Liberty, Liberte

I've come to the realization that it might be a long time before I have a deep, meaningful, sensual, intimate relationship with a man.

In the meantime, I've compiled a weekly grocery list of food and drink so I can keep my palete alive during my dry spell.

I've convinced myself that each week it is, in my situation, reasonable to purchase:

1 bottle of J. Lohr wine
1 container of Liberte lemon yogurt
1 bar of Lindt Madagascar vanilla chocolate
1 block of Emmanuel cheese
1 ethically raised, fresh out of the smoker chorizo sausage
1 box of Mary's gluten free crackers.....

Ok, ok, the list continues. My mind started running tonight, as I was curled up on the couch in my granny's woollen blanket, indulging in Liberte lemon yogurt, Mediterranean style, 7%. It is orgasmic - so thick that you simply need to skip your spoon along the top of the container. The yogurt will gather in soft waves, and will cling to the spoon while twirled.

If you do try it, make sure to twirl the spoon. It adds to the effect, and therefore the taste.

Liberte yogurt is so... succulent. The raw yogurt is perfect for recipes - it makes an excellent addition to curry, and provides a fine base for tzitziki. But what's unique about Liberte is their ability to pair particular fruits with their original yogurt. This is precisely where the lemon Liberte stole my heart.

The lemon Liberte is made up of the original plain yogurt, with a lemon zest rippled fruit bottom. The tartness of the lemon, with a dash of sugar and the original milk+cream combination of the plain yogurt marry in your mouth. It feels good. It feels fine. I'm just about to lose my mind.

Open House

Growing up, the concept of an open house meant one thing, and one thing only - the house had a big old "for sale" sign on the front lawn, and strangers were welcomed in by the real estate agent to take a look at a perspective home. Sometimes my parents and I would wander into these open houses on a Sunday afternoon, if such house happened to be in the neighbourhood. I never really questioned the antics of my folks; I suppose it was to get decorating ideas and keep an eye on the market. I loved seeing the inside of houses, especially living rooms and kitchens. But there was always something eerie about an open house that as a child, I couldn't quite put my finger on.

The houses were open, but the people were closed.

I don't remember one single open house where the inhabitants were actually there, telling prospective home owners about the history of the home, or what the house meant to them and their families, or why they were moving. The most important part of the house was simply.... absent.

Tonight I went to my first, grown-up open house where the family wasn't leaving. In fact, upon asking them if they'd entertain the idea of moving (since their daughter, a close colleague of mine, has moved out), they told me with fervent attestation that they would never move. They live in a beautiful 6.5, a gorgeous brownstone walk-up on Jeanne Mance, right in the golden square mile of Montreal. My friend has lived in this home, a co-op, ever since she was adopted at two months old.

Each year, her and her family make about 20 different dishes from scratch, and several dessert trays as well. There were many options for me as a gluten-free guest, and even one special tray of carmel marshmallow squares. But what touched me most about the evening was spending a few hours in the apartment, envisioning what it will be like to raise children one day in an urban environment.

When I was growing up, I didn't have any close friends from Toronto. We were all suburbia kids. In order to get from place to place, we hopped in each other's minivans, went to MacDonalds and hit up the mall. We went back to our homes for dinner, and didn't walk alone after dark. We were sheltered.

Life in the city isn't as clean or quiet. You'll find a million unique characters living in a million different spaces. But if you open your mind and your heart, you're sure to find a supportive and caring community to depend upon.

An open house is the home of lovely people.

In with the new....

My goal for August upon my arrival home from India: to gain back the eight pounds I lost while backpacking for the month, and to do so with a gluttonous appetite. The "India" diet left me feeling weak and waif-ish. I got started right away at the Healthrow airport, spending fifty quid on British chocolate at the duty free shop, and then a charming airplane dinner date with an investment banker from Dubai. British Airways philosophizes like Porter - the food's not bad and the wine is free.

Ten days in Oshawa were spent with my amazing mom, enjoying red wine in wicker porch chairs, driving into Toronto to buy live lobster, whipping up chunky guacamole, makin' ribs in the slow cooker with bbq sauce and a can of coke, thrown on the hot grill right before consumption for a touch of crisp.

The three hour dinner became a routine part of our day, and needless to say, my hips reappeared. I was actually feeling a little bummed out about returning to Montreal, going back to work and having less time for indulgence. But the party has only just begun. Montreal hosts the best street festivals towards the end of summer. The city is alive and on fire and so is my attitude.

I made a trip up to Jean Talon with Chesley to get some ingredients for canning week. The bounty of the market is exceptional at this time of year. Peaches. Tomatoes. Basil.

There are three salsas and three marmalade variations on the list: salsa verte, peach salsa and salsa taquera... and for the marmies..... seville orange, grapefruit and lemon, strawberry and lime.

Hell yeah.

We christened the house with a fabulous birthday party for Steve. My chocolate cake got rave reviews, and glistened with des petits fruits and Bailey's creme fouette. 

I got my groove back.

Apathy

I conclude, after six months of emptiness, that cooking is no fun alone.

I throw things together in a frying pan and hope they come out alright. This one did - mushrooms, green onions and Stilton.

I tried to get Mike to eat Stilton on Saturday night. He hated it - he told me the after taste resembled poop. This kind of turned me off the Stilton for the evening, which I was eating with baked Lays. The grocery store below my new apartment doesn't carry rice crackers.  Some things are going to have to change....

Mike made me a rack of New Zealand free range lamb and I made garlic mashed. Mike doesn't buy real butter.

Mike, if you read this, you need to buy real butter.

My pictures of Montreal are probably better then the food pics. I wandered aimlessly around in the rain and shot with my Canon rebel. I arrived two minutes past six to the Cafe Rico and they shut. I pushed my nose up against the screen but they wouldn't let me in. My nose was wet and cold, and so was I, and I wanted to buy rice crackers but people in the Plateau only like artisan breads woven in different shapes and only to be cut and served at home.



Bastards.