27 hours in saskatoon

It felt like the river was everywhere in Saskatoon.

Bridges and paths along the river bank kept pulling me over to it, deep and still.

I stood on the Broadway Bridge and stared down into the South Saskatchewan River, and I still couldn't decide which way it was flowing. So I carried on with my exploring and checked on it every so often.

I was in Saskatoon for work last week and I had two hours to myself when I could explore this little Prairie city on the river. I walked along the river bank and people caught my eye and smiled at me as I passed them, my camera slung across my jacket (like a sign proclaiming I was just visiting).

I wandered over the bridge into the Broadway neighbourhood and looked at local pottery and native art and found some locally-roasted coffee beans to take home to Scott.

By accident, I wandered past the restaurant where my colleague would later take me to dinner. Saskatchewan has a lot of Ukrainian roots and I wasn't surprised that the restaurant had what looked like a Ukrainian name: Weczeria.

Do you know about Saskatchewan? It's kind of known for its wheat.* Now, look closely at that vase on the table at Weczeria. It boded rather well, I thought.

Indeed, when my colleague and I returned for dinner, we were not let down. I didn't see any Saskatoon berries on the menu, but I did try other local delicacies . . . including a fat little trout from Lake Diefenbaker with slightly-pickled hazelnuts and wild rice.

The next day, I saw of the University of Saskatchewan, where I was working. It was so surprising: in the middle of the Canadian Prairies, there was this collection of butter-coloured stone buildings that looked like it had been lifted up from the East Coast a century ago.

(Lovely stone buildings are generally not how we build universities in Western Canada. I'm more familiar with the grey concrete and no windows model.)

And that was it. My 27 hours were almost up. Before I knew it, I was back at the airport, wishing I had more time. However, as a consolation prize, I found this Saskatchewan wild rice at the airport gift shop. Now I can make it at home and remember my quick trip to my new Prairie neighbour.

Au revoir, Saskatoon!

*Saskatchewan is also known for lentils, potash, uranium and friendly people, in no particular order.

one year ago: quince almond cake
two years ago: pear ginger jam

beet salad with honey-horseradish dressing

Last time I visited with you, I declared that beet fatigue* was threatening to overwhelm me. (Although beet hummus seemed to keep it at bay.)

The beet saga continues.

We were invited to a lovely Thanksgiving dinner . . . and what did I see lurking at the back of the fridge? That's right, a bag of multi-coloured beets.

So, I offered to bring a beet salad.

I boiled the beets in water that soon turned blood red and dropped them into their ice bath like pink and white and purple jewels (with tails). I cut green onions on an angle so they'd look fancy. I mixed up the honey and horseradish and garlic. I tossed it all together and –

The beet fatigue was eradicated. Just like that. Snap.

My salad was so pretty that I took the bowl in my hands and began trotting around the house after Scott. Look, I kept saying, isn't it pretty?

He would say yes and I would trot back to the kitchen and put plastic wrap on top, still marvelling at its beauty, and then I'd call him back again, showing him how pretty it was.

That's when he said with only the slightest bit exasperation: Why don't you take a picture of it?

So I did.

And now I'd like to share it with you. Isn't it pretty?**

* Beet fatigue is a more specific symptom of root vegetable fatigue. It should not be indulged until the spring greens start shooting up.

** Don't worry: it also tastes good. You can use any kinds of beets you can find, even plain old red ones.

one year ago: star anise plum jam and quince almond cake
two years ago: finally yummy brussels sprouts

beet salad with honey-horseradish dressing
from ricardo larrivée
feeds 8 - 10

about 6 large beets, unpeeled
2 tbsp. honey
2 tbsp. olive oil
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1 tbsp. creamed horseradish
1 clove garlic, finely chopped or crushed
2 tbsp. + 2 tbsp. fresh chives or green onions, chopped
salt and pepper

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Add the beets and cook until tender. This might take a while – anywhere from 20 minutes to 45 minutes. Make sure they do get tender – they should pierce easily with a sharp knife like a firm potato – because that will make a much better salad.

While the beets are cooking, prepare a big bowl with ice water. Set aside.

You can also make the dressing while the beets are cooking. In a large bowl, whisk the honey, olive oil, lemon juice, horseradish, garlic and 2 tbsp. green onion with a good amount of salt and pepper. Taste and see if you need more salt and pepper. Set aside.

When the beets are tender, drop them in the ice water to cool quickly. Drain and peel the beets. Cut them into 1-cm (1/2-inch) smiles. Toss with the dressing. Taste and see if you need more salt and pepper (again! It's important). Scatter the other 2 tbsp. of chives on top. Serve.

beet hummus

Do you ever get beet fatigue?*

You know, when you look at your bag of cute little multi-coloured beets – from the farmers' market, no less – and catch yourself thinking that you've already eaten enough roasted beets this month?

And then you realize it just officially turned autumn four days ago and you'd better buck up and deal with it because these beets aren't going away for at least two more seasons?

Right, so that's how I felt while I was contemplating dinner tonight. Whiny and spoiled, with an over-abundant supply of baby beets.

Until I remembered this recipe I'd just read about for beet hummus. Like magic – like all the vitamins I would probably ingest from these very beets had already got to work – I perked right up.

I mean, look at this:

It's practically electric pink! Just the thing to cheer you up in the fall. And the winter. And the spring.

Also, it tastes like it looks: bright and smooth and I-need-more-on-my-cracker-right-now-ish.

The original recipe calls for pine nuts, but I only had pecans – which I roasted first – and threw in. Having tried it this way, I don't think I'll be able to try it any other. And if you save a few extra pecans, you can put them on random beet-hummus-crackers to make little nut buttons. How cute is that?

Beet hummus: the cure for beet fatigue.

*Beet fatigue is a more specific symptom of root vegetable fatigue. It should not be indulged until the spring greens start shooting up.

one year ago: parsley lentil pasta
two years ago: mrs. doucet's apple chutney

beet hummus
slightly adapted from laura calder
yields about 2 cups

2 small-medium beets
1/3 c. pecans (or pine nuts)
250 - 300 g. (about 1 1/2 c.) cooked or canned chickpeas
1/3 c. tahini
2 garlic cloves, crushed
juice of 1 large lemon, to taste
salt* and pepper
1/3 - 1/2 c. olive oil

First, roast the beets. Heat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Wrap each beet in aluminum foil and put it on a casserole dish (in case it leaks bright red beet juice into your oven). Roast 25 - 35 minutes, until tender and you can poke a sharp knife through them easily. Let them cool, then dice them.

While the beets are cooking, you can roast the pecans in the oven. They should take about 8 minutes – keep a careful eye on them. (Nuts love to burn!) Set a few aside on a plate.

Put the diced beets, roasted pecans (except the ones you've set aside), chickpeas, tahini, garlic and lemon juice into a food processor. Blend or pulse until smooth. Taste and add salt and pepper. Add the smaller amount of the olive oil and blend. Taste. If it's not loose enough, add more oil. Once you've got the right texture, taste again and add more salt and pepper if necessary. Don't be shy with the pepper and salt: they help temper the lemon and garlic (and salt tastes good!).

Spoon onto a serving dish and poke a few pecans on top, if you're feeling artsy. Serve with crackers. Keep extra hummus in the fridge.

*I used kosher salt, but you can use whatever you like.

little house on the prairie

I find that Alberta is quite flat.

That's the Prairies, I guess.

As the sun goes down, it seems more west than west. The sun keeps dropping and dropping over the flat land, with no mountains to block it (just a flat little housing development).

I love this view.

I am working at home this month. Well, technically, I am working at our friends' home until we can get into our rental house in October.

We're out on the far western edge of Edmonton, and I sit at the dining room table pretending to work . . . but really I'm just looking out at this view.

Driving around today, I thought it would be the first day when I didn't need to pull over, check the map and turn the car around while careening my way around this foreign city. Then I almost drove the wrong way down a one-way street. So I guess I still have a lot to learn.

Gas station pump . . . They obviously have a sense of humour here.

But – with the help of friends – I have discovered a few sweet spots that are already helping Edmonton wiggle its way into my heart. 

There's the Swiss sandwich shop where I had the Italian Bride sandwich (so called because of a great circle of soft bocconcini) on a pretzel bun with prosciutto so thick I thought I couldn't possibly eat it all. But I could.

Then there's sweet little Mandolin, with a miniature café tucked into a used bookshop. They have a cookie that I believe is called "chocolate overdose." I ate it twice in two days and I didn't OD. In fact, I could eat it again right now.

And then there is the house where we're staying. The owners are wonderful gardeners and I wandered around this afternoon in the sunshine (again, while I was "working"), eating bits of lettuce and the last three raspberries of the season. I even discovered a whole row of carrots along the side of the house, just waiting to be pulled up and eaten.

Then I sat down again at the table and looked out the window.

I hope to show you a new recipe soon. But right now, it is enough to be settling in.

One year ago: pan-fried salmon with sugar and salt rub and hop & go fetch it: German edition
Two years ago: salted chocolate shortbread

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