food by jude

Tales from the Taco Shop

I am really resistant to long term planning. I am not ashamed of that. I gave up trying to live by the rules long ago. So far, so good.

In the spring of 2007 I left my job, and by September had run out of EI and didn’t see any reasonable work opportunities in my area. I was 50 years old, and I was broke. There was an option of continued EI payments if I took part in an entrepreneurship program. Seemed like an easy way to put off looking for a job. I jumped through all the hoops with a certain detachment, but when I was pushed to produce some ideas to stay in the program, opening a taco shop seemed like a plan I could live with. At that time, there were no Mexican eateries in town, and the selection of lunch restaurants, mostly fast food chains, was rather bleak. It was the perfect time to introduce something spicy, with real food, made with love.

I found a kiosk for incredibly cheap rent in a waterfront location, right in the middle of Harbour Quay, a multi use green/retail/light industrial space owned by the City of Port Alberni. It measured 200 s/f, had a brick floor, a glass greenhouse peaked roof, and shutters all around that opened onto the park and a playground, with the Alberni inlet in the background. On Saturdays the thriving farmers market took over the adjacent parking lot. My shop kitchen had about the same square feet of a food truck, but it was stationary, and in the best location. I fell in love with this spot, and after some rustic renovations and installations, I opened All Mex’d Up Taco shop on May 12, 2008. That day we sold $61.50. The next day $30.00. Let’s call it a soft opening.

Opening day with sister Madeline and nephew Nathaniel.

The food and the menu I created was based on my interpretation of Mexican street food. Over the last four decades, I have spent many months travelling in Mexico, through many regions, and food has always been a focus.

I travelled mostly solo, and often ate at the counters of roadside taco stands and market stalls. I was able to observe how beautiful, deeply flavoured creations were produced from tiny, minimalist kitchens. I incorporated what I had learned from watching the cooking in the open kitchens, eating the food, and talking to the vendors and the women shopping in the markets. I researched ingredients and their sources. I never claimed authenticity. I made real food with real food.

I received some local press, and word of mouth spread. Pretty soon there were lineups and my tiny kitchen was worked hard. Because of the open kiosk and location, the shop was only viable in the summer months. I was given the opportunity to lease the cafeteria in our local college from September through April, which fit well, and gave us a year round business. I loved both of my locations. Running a school cafeteria is a bit cliche, and kind of a wish come true. I was lunch lady, making food with the same ethos as the taco shop, but different menu. I loved working in the college. It had been 35 years since I had been in school, and for once, it was a positive experience.

Five years later I was feeling itchy. Moving between locations was complicated and difficult, the months of September and April we ran both the locations and were stretched. The Harbour Quay location was getting too busy for the space. It turns out that running a tiny taco shop wasn’t as easy as it looked. I decided to sell, and find another project. A week after listing my business, a property across the street from the taco shop came up for lease. It was still in the sweet little Harbour Quay community, but was an actual 700 s/f building, with a bathroom, three walls and a roll up garage style front looking out to a patio, the green space, and a donut shop and art gallery as neighbours. After signing the contract, I got that heart busting rush of optimism and an adrenalin high that comes with a new adventure.

I will stop the narrative here. Up until now I haven’t mentioned Jimmy, but he is very much part of this story. Jimmy was my guy. We had been living together for eight years at this point. Although I started this business on my own, Jimmy became more and more involved as his dock work dried up, and I needed more hands on deck. Jimmy was a hard worker, a generous man with a huge heart, and an addict. He brought all the chaos of that life to our home, and our business. About a month into demolition on the new location, in late October of 2012, Jimmy died of an overdose. His family and I were devastated. Everything was put on hold, and I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to continue with the business. It seemed a monumental project to attempt on my own.

Jimmy at the front door of Taco Shop 2, the last picture taken of him.

At this point Jimmy’s family stepped up. His brother is a builder and contractor, and offered to take on the renovation without charging for his time. His mother offered me a loan to tide me over and make it all happen. So, in January 2013, we went ahead, and with the help of friends and family, turned the empty cavernous space into a bright and beautiful restaurant, with a fully functioning well equipped kitchen, and 20 indoor seats. It was a difficult time, we worked through our tears, found reasons to laugh, and supported each other. Building this place was hard, but healing. Jimmy would have loved it, I missed him, but was relieved for a predictable life.

I opened All Mex’d Up Taco Shop 2 in February 2013, with little fanfare, and high hopes. Although it was the depths of winter, the people came. And kept coming. I loved my place when it was rocking, Cuban hip hop blasting, doors wide open, a constant stream of hungry people lining up and spilling out onto the picnic tables with burrito in hand, and a happy smile. My base of regulars grew. I knew probably knew 70% of my clientele by their names, and their preferences. Who was vegan, gluten intolerant, hated cilantro, no jalapeños, double jalapeños!! I knew the kids orders before their parents did, because that was my job, and I loved it. And they paid with their loyalty. I ran my business with my heart, not my business head. I am not ambitious, I was making enough money, I was living my dream, I didn’t need more. Despite pressure, I refused to open longer hours. I usually closed the shop at 5, locked the door, went into the storage shed and smoked a joint, cranked the music and danced with mop in hand.

I was fulfilled. I received much satisfaction from feeding people good food, and the human connections I made enrich my life to this day. But my work/life balance was suffering. In my previous life I had worked seasonally, and had lots of time for travel, and visiting far flung family and friends, and I missed that freedom. I hadn’t been to my beloved Mexico in 10 years. I know that many of my colleagues in the restaurant/hospitality industry would scoff at my 60 hour weeks, but I was no longer trying to break any records for suffering and deprivation. I wanted the luxury of time, I was tired of being tired. So, I pondered moving on.

Although I had a lot of help and input making this business what it was, I was personally connected to every detail, and I was very proud of it. My shop was a big part of me, but I wanted to reconnect with my homebody, cat mama, book reading, leisurely wandering through the forest, hanging in the hammock, beach bum, contemplative, self. Fortuitously, before I was pushed into making a decision, one of my regulars came to me with a purchase and plan in mind. He was a young local chef who had lots of energy and passion and loved the restaurant. He was just the right person to take this business to the next level.

In February 2017 I handed the taco torch to Matt. By spring he had obtained a liquor licence, expanded the menu and the hours, and brought his own style and group of followers. It was beautiful to see him rocking the joint, his kids and dogs and his friends and their kids and dogs hanging out, he brought a whole new vibe to the place. l was always welcomed as part of the family. His smile, his margaritas and his fish tacos were killer.

The taco shop is now with its third owner, and thriving after 17 years. I am still greeted warmly when I visit for an always excellent fish taco. I am always happy to see that my old regulars still come by, and a little bit of my heart and soul will always be there.

I will leave you with a few recipes from the taco shop. Salsa mama was the backbone for many dishes. It is a basic salsa rojo and found its way into huevos rancheros, chilliquiles, and mixed in the fillings of many tacos and burritos.

Thank you for reading, peace and love, Jude.

Salsa Mama

3 to 4 ancho chillies (depending on size), rehydrated in hot water until very soft.
1 28 oz can of good quality diced or whole tomatoes.
1 smallish white onion, and 5 or 6 juicy garlic cloves, roasted till soft and golden.
1 canned chipotle chilli in adobo, and 1 large spoon of sauce.
Blend all till semi smooth. Bring to simmer, add 1 tablespoon dried whole leaf oregano (preferably Mexican) and 1 teaspoon ground cumin (hopefully from roasted and fresh ground seed).
If it’s so thick it explodes in the pot, add some water from the soaked chillies, or tap water to loosen it up. Simmer on low to let all the flavours marry.

Tortilla Soup

Broth: 3 cups each Salsa Mama and a rich chicken stock. Bring to a simmer. Make a slurry of 2 or 3 tablespoons masa harina and some water or stock and blend in. (optional, but adds flavour and texture)
Take 4 nice soup bowls. In each bowl put 1/4 of a diced avocado, a grating of mild melting cheese, and some shredded chicken, if you want.
Ladle in the broth. Top with fresh cilantro, diced tomato, diced onion, a bit more grated cheese or feta, and a handful of fried tortilla strips. Serve with a wedge of lime.

Enchilada Sauce

Cut the Salsa Mama around 70/30 salsa to chicken or veg stock. Add some 35% cream to smooth it out. Dip your tortillas for the enchiladas into this, roll up your fave fillings, and once they are built, pour over more sauce. Top with grated cheese, and finish in the oven.

Mexican Red Rice

In a heavy bottom pot, with a tight fitting lid, sauté in oil about 1/2 carrot, diced, 1/4 white onion, diced, 1/2 tomato, diced, 1 juicy garlic clove, minced, and a small handful of chopped cilantro.
When the veg are a bit soft, add 1.5 cups short grain white rice and stir till nicely combined.
Add around 1/2 of a cup of Salsa Mama, combine and bring heat up.
Add 3 cups of rich chicken or veg stock, a healthy pinch of salt, bring to a simmer.
Cover the pot, turn the heat right down to low, steam for 20 minutes.
Fluff up rice when it is done, adjust salt, add a handful of peas if you want.

Buen Provecho!!!

For Cat Lovers Only

It was inevitable that I would one day write a piece about cats. Cats have been a large part of my life. I grew up in a feline loving family, and over the years cats have been a great source of affection, amusement, companionship, and always a great non combative topic of conversation. They are wonderful animals, proud, intelligent, independent, noble, curious and hilarious. And beautiful. The most elegant and athletic of creatures. They are capable of communicating and having recipracol relationships with humans, when and if they deem us worthy.

I got my first cat when I was two. He was a black and white tom, and I named him Boykitty. I was quite literal, as children are at that age. In those days it was uncommon to have family pets neutered or spayed, so Boykitty lived up to his name and wandered the streets looking for a fight or a fuck. For three or four years he would come home after his adventures, and I loved him with my whole tiny heart. And then he didn’t. I don’t remember being terribly sad, I just assumed he was having an adventurous life, and had moved on. And, hopefully, he did.

It was around then that we had a sweet cat named Brownie in our family. Dad was very attached to Brownie, and it was mutual. She followed him everywhere. One day my dad sat us down and told us the sad news. Brownie had been run over following him across the street. This was the first, and perhaps the only time I saw my dad openly weep. He was wretched with feelings of guilt and grief. Dad communicated deeply with his pets. He was an introverted and sensitive man. I think his relationships with his pets and farm animals were a great source of comfort for him. Dad and his wife Marion had a sweet hobby farm where they lived for 40 years, with an assortment of animals, including many house and barn cats. His favourite was Tiger, a barn cat turned spoiled house cat. When they couldn’t manage the farm anymore, they moved to a condo and Dad grew old with Tanya, a longhaired calico. His life had been reduced to mostly sitting on the couch, with Tanya on his lap, or perched by his shoulder at all times. They were devoted to each other.

When I was ten, my girl Putsina died, and Mom gifted me with Sammy, a beauty of a seal point Siamese. He was a quintessential Siamese, intelligent, very communicative, and loyal. When I moved out from Mom’s house at seventeen, I dragged poor Sammy with me. We lived in various communal homes along with other cats, dogs, a couple of parrots, some objectionable boyfriends, housemates and endless parties. Throughout this chaotic time, he was by my side, my only constant. He always kept his dignity and never complained or judged. In my early twenties, I started travelling, and Sammy went back to live with, and be spoiled by, my mother, until he died on her bed at age seventeen.

I don’t remember every cat that came into our lives in those early California days. My two sisters and I were each allowed one cat, and there were a few litters born in our home over the years, once I remember, in my bed. Our mother took advantage of this opportunity to teach us some basic biology and sex education.

My mother was crazy about cats. She probably didn’t have pets as a child, growing up during the depression in a hardscrabble home. When she was in her early twenties she became fast friends with an older woman, Phylliss, who would change her life, and become her surrogate mother, and our grandmother. Phylliss was an educated, strong, outspoken, self confident, progressive woman. Everything my mother wasn’t. She took my confused and lost mother under her wing, and they formed a life long and profound bond. During those early years, Phylliss, an animal lover, gave Mom an adult female seal point Siamese. Mom cherished her cat Ruwana, and was amazed at the love that they shared. Phylliss had opened yet another door for a fulfilling life for mom, bringing her into the incredibly rewarding role of cat companion.

During the second half of her life, Mom lived in an old Victorian house in central Toronto which backed onto a laneway which was home to many stray cats. Mom rescued and rehabbed many of these cats over the years, sometimes taking months to gain their trust. When she died, there were seven kitty corpses buried in her tiny back yard. My Sammy being the first. For years, every summer, Mom planted a basil plant on top of dear Sammy.

Mom and Scruffy, the most difficult to tame, and the most loved of her rescues.

“I don’t like love as a command, as a search. It must come to you, like a hungry cat at the door.”
Charles Bukowski, On Cats

And then there was Lulu. In May of 2007 I was working a sixth season at a remote wilderness resort in Clayoquot Sound. My accommodation was a rustic cabin in the forest, which was overrun with mice. I couldn’t face another summer of mice running across my head and shitting on my pillow, so I decided to get a cat. I saw an add in our local paper for a ten month old female seal point Siamese. $100. As soon as I held her, I knew she was my girl. So, I took her back to my cabin in the forest. She hated it, and persistently broke out of the cabin, where there were numerous predators lurking. She turned out to be a lousy hunter and mice deterrant. I too was miserable, so for both of our sakes, I quit my job and we went home to the lake. Perfect solution. Two months after I got her, Lulu gave birth to five black kittens. Neither of us were very excited by this, but she was a devoted young mother. We ended up keeping the only boy, Jaxon, who is still with me.

Lulu formed a close bond with my partner Jimmy. She loved riding on his shoulder, went running to him when he came home, and always slept on his side of the bed. When Lulu was six, Jimmy died suddenly. We were bereft. Lulu stopped playing, grooming, making eye contact. She barely ate. When I most need a cuddle, she rejected me. I took her to the vet, and they confirmed that there was no physiological problems, she was grieving her man. We both slowly came back to loving life, and then Lulu and I bonded hard. It’s impossible to describe how much she was to me. She had a huge personality, was intelligent, fearless, inquisitive, and she had a huge voice. She ran to meet my car in the driveway, followed me everywhere, inspected every bag I brought into the house, sat on the counter watching and tasting when I cooked and had to be involved with every activity. I held her in my arms when we danced wildly in the kitchen and she slept by my side on Jimmy’s pillow. We had long conversations, she spoke in full sentences. She loved being with me, but was not much of a cuddler. My friends and family were beleaguered with Lulu stories, and, for the most part generously listened, with a little eye rolling. She made me laugh every day.

Lulu died three years ago at sixteen. I did not mourn her death hard, she was sick and ready to go. But I miss her and think about her a lot. When I use the word love, between cats and their people, I believe it is true. Of course cats can love us. When Jaxon lies on my chest, looks me in the eye, and reaches his paw to gently touch my face, when Lulu put all her trust in Jimmy as she fell asleep on his shoulder, when Tanya wouldn’t leave my Dad as he lived his last years, when Scruffy finally accepted my mothers affection, that is, by my definition, love.

I now live with Jaxon, we are the last two standing. He doesn’t have the huge personality his mother had, but he is a good guy. He has a lovely thick coat and is a wonderful companion and cuddler. We get along just fine, we chat occasionally. He is eighteen. When he dies, I will be a catless cat lady. I plan on remaining that way to be free to travel. We’ll see how that goes.

Meanwhile….Life Happened.

One year ago I was working my second school season as a lunch lady at an elementary school near my home. The work was repetitive and boring, the food we prepared was uninspiring, and my workmate was often openly hostile. The kids however, made it worth it. Almost. They loved us, and the hot lunch we served them was much needed and appreciated. The smiles, high fives and hugs I received were endless. Watching the little ones tumble outdoors and literally frolic in the cold and wet at recess made me ridiculously happy. But only momentarily. So, in June, after serving the graduation lunch and tearing up as the outgoing grade seven class performed their beautiful and moving traditional dance and drumming, I quit.

I half heartedly looked for another job, then crunched some numbers, and decided to retire. Retire from what, I asked myself. My work life has been scattered and inconsistent. I have changed jobs often, and spent extended time unemployed, by choice (mostly). Never really had a career, in the traditional sense. The concept of retirement doesn’t really work for me. So, this is really just an experiment to see how I can survive, mentally and financially, without a job. So far so good.

My first goal was to try the snowbird life. I have travelled extensively over the years, chasing the sun, avoiding Canadian winters, but have never spent more than a few weeks in any one place. I chose Lo de Marcos, a small dusty and rusty cowboy town in Nayarit, west coast Mexico, to call home for three and a half months. I fell in love with my bright spacious house and friendly neighbourhood immediately. Within fifteen minutes of walking I could be on a jungle trail, on the palm lined beach, or in the sleepy plaza.

My daily life somewhat mirrored my life at my Vancouver Island home. Walk, stop, look at the birds, walk some more, stop, look at the flowers, stop for a coffee, pat some dogs, buy some food, cook, read, drink wine, go for a swim, listen to music, visit friends, not necessarily in that order. In my neighbourhood I could buy lovely locally made fresh cheeses, sustainably caught seafood, all the seasonable fruits, and herbs and greens from a local organic farm. Fun was had in my kitchen. Yes, there were lonely times. There were times I felt unwelcome. There was frustration with the random strewn garbage, spontaneous explosive noise, and sadness seeing the caged roosters destined for the fighting pits. But when I would walk down my street and see my favourite neighbourhood dogs vibrating in anticipation of a good scratch and a rumble, I was at peace with my life. The happy dogs of Lo de Marcos made me smile every day.

Lieca and Jaunty, our neighbourhood goodwill ambassadors.

The most magical times I spent were at sunset or sunrise at the estuary, standing on the sandbar that separated the sea and the fresh water lagoon. Hundreds of birds flying home to the lagoon to roost in the evening, or flying off to their day jobs in the morning were a wonder to watch. Turn around, and there were the hundreds of seabirds, filling the golden sky above the ocean, skimming and diving for a meal. I love birds. All of them. I can’t really describe why. They just make me feel hopeful, and at peace. From the humble and sweet little juncos that are in my yard pecking in the gravel, to the clumsy but efficient pelicans, to the ever patient, long legged herons and egrets, they are all fine and noble. That they can just elevate themselves, see their world from above and move through the air is enviable. They have evolved to face the challenges of whatever environment they are in, and they have incredible skills. What is not to admire and love.

“A birdsong can, even for a moment, make the whole world into a sky within us, because we feel that the bird does not distinguish between its heart and the world’s.”
Ranier Maria Rilke

In my last days in Lo de Marcos I wandered the dusty roads, visiting the resident horses and saying goodbye to the magnificent iguanas that perched in the trees that provided shade for the horses. I felt a deep sadness, however, I needed to be home for many reasons, personal and otherwise. The recent and disturbing events happening north of the border made me uneasy. I know that Mexico is our ally, but it is a chaotic, and unpredictable country. My home in Canada is my safe place.

I was initially excited to be back. The sun shone and the air was fresh and crisp. I crunched through the snow into the intense green of the forest, spent time with loved ones, and became reacquainted with my couch and my cat. However, I miss my long walks and the warmth of the sun. But the call of the loons, the budding flowers, and the return of migrating birds following an instinctual and primal path, declare, spring is here.

I recently went up the east coast of the island to give my friend a ride to Buckley Bay and the ferry to Denman Island. On the way we stopped to admire the annual herring spawn. The release of spawn into the ocean is so intense, it changes the colour of the water from deep blue to a delicate turquoise. This abundance attracts eagles, sea lions, massive flocks of gulls, and of course fishing boats. It is an awesome spectacle, I sincerely hope the greediness of humans does not eventually bring it to an end.

On the way home I stopped at Mac’s Oysters, a much loved and sustainable business on a rough stretch of beach about midway up the east coast. I parked next to towering piles of oyster shells, the fresh and briny smell of the sea was thick enough to eat. I bought a pint to take home. What a treat.

I put some thought into what to make with these slippery pearly grey beauties. Meandering through my cookbooks I found a recipe for Oysters Creole in the wonderful Elisabeth David Classics. Elizabeth David has been in my life since before I started cooking. My mother was a fan and had two dogeared paper backs, Mediterranean Food, and Summer Cooking. They were well used, with plenty of mom’s pencil drawn comments and annotations in the columns. We used them often in our cooking adventures in her kitchen in Toronto. Beautiful memories.

When I first came to live in Victoria, I was perusing the cookbook section of the fabulous Russell Books (which thankfully still exists) and found a hardback compilation of those two books, plus French Country Cooking. I was ecstatic. Elizabeth David’s style of living, cooking and writing is informal and inviting. She started life in pre war England in an upper class family, but went on to live an unconventional life, living, travelling, loving, eating, and writing. She escaped cold, grey England in the 30s and spent many years living in France, Greece, Egypt and Italy. You can imagine the feeling of euphoria one could feel upon being released into the beauty and bounty of southern Europe in those years. She writes about her life, and recipes that are brief descriptions of ingredients, and methods that are often poetic, and open to interpretation. Oyster Creole calls for, “a suggestion of chives”. Her life trajectory is similar to another one of my loved and admired food writers, Diana Kennedy.

Diane Kennedy left England in the 50s to join her diplomat husband in Mexico, and never left. She travelled the country in her old claptrap truck, searching out traditional ingredients and recipes, and creating relationships with the women who held the family and regional knowledge close. She would travel days, sometimes with great hardships, to isolated villages and markets to hunt down the source of a particular seasonal fruit or herb, or the rumour of a particular recipe. She is an incredible source of information about the history of regional Mexican food and cooking.

I truly admire both of these women, who, generations ago, had the courage to flee the life of traditional, uptight, upper class mid century Britain, and immerse themselves in the freedom, the warmth, colour and the beautiful food of more salubrious climes. They both write beautifully of seasonal food and flora, their appreciation of their local sources, and a love of the people and culture of their chosen homes.

I too have been drawn to the colour, the flavours, the flora and fauna of warmer countries. In Mexico I walked every day through jungles, dusty backroads, and along the beach and estuary. Here I walk through the forest, through my friendly neighbourhood and along rivers and lakes. Instead of roosters and chachalacas, I hear loons and ravens in the mornings. In Mexico the beautiful purple Jacaranda are in bloom, here the purple crocus and pink cherry blossoms bring colour. Soon the tiny and delicate wildflowers of the forest will be sprouting amongst the ferns beneath the huge majestic cedars and firs. I will return to Mexico, but meanwhile, wherever I am, I will thrive on the natural beauty, and be inspired by the local sustenance. Life is a random gift. I am grateful for it every day.

Memories of Food and Family

On this Mother’s Day I am sharing a piece I wrote as a gift to my late mother for her 87th birthday. There were a lot of things we didn’t agree on, but in cats and cooking we always found common ground. Thanks Mom, for giving me life, and for showing me how to live it.

A tribute to my mother Virginia, the best home cook I have ever known…..

Our family of five moved to Toronto from California in 1965. For years after the move our Grandma Phyllis would send a package every Christmas with two fruitcakes, huge, heavy, soaked in booze and wrapped in cheesecloth. There would be one dark, and one light. The kids ate the light, the adults ate the dark. Included in the package were four different kinds of cookies, my favourites were the lemon bars and the fantastic shortbread, everything made with loads of butter, and love. You could taste both in abundance.

My food memories start earlier than that, back to Berkeley, where we lived till I was eight. Dinner would often involve artichokes, one each with a common bowl of mayonnaise used for dipping the leaves and the succulent heart. There were also build your own tacos, and for special occasions, scallop and shrimp ceviche. Mom made bread, and we helped make cinnamon buns with the leftover dough. My birthday dinner request in those days was barbecue chicken, corn on the cob, potato salad, watermelon and chocolate cake. This remains one of my favourite summer meals. Sweets were not a constant in our house, but there were treats, a baggie of cheerios and raisins was an afterschool snack, and while shopping with Mom at the Co-op we were allowed a box of chewy Chinese candies. The magic of these candies was that you didn’t have to unwrap them, each was wrapped in a delicate edible rice paper, and every box contained a tiny toy.

We did have cake for celebrations, and occasionally ice cream, which we sometimes made into milkshakes from the Adele Davis cookbook. A delicious wheatgerm brownie also came from Adele Davis’s Let’s Cook it Right, but the Joy of Cooking was our go to family cookbook. I feel like I grew up with the Rombauer women, a mother and team no less!

A few years after moving to Toronto, Mom went back to school for her masters degree and required us girls to pitch in with making dinners. We were each assigned one night a week when we were responsible for feeding our family. She taught us to make from scratch: spaghetti sauce, honey and soy glazed chicken, rice, pasta, salad dressing, and tuna casserole. I loved the hotdogs floating in homemade cornbread. We learned to measure, mix, chop, taste and season. And how to wash dishes. I think I equally enjoyed and resented the responsibility, but am grateful now for being taught the basics of cooking at a young age.

When I was a teenager Petros entered our lives, we moved to Huron Street, and our meals became little more interesting. There were Saturday trips to Kensington or St. Lawrence markets where we would load up on bagels, fresh cream cheese and butter carved off of huge slabs, pickles from a barrel, whole salamis, halva, onion flatbread….also regular visits to the Danforth for feta, olive oil, Greek cheeses and pastries with complicated names that rolled off mom’s tongue. We made fudge and learned how to use candy thermometer and the magic of hardball/softball testing. We had marvellous backyard birthday parties for Kathryn and myself, surrounded by tulips and daffodils, with the crowning glory of Coeur a la Creme and the first strawberries of the season.

As young adults we continued to cook and share meals as a family. Mom and Petros had moved to Brunswick Avenue and renovated an old brick Victorian house. Long and narrow with high ceilings, the first floor was open from front to back. It is a beautiful home and the perfect place for gathering. This was the eighties and exotic foreign foods were the trend. We had a well used copy of Charmain Soloman’s “The Complete Asian Cookbook” and made forays to Kensington Market and Chinatown to procure the necessary ingredients for an Indian curry or fabulous Chinese feast. We all shared in the cooking, there was lots of wine, cigarettes and laughs, various friends and boyfriends joining in. Those were our Friday nights on Brunswick Avenue.

The aftermath of a meal at Mom’s table. Friday night, sometime in 80s, Brunswick Avenue.

In later years dinner at Mom and Petros’s became a little more sedate. There was more Mediterranean style cooking, lots of garlic, olive oil, vegetables, fresh parmesan, risottos and pasta. Lots of pasta. I remember Mom saying she could cook a different pasta dish every day of the year. And I believe she could. There were homegrown tomato and basil salads, stuffed baby eggplant, most every meal accompanied by a loaf of crusty bread and a simple green salad. There was still plenty of wine, some arguments, some laughs, and sometimes a Metaxa or two to finish. For celebrations Mom made her legendary $100 Bouillabaisse, my birthday pick for years. After Mom retired, although still active in her profession, she had more time for baking and creating wonderful desserts. Her signature creme caramel, a layered cake involving lemon curd, pies, cobblers, tiramisu, tiny loaves of bread…all beautiful.

Christmas on Brunswick Avenue always included the smell of Pfeffernusse cookies in the oven, homemade eggnog and brandy, angel chimes on the table and Handel’s Messiah on the stereo. A fresh Christmas tree was decorated with paper snowflakes, strings of popcorn and cranberries, and an eclectic assortment of ornaments, some which had made the trip from California. Many people make this claim, but I know that our mother made the best turkey, gravy, and pumpkin pie in the world.

Mom, you have taught me much. You taught me to cook and the importance of quality in food, art, clothes, music, life. You are a great role model and I thank you. Growing up eating real food and sitting down to dinner as family has been an integral part of my life.

I have for over thirty years made a living cooking, a career I am grateful for because it allows me to be creative, independent, and forever learning. When my customers ask me where I learned to cook, I proudly say “my mom taught me”.

Love Jude, April 2, 2016

A Good Life

So, these are sections for what is important in my life. And some unsolicited advice. Take it or leave it.

Housekeeping- If you are lucky or blessed enough to have a house, or a room, keep it proper. It makes such a difference to have order directly surrounding you. Make the bed, fold the pathetic laundry. Clean the toilet once month, or more, you decide. Or not.

Cooking -If you are able, buy the food that is grown or made close to you. Buy local, or at least from our country, or our hemisphere. Seriously, the closer the better. And then cook. Use plenty of herbs. Carrots are almost free. Sometimes kale grows in ditches. In the summer mint, basil, parsley are everywhere. Be spontaneous, be creative! Share what you make. Love it up!!

Fashion- I had a book once, in the 70s, called Cheap Chic. I still live by its main theme, buy clothes made with quality materials and timeless style. So, denim, leather, cotton. If you have the time, thrift stores are so great. And they sell cd’s and books! I wear a lot of hand me downs from my sister. Clothes swaps are fun too. My style is simple and has hasn’t really progressed over the decades, but being comfortable and being cool are important. To me.

Gardening- I really really wish I loved gardening. I kind of like it, but only for a half hour or so. I am amazed when I scatter seeds, or actually dig a hole, and stuff happens! But I do manage to grow a couple of tomato plants, my favourite herbs and some pretty flowers every summer. I think any kind of puttering outside is healthy, the smell of dirt and moss is wonderfully therapeutic. Just limit your expectations, and be grateful for friends who actually take it seriously and share their bounty.

Relationships- Give what you can, expect nothing. Love openly, hug spontaneously, talk instead of texting. Let’s all take care of each other. It’s important.

Pets- This is a hard one. Never, ever take another life into your care without fully believing that you will be able to care for it until the end. And always provide plenty of affection, encouragement, and treats. Let them in your bed and next to you. You will be rewarded exponentially. Love is love.

Exercise- Ummmm…not really qualified to give advice on this topic. I walk. I am lucky to live close to forests and rivers, but walking in villages and cities is also very rewarding. There is time to let the mind wander, listen, stop and look at the tiny miracles all round us. Breathe in, breathe out. I have on my list more rounded routines: yoga, tai chi, weight training….but meanwhile, I just walk. Do it.

Work- If you are one of the lucky ones, you have discovered a way to make money doing what you love. If you are not, do whatever paying gig it takes to survive and give you time to do what you love. Changing direction at different stages of life can be fun. I do think ambition is overrated, and I am not a perfectionist, my favourite saying is “good enough”. I like an easy life.

So, my belief is that why are we here, if not to enjoy and wrap ourselves around the beauty and small joys that we find everyday, everywhere. Be kind. Love your beautiful life. The end.

Wild Things

In January 1990 I left frigid Toronto for a three month journey backpacking through southern Thailand and the Malaysian peninsula. I spent the majority of my time island hopping and looking for the perfect beach, or wandering city avenues searching for the perfect street food. Of course I found both, many times over. It was an adventure, it was the best fun. The most vivid memory I have of that trip is not of island bliss or marvellous meals, but my last few days in the country, which I spent in Khao Yai National Park, 120 kilometres and a world away from crazy, chaotic Bangkok.

Any of you who travelled in Asia in those days may remember that airlines had a rule that if you didn’t make your presence known, and weren’t physically in the city of your departure 72 hours before your flight, you were probably going to get bumped off of the passenger list. So, I tore myself away from the beach and made my way to Bangkok to declare myself present and fit to travel. I still had three days till my flight left, and time for one more adventure . I looked at my map and saw a patch of green, within easy reach. I made my way to a village on the outskirts of Khao Yai park where I met the man who would be my guide. He invited me to stay at his family home, a simple wooden house on stilts over a wetland. That evening, after sharing a home cooked meal, he took me up the side of a mountain in his jeep, and we walked to the opening of a roomy cave on the rock face. Peeking inside, the smell of guano was staggering. The sun was setting and there was the rustling of thousands of bats waking up and getting ready for their evening forage. We both stood back, and flattened ourselves to the side of the cave entrance, and for the next 20 minutes we watched and heard and felt countless bats rush by us and down into the fertile valley as the sun set in the hills. I found this experience incredibly beautiful, I was immersed in the natural world, watching these tiny but magnificent animals just live their lives, completely untouched by human activity. This valley and cave were not easy to get to, and were not in the park itself. I like to think that it all remains just as I saw it, innocent of the grasping, greedy, destructive hands of humans.

The next day we picked up a few more travellers and went into the park. It was amazing. We saw wild elephants. Which was beautiful. But my time in the bat cave is what really moved me.

These brief encounters with the animal kingdom in their natural habitat may not sound that impressive, but for me, at the time they were life changing, unforgettable.

I was a reluctant city girl then, and craved immersion in with the natural world.

I have now been living surrounded by the beauty of Vancouver Island for thirty years. During that time I have lived and worked in some fairly remote locations, where we share the land and water with the other species that make their home here. I have had the privilege of kayaking along side humpbacks, grey whales, dolphins, and orcas. Bears, otters, eagles, cougars and herons are our neighbours, and for the most part, we all coexist peacefully.

However, another unforgettable close encounter happened, not here, but in Mexico.

In 2006 my friend Cheryl and I took a three month road trip down the west coast to the tip of the Baja, and back, in her 22 foot camper, the lovely Lucy. The geography of the Baja has a subtle beauty, rough edges, dramatic views followed by miles of flat, seemingly lifeless landscape. The skies can be overwhelming, if you ever need to be put in your place in the universe, lie on your back at night in the desert, look up. This is it. You will feel small, insignificant, and full of awe and joy.

The predominate colours during day light are the the many shades of sand and earth, and the bright blue of the sea and sky. So, when the occasional collection of green palm trees and pink bougainvillea, tightly gathered around a source of fresh water appears, we go there.

San Ignacio is a small town near the Vizcano Biosphere Reserve on the Pacific side of BCS. There are date palms and a spring fed pond where we parked Lucy in the welcome shade for a few nights. Around 50k away is the Laguna San Ignacio, a protected area where gray whales have been breeding and calving for…I don’t think any humans really know how long. A few small conscientious tour companies are allowed to operate here.

There were around ten people on our open skiff, including our guides. We slowly puttered into the middle of the sultry bay and killed the engines. It didn’t take long before the mother whales and their babes approached us. Even though we were told what to expect, it was almost unbelievable. Why were these animals, who had no reason to trust, or even consider us, why did they come? Show us their babies? Look us in the eye? Some people kissed them, with apparent consent. I was more than happy to just touch the beautiful barnacle covered hide of a mama. There were tears. Really, one of the best days of my life.

I will always love and be fascinated with birds. Every chance I get I stop, look, listen. Sadly, my dreams tend more towards falling than flying. But I did have one crazy flying dream, I guess that is enough. I regard them with respect, and a little envy. Wetlands are not super conducive to humans, but birds love them. In the tropics, it is the mangroves and estuaries where they live. And whenever I get a chance, I go there. I won’t bore you with the names of all my favourite birds. There are a lot. But obviously, hanging out with flamingoes is fun.

It is hard these days, all the bad news. Sometimes I feel hopeless. And so sad. And then, in the morning I hear the loons on the lake. I look out my bedroom window and see a tangle of cedar branches, maybe a squirrel, the raven family bickering, as usual. The tree outside my kitchen window is in flower and hundreds of bees are drinking it up. When the flowers turn to seed, there will be hundreds of birds. The wheels turn, migrations happen, what has been will always be.

Summer in the Valley

The Alberni Valley , my home, is located in the middle of Vancouver Island, at the head of a narrow forty kilometre long inlet which originates on the Pacific Coast. Three main rivers flow through the valley, converge, and and empty into the inlet. There are countless streams and lakes that are also a part of this fertile network which is home for salmon, the lifeblood of the Pacific Northwest. In early summer front yards on the Tseshaht reserve are spread with nets and floats and boats that are cleaned and repaired for the upcoming sockeye run. It is an exciting day when the boats hit the water to net the salmon as they come down the rivers to enter the ocean. Much of the fish that is caught is kept in the Indigenous community for family food and ceremonial practices. Some is sold to commercial buyers, and in an abundant year, the fishermen/women and their families sell out of the back of a truck, or from a cooler in a front yard to any lucky person driving by. This has been a good year. What a privilege to be able to buy a salmon on the side of the river where it was caught a few hours ago.

When I get a fish home, I fillet it and give the scraps to Jaxon. I often take a nice chunk from the centre and cure it for gravlax. I grill a few pieces for dinner and freeze the rest. I try to stock the freezer with enough to get me through the winter. To me, salmon is the most versatile, visually beautiful, and delicious protein out there. I love salmon, it is synonymous with summer.

Traditional Indigenous cooking method at a community gathering.

Another iconic local product that I love is the humble cucumber. The Rage family started farming in the valley in the 60s with a 40 acre plot along the beautiful Stamp River. They now have greenhouses all over the Island, but they will always be a family owned company with its roots in the Alberni Valley. They grow mostly cucumbers now, which are distributed to grocery stores throughout the province. Cucumbers are beautiful summer food. If you like Asian flavours, thick slice and toss with a little rice vinegar, fish sauce, honey and chilli oil, marinate, then garnish with chopped roast peanuts, cilantro and mint. Yum!! Sliced super thin, squeezed almost dry, and dressed with sugar, vinegar and dill is delish with a grilled sausage. They are also a nice addition to a potato salad or the classic tomato, basil and balsamic concoction. When I had my taco shop, on July 1st and on BC day I always served a salmon taco with cucumber salsa. Salmon and cucumber are a match made in heaven. Some gravlax with sliced cuke and cream cheese from our local Buffalo farm on toast is breakfast fit for a goddess. A simple piece of grilled fresh salmon is turned into a thing of beauty with the addition of tzatziki with plenty garlic and fresh mint. Tzatziki is a great dip or accompaniment to anything off the grill, it is my go to condiment all summer.

A more diverse family farm that has been in the valley for decades is Naesgaard’s. Their store is located on the edge of town, with fields around it that grow lovely seasonal fruits and vegetables. It is also a garden centre, boutique of sorts, and when winter arrives it turns into a Christmas consumer wonderland. But, back to the food. Their strawberries, peas, carrots and potatoes are eagerly awaited each year. They grow romaine lettuce bigger than your head and also stock produce from other local farmers. But their most anticipated produce is the corn. The store is in a frenzy the first days it is available. When people become sated, and it is possible to approach the corn bin without getting elbowed or tripped, I grab a half dozen cobs or so. I love good corn, and we all know it is best fresh picked, so I boil or grill one or two, and then freeze the rest whole for winter feasts.

You may have to look, but we have some unique and special gems here in the valley. There are some very fine bakers, one of whom sells her excellent artisanal sourdough bread and bagels from the back of a bookstore. Brilliant. Leda farm grows their beautiful produce and flowers bio dynamically, and according to the phases of the moon. The lovely Iris has bountiful flower gardens that provide us with luscious bouquets from spring through fall, without breaking the piggy bank. There is a Buffalo farm near my house where I can buy fresh mozzarella, buffeta, and other delicious products, including gelato! You don’t have to look hard to find fresh eggs all year long.

When I was growing up in the big city, we didn’t have access to food fresh from the farm. It wasn’t until I lived in Portugal in my early 20s that I ate fruit and vegetables from the fields, and fish right off the boats. What a revelation! Real food!! It makes me happy that farmers markets and community gardens have sprouted up in even most dense of Canadian urban jungles. I am now an ardent consumer of all things local. Summer is a celebration of bounty from the earth and the water. As summer progresses we have so much to look forward to. Blueberry season is right around the corner, followed by field tomatoes, juicy garlic, corn, squash, the ubiquitous zucchini, mushrooms, apples, cherries, maple syrup….and so much more.

I am not a gardener, fisher, farmer or forager. I grow a few cherry tomatoes and some fresh herbs every summer, and am thrilled when they actually succeed! I am so very grateful for all of the people who work so hard to provide food security in our little valley. I have berries, fish and corn all year long. The pantry is stocked with jams, preserves, honey, maple syrup, flavoured vinegar, and other goodies. We may not have the variety that is available in the larger, fancier communities to the east and south of us, we are small but mighty. Knowing the people that provide your sustenance, knowing where your food comes from, is a beautiful gift. It fills me on so many levels.

Soundtrack of my Life

Music. Life without music would be, what….pointless? drudgery? dry as a desert ? Music can fill me up and bring me to tears. Or make me feel melancholy, lazy, inspired, joyful, heartbroken, ecstatic!! Sometimes I can’t stop myself from dancing, or at least moving to the beat, even if it is NSYNC and I am in the dairy aisle at Walmart. Music is life.

Growing up, we weren’t really a musical family, but there was always music in our house. Classical, opera and jazz were our parents choices. There were a few albums that were specifically for us when we were children. We had a Pete Seeger album of children’s music, and some Woodie Guthrie, so we were introduced to American Folk music, and equally important, protest songs and anti fascist anthems at an early age. The wonderful Peter and the Wolf was a favourite. I am not sure who the narrator was on our album, but the music and story were absolutely captivating, while teaching us about the different instruments that make up an orchestra. Very sneaky, Prokofiev. The strings introducing Peter take me back to our living room in Berkeley, gathered with my sisters, sprawling on the well used Persian carpet, completely focussed on the familiar and much loved tale. Music does that. It can transport you to other times and places. Songs can bring feelings of joy or loss, memories imprinted and buried, brought back to the surface by a few familiar bars. The feelings come before the brain even registers what we are listening to. Like magic.

Dad, zoning in to his Saturday morning jazz program while I hang on.

I think I was the first in our family to get caught up in the beginnings of pop music in the early 60s. I remember begging my father for the first Beatles album released in North America. I was seven years old, not sure how I became aware of their music, but I was an instant fangirl! My dad was a jazz aficionado and took music, and most of life, very seriously. He was disappointed in my choice and told me, “Those Beatles stink like dirty socks!” He did, of course, relent, and buy it for me, and eventually came around to appreciate the genius of the fab four. He even claimed Blackbird by Paul McCartney to be one of his favourite songs.

When I was around ten I got a transistor radio, probably as a gift from the parents. We were living in Toronto by then and whenever I was by myself I had that thing glued to my ear, CHUM AM playing full blast. I loved The Monkees, The Stones, The Supremes, and of course, the Beatles. The first 45 I bought with my own money was Windy, by The Association, which seems a little lame now. I also was super attracted to Tom Jones, and even weirder, Andy Williams. But what a fabulous time to have my own radio and be able to listen to the top ten in the privacy of my own head. Motown was hot. British pop was flooding the airwaves. The Doors and Jefferson Airplane gave a little nudge to my rebellious side. Fifty five years later and I still listen to many of those artists. Aretha, Van, Marvin, yep, we are on a first name basis

And then came the 70s, and disco. I admit to dancing under the strobes to Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor in some cavernous bars in Toronto, a little drunk and just grooving to the music. When I moved to Portugal, discos were different. They were dark and dusty nightclubs, open till dawn, with the walls covered in floor to ceiling speakers and graffiti, low lit bars tucked in the corners. After my shift at the pub ended we would head to Zapata’s, our local, and dance the night away. I remember just standing in the middle of the dance floor, with the perfect amount of booze and whatever the drug du jour was coursing through my body, and absorbing the deafeningly loud “In The Air Tonight” by Phil Collins. That build up, the teasing, then explosion of percussion. Almost orgasmic.

In 1980 I went backpacking through the Indian Subcontinent, bringing a few cassettes with me. I bought a new gadget called a “Walkman” in a stopover in Hong Kong. The album Fear of Music from The Talking Heads and a little Hank Williams got me through some pretty extreme highs and lows on that trip. I recall chilling on a beach somewhere in India, listening to my tunes, and I was suddenly surrounded a gaggle of curious schoolgirls, in uniform, staring and giggling. They were entranced by my headphones. Life During Wartime was playing. I took off the headset and they respectfully passed them around and put them on. A look of amazement came on their face when they heard big sounds, directly into their ears. “This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around” They loved it. David Byrne, the great connector.

Joao, cool dude and doorman, guarding Zapata’s ,Lagos, Portugal.

I still listen to that song “In the Air Tonight” a lot. Usually when I am driving. Also Sinead O’Conner, “I Stand on Your Grave”. And “Madman Across The Water” by Elton John. Songs that build the tempo and tension, and then…..I just feel it so much and all alone in my car, I just let it happen. Pure joy.

So many other amazing artists have touched and inspired me. Thank you Jack Johnson for keeping me company on many lonely days, and being an all round cool guy and protector of our planet. Thank you Bonnie Raitt, Annie Lennox, Aretha Franklin for being strong and loud. Thank you John Prine for being wise and funny. Thank you Blue Rodeo and Handsome Ned for being part of my life when music was my life. Thank you Brazil and Cuba for giving us so many beautiful beats. Manu Chao, you are a brilliant. And Playing for Change, you have changed me. I love you and all you do too much.

I know that I am a taker and not a giver in the world of music. I am grateful for all the beautiful sounds that lift me and teach me and make me want to move!

Home.

Is where I want to be. But I guess I’m already there.

When I hear this song, This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody), by the Talking Heads, tears come. Why? I know it is a love song, about human connection, but I always think of my house, my home, and how grateful I am to be here. It took a long time to find my little nest.

Growing up, our family never lived anywhere for more than three years. Moving across the continent, followed a few years later by a divorce, contributed to the feeling of impermanence. When I was younger I envied friends who grew up in a family home surrounded by multiple generations. I marvelled that adults could go “home” and sleep in their childhood beds. I now admire our unconventional family, and I love who we have evolved into, individually and as a unit.

I moved out on my own when I was seventeen. I worked at retail or hospitality jobs and rented a series of cheap and cheerful apartments, always sharing with friends or boyfriends. I was constantly saving money to travel, and when I did take off, usually for months at a time, I would quit my job and move out of my current pad, and when I returned start again. This semi transient lifestyle carried on when I started working seasonally on Vancouver Island. I worked six or seven months during the summer seasons and followed the sun south for the winters. I lived in basic staff housing while at work, and slept in cheap hotels in Mexico or Belize or wherever I wandered, or on a sofa or foamy in someone else’s house. For eight years I kept a few bits and pieces in a storage locker and lived out of totes and a backpack. I had few responsibilities and loads of freedom, it was a fun lifestyle. Until it wasn’t anymore.

In January of 2003 I was travelling overland through the Yucatan and Central America. I found my way to the beautiful Caribbean island of Roatan, Honduras and checked into the funky Chillie’s Guest House. The first person I met was Janette, we shared some beers on the deck. She told me that she and her partner Wayne lived in Port Alberni, and had a summer house at Sproat Lake. I was astounded! At the time I was working in Clayoquot Sound, on the west coast of Vancouver Island. I had driven countless times through the Alberni Valley and around the lake, always distracted by the views, the surrounding thickly forested hills reflected in the water. It was incredibly inviting, I just wanted to stop, and stay forever. I often wondered who was so lucky to live there. And there she was.

Janette, Wayne and I spent our days on Roatan lounging on the white sand beaches and snorkelling in the blue sea. On old man sat under a palm tree and sold beers out of a wheelbarrow filled with ice. One afternoon I sat waist deep in the warm calm water with Janette, beer in hand, and shared my feelings of homelessness, I told her I was ready to settle, find a place to make a nest for myself. Sproat Lake was already on my mind.

That spring I took a few days off from work and stayed with Wayne and Janette at their lake house. One rainy morning we took their dog for a walk and wandered through a neighbouring mobile home park. There, in the window of an ugly little house was a ‘for sale’ sign, at a price that even I could afford. It was empty, so we went up onto the hidden deck which was built around a huge cedar tree and overlooked the lake. When we got back to Janette’s house I made a phone call. On June 1st I took possession of my little shack.

My own place!! I was in heaven! The interior was beige, lots of wall to wall carpets, ugly light fixtures and hideous window treatments. But there were two bathrooms, (two! In my digs at work I often had to resort to an old yogurt bucket as a toilet and shared a manky communal shower), a big bright kitchen with sky lights, and a sunroom off the back overlooking countless trees and a peek a boo view of the sparkling lake. It wasn’t until I signed a lease and was given a beach key that I discovered the private sandy beach and swimming dock that the park residents had access to. I love the ocean and had spent much of the last 10 years living on it or near it, but growing up in Ontario, lakes had always been my happy place. This was the perfect lake. The water was crystal clear and perfect swimming temperature in the summer. We were in cottage county, surrounded by forest trails, rivers and waterfalls.

That summer I had little chance of settling in. I worked twenty to thirty days in a row, with a few days off in between. On my breaks I would rush home to luxuriate in my own space and newfound privacy. I spent the precious time I had sunning and swimming, listening to my music as loud as I wanted, or lying in my hammock listening to the birds and gazing up into the towering trees. Sometimes I cried when I had to leave. When my job ended for the season in October, the winter rains had set in and the valley and lake became shrouded in fog. As much as I loved my home, the warmth and the colours of Mexico called to me. For the next four years I continued to work and spend most of my summers at the resort, and travel in the winter. Some colourful throw rugs, wooden bookshelves, bamboo blinds, and treasures I had gathered in my travels made my house feel cozy, but I still treated it as a pit stop. However, more and more I was longing to be at the lake.

Finally, in the spring of 2007, I found the courage to walk away from a lucrative job that I loved, and stay home. The boyfriend moved in and started sawing and hammering and funkifizing the place. We got a cat. We cooked and painted and planted stuff and got to know the neighbours. When my EI ran out and I couldn’t find a place I wanted to work I started my own business in Port Alberni.

Finally I felt settled. It will be twenty years this June since I stumbled upon this perfect little spot. Over the years changes have happened. Expanded the business. Boyfriend died. Sold the business. Ripped up the carpet. Painted the kitchen red. Got a kayak. Made a garden. Made the best of friends. All the time just loving the feeling of coming home. Every time. My sanctuary.

I’m just an animal looking for a home But I guess I’m already there

My Mother’s Knife

I write and think a lot about my mother. There is so much of her in me, I carry her every day. She taught me some of my life skills, maybe not the most important ones, like about my body, boundaries, boys and drugs and all that. But she did teach me how to sew, how to wash my clothes, how to cook. That may sound old fashioned, but the skills she shared have served me well. I know how to sew a button, scrub a greasy spot, cook pasta, and eat well.

Over the years I spent a lot of time with my mother in her kitchen, drinking coffee, or wine, combing through Gourmet magazines, making lists . And then we would jump in little mini and go shopping. She could park that tiny car on a dime. One of our stops would be at the liquor store where she could pull up in the back lane and have her monthly case of California red wine delivered to her car, and turn in the empty bottles. Then on to Kensington Market. She never paid attention to the “full” signs at the parking lot. She always found a way to wedge in her tiny car, and would be triumphant when she walked away.

And then we cooked. Her kitchen was her domain. I watched and listened, and I learned. I chopped stuff. I paid attention. My mom cooked from her heart, the food she made always had soul, beautifully presented, simple and perfect.

When I was in Toronto last summer I was rummaging around and found the knife. The knife she always used. I can see her hands wrapped around the handle. It is an extraordinary knife. I think she received it as a wedding present when she married my dad 70 years ago. Who knows? I have it now, and I use it every day. It has an awkward handle, but it never gets dull. So much like Mom.