The Rumbly Tummy: Soup, beautiful soup!

I love making soup. Have I told you that before?

Oh...I guess I have.

Well, anyway, my latest creation turned out so well I felt compelled to share it with you, so that you, in turn, would be compelled to make it yourself. Cuz it's damned good, friends. And healthy. And addictive.

D, like many men, is programmed to only shop in bulk. This means he buys entire trays of chicken and dumps them in the freezer, without separating them first. Which means I end up thawing 6-8 giant bone-in breasts at once. I am not a big chicken fan to begin with, and so I season and roast half of Chickie Chick for supper and lunches, and have to be creative with the other half. And this, my friends, usually means SOUP, glorious soup!

As I surveyed the frozen Chickie triplets on the counter, wishing yet again that someone would invent a way to prepare raw meat without actually having to touch it, my inner chef nudged me.

"Hey," she whispered, "it's all rotten and rainy out. Don't you feel like some nice, hot chicken soup? You know, like Nana used to make? With noodles and stuff?"

I made a frowny "Hmmmm" face and looked outside. It was a gross, damp day. The sky was the colour of old socks and the last brave clumps of snow were losing a valiant battle against the mud. Soup, eh?

"Plus," continued Inner Chef, "you can just slide that nasty raw chicken into the pot. You won't even have to touch it."

Inner Chef always knows how to convince me. So that, dear reader, is what I did, along with carrots, onion, garlic, celery and a bay leaf or two. Plus salt and pepper. Plus ginger and lemon. And I simmered the heck out of it for about an hour, until the chicken started to pop off the bone nicely.

Once the broth was done and Chickie was cooked, I strained everything and began to rummage, slice and dice. This is what I came up with:
- 1 onion, roughly chopped
- 2 carrots, thickly sliced
- 3 ribs celery, chopped
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 hunk of fresh ginger, thickly sliced

I threw all that chopped up goodness in my soup pot and sauted it in about two tablespoons of coconut oil, my new favourite cooking tool. It smells and tastes divine, is supposed to be antibacterial and you can rub it on your chapped winter hands afterward.

The smells that filled my kitchen were indescribably lovely. Inner Chef agreed. And pointed to my spice cabinet. "Forget the noodles. That coconut makes me want turmeric. And curry. And cumin. And lots of it!"

The measurements went something like this:
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp turmeric
1 tsp garam masala
1 tsp salt
1 dash cayenne powder

I stirred that into the veggies for about a minute, until the fragrances became so heady that I almost fainted into my soup pot from sheer bliss. I topped everything up with the broth and a bit of water, giving myself an accidental curried facial. Then I checked the cupboards.

Red lentils?
"Ooh, yeah," purred Inner Chef.
Wild rice?
"Why the hell not?" said Inner Chef.
Coconut milk?
"I thought you'd never ask," sighed Inner Chef.

And so my coconut curry chicken soup was born. Topped with lime, chopped green onion and cilantro, it's dreamy. I served it over basmati rice for supper and even D, an avowed anti-curry-ite, ate it and approved.

It's incredible that something as disgusting as raw Chickie can turn into something so profoundly yummy. Thanks, Inner Chef. And thanks, Chickie.

PS: I ate it all before I thought to take a photo, but this image is pretty close, if you don't count the noodles.

In praise of...Crashing at Tanzi's

My work from home arrangement dictates that I must grace the "real" office (and by that, I mean the one where I can't show up braless wearing ratty track pants with paint splotches) every three weeks. It's a sweet deal. What makes it even sweeter is that my monthly trips to the city give me a great excuse to catch up with friends, and crash with my sister Tanzi.

Her latest pad is in a quaint part of Kitchener behind St. Mary's hospital. There are all sorts of old wartime "doll houses" and quiet, tree-lined streets. Although Tanzi's old place in Waterloo was beautiful and had easy access to all the down-town goodness, it didn't have an extra bedroom, so I didn't stay over. At her new place, I not only have my own giant bedroom, where Tanzi's naughty allergenic kitty Gatsby is forbidden to enter, I also have my own bathroom. Yeeha!

Hanging with Tanzi is always a treat. We often cozy up in her living room to share the news in between bites of take-out sushi. Or we go out for Thai. Or wings. If it's too late for supper, we drink wine and eat chips, sometimes in her big bed. That's the beauty of hanging out with my sister: we share similar vices.


After our evening excesses, I love how Tanz always tries to make me a healthy breakfast in the morning. She drinks these vile smoothies with spirulina or wheat grass or chlorophyll or some other gawdawful stuff that's supposed to be good for you, but they give me the chills. She doesn't know this, but the first one she ever made me got poured down the toilet after she left for work. Lord, it was nasty! Even Gatsby wouldn't touch it, and that cat rarely turns down an edible offering. Thankfully, my sister always has a bottle of Bailey's and buys decent coffee, so that makes up for her attempts at smoothie poisoning.


Can't wait to hit the city again soon and hang with my sistah, drink her wine and baileys and have some laughs.

Hullo again, Oscar

Chris Rock presented, Sheila E percussed, J-Lo nipplegated, Clooney kissed Crystal, French dudes kissed each other, James Earl Jones smiled, Tina Fey glamourpussed...now THAT was a good show.

Yup, it's that time again. MY time. My goofy, long-awaited, eagerly anticipated, make-D-shake-his-head-but-admire-my-legs night: the OSCARS!

I didn't have time to run out to the store to buy anything fancy for my hors d'ouevres this year, so I had to make do with what I had in the fridge. So the menu was as follows:
- roasted sugared almonds & walnuts
- roasted garlic and apple wrapped in hungarian salami
- cheese & grapes
- olives
- veggies and baba ganouj
- chinese dumplings and sesame chicken
- teeny tiny leftover valentine's cookies

And of course the requisite champers, sipped (okay glugged) from my hand-painted Perrier-Jouet glasses. Not an overly fancy spread, but delicious all the same. I'd include a recipe, but it's all pretty easy stuff. Except the cookies but they're a family secret. Although I do highly recommend Canadian garlic if you're going to bother roasting any - the sweetness is leagues above the imported Chinese stuff.

Best of all, I had an excuse to wear the new silk coat D brought me from San Francisco Chinatown. It's so glamourous - shot silk, blue in one light, green in another, embroidered with tiny rosebuds. Paired with my old black dress, it made me wish for a red carpet.

Another Oscars, another night of silly fun.

The 5 Virtues of Solo Parenting

I love D dearly. I don't believe in that soulmate crap, but we are all kinds of awesome together. He's a great friend, a superb lover and a rockin' daddy to our kids. What more could I ask for in a husband?

We're not joined at the hip like some couples; we've got our own interests outside our nest of domestic bliss - I do tai chi and yoga, he does hockey and farming - and we spend time apart each week. In fact, my dear D has been in California all week with his Dad on a farm show tour, which means I've been a solo parent for 6 days.

Which means.....

1) I can leave the windows open at night when I sleep. D HATES it when I leave windows open in the winter; he claims he can physically see dollar bills floating out the cracks and chides me for being an environmental hypocrite. I'm green at heart, but I need fresh air, and not just during the warm lazy nights of summer. It's not like I let snow come in and pile up on the floor - I just need the window open a crack. So right now, every window upstairs is open and the mild winter breezes are a-flowin'. Chilly goodness!

2) I can use obnoxious amounts of cinnamon in my french toast, pancakes, muffins and fruit salad. D abhores cinnamon almost as much as he claims to hate garlic; the difference is that while I can easily hide garlic in my dishes, cinnamon's flavour creeps out and attacks D's tongue no matter what.

3) Bedtime is negotiable. I'm a night owl by habit, and I'm currently hooked on the Game of Thrones books, plus I'm trying to catch up on my Oscar movies before the big night. So I haven't been to sleep before 1 a.m. since D left! D and I don't always necessarily go to bed at the same time, but I don't like to read too long beside him because the light keeps him awake. But with no D beside me, I can read into the wee hours to my heart's content. (Oh, and to eat popcorn in bed without someone complaining of kernels getting wedged in his butt.)

4) The kids go to bed early. Or on time, at least. D works long hours, has a 40 minute commute both ways and picks up and drops off the kids at daycare. This means we don't eat supper until 6:30 or 7. Then he and the kids like to have some time to play together, so I don't have the heart to send Dyl and Jady upstairs before 8 o'clock. But since it's just me, and I'm done work at 5, they've been in bed at 7:30 every night - leaving me a glorious evening free to catch up on laundry, cooking, email and movies. Huzzah!

5) Our suppers have been lazy, decidedly non-gourmet affairs. Coldcuts and avocado slices, french toast and fruit, cereal and frozen veggies. I did make salmon one night, and a big pot of tuscan soup for my lunches, but apart from that, our meals are simple, and eaten wherever we feel like it. I'm not saying this is smart, or an example of exemplary parenting. It's just how I've chosen to roll this week. And I like it for a change.

I can't wait to see D tonight and wrap my arms around him. I can't wait to see his creased smile when the kids attack him. It's been a weird week - a funny combo of lazy and busy - and a good week, mostly, but it will be even better having my man back home to complete our family circle. Solo parenting is fun for a while, but I wouldn't want to do it this way forever.

February 14th 2012: Pink smarties, Heart cookies and Elbow soup

It's a curious thing, spending Valentine's Day alone. I know a lot of folks do it, and not always by choice, so I'm not complaining - just sayin'. D is away overnight, so it's just me and the kidlets here on Happy Heart Day.

D left me a giant bouquet of iris and delphinium before he left, telling me he got me blue flowers because that's the way he'd be feeling when he went to bed alone tonight. He's not usually that sentimental, so I smiled rather than rolled my eyes. And they are beautiful - sapphire and cobalt and lapis, with snow-white asters in the middle of the bouquet. I hate red roses, so these are perfect.

Last night, I baked six dozen teeny tiny cream-cheese heart cookies in between sips of a delightful coffee porter. The cookies are my mom's tradition - I have never found her exact receipe, but I make do with one I scrounged off the internet. This morning I iced the little morsels with pink icing flavoured with fresh lemon juice, although my mom always preferred mint. Jade iced a few of her own at breakfast to take to Grandma's, but mostly she occupied herself with wolfing down pink smarties and those nasty little sprinkles I abhore but she adores. Dylan smashed his cookie into a billion pieces, licked all the coating off his smarties and dribbled chocolate onto his shirt before making a valiant attempt to plunge face-first into the bowl of icing. Nothing says Happy V Day like kids covered in sticky yuck.

I wrestled the little monsters into their winter coats (boy, I missed D's strong arms!), found the hats and mitts and snowpants, got the cookies and valentine's gathered up. As I was forcing Jade's reluctant feet into her boots, I heard a clang and a smash that could only mean one thing: I ran to the cold room to find dear Dylan up to his elbows in the soup I'd made the night before. He had tomato and cabbage smeared across his arms, hands and lips and a blissful look on his face. Well, at least he likes it.

So that's my V-day so far. I'm blessed with healthy, active children, yummy food to eat, and a much-needed coffee with Bailey's waiting for me at my desk. That's all I really need, even though a warm bed with D in it would be preferable.

Happy V day to you, my bloggy friends!

Random happy memories from Christmas past...

1. Watching my father drink unsuspectingly from my "Office Tramp" coffee mug on Christmas morning.

2. The moment Jade chanelled the spirit of my Nana when she reacted to the mountain of presents under the tree:
(shakes head) "It's too much."

3. Paging Dr. Jade. My sister always gives the coolest gifts!



4. Dad: "I'm just going to put the turkey outside to keep it cool."
Me: "Um, I'm not sure that's a good idea. We have a lot of critters out there."
Dad: "Oh, it'll be fine."
- 1 hour later -
Dad: (hollering from outside) "Here, GIT YOU $%^&* STUPID BUGGERS! GIT AWAY!"
Me: "What's going on?"
Dad: "A #@%^& cat's been eating the turkey!! Look, it ate right through the bag!"
Me: (thinking for a moment) "Well, we won't tell anyone else, and you and me won't eat from that side."
Dad: "Good idea."

5. Sharing a special bonding moment with my dad: stuffing that disgusting wild turkey with bare hands. GAH!

Poetry 101

I used to write a lot of poetry when I was younger. Bad poetry. Mysanthropic poetry. Maudlin poetry. Regardless of the quality, writing poetry was a healthy way to express my teenage angst, and a harmless enough past-time. Until I decided to show my beloved poetry to an English professor of mine, who told me it was "juevenile" and that I shouldn't waste my time attempting to submit it to any contests or publishers.

Jerk.

Silly, impressionable girl that I was, I stuffed my poor poems back in my satchel and slouched back to my apartment, where I hid them in a drawer and didn't write any more poetry for a very long time. Actually, I didn't write poetry again, at all, until my late thirties, if you can believe it. Yes, I was that shattered by a thoughtless piece of criticism.

But I've grown up since then, and although I still feel my eyes narrow whenever I picture that arrogant professor, I pat my old, hurt self on the back and write poems whenever I feel like it. I don't care if they ever see the light of day. Haiku are fun; so are sonnets, although they take considerable brain power and I don't usually have much of that left over after a day of work and evenings filed with building block towers and teddy bear tea parties. Still, it's therapeutic, and pleasing, to find just the right words to express something you've just thought of, or seen out the window, or day-dreamed about when you were supposed to be listening in on that conference call.

My mother loved poetry; so did my Nana. In fact, we read several poems at Nana's funeral because we knew she'd have liked that. I found lots and lots of poems she'd copied out in longhand after she died, tucked away in cookbooks and drawers and photo frames. I found it interesting that she had written this one out, because my Mother had this poem hanging on our den wall when I was growing up; Mom and Nana didn't always get along, but apparently they had the same taste in poets. Hmmm.

I like Rudyard because he has a stiff upper lip, and the kind of wisdom I wish I'd had when I reached out a shaky hand to collect my poor abused poems from that wank of a Professor. So here's a little dose of Brit wisdom for you...hope it helps!

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!


Rudyard Kipling