with peaches and cream.

It was a delicious end to the night. It took great restraint from helping myself to another slice, but I thought it was better to save some so I could have it for breakfast the next morning.

Recipe here!

Berry Berry Yogurt Pops

2011-07-27T10:57:00.000-04:00

I once threw a fit (that's an understatement, it was equivalent to a tornado) because I couldn’t buy a blender. Really. True story. For months, I had been saving money to buy my first kitchen appliance. I went to bed thinking of creamy milkshakes, fruit juices, and icy cold smoothies, anything to beat the sticky summers in Shanghai.

My parents and I made plans to buy a Philips standing blender after our lunch on a weekend. I had safely tucked away my cash in my wallet, too excited to eat, I was bouncing off the walls, chirping, “Is it time yet? Can we go now?” Much to my chagrin, when we arrived at the house ware floor of the department store, the price for the blender had shot up. I didn't have enough money to buy it anymore. I was devastated. I went home sulking, banged the door shut, screamed into my pillow, yanked my blanket to the floor and cried in a corner (I don't think I even cried that hard about a Barbie. I mean, it was this just a blender). I suppose I'm a wee bit spoiled.

Weeks later, I had finally saved enough and bought the blender. I hugged it all the way home, admiring its mint green tint and the stand with a cantaloupe-colored dial for three speeds. There was also a small button for quick clean and an inner tube to stick in the middle of the blender for separating seeds. It was beautiful.

Immediately, I plugged the white cord into a socket, dolloped big scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender, followed by chunks of banana and a dash of milk to make a milkshake. I concocted tall glasses of strawberry smoothies with ice and lounged on the couch with a book. Another time, I attempted to make kiwi juice, but it was grotesque, the blender contents turned a murky green color and I didn't separate the seeds, so the texture became grainy. The idea of making something from just the press of a button, how I could change and adjust the flavors and textures with just a few ingredients was incredibly fun for me. This blender became my best friend.

For Christmas last year, my parents bought me a small blender, knowing that I loved kitchen appliances (thankfully there were only cries of joy this time). It's similar to the magic bullet, but it goes by a different name, The Rocket. I didn't touch it much over the winter, I'd rather sip on tea and coffee to keep me warm. But recently, I've been blending smoothies every weekend to change up my breakfast routine.

So...I was going to tell you about a berry banana smoothie. Then I made these and thought who wants smoothies when you got popsicles?

Here are some berry berry yogurt pops, the perfect remedy to a heat wave. I didn’t follow a recipe, but went by instinct. I impatiently waited for them to freeze. I twiddled my thumbs. I oogled at food blogs from around the world. I ate some chocolate. Finally, hours later, I sunk my teeth into the frozen berry puree, but then the tartness of yogurt hit me--I forgot to add sugar to the yogurt. I adjusted the recipe and included sugar to even out the flavors and phew! it makes a huge difference.

I love the rosy pink color of blended raspberries. It's subtly sweet and you can play with other fruit too (melon or mangoes would be yummy). I’m looking forward to experimenting with other flavour combinations, like strawberry basil, or peach and ginger. Or even better, why not do as Matt Bittman suggests: cocktails on a stick?

There's really nothing better than cooling down in the sweltering heat with a few icy popsicles. Share this with your friends and I can promise you there won't be any tandrums.

Recipe here!

Ridiculously Rich Ricotta

2011-07-21T08:00:00.000-04:00

Homemade ricotta is a dream. Its silky and luscious texture slicks down your tongue, leaving nothing but the richness of dairy. This morning, I spread it on toast drizzled with honey and I dare say it was the best breakfast I’ve eaten in a while.

I first tried ricotta in Montreal. This cheese is a rare find in Shanghai, where I spent most of my life growing up, and if it is sold, it’s too expensive. Montreal (sigh) was like the start of a fun musical where the velvet curtain yanks open, revealing colourful spotlights from every direction and the actors bring you to a world far far away from reality. Living there opened my eyes to so many things, including cheese (Montreal is still my Happy Place, though in the winter, there are no blinding spotlights, just freezing winters).

I don’t recall exactly when I first used ricotta, though I’m sure it was in some pasta dish, like lasagna. I also loved that subtle flavour from plain store-bought ricotta and bought it once in a while to spread on slices of baguette topped with figs or jam. It was my little indulgence.

So my mind boggled when I read Smitten Kitchen’s mad easy recipe for homemade ricotta. Anyone can make this. Even a monkey.

And then last night, I made this ridiculously rich ricotta and now my life has changed. I’m not kidding. In fact, I’m warning you that if when you make this, you will never ever want to buy commercial brand ricotta again. You will scoff at the plastic containers idly waiting for their fate in supermarkets. They're nothing--I repeat, nothing compared to homemade ricotta.

All you need to do is boil whole milk and heavy cream, add lemon juice, let it sit and do its curdling magic, then separate it in a colander lined with cheesecloth. Go do some core exercises (like I did, to uh…better prepare me for the good things to come) and after a hour or so, you will have silky cheese in your hands. I stored my cheese in the fridge and in the morning, it thickened to the consistency of cream cheese. The acidity from the lemon juice gives the ricotta a mild tang, the dairy is unbelievably refreshing, almost floral.

The ricotta is amazzzzing on bread. On carrot sticks. On cucumber slices. On raw peppers. I bet it would even be good if eaten off the floor (but it’s not recommended). Depending on what you’re feeling, try it on bread with some olive oil and balsamic vinegar or with slices of fresh peaches, I’m sure that would be divine. Whatever you eat it with, rest assured you will have a cheese so smooth, so creamy, all you can think is: Where have you been all my life?

Recipe here!

Bread with Chocolate and Olive Oil

2011-07-14T16:13:00.000-04:00

Long ago, I was part of the varsity tennis team in high school, which granted us privilege to skip school, visit other countries (the most exotic was the Phillippines), and spend a week playing tennis games. Being part of any varsity sport was exciting and special, it was like being given liquid gold.

The team had five girls and every year, we got along splendidly. During the day, we eyed handsome boys from other schools and we cursed under our breaths at the opposing players. At night, we were paired with a fellow team member and stayed with “host families” who became our temporarily care takers.

I was barely a foodie back then, my knowledge of cooking consisted of instant noodles (oh, the shame) and scrambled eggs, I ate whatever my mom planned or whatever tasted familiar. My favorite breakfast was peanut butter on toast with sliced bananas. The Japanese family I was stayed with have never seen this combination of ingredients, but they were kind and smiled politely, ensuring that I was well fed.

When I returned to the guest bedroom to prepare my bag for the day, I found my roommate dressed in our red and blue tennis uniform, sitting on the edge of her bed eating. She unfurled squares of chocolate and wrapped them with white bread, munching quietly with the blinds still closed. They weren't just any chocolate, but the Côte d'Or Mignonnettes, glossy tablets with an elephant mold in the centre.

I was assigned to stay with her again for another tournament, this time we were in Beijing and the host family was German (the father moved to China for work and brought along his wife and children). Our breakfast spread could rival the royal family. Jams, butter, cream cheese, three types of bread, yogurt, milk, juices, a generous selection of tea crowded the table, and then there was the box of chocolate sprinkles. After spreading her toast with butter, my roommate held the white box high above her plate and designed an even layer of decorative chocolate on her bread. Did I mention she was European?

It shocked me that chocolate and bread could constitute a healthy breakfast, let alone a meal that was supposed to provide energy for hour-long matches. Still, she gracefully won her games, helping us win the trophy that year, her breakfast didn't have anything to do with her tennis skills, she was just a great player.

Chocolate and bread have long been recognized as a couple, from nutella to pain au chocolat, it's ubiquitous in Europe and I think it's just starting to gain more popularity on this side of the Atlantic. I think we should start a trend.

This recipe is from Matt Bittman, adapted from Ferrian Adria of El Bulli who serves this as dessert to his staff as part of the staff meals. It's as easy as pie: grate dark chocolate on warm bread, drizzle with olive oil and add a dash of sea salt. What you get is a spruced up version of nutella on bread. The chocolate melts into the little pores of the bread, the oil brings out the flavor of the roasted cocoa beans and then you catch a faint breeze of its floral notes and finally, the salt gives it that final touch, binding salty and sweet. I made this twice this weekend, I'm thinking of making it tomorrow, and again and again.

I can't guarantee this will win you any awards, but if you make this for your special someone, it might just score you something big.

If you're still hungry, you can read my featured blog entry for My Food Geek about some very sweet scones.

Recipe here!

White Sangria

2011-07-09T13:00:00.000-04:00

Alcohol and I have a complicated relationship. It's as if we were those couples that hook up, fight, break up, and inevitably find each other again. It's dangerous, exhausting, and addictive.

I have on several occasions fallen sick in the most unexpected and least desirable places (on a plane, in the park, on an elevator, in a tram). I’ve learned the hard way how alcohol can do nasty things to me, not to mention turning me into a tomato seconds within my first sip, so I drink with caution.

It's not like I chug gallons of tequila down my throat. What's the fun in that? But just one mojito can cause me to feel dizzy and my vision to go blurry. I suppose it's my Asian genes and the inability to break down alcohol that leads me to always bemoan: Why did I drink that? Whyy?? I'm not saying I like being drunk or have issues that require immediate intervention, nothing like that. I'm just glad that I could drink in the sunny afternoon and still get away with it.

However, I’ve noticed since my Europe vacation, the ill effects of wine/beer/anything with alcohol seems to have trickled away. No more headaches! No more nausea! No more lightheadedness! Golly, did drinking every night in Budapest do me some ~~harm~~ good? Even though I still glowed like a red traffic light, I avoided illness.

Which brings me to sangria. I love the summer for many reasons, but one of them has got to be the restaurant terraces spilling onto the sidewalk. There's nothing better than sipping sangria in the company of good friends. One particularly charming terrace is Boris Bistro in Old Montreal, I’ve always passed by, but I never bothered to step in. Thanks to Milos’s rad research skills, we settled at a table and promptly ordered drinks: a white sangria for me and port for him.

My glass sweat through my placemat, cold water dripped through the cracks of the table. Ice cubes crowded my drink, which was sweet with pineapple juice and mildly bitter with wine. I could sit there and drink all day if I wanted to, it was refreshing and oh-so-summery.

The following day, I visited Terrases Bonsecours also in Old Montreal, nestled on the St. Lawrence River. It has renovated since I last visited, the bistro area has added plush lounge seats so you can relax, let the warm breeze whip through your hair and watch boats float by.

We ordered a small pitcher of the strawberry/lychee sangria. It's got white wine, white rum, Soho lychee liqueur, pineapple juice, and ginger ale. But it lacked that kick, that tingly fizziness that would bring it to the top, regardless, I felt like I had been transported somewhere tropical.

I suppose I should drink up before summer whizzes by. So if you mistaken an Asian for a flashing red lightbulb, don't be alarmed, it's just a normal reaction.

Lemon Pull-Apart Bread

2011-07-03T20:00:00.000-04:00

Summer has arrived rather late this year. Last month, Toronto has gotten a lot of rain, random thunderstorms, cloudy days, even hail fell from the sky (golf ball sized ice cubes!). I've been performing several rituals to make summer arrive faster, including gulping down papaya lassis, sipping on strawberry milkshakes, and feasting on watermelon slices...apparently these are not scientifically proven methods.

Only after midsommar, the official start of summer, has the sun decided to come out and play. Let's hear it for bikini weather, for shirtless jogging men, for big scoops of ice cream, and for backyard barbeques!

Some folks may retreat from the kitchen at this time of the year, but I switch on the oven and bake.

I revel in having my arms elbow deep in flour, kneading and shaping dough, stirring batter, zesting fruit, yanking open a hot oven to bake a gratin, or whatever suits my fancy. I don't mind the heat. Then again, I spent almost a decade in Shanghai, where the summers can climb up to 39°F and I still play tennis outside. Heat and humidity doesn't bother me, lightning and thunder does.

There's been a little hype of this lemon pull-apart bread in the blog world. The recipe is originally from Leite's Culinaria and then experimented by Hungry Girl por Vida and Joy the Baker who tried a cinnamon sugar version, I stuck with the lemon version because I can never say no to citrus flavored anything.

The bread is fun to make. The only sad thing was the absence of an orchestra, tap dancing or fireworks when I took it out from the oven, because it really deserved a grand welcome.

It's a beautiful bread, caramelized layers emerge from the loaf pan, liquid sugar drips onto the parchment paper, and lemony smells waft the apartment. I skipped cooling the bread (why would anyone bother waiting?), peeled off a slice and popped it into my mouth. Sugar crystals dissolved on my tongue like candy, yielding soft bread with a big punch of citrus. It even makes Monday mornings bearable.

Recipe here!

Cinnamon Toast

2011-06-29T08:00:00.000-04:00

When I was younger, my favorite afternoon snack was toast. I'd stick white bread in the toaster, press down the lever and step back immediately, lest the toast spring back with a loud POP! When it was ready, I'd spread margarine across the toast, watching little mounds of yellow melt into the pores and glisten in the afternoon light. Each mouthful exploded with the salty sweet flavor of fat.

I am still a lover of toast, but mainly for breakfast. Actually, the only reason I roll out of bed is for my morning meal. I've been living on the same breakfast everyday for weeks now and I'm not ready to move on. May I introduce you to: Cinnamon Toast, a cousin to French Toast. Similar in taste and aroma, but different in style, Cinnamon Toast doesn't go dipping into an egg wash nor gets fried in a pan. All you need is bread, butter, cinnamon and sugar.

I like to toast the bread for a few minutes till it begins to brown. Then I coat a layer of salted butter, drizzle maple syrup, sprinkle ground cinnamon and throw it back in the toaster, allowing the sugar to mingle with the fat and warm spice. Keep an eye on it because burnt toast will ruin your morning, after a minute or so it's time to take it out.

Sadly, I've run out of maple syrup and have been using white granulated sugar instead. It's a lovely substitute. The sugar crystals aren't given enough time to melt, adding a sandy texture to the toast without losing its flavor. I imagine brown sugar would be divine, or if you had honey, you could use that too.

Cinnamon toast, the tastiest start to your day. What's your favorite breakfast?

Recipe here!

Spaghetti Bolognaise

2011-06-25T04:00:00.000-04:00

My relationship with food wasn’t always a happy one. Because my parents have raised me to always eat everything that’s been served to me, I’ve had my fair share of bad experiences.

Years ago, my dad made a simple Cantonese lunch of steamed rice in clay pot with some leftover chicken and slices of lap cheong (dried sausage). I stared at the piece of meat mottled with white fat. It was merely the size of a nickel, but it looked like a ghastly monster clasped between my chopsticks. I shut my eyes and swallowed, willing myself not to chew for fear of prolonging the intolerable salty taste disintegrating in my mouth. I remember running to the bathroom, throwing myself over the sink, desperate to get rid of the horrid sausage bolus before it burned my esophagus.

On another occasion, my parents forced me to eat guilingao or turtle jelly (derived from powdered turtle shell plus a few other Chinese herbs). Despite my parents touting its complexion-enhancing properties, it did not deter me from cringing at the turtles hanging out in the corner of the restaurant, with their freakishly long necks and beady eyes staring back at me. Yuck! I’d rather have 1000 pimples than eat turtle. As my parents slurped away their bowls of this so-called "dessert", my reflection in the black jelly stared back at me, the thought of eating even a smidgen of bitter jello made me burst into tears. I don’t recall what happened afterwards, probably because I wiped it out of my memory.

On happier days, my parents would take me out for pasta, where there was no need to coax me into eating dinner, especially spaghetti bolognaise. I’d stab my heaping pile of pasta with my fork, twirling it around and around, literally stuffing my face with meat sauce, staining my shirt, my mouth and sometimes my nose. It was a nightmare for my mom, but a heaven for me.

Nowadays, there is no food-stabbing, less shirt-staining and more pleasurable meals. Whenever my mom makes pasta, I cook the sauce. I’ve picked up a handy trick from Jamie Oliver in his Jamie's Italy cookbook, it turns out that adding balsamic vinegar to tomato sauce transforms it into a complex, grown-up dish. It’s not cloyingly sweet nor overly acidic, the spaghetti soaks up the deep tomato flavour, having you begging for more.

My mom for instance, ~~likes~~ ~~loves~~ LURRVES spaghetti. She can polish off a big plate of noodles in half the time it takes my dad and me. I don’t know where she got her noodle slurping skills, but I definitely didn’t inherit her genes.

The recipe is easy to follow, do all the prep work before hand and you dinner will be ready in no time. I promise there will be no tears and no power struggles at the dinner table. On a side note, I’m happy to report that I will eat lap cheong without running to the bathroom, though I still have issues with turtle jelly (shivers).

Recipe here!

Ruby Watchco

2011-06-22T09:00:00.000-04:00

I've been meaning to tell you all along. There’s a restaurant right here in Toronto that will knock your socks off. For real.

At Ruby Watchco, almost all the ingredients are sourced from Ontario. Every night, there’s one set menu, and each table is given large platters for sharing. There's an unanimous sense of satisfaction among the patrons who try to fit every morsel of dinner into their mouths.

The restaurant is led by the talented Lynn Crawford, if you haven’t seen her on the Food Network, you're missing out on how creative, how amiable and how much zest for life this woman has. On her show, Pitchin’ In, she travels to various towns to rekindle her passion, discovering one ingredient, say turkey, wild boar, crawfish, avocados...you name it, she’s on it.

She befriends farmers, pitches in, learning how they harvest the freshest food. In the second half of the show, she uses that ingredient and prepares a special dinner for her new friends. Audible sighs of pleasure span the table.

Chef Lynn’s ability to transform an ingredient into something extraordinary illuminates into her restaurant, I brought my mom to Ruby Watchco so we could experience something magical too.

Our waiter seated us at a table just metres from the kitchen. Already, I was anxious to be in such close proximity to her (Aren’t chefs intimidating? Not to mention TV chefs!). My mom, on the other hand was mad excited for dinner, she couldn’t sit still. Like me, she admires Chef Lynn’s gusto and originality. My mom had the biggest smile on her face, like a little girl in a candy shop.

To start, I ordered the Apple Sour cocktail; a fusion of apple cider, bourbon and maple syrup (you can never go wrong with maple syrup). One sip made my lips pucker, but then the golden sap mellowed out the tartness and a shot of warmth ran down my spine.

The first dish was truffled white bean and 5 minute hen egg salad, with Sleger’s Living Greens, garden radishes, and A.F.G.’s Seedless cucumbers (I couldn’t figure out who A.F.G. was). The balance of red and green colors, each leaf slicked with vinaigrette, made the salad look like a painting. The egg was perfectly cooked, none of that murky gray tinge when I hard boil eggs. The yolk was a gorgeous yellow, so bright, so round, like someone sliced the sun in half and dropped it on our plate. There were also cheese scones flecked with chives: elegant, flaky pastries served with whipped butter.

The main course was a feast. I rarely go to restaurants that serve too much good food. There was chicken soaked in a beautiful puttanesca sauce, a sauce so rich, so succulent, it bolstered the tenderness of the meat.

There was a flurry of side dishes: delicate Boston lettuce with cucumber mint dressing. Strips of grilled eggplant that was so moist, I had to twirl it around the tines of my fork like spaghetti just to keep it together. And if that wasn’t enough, there was orecchiette with whipped goat cheese.

I was so full, I felt pregnant, or as the Quebecois say, “Je suis plein.” It's a good thing I could take my leftovers home, because why wouldn't you want to carry these adorable boxes?

Before long, the cheese course arrived. Today was Guiness 10 year old Ottawa Valley cheddar by Forfar Dairy served with date and jalapeno relish and biscotti. I usually stay clear from musty, moldy cheeses, but this fromage was nutty and not too strong.

Finally, for dessert was the lemon and elderberry trifle with vanilla sponge, Hewitt’s sweet vanilla cream and a meringue kiss. A spoonful of luscious berries doused in cream was pure bliss. The crunch from the meringue added extra texture to the smooth dessert.

We were just about done with our meal, but my mom really wanted to say hi to Chef Lynn. It took us a while to work up the nerve, but eventually, our waiter Jon introduced us. I was blown away by how gracious and approachable she was. I rambled several compliments to her (I’m not even sure I made sense), she politely said thank you. As Jon snapped a photo of us, Chef Lynn gave a big grin and said, “Smile guys!”

In front of the kitchen, there's a large wooden table where Chef Lynn adds the finishing touches to her dishes before service, you can't help but admire her attention to detail and love for her craft.

I'm curious to see how the menu will change in the summer, in fact, if I do return for dinner, I should prepare a few coherent compliments, so I don't seem like a total idiot when I greet Chef Lynn.

Aunt Holly's Banana Bread

2011-06-19T15:47:00.000-04:00

What do you do with freckled bananas? With fruit is so ripe, the skin is just peeling off by itself? When their funk is so strong it’s attracting houseflies? When it gets squished and explodes in your lunchbag, rendering it Fruit that Must Stay at Home? By George! You make banana bread.

There's a recipe from Epicurious called Aunt Holly's Banana Bread. Aunt Holly has been a dependable friend in the kitchen for a while, teaching me how to make flawlessly golden loafs. I hear them calling my name hours after cooling--regardless if I’ve already had three warm slices in one sitting.

But lately, Auntie Holly has been giving me issues. Serious issues. Loafs sink in the middle with an audible PLOP! And I can never seem to find the balance between moist and dry. It's time to break up with Aunt Holly.

On the upside, the recipe is infinitely adaptable to additions. I have no qualms in adding chocolate chunks, roasted coconut, walnuts, a large swirl of peanut butter, or maybe an entire Mars bars as my friend urges me to do.

It's an easy baking procedure. None of that “mix dry ingredients first, mix liquid ingredients, beat together...” inducing a heart attack when my mixing bowl isn't big enough to contain the precious batter. Nah, Aunt Holly is easy going. She urges you to first mash up your smelly bananas, dump in all the other ingredients, mix well, throw everything into a loaf pan and bake for about one hour.

So put that pile of ripened fruit to good use and try this recipe. It's a breeze (meanwhile, Aunt Holly can stay).

Recipe here!

Paris

2011-06-12T15:10:00.000-04:00

For years I've been dreaming of visiting this glorious, romantic, mysterious and beautiful city. The fantasy of sitting at a cafe, sipping a café au lait and littering the table with shards of croissant left me breathless. Tearing off the end of a baguette so fresh that I can hear it. Bread so enticing that I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk so I can concentrate on that crusty piece of baguette and ingrain the flavor forever in my memory.

And those little fantasies did happen.

We sat at a cafe right under the Sacré Cœur somewhere in Montmartre. We sipped wine in the early afternoon, underneath a shady row of trees, smearing cheese onto baguette slices. We must have spent more than an hour there; it felt so good to feel the soft breeze and the first signs of summer in the air.

Another day, on a grassy patch by the Sèvres-Babylone metro, we peeled off our sweaters to substitute for a picnic blanket and laid out our goods: croissants and chocolatines.

On a chilly rainy day we made a trip to Maison du Chocolat on Rue Sèvres. Outside, we ripped open our box of treasures and ate squares of roasted coconut and hazelnuts enrobed in dark chocolate ganache. I could feel the cold wind seep away from my bones, replaced with the warm truffle melting in my mouth.

We were mesmerized by the enormous chocolate sculptures in the Patrick Roger boutique on Boulevard Saint-Germain and left with 34 euros of chocolate (sadly, not for us). Upon exit, the kind cashier offered samples. I picked up a green marbled orb, took a little bite, and my eyes widened as luscious caramel sauce oozed out. There was a kick of citrus in the truffle--I only wish I wasn't so caring, since I gave the rest away to Milos.

Guided by David's trusty recommendations, we made it a mission to have gelato and/or ice cream everyday. First off was Amorino, with locations scattered all around the city, most of which we judiciously visited. Unfortunately, Amorino's foreign customer service needs serious improvement. While we were greeted with impatient rudeness each time we went, our friend -a local - flirtatiously chatted with the servers and got a custom, tulip-shaped, gelato for his efforts. If I had been born a handsome French male, I would have turned up the charm as well, but as it was the interactions between server and customer were perilous during our stay in Paris*.

Strolling through Le Marais, we found Pozzetto. It's small shop compared to Amorino, so small that anyone could easily miss it (but we didn't thanks to our sensitive gelato radar). We gingerly carried our towering cups of pistachio and hazelnut gelato to a nearby bench and sat in hungry silence.

But the award for Best Ice Cream in Paris goes to Berthillon. We made a trip to the Île Saint-Louis in the middle of the Seine, where the first Parisians are said to have inhabited. The streets are small here, the sidewalks narrow and an even tinier shop on Rue St. Louis sells ice cream (Berthillon is also sold in cafes everywhere in Paris--how convenient!). Berthillon opened its first store in 1954 and prides itself for not adding preservatives, artificial sweeteners or stabilizers to its ice creams.

There's a menu posted outside the shop with a diverse selection of flavors. We ordered two scoops for each of us, paid about 9 euros (the most I've ever paid for ice cream), and walked along the cobblestone streets. I licked my praliné aux amandes crème glacée and then something happened.

Fireworks went off, jingles rattled, gold nuggets fell from the sky, Cirque de Soleil acrobats did flips in the air—really. No joke. I couldn't walk. I couldn't focus on any other motor movements aside from my ice cream. It was wonderful. Floral notes sang outloud, mixed with the aroma of roasted nuts, it was sooo yum.

I tried Milos's raspberry gelato, which was just as bewitching. It was like the genius minds of Berthillon hand-picked ruby red raspberries from their own garden, dumped them into a mixer, added a handful of sugar, a dash of love and called it a day. It tasted fresh and summery. Even that tartness so characteristic of raspberries remained. My neurotransmitters finally found their synapses and I continued walking, savoring every bit of my praliné aux amandes.

But Paris is more than just a place with for gluttons. Everyday Milos and I stumbled on something new and gorgeous. We found grand churches, lush trees lined up in the enormous and oh so magnificent Jardin des Tuileries.

We walked along the Seine flowing languidly in the heart of the city. We people-watched for hours in cafes despite being suffocated by the ubiquitous chain smokers.

We discovered adorable postcard shops in Les Halles and picked up a few souvenirs. We roamed aimlessly at night, along streets illuminated by the soft glow of lampposts, and past the Seine disturbed only by quiet ripples.

Paris was my favorite city of our Euro trip. There's so much to see, so much to do, I need go back and eat more Berthillon. So if you're heading to Paris and looking for an ice cream guide, do send a plane ticket my way, because declining your offer would just be plain rude.

*That last paragraph was written by Milos who thought it was best to intervene in matters of handsome men and ice cream (and he's a terrific writer).

Potato Gratin

2011-06-08T10:00:00.000-04:00

For a while now, I've been craving potatoes. Whether it be potato salad, baked potatoes, rostis, or even potato chips, I want it. My mom (a.k.a. Chef of the House) doesn't cook it much. Sometimes she adds it into Japanese curry and we eat it with rice, or she might cook taro (another root vegetable and similar in texture to potatoes) but adds pork and other flavorings that outshine the humble tuber.

A few weeks ago, I was reading one of my favorite food blogs and I stumbled on mouthwatering picture of potato gratin. It stayed on my mind for a while. I've also recently cracked open On Rue Tatin by Susan Loomis and she incessantly talks about the ease of making potato gratin during her summer months in Normandy, I can only assume it's a sign to roll up my sleeves and make gratin.

So last Sunday became A Day in Potato Heaven. I delegated Minh to peel the potatoes, I sliced them and buttered a glass pan, layering each slice followed by a liberal sprinkling of salt, pepper and swiss cheese. Two more layers were piled on top, milk was poured over the potatoes and then dotted with butter. The dish was baked for about an hour...et voilà! Out came a bubbling pan of golden potatoes crusted with cheese.

The great thing about this dish is the simplicity and flexibility. I didn't have enough cheese nor did I bother measuring exactly a cup of milk, but it worked. I used small yellow potatoes instead of large baking potatoes which probably prolonged the preparation, but it turned out fine. Though the most difficult thing was waiting for the damn thing to cook (we were so hungry and began scavenging the kitchen for something to nibble on).

I was too excited for the gratin that I inhaled through the appetizer of apple and fennel salad and helped myself to a generous serving of potatoes. I moaned with pleasure after each forkful. It was ~~amazing~~ earth shattering. Each satiny layer of potato congealed with nutty cheese sang a harmonious symphony in my mouth. Between bites, I wondered: Why hasn't anyone told me of the unbelievable wonders of potato gratin? Who has been keeping it a secret? Why keep it a secret? Sharing is caring. But I know the only fair question is: Why didn't I just make this sooner?

It was so good we finished the entire pan of potatoes, with me scraping the crusty bits of cheese and eating it guiltily under Minh's disapproving glare (its the best part!). I'd try adding minced garlic, cooked spinach, or even dashes of thyme to spruce up the gratin. And maybe I'd get started on preparing the dish earlier, to avoid the risk of a hypoglycemic episode.

Recipe here!

Prague

2011-06-07T18:31:00.000-04:00

The most memorable moment of Prague was not getting nauseous from two shots of plum brandy and a tall glass of dark beer on an empty stomach hours within arrival, nor was it the lovely view of the rooftop houses against the azure sky that temporarily numbed my back pain from excessive walking. No, the most memorable and bizarre moment was sitting in a stranger’s house in the suburbs of Prague after hours of bar hopping, talking ever so casually about relationships and looking up infatuation in the Oxford dictionary. We left promptly, feigning sickness--too wierd (Oh Prague, how you blind me with your beauty).

I’ve heard so much about how pretty Prague is, that my expectations were sky high. It's definitely gorgeous in its own ways: the rippling waves on the Vltava, the really good jazz music on the Charles Bridge and at this rad jazz club, the romantic sunsets and delicious dark Kozel beer.

Yet somehow my breath wasn’t taken away. When we climbed down from the top of the hill, back onto street level, we couldn't escape the ubiquitous graffiti (though there was some good artists out there), there wasn't a lot of greenery in the new town and the winding streets threw me off. I swear, it took Milos and I four days to find the same bus stop just to take us home every night. I knew my bearings in Paris, but I had such a hard time deciphering Czech that I blatantly gave up on our second day.

To be honest, the food didn’t win me over either. I didn't like the heavy meat dishes, potato and bread dumplings, or the sauerkraut (the sheer thought of cabbage gives me the chills since my one horrid experience where I laid in bed doubled over from pain for days. Sour cabbage, if you're listening: I hate you). The food for the most part was mediocre. We were probably so spoiled with French delicacies (chocolate, baguettes and butter, and more chocolate) that Czech food just didn't satisfy.

Though I will give the Prague credit for a few things. The best dish for instance was when I was recovering from my wretched dinner of alcohol and pretzel sticks. Milos’s cousin Alexander took us to a pub (whose name doesn’t stay with me) three stories high, crammed with people, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. When we were seated, Alexander rattled a few menu items to the waiter and within minutes, dishes magically appeared before our eyes: pork sausage links and mashed potatoes topped with fried onion, thick fries with cheese, and tortillas with spicy salsa. Oh mi oh my, the mashed potatoes were a hit. My eyes widened with each bite, the crispy onions was such a surprise contrast to the silky starch I just couldn’t put my fork down.

There was also Trdelnik. A yeasted roll of dough dusted in cinnamon sugar and baked on hot cylinders. We found another shop that sold these but cracked it up a notch by slathering the insides with nutella or caramel. I hear that these treats were a traditional Christmas food, until it became so popular people decided to sell it all the time—which I concur.

Prague also offered plenty of interesting occurrences. One warm day we were strolling along the Vltava, on the new side of Prague when the sun was setting. It was that part of the day when the sunlight isn’t too strong and illuminates everything in its path with a golden glow.

Once bypassing the Duck Lady (she was suddenly began screaming in an unidentified language at the ducks minding their own business on the river), we stumbled upon a charming cobblestone restaurant patio. We sat on a bench and admired the view of the trees, the flowing water, the sunset.

The view was beautiful, but not more long. A group of shirtless (and unattractive) men clearly drunk out of their minds were acting like imbeciles and yelling nonsense. Seated next to us on the bench was a bear, posing for picture (yes, you read that right). This sad looking man with a mullet was crouching and snapping endless photos of his fluffy toy. No more than five minutes passed when one particularly rotund and intoxicated fellow with obscure tattoos emblazoned on his chest grabbed the bear (who we dubbed Misery Bear) and found it a new home...on its lap. He bellowed in British accent, “Oy! Why you taking photos? Is this your bear? Can you take a photo of me and your bear?”

Poor Mullet Man. He mumbled something and tried to claim his furry friend. We left and walked through the curvy streets in search of icy drinks.

We returned the following day for dinner praying that the raucous morons had found somewhere else to party (preferably a black hole). Alas! They had! As we waited for our meal to arrive, the sky changed from gold to orange to purple to a deep emerald. The food was forgettable, but the two men at the table next to us appeared to be picking up two Russian ladies were trying to make the night unforgettable.

There was another time we were walking away from the clock tower, through the hoards of tourists when a tall breaded man walking towards us shouted towards Milos, “Want some mariWANA?” Wow. I didn't know my friend fit the stereotype for pothead.

But the most frustrating and head scratching part of our stay has got to be on our last day when we were scheduled to leave to Budapest by train. Desperate to make sense of the Czech language and signs, we searched for the correct platform to leave from. We failed. We asked the information desk (the man not once made eye contact with me, instead, kept his stone cold eyes on his computer screen) and were informed we had to make a transfer at Breclav to catch our second train to Hungary. Transfer time: 3 minutes. The woman next to him nonchalantly said, “No worry. You miss, next train in 2 hours. You ok? You wait. Yah?”

Forgetaboutit! We played it safe and waited for the next direct train a few hours later. We plopped onto the grassy park nearby and sunbathed, reading up on Budapest, excited for things to come.

Prague was memorable in terms of the people we met, saw, and eavesdropped. But Paris definitely swooned me and my tastebuds.

Budapest

2011-05-30T12:24:00.000-04:00

Let’s start with Budapest. Or as Milos who insists on pronouncing it like Magyar way: Buda-pchest.

We were darn lucky to have rented a prime spot in the heart of the city, the apartment was right next to the subway, steps away from supermarkets, close to a major shopping district. In the lazy afternoons, the sexy tune of a saxophone drifted into our apartment from the square nearby (I must add, Airbnb is a très cool concept. I was iffy about using it at first for safety reasons, but our host was friendly, very hospitable and made sure we were comfortable. If you haven't heard about it yet, hop to it!).

The most fascinating part of our neighbourhood was Deák Ferenc Square, named after the famed Hungarian Minister of Justice. Every night whether it be a weekday or weekend, this square was crowded with people in their twenties and thirties, lounging on the grass or sitting by the wooden decks on the pond, their hands grasping cold beers.

We joined the locals one night, bringing our own drinks. As we sat on our bench, a small group of young girls in miniskirts and high heels strutted by, two guys on short bikes rolled past us, a cigarette in their mouths. A bearded man stopped before us to scour through the garbage can for recyclable bottles.

The lamp posts dimmed the marble sidewalks with an amber glow, the friendly chatter and laughter mixed with the two piece guitar band strumming away gave the air a sense of bubbliness and excitement, like you were missing out on the all the fun if you weren't here.

And that’s what Budapest felt like. Everyday there was something to do; we visited the Gellert Hotel and Baths twice on our trip, soaking up more than healthy doses of UV rays.

We crossed Liberty Bridge and watched the golden sunset cast a magical sheen on buildings facing the Danube.

We ordered wine in the early afternoon at Művész café. Then we couldn’t bear to pass up these colourful sundaes: a mixed berry sundae for Milos and a lemon sundae for me. I nearly fainted with joy at my first bite; it was delightfully tangy and refreshing.

Never once did it rain in Budapest. For six days, we were blessed with skies so blue, it looked like the sea.

One night on Andrassy utca, we sauntered through wide sidewalks passing fashion boutiques and tall apartments, it almost looked like Paris. Then we stumbled upon a grandiose building, ornately flourished with statues and pillars, glowing by yellow spotlights. There were groups of formally dressed men and women in stilettos milling about; it became clear that we were standing before the Opera House. To the left was Callas, a café with outdoor seating, so without hesitation, we settled at a table facing the main street and ordered drinks and dessert. It was a quiet night, motorcycles zipping past and dark leaves rustling in the nippy wind.

We showed up again the next night for dinner. I ordered ravioli sheets with seared goose liver and truffle sauce. To be honest, liver scares me. It doesn’t have the most attractive name in the food world—liver. It brings to mind a red slab of glistening organ. Sometimes it tastes overpowering, too iron-y. But then again, it is considered a delicacy like foie gras and pate, so it gotta be good no? And surprisingly, it’s popular in Budapest; its usually found on restaurant menus. So being the adventurous eater that I am, I ordered it anyway, it can’t hurt to try.

My dish was pure bliss. The goose liver was mild, slightly crispy on the surface and dissolved pleasantly on the tongue. The pasta sheets were succulent, each doused in earthy sauce. After five bites however, my dinner became overwhelmingly salty. But overall, it was delicious.

Milos’s veal paprika with bacon wrapped cottage cheese wasn’t bad. Chunks of veal was hidden underneath a coat of thick orange stew, served along side some pickled cabbage salad.

As we ate, there was a little band playing jazz. The violinist, clearly the leader of the group, is a funny character. On my way to the ladies room, he held up his hand, stopping his colleagues mid-song, allowed me to pass, then resumed playing the cheery tune.

We walked home in the spring breeze full and happy. Seeing all my pictures of Budapest still makes me chuckle. There were unforgettable moments with Milos that just made the trip a thousand times better than I could have ever imagined it to be. That freeness of drinking beer, wine, vodka or what have you out at Deák Ferenc Square under the glittering starry night really tied up my vacation. Europe (or most of it) carries itself with a sense of freedom, the I Can Do Whatever I Want Attitude. Though I could just have easily gotten this muddled up with how relaxed I felt on vacation, no work stress, no financial stress. It just felt good.

Europe in May

2011-05-22T22:55:00.000-04:00

I think my heart broke when my flight left Budapest, the end of my 2 week vacation in Europe. As the plane took off, I shut my eyes, squeezed my hands into fists and imagined my favorite moments: dragging crusty bits of baguette through seaweed butter, sipping rose by the Vltava river watching the sun make its way to the other side of the world, dozing off while sunbathing at the Gellert Baths, and sharing every beautiful and crazy moment with my travel friend.

It has been my dream for the last two years to go to Europe, namely Paris. Just following blogs by David Lebovitz, Chocolate and Zucchini and The Wednesday Chef who have written so much about the splendors of the beautiful city made me want to see and taste as much of it as my belly could handle. I imagined bakeries at every block, each one offering a dizzying array of baguettes, quiches, pastries and cookies. I yearned to walk down cobblestone streets neatly lined with tall trees. I ached to smear camembert onto toasts and sip wine in cafes. Cliché as it sounds, but Paris to me was a place shrouded in mystery, kind of like that mystical place that you wonder through in your blurry dreams with curiosity and excitement, each corner awaits a surprise.

That curtain of mystery has finally been lifted. The bread—fabulous. That crusty chewy texture that I crave for never failed to disappoint me.

The ice cream is to die for; intense in flavor, generous in portions and thanks to David's suggestions, I visited the best gelato shops (Here's Berthillon's gelato: to the left, raspberry and mandarin orange-peeking out on the bottom. Praline aux amandes and cappuccino on the right).

Paris is truly romantic. The Seine flows quietly in the heart of the city, there were always small groups of friends sitting by the water sharing a smoke and catching up.

When I was at the top of the hill in Prague, taking in the gorgeous view of the clusters of copper red roofs and the scattering of oxidized domes of grand churches enveloped by the lush forest, that moment wouldn't have been the same if I was alone. Sharing these experiences with Milos made my 16 days memorable.

There was a moment when we walked into La Grand Epicerie, a large grocery store downtown stocked with every food you can find and I stood there frozen in my steps. There were shelfs of mustard to my left, stacks of chocolate bars on the right, rows of jam before me and I was too elated to know what to do. Which way do I go? And what about at the end of the store? I NEED to see what those aisles have to offer too. Minutes later when my panic attack died down, we strolled through the charcuterie section and chose a mixture of proscuitto and salami, picked up Bordier seaweed butter (I know!!), a multigrain baguette, and a jar of Speculoos and Bonne Maman strawberry jam. We sat in the nearby park and laid out our treasures. That picnic was one of the happiest moments of the trip. The simplicity of each item, our hungry silence only broken when we peeled back the parchment paper of butter, even the slight drizzling of wet rain filled me up with immense joy, like this enormous creature was pounding from excitement, eager to be released from inside me.

I can't wait to go to Europe again, chew on flaky buttery croissants while lying on the prickly grass, soaking up the sun.

Bravi

2011-04-13T22:40:00.000-04:00

It's taken longer than expected to discover restaurants that lure me to return again and again. Lynn Crawford's Ruby Watchco on Queen Street East has definitely earned Must Go Back status. I not only watch her admiringly on the Food Network, but her creativity in combining ordinary ingredients to create extraordinary tastes is really just...well, extraordinary. Another terrific place is Auberge du Pommier at York Mills. The food is clean and crisp and fresh bread baked on the premises always earns brownie points in my book. My favorite part was sitting outdoors under the canary yellow and white stripped canopy surrounded by the lush garden.

This weekend I went with Minh to Bravi on Wellington Street East. An Italian restaurant that is definitely underrated. From the moment we walked in (Oopsies! 30 minutes late) we felt welcomed. The host took our coats and immediately offered us drinks at the bar. I sipped a glass of juicy sweet Kim Crawford rosé and Minh enjoyed a caesar.

A few moments later we were brought to our table, I didn't think much of it, it looked like an ordinary seating for two nestled in the corner. Our noon brunch was big enough to tide us over the whole day, giving us plenty of energy to walk from the Harbourfront to the Distillery district. We window shopped luxurious furniture shops, touched everything in quirky craft stores and explored cafes, inhaling lusty fumes of chocolate. By 8:30pm, I was ready to eat and boy, was I in for a surprise.

My arugula salad with bosc pear, roasted pistachios, and pecorino was divine. The perfect balance of bitter and sweet was pronounced with the Meyer lemon and olive oil dressing. The cheese added a hint of nuttiness to the dish. Minh's turnip puree with apples was sumptuous too. One bite took me on a wave of flavors (in a good way), first was that earthiness from root vegetables, followed by a jolt of tartness from the fruit yet tamed by the lemon cream.

The highlight of the night was not the food however; it was how our entrees took us on a high (literally). “Would you like to go for a ride?” Our waiter politely asked. Dumbstruck, I stuttered, “S-s-sure.” What I naively thought was “just” a quiet corner was really a freight elevator. As it clanged and clacked upwards, my jaw dropped. The company of other restaurant patrons disappeared and were replaced with the carved initials of lovers who declared their feelings in every wooden crevice possible. The only noise was distant voices from the kitchen and our forks scraping food off the plate. How sneaky Minh was to book this place, voted one of the most romantic dinner spots in Toronto.

I've been craving pasta the past few weeks so naturally, I ordered the basil-infused pasta sheets with seafood in a tomato sauce. It was lovely. Delicious. Fresh pieces of shrimp, scallops and squid were tender and succulent among the slippery rags of pasta. The robust sauce was rich and chunky in tomato. Minh's salmon with roast fennel was fabulous, the fillet intensely moist, the vegetables slippery on my tongue; fragrances of licorice and olive oil swirled together harmoniously.

I'm sure the elevator has passed rigorous testing and that it is in tiptop condition, but despite Minh's urging, I was too much of a scaredy cat to take a ride up and down. Why risk getting stuck in an old elevator with only a candle as a source of light? We had already finished our meal, the bread basket was long gone, and if it stopped working, what could we possibly survive on? Green olives? (Yuck) So we finished our main courses, came back down to ground level and stayed put with our desserts.

Though it’s always nice to lounge on my sofa and eat homemade bread, I still reminiscence the crackly olive bread, the soft and chewy rings of squid, and the thick cut pasta sheets in the quiet confines of the elevator.

Beets, Sweet Potato Gnocchi and Semifreddo

2011-03-20T12:09:00.000-04:00

Beets are one of my favorite vegetables. Sweet, silky, and earthy. Some may find them a nuisance to handle, but I find peeling them therapeutic. The thin skin pulls away from the flesh slowly, like how dried Elmer’s glue peels from your skin. Then a brilliant pink stains your fingers and the crevices under your nails. I like slicing beets into a bed of fresh greens, sprinkling goat cheese and drizzling vinaigrette on top.

I wanted to showcase them for dinner to my mom's friends. This crowd has known each other since high school, they emigrated from Hong Kong, each married couple settled in Toronto. They had cute babies, who grew up to be play dates (though in my case, they were more like mean boys), together they enjoyed countless dimsum lunches, followed by mahjong marathons. Two decades later, they continue to play their beloved game for hours on end, the click clack shuffle of marble tiles all too familiar to my ears.

My parents asked me to cook dinner for their friends, just as an appreciation to show how much they value their friendship. I agreed, but only because I get to dream up a menu and toy with recipes I've been meaning to try since...oh forever. Cooking relaxes me. In a smooth rhythm, beets are roasted for hours then peeled, fingers blotched a glorious magenta. Brussel sprouts are split in half to expose their intricate foldings. Tangelos are squeezed, releasing fragrant lemony juices. Dozens of pillowy sweet potato gnocchi appear, indented by the tines of a fork. As the sun leaves behind an azure sky, I don’t feel time go by.

The beets went into a salad. I turned to Epicurious, my trusty resource for all things culinary, and surfed through recipes to get a sense of how to construct my dish. I settled on baby spinach, arugula, frisée, oranges, sliced radishes and beets. To merry it all together, I made an orange dressing and baked cheddar and chives scones for the side.

The salad was luscious. The dressing toned down the bitterness of the greens and radishes, the texture was balanced with crisp and tender ingredients. The scones were unfortunately lacking in salt and called for a more pungent cheese, otherwise, it was fluffy and brightly specked with cheddar and chives.

The main course was homemade sweet potato gnocchi with browned butter, roast chicken thighs and dijon mustard sauce, and brussel sprouts. My mom’s friends lapped it all up, leaving only bones and puddles of sauce on their plate.

Mouths were wiped, dishes were cleaned, forks were scrubbed and I took out the dessert. Tangelo semifreddo was something else I had bookmarked into my list of Must Make. I’ve seen this on Epicurious several times and it always intimidates me. It looks too pretty, too delicate, too pristine. But since I had plenty of time to prepare it, I gave it a shot. It was awesome. Whipped cream, egg whites, tangelo juice and sugar were folded together, allowed to freeze in a loaf pan, and finally sliced into pieces garnished with segments and syrup.

My guests purred over it. It tasted like dense marshmallows, more airy than ice cream and the tangelos didn’t make me feel like I was eating a pound of butter. The original recipe calls for almond brittle embedded into the semifreddo, but I skipped it--I didn’t want to bother with the extra work. Even in its absence, the dessert was a hit. I brought it to a potluck a week later, and it was just as lovely. Now I can’t wait to make another kind of semifreddo, something with berries will be perfect for the summer…and that is something I’ve been looking forward to all winter.

Also, I’ve been spending time planning my trip to Europe (enter ecstatic jumping up and down here) with my buddy Milos. I’ve been dreaming of seeing skylines like this, eating too much of these, and taking a dip (or two) here. I’m stoked. Stoked I tell you.

Recipe here!

Triple Layer Chocolate Cake

2011-02-15T19:40:00.001-05:00

Triple Layer Chocolate Cake. Chocolate Ganache Cake. Intense Chocolate Ganache cake. A Slice of Heaven Cake. Laundry Bin cake. Cake That Should Replace Sleeping Pill Prescriptions Cake. There are so many names for this monster baby.

Not only did I spend nearly all Saturday making it, my mom also said she found chocolate everywhere. On the dining table, on the couch, on the kitchen table, on the kitchen floor, on my cheeks, underneath my nails, and clinging on my pajamas. The morning was devoted to baking the cake layers. The cake was definitely the largest I've made in all my baking years, I ran out of bowls to mix the batter. After much thought, I resorted to mixing the batter in the plastic laundry bin I use to wash my swimsuit (I promise I cleaned it before and after TWICE!).

In between watching old episodes of Big Bang Theory and reading my new novel, I prepared the ganache. Half a pound of dark chocolate was finely chopped, melted with heavy cream and left to chill. Hours later, it was spread on top of cake layers and then poured over like liquid gold. I gingerly placed it at the bottom of the fridge to set.

A few weeks ago I dined at La Maquette with my parents. The most unforgettable moments of the dinner was the rude waiter (“Each table is limited to one bread basket. Your table will have had three already.”) plus the melt in your mouth desserts. The strawberry mousse cake was juicy and sweet. The chocolate truffle cake was perfect. The chocolate ganache was so smooth, it melted on the surface of your tongue. Every bite felt like slipping on a silk dress then floating on a cloud.

Between each forkful, My mom raved at how much she loved the chocolate cake. You know she means serious business when she can polish off a slice of cake—she's a petite lady and has immense will power when it comes to sweets.

“I can make this at home!” I exclaimed. Since then, over the next week my mom has been nagging me everyday with a new question: Remember that chocolate truffle cake? Remember how freaking amazing that cake was? When should we buy the cake ingredients? What was I planning to do on the weekend? Does it begin with B and end in “ake?” My mom is not that subtle when she's trying to make a point.

So Sunday night, my parents invited a handful of family friends to come over so we could share the cake. I carried the 10 lb masterpiece to the dining table and impatiently waited for their arrival. When they finally came, I slices and distributed slices around the circle. There were gasps and sighs as our guests savored their dessert. I settled in my seat and took a small bite. It was rich, dense and intensely chocolately. The cake layers were moist and full of flavor. The ganache was just how dark chocolate should be: complex and bitter at first, then later, a soft hint of sweetness.

Contrary to my mom's appetite, my dad—like me—lives for desserts. I was astonished when he couldn't finish his slice of chocolate cake. It was a normal sized piece, and half of it was left untouched. I brought the rest of the cake to work and just after minutes of eating our slices, me and three other girls were dozing off at our desk. The cake is so rich it sreams for a tall glass of milk, followed by nap time.

I'm quite proud of my cake. It's my first layer cake and also my first laundry bin cake. But don't worry, I've made a mental note to purchase an extra large mixing bowl for future baking endeavors.

Recipe here!

The Drake Hotel

2011-02-15T19:36:00.000-05:00

Roasted brussel sprouts and mashed butternut squash was the selling point for lunch at the Drake Hotel. I haven't eaten the bitter green orbs in months, and I missed them. I indulged in 3 consecutive days of Happy Belly Time for Winterlicious—a food event where over a hundred restaurants have a prix fix menu, showcasing their sumptuous food at a reduced price. The Drake Hotel was one of our destinations.

I expected a lavish hotel with tall ceilings and moldings along each corner and arch, but I was wrong. The setting was rather a piece of contemporary art itself. A turquoise wall, loud orange and black vintage wallpaper on the another wall, mirrors rusting at the back side. Ceiling lights covered with coral reef shaped material to dim the dining room. “In/Out” printed outside the kitchen doors, always swung open by busy servers. Climb up the staircase and spy a bust of a large man with his back facing you. He is balding, as evidenced by his pepper gray hair--it's strange and just out of place.

It's an odd setting when all the elements are added up, I'm sure there's a reason but I just don't know. I can only reason what I eat.

My hands shook as I eyed menu, I was hypoglycemic, absolutely famished, I had skipped breakfast for this meal. I chose Caesar salad with garlic croutons and anchovies, followed by grilled skirt steak with mashed butternut squash and roast brussel sprouts (!!). And finally New York style crumb cake with pear and ginger compote.

The Caesar salad was lacking crisp and freshness, but the croutons were excellent, garlicky without being too overpowering, and I kept digging for more croutons beneath my bed of lettuce. The skirt steak was pretty awesome, a huge slab of meat running with juices and topped with tangy Montpellier butter. The brussel sprouts were roasted with charred bits, my favorite way its made. The main course lasted us nearly an hour just to finish. We were talking, sipping coffee and mimosas, admiring the adorable little girl with the fedora, and trying to get the waiter's attention to pick up our empty dishes.

When dessert finally came, my jaw was exhausted from the meat chewing exercises. I was bulging full but determined to finish what I started. Yet its such a shame to finish the meal with a disappointment. There was nothing “New York” about my New York style coffee cake. It was rock hard. It should be renamed Gobi desert style sand cake. The pear and ginger compote was mediocre, and lacked any sort of syrup. The cake begged for a sauce to soften the texture. On the bright side, my companion's apple strudel came with homemade milk and honey ice cream. Now this was worth loosening my belt for. It was fresh, creamy and not throat-achingly sweet. We ordered 2 extra scoops which came 10 minutes later, we oohed and ahhed and dove headfirst into our new and improved desserts.

Winterlicious you have been fun, I enjoy going about town eating and critiquing. When the snow melts away and the grass is greener, I look forward to wining and dining for Summerlicious

Lobster pasta with cheese sauce

2010-12-27T12:39:00.000-05:00

My parents came home with a 7lb lobster. It sat quietly in the sink with its beady black eyes and its large claws tied shut. I named it Robert. Don't you think robert is a suitable lobster name?

Its been more than a year since my parents and I have made a meal together. Since Mama C has moved here, she's been the executive chef. I've been demoted to dishwasher--not that I mind. I’m thankful for coming home from work and have dinner ready for me plus lunch for the next day.

My dad is visiting for a month, and his tastes are like mine. We desire for strong, adventurous flavors. Whereas mom prefers mild and less aggressive foods, example: my dad and I once dined over Sichuan food while my mom ate lunch an hour earlier and watched as we gulped down chunks of spicy hot chicken and chili oil noodles.

As much as I enjoy my mom's cooking, I’m especially happy for my dad's presence in the kitchen. He is not afraid to try new ingredient combinations, like how he makes fried rice with canned tuna, or concocting a miso marinade for a beef dish. I like to think I've inherited his cooking style.

So back to Robert. We decided to make a lobster pasta with cheese. There's a popular Hong Kongnese dish that bakes lobster with cheese on top, almost like a lazy and shapless gratin. My mom loves lobster. I skimmed through Epicurious (my trusty resource for all things culinary) for cheese sauces. The most effortless recipe instructed for milk, cheese, butter and egg yolks to be stirred in a double boiler. Clever! Sly! This way you would avoid burning the cheese and allows for a smooth consistency.

I didn't bother following a recipe; I like to use Epicurious for inspiration when it comes to cooking impromptu. I attacked the sauce based on my gut feeling. I poured the ingredients into a bowl set over a pot of simmering water and whisked. I added some parmesan for good measure, and what was once a lumpy mass became a velvety sauce.

Meanwhile, my dad was attacking Robert like a viking. Draining its wastes, plunging Robert into hot water, allowing his murky green shell to turn fire engine red. Then my dad pondered how to break him apart into smaller pieces. We didn't have a hammer, a nutcracker, nor a chopping knife. I suggested laying Red Robert on a cutting board and cracking him with the edge of another cutting board. Alas! It worked. My dad divided him into dozens of pieces, tossed him into a pan with sizzling garlic. He added rice wine and let the stock simmer. Five minutes later, it was ready. I tossed cooked linguine into the pot, added the cheese sauce, and stirred in the lobster and all its juices.

We settled around our new mahogany table. We toasted our wine glasses and dove into the pasta. Each strand was coated with a complex layering of flavors, first the salty sea washed in my mouth, followed by the silky cheddar sauce, echoed by hints of garlic. The lobster was chewy and meat peeled away easily from its shell. I cracked the shell between my teeth and slurped up bits of tender lobster.

It’s been a while since I cooked a satisfying meal that didn’t consist of soup noodles and boiled wontons. It been even longer since my family cooked together. I’ve missed it. Being separated makes every meal taste even better, just like this lobster pasta.

Recipe here!