I owe someone an apology. I was a doubter and a scoffer and now I have to chastise myself, hang my head and admit I was wrong.

I didn’t believe my friend when she said roasted kale was delicious. In my defense, this is a girl who rhapsodizes about greens on a regular basis and will talk about how she overate the night before by eating a really giant bowl of salad. She says this to me, the woman who has participated in gluttony challenges and has always won.

“No really!” she insisted, “you roast it and it gets all crispy and it’s like potato chips!”

“Just like chips?” I mocked.

When is the last time she ate a chip? I suspect it is similar to when I ask The Sweetie to try my veggie burgers at restaurants because I am afraid they mixed up the order and gave me real meat. He’ll take one bite, make a face and say, “no, that is definitely vegetarian, it has just been too long since you had real meat.” I suspect that if my fat-free friend tried a real chip she wouldn’t be so cavalier with proclamations like “roasted kale tastes just like chips”. She was a ballerina from a young age and is a personal trainer extraordinaire. She is disciplined and does not spend evenings on the couch with a pint of chocolate Haagen Daz and a trough of spaghetti. I was at an event where a photo of her back was shown on a large screen and all the women around me audibly gasped. Her back was a work of fine tuned muscular art.

Despite my doubts, I tried it and it is delicious, just like she said. I’ll never mistake a bowl of roasted kale for a tasty bowl of chips, but as far as healthy snacks go, this is a winner.

If interested :

Get a bunch of kale. Cut the leaves into smaller peices, toss with some olive oil, sea salt and pepper. Roast in a 400 degree oven in a roasting pan for 15-20 minutes until it shrivels and looks dry and kind of burnt and crispy, and presto, kale “chips”.

My lovely friend at The Sweet Kitchen invited me to participate in Presto Pasta Night this week. She instructed me to make a pasta recipe and post about it. Slightly daunting since I am being invited to do so by a culinary goddess who also happens to be Italian and a pasta wizard, but I decided to try regardless.

I chose a recipe from the Rebar cookbook, from the restaurant of the same name in Victoria, British Columbia. It is a quirky, hippy vegetarian restaurant filled with patrons with mountain man beards and a lot of hiking boots and Birkenstocks. The Sweetie and I try to go every time we visit his sister in Victoria. The recipes are always a sure thing without the need for tweaks or alterations.

I decided to prepare the pasta dish on a night when I was going out for a pint with a girlfriend, leaving The Sweetie to fend for himself for the evening.  I was thrilled by the idea of pretending I was a good and dutiful 1950’s wife. I planned to say “ I’m going out tonight honey, but dinner is ready, just warm it up and add a dollop of sour cream. There’s some beer chilling for you too, and your slippers are by your favourite chair.”

Instead my dinner preparations were a race against time. My time management and organizational skills are not the best. The result was a frantic whirling dervish tornado in the kitchen culminating with me running out the door yelling, “Okay, don’t forget to stir the sauce and then boil the noodles, then mix up some poppyseed butter, and sorry about the mess, pay no attention to that. So long!”

The combined effect of my mess making and The Sweetie’s finishing touches resulted in a super tasty and rich pasta that will be perfect winter comfort food. I will definitely make this again and next time I will leave a lovingly prepared plate covered with tinfoil for The Sweetie.

Here is the recipe:

Poppyseed Papparadelle with Mushroom-Sweet Pepper Ragout (I used broad egg noodles):

1. Saute 1 diced onion and 1/2 tsp salt in 1 tbsp each of butter and olive oil until onion is soft (don’t burn it by getting distracted the way I did)
2. Add 8 minced cloves of garlic (yum), 1 tsp chili flakes (I’ve just realized I added a tbsp, now I know why it was so hot), 1 tsp dried dill, and 2 tbsp paprika ( I may have overdone it on the paprika as well), saute for 5 minutes
3. Add 2 1/2 pounds button mushrooms ( I used sliced cremini) and 1 1/2 tsp salt, stir and cover
4. When mushrooms start releasing liquid add 3 diced red peppers and 1 1/2 cups red wine
5. Let reduce for a little bit, then add 2 tbsp soy sauce, 1 1/2 tbsp balsamic vinegar, and some chopped fresh parsley and dill
6. Simmer partially covered for 30 minutes
7. Try to pay attention to your time so that this isn’t the moment that you discover you are supposed to meet your friend at the pub, thus leaving the mess and remaining work for your long suffering partner
8. Cook 1 pound noodles in boiling water, strain, then mix with a 1/4 cup butter mixed with 1 tbsp poppyseeds
9. Top with the tasty sauce, sprinkle with chopped parsley and dill, add a dollop of sour cream and call yourself a pasta princess!

My parents make the best pickles.

The. Best.

Doubters are immediately silenced and pickle naysayers become converts after trying them. They are juicy crunchy pickle perfection. I am ruined for all other pickles and can’t be bothered with store bought sorry substitutes.

My parents have been making pickles for as long as I remember. Late summer meant a trip to the St. Lawrence market for bushels of cucumbers, scrubbing and soaking them overnight, followed by a day of chopping dill, peeling garlic and boiling big pots of brine. The production was accompanied by copious bouts of perspiring and swearing around our old Formica kitchen table but the effort was well worth it. It was magical to see the counter covered with neat rows of gleaming mason jars, alchemy transforming the lowly cucumber into crunchy gold.

My dad is starting to get tired of the process and every year swears that “this is the last (bleeping)  year! I’m too (bleeping) old for this (bleeping bleep). It would be cheaper and easier to just buy a jar of (bleeping) pickles.”

Tradition, however, adds a flavour that cannot be store-bought, and as a result The Sweetie and I have attempted to take over the pickling reins. My parents act as supervisors and spiritual pickle guides but inevitably end up doing the bulk of the work because they are control freaks. We try to be pickling assistants to the best of our ability and hope that my parents’ wisdom and experience will seep into our pores along with the vinegary brine.

Most importantly of course, I now have many pickles to put in my pickle loot bags. No guest in our home will walk away empty handed thanks to my parents secret recipe and hard work.

I know I am supposed to be on a brand new path of righteous minimalism but Bake It Pretty’s items are too adorable to resist, even for an aspiring declutterer. I convinced myself that the right decorative touches were my ticket to domestic glory. Putting my minimalist dreams aside, I ordered some crucial items and I am now prepared to dazzle and amaze my loved ones.

For example:

• I can adorn Christmas cupcakes with whimsical, delightful toppers. What party guest wouldn’t be charmed and amazed by a winter woodland scene?
• I can make my own terrarium, complete with a mossy forest and industrious gnomes. Surely even a minimalist should be celebrating a bit of magic.
• I can share my love of pickles and send lucky guests home with their own pickle party favour in a festive pickle loot bag.

It is indisputable. Even for a born-again minimalist who should be shunning all frivolous and non essential items, there are some things that are still a necessity.

As penance I will get rid of my plastic chicken egg poacher. Obviously a plastic chicken egg poacher is unnecessary. I bought it for 25 cents at an antique show from a little old man who gave me such an enthusiastic spiel that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I am not a big fan of poached eggs. My new decluttering self will not be swayed by charming old men or make emotional purchases. From now on I will only make rational choices.

The Sweetie found a recipe for barbequed pizza and was instantly obsessed.  I’d find the magazine lying open to the photo of the pizza, our conversations began to revolve around pizza options and he started reading topping variations to me as a bedtime story. Unable to stand the food porn anticipation any longer, we invited my parents over for pizza last night.

It would have been a lovely evening for a barbeque, if it had been LATE SEPTEMBER. It is JULY. In July I want to be fanning myself and wiping strands of sweaty hair from the back of my neck and swatting at flies and pulling my damp clothes away from my body. I was accused of being a cold blooded reptile by my cool weather apologist loved ones, but otherwise it was a perfect evening.

The barbequed pizza was scrumptious. The Sweetie rolled out store bought pizza dough, threw it on the hot grill, let it cook, then added crushed san marzano tomatoes, garlic, meat for my carnivorous parents, grilled veggies for me, cheese, then closed the lid to melt the cheese and let everything warm up. The pizza was smoky, rich and delicious. It was a perfect summer/late September meal.

It is my birthday eve and I am turning forty. Forty.

I am not taking this birthday in stride for a variety of reasons ranging from the petty to the existential. I’m sure I will be blathering on about it for a while since I designate it Birthday Month every year, as one day isn’t enough to celebrate or in this case, freak out.

I am forty and I will have peanut butter brownies. Chocolate is always helpful during troubled times. Because I am forty it will probably take me another year to try and lose the weight gained by said brownies, but who cares anymore. I’m forty. I saw the recipe here and decided that rather than spending my birthday eve cradling a vodka bottle and listening to mopey Morrissey CDs, I should bake a birthday treat. I am forty, mistress of my own destiny, and I can bake my own brownies. I couldn’t do that unsupervised if I was six, now could I? And I can bake while drinking a delicious beer and not worry that my parents will find out. Take that youngsters! I’m going to eat all of the brownies myself and no one can stop me. Forty has its merits.