“Welcome to Extinction”
Said our server, flourishing menus
Our specials tonight include items
Unlike any other venues
Perhaps to start I can interest you
In a Monarch Butterfly Drink?
Or frisee salad & balsamic dressing
With salt cured prairie skink?
The soup du jour, house specialty
A leatherback turtle broth
Fragranced lightly with the wings
Of delicate Dusky Dune Moth
Grilled upon the fire breath
Of the devil himself incarnate
Is a tenderloin medallion
Of Vancouver Island marmot
If you’re feeling more like seafood
You can always try a fork of
Our delightfully well seasoned
Lemon poached fillet of orca
For something more substantial
To enjoy as a main course,
I recommend our roast of giant panda
Served with bamboo, of course.
“I think the breast of Dodo,
Steamed with mermaid tears”
I’m sorry madam, our server said
That’s been off the menu for years.
Winding down National Poetry Writing Month on the blog, and in reviewing the stats see that this particular piece is far and away the most viewed. So, I present it again, as I tried to make the midnight deadline with an original piece that just isn’t working. Maybe tomorrow.
Autumn morning, rising sun
burnishing barrens gold
Father and son wait patiently
For glimpse of brown through brush
Moose steps into field of sight
Son shoulders .308 with steady aim
He finds his mark
Bull turns its massive antlered head
With regal grace and pride of place
And for a moment gazes lock
Soft brown eyes look into blue
Fingers tremble slightly
On trigger, squeezing tightly
Father exhales softly “now, son”
The shot is clean, right through the brain
Majestic animal collapses, down
On legs surprisingly spindly
Dead before it hits the ground
The meat is quartered, packed and hauled
Nothing left but blood stained leaves
This animal did not die in vain
No wastage here, no trophy kill
And though he loves his mother’s stew
The moose meat braised to tender turn
The boy, he will not hunt again
This one is going to have to be quick; I just took a Tylenol 3 with codeine before I remembered I hadn’t written an entry yet, and in fact, hadn’t even thought about it.
In this TMI age I’ll try and not overshare, but hey, it’s a quirky story that leads to both the painkillers and the poem so I’m just throwing it all out there.
I went for a muscle biopsy today, which at first set up doesn’t sound like a big deal–15-20 minute procedure, local anaesthetic, needle takes a tissue sample, poof you’re done and off you go.
But, there’s something they don’t tell you (at least, not if they want you to show up, I’m assuming) and that is if you’re getting this biopsy to identify an inflammation, then the skin will be frozen for the incision (incision? thought it was a needle? yeah me too!) but no freezing of the muscle tissue itself cause that skews the results. Bastards. By the time the doctor delivered that tasty tidbit I was committed.
Both the doctor and nurse who oversaw
this evil bit of medieval torture procedure were delightful, and despite the news of impending pain I was relaxed. The doctor had spent time on the east coast and we chatted about the Newfoundland budget (bring back Danny Williams!), Chinatown in Halifax (the ceiling is still brass!). He learned I was a food writer and we chatted about flavour balance in meals, the current gluten-free trends (his daughter, apparently, insisted he does not understand celiac disease despite, as he told her, he’s “in the business”).
He lets me know he’s getting to the tissue sample part and it may sting.
FELT LIKE THIS!
It wasn’t all that bad, fine, but as he’s doing that part he says something along the lines of “so, will this end up in one of your cookbooks?”
And that led to a conversation about how best to prepare muscle from a leg (braised).
Really, it was very organic and not as strange and Silence of the Lambsy as it sounds. Really.
See? Big slice!
Oddly enough, we ended up with beef stew for dinner, to which I contributed exactly zero.
Braising beef with onions and red wine
Simmering slowly, fragrance fills home
Roast vegetables, add to broth
Thickened and seasoned well
With heart and soul and
p’raps a special
piece of the
Put down the phone.
Pick up the fork.
Look at your plate.
Taste your food.
And that my friends,
is just rude.
Hard for me to believe that it was lucky 13 years ago that Fabulous Fishcakes was released. It was my first cookbook, and opened the door for five more. I was the food critic for the Coast (www.thecoast.ca) at the time, and I had the opportunity handed to me—very lucky break indeed.
It was my first collaboration with the amazing Scott Munn (photomunn.com), my first crack at food styling, my first time kitchen testing recipes on a large scale, and converting chefs’ recipes to recipes for the home cook.
We ate a lot of fishcakes in the making of this book. And one thing was quite clear: tart them up, dress them down, fishcakes are versatile, tasty, and easy.
All you need is three components—well, here, let’s rhyme about it.
The Humble Fishcake
If you wish for cakes of fish
Of any shape or kind
I’ve got a dish for cakes of fish
For whatever you’ve in mind
Pick your fish whichever you wish
Halibut haddock or hake
Or pick a shellfish if you wish
If that’s what you want to make
Now season your fish however you wish
With herbs or spices or more
Enhance your fish, it’s your special dish
Don’t be afraid to explore
A binder is swish for cakes of fish
To keep a very neat cake
Whatever you do it must work like glue
To hold the shape you make
Heat up the pan as quick as you can
And fry your fishcakes through
Then gobble your wish, your cakes of fish
Created uniquely by you.
I booshed into the himmledyhobbin
And skurled the artmass gimmdeleedobbin
The merkelang swicked the undinang
And cartnered our bickiewick flobbin
The wickywack floofered the yaggybag
Over the ponsperous skaggertag
And brazenly scumpted more jaggeeskag
But glapsingly doomdelled the uttermutter
And lo, twas grissingly juttingstutter.
I once found a recipe bucket,
Labeled “Paleo-try it, don’t chuck it!”
After seing detailed
All that entailed
Well if this is a trend, I say buck it.
I kid, of course. But I assume if you’re eating like a caveman you’re eschewing modern forms of communication and will have no way of seeing this, let along being offended by that. Oh, wait–that’s vegans who have the self-righteous blowhard pomposity over their lifestyles…