ode to victoria

Heidi's lemon poundcake

This is it.

Tomorrow, we cross the border from British Columbia to Alberta and start a new life.

We've been in a kind of summer vacation/limbo land for the past week and half, with visits to family outside of Vancouver and in Kelowna. We've made it half-way across the province, and now – and only now – it's sinking in that we're leaving so much behind in Victoria.

Last lunch at home in Victoria. Note the deluxe packing paper placemat.

I will miss Saturday mornings in Victoria. Going to ballet class* and then walking half a block to Habit, where I would look through the big glass windows and spot Scott reading the Saturday Globe. I would stare at him intently and wave madly and he wouldn't notice me at all. (This might be best, as I intend to stare and wave for the rest of our lives and this is probably a good coping mechanism. I have no shame.)

Then I would walk a couple of blocks in the other direction to Italian Food Imports to pick up tallegio and olives and rosemary ham for lunch. Oh, and one slice of provolone to snack on. (Scott says my favourite saying is: "Mmm. That was a good snack.")

Or, if we were feeling adventurous, I would pick up my husband and a chai tea to go at Habit, hop in the car (hopefully before we got a parking ticket), and drive out to Sooke to eat lunch at the Edge. Scott always got a deconstructed hamburger and I cycled through the other hot sandwiches: smoked tuna melt, housemade salami, you get the idea.

In a typical Victoria forest: Garry oaks, arbutus, big leaf maples

Then, we'd go for a walk on the boardwalk over Sooke Harbour and watch the crabbers. Sometimes, we'd drive a bit further to scramble along the rocky shores at East Sooke Park.

Some Saturday afternoons, I would meet my friends Heidi and Margot for afternoon tea – at the White Heather or, if we were very lucky, in Heidi's backyard.

And I will miss Sunday afternoons in Victoria. Packing a water bottle and snacks and driving 20 minutes in any direction to get completely out of the city and up a mountain or down to the water.

We'd often pick a hike near Smyth's farm, so we could pick up loganberries and leeks and corn and apple-pears and catch up with farmer Brett.

Shiro plums from Brett's farm

During the week, I will miss the rare morning when I could make my way to Fol Epi and Caffé Fantastico in Dockside Green. Sitting out on the patio and sipping Option B tea while I watched giant excavators move gravel from pile to pile along the inner harbour. Trying to slowly eat the very best pain au chocolat in the world. (I have not been to France and eaten pain au chocolat there. But I am confident Fol Epi would still have the best pain au chocolat. With fair-trade chocolate, no less.)

And lunch: I will miss going to Pure Vanilla with friends from work and trying to read the chalkboard menu while keeping an eagle eye for a table to open up.

Swartz Bay

Or going downtown for lunch at Relish. My friend Jenn introduced me to the crispy chicken bowl at Relish on the Thursday before we moved . . . But I still managed to get back there on our very last day in Victoria. I had the crispy chicken again because once you've tried it, it's hard to try anything else – even though the other parts of the menu did look intriguing.

And finally, I will miss the sweet, tucked-away Parsonage where it smells like fresh coffee and bacon frying, and the orange-date muffins are always warm out of the oven.

Victoria, I will miss you.

A ferry ride away

*Lest you think I'm a prima ballerina . . . I am very comfortable in the beginner ballet class. So much so that I've taken it more times than I would like to number on a public blog.

one year ago: pan-fried salmon with sugar and salt rub
two years ago: black & blue scotch berries and plant yourself some garlic (Edmontonians – how do you grow garlic?)

cherry peach jam

Dear readers:

I am moving tomorrow.

And I just made jam. In a heat wave. 

It's a bit crazy. (In fact, I sense distinct disapproval emanating from my fellow mover.)

Boxes are my life

Anyway, the jam's made now. I've settled it happily in a box, taped it up and labelled it (jam! heavy!). I am sure we will enjoy it in Edmonton, where I don't think either cherries or peaches grow.

I don't have too much to say, because I'm really thinking about how I need to call the mover first thing tomorrow morning, and return my last novel to the library, and go help my mom clean the stove, and – oh, yes – convince my husband that I'm not frittering my time away writing a post.

But I know I promised  you this recipe and possibly some of you even did pit and freeze cherries in anticipation of making cherry peach jam.

It's a wonderful jam: bright, pinky red from the cherries and melting peach flavour. My dad's friend Betty makes a jam like this, not to mention cherry blueberry and raspberry peach. She lives in the Okanagan, where this kind of fruit most definitely does grow.

After a bit of tinkering, I've come up with this recipe. Spread it on your morning toast – try not to upset the husband and mother as they're just sitting down to breakfast surrounded by boxes and you're taking pictures, of all things – and be happy.

The next little while will be overwhelmed by cardboard and packing tape, but I'll try to check in again soon.

One year ago: German groceries
Two years ago: peach crisp and tomato zucchini gratin 


cherry peach jam
yields 10 – 11 cups

114 g. (2 57-g. packets) pectin
8 c. sugar (1/2 c. + 7 1/2 c.)
3 c. cherries, pitted and roughly chopped
6 c. peaches, peeled* and chopped**
1/2 c. lemon or lime juice


In a small bowl, stir the pectin and 1/2 c. sugar together. Set aside.

In a big pot with a heavy bottom, stir the cherries, peaches and lemon juice together. Stir in the pectin and sugar mixture. Bring it all to a boil over medium heat. If it seems slow, turn up the heat a bit, but keep a close eye on it and keep stirring. While you're waiting for it to boil, get out a cereal bowl and soup spoon for skimming and set it aside.

Once it's boiling hard, stir in the 7 1/2 c. of sugar. Bring it back to a hard boil, stirring often. Once it reaches a hard boil, let it boil for 1 minute. Stir often and watch it doesn't boil over!

Take it off the heat (slide it off the element because it will be too hot and heavy to move anywhere else). Take your bowl and spoon and bring it closer. Stir (to prevent floating fruit) and skim the foam off for about 4 minutes or until there is no more skim or you get incredibly bored.

Fill sterilized jars to 1/4 inch from the top, screw on the lids and process in a boiling water canner for 10 minutes.


* Easy way to peel peaches: drop them in boiling water for one minute. Use a slotted spoon to take them out, and run cold water over or place in a bowl of ice water. Slip the skin off.

** I was too lazy to chop the peaches very finely. If you are, too, just use a potato masher or pastry cutter on them in the pot. Works like a charm!

tarragon three-bean salad

One late Saturday afternoon in August – seven years ago now – my friend Janet picked me up at the ferry terminal at Swartz Bay, near Victoria, and took me right to our friend Caitlin's parents' house.

Now, I must tell you that Caitlin's parents live in my dream house. It's out in the country, a renovated wooden farmhouse set back from the road and surrounded by gardens and fields. Whenever I see it, it seems to have the late afternoon sun bathing it in golden light. 

At the time, I'd just moved away from Victoria to the big city of Vancouver, and was missing the Island.

Janet pulled into the driveway, gravel crunching, and we got out.

In the backyard, Caitlin had set up a little table covered with a pretty French tablecloth. We wandered inside and helped her bring out our dinner: salmon quiche and tarragon three-bean salad.

We talked and ate and caught up as the sun fell lower in the sky. I wrote down the recipes for both the salad and the quiche.

It's one of those golden memories that will always define Vancouver Island for me. The Island, it seems, always draws me back.

Indeed, after a couple of years in Vancouver – just enough time to meet and marry my leading man – and then a year in snowy Ottawa – we moved back to Victoria three years ago.

And now, we're leaving again. This time we're off to Edmonton, where Scott will start graduate studies.

I've never lived on the Prairies before and I know it will be a shock: the flat horizon stretching as far as my eye can see, the cold winters, the flat Prairie buildings, the predominance of country music. But I know there will also be so much to explore: cross-country skiing, the year-round indoor farmers' market, Saskatoon berries, the predominance of perogies.

But this bean salad will always bring me back to the Island. I've made it in Vancouver, Ottawa, Victoria and – soon – I will make it in Edmonton. The mustard dressing is light and the tarragon brings out the fresh beans' flavour, while the chickpeas give it a buttery background. It is, in short, the perfect thing to make on a late August afternoon.

If you can, eat it outside.

A note about the recipe: Caitlin says she found this in a magazine and cut it out. This many years later, she can't remember which magazine it was. She first made it for us in August 2005, which means it must have been published before that. Do you recognize it? If you remember the magazine, could you let me know? I always want to give credit where credit is due.


Last year: Tschüss, Deutschland! and German groceries
Two years ago: rosemary corn butter and peach crisp

tarragon three-bean salad
slightly adapted from an unnamed magazine clipping
makes a big bowl that serves 6 – 8

3 tbsp. dijon or German sharp mustard
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1/4 c. olive oil
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 tsp. table salt or 1 tsp. kosher salt
3 tbsp. fresh tarragon, chopped roughly
1 red or Spanish onion, cut into thin wedges or strips
450 g. (1 lb.) fresh green beans
450 g. (1 lb.) fresh yellow wax beans
540 g. (19 oz.) canned chickpeas, rinsed and drained

In a small bowl, whisk the mustard, lemon juice, olive oil, garlic and salt together to make a dressing. Whisk in the tarragon. Set aside.

Once the onion is cut up, put it into a mug and top it with cold water. Let it sit to mellow while you make the rest of the salad.

Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Drop the green and wax beans in. Cook them, uncovered, until tender-crisp, about 5 minutes.

Drain the beans in a colander and rinse with cold water to stop the cooking.

Drain the onions of their water.

Mix the beans, onions and chickpeas together. Toss with the dressing. Eat!

finding jim mitchell lake

James Scott Mitchell was a 20-year-old "six-foot youngster of quiet habits and a good bushman" when he died mysteriously in the bush of Vancouver Island in the summer of 1937.

Jim was a packer for a survey party and was going in alone to meet the survey party. He would relieve another young fellow who was coming out to go to school. On a Tuesday in late August, he began following a marked trail that faded to just notched trees along Upper Thelwood Creek.

He had been over the trail 11 times before, and knew it well. At some point, he set down his pack, maybe to find the best way to cross the creek.

On Friday, D. S. Harris, another packer, found Jim's body washed up onto a sandbar.

After a team came in to pack the body out and brought it to the coroner in Campbell River, it was determined that Jim had died from a blow to the head, just behind his right ear. The coroner thought he had died by slipping on the rocks or falling over a log as he was crossing the creek.

At the time, Jim Mitchell was one of the most promising pupils who had ever passed through Tsolum School. Everyone thought he should go to university, and that's what he was planning to do.

Jim Mitchell was my grandfather's older brother. His death came as a shock to the family, settlers who'd come out from Scotland when Jim was just a baby.

His father farmed a piece of land in Merville that had been rainforest before the lumber barons came through in 1910 and logged it all and burned it. Andy and Henrietta Mitchell arrived in 1920 to 80 acres of flat land where, legend has it, my great-grandmother had to walk a mile to the creek to get any shade. The farming wasn't great, and Andy also had to take up a job at a nursery in town.

Andy and Henrietta lost two of their four children young, but my granddad made it to 74. Their land is still in our family and I love exploring it, walking under towering second and third-growth Douglas firs and red cedars and hunting for huckleberries, while brambles actively try to trip me as they twine across my feet.

Merville, where the Mitchells settled, is near Courtenay, on the east coast of Vancouver Island. Jim Mitchell's body was found dead in the centre of the island, several mountain ranges and almost one hundred kilometres away, near a lake.

The lake used to be called Crystal Lake, but was re-named Jim Mitchell Lake about ten years after his death.

Scott, dad and I have always wanted to hike in there some day. We thought it would be days of rough hiking into uncharted territory.

That is, until I found a path to the lake listed in an Island hiking book. Then Scott found a site that said we could drive right up to it on logging roads and paddle round the lake in a canoe.

Suddenly, our gigantic adventure turned into a very do-able weekend trip. We set a date with my dad to make it happen.

On the last Saturday morning in July, Scott was itching to get driving, but both dad and I wanted to load up with picnic supplies at the Courtenay farmers' market. We tried to limit ourselves to 30 minutes, but were fairly pleased to get out in just over an hour. Amongst other goodies, we found fresh raspberries, bread baked in a wood-fired oven and garlic and chive verdelait cheese.

On the road, we ate warm cinnamon buns and chocolate ginger cookies from the market, and listened to my favourite radio show (which has great satirical lines like: "Canada: America's hair").

The drive down Buttle Lake was gorgeous and – as a bonus – paved. Once the lake ended, we turned on to a winding gravel logging road . . . but we knew we were on the right path because it was actually called Jim Mitchell Lake Road.

It took us almost an hour to drive six kilometres down that road, but then, all at once, remarkably, we were there.

Mountains and rocky cliffs rose almost straight out of the lake, and we could see higher mountains capped in snow and fog just behind them.

We sat on a log and ate our picnic lunch looking out over the lake.

Then we unloaded the canoe and paddled all along the rocky shoreline.

It was dammed years ago, but we think the water level only went up about a metre or so. We could see old tree stumps with their twisted root systems tangling over the rocks under water.

We saw patches of loose rock and little waterfalls where we could imagine Jim Mitchell putting down his 50-pound pack, looking for the best way to cross, and losing his balance. 

 

We inspected the creeping dogwood, copperbush and penstemon that wound its way over the rocks to the lake. We paddled in and out of shaded little coves and looked down into the clear water. We found a rock for dad to take home for his garden.

We were alone on the lake with our canoe. It was a time of peace and stillness that we will always remember. This is our last summer on Vancouver Island, and I think this was a parting gift for us.

After we'd made our way around the lake – staying well away from where the water suddenly fell over the edge of the dam – we pulled the canoe back onto the shore.

We found our picnic log and sat down again, this time to eat raspberries and drink tea and look out over Jim Mitchell Lake one more time.

last summer: sun tea
two summers ago: rote grütze on ice cream and hop & go fetch it: new restaurants on Salt Spring Island, Vancouver Island and Vancouver

eton mess

On Friday night, I looked at the weather forecast for Saturday and was delighted by what I saw: rain.

My little kitchen faces west and has great big windows (painted shut), which let in lots of light – and heat. There is no playing around in the kitchen in July and August; it's more a matter of getting in and out before you get heat stroke.

So back to Saturday. Scott had to work and I didn't mind at all, because it meant I could play and create as many dishes as I wanted without him interrupting and asking why I always like to make so many dishes.

The day dawned cloudy and I felt luxurious. I knew I could make all kinds of things in my cool kitchen. I fished a piece of paper out of the recycling and wrote down my plan.

Here's what I made, in order: meringues for Eton mess, gluten-free pizza dough, coffee ice cream with cacao nibs, pesto, and, finally, whipped cream for Eton mess. Oh yes, and I tarted up some loganberries and raspberries with kirsch and sugar for the Eton mess.

I did three loads of dishes at my own pace and listened to a lot of good radio.

Then I looked out the window. It still wasn't raining. The clouds seemed to be parting and I caught a glimpse of – gasp! – sunshine.

I was not impressed.

However, as an eternal optimist, I knew this would at least be good light for photographing the Eton mess, so I got down to work.

 

My good friend Andrea introduced me to Eton mess a couple of years ago on a hot summer day when we visited them in Kelowna. It is one of those perfect summertime desserts – cool, creamy and mostly made ahead of time. Think layers of crispy meringue, whipped cream and berries.

You only have to turn your oven on to bake the meringues, but you could do that in the morning or the late evening when your kitchen couldn't already be mistaken for a sauna. Then the whipped cream and boozy berries are a snap. Also, it's pretty fun to break up the meringues and you'll kindly remember that "fun" is a prerequisite for recipes to appear on this site.

As you see above, assembling is fun, too, and if you have guests, they'd probably enjoy being involved at this point. Pop a few meringue pieces into the bowl, add a dollop of cream, pour on some boozy berries, repeat if desired. (That last bit sounds like a shampoo bottle. Do not panic. This does not taste like shampoo.)

And there you go. My Saturday morning in the kitchen: satisfying times baking and cooking, lots of dishes, and unfortunately good weather.

After photographing in our sunny back room, I left the fourth load of dishes for Scott to enjoy later and went for a swim.

Too hot to stay inside any longer.

P.S. Do you have ripe cherries in your neck of the woods? If you pit them and freeze a few cups now, I'll give you a recipe for cherry peach jam in August.


one year ago: German zucchini soup
two years ago: ministrone with summer herbs and chocolate raspberry horse turds

eton mess
serves about 4 adults with extra meringues to use as you please

meringue shells
from my mom
bakes 12

3 egg whites, at room temperature
1/8 – 1/4 tsp. cream of tartar
2/3 c. granulated sugar
1/8 tsp. almond extract or 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 200 degrees Fahrenheit. Line two pans with parchment paper.

Beat the egg whites with the cream of tartar until soft peaks form. Gradually add the sugar, one tablespoon at a time, until stiff peaks form. Add the almond or vanilla extract.

Spoon the meringue into 12 nests on the prepared pans. Bake for about 2 hours, or until they are crisp but not too brown. (If you check a meringue and it sticks to the paper as you lift it up, it needs to keep baking.) Cool on a rack. Once they are cool, break into smaller pieces.


whipped cream

2 c. whipping cream
2 tbsp. granulated sugar
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Beat the whip cream until it starts to thicken. Add the sugar and continue to beat until it's whipped. Beat in the vanilla.


boozy berries
from The Essential New York Times Cookbook 

2 c. berries (raspberries, loganberries, blackberries or strawberries) fresh or defrosted
1/4 c. sugar
1 tbsp. kirsch or framboise liquer

Put the berries, sugar and kirsch together in a bowl. Stir until the sugar dissolves.


assembling your eton mess

In little bowls or fancy parfait cups, make layers of meringue, whipped cream and berries. Repeat if desired. Eat!

balancing tofino and the plane

On Tuesday, we made an epic trek to find the wreck of a lost plane.

First of all, I should tell you it was actually a gloriously sunny holiday. Six days of sun, sun and more sun.

Except – except!– on the very west coast of Vancouver Island in a little surfing town called Tofino. We had just finished lunch at Shelter (pinot gris and local shrimp sandwich, very nice) where we had to move from a sunny table to a shady table because we were too hot. Ten minutes down the road, we parked at Long Beach and found this . . .

But it was warm(ish) and children were building sand castles and people were surfing and it was a lovely walk along Long Beach before we got back in the car for the tortuous drive home.

Now, let me tell you what we were doing around Tofino.

It has always been family legend that my husband's grandfather Jack Campbell was lucky to make it through the Second World War – even though he never left Canada.

You see, he was one of seven crew members who were on a plane loaded with bombs, flying out of Tofino in 1945. Almost as soon as they lifted off, an engine gave out. The pilot quickly dropped the bombs over a bog and soon crashed into the side of a hill.

 But – and this is the good part – everyone survived.

That was all we knew.

Then, a couple of years ago, we were out hiking with a new friend when he starting telling us about this great hike he'd gone on in Tofino, to this old plane from World War II that had crashed into the side of a hill. The hike was unauthorized, but there was a trail through a swamp and a bog and up to the old wreck.

The light bulb went off pretty quick and Scott looked it up as soon as we got home. Sure enough, it was his grandfather's plane. It soon became our mission to take his parents to it.

This was a serious hike. Scott printed out instructions from various websites. I borrowed a GPS. His mother bought rubber boots.

We found the trail head along the road and headed in. The first part was an easy path through the bush. Then we got to this sign:

Yay! We were definitely going the right way.

We went through a creepy abandoned factory and out the other side. That's when the trail started getting iffy, as we scrambled down the side of a hill and learned how handy it is to hold on to trees.

In fact, that was nothing. The real fun was getting through the swamp. The mud would suddenly be up to our knees, so we followed a rope and skirted tree roots to stay above it (somewhat successfully).

Someone fell three times and another person fell once. I'm not naming names.

Once we were finally out of the swamp – which did bring back memories of the fire swamp in the Princess Bride (only without the fire) – we came out on a flatland of bog that looked like a veritable bonsai forest.

Just another kilometre or so across the bog . . . and we were there.

Sure enough, the plane was pushed into the hillside and we could hardly believe that everyone had survived.

It took our breath away.

Sixty-seven years later, the aluminum frame had hardly rusted, although there were tatters of some lighter metal fluttering off the wings.

I am not telling you how many times we fell on the trail heading home, but I will say I'm glad I borrowed these gaiters (not to mention they make me look like a very serious hiker in this glamour shot).

And getting back to the theme of this website – that would be food – we definitely worked up a good appetite for dinner here, which included a Dungeness crab and lemon risotto that I definitely earned.

You see, a girl can wear gaiters, be spattered in mud and still enjoy fine dining. It's all about balance.