A Note on "Browning"

I always look back on my Saturdays in the small town of Bowmanville, Canada and think fondly of my time with my brother and mother.  In the early 90's my father worked two jobs to make ends meet, and my mother stayed home as a babysitter whilst raising my brother and I.

I'm sure it was not easy being my parents, being spread so thin.  Doing the best they can in the only way the knew how. Hard work.

But weekends were different.  We got 100% of our mother's time and affection. We were very lucky.  She did a good job too especially since dad's second job took him into the city and kept him away from us from 11am to 1am the next morning.  

She did the job of both mom and dad on Saturdays. This made Saturdays both frustrating and fun.

"Young ladies need to know how to clean," she said, so I was given duties to fulfil once the Saturday morning cartoon roster ended at 12:00pm. "Or else who will want to marry a girl who cannot keep up the house and family?"

I was 12.

"10-50 Chhhuuuummm! Oldies from the 50's, 60's & 70's Right here on your favourite radio station! 1050 Chum! Next, Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones!"

My brother would pause, drop his toy golf set and run over to the Casio Boom-box and turn the volume up. 

Once again that poker straight mushroom cut hair would start flipping and tossing as he bobbed to the music.  His squeaky voice, "Can't get no! Sas-sis-fac-shun! Doo, doo doo!" 

I applaud his excellent taste in rock and roll, however I considered myself a Beatles fan. 

Mom pops her head out of the kitchen to check that his head wasn't bobbing too much - poor kid was just accident prone! The little guy was just notorious for bumping into things or tripping over himself while playing, guess its a boy thing.

But soon it was sunset, chores were done, radio had been turned off. My brother, most likely digging a whole in the dirt in the backyard and me in front of my mirror trying desperately to braid my own hair that extended passed my bottom.

Then, creeping up the stairs and around the corner, was the aroma of something mouth watering.  I strain my ears and I can hear the sizzle and pop of oil heating up in a frenzy. That oniony-gingery scent mixed with the delicious smell of 'browning'.  You know what I'm talking about, right?  Brown :)

The smell of 'browning' equates to the scent of something developing a golden crust. The caramelization of the outer coating - something that is usually not 'good' for you. Going from pale and unappealing to golden and desirable.  Maybe this is why tanning is so popular, although I doubt it's as appetizing as something being deep fried. Then again, my own mocha flesh tone is built in so I cannot really say how desirable it really is.  Let's focus.

In a more cerebral sense, the smell of 'browning', is the indicator of how yummy something is becoming. The richer the smell seems, the chances are the more you'll want to sink your teeth into it.  However, too much 'browning' smell can lead to disappointing results which will then be identified as the smell of 'blackening'.  Not good eats.

The smell of 'browning' in the more practical and raw sense, is best described as the following:

(a) It is the tasty bits you pick off with your forefinger and thumb. 

(b) The primal instinct that forces you to immediately lick your fingers one at a time, while your lips make that infamous 'smack' sound as it reached the end of each digit. 

(c) Makes you eat shamelessly, no cares in the world.

(d) The sensation that makes you ignore how full you are, just to squeeze in that last salty, fatty, crunchy, oh-so-mm-mm-MMM piece...Oooh! How good...

The Smell of "Browning"

So what was browning in the kitchen? It didn't matter.  We knew it was going to lovely, full of flavour, and really just for us <3

Taking the time to brown something means taking the time to put some love into it. This is why Saturday dinners were the best.

Happy Browning...

A Girl who Likes to Cook xoxo

Blue Ghost

Dressed in true Tom-boy fashion, I still had long hair down to my bottom that was always braided tightly by mom at the beginning of each day.

A bright sun rise was permission to run out the door, into the street.  Jumping on my Pepto-bismol Pink bike, (which by the way had only one speed...as fast as I could pedal), I would travel through the streets of Bowmanville, Canada with a baseball glove hanging off the end of the handle bar.

Chimes are heard down the street.  A highschool boy working part-time rides his trolley down the block with a white ice-box attached.  Lips smacking, and heart racing, I run towards the sweet sound of something icy and delicious coming my way.

A loony or maybe two is enough to turn a good summer day into a great one.

Rockets
Fudge-cicles
Drumb Sticks
Freez-E's
Cups and Cones, Chocolate and Vanilla
Frosty and Sweet...

And then the Blue Ghost

All bad because dinner may be sacrificed, but all good because that's what it's meant to be.

A Blue Ghost for me and a Rocket for my brother.  $1.75

In baggy overalls and a pink polo t-shirt that was worn out and faded from many washes, I ran up to our maple tree at the bottom of our hill.  Chest pounding and throat dry, I make it to our giant tree. It was the most perfect tree for climbing, hanging upside down from and jumping off of.  Soon to follow, is my brother who comes chuckling and running up behind me.

His poker straight hair tousled and wet from the sweat and his socks usually pulled up to his knees are now slumping down around his ankles from the vigorous run.  His apple-like cheeks look scorched from over-heating and his giggles are laboured from being out of breath.

We plop down underneath the old maple tree, and I help him open his treat. 

A wee guy he was, 7 years my junior, round face and almond-shaped eyes. He had an infectious laugh that often sounded out of control, which was true sometime because he would laugh so hard he'd give himself the hiccups. 

I liked to make him laugh.

I peeled the wrapper off and handed him his Red White and Blue Rocket.  Rosy cheeks become flesh toned again, as I whisk away the sweat from his brow. 

I had forgotten about my Blue Ghost, which by the way was not only called that because it was blue ice cream, but also because it had an odd shape that looked sort of like a giant glove - what the ice cream experts thought looked like a ghost, I suppose.  The best part was the ghost face, because smack in the middle was a blue bubble gum ball, kind of like a 2 for 1 bonus!

I considered myself a smart shopper.

I tore the wrapper and out poured a sea of blue, dripping over my hand and onto my overalls.  In a frantic state of mind, as the thought of losing my Blue Ghost due to a meltdown devastated me, I opened my mouth and took a large chunk out of my dessert.

It hit like a wall, I felt my mind become numb and solid.  Frozen in time.  A pinch at my temples tells me its an icy coma taking over my brain, causing my eyes to wince.  I shake my head quickly as if to throw it off the top of my skull or fling the sensation out of my ears.  No luck, I must embrace the pain.

But in my hand I held the remnants of a sub-zero delight and I cannot fathom letting it go without a fight. Dare I take another gulp, thus risking the prolonged anguish of the infamous brain-freeze? 

Like a trooper, leaving no man, woman or frozen dessert behind, I bare down and take another giant bite.  The wall hits harder this time, and my eyes close completely. I let out a cough and my eyes manage to open to see my brother casually licking his frozen multicoloured sorbet, lips red from the cherry ice he chomped on.

Summer heat and brain freezes, a combination best fit for the truly ambitious or the truly crazy. 

I was the crazy type.

A last bite to go.  The pain had eased off quicker this time.  I made my way to the centre where the blue gum ball treasure was embedded. I fished it out of the sticky sky-blue molten mess, which once was a perfectly shaped ghost-glove and popped it in my mouth. 

And so it vanishes.  Truly living up to its name...The Blue Ghost

Inspired...!

Here I am again.

Me, a screen, an idea and the hopes to build a blog.

So you may ask "What's so different this time?" The title should clue you in that this is about food. For those who know me well enough, you know that I'm a food junkie, I love to entertain and host parties and that I'm quite sentimental about the entire subject.

However, food is more than just something you consume to live. Oh it's much more. The difference this time it's not so technical.  Not from a chef's perspective like the past, but from a Girl's perspective. A girl who likes to cook who also likes to eat.

For me, definitely, I love to eat, love even more to cook and I'm crazy about feeding those I love.

When I say Food...I say Love.  I mean real love.  The feeling that links you to someone, some moment, or some action that is now fully apart of you. 

This blog is not about recipes, "how-tos" or great places in town to try a particular dish. No, this one is about my connection with what food has meant to me.  More like a creative way to share a part of what makes food so special to me - kind of like a diary, a little like a confession, .  This is my way to connect two things I do in my free time.  Write and Cook.

Maybe you'll be able to relate or maybe not...? 

Everyone has a food journey and this will be mine.  So prepare yourself, this may seem a bit kooky, random and maybe even a bit far-out but I promise it's all mine.

"Okay blogger, food must be your passion," you may say.  No, it's not my passion.  It's everyone's passion.  I'm no different from anyone else on this planet in that regard.  It is what it is...

Food - as it is:
Some people have too much, some take it for granted. Others go days without it out of choice, and millions go without it because they have no choice. It can be tossed out, it can be saved at the back of your refrigerator for days on end with the intentions of being eaten.  It can be given, it can be taken away as punishment for not cleaning your room.  It can tell a story, be a sign of forgiveness, a secret comfort, a reason to celebrate. It can frustrate us, it can calm us down.  It can upset us and yet it can be a message of love. Food is powerful. Food = Inspired...

What to expect to read when you click on my blog? You will read some poems maybe, the odd essay and descriptive text on how something delicious or maybe not so delicious has worked its way into my life. You may read something unusual, or maybe you'll read something that reaches the deepest ebb of your heart and you too will be inspired.

What do I need from you, the reader? An open mind, a sense of humor, and patience as I may take my time to deliver my message.  I believe in sharing it right the first time instead of blabbing now and having to explain it all later. Some posts may be short and sweet (much like myself) some may be long and tell a story going for ages (which I will try to avoid).

I won't be handing out ideas and tricks of the culinary trade (although if you need help, I won't say no) but I will be handing out stories, tiny little somethings about me, fragments of a life that really only dreams of one thing...feeding the ones she really loves (really really loves) food memoires to pass on and on...

xo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook