It is arguably an understatement to say that Joe Beef, Surviving the Apocalypse, was highly-anticipated. The second book from Fréderic Morin, David McMillan, and writer Meredith Erickson (The Claridges Cookbook, Olympia Provisions, and more), was the subject of an buzz that electrically hummed to the corners of discussions across the country — both online and in restaurants and, considering the survivalist leanings of the title, surely Canadian Tires as well. After the impact of their first book, nobody knew what to expect.

For the Globe and Mail, I was able to talk to these three, and a sliver of those conversations was published this week. Their thoughts ranged far more expansively than column inches would allow: the wastefulness inherent, almost required in the standards of fine dining; arguing essential life skills; the race factor in many restaurant reviews; the constraints and perspective-changing realities of parenting; the qualities of a good host; not being an asshole in a social-media and food-obsessed culture; Martha Stewart’s badassery; thoughts of retirement, and finding personal utopia.

What is remarkable, is that all those subjects are in the book as well. It is encompassing, and far reaching. It is the start of a conversation and a plotted action towards what lies ahead — for our families, and for our society. It looks in a million directions yet at the same time, it’s an amazingly cohesive thing unto itself.  With details considered with the eye of makers. It is convivial, intimate, and wildly sentimental.

Start at the endpapers. They’re a wallpaper of fleur-de-lis designed by Patrick Theibault (aka Pat the Gardener, the restaurant’s master jack-of-all-trades, depicted in the book making soap). Look closely. The flower is made up of two chef’s knives, back-to-back; a seashell; and twin meat hooks. Against that blooming field are a set paintings. On the left, a canoe painted by McMillan. To its right, from Morin, a Rousseau-esque reclining man on a green couch, with stereo speakers, a houseplant, and with a framed tiger above. The pantry section has a map-like foldout of recipes, even though, as Morin laughed “it fucked with the binding.”

To read more of the conversation, please see The Globe and Mail.

(As part of the article, I also made the Burnt-End Bourguignon from the book, and their All-Dressed Chip compound butter seen above. Cheers.)

There’s a buttery, wheaten cookie as base, then a fluff of rosewater marshmallow atop, and a coating of strawberry over all. With their sprinkles and freeze-dried raspberry dust adornment, they simply make me smile.

Over in the Events section, I’ll be adding some of those upcoming happenings that might be of interest. Hopefully having everything in one place will be of use. Stay tuned for those later today.

Hooray for the weekend.

Black and Orange Puddings

These puddings are my attempt to redeem the combination of coffee and pumpkin, and I do believe them successful. More pudding cup than elegant custard, they are light, with an ebullient touch of spice to keep things interesting.

Dal Makhani

When my grandfather passed, my mum and I travelled to India to attend one of the ceremonies to mark the occasion. In the evening, we gathered with his friends and our family at a nearby restaurant for a reception. It was there that I first tried Dal Makhani, an extravagant bowl of lentils, ghee, and cream, potently spiced. When we returned to Canada, mum asked my great-uncle for the recipe, as she knew he had it somewhere. It was a favourite of his, and of his brother, my grandfather. I wrote this article with grandpa in mind, but on the day it was published in print, that dear uncle joined my grandfather. So, it’s now a tribute to him as well.

Pear Tahini Cake

This is a cake that’s better after it’s sat on the counter for a day. That sounds a strange endorsement, but I adore how in that time the texture of the cake changes completely; it settles into itself, becoming a comfortingly soft slice for after school or any time.

Plum Hand Pies

JoAnne is often the nexus around which various clusters of friends revolve. She seemingly knows everyone, is keen to routinely open her doors to a collection of us around her table. These pies came out of one of such visits. That day, I’d made a puckery cherry version, but going home I was nagged by the idea of stone fruit and almond. Thus, plum hand pies with frangipane were born. Fancied up with some favourite sprinkles and coated pepitas, they were all I wanted, and more.

In the paper yesterday; wanted to give a head’s up that it’s now online. A sturdy picnic salad, that will wait for you. Link here.

Seared Tofu with Two Sauces

I missed this space, and wanted to get back to it. As a start, a gallery of sorts, of some of my work from the last while. These were for my column with the Globe and Mail; I am thinking I'll start posting outtakes so there's a head's up for new work. 

Be back soon with something just for here. See you then. 

Boozy Black Raspberry Float

Seeded Date

Marmalade Tahini Knots

Barbecue Braised Tomatoes

Golden Turmeric Pots de Crème

Photograph by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriott

We are staring down the last week of school and we are all too ready for the holiday.

The other night, at the end of the longest day, I realized how much I'm looking forward to this season. Not just for the days at the pool, the road trips planned, and ice cream cones promised after dinner. There's also the need to feel the exuberance of it somehow. It's a feeling I've had before. And, it feels good to feel it again, as things seemed slightly offset lately. Like when the printing plates don't line up exactly right so whatever you're reading has a shadow aura hovering slightly to one side. You can see what things are supposed to look like, but can't quite trick your eyes into seeing them right.

And so, here's to summer, and to Strawberry Rhubarb Almond Crumble — it has a trick in the crumble that changes the game entirely. It's a recipe to keep for when stone fruits are around. Happy days, pals. Talk again soon.

STRAWBERRY RHUBARB ALMOND CRUMBLE

The first of many Always Good Recipes from Tara O'Brady and Nikole Herriott. 

Recipe HERE. 

I have no intention of relying on phone photography here, but I am a bit in love with this shot. It wasn't my plan on sharing this recipe either, as snapping the pic was a spontaneous thing, and the recipe was a bit thrown together, in the aim to perfect a birthday wish. But we'll get to that. First, to explain.

My freezer storage is divided into three distinct, but unequal zones. The largest is ingredient storage. It's where I keep nuts and grains, plus seeds and cacao nibs, and things like wheat germ and bran. Flours and shredded coconut. There's fruit from the summer stacked in flat packs, and bananas black-ripe and ready for bread. Ginger root I grate while still rock hard, chiles, and lime leaves. I am rarely without frozen spinach and sweet peas.

The smallest category is full of odds and ends; ice cubes, egg whites, and parmesan rinds. A package of homemade puff pastry, unbaked streusel from when I made too much, discs of pie dough, and bones for stock.

Between the two are the prepared leftovers. There is enough tomato sauce for one pizza, cooked rice, some savoury hand pies, Julia's turkey meatballs, and cakes. A lot of cake. It's not just that the pace of our consumption rarely keeps up with the celebrations around here. It's also one of those rarely-discussed byproducts of recipe testing. The spoils are regularly parcelled for giving away, but a small stash is always kept behind. Right now, my inventory includes the thinnest slice of walnut cake from Divali, a quarter of a vanilla bean cheesecake, bagged muffins, a coffeecake that's a work in progress, and s'mores brownies.

Those brownies though, they're celebratory through and through. Benjamin turned 11 in January. He's all knees and elbows now, and has strong opinions. He's had a thing for s'mores for years, and this birthday wasn't any different. He asked for a repeat of last year, brownies with chocolate ganache and a seven-minute frosting to billow on top. When I've made s'mores cupcakes in the past, the inclusion of graham crackers added essential contrast against all the dense-chocolate-marshmallowyness going on. I like them as rebar in the ganache rather than rubble in the brownie itself. Somehow they make more of an impact that way. Toasting the grahams in the oven crisps them up, the process and effect amped up with a sugar syrup glaze. 

I use my own brownie recipe, but as it was included as a preorder inclusive for my book, I made the squares this week with another favourite, from King Arthur Flour. As advertised, their brownies exist ideally between squidge and cake. You can use my recipe, if you have it, or theirs, or your preferred. One thing I'll say though, is resist the urge to use an intensely fudgey one. When combined with the ganache and the meringue frosting, it is a combination that can careen into headache-inducing real quick.

The brownies are over the top. They bring out the childlike and exuberant, and are the antithesis of refined. They are unbridled and unrestrained, and remind me of the happiest days. Don't let the fact that there were leftovers steer you into thinking they went unloved. Sometimes, you want to make the good things last. And, as brownies never fully freeze, a skinny slice on a Monday midmorning with coffee, falls into that category. 

For the record, that was exactly what I was planning when I took the photo.

Have a great week, pals. xo

TRIPLE LAYER S'MORES BROWNIES

The brownie recipe is this recipe from King Arthur Flour, halved.  The marshmallow frosting owes it loft and stability to Stella Park's revolutionary Easy Swiss Meringue. 

Makes an 8-inch pan

FOR THE BROWNIE BASE

• 2 large eggs
• 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons | 55 g dutch process cocoa
• 1/2 teaspoon medium grain kosher salt
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon espresso powder
• 2  teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1/2 cup | 115 g unsalted butter
• 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons | 225 g sugar
• 3/4 cup | 95 g all-purpose flour

FOR THE GRAHAM CRUNCH AND GANACHE

• 2 tablespoons water
• 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
• 8 graham crackers
• 8 ounces | 225 g bittersweet chocolate, 70% cocoa solids
• 1/4 teaspoon espresso powder, optional
• A good pinch medium grain kosher salt
• 2/3 cup | 160 ml heavy cream

FOR THE MARSHMALLOW FROSTING

• 4 egg whites
• 3/4 cup | 150 g granulated sugar, preferably toasted
• Generous 1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
• A good pinch medium grain kosher salt
• Seeds scraped from a vanilla bean, or 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

METHOD

Make the brownies. Preheat an oven to 325°F | 165°C.

Lightly grease an 8-inch square baking tin, then line with a piece of parchment paper with a 1-inch overhang. Press the paper into the pan and then remove. Line the pan with another piece of parchment paper, then place the first piece, buttered side up, across. Set aside.

Crack the eggs into a bowl. Sift in the cocoa, baking powder, espresso powder, and salt. Add the vanilla. Beat for four minutes on medium speed (you can do this while melting the butter in the next step).

Place the remaining butter in a medium saucepan. Pour in the sugar. Heat over medium low, stirring, until the butter is melted. Continue to cook until the mixture is hot but not bubbling, maybe 1 minute more. It should go shinier as it heats. 

Stir the hot butter and sugar mixture into the beaten eggs until smooth. Sift the flour over top and mix it in. 

Spread the batter into the baking dish, nudging it to the edges as needed. Bake until the top begins to crack, 32 to 35 minutes or so. Cool on a wire rack.

While that bakes, make the graham crunch and ganache. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. In a small, heavy bottomed saucepan, dissolve the sugar into the water. Bring to a boil over medium heat then simmer for 5 minutes. Brush both sides of the graham crackers with the syrup then arrange on the prepared baking sheet (there will be syrup left over. Save it as a sweetener for coffee, oatmeal, or fruit). Bake the crackers until toasted, 8 to 10 minutes, flipping once. Set aside to cool then snap into pieces, some small, some large bite-sized.

Tumble the chopped chocolate, espresso powder, and salt in a large heatproof bowl. Heat the cream in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan. Once steaming, pour the cream over the chocolate and let stand 5 minutes, undisturbed. After the time is up, stir until smooth, starting at the centre of the bowl and working outwards. Fold in the graham crunch. Pour the rubbled ganache over the brownies and spread to an even layer. Cool to room temperature, then refrigerate until set.

Finally, make the frosting. In the bowl of a stand mixer, stir together the egg whites, sugar, cream of tartar, and salt. Set the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water, making sure that the bowl has some clearance. Heat, stirring attentively and scraping down the sides of the bowl periodically with a silicone spatula, until the mixture reaches 175°F | 80°C on a candy thermometer, about 8 minutes. Transfer the whites to the stand mixer with the wire whisk attached. Beat, starting slow and increasing the speed steadily, until the mixer is on full. Whip until the stiff, glossy peaks form, 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in the vanilla.

Retrieve the brownies from the fridge. Spoon the frosting onto the ganache layer. Use an offset spatula or the back of a spoon to swoop and swirl it to your liking. Toast the frosting with a culinary torch or under a hot broiler—watching it all the while. Let cool and set, then use the cross of parchment to lift the brownies from the pan, then slice and serve. Extras can be refrigerated in their pan, loosely covered with cling film, for 2 days. Or, frozen until firm and then transferred to an airtight container for freezer storage up to a month. 

NOTE: 

• I also really like Jenny Rosenstrach's brownies from her book How to Celebrate Everyting: Recipes and Rituals for Birthdays, Holidays, Family Dinners, and Every Day In Between (Ballantine, 2016).  You'll find them on page 95. They are one of me most-perfectly textured brownies I've ever had. They are slightly thinner than my brownies, which is why I went for the King Arthur for those looking to replicate the look of the photo.

Nowadays, the turmeric in my pantry has a note tucked in its jar. It's from my dad, who has particularly distinctive handwriting that's narrow and tall. He used to write against a ruler to keep his lines neat as he filled out the collection of forms required of a ship's captain at each port. Even still, his penmanship looks as though it's curved against a straight edge.

The note simply says "turmeric from your grandfather's house." In the nearish future, Grandpa's house will no longer be ours, so my stash feels particularly precious. I've been metering it in meticulous portions, trying to make it last as long as possible. 

Week before last, Tejal Rao wrote about her grandmother and the position of turmeric in her household. Then last week, somewhat of an offshoot from the conversation she started and in response to the recent treatment of turmeric as innovation, I had a piece in The Globe and Mail about traditions becoming trend, and the uncomfortable realties that can arise in the process.

On Instagram I mentioned the turmeric tea I've been making—its milk and water base is sweet but not candied. It is buzzy with ginger, warmed by cinnamon and a miserly dispensation of pepper, and rounded out with soothing cardamom. Turmeric dyes everything day-glo golden, and adds an earthy astringency. Black tea provides fragrance and structure. As some of you expressed an interest in it, here it is.

Since Sean prefers coffee in the morning and I want wring the most possible flavour out of the whole spices, I make a provocatively strong concentrate in a biggish batch, then reheat servings as needed. I froth some milk for its cap, but whisked or blended milk would work just as well. Or, just pour in plain hot milk, without the addition of bubbles.

I like the tea best with condensed milk, a fondness I'm sure I picked up from my grandmother, who at boarding school would sip on cans of the stuff in secret. It gives weight to the tea that I find especially soothing. I have mine at the hottest temperature I can stand, taking breaths around each sip. Somehow the practice seems vaguely ceremonial in a way that makes me feel as though I'm taking good care. 

FROTHY TURMERIC TEA

Adapted from a recipe from Tejal Rao in the New York Times, with my grandmother's influence.

Serves 4

FOR THE CONCENTRATE

• 1 cup | 240 ml water
• 1/4 cup | 60 ml sweetened condensed milk
• A 2-inch piece of ginger, see note
• 6 to 8 green cardamom pods, split
• 2 cinnamon sticks, each broken in half
• 4 black peppercorns
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ground turmeric, or a 1 1/2-inch piece fresh, peeled and grated
• 2 cups | 480 ml milk of choice
• 1 to 2 teaspoons ghee or coconut oil, optional
• 0.5 oz | 15 g black tea or 4 black tea bags

FOR EACH DRINK

• 1/3 to 1/2 cup | 80 to 120 ml milk of choice, steamed and frothed
• Ground pistachios for dusting

METHOD

In a heavy saucepan, stir together the water, condensed milk, ginger, cardamom, cinnamon sticks, peppercorns, an turmeric. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring often. Lower the heat, and simmer for 5 minutes. Pour the milk into the syrup, and spoon in the ghee. Bring to a boil again, and then knock back the heat to a simmer for another 3 minutes. Pop in the tea, and let bubble for 3 to 5 minutes, depending on how strong you like your tea. Strain the concentrate through a fine meshed sieve—I find it neatest to do so into a wide jug or large liquid measuring cup with a pouring spout—and press on the solids in the basket to extract as much liquid as possible. If using the concentrate later, decant it to a jar for storage. Refrigerate until needed.

For each drink, pour one quarter hot concentrate into each cup. Top with the steaming, frothed milk, and the ground pistachios. Serve immediately. 

NOTES:

• I use almond milk for the concentrate, and then cow's milk for finishing as I'm terribly bad at establishing a foam on the former (though I've not yet those blends aimed at stretching). I realize that makes three milks in one recipe, so use what you like. If you want to omit the condensed milk, use 1/4 cup cane sugar in its place, adding the sugar with the water to start, or honey or maple syrup instead. 
• If making the concentrate in advance, skip the ghee as it will separate from the brew when chilled. Stir it into the reheated concentrate right before serving.
• Grating the ginger will produce a much more assertive cuppa. To tone it down, slice or chop the root instead.

Then writing here became more than a hobby, it became not a journal but a way to talk from this corner of the world to points all over. Posts, to me, were like letters. 

But right now, with people murdered as they worshipped in Québec, the litany of egregious acts and lies from the current administration in the United States, and the continuing refugee crisis, I don't have a lot of words. All I have is that Sarah wrote a book I've been meaning to write about for months, and the incomprehensible state of things doesn't the diminish recognition she deserves.

The book is full of sweetness and comfort, and it is a lovely thing. xo

TO HELP: The American Civil Liberties Union | Doctor's Without Borders | The International Rescue Committee 

TO READ: Throwing Parties During the Apocalypse, by Tim at Lottie + Doof.

SARAH KIEFFER'S CHOCOLATE SUGAR COOKIES

"I often find myself craving a piece of chocolate in the afternoons, s it goes rather with the cup of hot coffee that is also a necessity in my daily life. Most days a little sure of bittersweet will do, but other times something more extravagant is essential. I found these chocolate sugar cookies to do the trick; they are soft and delicious without being overly rich and sweet."

— From The Vanilla Bean Baking Book: Recipes for Irresistible Everyday Favourites and Reinvented Classics by Sarah Kieffer. (Penguin Books, 2016) 

Makes around 12 cookies

INGREDIENTS

• 1¾ cups | 250 g all-purpose flour
• ½ cup | 50 g natural cocoa powder or a combination cocoa powder
• ¾ teaspoon baking soda
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 1 cup | 225 g unsalted butter, room temperature
• 1¾ cups | 350 sugar (plus 1 cup | 200g  for rolling)
• 1 large egg
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon ground cardamom (optional)

METHOD

Adjust an oven rack to the middle position. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle, beat the butter on medium until smooth. Add the 1¾ cups sugar and beat on medium until light and fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the egg and vanilla and beat on medium until combined. Add the flour mixture and beat on low until just combined.

Place the remaining 1 cup sugar in a medium bowl. Stir in cardamom, if desired.

Form the cookies into 3-ounce | 85 g balls (a scant ⅓ cup each). Roll each ball in the sugar and place 6 cookies on each prepared sheet pan. Bake one sheet at a time 11 to 14 minutes, until the edges have set and the centers are puffed and starting to crackle.

Transfer the baking sheet to a wire rack and let the cookies cool completely on the pan.

I started writing on November 30th, but never got far. I've spent the last half hour trying to remember where I was planning to go from that paragraph, and what I'd hoped to say, but I can't reconstruct the memory. Maybe it's still as good as a start as any, because I'm happy to be here and talking again. 

The bulk of that eggnog went to the annual holiday party Nikole hosts at the Herriott Grace studio. I held some back for our household supply, but went through it faster than expected and December 15, the fridge was dry. We made another batch, the halls were decked, and the holidays were as bright as we could make them.

There was a rice pudding I forgot to serve one night that was eaten in the morning as porridge, dusted aromatically with Ceylon cinnamon. I made gingerbread dough and the boys decorated cutout snowflakes on Christmas Eve. (On the topic, do you have a favourite gingerbread cookie recipe? I wasn't thrilled with the one we used.) The trifle on Christmas Day was one of the best in recent memory, its surface regal in gossamer silver leaf. Instead of the usual sponge, the base was an egg-rich coconut cake. It was heavy with vanilla and woolly with shredded coconut, and it held its own against the black raspberry filling, custard, and cream.

Through the days, and those meals, all the things I've wanted to mention have been rattling around my brain. So, we've got ground to cover.

I've been revising favourite essays of the year and finding new ones by working my way through this list: Longreads best of 2016.

Speaking of Herriott Grace, Sean and I have a pair of these little earthenware cups for our household nog—they are matte and feel like velvet in the hand. At the party we served it in these beauties, and they were equally perfect. 

George Michael rehearsing for the Freddie Mercury tribute concert . (Yes, that's David Bowie watching from one side.) 

Back in September, I started another column with The Globe and Mail. I am still in the Life section every month, and now in the Style section too, as part of Kitchen Cabinet. It a feature in rotation with three other cooks—they're proper chefs, actually, and I'm chuffed to be the odd one out. That cake up top was for my December column, and it was inspired by both sticky toffee pudding (a cake I enduringly associate with winter) and the Dark and Stormy cocktail (a drink I'm happy to have in hand any time of year). The cake is vaguely stodgy, freckled with waxy nubs of walnut, the leathery chew of dates, and fiery flecks of candied ginger. You soak the cake with some toffee syrup while it's still hot, then save the rest to offer at the table. I think it's a cake that will take us to spring.

A friend was looking for vegetarian recipes and one I recommended was Heidi's Green Lentil Soup with Curried Brown Butter. It's terribly good.

I want to make these for the lads before the winter break is over. And I'm bookmarking this cake. 

Ashley wrote about the Everyday Yellow Dal from Seven Spoons; I've often said that dal and rice, finished with a pat of ghee, flaky salt, and finely minced onion, is my never-fail comfort food. Ashley's words, capturing the fortifying effect of gathering at the table, are its ideal partner.

And finally, if you haven't seen it already, this piece by Molly isn't to be missed. 

May this new year bring you such happiness. xo

RUM AND GINGER TOFFEE CAKE

FOR THE CAKE

Butter for pan

• 3/4 cup | 180 ml water
• 1/4 cup | 60 ml dark rum
• 1 tablespoon finely grated fresh ginger
• Zest of half an orange, finely grated
• Zest of a lime, finely grated
• 12 ounces | 340 g pitted dates, Medjools preferred
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 2 ounces | 60 g walnuts, toasted and cooled
• 2 1/4 cups | 290 g all purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon fine sea salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• Scant 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 1 cup | 215 g dark brown sugar
• 3/4 cup | 170 g unsalted butter, soft
• 4 eggs
• 1/4 cup (50 g) finely diced candied ginger

FOR THE SAUCE

• 1/2 cup | 115 g unsalted butter, cubed
• 1 1/4 cup | 260 g dark brown sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon fine grain sea salt
• 1 tablespoon black treacle or molasses, optional
• 2 tablespoons dark rum
• 1/2 cup | 120 ml heavy cream
• Seeds scraped from half a vanilla bean, or 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

METHOD

Please refer to my column in The Globe and Mail. 

I am happiest with a schedule, and yet want Monday to feel different than Wednesday. Saturdays are for the farmer's market and tacos for breakfast, Tuesdays are often a standing bibimbap lunch, and Sunday night is when I make granola.

When I was fine-tuning the recipes for my book, certain ones that had always been part of my weekly to-do list became even more so entrenched in the way we do things around here. The soft sandwich bread took over the bread box, instead of sharing the space with the milk-and-honey-enriched loaf that was our alternate. I was giving away jar after jar of the pickled strawberry preserves. I had a freezer's worth of variations on the Walnut, Cherry Butter Tart Pie (there was one with milk chocolate, one with bittersweet, and one with cacao nibs; then one with pecans instead of the walnuts, another with bourbon, and one with dried cranberries, and every permutation in between).  The clumpy granola became our one and only, and it was made with such devotedness that there was usually a surplus stashed in the pantry.

Once the book was done and out in the world, I took a break from many of those recipes, first off because—and nobody tells you this—while you're promoting a book you end up doing very little cooking. Then it was summertime, when our schedule had only the loosest of parameters. Slowly, slowly with fall and winter and school and holidays, I found my way again to the little ceremonies of my kitchen.

I'm back to a varied bread baking program, and the yeasted ones from the book are supplemented with a rye-heavy sourdough on the regular. The butter tart pie was was on the table at Thanksgiving, and it'll be shuttled to the cottage this summer. 

Now the granola has its antithetical compatriot sharing a shelf. While mine is rough with clusters, this one from Emma Galloway's My Darling Lemon Thyme, is snappy, crackling and light. Hers is a toasted muesli, with a combination of flaked grains, coconut, seeds, and nuts, plus such a collection of dried fruit that each bite is a change from the one before. The kicker really is Emma's ingenious binding agent; tahini, mixed with coconut oil and honey. The resulting syrup is rich without going overboard, and not overly sweet. It is fragrant yet not sickly, evocatively savoury almost. In short, it's compellingly good. 

Sarah wrote about this recipe just last month, so I consider this adding my voice to the chorus of praise as this muesli is one for encores. 

EMMA GALLOWAY'S TAHINI, ORANGE + COCONUT TOASTED MUESLI

"Muesli-making was always my dad's domain when we were little. Late at night he would set himself up in the kitchen, toasting and chopping like a mad man, before decanting the goods into his giant glass muesli jar. I remember him saying how expensive it was to make but, and this is a huge BUT, homemade muesli beats that store-bought sweetened stuff hands down. This is my favourite version, and it's filled to the brim with the goodness of quinoa flakes, shredded coconut, nuts, and fruit all bound together in a sweet (but not in-your-face-sweet) mixture of coconut oil, tahini, honey, and orange zest. To keep things strictly mean you can use pure maple or brown rice syrup in place of the honey. Also, whole-grain oats can be used in place of the quinoa flakes."

— From My Darling Lemon Thyme: Recipes from my Real Food Kitchen by Emma Galloway (Roost Books, 2015)

Makes 1.5kg | 2 pounds

INGREDIENTS (please see below and the note for my changes)

• 5 cups | 500 g quinoa flakes 
• 2 cups |180g unsweetened shredded or flaked coconut (I used both)
• 1/2 cup | 65g cashews, roughly chopped
• 1/2 cup | 75g whole raw almonds, roughly chopped (I used flaked)
• 1/2 cup | 65g pumpkin (pepita) seeds
• 1/2 cup | 60g sunflower seeds
• 1/4 cup | 35g sesame seeds
• 1/3 cup | 80ml virgin coconut oil
• 1/3 cup | 80ml un-hulled tahini
• 1/3 cup | 80ml honey, pure maple or brown rice syrup (I used maple)
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• The finely grated zest of 2 oranges
• 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
• 1 cup | 200g natural raisins or sultanas 
• 1 1/2 cups | 165g dried cranberries
• 1 cup | 95g firmly packed dried apple slices, roughly chopped 
• 1/2 cup | 80g pitted dried dates, roughly chopped

METHOD

Preheat oven to 350°F / 180°C. Combine quinoa flakes, coconut, cashews, almonds, pumpkin seeds, sunflower and sesame seeds in a large bowl using your hands to combine thoroughly. Combine coconut oil, honey or syrup, tahini, vanilla, orange zest and sea salt in a small pan and bring slowly to the boil, stirring constantly until melted and combined. Pour over dry ingredients and mix well.

Transfer to a large deep baking sheet and bake for 25-30 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until toasty and golden brown. Watch those edges like a hawk as they have a tendency to burn. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool. Stir in the dried fruit and transfer to a large glass jar or airtight container. Will keep for 2-3 weeks as long as airtight.

NOTE FROM TARA:

Instead of quinoa alone, I used 3 cups rolled oats, 11/2 cups quinoa flakes, and 1/2 cup buckwheat groats. I tailored the fruit to my sons' preferences, using 1/2 cup sultanas, 1/2 cup chopped figs, 1 cup dried cranberries, 1/2 cup dried cherries, 1/2 cup dried blueberries, 1/4 cup minced candied ginger, and 1/2 cup pitted dried dates, chopped.

Last but not least, thank you for the generosity of your kindness in response to my post about my grandfather. You guys are the absolute best. xo

Phone calls to India used to necessitate a crackling pause after you finished speaking, over which you could hear the faint echo of your own voice before any response came from the other end.

I'd imagine my words travelling along the phone line like a blip of light racing across wires, in a direct path from here to there, from day to night or the reverse, dipping under inky waves to zip across crags of the ocean floor, breaking the surface on the some far shore to scale the heights of airless mountains, carrying whatever sentiment within a incandesent bubble of breath, travelling across all those miles to end against the ear of the listener. The distance could have been the width of the universe. 

Late last month, my maternal grandfather passed away. He was 99 years old, and lived just outside Dehradun in Uttarakhand, India. Within 24 hours of receiving the news, I was on my way there.  

His house is called Halcyon. 

When we arrived, the last of the pomelos still clung heavily to branches, and the mango blossoms were spent.

We ate meals at the same table from my childhood, cooked by the same cook. Her chapatis were as perfect as ever. The pink gingham curtains my grandmother made hung from the windows. My grandfather's chair was still beside the toaster, his marmalade still on the table.

I spent days reconciling memory with fact, and filling in the greyed out details in technicolour. 

I remember his big green car; it was the perfect shade of green, a refined deep-toned emerald with the gloss of a wet leaf. I remember the warmth of his chest through the scratch of a wool sweater. His love of golf, and dogs, and how he'd shade his eyes from the sun with an unfolded newspaper for a nap. 

Those memories butted up against the tree from which the swing once hung. The water pump halfway down the slope behind the house. Straight pins in a tiny jam jar on his desk. The box of photographs that chronicled lifetimes. The fine-toothed comb on his dresser. His red jacket on a hook on his dressing room door. 

Mum and I would wake in the early hours of morning. If we'd left the window between the two beds open, the room was cold in the indigo light, and the breeze so heavily perfumed with flowers it was as if you could taste their scent.

She'd go to the kitchen and make tea with milk and cardamom, and then we'd lay in our respective beds, with covers pulled high and hands around hot cups, listening to the end of the night birds' song and the beginning of those from the day. When the first hint of dawn pierced the horizon, we'd hear a call to prayer. 

I missed my grandfather before we got there—such as it is when you live at a distance from others. At Halcyon I looked for him, expecting him in his favourite seat on the verandah or to hear him one room over. I expected to find him in the midst of the routines of his years. Instead he reverberated in all corners of the house, all the way up to where the wall and ceiling met and past that still. 

It's the Chinese-inspired Chicken Noodle Soup from Simply Nigella, a book which includes this cake — the most beautiful bundt imaginable, but also one so dulcet with the persuasive combo of five spice and apple cider that it's looks are rendered a second billing. Since the book came out late last year it's shouldered itself comfortably into a spot in my regular rotation. 

When it's me alone for lunch, brothy soups are my ideal. I make up some stock early in the week or late on the weekend, and then reheat it by the bowlful and cooking whatever add-ins I have around directly in my serving. Lawson's soup keys in on all that's appealing of that habit. The process is thoughtful and still the particulars are forgiving to fiddle to suit your likes.

Two days ago Sean brought home a plump but petite organic chicken, the perfect size to tuck snugly into a 4L cococtte. After a moment of bronzing, followed by a Shaoxing deglaze, the bird was joined by cilantro stalks, celery, and carrots, then water, garlic, ginger, soy, lime, and dried chiles. From there all is trusted to slowest blip and burble that can be maintained, under a lid clamped tight. But this, this is where it all shifts, goes sideways, and changes. What begins as intensely heady and clear, simmers into a with a wholly different character — one of redolent singularity rather than disparate components. 

The chicken came from its soak, pale and splendidly tender. The broth, deeply flavourful with supple weight on the spoon was a triumph, the ideal example of the alchemy of slow cooking. I ladled a clear, steaming cupful and drank it standing by the stove, in raspy slurps so that the air would cool it just enough to save my mouth. It made me feel lit up while soothed, like medicine and precious reward all in one.

When it came time for a proper serving, I laid a bed of noodles in my bowl then nudged some shredded chicken up beside. I brought the soup to another boil, and added leeks followed by Shanghai bok choy; first the stalks, then the leaves, so that the former was poached but the latter only wilted. At the table there came radishes, sesame oil, more soy sauce, the leaves from the cilantro now, and sesame seeds. The garnishes accentuated the broth — think of turning up the light rather than stealing the spotlight— and the slipping, tangled slide of noodles and vegetables went down with ease.

As an epilogue, the leftovers lasted three meals more, which made Monday's endeavour feel especially productive and satisfying. I hope you're having a great week. 

A quick endnote — Simply Nigella was photographed by my friend Keiko Oikawa and a public hooray for her felt apt. K, you've been such an inspiration for so many years, and you did an expectedly bang-up job with this. xx

One more — my cookbook was included in Food52's Piglet Tournament of Cookbooks this month, and while I was kicked out in the first round, to lose to Ruth Reichl hardly feels a loss at all. And, the nomination was truly the most unexpected honour. Cheers and thanks for that. 

CHINESE-INSPIRED CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP

"Actually, there are dual inspirations for this soup, for it really a version of My Mother's Praise Chicken from Kitchen infused with Chinese flavours. What you end up with is the sort of soup you want to eat in bowls held up inelegantly close to your mouth so that you are in easy slurping distance. I am embarrassed to say that I can't use chopsticks, unless they're the children's sort held together with a piece of card and an elastic band, but this soup really makes me want to learn.

I always recommend organic chicken (or organic meat generally) but I am mindful of the fact that not everyone can afford the luxury. Even so, if you use an intensively farmed chicken here (and the lack of taste is only one concern), you just won't get a flavoursome enough soup, in which case some bouillon cubes or concentrate in the water. 

I've given an exuberant list of ingredients for sprinkling on at the end, as I love that final fling of flavour. And though I haven't added them here, should you be making a fresh foray to an Asian food store to make this, and you see Chinese flowering chives about, they would be a real treat, and are so beautiful. Despite the Asian inspiration for the soup's flavour, I make a steep geographical about-turn and use golden nests (one per person) of an egg-enriched tagliolini for the noodle element, though I do also love this with those very thin mug bean or rice vermicelli. In fact, I just can't think of a bad way of eating this: even noodle-less, and thus rather not living up to its title, this is bliss in a bowl. "

— from Simply Nigella, by Nigella Lawson (Appetite by Random House, 2015)

Serves 6 to 8

INGREDIENTS FOR THE SOUP

• 3 leeks, cleaned and trimmed
• 3 carrots, peeled and trimmed
• 3 stalks celery, trimmed
• 3-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and finely grated
• 1 small or medium chicken, preferably organic
• 1 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 1/2 cup Chinese (Shaoxing) rice wine
• tied stalks from a bunch of cilantro, plus leaves to serve (see below)
• 2 1/2 quarts cold water
• 2 teaspoons sea salt flakes or kosher salt
• 1 teaspoons Szechuan pepper or crushed red pepper flakes
• 2 tablespoons soy sauce, plus more to serve
• 2 fat cloves garlic, peeled and finely grated or minced
• zest and juice of 1 lime, preferably unwaxed
• 10 ounces baby bok choy, tatsoi, choi sum, or other greens of choice 
• 4 ounces radishes
• 2 ounces dried fine egg noodles or vermicelli per person
• salt for noodle water to taste
• 1/2 teaspoon Asian sesame oil, plus more to serve (see below)

TO SERVE

• Asian sesame oil
• 2 (or more to taste) fresh red chiles, seeded and finely diced (optional)
• leaves from a bunch of cilantro (see above)
• finely chopped chives (optional)

METHOD

Slice each trimmed leek in half lengthways, and cut into 1/2-inch slices. Set aside. Cut the carrots into 1 1/2-inch lengths and quarter each log lengthways. Chop the celery into 1/2-inch slices, reserving any leaves to add to the soup at the end. Grate the ginger onto a plate for the time being. I use a microplane grater and get 4-5 teaspoons of fiery pulp out of this. Don't wash up the grater yet, as you'll need it for the garlic and lime later.

Now, with your vegetables prepped, untruss your chicken, cut off (but do not discard) the ankle part of the leg (I find kitchen scissors more than adequate to the task), and put the chicken, breast-side down, on a cutting board, then press down until you hear the breastbone crack — perhaps I shouldn't like this as much as I do — and the chicken is slightly flattened. Wash your hands, and then warm the tablespoon of vegetable oil in a pan that comes with a lid and that's big enough to take all the ingredients comfortably; I use a saucepan of 12 inches in diameter, 5 inches deep, which is a tight, but good, fit. 

When the oil hot, put the chicken in, breast-side down, and leave to brown for 3 minutes; the heat should not be too high for this or it'll start burning. Turn the chicken the other way up, then turn the heat to high and chuck in the rice wine. While it's bubbling, throw in the chicken ankle pieces along with the tied cilantro stalks, sliced carrots, and celery. 

Pour in the water, then add the sea salt flakes, Szechuan pepper (or crushed red pepper flakes), soy sauce, and finely grated ginger. Add the garlic, then grate in the zest of the lime, and squeeze in the juice of half of it. Let this come to a boil. 

Once it's bubbling, clamp on the lid, turn the heat to low, and let it simmer, covered, for 1 hour. Once the hour is up, take the lid off, then turn up the heat and bring it back to a boil again, and, once it is, add the leeks you sliced earlier. Cover partially with the lid and cook for 10 minutes, then let the broth simmer uncovered and confidently for another 10 minutes. This is to let the broth strengthen a bit. Then turn off the heat altogether, though keep the pan on the stove, clamp the lid back on, and leave for at least 20 minutes and up to 1 hour. While this is going on, I'd put a saucepan of water on to boil the noodles later, and salt it when it comes to a boil.

When you want to eat, remove the chicken to a board: it may be falling to pieces, but so much the better. Remove the chicken skin (I discard it, as for me there's no joy in chicken skin unless it's crisp), then take the meat off the bone and shred it. And by the way, should you not use up all the chicken for the soup, know that it is magnificent — flavoursome and tender — in a salad or sandwich the next day. 

Chop the stems of the greens you're using, and put the leaves into a separate pile. Quarter the radishes top to tail. Bring the pan of soup back to a boil, add the stalks of the greens and the quartered radishes, and let it come back to a boil once more. At the same time, add the noodles to the pan of boiling salted water, and cook them (if you're using the fine noodles or vermicelli they shouldn't take more than 2-3 minutes). 

Add the leafy parts of the greens to the bubbling soup and drain the noodles. Put the noodles and shredded chicken into your serving bowls. Taste the soup for seasoning, and add more salt (or soy) and the juice of the remaining half of lime, if you think it needs it. When satisfied, ladle the fragrant broth, with its vegetables, on top of the chicken and noodles, add a drop of sesame oil to each bowl, then sprinkle with chopped chiles, cilantro, or chives, as you wish. Bring the bottles of soy sauce and sesame oil, and some more of the chopped chiles and herbs to the table for people to add as they eat. Warning: don't burn your mouth; this soup smells so good, I'm afraid it's easy to be dangerously impatient and eat while the soup's still scaldingly hot. 

STORE NOTE:

• Transfer leftover cooked chicken to a container, cover, and chill within 1 hour. It will keep in refrigerator for up to 3 days

FREEZE NOTE:

• The cooked and cooled chicken can be frozen, in airtight containers or resealable bags, for up to 2 months. Thaw overnight in refrigerator before using.

NOTE FROM TARA:

• Because I'm probably the only fan of radishes in my household (I'd be sad, but it means more for me), I left them out of the soup pot and added them instead to my serving alone.

The shot belongs with a few others in sequence. My grandfather, dressed in a pale yellow golf shirt with the collar neat, sitting with his elbows on a table, talking to a man whose back is to the camera. Another with grandma and aunty outside a small cottage, wearing sunglasses and smiling broadly at the photographer. My mother thinks the cottage must have been a rental of some sort, a forgotten holiday somewhere. Wherever it was, it looks green and temperate. And they look happy. 

That one photo has stood out to me for the last two weeks, how the highest points of their smiles are just visible, the way their attention is on the stove and to each other. The particular blue on the carton and the eggs in the pan. Friends are going to India in a few weeks, and talk of their trip has had me thinking about my childhood visits there. I've been missing my grandmother in that hollow, aching way that comes with time, especially the feel of the skin on the back of her hands, her laugh, and her way with a good scramble. That photo, among all the others, even the ones where she's fully facing the camera, shook any dust off her memory.  

Benjamin and William know of our friends travel plans, and that some others are newly engaged, and that another couple just bought a house. While the boys don't call Sean and my friends aunties and uncles, they do call them mister and miss. So it's Mister Jason, for example — I can't get past my upbringing of children not calling adults by their first names alone. What's more, in the naming of their misters and misses in the world, I hope the boys feel they've claimed the adults that are theirs, besides just Sean and I, our parents, and their aunts and uncles by blood. 

For the last little while, William has held the firm belief that yellow soups are his favourite. I often make ones with squash or carrots, garlic, ginger, and cilantro, then chilies and coconut to take us somewhere in the area of Thailand, if not quite there. After last week's successful khao soi/squash experiment, I continued the streak with this Indian curried one.

Molly wrote about this soup more than two years ago; it is as simple as you'd want yet so bang-on exactly what it needs to be. The oomph comes from curry powder (honestly, I keep curry powder in the house for the aforementioned khao soi, mum's dry fried noodles, and this soup), but then its made all the  more interesting by a partnership with maple syrup (!) and fish sauce. The maple syrup, and grade B is really the way to go here, has a darkness that is brought out by the savouriness of the fish sauce, so its sweetness melts into the background. Lime juice and Sriracha further sharpens the focus right at the front. It is the type of soup you make with such regularity that you take for granted how good it is. Which I totally did, until I was texting about it Sunday night. I'm glad I remembered. I won't soon forget. 

(ROASTED) WINTER SQUASH SOUP WITH CURRY AND COCONUT MILK

I like this soup with accompanied by a little bulk — a rag of griddled naan, a mound of brown rice or crisped quinoa in the bottom of the bowl. Or, as shown, with chubby cubes of firm tofu slathered in the same flavours as the soup (maple, Sriracha, fish sauce) then bronzed in a hot skillet until leathery-edged. I had the last of some cooked lentils knocking about, so stirred them through with yogurt, cilantro, mustard sprouts and a pinch of Kashmiri chile powder, then spooned them over the tofu for another collection of textures. Cashews worked over in a mortar and pestle would also be nice. 

The method for the soup was barely changed by me in roasting the squash first, but everything else is an adaption by Molly Wizenberg from a recipe in Better Homes and Gardens via Lisa Moussalli's own adaptation. I agree with Molly in that butternut is the best squash for the task, but red hubbard and butterkin aren't bad. Acorn makes the soup a bit more khaki and it somehow tastes it, too. The ace method for roasting squash entirely from Molly Hays at Remedial Eating. The squash is roasted whole — no peeling! No hacking! No scraping of seeds still stubborn! Wins all around! — then split once soft enough to do so without resistance. It is brilliant.

INGREDIENTS

•  1 winter squash (about 2 pounds / 500 g)
• 2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil
•  1 medium or large yellow onion, chopped
•  3 or 4 large garlic cloves, minced
•  1 tablespoon curry powder
•  1 (14-ounce) can unsweetened coconut milk
•  2 cups (475 ml) chicken or vegetable broth
•  1 tablespoon maple syrup
•  1 tablespoon Asian fish sauce
•  1 teaspoon Sriracha or other Asian chile sauce
•  Juicy wedges of lime, for serving

METHOD

Preheat an oven to 400°F. Place a whole winter squash on a rimmed, parchment-lined baking sheet (see note, below). Bake the squash until tender enough to be pierced deeply with the tip of a knife with only modest resistance, about 30 minutes. Carefully split the squash down its length, being careful of the steam. Flip the squash facedown on the pan and pop back into the oven for 15 to 20 minutes more until squash tender but still firm. Turn the squash so their faces are now upturned, and roast for 10 minutes more. Set aside until the squash are cool enough to handle. 

Meanwhile, warm the olive oil in a 4 to 6-quart Dutch oven set over medium heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring, until they are softened, about 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cook for a minute or 2 more. Sprinkle in the curry powder, and stir around for 1 minute. Pour in the coconut milk and scrape any stuck bits from the bottom of the pan. If using an upright blender, transfer onions and coconut milk to its carafe, along with the broth. Scrape the seeds out of the squash and discard, then spoon the flesh into the blender as well. Purée until smooth and velvety (alternatively, do all of this in the pot with an immersion blender). Pour the soup back into the pot, stir in the maple syrup, fish sauce, and Sriracha, and check for seasoning. Bring the soup back up to a simmer, then serve with fresh lime wedges alongside for squeezing on top. 

NOTES:

• When I roast winter squash this way I tend to do a whole bunch all at once — basically however much my oven can hold. This way it justifies turning the oven on, and then I'm set for soup (or whatever use you might have for roasted squash) for the week. 

This afternoon's plan was to share a recipe, as I've got one waiting in the wings, but that isn't happening. What is happening is me on the couch, with my laptop, phone, various remote controls, an ice pack and a hot water bottle (and unfortunately without those doughnuts up top, which were from another day.) I wish I could say I did something exciting to warrant an injury, but I can't. Instead, it's simply that I've gone and tweaked something in my back, and so here we are. 

As a positive, my couch session affords the opportunity to tell you a little about what I've been cooking and eating lately, aside from doughnuts, and the recipes that I've got bookmarked for next.

 We started October with the Indian Baked Beans I wrote about in the Globe and Mail. They are a mashup of chole (channa) masala and traditional baked beans. Besides on toast, I like them tucked in naan with a slice of grilled halloumi. Or, I top a bowlful with a pile of bitter greens (frisée is especially good), a squeeze of lime or lemon, fruity olive oil, and some flaky salt. 

I went on a falafel kick after that, wholly inspired by the recipes in the book Honey & Co: Food from the Middle East by Itamar Srulovich and Sarit Packer (Little, Brown and Company, 2015). There are three recipes in the book; Jerusalem-style (for Itamar), Haifa-style (for Sarit), and Yemeni (for the family roots). I made the Haifa-style, also known as the one for purists, as it is a rather robust fritter full of cumin and coriander. Paired with a lemon-sharp tahini dressing, they were ideal. Bon Appétit featured the falafel in their last issue, along with two more — kuri squash and red pepper. I'm looking to have go a the squash, and I'm pretty into the spiced tahini from the same issue, as well as the feta and spring onion bouikos from the book. (Sara put her trademark spin on the falafel and created a baked variation.)

Over the weekend I made Martha Rose Shulman's Mexican Black Beans. Following Molly's advice, I soaked the beans longer than I usually would — a full 24 hours instead of overnight. I followed the recipe, with the addition of a minced chipotle in adobo at the start, and then half a fresh jalapeño (left whole) when the cilantro went in. I'd planned on following John Thorne's low and slow oven method for cooking the beans that Molly described, but due to an oversight in timing, I needed the oven for other things. So, I split the difference and cooked the beans on the stovetop, with the heat on low and only the faintest of burbles. They were done in about 3 hours, and while they were good that first day, I cannot tell you how much better they were the second. So, if you can, plan ahead and let them cool completely before stashing them in the fridge for a rest. Even once reheated, the broth from the beans was velvety, deeply flavoured and not at all murky, and the beans themselves still held together. Sean and I had them for lunch yesterday, with brown rice, avocados, pickled things, and sprouts.  

Spoonable meals are what I'm continuing for November. Yotam Ottolenghi's roasted pumpkin soup with harissa and crisp chickpeas looks rather enticing (scroll down once though the link), and the yam and peanut stew from Gena Hamshaw's new book Food52 Vegan (Ten Speed Press, 2105), is unreservedly great. And oh, if you're on Gena's site, her nut milk creamer is one to try. When I'm looking for extra soothing delivered via  mug, I make the Golden Milk from my own book and bulk up the liquid with some of her creamer.

And last but not least, the first cookbook my friends Nikole Herriott and Michael Graydon photographed is now out — the highly-anticipated Gjelina: Cooking from Venice, California by LA-based chef and restaurant owner Travis Lett (Chronicle Books, 2015). The photographs look as remarkable as would be expected from those two and I can't wait to get stuck in to the recipes. Congratulations, guys.

The kettle just clicked off, so I should go attend to that. Talk soon soon. xo

If you've been around here for a while, you might know that one of my favourite breakfast pastries are sugar buns (Tartine Bakery's morning bun made with a whole-wheat variation on Nigella Lawson's Danish dough, and laced with almond and orange). Besides bostocks, they are usually my holiday morning go-to, and it is rare that I stray from that habit.

However (!), Ptak's recipe is made without yeast; the dough gets its rise from baking powder instead, like the cousin of a scone or sweet biscuit. That was enough to intrigue. Plus they were pretty; perfectly golden arabesques dusted with sugar. Total lookers. So curiosity got the better of me.

You make the dough in a stand mixer, crumbling up cold butter into the dry ingredients, then adding milk until a dough curls up around the paddle. Simple. The dough rolls out smooth and supple, twirls back up into an impressive swirl, then bakes into delicate layers with just a touch of elasticity for some chew. 

The cinnamon swirl is backed up in spice by some cardamom in the dough and the combo comes off friskier than either on their own. It's exactly right. And, if you can find Ceylon cinnamon, this is the time to use it. 

It's Thanksgiving coming up, and we are going apple picking sometime this week — I'm toying with the idea of a second go with these for the holiday weekend, this time wafer thin slices of sautéed apples and blitzed almonds wrapped up in the coil. I think that might be a good idea. Still, I didn't want to hold out on you on the recipe, so here they are. 

Happy start of the week, talk soon.

VIOLET BAKERY'S CINNAMON BUNS (yeast free)

"Of course a soft yeasty bun can be a wonderful thing, but at Violet we have never had enough space to work with yeasted bread doughs. They take up more room and need larger machines. I came up with these yeast-free buns in my home kitchen by looking back through the cookbooks of the 1950s, when everything was about how to make things more quickly. Quick breads, as breads leavened with baking powder or baking soda are called, were an alternative to the time-consuming yeast or sourdough breads. Truly, they are something altogether different. They both have their place on the table. This recipe can also be made ahead then frozen in the muffin tin until ready to bake."

— from The Violet Bakery Cookbook by Claire Ptak (Ten Speed Press, 2015)

Makes 12 buns

FOR THE FILLING

• 75g (1/3 cup) unsalted butter
• 250g (1 cup plus 2 tablespoons) light brown sugar
• 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

FOR THE CINNAMON BUNS

• 560g (4 1/2 cups) all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling
• 2 tablespoons baking powder
• 2 teaspoons kosher salt
• 2 teaspoons ground cardamom
• 240g (1 cup plus 1 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes)
• 300g (1 1/4 cups) cold milk
• sugar, for dipping
• butter, for greasing the pan

METHOD

Preheat the oven to 200°C/390°F (180°C/355°F convection).

Butter a 12-cup deep muffin pan.

First, prepare the feeling. Melt the butter and leave in a warm place so that it remains liquid. Mixed together the light brown sugar and cinnamon until no lumps remain, then set aside.

Now make the dough. In the bowl of a stand mixer with a paddle attachment, combine all the dry ingredients with the cubes of butter and mix until you have a coarse meal. Slowly pour into cold milk while the mixer is running, until dough forms into a ball and comes away from the bowl. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and leave to rest for a few minutes. Fold the dough gently over itself once or twice to pull it all together let the dough rest a second time, for 10 minutes.

Clear a large surface, dust lightly with more flour, and roll out the dough into a large rectangle until almost 5mm (1/8 inch) thick. Brush the surface of the dough with the melted butter and, before the butter hardens, sprinkle the cinnamon sugar on to the butter. You want a good, slightly thick layer.

Now roll the long side, keeping it neat and tidy. Gently tug the dough toward you to get a taut roll while rolling away from you in a spiral. Once it’s all rolled up, gently squeeze the roll to ensure it’s the same sickness throughout. Use a sharp knife to cut the roll crosswise into 12 even slices. Take a slice of the cinnamon roll, peel back about 5 cm (2 inches) of the loose end of the pastry and fold back under the roll too loosely cover the bottom of the roll. Place in the muffin pan, flap side down. Repeat with remaining slices.

Bake the buns for 25 minutes. As soon as they're out of the oven, flip them over onto a wire cooling rack so that they don't stick to the tray. Dip each cinnamon bun into a bowl of sugar and serve right away.

NOTES FROM TARA:

• There seems to be an error in the volume conversion in the book for this entry — the flour is listed as 560g or 1 1/2 cups, but that weight is actually about 4 1/2 cups and I've changed the recipe to reflect that.

Hey guys! There's a slight change of plans. Due to concerns about the weather, the Terrain's Autumn Festival and my event tomorrow (4 October) at their Glen Mills, PA location has been postponed to the 17th of the month—as of now the timing should be the same, but I'll keep you posted on any other changes! For now, east coast pals, stay warm and dry, and will see you in two weeks. 

In case you missed the initial announcement, I will be hosting a brunch at Terrain with the meal inspired by my cookbook; there will be a cocktail, drinks, some favourite dishes and I'll be on hand to chat and visit, and to demonstrate a recipe. The brunch requires RSVP, and some tickets are still available if you're able to come! The brunch starts Terrain's Autumn Bounty Festival, a full day of activities to kick off the season. 

Hope you can make it, and more events for the east are in the works! That recipe I promised will follow this announcement shortly, and it's kind of a game changer. Stay tuned. 

xo

Also! I'm heading to Pennsylvania next month for an event! I will be hosting a brunch at Terrain's Glen Mills location, on October 4, 2015 from 10 to 11:30 AM. The menu will be inspired by recipes from my book, and I'll be demonstrating a dish, plus there'll be lots of time to chat and say hello. Ticket information and details are available on Terrain's site, and I hope you'll be able to make it. It's also the weekend of their Autumn Bounty Festival, so it should be a great time.

Back with a recipe in a few days. See you soon!

p.s. for anyone visiting locally, the farm stand photographed is Quiet Acres in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario. 

Under the counter where the coffee things sit in my kitchen, third drawer down on the left, is a waffle iron. We bought it on a whim years ago when Sean and his parents were talking about the waffle ice cream sandwiches at the CNE. 

Due to that association, whenever I make waffles instead of the usual French toast or pancakes, it feels like a festive thing. The waffles here however, are celebratory on their own, since they're from Heidi Swanson's very soon-to-be-released cookbook, Near and Far. (Cue the confetti canons and cheers.)

Heidi is known for getting details right. It comes as no surprise then that this new book is an extraordinary object, smartly designed and impressive to hold. The raised cover, reminiscent of tin ceilings and anaglypta, is slightly velveted. Its pattern is elaborated upon in the endpapers, and the creamy off-white echoed in the matte pages between them. Every inch is considered.

It is a book with clear, learned perspective. Divided into categories—recipes her inspired by her home, then those she likes for journeys, and finally recipes from the around the world—while reading Near and Far it is impossible to ignore a prevailing, longing wanderlust. Through Heidi's evocative photographs and passages, and her characteristic care in choosing just the right ingredients, you are transported to her kitchen and table, even when that kitchen is in Rabat, New Delhi, or Tokyo, rather than her native San Francisco. There is a distinct sense of real, rooted places, and an intimacy in the shared experience. 

Often it is a matter of alchemy in developing recipes; a combination of time, surroundings, outlook, and trend all contribute to a sort of collected whole. Heidi once said certain things "are simply in the air." In Near and Far, you're in that atmosphere with her. 

 (For some more on Heidi's cooking philosophy—vegetarian, with an emphasis on whole foods—here's what I wrote about her last book, Super Natural Every Day.)

The breadth of this latest collection is all-embracing, and I've an eye on some to become new-to-me favourites—tempeh with shoyu butter, Lillet shrub, and farro salad (with this lip-smackingly piquant olive dressing) are all in the running. Then recently, Heidi told me her nephew Jack is a fan of the whole wheat waffles in the book. That was all the endorsement needed.

These waffles, like so many of Heidi's recipes, are familiar, but somehow that little bit better than you recalled. Lacily, crackly-crusted as you expect, but the centre has a set-custard quality, vaguely eggy and slightly elastic, so there's chew to back up the initial crunch. In my mind, that's not just the mark of a good waffle, but a superlative one. 

Utterly fitting, considering where they came from. Tonight, with the leftovers, there'll be ice cream. Hooray, that.

And, once more, Heidi, well done. xo

WHOLE WHEAT WAFFLES

"These are the waffles I make most often—big, and Belgian-style. A combination of flours and rolled oats is lighted up with a bit of rice flour or organic cornstarch. It is a blend that conspires with lots of buttermilk to give the waffles a nice, moist interior and a crisp, golden crust."

— from Near and Far: Recipes Inspired by Home and Travel by Heidi Swanson (Ten Speed Press, 2015). 
 

Makes 16 Belgian-style waffles

INGREDIENTS

• 1 cup | 4.5 oz | 120 g whole wheat flour
• 2 cups | 9 oz | 225 g all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup | 1.75 oz | 50 g rolled oats or 1/2 cup | 1.5 oz | 40 g wheat germ
• 4 oz | 110 g organic cornstarch or rice flour
• 2 teaspoons fine-grain sea salt
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoons baking soda
• 4 cups | 1 L buttermilk
• 1/2 cup | 4 oz | 115 g butter, melted and cooled
• 4 eggs, separated

METHOD

Preheat the oven to 225°F | 110°C. Combine the flours, oats, cornstarch, salt, baking powder, and baking soda in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, melted butter, and egg yolks. In a third bowl, using an egg beater or an electric mixer, beat the egg whites into stiff peaks.

Heat the waffle maker, and when it is ready, add the buttermilk mixture to the dry ingredients and stir until the mixture just starts to come together. Dollop the egg whites across the top of the batter and fold until uniform, using a few strokes as possible. 

Use a scoop to ladle the batter into your waffle iron and cook until deeply golden and crisp. Transfer to the warm oven while you make the remaining waffles—the dry heat of the oven helps them set a bit. Any leftover batter will keep for a day or so, refrigerated.

NOTES FROM TARA:

• I used the wheat germ suggestion rather than rolled oats.
• I served the waffles with Five Spice Roasted Peaches, mapled blueberries, and sweet labneh. I prepared the peaches as written, then stirred some wild blueberries through the leftover maple-vanilla syrup while the peaches roasted. I made the labneh from my cookbook, with orange zest, brown sugar, and vanilla (p. 229). The sprinkles are a bit of bee pollen. 
• This recipe does make quite a lot of waffles; my waffle iron isn't super deep, so I think the yield was about 18. I froze the extras on a sheet pan, then transferred them to a freezer bag. They toasted up beautifully when needed. If preferred, the recipe halves neatly. 

So, it's July! That seems a surprise. May was a blur of book tour, then June was gone in a blink. I'm firmly settled back at home, and scheming about east coast events. 

Thank you, again, for the cheers from all over with the launch of my cookbook. Thank you for coming out to events or comments here and elsewhere. Never did I feel I was travelling alone. But, we'll catch up on all that. First, some quick things that have been keeping me inspired, busy, and in the kitchen lately. 

I finished Jess's book, Stir last night, and I'm still thinking about it. She's out right now on book tour, and if you can catch her speaking, do.  (Sweet Amandine)

I started Tara's book today. (Tea and Cookies) 

Alabama White Barbecue Sauce, a gutsy mix of horseradish, vinegar, and mayonnaise, is a new favourite of mine with all things grilled — but I love it especially with corn. Fire-kissed is still the preference, but I'll take the kernels steamed, sautéed, or fresh off the cob. If you like elote, I've a feeling the combination will be right up your alley. It was what I served alongside the succotash my hand pies up above. Those guys are from a piece I wrote for The Globe and Mail. I've been making such pies for years, long enough that they've earned a nickname — "empbananas" — in our household. These are filled with corn and beans, then seasoned with herbs and white miso. The latter might seem unexpected, but it makes all the difference, in the best way. (The New York Times / The Globe and Mail)

As a rule, I don't love tomato soup. There are exceptions, though. Melissa Clark's is one, and Nigel Slater's recent variations make a convincing case for consideration. (101 Cookbooks / The Guardian)

Nikole has some new pieces in her shop; the striped stoneware series make me feel nostalgic for the crockery from my father's ships. These nested mixing bowls are now my go-to. The smallest for whisking sauces, the medium for tossing salads, and the large for cookie doughs. (Herriott Grace)

Cherry season has just begun, and I'm thinking of making a cobbler. (Instagram)

The Mosé. (Epicurious)

The Meaning of Mangoes by Dianne Jacob. I keep going back to it. Without summarizing her piece, I'll just say that I feel like I sometimes feed my boys certain things — mangoes, guavas, and especially custard apples when I miss Gigi — in a similar way. Not only for me to resurrect times, places, and people I've lost, but to also pass on to them some of an unshared experience. (Lucky Peach / this site)

And, some more links to mentions of Seven Spoons elsewhere. 

• I was stoked to talk to Williams Sonoma about the history of Canada Day, and how we Canadians celebrate our country's birthday. I also shared my recipe for Butter Tart Pie. (Taste) 
• David took the pickled strawberry preserves from my book and added his own touch — swapping allspice for coriander. He's a smart one. (David Lebovitz)
• It was seriously smile-inducing to see the Roasted Grapes with Sweet Labneh get the Molly treatment. (My Name is Yeh)
• Carolyn Jung was truly kind, and made the Hummus with White Miso. (Food Gal)
• Yossy was one of the testers from my book, and specifically one who tested the Basic, Great, Chocolate Chip Cookies. When I had her thumbs up, I knew the recipe was right. (Apt 2 Baking Co)
• Sarah was also generous enough to give the recipes a go for me, and she decided to write about the Twangy Blueberry Sauce. My Ben loves it on cheesecake, I like it on plain yogurt, and everyone around here likes it on sweet biscuits with cream. (The Vanilla Bean Blog)
• Stephanie made the happiest cookies ever. That yellow! (I Am a Food Blog)
• Sasha shared personal thoughts on the passage of time and made the Glazed Sesame Oats. (Tending the Table)
• Getting Sam and Megan's approval on any of my recipes, but especially the hummus, is a like a gold star. (A Sweet Spoonful)
• Sonja and Alex made my Dipper Eggs with Fried Cheese Toast soldiers look far more elegant than I ever do. (A Couple Cooks)
• The Blueberry Snacking Cake, which Sneh adapted beautifully, is one of our regulars for picnics and road trips. (Cook Republic)
• Lecia always knows the right thing to say. In her post she captures the feelings of summer perfectly, and then bakes the Rhubarb Raspberry Rye Crumble. (A Day That is Dessert)

Now! To hear from you! What's been going on on your end? I'm so happy to be back to this place, and can't wait to pick up from where we left off. xo and talk soon.