Starbucks and the Jingle Fool

I spent much of Christmas morning twitching uncontrollably, and wondering if there was a chance that the Starbucks at the end of Academy Road was open. While we own a crappy generic drip coffee maker, it has never once produced a cup of coffee that was close to being “good.”  Lukewarm, vaguely coffee tasting water comes from it, and unless I’m stranded for several days without ready access to places that sling espresso, it stays turned off.  Hubs and I both prefer a good espresso based drink, be it an Americano (that’s espresso + hot water for you non-coffee types) or a cappuccino (espresso + some milk + lots of milk foam) and are willing to pay for it. Yes, we realize we should invest in a good machine, and will probably do so soon. Until then, we have Starbucks.

While Starbucks is not, by any scope of the imagination, a bastion of great coffee, it more than fills the void. It’s also close to our house. It is on a coffee stratosphere higher than a double double. As it turns out, Starbucks can also be relied upon to be a heathen, Godless, greedy corporate entity which was open (with limited hours) on December 25th. I pretty much teleported myself from the dining room in my house into their store, upon finding out from their website that they were open for business. S’bucks was also wall-t0-wall packed with other coffee addicts, shaking like junkies and signing off on the sale of their soul for a grande peppermint mocha.  I ordered  two Venti * Skinny* Cappuccinos, and gladly handed them the deed to my house to pay for it (I gave them the last of my blood plasma the day before.)

I meandered over to the pick up counter area, which, was strangely devoid of caffeine addled addicts. They were all chugging back on their liquid elixir of love, pounding on laptops fiendishly, and prattling on endlessly about whatever thesis they were working on to bored partners. There had been a woman and child ahead of me in the line, but I hadn’t paid attention to what they ordered, and they were seated together on a plush chaise near the door. I leaned on the counter like a boozehound in a honky tonk, waiting for the bartender to push my order across the counter. The young male barista wordlessly pushed the first cappuccino across the counter, and I eagerly snatched it, doused it with cinnamon and vanilla sprinkles, and started tonguing the delicious foam off the top. I continued licking and slurping at the drink, enjoying it as perversely as possible, waiting for the other one to take home to hubby. The barista had also put a plastic spoon on the counter, so I used that to start digging out the fragrant foam. Around that time, I noticed someone standing next to me, looking at me oddly. It was the woman with the kid.

Meh.

I’m weird.

People look at me oddly all the time.

I kept licking at the spoon.

Which was right about when I realized that the drink I was ravishing was not a venti.
It was a grande.

As I spun the drink to look at the order hieroglyphics on the side of the cup, to see if they screwed my order up, the barista pushed two venti cappuccinos across the counter.

Um. What?

I looked at the comparatively smaller coffee that I was cradling. I looked at the two vats sitting in front of me. I looked at the woman staring at me. I looked down at her kid who had a yogurt and no spoon.

I had stolen and orally abused HER drink.

Quick! You look like an asshole! Think of something witty!

“I’m so, so, so sorry. I’m jetlagged from coming back from Europe and wasn’t thinking.”

Which is when I brilliantly held out the spoon for her to take.

She looked skeptical, but bemused.

The barista, realizing that he’d failed to call the drinks, stepped in and said “Oh, this happens A LOT. I’ll make you a new one, ma’am.”

She said “I’ll need a new spoon too.”

Me: “Oh. God. I’m so sorry. I think my kids need to go back to school – I can’t believe they’re home until the 9th of January! Those lucky teachers get to kick back and relax!”

Her: “My husband is a teacher.”

Me: “Oh.”

….and slunk out.

O Holy Crap: That’s the Wrap?

Never send a man to do a woman’s job.

I learned this earlier today, when striking items off of my To Do List.

I don’t buy gifts for other people at Christmas (not even my kids) for a host of personal reasons and convictions. I kicked in money for communal teacher gifts at school. I fail at maintaining a stash of festive, seasonal decor other than what has been acquired through inheritance and gifting.  I am something of a Scrooge, and I am unrepentant.

And so,  it came to pass that my mother sent my children Sinterklaas/Chanukkah/Christmas gifts, and didn’t wrap them before sending. This is partially so that I can preview the things she bought for them, and partially a eco-friendly gesture to save more paper/plastic from going to the landfill.  I realized last night, after the kids and I finished putting the last ornament on the tree, that I didn’t have anything to wrap them with at all, and would have to make a stop at the Dollar Store in the morning to buy something cheap and festive.

This morning, my husband decided he wanted to come shopping with me (we’d been in Europe/Israel for most of the month and hadn’t bought a turkey etc.) and the kids. The store was, predictably,  packed with frenzied people trying to knock things off their own To Do lists on Christmas Eve morning.  I hate crowds,  and wanted to get the heck out of Dodge, so I sent hubby to do some of the grocery grabbing (milk, eggs, cereal) while I did the more picky things that I need for the meal (like Magi seasoning) that can’t be swapped out for something different. This went well. We were in the line up in less than 15 minutes, ready to get back to the van.  That’s when I screwed it up.

I said to my husband:

“Hey. I need to go to the Dollar Store to get some W-R-A-P-P-I-N-G P-A-P-E-R for the G-I-F-T-S from Oma so we can put them under the tree. If you want to save us time, go pick some up for me while I pay for these groceries. I’ll meet you back at the van.”

He said to me:

“Okay.”

So I slid him a fiver so he didn’t have to use the debit card, and he took off with the kids and went to the Dollar Store.

What could possibly go wrong?

Pleased with the execution of my mission, I paid for the groceries and walked back across the parking lot, where he was waiting for me in the van.

“Did you get the wrapping paper?” I asked my mate.

“Yep” he replied, and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Where is it?” I said to him.

“Back there”  he said, and motioned to the passenger area of the van.

So I turned around.

Two rolls of wrapping paper were lying on the floor.

Roll A:  Pale yellow, floral wrapping paper with Princess Jasmine’s face all over it, reading “Happy Birthday!”

Roll B:  Translucent, colorless cellophane, with an irregular white opaque floral pattern, much like what florists use to wrap flowers.

*faceplantheaddashboard*

“What the hell is that?” I hissed, incredulously at him.

“Wrapping paper.” He said, and kept driving.

“It has fucking PRINCESS JASMINE ALL OVER IT. It says Happy Birthday!” I squeaked out, as my blood pressure pounded in my ears.

“It covers presents, doesn’t it? I think it will work.”

With that, I realized my own folly.

I  had neglected to tell him to buy CHRISTMAS wrapping paper.
I ASSUMED that this would be obvious.

Apparently it was not.

Or, maybe it doesn’t matter to dudes, since it’s about function rather than aesthetics?

All that I know is that I now have an acre of florist wrap, and more Princess Jasmine paper than any one person should rightfully have. I had to go back out to the store later to buy what I had expected to get the first time:  basic, boring green, gold and red with a repeating motif of stylized trees and cardinalesque birds.

Lucidity Now!

Most of the time, my mind is a spastic jumble of Jeopardy trivia, television commercial jingles from the 80′s, the part of regular Catholic weekday Mass that the priest says, and a never-ending to-do list. If you were to cut my head open and read my thoughts at any given time, it would appear something like this:

“Good morning America how are ya? Well don’t you know me I’m your native son? I’m the car they call your Cutlass Sierra and ohshitshitshitshit did I forget to log out of Facebook? I’m driving to Shoppers Drugmart instead of Rexall Drugs becase the line will be shorter and it’s closer to Tim Hortons. Horton Hears a Who? That video on YouTube of people petting tiny owls was sure cute. Is that a new restaurant? Why did they go in THAT location? I should go in there and see if they have anything worthwhile. Hey! Asshole! Try a turn signal! Hey, I love this song. Haven’t heard Stone Temple Pilots in like, 20 minutes! God I love Scott Weiland! I need to remember to put him in my death pool. Oooh! Shiny!”

Yeah.

That’s pretty much it, unless I’m sleeping, and then it’s just {fade to black} until I open my eyes because a kid is snuffling or my husband is thundering up and down the squeaky stairs.

And then, once in a while, I have a fleeting moment of stunning, fleeting lucidity, when I’m smacked in the face with the reality of a situation.

The static disappears, and there is a single thought in my head.

It echos.

Usually it is:

HOLY SHIT. I’M THIRTY THREE. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?

Or:

HOLY SHIT. SOMEONE LET ME BREED AND TAKE KIDS HOME. HOW THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN?

Today, as I was driving the Mini-Van of Doom back from Santa Lucia Pizza (we just came back from Europe, and I haven’t done a big shop-up yet) I had one such moment. It went:

OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY. THIS IS WINNIPEG. I LIVE IN WINNIPEG. HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN? NOBODY REALLY LIVES IN WINNIPEG. IT IS AN IMAGINARY PLACE IN THE ATLAS!

*Cue extistential crisis*

Fortunately, shoveling pizza into my gaping maw calmed the intense, momentary panic I felt when my brain registered that I lived in Winnipeg.

No wonder I’m fat.

Author’s Note: When I was a child, we had a raggedy-ass navy blue Rand McNally atlas, and on the map of Canada, Manitoba was a pink province. When I was learning to read, I thought Winnipeg was the coolest name, because it sounded like ” Win a pig” and to pre-school me, that was pretty much as awesome as Moose Jaw and Yellow Knife. I hoped that one day I’d go to Winnipeg, so I could win a pig, and see the vast swaths of pinkness.

The French Horn of Doom

Once upon a life, in a land far, far away, I played French Horn in band.

By played, I mean that I’m extraordinarily proficient in emulating both moose calls and the cacophony of migrating geese.

From Grades 6 through 9 (with a one year hiatus in grade 10 so I could take a mandatory Business Education class that conflicted with my schedule) and then again in 11 and 12, the Horn was my cross to bear.

We lived in a small town.

Band teachers didn’t really know a lot about the horn, and didn’t really know what to do with me.

I took private lessons for a while with an ex-soldier who really liked cats but didn’t like kids.

The case was nearly as big as I was, and I was pissed off that I got saddled with this gleaming pain in the ass.

I had wanted to play the piccolo trumpet, or a flute. Or if my mother really wanted me to be weirder than I was already, an oboe. At any rate, their cases didn’t take up the entire aisle of the bus, and the players of these instruments seemed to be actually having fun and learning something. I used to sit in my uncomfortable folding chair, with my lopsided music stand and gnarled horn music, and curse the clarinet section on my left, because they had parts that sounded like actual music, where I sat there, grunting whole notes for pages, or resting. I was the only one, and I didn’t belong to any of the other clusters of band lepers.

I discovered rapidly, that the best use of a French Horn was to use the perpetually full spit valves as weapons. I enjoyed flicking a good half cup of spittle at annoying sax players, and using the excuse of phlegmy brass to not play, and dawdle with emptying my spit in voluminous puddles on the floor. I hated the horn, and I resented it.

My mother, God bless her, also tried her hand at having me play piano and guitar. While the guitar vaguely interested me in a way that can only be expressed as “wanting to impress an older guy,” the piano was possibly more embarrassing than the horn, and I hated practicing. At the end of the day, I will admit that I’m not terrifically musical. It does not come easily. When I later read that music and math are intrinsically linked in the brain, it made more sense as to why I was always feeling like I belonged in a remedial group, and wanted to hide in the background.

Band class, despite the social stigma, was a fantastic way to goof off. It also afforded me trips out-of-town for a week at a time, to goof off some more. “This one time, at band camp….” a la American Pie? I have some good Band Trip stories. Which I’m not sharing. There was probably photographic evidence out there, somewhere, but in the last 15 – 20 years, has probably been tossed, lost, water damaged or burned. Yay!

My mother kept my poor, dinged up, unloved horn to use as an ornament on the mantle piece. Over the course of the years, the mouthpiece became stuck, and the string (!) in the keys  disintegrated, rendering it unplayable, unless you count a really bad rendition of Reveille “playing.”

A couple of years ago, my parents started to foist the accumulated crap of my youth back onto me, and dumped the battered and beaten horn on my doorstep. The novelty of having it back (despite the condition it was in) and showing off for my kids was great for a few days. Then the horn moved back into the basement crawl space, mostly forgotten.

This afternoon, my youngest daughter reminded me that her pre-school expected her to bring something for Show & Tell. She had a grubby teddy bear in her hands, and I thought to myself “We can do better than THAT!”

So I dug out the French Horn.

We dragged it down the road to the school.

I let my daughter carry it in to her class full of four-year olds, who gasped in unison when she walked through the door with the brass behemoth in her little hands.
They all wanted to feel, touch, hold the horn, and were absolutely in awe of it. My daughter totally felt like a rock star.

My only observations were:

a) 55-year-old French Horns that are not regularly maintained STINK like ancient valve oil and spit. Spit smells like ass after any prolonged period of time. Thusly, the horn smells like ass.

b) It is a lot lighter now that I don’t have to take it back and forth to high school on a bus and then schlep it around for an hour before and after class.

c) My moose calls bring all the bulls to the yard. Damn rights, they’re better than yours.

d) Four year olds still think band is cool.

I now feel guilty for not having taken better care of the Horn, and hope that one day my daughters will have a chance to pursue an instrument that is not a saxophone or clarinet.

Also, they are not allowed to date any drummers.

Ever.

There is something wrong with drummers….

Winning at Kartoffelknödel!

Millions of dead German grandmothers will roll in their graves when I say this:

I don’t care for potatoes.

Gasp!
Sacrilege!
Treason!
Heresy!

As an adult, I’ll tolerate them in most forms except boiled/boiled and mashed. Other than baked potatoes, where I can smother the potatoness out of them with “the works”, or a Greek style lemon potato, I’m not a fan.

I much prefer rice.

Yes, those are my ancestors you hear weeping.

As I child, I was loathe to imagine something crappier that my mother could issue as the side-dish of choice. I never understood those nut jobs who describe a “plate of fluffy, buttery, mashed potato heaven” as their ultimate comfort food. Bile. Throat. Rising. Blech.

There is, however, one preparation of the humble spud that I have always adored. It is the stuff of my personal comfort food fantasies. I would BEG my mother to make it at Christmas/Thanksgiving.

Kartoffelknödel.

(Yes, I just heard all the non-German speakers utter “WTF?” when they tried to pronounce that. The alternative name is even better for non-Germans to try to swing at: Klöße. No, that is not a B after the umlaut.)

So, you’re saying to yourself: “Dear Lard, Woman. What the HELL is that? ”

Majesty.

Majesty and carbohydrates.

Kartoffel = potato. Knödel = dumpling. A very simple, boiled potato dumpling.

There are so many regional variations on the lowly knödel, that you’ll never see any two recipes that look the same. I was previously warned by my mother that if I’m in Germany, I should NOT expect to get what she/my Oma/I make at home, because it’s not the classy, well-heeled sort of dumpling that is served in restaurants or by people who had cash. Those recipes contain mashed potatoes, parsley, semolina etc. The ones that have been passed on to me are an Eastern German, raw potato dough based knödel, and have more in common with Czech and Polish variants.

Peasant food.

My knödels contain only three simple ingredients: finely grated raw potato, white flour, salt. They are formed into balls, and boiled in salted water until rubbery and firm. This is all. There is no more steps or contents.

However, to make them the traditional way is a gigantic pain in the ass.

The part of the grater  (reibeisen) needed to obtain the fine, fine puree is often on the narrow side of the tool. To derrive the necessary amount of potato mush to make dumplings, you have to grate a lot of ‘taters. Not only is this hard on the wrists, but someone always ends up flaying themselves on the sharp edges, and ends up bound like those of a sad individual who failed their suicide attempt via wrist slashing. It. Takes. Forever.

Over the years, my mother experimented with the food processor, but it never generated the consistency that was needed to make what we wanted. Ergo, we always grate by hand. Ergo, the damn things are usually only trotted out for very special occasions, and mostly by my Oma, who makes them the size of a baseball. (My mother and I prefer to make them golf ball sized.)

This year, I beat the system. I found the perfect way to process the little buggers.

With a juicer.

See, a juicer has an extremely fast blade, which operates under centrifugal force, which causes the water/juices to be extracted in their entirety, and only a fine pulp to be left behind.
This is EXACTLY what you need when making knödels. In the traditional prep, you’d have to strain the potato juice prior to mixing in the flour to form the dumpling. This takes forever.
Not with a juicer. You peel the potato. You push it into the machine. Out flies potato juice (which can be used as a thickening agent in other dishes) and lovely, lovely, snow-white pulp.

No mess. No bleed outs. No waiting.
I’m not sure if anyone, other than my mother, grandmother, aunts and she-cousins can actually appreciate this, but I felt the spirit move me to document this one moment of winning at German food.

Natasha, our  lovely spokeswomen, demonstrates the set up: peeled baker potato, juicer, juice catching implement.

Insert the raw spud into the warmed up juicer.

The juice of four potatoes. They are very, very watery. I processed a total of 12 to obtain the quantity I needed for Thanksgiving dinner and leftovers for four people.

The extracted water also contains an inch of potato starch, which feels/looks like cornstarch when mixed with water or “Magic Mud.”
This is waste by-product. Unless you are thickening a soup/gravy, dump it.

This is the finely grated/pulped potato that we’re using to make the dumpling with. Look how lovely and firm the raw potato mush is!

Salt to taste, and mix with all purpose flour. If you use whole wheat, it’s a fail. I used about 1 cup per 12 baking potatoes.

While all of this was going on, lightly salted water is brought to a rolling boil. When it’s rolling, you can add the little balls of nom to the pot, stirring each gently with a slotted spoon so that they do not stick to the pot or each other. Sticking, disintegrating & burning are frowned upon.

This camera is not great, nor am I a food photographer. However at this point, about 15 – 20 minutes has elapsed, and my dumplings are rubbery and firm. These ones are white, but grey is also an acceptable permutation.

Yes, I allow my four year old to put her face near hot stoves and pots of boiling water under the supervision of adults.

However, she will be able to cook a complex meal for many by the time she’s in junior high, so bite me, haters.

Learning to cook alongside your parents/elders is important, especially to people who a) are foodies and/or b) trying to preserve culture.

I am a second generation Canadian on my mother’s side of the family.  Ditto for my husband, whose lineage is from the same Eastern European hodgepodge. (My late MIL was also a fantastic cooker of German/Ukranian food.)

My children will not have grown up with the language in the home like I did, nor the direct contact with the grandparents from the Old Country.

It will disappear if not cultivated.

At last, a perfect and wonderfully made dumpling, which was subsequently smothered in turkey gravy and a smidge of homemade cranberry sauce.

Heaven.

Party in Your Mouth: Curried Yogurt and Dill Potato Salad

Summer has finally seemed to have slid into Winnipeg, and we’ve been hot and heavy with the barbecue (a nice, chrome-y brute of a grill) for nearly a month now. Nearly all of the dead animal parts we’ve sacrificed to our bellies after grilling have been magnificent, but the rotation of side dishes seems to get old fast. Yesterday I decided to trot out the one side that brings grown men to their knees, and empires to fall. (Or at least get a hardy “mmm” from those who consume it.) I discovered the original recipe a few years back when looking for new ways to use up the surplus of dill I had growing in my patio container garden last summer.

My recipe is a variation on an old Canadian Heart Foundation (source: The Light Hearted Cookbook, Anne Lindsay) recipe for “Danish Potato Salad With Dill” that I’ve spent years tweaking. The primary deviation from Anne Lindsay’s recipe, is that I use a honey sweetened Balkan yogurt in exchange for the low-fat plain yogurt, and swap watercress for flat leaf parsley. The effect is a sweeter, tangier and fresher potato salad.

My version is as follows:

Curried Yogurt and Dill Potato Salad

2 lbs/1kg  - red potatoes (peel on for added fiber, or peel off if you prefer)

1 cup/250 mL – honey sweetened Balkan/Greek yogurt (or add 1 tsp honey to plain yogurt)

3 tbsp/45 mL  - light mayonnaise

1/4 cup/50 mL – minced green onions (I used garlic chives)

1 tsp/5 mL – curry powder

1 tsp/5 mL – dijon mustard (I used a dijon horseradish)

1/2 tsp / 2 mL – salt

1/3 cup / 75 mL – dill

1/3 cup/75 mL – flat leaf parsley

fresh ground pepper

• Wash potatoes, cook in large pot of boiling water until tender.  Cool.
• Cut into thin slices
• In bowl, mix yogourt, may, onion, curry, mustard, salt, dill & parsley
• Add potatoes and pepper. Stir gently.
• Makes 6 servings, 3/4 cup each (175 mL)

For the lower fat version, and fidelity to the original recipe, use a low fat plain yogurt and omit honey.

 

Nestle Hates Babies & the Environment – BabyNes Launch

Since my panties are already wadded up, I may as well link back to the piece that I just did for Politics Respun about the hunk-of-junk BabyNes that was unleashed on consumers in Switzerland today.

For your torch and pitchfork wielding pleasure, read on HERE.

Also of interest, but not on my radar last night when I sat down, foaming and cussing to write about the BabyNes, was that Nestle’s frankenformula machine contravenes WHO and UN guidelines for infant feeding. Read more about that HERE.

Deux Pom Deux

For an hour yesterday evening, the number of pomeranians in our house rose from one to two.

If you’ve ever had a pomeranian, you know that critical pom mass is reached when there is more than one.

The world cannot handle that much cute and fluffy in a confined space. Cannot.

This, more than any nuclear weaponry, threatens the very existence of life on this planet.

We dared to hasten this implosion last night.

Flash back: The Sourpussians are eating dinner.

The doorbell rang, and we knew it was one of The Goose’s playmates.

Hubs went to tell the child that we were eating, and that The Goose would be out shortly.

When he opened the door, and there was the mother of the kid down the street, holding a pom.

“We found Daisy!” said the kid.

Daisy von Pom Pom, knowing that there was an interloper at the door, came charging out.

Confused, the neighbors looked at the pom in their arms, and the snarling squirrel-pom on the floor.

“We thought this was your dog! So we brought her back, but…it’s not.”

No, it was not our dog. It was Mystery Pom.

Mystery Pom was smaller than Daisy von Pom Pom.  He was groomed better than Daisy. He had a black snout. Otherwise, a very similar puppy.

Flipping Mystery Pom’s collar, we determined that there was a local vet that we could contact with the tag numbers to find the owner. Mystery Pom also had ear tats.

Hubby called the vet while I took Mystery Pom in the house.

Mystery Pom proceeded to terrorize poor Daisy von PomPom.

He sat in her bed.

He ate her food.

He played with her pink monkey toy.

He danced, hoping for chicken treats.

He chased her in circles.

Fed up, Daisy gave in to a fit of ear piercing barking at Mystery Pom.

By this time, Mystery Pom was being carried around by the kids. They were asking to keep him.

I uttered “No way in hell” and “over my dead body” a few times.

Hubby informed me that the vets had given him the number for Mystery Pom’s owners.

So he called. And called. And called. The phone was busy.

The address was nowhere close to our ‘hood. I briefly wondered in Mystery Pom was stolen or leaped out of a car.

Mystery Pom was named…ELLIOT.

Yes, Elliot the Pom was right at home, and probably could have cared less if he ever went back to his people.

Eventually, a tearful teenager showed up at the door, sobbing for Elliot.

The kids were disappointed at having to hand Elliot over. Finders keepers, chicky.

I was relieved. The double pom saga had ended happily.

Life could return to normal. One pom. The usual amount of pom piddles all over the house. Regularly scheduled barking hysteria.

Except my daughters are now writing ballads to Elliot.

“Oh…Elliot! You are a pom! We looooooooved you. Ohhhh…..Elliot…you are so cute. I missssss you.”

They should not be surprised when Daisy Von PomPom shits in their shoes later.

Tasty Noms: Michelle’s Walnut Pesto

Spring has sprung, and I’m feeling the urge to lighten up my cooking. Winter’s requisite heavy fare (roasts, stews, hearty soups, Eastern Euro soul food, lard with a side of lard in lard sauce) are ready to be abandoned, and replaced with a cornucopia of local fruits and veggies, luscious marinated meats on the barbecue, salads and rhubarbtastic desserts.

After last year’s flaming barbecue attack by our ditchpig neighbours in Chilliwack, I’ve been a teensy bit leery of the propane crematoriums on wheels, and have still not bothered to truck down that road. Summer in Manitoba is still not quite here, so the impetus to grill hasn’t quite kicked in yet.

Several days ago, my childhood bestie, Michelle, posted a status update on Facebook that piqued my culinary interest. She had made a walnut pesto from scratch, and it was a huge hit in her home. Intrigued, I let her know I was interested in the recipe, and she generously shared it. For the next two days, it was all I could think of. I printed a copy. I plotted my shopping. I blah blah blah’d poor Nanners about it over Facebook chat and on the phone. I warned my children that it was coming.

Finally, today, I went to the store and bought the ingredients I was lacking (hard cheese, fresh parsley) and embarked on my mission to make the BEST WALNUT PESTO EVAH!!

Michelle’s Walnut Pesto (with modification notes, by The Sourpuss)

In a blender, combine:

• 3/4 cup of walnuts (toasted and cooled)
• 1/4 cup fresh parsley leaves (I used flat)
• 1/4 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese (If you use Kraft grated parm in a plastic can, I’ll haunt you after you die. I used a Grana Padano for kick.)
• 1 tbsp lemon juice
• 1 clove of garlic (I used 2/3 of a clove of elephant garlic)
• 1/4 cup of water
• 1/2 tsp of your favorite salt (Michelle used a Himalayan Crystal Salt, whereas I used a kosher salt.)
• 1/4 tsp freshly ground pepper
• Optional: 2 tbsp olive oil (I used it, Michelle did not, but says she would next time)

Toss everything into your blender or food processor. Blend/process until smooth. Toss with your pasta of preference (I was using up spaghettini from the back of the cupboard) and any veggies you may wish to add (I added chunks of chicken breast and ribbons of zucchini to it.) 

That’s it.

Really.

So simple. So good.

It was a great hit with my husband and older daughter, who both love pesto based pasta. I’m looking forward to creating permutations of this with toasted hazelnuts, celery leaves, spinach leaves, pine nuts. I dislike the overpowering basil one-two punch that most store-bought pesto contains, and this lighter, fresher version was delicious and light. The lack of preservatives and additives thrills me, and total time required to make the sauce after toasting the nuts was about two minutes.

Bon appetite!

Thanks to Michelle for this tasty treasure!

Winnipeg City TV, Breakfast Television: The Goose’s Cable TV Debut

The short one on the far left belongs to me.

We call her The Goose.

Goose Girl (she of the braids and dwarf-midget stature) had an opportunity to appear on Winnipeg City Television’s morning show, Breakfast Television in the early hours of the morning as a representative of Sparks, which is a branch of the Girl Guides of Canada. Sparks is a wonderful program for girls between the ages of 5 and 6, which allows them a fun and safe introduction to volunteerism, community service, crafts, camping and team building. Back in the olden days of yore, when I was a child, there were no such thing as Sparks – the programming started with the Brown polyester indoctrination of Brownies.  Once a week, on Monday evenings, The Goose and about 15 of her peers congregate in a church basement in our ‘hood, and spend an hour engaged in altruistic activity. Their motto? “I promise to share and be a friend” which, for 5 and 6 year old Canadian girls, is a pretty decent credo.

Earlier in the week, Goose Girl was invited to participate in the Breakfast Television segment, and being the wannabe stage mother that I am, I eagerly jumped on it.

This required me and the Other Child to drive down to The Forks and watch, patiently, as they prep’d the kids for the show, taped the segment, and relased them into the wild again.

The Goose came with some answers incase she was asked questions, but it never came up. Instead she tainted a cookie by licking her finger, and was erroneously called “Jewel”by Jeremy John.

Watch my kid make a Girl Guide Cookie Spider craft on cable television, here:

why-you-should-sign-your-child-up-for-sparks