Oh Glorious Kitchen

People often say the kitchen is the heart of the home.  I’d have to agree.  My present kitchen is roomy, as kitchens go, with windows facing north, east and west and a skylight facing east.  Even on a gloomy day, there’s plenty of light shining through.  I’ve grown accustomed to my view after living in the country for 24 years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate looking across our snow covered fields from any window and seeing flocks of snowbirds settling and then lifting up in a mad swirl just to land again a minute later in a different spot, who knows what their itinerary could be.  And then, there’s always a chance that a few deer will cross our back field;  we saw some wild turkeys yesterday back towards our bush,  completely oblivious to the recent turkey feasting going on around them, I’d bet.  Our well stocked bird feeders are a constant source of delight for us.  Cardinals, bluejays, chickadees, mourning doves are ever present.  The feeding frenzy is spectacular during a heavy snowfall.  I guess they know when to feast to add heat to their little bird bodies. Our two housecats, Molly and Missy can perch perfectly on the windowsill overlooking the feeders.  I can just imagine their non-hospitable thoughts for their little feathered non-friends.

The windowsill over the kitchen sink is quite narrow, but still I manage to clutter it up.  This is where I keep a few of my favourite things. The little man with the pot belly has been there since we moved in.  He says, “I love you this much”, with widespread arms and a goofy smile on his face.  I gave this to Brian over 30 years ago.  It’s not going anywhere anytime soon.  It’s rare that I don’t have a tiny vase with a fresh flower in it next to the little figurine, and a sweet scented candle in a miniature glass jar that my  friend Hilda gave me years ago.  When I visit other people’s homes, I always check out the items that they keep on their windowsills over the kitchen sink.  I think it says a lot about the person who lives there.

The old maple kitchen table and four solid chairs take up one corner of the kitchen.  The table dates back to when my kids were small, and though it has sprung a crack through the middle of the tabletop where two pieces of wood were joined, it is as strong and sturdy as the day it was built and continues to be the epicenter of our home.    I bathed all three babies in a little bathtub on that table, our parents sat and visited and drank tea with us, and visitors came and went over the years.  Just imagine the meals that were enjoyed here; Christmases and Birthdays, Thanksgivings and Easter dinners;  my family, Brian’s family and hundreds of bed and breakfast guests.  There must be a million conversations stored in that old wood. If tables could only talk.

Across from the table, on the other side of the patio doors is a waist high solid wood partition that hides a narrow, steep staircase to the summer kitchen, a full basement area under our kitchen.  This is Brian’s main entrance and exit – he’s either coming up from or going down to the basement to change into his barn clothes, a constant daily flow that I have grown accustomed to.   Farther along the same wall is where my highback chair sits, the one that Brian’s mom dragged in here so many years ago; a thrifty purchase from an auction visit one summer day.  The huge brown floral pattern went the way of the upholsterer’s knife to be replaced with a much subtler cream coloured fabric that suited me much better.  The chair backs onto a bright window that lets in perfect light for reading, and reading I do, a stack of books resting on the bookcase to my right, waiting their turn to be picked up, paged through and enjoyed to the very last page.  Right next to my chair looms the big, black locomotive of a woodstove, which on occasion can belch quite a lungful of smoke, but mostly it gives off the most incredible, soothing, warming, comforting glow of heat that a person could ever wish for on a cold winter’s day.    Kettles actually do sing.  I keep mine filled to the brim and it whistles a sweet song the whole day long while the dry wood in the firebox crackles and spits it’s fiery accompaniment.

Right across from my chair is the rectangular island, cupboard doors opening from both sides and filled with crazy amounts of bowls and platters and casserole dishes that would be well suited for a restaurant kitchen and I love every one of them.  There’s Brian’s grandmother’s beautiful brown pottery mixing bowl, his mother’s casserole dishes, my mom’s pie plates, colander, and many other cooking vessels that I’ve used and continue to use to this day.  The island has the largest countertop area in my kitchen, but this doesn’t stop me from loading it up with a house plant of some kind, our ever present coffee percolator, various bowls of fruit, onions and garlic -  a kitchen staple in my house, along with a half filled dish of candy, the other half having gone missing, I know not where. Still, I leave a space for cutting, chopping, paring, preparing all the food that is presented at my table.  I’m happy here in this place, layering flavours, creating tasty dishes to please myself and others.

I suppose that a love letter that is written about a room in a house could be construed as a bit odd, however, this detailed journal of my kitchen seems perfectly normal to me, an appreciative scan of all that surrounds me, each item holding warm memories of times gone by.  While it’s true that other places hold fond memories for me as well, my kitchen space and all it contains continues to occupy a place in my heart that nothing else can claim.  Oh glorious kitchen, this room be mine!

A Christmas To Remember

It was Christmas Eve in our tiny northern village.  The year was 1957.  My family and I were fast asleep in our beds when something awakened me, I know not what.  I crept quietly from the bed that I shared with my older sister, and tiptoed into the kitchen where I was drawn to the warmth emanating from the woodstove that heated our home in the winter.  The coals shone brightly through the grate in the front of the stove, causing the tinsel on our Christmas tree to shimmer and dance in the light.  There it stood, this magnificent evergreen tree; the one that Dad and my brothers had dragged into our house the day before, with Mom exclaiming, "Edward, that tree is too big for this house".  The branches were laden with glittering strands of silver tinsel that caught the reflection of light from the stove and the shining eyes of this little girl, as I looked in wonder at the gifts that had been placed beneath and around the base of the tree.  I'll never forget the incredible joy that I felt when I bent down and spied a large, unwrapped cardboard box sitting front and centre.  Nestled in the tissue paper was a pair of brand new, white figure skates with shiny blades and bright, white laces.  They were beautiful!  I don't remember looking for a name tag, but still I knew they were mine. 

The quiet stillness of the house, the enveloping warmth from the stove, the sweet pine fragrance of the freshly cut evergreen tree, the dancing tinsel shimmering on the tree, and a little girl's joy early one Christmas morning - all captured in one never forgotten moment in time.

Over the years, I've grown to realize that the greatest gift I received early that morning had nothing to do with the presents under our tree.  The true gift bestowed upon me was knowing and feeling the true essence of Christmas at that very moment -  that would live with me forever - buried deep within my heart, taken out at will, rejoiced in, exclaimed over, and enjoyed over and over again. 

What woke me that night long ago?  Was it a crackling ember from the woodstove, or the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window?  Perhaps an angel came to call to light a spark in a little girl's heart and gifted her a life long legacy - the true spirit of Christmas.  Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad!  Merry Christmas, Phil!

Remembering Ernest

Private Ernest Montsion

Ernest was born on November 13, 1891 in Cornwall, Ontario.  His parents were Rose Delima and Marcellin Montsion.  He had 4 brothers; Eugene, Alphonse, Wilfred, and Leo as well as two sisters, Alexina and my grandmother, Philomene.  On the back of this photo, mom had written "mother's baby brother" an indication that he was very special to his family.  I thought he was a very handsome young man, and in fact, have noted a noticeable likeness to my son, Christian. It's the only photo I have of Ernest and highly treasured, to be sure.

Ernest signed up for the military service on November 26, 1917 at the age of 26 years and 4 months.  At that time, he was living in Walkerburn, Manitoba with his parents.  He was single.

 As it turned out, I have more documents on Ernest than I have on any of mom's other relatives. I am fortunate to have a letter that he had written to his parents in April of 1918, just a few months before he was killed.  Written in french, of course, some of which I can make out, and on the bottom right hand corner, his name. 

He died on September 29, 1918, barely a year after he enlisted and after researching his name on the War Archives website, I discovered his name in the First World War Book of Remembrance, commemorated on Page 473.  He is buried in Haynecourt British Cemetery, in Nord, France and it gives the exact location of the cemetery.  Ernest's brothers also enlisted in the military, but as far as I am aware, he was the only member of his family to die in action.

This letter informs a mother that her son died while serving his country at the age of 27 years.  It must have been so unbelievably painful for Rose Delima to receive such a letter. How many other letters were sent just like this one?   A soldier, a hero?  Just a young man, like so many others, so far from home,  doing what he thought was right.   A picture, some fragile, faded letters and a name in the Book of Remembrance.  Today, I remember Ernest Montsion, a soldier, a son, a hero. 

And some there be who no memorial have;
Who perished are as though they’d never been.
For our tomorrows their today they gave,
And simply asked that in our hearts they'd live.
We heed their call and pledge ourselves again,
At dusk and dawn - we will remember them!

Charles Henrywood

Tortures of Tourtiere

Tourtiere is  a fancy French word for meat pie, commonly eaten on Christmas Eve in many a Quebecois home.   It is usually made with a blend of ground beef and pork, onions, perhaps garlic and always with sage, thyme, and sometimes cloves.   Mom often made meat pies for our family in our younger years.  I’m pretty sure she always used ground beef.  It was a favourite of my dad’s, enjoyed  hot or cold, always tasty and delicious.

Throw any old piece of meat at me and I can come up with a tasty dish.  But, there’s a part of cooking that I’ve never mastered.  The ubiquitous pie crust.  Now, having said that, the truth is I’ve probably made a pie crust four times – in my life.  And every time I entertained the notion that I’d like to make a pie, it usually ended in a less than optimum experience for me and for those who sat at my table.

Never let it be said that I give up easily.  I’d been thinking about making a meat pie for a few weeks now; the picture perfect crust, with swirls of steam rising up through the slits in the top, smelling up my kitchen with the scent of sage and garlic. 

I visited my local butcher and picked up fresh ground pork for the filling. After discussing the merits of home baking, I purchased the pure white lard that he renders down himself.  He and his wife have provided our family with wonderful cuts of meat for 25 years now.  I trusted him when he said this was perfect lard for pies while trying not to stare at his rather large, pear shaped body and apple dumpling cheeks.

 Four or five cook books later, I decided on the perfect pie crust recipe.  How hard can this be?  There are only 4 ingredients.  A piece of cake.  Well, you know what I mean.  I took out my beautiful, old, pottery bowl, the one that  Brian’s grandmother used,  hoping that some of her pie making skills would still be hovering round.  I felt I needed all the help I could get.  With a silent prayer to the pastry chef up above, I measured out my flour, salt and lard. 

 I felt quite exuberant when the lard cut beautifully into the flour and created those perfect little pea-shaped  bits of joy that my recipe book stated would make the perfect pie crust.  Sprinkle the flour-shortening mix with ice cold water  and mix lightly with a fork.  Form into a ball.  OK.  Done.  They say it’s easier to work with cold dough, so I put half the dough in the fridge while I rolled out the bottom crust.

 Now, here’s where everything got shot to hell.  When I patted and tried to press down the ball of dough in preparation for the rolling pin – it shattered into a mess of little pieces of dough.  I can remember mom’s voice in my ear “Barbara, the less handling, the better”.   By this time, my shoulders were so tense you could have hit me with a tennis ball, and it would have bounced off with no impression.  My breathing was audible, and I was starting to hyperventilate.  No worries.  Calm down.  I decided to throw caution to the winds.  I added a bit more lard, (this was not going to be a healthy dinner anyway, so what difference a few more artery-clogging fats?)  The dough seemed to work a bit better, and after I added a few more drops of cold water, I actually had kind of a pie crust going on – it wasn’t round and it had a lot of thin and sometimes missing pieces, but hey, after I scraped it off the counter (yeah, I know – use flour), and threw it onto the pie plate, it didn’t look so bad.  Of course, I had to patch up a few places – well,  who’s kidding who, I created the whole friggin’ pie crust like a jigsaw puzzle with bits and pieces tacked on here and there.   Voila!   Once I poured my beautiful pork mixture over it, the whole thing almost resembled a pie!   With one episode under my belt, I felt confident, assured -  scared.  The second rolling out worked much better.  At least it didn’t crumble like an old dusty brick wall when I repeated the rolling pin scenario.  I worked quickly and efficiently, rolling out just enough to lay over the meat.  I pieced and patched as above, praying that once cooked, it would all miraculously meld together.   In the oven it went and then I turned and looked at my kitchen.  Who knew that 2 cups of flour could spread so far?  There was flour on the counter, the mixing bowl, the utensils, the floor, my elbows.  Was there any left in the pie?

The pie sits cooling on the wire rack.   It looks pretty good -  from a distance.  After a bit, I muster up my courage and cut into it.  The crust is quite flaky though the filling appears to be somewhat dry.    After my third bite, I decide the crust is quite good – certainly better than anything I’ve bought in a store – however, the meat filling is not spicy enough and too dry for my taste. 

No one is more surprised than I am.  Here, I was expecting the crust to be my failure and it turns out the meat was.  Next time I will add more spice and liquid to the filling.  Yes, I said next time.  Who knows, I just might become the tourtiere expert in my little corner of the world.  In the meantime, I’ll serve this dry pie with mashed squash and a fresh, crunchy salad.  I don’t expect I'll get any complaints from the farmer.  And I didn’t. 

This Old House

Some might think that living in an 1860 log house in the country would be idyllic, and they’d be half right.  It’s true that these thick log walls can withstand the strongest winds and fiercest storms with nary a sound to be heard inside.  We, the occupants, have to put up with the small, chopped up rooms, the bathroom addition that can get so cold that it can be quite painful to jump into the shower on a winter’s morning.  We don’t dilly dally.  The floor drops precariously downhill in the dining room and on those rare occasions when we eat in there, we seat the taller folks at the low end of the table - seriously. Our grandsons like to bowl in this room as the ball always rolls downhill and they’re assured of a strike or at least a spare.  The temperature varies in each room, depending on the direction of the wind, whether the woodstove is  going, or if it’s sunny or raining out.  The sun room is glorious on a sunny, fall day – but look out come sundown - so, we move around a lot.  Sometimes when it’s damp outside, the old house gives off a musty, old wood smell which can be unpleasant at times.   That’s when I light the woodstove, put on a pot of soup, or chili and before you know it, it smells wonderful in here. That’s what I did today. 

Brian and I don’t often work together in the kitchen, it’s always been my domain, but he wanted to use up some of the apples from our old apple tree.   I absolutely do not have the patience to work with those little apples; by the time all the blemishes and the little worm holes are cut away, there’s not much left, but he painstakingly peeled, sliced and trimmed until he had enough for a pie.   It just so happened that I was in the process of making chili at the same time, so I worked from my centre island, and he used the kitchen table to prepare his pie.  Quite harmoniously, I might add. 

While he was working at the table, I was busy cooking up the ground beef, onions, garlic, celery, peppers, mushrooms and zuchinni.   Chili is so much fun to prepare.  It’s basically layering meat and vegetables, beans and spices until you’re satisfied with the results.  I never make it the same way twice, but it always tastes fine, especially when reheated on the second day. Today,  I tossed in a jalapeno pepper  and I added a bunch of kale.   A really neat trick I learned recently was how to chop up kale.  After washing the kale to remove any dust or bugs,(I missed a tiny caterpillar last time – he became my first cryogenic experiment and, sorry to say,  did not come back to life once he thawed) -  just place in a large freezer bag and toss in the freezer.  Once frozen, all you have to do is crunch up the bag with your hands and all the kale falls off the stems.  Throw away the stems and you have a lovely bag of chopped up kale, ready to throw in soups or omelettes or chili. 

Brian had finished his pie preparation and was just about to throw away the rest of the custard that didn’t fit in the pie when I suggested cooking it in a saucepan on the stove.  After just a couple of minutes, we had a lovely custard to enjoy.  Mmmm.  There are benefits to collaborating in the kitchen.  I could get used to this. 

The old house seems to enjoy the warmth, the aroma coming from the baking pie in the oven, the chili bubbling on the woodstove.  It holds memories of 100 years and more of farm families working together, enjoying and sharing the food grown on their land, in rhythm with the seasons.  Brian's off to do his outside work, whatever that may be, (maybe he's found a soft place to nap up in the haymow - I never ask), while I sit indoors on this sunny but cold autumn day, enjoying how the tree's branches whip back and forth in the wind, while the leaves blow in frantic circles on the lawn.  This old house, though aging and imperfect, remains stalwart, comforting.  This place is home.

My Mother's Hands

I have always admired my mother's hands.  The palm of her hand seemed unusually wide, given her petite frame; her fingers were long and slender with little creases on the underside; her nails beautifully shaped.  Whether she was crocheting, knitting, rolling out dough for cinnamon buns on the counter, or holding a cigarette elegantly between her fingers, there was strength and beauty in her hands.  When she talked - and she liked to talk - her hands were always in motion, telling stories in the air.

She began life as a left handed child.  That changed dramatically in her first year of school when the nuns insisted she use her right hand to hold her pencil.  In spite of that, her penmanship throughout her life was exquisite, her signature - large and loopy and written with a flourish.  In most things, she was ambidextrous, and could switch from left to right depending on the task at hand.

I don't remember mom ever having rough, chapped hands, but I'm sure she must have with all the manual labour that she did, especially in her younger years.  Her hands always felt soft to me.  When we were little, mom would keep my sister and I quietly occupied by handing us a jar of Noxzema and asking us to put lotion on her hands.  It was a soothing exercise for all of us, and I'm sure, a much needed rest for mom.  When I got older, I'd file her nails and apply nail polish too, a task I enjoyed doing until my teenage years when I'd protest, "aww mom, do I have to?" and of course, I always did.  As far back as I can remember, mom always had a nailfile close at hand.  She was fussy about her hands and whenever she had a quiet moment to herself, she'd pick up the file and shape her nails.

On the night of my father's funeral, our whole family stayed with mom in Sault Ste. Marie.  I don't recall where everyone slept that night, but it became necessary for me to share a bed with mom.  I remember feeling awkward about that.  I hadn't slept with mom since I was a child.  Sometime through the night, I woke up crying.  It was a surreal experience to feel mom's hand reach across the bed to comfort me.  There was an incredible infusion of love, an electrical charge that passed from her hand to mine in that brief touch that I've never forgotten.  Even in her grieving, she reached out to me and I felt her energy and love enfolding me - and I was comforted.

Many years passed and mom's hands became less busy.  Her fingers were very slender now, though still perfectly straight with no obvious signs of arthritis.  The pads on the tips of her fingers were thinning, the knuckles showing more prominently.  Every once in a while, when I visited her she would ask me to trim her nails.  Knowing how fiercely independent she was, I would happily sit in front of her chair, my head bent over her hand resting in mine and we'd chat away while I worked.  It was a familiar undertaking for both of us and one I know she enjoyed.

Mom's hands have been at rest for three years now.  I miss her more than I can ever say.  I close my eyes to help me remember the feel, the shape, the movement of her hands, the essence that was undeniably mom and upon opening my eyes glance down at my own hands - and find the same square palm, long fingers, wide nail beds and the little creases on the underside of my fingers - and I am comforted.

A Simple Meat Sauce

Bright sun, light wind, -5

The first thing I do when I start cooking is fill my kitchen sink with hot sudsy water.  It’s great for a quick hand rinse as well as an incentive to wash those messy pots and bowls as they accumulate on the cupboard.    My goal is to have my kitchen cleaned up at the same time my food is ready.  I must admit, this doesn’t always work out! 

Today, I decided to make a good meat sauce that would go with any kind of pasta.  I started off with about a pound and a half of ground turkey, but chicken, pork or beef are just fine too.  I added an onion, some chopped celery, garlic, and a light touch of oregano, sage, and chili powder.  Once the meat was cooked, I poured it into a bowl, set it aside,  then sautéed  6 slices of finely chopped bacon in the same pan until crisp.  I added a handful of fresh mushrooms and a bag of baby spinach.  The mushrooms sautéed nicely in the bacon drippings and once the spinach had wilted, I reintroduced the cooked meat to the bacon mixture, added a can of diced tomatoes, a jar of tomato sauce and simmered gently for 10 minutes.   As a finishing touch, I used my immersion blender to thicken the sauce; this has to be done very carefully or tomato sauce can end up all over your kitchen!  Trust me, I know.  I’ve done it!  I don’t blend the entire dish, just enough to create a rich, meaty sauce.  Today’s pasta happened to be capellini, a family favourite.

 For an extra dash of flavour, I added chopped fresh garlic, parsley, and just before serving, some grated parmigiano reggiano. 

This dish is quick and easy and can change on a whim, depending on what’s going on in my pantry.  I don’t always add bacon, nor do I always have fresh spinach, but they definitely added a lot of colour and flavor to this dish today.  From beginning to end, it took a half hour and that included cleaning up my kitchen.  

Now, back to my Giles Blunt murder mystery.  Who the heck done it, anyway?

A Lasagna Kind of Day

Dull, overcast, -5, lots of snow on the ground

I knew I was going to make lasagna.  It was that kind of day.  I grabbed Brian before he headed out to move snow with the tractor - and handed him a big block of mozza along with the hand shredder.  He made fast work of that project, happy to be excused from kitchen duties so he could play outside.

I turned up my favourite oldies radio station, tied on my white apron, and began the process of peeling, cutting, chopping, and cooking all those wonderful ingredients that come together to make a tasty, satisfying meal on a winter's day. 

Making lasagna is a good excuse to use up bits and bites of this and that in the fridge.  I stacked up various cheeses that were bordering on drying out and added them to the grated mozza.  A small container of sour cream went into one of the layers.

I had to cook the ground beef in two rounds as I had too much to cook at once.  I transferred the cooked meat to a large bowl, while I sauteed onions, garlic, celery, green pepper and mushrooms. While this was cooking down, I tossed in a large bag of curly spinach.   Then came the canned tomatoes and a jar of spaghetti sauce.  I let this simmer for a bit, then gradually added back all the cooked beef.  It was a huge potful!

Then the easy part - layering the meat sauce with the cheese and pasta, (I used the oven ready kind, no fussing with this pasta),  adding lots of parmesan with each layer.    I made enough for one large 9x13 pan, and a 9x9 pan that I'll give to my son, Christian when he comes over tonight to help Brian with barn chores.  I know he'll love it - who doesn't love lasagna?

Once the pans were in the oven, the cleanup begins.  Mom once said to me "Barbara, you're a good cook, but you use too many dishes".  At the time, I took it as a backhanded compliment, but as I think back, she was right!  (Funny how mothers often are.) 

So, supper is ready, kitchen is cleaned up, and the "oldies" are over for another Sunday.  I'm going to get bundled up and go outside for a while.  There's a bunny trail that runs from our pine trees to our deck, and over to the bird feeders that I want to check out.  If I'm lucky, maybe I'll spot one of the little fellas.  They always put a smile on my face.

Welcome to my Blog!

I've wanted my own blog for a long time, and finally decided to "just do it"!  I enjoy communicating by letter with friends and family (a passion for family history has inspired me to connect with relatives from far and near) and I thought this would be a good place to share some of my stories, old and new.  I'll be posting tales of farming escapades along with photos of pets and farm animals.  My love of food and cooking is well known,  so I will be sharing tried and true un-recipes; "a little of this and a little of that" and I'm ten months into a healthier lifestyle, so I'll be spouting off about that too!  


I expect this little blog will just evolve.  I know I'll have fun writing it and I hope anyone who comes across it will enjoy it too!