Fresh Peas Go Pop

Photo: Andrew Budziak

It’s true, they do. When they’re just right—when the pod is firm, but the peas are small enough to leave room for an air pocket—they make a great little popping sound.

But I’m sure you know this already. Maybe you too spent time on the porch as a kid, shelling peas for supper. Hardly a chore, really, especially when you’re sneaking them into your mouth by the handful. They’re so sweet.

Photo: Andrew Budziak

This summer, I get to shell peas again. Andrew and I are in Winnipeg, but on the weekends, we go to the farm, where my mum’s garden is gorgeous, and full of promise. It’s also full of beets, summer squash, and carrots. And until last weekend, it was full of peas. But we took care of that.

Photo: Andrew Budziak

I made these peas-on-toast a few nights ago. It’s great as a part of one of those light, I-don’t-really-want-to-eat nights, with a small pile of scrambled eggs. It’s not much of a recipe, more of a splash of this, and a knob of that. And if you have a food processor, it will be even faster than my fork-smashing method.

AND: This sounds crazy. It certainly did when I described my sandwich to my colleagues the next day. But as leftovers, they make a great sandwich, with good crusty bread and smoky cheese.

Fork-smashed peas-on-toast

Makes four large toasts

2 cups of fresh shelled green peas

2 tablespoons salted butter

a good splash of white wine

a crusty baguette

1 large garlic clove, halved

1 or 2 tablespoons of olive oil

In a large sauté pan, heat the butter to melt, on medium heat. When it is completely melted, add the peas, and toss to coat. Turn the heat up just a tad, so that the wine will get a good sizzle when it hits the pan. Add the wine, and adjust the heat so that the peas cook gently, and the alcohol evaporates. Well, mostly, anyway. What you want is cooked peas that are still bright green, but soft enough to mash. This should take somewhere between 5 – 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, turn the broiler on in your oven, and set the grill about five inches from the element. Cut you bread; once right across, for two halves. Then cut each through the middle of their lengths. Think: two 6 inch subs. These will be your four toasts. Next, brush the olive oil on the cut side of each toast. Place them on a baking pan, cut side up, and place under the broiler until just toasted. Turn over, and toast the underside.

When the bread is toasted, rub the garlic on the oiled side of the bread. Set aside. Your peas should ready. If they have a lot of liquid, drain them. Then, with a fork, give them a good smushing—they need to be spreadable peas, not the kind of peas that keep rolling off your toast. Finally, spread the peas on the cut side of the toast, piled high. A sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan would be nice, too.

New policy: Keep your bread recipe handy

I made these loaves months ago, and I’ve been wanting to post this picture for just as long. It's a simple white bread recipe by Nigel Slater, in Appetite. Because my cookbooks are in the Toronto apartment, I can’t refer back to them today to remember just how the recipe goes. That seems a shame. Perhaps a new policy is in order; always keep a good bread recipe handy.

What I can tell you is that Nigel Slater loves good toast. And this bread makes the best toast. A good thick layer of butter, and a veil-thin spread of jelly elevate it to, possibly, my favourite comfort food.

The things that matter

We arrived in Winnipeg yesterday. For me, it means moving home for the summer. We’ll be here for two months—just long enough for Manitoba to sink in, and to get good use of the best of Manitoba’s farms and gardens.

We’re living in a small sublet apartment, in Wolseley. It’s a place where, when it rains, you can stroll on the sidewalk without getting wet. The thickness of the elm canopy protects you. There seems to be a bakery at every corner.

I only packed one cookbook, in an effort to pare down. The Flavour Thesaurus is not a recipe book, but an idea generator. It treats ingredients like they belong on a colour wheel. For each entry—from figs, to capers, to chicken—it has a long list of pairings.

For instance:

Dill. Why not dill and beef? Dill and avocado? You’ve heard of dill and potatoes, of course. But did you think it might work with turmeric and chilies, as an Indian dish?

Of course, The Flavour Thesaurus is more eloquent than I'm being here, but you get the idea. Its purpose is to inspire and guide, not to instruct.

And that is the kind of summer I’m ready for. A pared-down, inspired summer. A summer where the few essentials—close friends and family, a single cookbook, and a few things in the fridge—are the source of inspiration in my cooking.

As for those few items in the fridge, here are some of them. The bare essentials, according to, well, me. Happy summer, and expect to hear more from me.

Vegetable hegemony

We started getting organic fruits and vegetables delivered weekly, on our doorstep.

As a result, I am a slave to kale, to turnips, to potatoes. And to squash. Goddamned squash.

Still, the pressure of a boxful of produce that must be emptied before the next box arrives has its merits. For instance, I’ve made a new acquaintance: collard greens. I’ve also been cooking at home an awful lot more—and rather healthily, I might add.

But while I’m loving the front door box, I still have sweat on my brow. Sure, today is only Monday and the new box doesn’t arrive until Friday. But do you have any idea have what we haven’t used yet? Oranges, apples, kiwis, watercress, arugula, turnips, yams… It’s really a lot. And I’ve got to be creative.

And tonight, I did get creative with those collard greens. It’s a saucy, fragrant and filling dish, and it was a snap to make.

Now, I’m going to be quite wishy-washy with this recipe. Partly because I very loosely based it on a recipe in Simply in Season and didn’t take notes on my changes, and partly—as you can see in the background of this photo—because I was having Bourbon at the time (and I’m having more now…which also helps to explain my lack of commitment to detail)

Collards and tomato in peanut sauce

(Enough for two, adapted from the Mennonite Central Committee’s Simply in Season)

In a sauté pan, heat sunflower oil on medium-low heat, and gently sauté half a chopped onion. When the onions are well on their way to translucence, add one or two cloves of minced garlic. Continue to sauté until fragrant.

Now, add a tomato, which you’ve chopped into large chunks. Stir occasionally, and cook for a few minutes, until the tomato skin is just starting to curl from the heat.

Now add spices. Combine any or all of the following: ground coriander, ground cumin, a pinch of ground clove, maybe some turmeric – adding up to about 1 teaspoon or so. Salt to taste, and cook for an additional two minutes.

Now it's time for the collards. A bunch of six or seven leaves should do it. Discard the tough part of the stem, and roughly chop the leaves. Add to the hot pan, with a small splash of water. Cover, and let the greens gently steam until bright green and wilted. You will want to lift the lid and stir occasionally.

Just before serving, add about three tablespoons of peanut butter, which you’ve mixed with a splash of hot water. Stir until it has dissolved into a nice, creamy sauce that coats the vegetables.

Serve on rice, polenta, or, as I have, on barley.

You’ll notice I’ve got a few shrimp in mine, on that picture up there. That was completely unnecessary. I think the Bourbon made me do it. Don’t do it, it adds nothing.

Though, I bet it would welcome grilled chicken on the side.

Mornings are for puttering

I took this photo on Friday morning, long before the office, long before my streetcar ride, and even before I showered or changed out of my pyjamas. It's a marinade for pork ribs. Simple enough, it's a sticky concoction of oyster sauce, thick honey, garlic, dried chilli flakes and whole star anise.

What I had done before I prepared the marinade, was ease into my slippers, and sip on some warm coffee while reading the Nigel Slater recipe I was about to make.

I was calm, content, and completely outside my usual weekday morning mindset. Normally, I wake up later, but from the moment I wake up, the focus is on the workday ahead: the newspaper, the radio, the BBC, the New York Times, NPR, the Guardian ... whatever will fill my head with ideas for the story meeting that day.

Yet, on Friday, I got up earlier, and created an hour-long buffer between the alarm clock and the workday. And I filled that hour with kitchen-puttering. And when I was done, I started my usual routine of rabid news consumption. Only this time, the coffee had a chance to kick in, and my mind was allowed an entire hour of wake-up time before I thrust it into its daily news-junky mode.

I think I'm on to something here. I must wake up, putter for an hour. And only after that should I turn into a mad producer lady.

It also reminds me of my favourite coffee table book, A Year of Mornings. Decidedly not from the minds of mad producer ladies like me.

Flummoxed: The worrisome effect of baffling adjectives

Not too far from where I grew up, there is a country road that baffled me when we drove by. It was all about the name: Old Tom Road. It bothered me because I couldn't tell what the adjective -- "Old" -- referred to. Tom, or the Road? Did Old Tom have a road named after him? Or was it an old road, called Tom?

As you can imagine, a lot of things baffled me when I was a kid. I realize this explains a lot about my general character.

Anyway, this all comes down to a recipe, which shouldn’t surprise you. I want to tell you about a terrific cold weather desert called: Chilled Prunes Simmered in Wine. Not only is it a perfect conclusion to a heavy winter's meal, it's also baffling--baffling that I didn't stick with the original, logical name of the recipe, which was written by David Tanis.


Now, I am sure you're wondering: "Are the prunes first chilled, then simmered? Or simmered and chilled? Or perhaps the wine is chilled when the prunes are simmered? WHAT THE HELL AM I SIMMERING HERE?"

If you haven't stopped reading by now, please, please try this dessert. Anyway, David Tanis calls it Chilled Prunes in Beaujolais, which is much more sensible name.


This dessert is so easy, and dare I say, wholesome. The prunes should be served in crystal, if you ask me, and you should eat them slowly and savour the wine and cinnamon syrup.

By the way, they're simmered, then chilled. In case you're still wondering.

Chilled Prunes, Simmered in Wine
Adapted from a recipe by David Tanis, in A Platter of Figs

Serves ten or so, and can be kept in the fridge for several weeks.

1 ½ pounds dried pitted prunes (organic if possible)
2 ½ cups light-bodied wine, like a Beaujolais Nouveau
½ cup white sugar
A cinammon stick

This is so wonderfully easy. In a heavy-based sauce pan, combine all ingredient. Bring to a gentle boil, and simmer for ten minutes. Let it cool, then store it in a jar in the fridge. Make sure it’s fully chilled when you serve it.


David Tanis, who I am quite certain is a wise, wise man, advises the following: "Serve each diner a small bowl with a few prunes floating in the winey sauce."


Yes, please, Mr. Tanis.

Happy Returns

Oh, gosh. Hi. It's nice to see you again.

I could pretend that I didn't go on another long hiatus, and just launch right back into blogging as though nothing happened. But I should probably address the situation, straight on. I didn't blog, because life is wonderfully busy, mostly with lots of work in radio.

I also left the country for nearly a month. We went on a trip in July, Andrew and I. Several days in Paris, and several more in Sweden.

The highlights? A wedding in the north of Sweden, near a city called Luleo. The bride was Sri Lankan, and we feasted on warm curries under the (nearly) midnight sun. I also discovered something Swedish called smörgåstårta --- sandwich cake. And it really is that: a cake made out of sandwiches. With shrimp and ham and pickles and tangy mayonnaise -- tangy because it's mixed with Baltic herring. And they rolled it out in the wee hours of the drunken morning.

I'm going make sandwich cake one day. I have a recipe, you know.

Andrew, in Sweden

Now, on to business. This is a hefty salad I've been meaning to share with you. It's originally a Jamie Oliver recipe from Jamie at Home, but it comes to me via the lovely blogger Beth Palmer. So it's changed hands a few times. I've made it many times in my own kitchen, and it's starting to morph, as recipes do.

It's hard to find the right name for this thing. Jamie Oliver calls it an Indian Carrot Salad. I think its more about the ground lamb, and I'm not sold on its authenticity as an Indian dish. Beth calls it Lamb Salad, and I think she's on to something.

I can say, at least, that it's definitely a salad. It's warm, and delicately spiced with garam masala. Shallots, cilantro and mint punctuate the dressing. I always serve it as a meal course, piled high in distinct layers. But tossle it around before you eat it. A bite of this, a bit of that. Let the shallots surprise you.

Spiced lamb salad

Adapted from Jamie Oliver's recipe in Jamie at Home

Serves two as a main course

• 1 lb ground lamb
• 2 teaspoons Garam Masala -- you may want to adjust by adding more
• 4-5 good sized carrots, shaved into long ribbon-like strips (use a mandolin or a regular peeler) You should come up with two large handfuls.
• A genourous handful of cilantro leaves, roughly chopped
• Nearly as much fresh mint, leaves only, roughly chopped
• Juice and zest of one lemon
• A thumbsized nub of ginger, peeled and grated (should come out to a teaspoon or so)
• 2-3 shallots, very thinly sliced
• A pinch of sea salt
• Olive oil, to taste
• 1 tablespoon sesame seeds

In a dry skillet, briefly toast the sesame seeds on high heat. Be careful, it happens very fast! When they're golden, set them aside.

Now, prepare the dressing. Combine the shallots, ginger, lemon juice, lemon zest, salt. Whisk together with enough olive oil to turn it into a dressing. I would say three tablespoons should do the trick. Jamie asks for five. Use your judgement. Set the dressing aside.

On two plates, arrange the cilantro and mint. Think, bed-of-lettuce, only they're herbs.

Now, in an ungreased , non-stick skillet(perhaps the one you toasted your seeds in?), fry the lamb up with the garam masala. Here, I fry it a bit longer than I normally would. When it is rather crisp, take it out of the skillet, using a slotted spoon. Leave the spiced lamb fat in the skillet.

With the skillet still hot, briefly fry the carrots in that lovely garam masalaed fat.

To assemble the salad, first pile lamb atop each of the beds of herbs. Then the carrots. Pour the dressing over the carrots. Now scatter the sesame seeds, and serve immediately.