A Taste of Quebec

I do not use it very often, but my favourite cookbook is A Taste of Quebec by Julian Armstrong (1990). When I go to Quebec, I always make a point to eat the French-Canadian treats I cannot get at home: maple sugar pie, cretons, smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's... (Um, okay, that last is not French-Canadian, though it is in Montreal.) Happily for me, though, I can have my beloved tourtière de Québec whenever I like, for I have a very good recipe for it in A Taste of Quebec.

I can make this meat pie blindfolded now: 675 grams of lean ground pork simmered in water with onions, celery, a bay leaf, pepper, savory, rosemary, nutmeg and a pinch of cinnamon for an hour and a quarter, oatmeal added in the last three minutes, cooled off a little, poured into a pie shell, and topped with a crust. Into the oven it goes at 425 degrees F for 15 minutes, and then at 375 for 25 more. Tourtière is served with potatoes and "ketchup vert" as this relish is known in Quebec. (I found a version of it in Boston under the name "piccalili.") If the pie is for a fancy dinner, I purchase a full-bodied red wine.

My mentor is French-Canadian, and he feels that it is wrong to add oatmeal to tourtière. I argue that a Scots influence does not make a tourtière less authentically quebécois. He has the French translation of my cookbook but is not convinced. I believe he thinks the best tourtière is his mother's. He may be right.

On the weekend I picked all the green tomatoes left on our vines, and my mother made several jars of ketchup vert. Thus, Elspeth and I had a real feast tonight.

Cup of Tea

It's the panacea of the former British Empire: a cup of tea. My grandmother drank many cups of tea as she smoked cigarettes; she would pour out a cup for me. Coffee is an upper. It isn't good for me, and I shouldn't drink as much of it as I do. But tea is a relaxant. Tea is a destressor. Tea makes everything better or at least bearable.

In my youth I came across a friendly grown-up, a friend's mother and foster mother to us all, who was deeply distressed about something. "Oh dear," I said, not knowing what to do. "Would you like a cup of tea?" She started to laugh, but to this day I am not sure why.

Many people like cake with tea, but I think full-bodied cake goes better with coffee. Tea deserves something delicate, like cucumber sandwiches or thin cookies. Still better, though, is tea without any other distraction save music or good conversation.

The Italian Holiday

Today I bought a lottery ticket. It is a funny thing to do: pay two or three dollars to dream one's little dreamy-dreams. But on the way home, it is fun to think about what one would do with (for example) nine million dollars. Unless I were overwhelmed by a great greasy greed, I would give a million to each of my parents and siblings--right away, so as not to become overwhelmed by the great greasy greed. I would try to invest most of the rest at 3% and live off the interest. Needless to say, I would pay off my loans. Then I would enjoy writing magnanimous annual cheques to my favourite college.

Now apparently experts say lottery winners must allot themselves some "mad money" to spend in a wild spending frenzy, or else they will be in danger of spending all their millions. I think what I would like to do is rent an Italian villa by a lake for the spring and summer and fly wonderful female friends there. Yes, I imagine a house of happy, excited young women claiming their rooms and planning to do nothing but 1. go for scenic walks 2. sun by the lake 3. go to dance clubs in the nearest big town 4. visit art museums 5. examine clothing stores 6. go to church. Of course, the unstoppable Magdeburg would also work on her thesis.

Elspeth would paint and play instruments. Quintabulous would play the piano. Red Mezzo and Alisha would sing. Magdeburg would drive, and cook, and scare away snakes. Alberta Sunbeam would take fine art photographs. Miss Liz would shop, and cook, and discuss systematic theology with me late into the night. I would review my Italian and practise it in the shops. We would burst, en masse, into the Uffizi. We would run down the beach and splash each other mercilessly. It would be the holiday of holidays.

In the autumn, I would go to Heidelberg and get serious about learning German.

A Dream Come True

Tonight I went to see a performance of sound poetry. I did not like the advertising: the star sounded like a hubristic old ass. But downtown I went because the theatre belongs to my dear friend Elspeth.

Elspeth's dream has been achieved at last. The theatre she built in her backyard hums with life and noise and art. As I sat in a comfortable salvaged cinema seat, I marvelled at how wonderful the space was. The stage was a soft grey tile with a huge white film screen against a black wall for backdrop. Black fabric lined the sides. A great white Hindu mask smiled down upon the readers.

The supporting cast sat in a row: a red-faced man with curly strawberry-blonde hair and a beard, a woman with a bunch of blonde curls obscuring one eye, and a tall youth with a bowl cut, a drooping moustache and slightly beetling brows. The men wore blue jeans; the woman cargo pants. Across from them stood the star, a skinny, whitehaired bearded old man in jeans, cheap blue tennis shoes, a stained mustard shirt and glasses. After he got worked up, he took off his shirt, revealing wiry arms and an old man's skinny chest.

The show was startling, but it couldn't repress my glee that Elspeth's dream had come true. She had a theatre; she was a real impresario. And how wonderful it is to see a dear friend's dream come true!

A Woman's Voice

My favourite book of poetry is Mary Barnard's 1958 translation of Sappho's verses. Nobody really knows much about Sappho, but scholars agree that she was a 7th century Greek lyricist and a woman. She may have been a mother; she may have run an academy of sorts for girl disciples; she may have been a priestess of Aphrodite. It is fashionable today to insist that she was a lesbian, but I resist slapping Sappho with such labels. She wrote,

Of course I love you

But if you love me,
marry a young woman!

I couldn't stand it
to live with a young
man, I being older.

I have two Asian students now, and I learn so much from them about the beauty of words. Today I sat across from a gentle Asian nun in a grey habit as she slowly and carefully read from the slim orange book I gave her:

It's no use

Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite

soft as she is

she has almost killed me with
love for that boy

It seems astonishing that such an ancient and enduring poet was a woman. And yet there it is, her voice sounding through twenty-six centuries and the carefully chosen English words of a woman translator:

I have no complaint

Prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten.

Cherry Bakewells

People love to laugh at British cooking, but British food, done right, is absolutely delicious. I am an Old Canadian on my mother's side, and our British heritage often asserts itself deliciously at the dinner table. Sunday dinner when I was a child typically featured a roast beef or roast chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and gravy--delicious gravy made in the pan from the meat juice, flour and the little crackly bits stuck to the bottom. Mmmm! Sometimes there was also Yorkshire pudding. Ah, for the Yorkshire pudding of my childhood! (Why doesn't my mother make it anymore? Ponder, ponder. Perhaps for our health?) And as far as I'm concerned, a meat pie with a tankard of ale is comfort food.

Meanwhile, I love British pastries. My favourite, which I would choose over any fancy French petit-four or lavish Austrian cake and perhaps even over a delectable Quebecker tarte au sucre d'erable, is the cherry bakewell. Cherry bakewells have a buttery crust, a ground almond middle and a heart of delicious jam tucked into the very centre. The tart is iced with a crunchy white disk of almond-flavoured sugar and there is actually a cherry on top. When children say "pretty please with a cherry on top" are they, in fact, unconsciously giving homage to the mighty cherry bakewell? I think so.

Quiet

I wrote today on Seraphic Singles about liking quiet. This is perhaps odd for I grew up in the hum of the distant highway, and I live now under the sound of an airplane corridor. A plane is roaring overhead right now. The highway hum was nicer; it was my ocean.

Once I told a jazz fan that what I liked best was the silence between the notes, and he hailed me as a true believer. I like the silence I can have with old friends, too. With old friends and with family, you can sit in companionable quiet. I don't like it when cafes play loud or otherwise raucous music, for my hearing is beginning to go, and competing noise makes it difficult to hear my companions.

The quiet sounds I like best are as follows: the rain, purring, waves lapping the shore, my parents talking downstairs, the wind in the trees, the crunch of dry autumn leaves, a baby breathing, nuns singing their office when I am still abed, my mentor chatting with a student in another room. The best sound would be of snow falling, only snow makes no sound when it falls. It is the most exciting silent thing in the world.