And that's what I like about the South

The Peachoid water tower, Gaffney, South Carolina
Wikimedia Commons, CC0

So a few of my colleagues went to Atlanta, Georgia, recently for a conference. Since then I've been asking them about their trip, particularly related to food and language usage, two of my favorite themes.

For example,

Colleague #1: "I was talking with this native Atlantian ... is that what you call someone from Atlanta?"

Me: "Atlantan. They're not from Atlantis, they're from Atlanta. You could also say, 'Yew from Lanuh?' This is another acceptable way to refer to someone from Atlanta."

Colleague #2: "We went to this restaurant featuring traditional Southern foods ..."

Me (inside my head): *You found a place that serves Moon Pies and Sun Drop?!*

Colleague #2: "I tried the cornbread. I must say it was rather dry ..."

Me: "Then it's the real deal. If it takes sweet, then that's just cake, also known as Yankee cornbread."

Colleague #2: "But they gave us this little dipping sauce ..."

Me (inside my head): *WTF?*

Colleague #2: "It was like a broth. They said it was made from vegetables. They cook the vegetables in this broth and then use the broth ..."

Me: "Pot likker. You mean pot likker."

Colleague #2: "Yes! That's it! They said it was called 'pot liquor.'"

Me: "So you were with our vegetarian colleague at this restaurant? And she had some of the pot likker?"

Colleague #2: "Yes."

Me: "Did anyone mention to her that pot likker is likely not vegetarian? If it's done authentically, then the vegetables are cooked with bacon, fat back, salt pork, bacon grease, something with meat. It's definitely not vegetarian."

Colleague #2: "She wondered."

Literally golden hominy

Don't let my mild-to-moderate sarcasm deceive you: I enjoy living in Canada. However, it's perhaps taken me until recently to begin to acclimate to this midlife adventure I'm now 4+ months into.

That's not to say anything against Canada or Canadians. I expected more animosity toward my Americanness and wondered if I'd be perceived as taking a good job away from a hard-working Canadian. Something that you might hear someone (usually an idiot politician and his or her know-nothing followers) say back home. But so far, so very good. People are generally friendly here, even in a big city like Toronto, although I wouldn't say uniformly polite, as the stereotype goes. All bets are off on the daily commute, which can be fierce. I don't know that I've made any friends outside of home, but I feel like I could if I wanted to. I just have to find the time and get myself more organized to do so.

And there has been a lot to organize and take care of since I arrived here on Canada Day, July 1, 2015. The commute. The job. Home life with my boyfriend/partner/significant other/whatever the term may be when you read this in five years' time. Paperwork and lots of it: The work permit (golden ticket número un), my SIN (social insurance number), pension forms, a Presto card, chequing (yes, chequing) and savings accounts, credit cards, a cellphone plan, a Magic Jack plan just in case anyone from the States ever wants to call me; an Ontario driver's license, car insurance, car inspections and registration (something I'm still not done with), passport renewal, and golden ticket número deux, the coveted Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP) identification card, aka free health care.

All while spending 11 to 12 hours a day going to, at, or coming from work, in a country that despite the big spaces and great distances, still operates small: Most business happens 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. Things like insurance agencies are closed in the evenings and on weekends, although banks to their credit do a great job of being open almost all day on Saturdays. And, goodness, they take holidays seriously and give most everyone, even salespeople the day off. Many stores and some malls were closed on Labour (yes, Labour) Day, for instance.

I've managed most of it, except for car inspection and registration, which I hope to accomplish this month. Then I get to do a sort of system reboot in the new year, when I apply for permanent residency, which will ultimately mean different paperwork to complete. But first things first: I have to pass an English-language competency test in order to apply for permanent residency. And it will only cost me the bargain price of $265 CAD to do so.

Obviously the credentials from two American universities, the same that I had to present in order to get my work permit, mean next to nothing in terms of my functionaly literacy in my mother tongue.

The Catch 22 of Canadian bureaucracy aside, there are minor struggles. Spelling and language usage continue to confuse me, so maybe an English test is in order after all. Canadian English is like listening to an old familiar tune that suddenly strikes a . . . let's say "different" rather than "wrong" or "sour" note. It's bi-ling-ew-ul" and "proh-cess" and "proh-ject" and "ah-gainst" and "ree-zource," sometimes all in the same sentence. I'm gradually losing the sense of not so much what constitutes an American spelling but what is a Canadian versus a British versus an American spelling. At the moment I consider myself very much an American living in Canada, not a wannabe Canadian, as I might have desired 10 years ago. But I try to get along, so I'm gradually inserting some extra u's and -re's into every other word, whether they require it or not.

I'm having trouble with my tongue in more ways than one: Continuing to represent challenges are shopping and eating, two of my favorite pastimes.

In a previous post, I discussed the disconnect of shopping in Canada: How Wal-Mart is more like Target and thus not such a shameful experience as it is in the U.S. A couple of months later, and I find myself still confused. Holt Renfrew and Ogilvy are still too high-end for me, and in Toronto, Nordstrom and Saks are about to enter the market, making me outclassed in two countries and cultures. Simon is still planning to move into the TO market from Montreal, which would have been welcome six years ago when I could fit into their men's wear.

Speaking of shamefulness, I kinda miss Marshall's/Ross/T.J. Maxx, and I definitely miss DSW Shoe Warehouse, which I could use right about now, as fall sets in, and I long for a pair of half-boots to protect my tootsies from the rain. I've yet to bring myself to enter a Winners. That's just so wrong.

It's not just the stores and the schedules, though; the products are different, too. Let's start with the most important meal of the day, coffee: Peet's Coffee, my go-to brand in the States is so far, nonexistent. Ditto for Chobani Yogurt. The cereal aisle at the local supermarket is decidedly smaller, although I've managed to find overpriced Bran Buds and reasonably priced Quaker Oat Squares, along with a lot of the Kashi cereals. But then there are cereals like Vector by Kellogg's that sounds like something that would cause bodily harm if poured into the bowl the wrong way.

Despite the prevalence of a highly diverse population, even (or especially) in the suburbs, I have tried three supermarkets and come up anchovy-less--although if you need multi-flavored sardines, conger eel, or octopus in a can, I'm your man. Perhaps I'm misremembering this, but anchovies seemed pretty much a supermarket staple in the States. I'm not saying everybody or anybody much eats them, but you can find them at least. The Caesar salad situation in this nation is at crisis level, as you might imagine.

Southern food, Texas foods, and Mexican foods are also in very short supply, and even when you find them, you often end up with a brand you've never heard of or not exactly the product you're used to.

Grits, white corn? Check, finally found some at the local Loblaws, one variety by a firm named Ferma, a purveyor of Portuguese fine foods based in Montreal, tucked away in an odd amalgam of Asian, Indian, and Latin American foods. Hominy, golden? No, sorry, how about white corn hominy instead? Yes, that will do for pozole, which I'm making for dinner tonight (although experimenting by using chicken instead of pork, given the boyfriend's background). I could only find Goya brand, which I'm familiar with from my days in Texas, but none by any of the more Southern food purveyors that form my cultural strong suit.

Chipotle peppers in adobo sauce? Yes, but barely, intermingled with the red and green chile sauces, courtesy of La Costeña brand, another one I'm less certain of. Hatch green chiles from New Mexico? Well, yes, but only because I stocked up on them via Amazon before I left home. They've come in handy more than once, including for some impromptu Canada Votes election night nachos this past October 19.

None of this is bad, mind you, nor a deal-breaker nor any real hardship, of course. I'm starting to appreciate the prevalence of Lavazza coffee, both ground and whole bean, in the supermarket, and I'm starting to think the whole Chobani thing is one big, $1.50 per container scam. We have a brand of Greek yogurt in Canada, Skotidakis, that actually tastes and mouth-feels (if I must) like Greek yogurt--tart, thick, substantive--to which you can add honey or jam à la Fage. And if you don't like Greek active, then how about French passive in the form of Quebec's own Liberté brand? It's quite and quietly excellent.

Truth be told, I was troubled by the lack of access to grits, however, as well as hominy. Not that I ate either every day back home, but I knew I could get them when I wanted them, even in Pittsburgh. And then suddenly I could not.

And no matter how grim and horrid the Mexican food offerings were in Pittsburgh (and they were scandalously caca-esque), I knew I could find the good stuff somewhere, by visiting a Mexican store, asking for CARE packages from friends in Texas, or shopping on Amazon. While we have our very own Amazon.ca, import levies can jack up the prices for even the most mundane of purchases. Some cases in point: a 7-ounce can of chipotle peppers in Adobo from Goya is currently selling for $40 CAD (although I'm really hoping I've read that wrong, and there's a 12-pack or a case in the offing); Allen's golden hominy does come in pack of 12 but will cost you about $5 CAD per can; a 24-ounce container of Quaker 5-minute grits is currently listed on Amazon à la canadienne for $24.15 CAD, taxes and shipping not included; a 5-pound bag of Quaker Quick Grits sells for a staggering $146.52!

Forget gold, oil, and diamonds--clearly grit manufacturing should be the driver of Canada's economic engine. Golden hominy and hominy-related products are indeed just that--pure gold.

Buon compleanno, Nutella!

Nutella is having a birthday this weekend. Looking 50 and fabulous, I must say.

Here's a little article from the BBC about Nutella, sort of a "This Is Your Life" take on the chocolate-hazelnut spread's story so far.

Lots of interesting tidbits here. For example, did you know that Nutella is *not* a health food? That while "a 400g jar contain[s] 52 hazelnuts, the equivalent of a glass of skimmed milk, and some cocoa," contents of said jar are 57% sugar and 32% fat--and "about a third of the fat is saturated"?

Well, sorpresa, sorpresa . . .

And here I thought it was about 1% cocoa and 99% methamphetamine.

* * *

Not to slight my other great love, speculoos cookie butter, I was heartened to see that it was no. 2 on the 2013 list of most popular Trader Joe's products. Also good to see another favorite, rosemary marcona almonds, at no. 18.

I am somewhat surprised that speculoos is "only" no. 2, though, and that TJ's triple ginger snaps (of all things) are no. 1.

I mean . . . come on. The speculoos has to be at least 99.9% methamphetamine.

Kale-ing me softly

Whether you prefer kale "smooties" or kale "smoothies," just please stop it already. No one cares about your sad little eating disorder.

According to this recent article in the Huffington Post (which, no doubt, was pilfered from a legitimate news source), the dreaded, overrated kale is number 8 on the list of hipster foods suffering from overexposure.

Huh, number 8. Only number 8? I would have clocked it in at number 1. Kale: The Kim Kardashian of produce. Never was appealing, never will be.

Or better still, the Miley Cyrus of vegetables: Once a simple, assuming, harmless green, now with carefully calculated media coverage and a starring role riding nekkid on a wrecking ball, kale is now omnipresent and oppressive in his domination, making fun of Sinead O'Connor's mental health issues and passed out cold from overindulgence on 420 day.

 

Or something like that.

For frisee's sake, even the French are getting into the trend. What a world, what a world.

I recall once being at the local food co-op and overhearing a mother and child in the produce section. "Oh look, Nebuchadnezzar, kale! You know how much you love kale!"

Ol' Neb must have been all of 2 years of age. No 2-year-old loves kale. (I'd argue, no one loves kale, but like Kim or Miley, we've been told it's interesting so often that we have almost come to believe it.) No, a 2-year-old's palate lacks the desperation and emptiness of a crunchy mother.

And any mother that would foist upon her 2-year-old a heaping helping of kale is just asking for a visit from Child and Family Services.

 

So try our kale smoothies, eh? How 'bout I give you my even-better-for-you Southern variation on that odorous concoction you're gagging down--the collard smoothie. Made with mustard green frozen yogurt. 

 

Yeah, shut up already about the kale.

Biting my tongue, eating my feelings, swallowing my pride

When the going gets tough, the tough head down to Vanilla Pastry Studio in Regent Square, Pittsburgh, for a six-pack of cupcakes.

Other than jonesin' for cupcake crack, I think my problem is that I exercised the night before, didn't eat enough that morning, generally loathe my job, felt guilty for dropping at least 10 f-bombs in the office before noon, and really, really, really like cupcakes.

They are an especially good chaser to a jalapeño-laced hamburger and a distilled beverage from D's next door.

Not that I would ever contemplate a liquid lunch in the middle of the workday. 'Cause that's the kind of dedicated professional that I pretend to be.

Stop me before I eat again

Truth be told, I think Pittsburgh food is mostly godawful. Oh, I like pierogis, especially the sauerkraut-filled ones, and I've had some good pizza, but like the city itself, sometimes there's just no there there.

And by "there," I mean flavor. And spice. And taste. And appeal.

This is a town where everything comes with fries, even the salads, where Buffalo wings may have come as an uninvited guest from that town up the road but have found friends and family here (unlike yours truly).

I've had one or two good meals here (one at Tamari, this Latin-Asian fusion spot in Lawrenceville comes to mind--a trend that perhaps happened everywhere else years ago, but still, I wouldn't turn down a great meal--and a tasty mojito--just because it's a bit five years ago in culinary trending). But for the most part, I've been disappointed even by places that came highly recommended, that seem more style over ingredients.

But I shan't name names, at least not the bad ones.

Credit where credit is due, though: One thing Pittsburgh does really well is baked goods. There are a number of bakeries here, some new-fashioned but many old-fangled ones, even though some of those are on the way out. Food service work looks really hard with bad hours and tight profit margins. Baking looks even harder and I'm sure has been undercut by so many supermarket bakeries. I can imagine it's tough to make a go of it. Add to that it appears to be something of a family tradition and perhaps younger generations don't want to take on the work.

What a shame. Because the few bakeries I've had the pleasure of visiting in Pittsburgh and environs have been incredible. Kretchmar's in Beaver was probably the first one I visited, and it set a very high standard for the others, as did Carol's Pastry Shop in Zelionople and Moio's Italian Pastry Shop in Monroeville.

Oh, I like Allegro in Squirrel Hill, too, and I'm always going on about Jean-Marc Chatellier in Millvale. I've only had donuts from Stoecklein's in Penn Hills (they were delicious!) because it's too hard to find for a non-native like me. I've still yet to stop in at Prantl's in Shadyside because I hate the parking in that neighborhood. The point is, there are some excellent options for baked goods in Pittsburgh--A yeasty embarrassment of kneaded deliciousness, one might say. If one were so inclined.

But this week maybe I've had too much of a good thing. On Tuesday, Mardi Gras, one of my office mates and I went to Jean-Marc in search of King Cake only to find them sold out. So, naturally, we each bought a Breton cake and a six-pack of French macarons. It seemed like the thing to do.

Today, the beginning of the Lenten season, said office mate got a lead on King Cake from another shop, the Oakmont Bakery in one of my favorite parts of the Pittsburgh area, little Oakmont on the Allegheny. So we got one. And we also got a six-pack of pączki, a type of filled Polish donut (like a German Berliner, as in Ich bin ein a big jelly donut). Each.

Which is just insane. Financially, first of all--I mean, so much for saving on cable. At $1.50 per pączki (big enough for two meals, let alone one), this was not in and of itself an unwise purchase. Combine it, however, with a Breton cake, some macarons, gas money, future heart medication, etc., and, lordy, I blew any savings on pastries. Which just seems a little weird . . . and pitiful.

Healthwise, second of all and third of all--although it should be first of all--as much of a slacker I've been at the gym the last couple of weeks, I certainly don't need the calories. And I swear I was getting a contact high off the sugar and yeast alone. Thus, this week, I'm destined to take at least twelve steps toward a better, healthier life.

So any lessons this week? Other than "don't eat your feelings"? Yeah, well, easier said than done of late, although seriously, I'm much better/worse at it when I'm stressed over work than I am over life. But point taken. I'll try to keep it to dry toast and mineral water the rest of the week.

Then again, bakery items and pierogis are the only things edible in this town. So, again, credit where credit is due: Pittsburgh is why I'm fat. If the salads were better and weren't loaded with French fries, it might be a different story . . . .

Beet it

I can't remember who first mentioned chocolate beetroot cake to me. It was definitely someone on Twitter from South Africa, but as to who exactly, I won't reveal, in part because I can't remember. Are beets good for short-term memory? Let's hope so.

Anyway, I finally gave it a go, baking one tonight--after first roasting the beets nearly a week ago and after having roasted another batch a month or so ago but, after repeated culinary delays, eventually tossing them. I figured I didn't want both beetroot cake and salmonella.

The cake turned out pretty good, if I do say so. Chocolately and rich bit not cloying or sickening. I thought it could have been a little sweeter (I used honey and maple syrup, rather than sugar) and moister (at 40 minutes, it didn't seem done enough; at 45, mmmm, maybe a little too done?). Thus I'm going to make a glaze tomorrow, which will hopefully resolve both issues or at least hide both failings.

Truth be told, I'm not a great baker. I can generally manage cakes, but I am ashamed to admit I've never really attempted a pie, other than a Québécois tarte au sucre, which after two goes, I still can't get right. The filling never sticks--which is amazingly difficult not to do with a mixture of brown sugar and butter--and I'm too skittish to make my own crust. Resolution for a new year: Bake a damn pie already.

And maybe make more cakes. The good thing about a beetroot cake is that it gives the illusion of healthiness. I'll take what I can get at this point, but all in all, this wasn't as deadly as it might have been. Some butter, yes, but the aforementioned honey and maple syrup, a little olive oil, and no dairy. So I'll have to go screw it up with some cream cheese, Karo syrup, or a stick of butter. That's the solution! Beetroot Kiev! The perfect Russian-Ukrainian dessert.

* * *

Ah yes, the South African obsession continues, having moved on from music and history to foodways. I roasted a fairly decent chicken over Thanksgiving, stuffed with sage and onion, coated in butter and stone-ground mustard, taking the recipe from Lazy Days (or as my friend Cali put it, Boozhy Days), a cookbook by South African "lifestyles" author Phillippa Cheifitz, with which my sister gifted me after her last SA sojourn. Lazy, boozhy, lovely, snooty--whatever, it's a gorgeous book featuring some delicious food, even if there's not a chance in Good Hope I'll find a supply of snoek at Wholey's fish market in the Strip District anytime soon.

I'm even toying with the idea of trying to make koeksisters, a South African pastry that resembles twists or braids, which sounds inordinately complicated to prepare and taxing even to my level of cultural stalking.

So maybe, instead, focus on pie for the new year. Something all-American, like apple. Or cherry. Or beetroot pecan.

Grandma's cornbread

In memory of J.R. Ewing, I made my Grandma's cornbread.

No, not really. For one thing, this isn't my Grandma's cornbread. Lord knows how she made it when she did; she never wrote anything down, just did it from memory and habit. I do know she probably used lard, which I did not. I used vegetable shortening, which theoretically is healthier but not necessarily tastier).

For another, I had planned to make cornbread this weekend anyway, treating myself and my downstairs neighbors (who are from South America) with some Southern comfort food.

So no, I didn't make cornbread in honor of J.R. If I had done so, it would have been a lot less crumbly but just as delicious.

Besides, J.R. (and Larry Hagman) was from Texas, not North Carolina and cornbread is more of a southeastern and south central thing, not a Texas thing, which is less about cornbread and more about biscuits. Or maybe flour or corn tortillas.

I always liked how on Dallas, J.R. was never played as a Texas hayseed but as a Texas sophisticate. It made total sense of course. A oil billionaire from Texas wouldn't be a yokel. But Hollywood has a strange way with . . . everything. Still, they got it right on Dallas and on Texas.

And I realize I miss Texas more than anything right now
.