I pick a hole in the casing and squeeze the meat out. It’s a bit disgusting, really, but the primacy of working with my hands is therapeutic.

As I chop the onion, tears cloud my vision. I don’t brush them away. It’s as if this onion gives me the right – a reason – to cry. I allow my existential fears and frustrations to become manifest, here, for these two minutes, when otherwise I stuff the emotions down. Soldier on.

My once proud, now sad J.A. Henckels has just enough blade to slice through celery. I fall into a meditative rhythm: chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-chop.

The sausage, garlic, onions, celery and olive oil make one another’s acquaintance in the pot, tumble around as I stir. Lid on. Let simmer.

In the meantime, Swiss chard with rhubarb-red stems, veins snaking through dark green leaves are next on the block. More beautiful than any painted still life, they bring the hint of a smile to my lips.

A can of diced tomatoes is opened with ease thanks to a new opener. We bought it to save my RSI-fraught arms, though I now know my repetitive strain injury is psychosomatic, a manifestation of stress.

The label on a can of Bella Tavola chick peas leads me ponder what tavola means in Italian. TA-vo-la. Ta-VO-la. I must know, look it up at once: table. "Beautiful table." Aha, like "beautiful meal." What I hope this dish will be.

As the lid comes off the pot, the fragrance that wafts up takes me back to Spain. To warm sunshine. Cold white and blue tiles. The smell wraps around my heart like a blanket.

In go the tomatoes, beans, chard, and homemade chicken stock. My long wooden spoon whirls it all around. Now, patience, until the flavors slowly mingle.

Patience. Comfort. Ease. Beauty. Meditation. Emotion. All this in a pot of soup.

The other day, I had a package of organic spinach crying out to be eaten before it disintegrated into a gooey mess. There was also a large wheel of double-cream brie begging to be savored. The two called out for chicken breasts, which I had in the freezer. But what else? It seemed like they needed a little zip, a little dash, a little pizzazz. So I Googled the three key ingredients, and saw a recipe that used apricots. Oh yeah.

I butterflied the skinless, boneless breasts so they were quite thin, filled them with slices of brie and chopped apricots. Then I folded the breasts closed and patted them in bread crumbs flavored only (but liberally) with salt and pepper. I dumped the spinach into a rectangular casserole dish, drizzled it with olive oil and sprinkled chopped garlic all over, then set the stuffed breasts on top (open flap facing down). A little more olive oil over the breasts and it was ready for the oven. In it went at 375 degrees for 30 minutes, et voilà! What came out of the oven was divine…

The brie that leaked out of the breasts spread over — and into — the spinach so none of its goodness was lost. The breasts were tender inside, with a satisfying crunch to the outside. Paired with a bottle of J. Lohr cabernet sauvignon it was a Tuesday night extraordinaire.

Gourmet Chicken, Brie, Spinach and Apricots

2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts

6 slices of double-cream brie

4 dried apricots, chopped

¾ c breadcrumbs

1 package baby spinach

2 tsp chopped garlic

Salt and pepper

Olive oil

Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees.

1. Butterfly the chicken breasts.

2. Lay slices of brie and chopped apricots inside.

3. Fold the sides of the chicken breast over the filling.

4. Put bread crumbs, salt and pepper to taste on a plate.

5. Pat crumbs on both sides of the stuffed chicken packets.

6. Put washed spinach into a rectangular baking dish.

7. Sprinkle with garlic and drizzle with olive oil.

8. Set breasts on top (fold down) and drizzle with more olive oil.

9. Bake 30 minutes until chicken is lightly browned on the outside.

With just over an hour until our bus leaves for Mancora, 9 hours further up the coast, we duck into La Taverna. Exactly as I remembered it: white stucco walls, dark wood tables and big booths, the cushions upholstered in Andean fabric, a round tambor drum on the floor, as if any minute MiguelAngel and his band of roving musicians will start up before passing the hat.

The restaurant is just around the corner from the English institute where I first worked when I came to Peru. (Although I could have sworn it used to be on the other side of Avenida Larco and west, not east… ) The institute, now called El Cultural instead of ICPNA, is where Katty still works, 20 years later… And where the politics have only gotten worse. Poor Katty. I vow to reach out to contacts all over Peru to help her find a better job. It’s the least I can do for my hermanita.

The four of us settle into a booth: Jon, me, Katty and her alegre, fun-loving cousin Miluska.

Katty, Miluska, me and Jon

“It’ll be about 20 minutes for the chicken,” the waitress says.

I look at my watch: 6:35 pm. Bus leaves at 7:45. That’s cutting it pretty close, considering we’re supposed to be there 20 minutes early.

“No problem,” Katty says.

Besides, I so want the quarter of roasted chicken, veins of garlic, salt, pepper and cumin running through it, skin so crisp it’s paper thin.

Seven o’clock comes and we’re still joking, laughing.

“OK!” Miluska says to anything in English, a language she doesn’t speak.

“Si,” Jon agrees to anything said in Spanish, a language he doesn’t speak.

“¿El pollo, señorita?” we ask.

“Ahorita,” she says.

It better be, I think, looking at my watch.

Miraculously, dinner does arrive within moments and we dig in, spearing salad in a house dressing right out of the bowl, stabbing at crisp fries on a communal plate and tearing into juicy chicken quarters bursting with roasted flavor.

Oops. I forget to take a picture until we’re done…

What's left of my pollo a la brasa

It’s 7:25.

“Ya,” Katty says. “We’d better go!”

We fly out the door as fast as the chicken flew off our plates, into a taxi. After some discussion over the address, I convince them that my ticket has the Avenida Nicolas de Pierola address highlighted, even though they’re sure Emtrafesa is across from the cemetery.

We arrive at the highlighted address and nada, no buses leave from there. If we weren’t in such a panic, I’m sure Katty and Miluska would have gloated more, but instead we cram into another taxi.

“Rapido, señor!” Katty urges.

“¡Arriba, arriba, ándale, ándale” Jon exhorts, mimicking the Disney sombrero-wearing mouse.

Screaming along, creating our own lane of traffic, slamming on the brakes, we arrive at the station.

Tumbling out of the car, Miluska asks at a counter and we get our ticket stubs torn for boarding, but still have to stand in line to check our bags.

Katty looks at her watch and Jon’s nervous face.

“No problem, she says. “7:41. Four minutes early!”

Pollo a la brasa — volando.

Moments before boarding the bus to Mancora

Dusty roadside in Chincha

We pull in and two young boys approach as we fall out into the haze of noonday heat. A deal is struck: each will get a propina of S/0.50 for watching the car while we’re inside.

A yellow Cristal beer sign confirms that we have arrived. The same plastic tables and chairs fill a large room surrounded by bamboo walls. Photos everywhere of a grinning black woman in a red polka-dotted kerchief and dress, with Peru’s most famous chef (Gaston Acurio), congressmen, dignitaries.

Mamainé's Restaurant

A hand-written sign is tacked to a bamboo pillar:

TODAY BUFO MAMAINE S/12.00

Bufo is a typical dish made by Chinchan slaughterhouse workers that had been forgotten and that Mamainé is bringing back.

- Plate served with rice and yucca

- Bowl served with yucca

Bufo sign

It is a “must order” as soon as we are told how it is prepared: the meat simmered with the lid on (a technique known as sudado) in pisco grape brandy and wine — not a drop of water, we are assured.

The fragrant bowl arrives, unrecognizable tubular shapes and chunks of meat bathed in a dark gravy. One tentative bite of the tender meat obliterates any prior distaste for offal. Soon big forkfuls are being hurried to our mouths.

Bufo

Rich. Complex. Something spectacular created from what in our culture is generally considered not fit to eat.

Flavors dance on the tongue to the beat of the cajón and the shaking of the little dancers’ hips and shoulders.

Afro-Peruvian dancers

Mamainé and I

We traveled with Carlos, a dear friend I met while living in Ilo, his wife Sarita and their one-year-old Claudia. Considering that only two of us had ever met before, and there was a range of abilities across two languages, it was wonderful to soon settle into the car like long-time amigos. Carlos and Sarita love to travel in this incredible country of theirs and always seek out local dishes: this was a perfect friendship match.

Restaurant in Lunahuana

Lunch was in an estera bamboo- roofed restaurante on the main square, still only partially rebuilt after the 2006 earthquake. My chupe de camarones came piled high with bug-eyed, dark red leggy crawfish. Though not upset by the live-looking creatures swimming in my bowl of soup, I must admit that I never did master the art of sucking all the flavor out of those many inedible little bits. Shrimp legs are just a bit too scratchy in my mouth and the heads, well the thought of those round black eyes on my tongue… Ya no ya.

But the meat, the colors of the Peruvian and Canadian flags… so tender and sweet. And the broth specked with fresh herbs and a touch of cream… Delicioso. Sarita said she had had better, but after a ten year absence, this chupe satisfied my craving quite nicely.

The best meal of all though, was the next day. We drove a little further up the river valley to find something more substantial than bread and coffee for breakfast. Stopping to ask a young woman along the road, she told us there was a spot by the next bridge a kilometer or so further along.

Bridge over the Cañete River

Clinging to the side of the hill with barely enough room for the car to pull in beside it off the two-lane road, a few wooden tables and benches sat in the shade of a thatched roof. On the menu (which consisted of the owner telling you what she could prepare at that time) was yucca frita con queso or pan con huevo and cafe con leche. Jon and I ordered one plate of the fried yucca and cheese to share.

Yummy yucca y queso frito

Here in Peru there aren’t many named varieties of cheese. It tends to either be fresh, soft and salty or a more aged but still mild variety. This was fresh cheese, pan fried in oil like the yucca, to enhance its flavor. Each bite of crisp yucca with salty cheese dipped in a spicy rocotto hot pepper sauce was the ideal comfort food with the fresh morning breeze, the sun still hazy but plenty warm enough, as we gazed out at a suspension bridge, people’s yards lush with planted greenery and the dry, rocky hills immediately behind.

Restaurant along the Cañete River

Now this felt like home, so much more than Lima did. I could hear Peruvian singer Eva Ayllon crooning in my head, yes, así es mi Perú.

Jon happy after a yucca and cheese breakfast

Until today, that is. We arrived in Cuzco on the overnight bus from Arequipa and, after checking into our hotel, went for a little walk past the locale where my restaurant, Tondero, was in 1996-97. It was still early and the big wooden doors were closed, but it was open when we wandered past again later. I had to go in to take a look. It’s now a music store and seemed much, much smaller than I remembered, but there was the Incan wall along one side, the three little steps up into the second room.

We had a lovely conversation with Wilfredo, the music-store owner, and begged him to recommend somewhere for lunch with good, typical fare. He did, just a few blocks away, and Jon and I settled in to a lunch of iced chamomile tea, quinoa soup, aji de gallina and rice pudding for the whopping sum of S/6.00 – approximately $2.00. It was heavenly: hearty, simple but full of flavor, just as a menú should be.

I am so relieved to find that, despite the incredible boom in tourism, the extreme changes taking place all over the country, “my” Peru can still be found.

Supposed to be a sanguiche joint (don’t you just love the anglicized word for “sandwich”?), it was more of an upscale bistro serving traditional fare alongside Novo Andino plates, and some of the best desserts I have ever seen – or tasted! (Acurio’s wife, Astrid, is a pastry chef from Europe).

I had to shake my head a few times, being in this hip environment over dinner with Eduardo, with whom the most exciting meal when we were friends in Ilo was ceviche on the beach or pollo a la brasa roast chicken from the only joint on the main square. The place was packed, with a high turnover, well-to-do Limeñans completely undeterred by the first-world prices.

Jon ordered his favorite and a staple on most Peruvian menus: ají de gallina. Eduardo stuck to the originals as well and had asado, a type of pot roast served with mashed potatoes. Both looked and tasted perfectly authentic, the only difference being a slightly more refined presentation. I wanted to branch out and try one of the fusion dishes, so had shrimp ravioli in a chupe sauce. It was sublime, as fresh as the ocean just a few blocks away, rich and creamy with tomatoes and cream.

It was as if my head kept switching back and forth between Peru and Canada: astounded by the price of a meal for two that, in my day, would have amounted to one month’s rent, and yet it was miles better than anything I have eaten in Ottawa for a fraction of the price.

Yup, proof positive that I was back: one foot in both countries, neither here nor there, betwixt and between, a sense all too familiar at times throughout my years in Peru.

[Please excuse the lack of pictures and delay in posting... it's taking a while to get into the groove... ]

But it is only the tip of the country’s culinary iceberg, most of which is hidden beneath the surface. The food is as varied as its landscape and history: criollo or creole along the coast, often inspired by Spanish ingredients; chifa the country’s own take on Chinese after great waves of immigration in the 19th century; Nikkei brought by the Japanese when it was the first country in Latin America to offer them entry; and, of course, the truly indigenous Quechua dishes from the highlands.

This astounding, magical place was my home from 1993 to 2000. A love of its food, its people and its places kept me there long after my initial, one-year contract.

Living on a Peruvian wage, the food I ate was “of the people” – del pueblo - in their homes and small family restaurants. Traveling through the country at various times, I ate three-course set menu lunches that cost about $1 each, introducing me to an incredible array of tastes.

On the eve of returning for the first time in a decade, I have been researching the current food scene and am astounded at the changes. Higher-end restaurants appear to be everywhere, particularly offering Novo Andino or New Andean fusion cuisine. The country’s economic situation has clearly improved and the influx of tourists is sure to mean that Peruvian food will soon make its way onto the world stage.

I am hungry to be back there, to devour local dishes and ancient ruins, to reunite with old friends and meet new ones.

I hope that you will come along as Jon and I move from one specialty to the next: ceviche in Lima, adobo in Arequipa, chicharron and chairo in Cuzco, pato and cabrito in Trujillo – as well as untold new discoveries along the way. Sign up for the RSS feed or e-mail subscription as it would be wonderful to have you at our table and share these flavors and sensations.

Everyone in my family makes delicious pastry: N’s butter tarts, W’s tourtière, G’s apple pie, M’s sugar pie, K’s chocolate pie… Yum. So flaky. So crispy. The fluted edges thin enough that the pastry never overwhelms, but sturdy enough to hold the filling. Never any sawing to get through, never the fear that a firmly-pressed fork will shoot the entire piece across the plate and onto the tablecloth. No. The fork fairly glides through, as it should.

I was holding myself up to some pretty high standards.

You see, pie is to the Carter family as blue is to sky: intrinsic, inextricable, practically one and the same. When my Dad died – five years ago this November –, we invited friends to share a cup of tea and piece of pie in his honor. There must have been at least ten different kinds. Pie plates covered long tables like a polka-dot design. We had baked so many that people were invited to take whole pies home as the afternoon wound down.

All of us six children – and several grandchildren – baked every one of those pies from scratch. But I wouldn’t make the pastry, only the filling, for my pies.

This fall I was determined to conquer my irrational fear. To work up to my first solo flight, I took an evening class with Kerry, owner of the Life of Pie. As if studying for a university entrance exam, I watched and listened and asked questions. She reminded me there really was nothing to this.

As it’s Canadian Thanksgiving, I wanted to make pumpkin pie to take to Jon’s family dinner. A trial run of butter tarts and pecan pie provided relatively favorable results, but something about the pastry wasn’t right… It was a little too, well, lardy. I decided to modify Mom’s pastry recipe using a tip from Kerry: use half lard and half butter.

Handling that rolled sheet of pastry to place it in the plate was like folding a well-worn flannel sheet: soft and velvety. I knew it was going to be good.

Whatever recipe you follow, the tried and true tips are essential:

* make sure the fat of your choice is nice and cold;

* the water, too, needs to be fridge cold;

* roll just until the piece is the desired thickness, big enough for your plate; and, most importantly,

* show no fear.

The pastry demons are only in your head. It really is as easy as pie.

Like her, I no longer follow a recipe per se, but have my own now tried-and-true method, based on hers. But I do keep this particular recipe and look at it every now and then, not for its intended purpose but because my mom can no longer write, or talk. These cursive words in blue ballpoint pen on a piece of plain white notepaper speak to me, reminding me of the mom I remember, from before Alzheimer’s took her.

I made a big pot the other day for Jon, who’s sick with the flu, and felt compelled to read her recipe over. And there they were, two little gems I’d completely forgotten about: (1) using marjoram and (2) waiting to add the vegetables until after you skim the scum off the top. I’m usually skimming up and over and around them, cursing. Thanks, Mom.

As I say, I’ve made my own adjustments to Mom’s recipe over the years, but here is the original, unedited, as written by her.

Chicken/Turkey Stock (Basic)

4 lb. chicken or turkey carcass

cold water (12 cups or just to cover)

2 chopped carrots

2 chopped onions

2 stalks of celery (chopped)

2 bay leaves

Pepper (suggest 6 black peppercorns)

Pinch each of dried thyme, basil and marjoram

Cover chicken or turkey with water. Bring to boil. Skim off any scum. Add rest of ingredients. Simmer, uncovered, 4 hours. Remove from heat and strain. Remove bay leaves. Cover and refrigerate stock until any fat congeals on surface. Remove fat layer.

For chicken or turkey soup, save meat and vegetables. Add more together with barley, rice or whatever, and season to taste.