My Vegan Heart

Vegans spend a lot of time thinking about food. Partly, it's because we're foodies, which contributed to the decision to become vegan in the first place. Or vegans become foodies after the fact, because in exploring new things to eat, we discover a whole new world of food that we never knew existed. Or we're forced to bake and cook more simply because the choices in the big, wide world are limited. (Incidentally, that's how I started with cupcakes. And then biscotti. Then ice cream. Mmmmm, ice cream.)

So the disappointment we feel upon going to a restaurant and checking their menu is invariably great. I'm an optimist, so I always go in hopeful. When I realize I can have the salad, with one or two things taken off, or the pasta, with the plain red sauce, I am always saddened.

And also pissed off. How hard is up to come up with one decent vegan meal in an entire menu? Or to have handy off-menu go-to recipe that you can make to accommodate vegan, gluten-free, or lactose intolerant vegetarian diets? Because while I go to non-veg establishments with friends, family and co-workers, the places I go to willingly--and bring others to--time and time again are the places that go the extra mile to make me feel welcome. I should say, to make me feel welcome as a vegan.

Once, I was taken to an expensive restaurant in Toronto. I asked my friend to call ahead and let them know I was vegan, and to check that they could accommodate me. He didn't of course; so I made (yes, I said made) him call on the way there. They said fine, no problem, they'd tell the chef but of course they could accommodate me. I was optimistic--this was one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. If you work in Toronto, make more than six figures, and want to shmooze a client, this is where you take them. I asumed that between the fridge and the pantry, and the skill of what must be an experienced and, you know, awesome chef, I would be served something fantastic. So, optimistic readers, guess what I got? The complicated, exotic, delightful dish worthy of a high-end restaurant who had a couple hours' notice? Nope. Pasta, with grilled veggies....Insert sad face here.

Even worse was when I went to a fish'n'chips place in a small town. I asked if the batter had egg in it. The waitress didn't even move. She looked at me, pen and pad in hand, and said, "I have no idea." Okay then--I'll fries and a salad please.

At the opposite end of the spectrum was my first visit to a vegan restaurant. I was almost dumbstruck by choice. I could eat anything on the menu. I didn't quite know what to do with myself! It was almost divine. *stares wistfully into space*

While I don't expect to be overhwlemed with choice at an omni restaurant, something above veggies on pasta would be appreciated. Yesterday, at a bakery/cafe (Bubby Rose's in Victoria, for the curious), I could actually eat the chili. She checked their handy book of menu items' ingredients, and when she couldn't find it she asked the cook. And then she checked on the bread for me too! Might I add, this was voluntary--all I said was, "is it vegan?" and she was off. And I even forgot to check on the bread--she remembered and checked completely and came out to tell me. As a consequence, I will go back there--again and again. (And again--that chili was goooooood.)

Now clearly, Bubby Rose's has made an effort to accommodate different diets in their menu. They not only had vegan brownies clearly labelled as such in their dessert case, but that've also labelled gluten-free and dairy-free items as well. And they've obviously emphasized with staff that customer service is a priority, even for those of us with sometimes-challenging diets.

But it's the effort--if waitstaff know off the top of their heads what on the menu is vegan, I'm sold. If there is more than one vegan option on the menu, I'm usually ecstatic. If staff go out of their way to check on things for me, I'm coming back. Because the key to my vegan heart is trying. Just make an honest effort, and I'll heart you forever.

VEGAN <3 4 EVAH.

Thankfull of phyllo

Thanksgiving isn't the same by yourself. You can make the same delicious, home-cooked comfort foods; you can get yourself second portions of everything and undo the top button of your pants, and it's still not the same. Last time I was home for a holiday, I helped my mom and brother cook the turkey (yuck)--but it was still better than eating a vegan meal by myself. But as someone living 3 big provinces away from my friends and family, I was resigned to a solo celebration this year. So when a co-worker invited me to her Thanksgiving dinner... well, I was thankful.

But I didn't know quit what to bring. I wanted something delicious, omni-friendly--that my hostess and the other guests wouldn't to smile politely while I made them eat--and suitable for smothering with gravy. Inspired by a stuffed phyllo recipe from a Vegetarian Times recipe, I made up my own.

Thankfully (!), it went over well. They were definitely smiling when they ate it, and not just to be polite. In fact, leftovers may have been happily scooped up (pun intended) by the other guests.

Holiday stuffed phyllo

1 teaspoon oil
1 onion, diced
4 cups sliced mushrooms (I used portobellos, because it was all that was left and not crazy expensive at the grocery store, but use whatever kind you like, or use a few different kinds)
1/2 cup dried cranberries
1 cup cooked wild rice
1/2 teaspoon sage
1/2 teaspoon summer savory
8 sheets phyllo
oil for brushing (I used garlic oil, but I'm not sure you could taste the difference)

Caramelize onions with oil in a large pot. (Instructions here.) Add mushrooms and cook until most of the liquid has evaporated. Add the cranberries and stir, so they steam and plump up while the rest of the liquid evaporates. When all the liquid has evaporated, stir in the wild rice, sage and summer savory. Taste at this point to make sure there's enough herbs for you. Add more to taste if necessary.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Brush oil over the bottom of whatever you're going to use for the phyllo--I used a casserole dish, but you could also use a cookie sheet too, and just fold the ends and sides over the top.
When everything is in place, unwrap the phyllo. Lay one sheet in the casserole dish and brush with oil. Repeat with 5 more sheets. Fill with the mushroom mixture. Top the mixture with another sheet of phyllo, probably folded in half to fit the dish, and if so, brush in between the layers with oil. Repeat with last sheet of phyllo. Gently fold the edges of the first six sheets of phyllo over the top, and brush with oil.
Bake for 45 min or until the phyllo is browned. Serve with gravy--I made Mushroom Gravy from Isa Chandra Moskovitz's Vegan Brunch.

You could probably get away with more cranberries, if you wanted; or switch up the herbs for whatever you prefer. I also think there could be some protein--if I hadn't been serving to omnis I would have added steamed, cubed tempeh when I added the cranberries. Mmmm.

The Cutest. City. Ever

My tenure in Victoria started this week. The vegan food forays are successful so far; my only fault is excitement. I have to keep reminding myself that I am here for two months. Accordingly, I do not have to try everything on the very first day.

So far, I have:
--settled into my apartment in the James Bay neighbourhood, including figuring out a Murphy bed,
--gone for a run and gotten rather lost,
--bought groceries at Thrifty's, the big grocery store down the street from me,
--acquired a loaner bike from a co-worker who happens to live a few blocks from me,
--bought (vegan) cupcakes at Pink Sugar (Sin-a-mint and Toasted Coconut; I have only tried the former and it was yummy, will report on the latter...later)
--discovered my local Lush store, mere minutes from my office
--tried a spin class at the Y (which was less than successful, though I attempt again Saturday morning)
--bought some locally-roasted coffee for my morning caffeine buzz, which I will try tomorrow morning and report back.

My initial observation is mostly that Victoria is really, really cute. Maybe it's just the neighbourhood I've been in so far, but the city seems mostly comprised of cute little bungalows with cute little gardens and cute little friendly cats. Really forking cute. And cute parks. And cute crosswalks at intersections, instead of stoplights. Even the city on a map--it looks like it's big and spread out, but really, it's small. Small and CUTE.

Should I find any non-cuteness--waitstaff who swear like truckers? a traffic jam of more than 3 vehicles? pets that aren't sweet-faced and fuzzy? Or, god forbid, a little old lady who makes cookies from a mix--I will advise you immediately.

Ah, Paris! Veganized chèvre chaud

Paris is in fact everything they say it is. The city is just as beautiful as they say, the Eiffel Tower is just as impressive, the bike culture is just as awesome, the food is just as good, the waiters are just as surly. It's fantastic. Paris was my first vacation outside of North America, and I would go back again in a second. It's true: seeing places around the world changes your perspective on home, in ways both fantastic and slightly bubble-bursting. (Yes, bubble-bursting: see the afore-mentioned comment on bike culture. And then ponder North American bike culture.)

The highlight of many vacations is the food. And for Paris this is especially true. Yes, you pay through the nose for everything (unless you learn to shoot espresso while standing up) but everything is fantastic. I went to Paris with my mother, and also with a friend who met up with friends of hers who were in Paris at the same time. She came back from their lunch reporting her friends had said they hadn't had any good food since being in Paris. The three of us shook our heads in disbelief: we hadn't had one BAD meal since coming to Paris. Crepes, salads, gorgeous crusty baguette everywhere—these were food memories that would stay with us long after flying back home.

But after becoming vegan, I started to think all those memories of good food would remain memories, since the French load every single meal up with cheese and ham (and sometimes chopped egg for good measure). I was especially sad about losing one of my favourite meal, chèvre chaud. Literally “hot goat's cheese”, chèvre chaud is a simple salad, with some kind of dressing and the simple-yet-delicious toasted bread and goat cheese on top. It's one of those meals that prove the old axiom: a fantastic dish is often made up of simple ingredients, and becomes more than the sum of its parts.

I wasn't even thinking about veganizing this dish, since vegan cheeses are rarely fantastic, and as a vegan, cheese dishes are something I have learned to modify but never replicate. So when I was at work on Friday, thinking about what I could eat as my pre-gym snack, the thought of my cashew “goat cheese” on toast did occur to me as an option. But only when I started craving the greens I had in the fridge did I realize that greens + cashew goat cheese on toast = vegan chèvre chaud.

And yes, it was delicious. It was almost like being back in Paris, except there were no surly waiters in sight!

Recipes for vegan cashew cheese abound: I'm sure google can help you there. I recommend crusty bread or chewy whole-grain bread, with a simple dressing. And please use green greens (not white, limp lettuce), for maximal texture as well as nutrition—baby arugula or spinach would be a wise choice. Slice off a bit off cashew cheese, put on top of toast, and put under the broiler until warmed. At this point, the last step is to dream of Paris.

Burst o' sunshine

January sucks. I know it's not January anymore, but I spent all of January missing the sun, sleeping in and being rather unproductive, so I'm still bitter.

February is a little better, because now when I leave work at a reasonable hour, it's not yet pitch black outside. There's also Family Day, for some provinces at least (including mine), and as much as Family Day sounds like a holiday to celebrate right-wing propaganda, it is actually nice to have a long weekend to look forward to in the dead of winter. And for some reason, Groundhog Day, which is really the silliest day of the year--based on folklore that is actually contrary to logic, yet we all play along--at least gets me thinking about the end of winter, even though it's six weeks away.

Even with the increased daylight recently, I've been craving a little sunshine. So when I remembered I had a mango--purchased last week and at that point over-ripe--sitting in my kitchen, waiting to be eaten, I got a little excited. "A-ha! I can make mango popsicles." I had some soy-yogurt in the fridge that would blend nicely with over-ripe mango, and make a delicious frozen pop.

So I did. It is ridiculously easy.
1. Clean fruit.
2. Put fruit and and soygurt in a bowl.
3. Blend with hand blender.
4. Pour into popsicle molds.
5. Freeze.

Popsicle molds cost a couple bucks. They're well worth it, especially in the summer (especially in humid, sticky Toronto) when all you want is some way to get come cool back to your body. Even in the middle of summer, mango popsicles are a yummy burst of sunshine.

The stuff of life

Mmmm, bread. The smell of baking bread is unparalleled. But I would venture to say that most people don't know how good baking bread smells. Or how a shmear of margarine melts into a slice cut off a still-warm loaf. Because no one bakes bread anymore.

When I take bread to book club or to work, it goes over well. Most people freak right out. "You actually made bread!?" It lessens the wonder somewhat when I say it's easy. But not much, because people don't actually believe me.

I think I had somewhat of an odd childhood--my parents actually cooked. From scratch most of the time. I know--and since you're a loyal, dedicated follower of my blog, you know too--my mom didn't really cook, but she did bake. We had fresh home-made muffins almost every week. And she made noodles from too, like my dad. And Dad always cooked from scratch. (Except for canned mushrooms. *shudder*) So it's not that weird to me that I make cupcakes and pasta and soup and pizza and bread all from scratch. But apparently it's weird to others.

So I say, "No really, it's easy. It takes a little time, but it's not hard." And no one believes me. So I expound, "The hardest part is having 3 or 4 uninterrupted hours to start the bread, let it rise a couple times, and bake it. But the process it self is easy." I think people may believe me a little at this point, but I doubt many of them are yet making bread from scratch.

But I want you to make bread from scratch. DO IT. It's delicious and very satisfying, and will impress the hell out of everyone, including your significant other, your boss, your boss's boss, and your mother-in-law. To facilitate this, I have summed it up into several E-Z steps, with helpful hints where necessary.

Step 1: combine ingredients.
This is pretty self-explanatory. The most important factor is remembering to stock enough flour and active yeast. It's a little messy: you will end up with dough on your hands.
Step 2: knead.
This one should be self-explanatory. If not: kneading allows the yeast to start working and allow the gluten to develop. It gives the bread its texture. Don't neglect the kneading.
Step 3: rise.
This one is easy. Once you've kneaded the bread, you have to leave it in a warm place to let it rise. I accomplish this by turning the oven on just enough to get a little warm (around 200 degrees), opening the oven door and placing the dough in its bowl on top of the stove.
Step 4: knead again.
Should be self-explanatory by now.
Step 5: rise again.
This time, when you're done kneading, the dough goes into a pan to rise.
Step 6: bake.
Make sure you pre-heat your oven and that you leave enough room above the pan so that when the bread rises it doesn't hit the element. Trust me: stupider things have been done.
Step 7: cool.
This is important: turn out the bread from the pan. Otherwise, as it cools moisture will be trapped between the pan and the bread, and the bread will get get moist on the outside. In case this comes as a surprise, I'll warn you: moist bread is bad.

Start with bread recipe from a cookbook or a website you trust, using ingredients you are familiar with. In only a few short hours you will have the smell of delicious warm bread wafting through your kitchen.

Dad's noodle soup, updated

When I was growing up, things in my family were a little different. My dad stayed at home and took care of us when we were young; between that and his wee perfectionism, he did all the cooking too. Let me be clear: my home was no fish-out-of-water slapstick sitcom, because my dad is a good cook. While he does tend towards WASPy meat-and-two-veg cooking, most things he makes are delicious, and there are a few things he makes that are out of this world. Soup is one of those things. Through example, Dad taught my brother and I that soup doesn't come condensed, from a can; it's a serious business. And really serious soup takes two days to make.

Dad makes stock the first day, simmering onion and carrot and celery--plus whatever bones he has saved and frozen in the past little while--and cooks them on the stove, all day, until the house fills with the pungent, rich scent of home cooking. He takes the pot of stock and cools it in the garage overnight, cold enough so that the fat hardens on the top of the stock so he can ladle it off the next morning. Then the next day if we're really lucky, he makes noodles, rolling out thick noodles and cutting them into fat strips by hand. It is slurping noodle soup, with broth splashing everywhere as noodles fall off the spoon.

When I became vegan I realized that some of my old familiar foods would change. While the things I learned from watching Dad cook have stuck with me, I know I will never again have his chicken noodle soup. Luckily, my palate had expanded, so I can now look beyond the handful of basic soup recipes I learned from my dad to curb my comfort-food cravings. So this week, with winter's chill deep in my bones, I wanted soup. I flipped through my recipe books and was rescued by Asian-inspired Sesame Shiitake Noodle Soup in Laura Matthias' ExtraVeganZa. Whe I don't have time to make pasta by hand, the thick udon noodles satisfy my comfort-food cravings and the hearty, filling vegetables nourish me. The only thing better than eating noodle soup? Eating noodle soup with chopsticks.

Conscious cooking

As a reward for making it through the holiday season, I bought myself The Conscious Cook, by Tal Ronnen. Since I lasted six months of being vegan without buying even a single cookbook (gasp!), I have, of late, been buying myself almost every vegan cookbook I even remotely coveted. But The Conscious Cook is different-- in a very intimidating way. It bills itself as French-style vegan cooking, and it really is. A lot of the dishes involve multiple steps, with several prep-heavy items being combined on one plate. It's really complicated. You know, sauteed something on a bed of something beside something else, on top of pureed-something sauce, sprinkled with diced something. The kind of thing I would never make for myself.

So I put off buying the book. When I did buy it, I thought of it as food porn, something I could look at, and drool over, but not partake in myself. (Remember, this is food porn I'm taking about here. Get your mind out of the gutter, and stop picturing me covered in pureed something.)

But I was wrong. I have made several of the dishes. While some of them didn't turn out quite right, and some of the fake-meat ones were not as divinely-inspired as the book claims, the one I made tonight is already a staple. It has become, in my iteration, spinach pesto; and tonight I'm planning it for a weekday lunch, with kamut rotini and a bowl of butternut squash and shiitake soup. I'm sure it will be delicious, despite not being on a bed of something and sprinkled with something, diced and sauteed.

Comfort me with chocolate (for I am sick of love)

I don't know exactly why the quote is "comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love." Anyone who has ever been dumped, or perhaps had their heart a wee bit bruised, knows that chocolate is best for comforting where love is concerned. Apples are delicious, but not exactly on my top-5 list of comforting foods. (Apparently, the precise wording depends on the translation. It could also be "Refresh/fill/stay me with quinces/citrus/melons." But I digress.)

A boy is making me sad today. I can't say it's necessarily his fault, for I have not only seen He's Just Not That Into You (three times), I have also read the book (for book club, even). And yes, his signals were mixed, at best. We met through work--his, not mine--so it's possible he is interested in me, yet bound by a company rule about dating customers. A ridiculous policy, clearly--especially when this particular boy has beautiful happy-sad puppy-dog eyes that are prone to making me melt. ...Melt like, perhaps, chocolate.

However, given ample time to either express his disinterest or find a way around this hypothetical anti-fraternizing rule, I can draw only one conclusion. I am sad to think that this particular boy, in whom I had invested actual emotions, is actually Not Into Me. Accordingly, I came home today and not only was happy that I had the ingredients for a yummy, chocolate dessert, I was also--dare I say--taking comfort in it.

But I digress.

So I made chocolate-almond-cherry bark. And chocolate-sea salt bark. Because sometimes just one chocolate won't do. Luckily, President's Choice makes accidentally-vegan chocolate chips, with which one can make delicious barks of all flavours, that can be found in Loblaws and The Real Canadian Superstore.

The basic recipe came from Eating Well magazine--a subscription I almost cancelled, due to its ginormous quantity of meat recipes, but didn't because of the abnormally high proportion of yummy tofu recipes. And I'm glad I didn't. (Partly because a boy with beautiful happy-sad puppy-dog eyes helped me find the sea salt for the chocolate bark. But I digress.) ...Once you get hold of vegan chocolate chips, the recipe is a cinch. Start to finish, it was about 15 minutes, mostly due to the time it takes to melt the chips in the microwave. And it is very comforting.

Brunch for dinner, Part 2

As we already know, I am fond of brunch. As in my pre-gan (that's pre-vegan, for you newbs out there in Blogland) days, I am fond of mixing up the proper order of meals. Call it a rebellious streak, call it a Saturnalia-style upending of things from their proper places, call it what you will: I love ending my day with breakfast foods.

Today, it's waffles. Straight outta Vegan with a Vengeance, I used my carefully-planned over-ripe bananas (I bought them last weekend for waffles this weekend) to make banana-oatmeal-raisin waffles. However, I dislike raisins, so mine are just banana-oatmeal. Due to a fortunate bout of cheapness some time ago (whole nutmeg was less pricey than ground) and the brilliant purchase of a kitchen rasp, I get to enjoy fresh-ground nutmeg goodness in my waffles. I suspect I may be bucking a trend here, since I prefer nutmeg to cinnamon. Don't judge.

Lest you think making waffles is difficult, let me be clear: it isn't. It takes a little time, but it's mostly waiting time, during which you can make berry sauce, tofu/tempeh bacon, hash browns, scrambled tofu, etc. In fact, it's so easy I'm making a double batch, so I can freeze the waffles and toast them for mad-rush weekday breakfasts. (See, I told you I was brilliant. And humble. And pretty.)

Here are E-Z steps for those of you who remain unconvinced.

1. Turn on waffle maker. Depending on your waffle maker, it may not take very long to warm up, or it may take a while. Either way, I feel confident saying you can make the waffle batter while the waffle maker heats up.

I also feel confident saying that you don't need to spend $100 or more on a piece of kitchen equipment to enjoy yummy waffles. My waffle maker was $15, and I love it. I've made bazillions of batches, and it's still going strong.

2. Make your waffle batter.

3. Pour batter into waffle maker (according to your waffle maker's instructions).

3. While your waffles cook, you can make your side dishes, etc. Or you can, you know, spend some very productive time on the interwebs. I won't judge.

Total time: about half an hour, depending on how long it takes to cook your waffles.

Taste of yummy waffles for dinner: priceless. (Or, you know, $15, plus ingredients.)

Unrequited Market

I've fallen in love. Ohmigod, I've fallen in love, and I'm really, really full.

So in an effort to patch things up with my brother, we decided to voyage to the Green Barn Farmers' Market at Wychwood Barns, in the heart of Toronto. He raved it over Chirstmas, so to get in some quality time together, it seemed like a good idea to go somewhere that celebrates what we have in common: a deep and abiding love for food.

I'm always cautiously optimistic about finding vegan food, but the market blew me away. I found flatbread (which I'm not linking to because, frankly, it was a wee bit pricey), coffee and vegan chocolate, vegan muffins, samosas, kale chips (all that's left for the photo is the empty bag), and of course loads of winter produce.

I devoured 2 of the 3 samosas that I bought while still at the market, in order to further fill my belly with coffee (available without soymilk, but still very, very smooth). I ate the last samosa and the whole bag of kale chips mere minutes after getting back from the market... at which point I have realized I will have to build in bulk purchases of the stuff into my grocery budget. I am now drinking coffee made from the beans I bought at the market, and lok forward to the chili-chocolate later tonight.

Needless to say, I will be going back next week (which is good for my chip cravings and good for my relationship with my brother). Not only are kale chips and vegan chocolate calling my name, there is a cute, verbose young chocolatier who I now have a wee crush on. ...Looks like I will have to build bulk chocolate purchases into my grocery budget too!

On Ode to Guinevere

I love biking. I love my bike. I love them both so much, that I even named my bike: Guinevere. Silly, yes, but after my last bike was stolen I was trying to find a way to connect with her. Naming her seemed like a good idea. And a delicate white bike with pink curlicues can hardly be called Bertha, can she?
I'm reading a book now called Pedaling Revolution: How Cyclists are Changing American Cities, by Jeff Mapes.

So far, I kinda love it. I've only read the first 20 pages are so, and it's already spoken about how cycling defeats many of North American society's ills. Cycling battles obesity and its associated ills (diabetes, heart disease, etc.); reduces traffic; decreases pollution and traffic; and even turns an everyday commute into a mood-boosting endorphin high.

So, why don't more people do it?

If I look at my very own (admittedly non-American) city, I can see many, many reasons.

People don't think cycling is safe. People think it's too expensive. People think their destination is too far, that they're too out of shape, that cycling is for athletes or couriers, that it's just not worth it.

Or maybe they just used to. With the price of gas ever-increasing (no, I mean the price at the pump, not the cost of two oil-based wars), cycling for short trips is becoming more and more viable. With more people biking, the roads get safer. And the more people bike, the safer they become as cyclists. And people who try cycling quickly realize that they don't have to ride any faster than they want to. And they learn that cycling is awesome.

Picture this: I leave my apartment at 8:15. I get on a bus at 8:20, and put in my token, which is now worth $2.50 per ride. I get a transfer, get off at the next major intersection, wait for the next bus and get on at 8:30. If I can get a seat, I can read on the bus. If not, I get bumped by backpacks the whole way there. I get off the bus at 8:50 or so and walk the few blocks to my office, just in time for work.

Or picture this: I leave my apartment at 8:15. I go down to the parking garage and pull out onto the street about 8:20. I drive up to the next major intersection at about 8:25 and hang a left. Then I sit in traffic, fume, swear, mumble and arrive a few blocks from work at about 8:40. I pull into the parking garage there and walk out a couple minutes later. I walk to work, and get there at about 8:50. For this experience, I would pay for the car, the gas, the insurance, and for parking at work, and depending on where I live I might pay for parking at home too.

But then again picture this: when I dress in the morning, I put on my bike clothes, which are the same clothes I'll wear to the gym later that day. I carry my bike downstairs and leave at about 8:30. I feel the air on my skin, get to coast and spin my pedals, and by the time I get to work, I'm wide awake and ready for the day. It's a six and a half kilometre ride to work, and yes, I ride pretty durn fast. So I'll get to my building, and stash my bike in the office bike parking spot (an empty office we use for storage) by about 8:50 or 8:55. I change clothes and am at my desk by 9:00. For this I had to buy my bike—you've been introduced, her name is Guinevere--fix a flat every now and then, and get a tune up 2 or 3 times a year.

Tell me, really, which is the better picture?

Level 6 vegan: hummus

When I went to stay with a friend for a week last summer, I said that I needed to get some hummus. "Hummus is a necessity for vegans. It's like oxygen. Soon, I'll be able to breathe it." If being a level 5 vegan equals pocket mulching, level 6 is breathing hummus.

For a long time I had a love-hate relationship with hummus. I loved that it is cheap, nutritious, available almost everywhere and delicious with almost everything. But I hated that whenever I made it, it wasn't as yummy as the store-bought version and inevitably languished in my fridge. Everything else that you make tastes better than the store-bought stuff. But not hummus--it's such a bad-ass vegan food, it refuses to follow the rules!

One evening I went to a party (where the only vegan edibles were the cupcakes I brought and, fortunately, the hummus) and completely freaked out over the hummus. I couldn't get over the texture: smooth and creamy, just like the store bought stuff. I think I ate most of the bowl myself. (Sorry about that, Cara.) I was talking with someone there (okay, so I was gushing over the Perfect Hummus) and she said two things that stuck with me: Don't think of it as hummus, think of it as chickpea dip. And: don't be stingy with the oil and the tahini.

I decided I needed to delve further into the true meaning of hummus. Of course, I turned to Google. Fortunately, this time I managed to filter out the inevitable internet crap and actually find useful tips. And I finally became one with the chickpea and made Perfect Hummus. To help you in this noble endeavor, I have four rules for Perfect Hummus.

1. Cook the crap out of the chickpeas.
2. Refrigerate the chickpeas overnight.
3. Add lots of the yummy stuff.
4. Get a good food processor.

If these are self-explanatory, or if you already make perfect hummus, you can stop right here. Otherwise, here's the full Perfect Hummus rules.

1. Cook the crap out of the chickpeas.
I used to be impatient with my chickpeas. I would cook the little darlings until they were just done, and proceed to make hummus. Hummus is like foreplay: never rush it. Now, I cook the chickpeas until they're really, really soft. If I take out a beautiful little chickpea and can squish it with even a little pressure, they're done. If not, I keep cooking.

2. Refrigerate the chickpeas overnight.
I'll say it again, because it's really true (for both hummus and sex). Hummus is like foreplay: never rush it. My hummus googling told me that if you make hummus with still-warm chickpeas, they will never be creamy. I don't know the scientific basis behind this, but since doing this I have creamy hummus. If you are religious, take this on faith, like water-to-wine, the burning bush. If you're not religious, join me in the Church of Eternal Garbanzo and don't question it. Cook those little chickpeas until they're squishy and refrigerate them overnight before making your hummus.

3. Add lots of the yummy stuff.
I watch what I eat. I used to skimp on tahini and olive oil when making hummus because they were calorific. I had to stop worrying about this to get Perfect Hummus. Now I add a bunch in the food processor and if my hummus isn't creamy, I add more and blend until it is creamy. I don't eat giant portions of hummus at a time, so even if there is lots of high-calorie stuff in the hummus, that item alone won't be an issue.

4. Get a good food processor.
I have killed two hand blenders making hummus. Seriously. I am one hand-blender-corpse away from starting an Appliance Sematary (and when I bury the dead hand blenders, they will arise three days later and do diabolical things like purée heads of lettuce. OMG, not PUREED LETTUCE!!) .

At one point I decided hummus was worth the investment in a serious, grown-up kitchen item, and bought a decent food processor. Besides enabling me to make cashew "cheese", my food processor allows me to finally make good hummus. Yes, it's big and it's a pain to clean, but I can tackle even the most complex recipe with it and know it will not need to be buried (and re-buried, after arising from the dead). And it allows me to make make Perfect Hummus.

So with these rules in hand, I encourage you to proudly tackle making hummus at home. Once you get the hang of it--and learn not to rush--it's well worth washing the food processor. "Bon appe-chickpea!"

The triangle returns; the lotus tattoo

Yes, I'm back. I started this three-pointed blog very enthusiastically, and faded quickly. Sigh. Sometimes we fickle humans are like that.

But the new year has spurred my urge to write--yes, a need that somehow even Twitter can't fulfill (twitter.com/thosearepearls). And since I got a bee-yoo-tiful new tattoo this week, I may as well start with that.

It's a lotus. I know, a lot of people are getting lotus. That's because they frickin' rock. I even know someone at work who got a lotus tattoo on her forearm. Sheesh, the cheek of people who copy my tattoo before I can get it done!

I've wanted this tattoo for ages. I dreamed about getting a lotus tattoo years ago. No, seriously. I dreamed about myself with an lotus tattoo, then looked it up online and thought, "Yep, I should really get a lotus tattoo." This does make me sound like a wee bit of a flake, but I'm not concerned. Not only am I telling the triangle's honest truth, there are far greater flakes on the interwebs than me!

I got it done at New Tribe Tattoo on Queen West. I've had all my piercings and tattoos done there since I've been living in Toronto. This one and the last one were done by Dave, who looks like your average bad-ass tattooer, with almost visible flesh covered in various inks, but on the wall right above his tattoo table is a beautiful photo of him and his wife. What a cutie!

Because not everyone in the universe has tattoos, I'll tell you how it happens. Without the pain and the blood and the partial nudity, it's definitely not the full experience, but you'll get the gist of it.

I made the appointment a couple week ago. I was happy not to have to wait too long, because the last time I emailed for an appointment with Dave I was told it was a two-month wait. Luckily, over the holidays people are apparently not thinking of getting tattooed...

I emailed the image over when I made the appointment; Dave got back to me with a quote. I dithered about the size a little, but Dave said we could settle it when I came in, no rush. Which was great, because the one person I showed the tattoo to said, "It might be a little big. You're little, you know!" I am--at 5'1" a 5-inch-wide tattoo might look out of proportion. (In case you're curious, the one my ribs is just over 4 inches wide.)

When I got to the shop (late, unfortunately...stupid streetcar...), we settled on the size and I waited for a few minutes while Dave got things ready. I had emailed him I wanted it in blues instead of pinks, so he picked out some inks for me and let me pick. I unzipped my skirt, untucked my shirt and peeled back enough clothing to bare my left ribcage. Dave cleaned the skin and carefully placed the stencil. I checked the placement, okayed it (really, a good tattooer knows better how to place it than I do, so really I was just pretending not to implicitly trust him).

And then the fun began. I lay down on the table on my back, then twisted to the right until Dave was happy with where the stencil ended up. I ended up in a side/back laying down position, but I was comfortable. Which was my main job from then on: breathe, be comfortable, and don't flinch.

Before I continue, a mini-primer on tattoo, piercings, and pain. Yes, tattoos hurt. A needle is going in your skin repeatedly for an hour or so. A quick internet search tells me no one has a clue how many times a minute it is, but let's just say that when it comes to needles and your skin, anything more than once is a lot. However, my lower back tattoo barely hurt: I could've been tattooed like that for days, if I wanted. It felt like being scratched by a sharpened fingernail. The only time it felt sharp was when it was over my spine, and that was fleeting. Piercings are more painful, but they last seconds. Seriously: by the time you count to two, you're done. Easy-peasy.

So I lay down on the table thinking I was prepared. I knew it would hurt more on my ribs, but I could handle it: 4 tattoos and 6 piercings, and I'm a tough chick. Tough. I was full of shit.

In the beginning it was fine, when he was tattooing on the fleshier part of my upper waist, but when he got higher up on my torso, onto my actual ribs, it hurt. Yes, hurt. The image that kept running through my mind was a scalpel drawing a line up my skin. Which probably didn't help at all.

It's important to breathe, and not tense when getting a tattoo. I kept trying to breathe and unclench my hands, with some success. It was bad enough at the very top of the tattoo that I had to ask for a couple breaks. Just 10 seconds or so, to relax and re-focus, but I felt like a wimp. S'okay, I'm still tough... right?

He finished the outline, which I've heard--and Dave confirmed--is more painful than filling in. So he switched to a different needle (I assume, because I wasn't watching) and loaded it with colour and started at the bottom of the tattoo again.

I was shocked at the difference. The pain at its worst had felt like a scalpel, and even when he moved back to a fleshier spot, it had diminished somewhat but I still had to concentrate on working through it. At the bottom of the tattoo, with a new needle, it felt like a cat's tongue. You know how a cat's tongue is rough, to pick up fur? And if a cat licks you a few times in one spot, it gets a little sensitive, but not really, you know, painful? That's what it felt like. I was pleasantly surprised.

And then he moved around and up the tattoo and the pain got steadily worse until we were back with the scalpel again. Then back to the bottom again, another colour, around the circle once more (I admit, the last time I was feelin' the scalpel-pain I started getting whiny) and we were done. I apologized for the whiny-ness and Dave said it was fine--I didn't flinch, and that was all that mattered. Which made me feel better.

Dave let me check it in the mirror before bandaging it up--which I assume is just politeness on the tattooer's part, since it's, you know, permanent, but since the bandage is supposed to stay on overnight it's nice to get a look first. Dave kindly said he liked the blue better than the pink in the original.

He cleaned my skin--to get rid of the ink and, you know, the blood--and put on an ointment. The net tells me it's antibacterial ointment, but I'm sure it's also so that the great giant tattoo-wound doesn't stick to the bandage. He had to go to the next room to get a bandage big enough (which made me feel like a tough chick for getting a giant tattoo--until I remembered Dave's fully tattooed arms) then he taped it on and I was done.

I took the bandage off the next morning, and cleaned it with soap and water, following aftercare instructions.
Now, it's three days later, and it still hurts. I don't remember my last tattoo hurting this much, but it's lines surrounded by blank space. This is a four-inch wide piece of filled-in tattoo, so it makes sense that it hurts more. It's peeling, which is normal, and I'm moisturising it, according to instructions. It should take about two weeks to fully heal.

I still love it. I think it helps that I make myself consider a tattoo for at least a year before getting it done. After that long, getting the tattoo feels like putting a piece of your soul directly on your skin.