A Second Helping of American Thanksgiving

Writer's note: I started this blog post a month ago, then Christmas hit. Apologies for tardiness in completing it!

It's been exactly one year since I left Vermont, a state I was fortunate enough to call 'home' for five weeks in the fall of 2009 as I carried out my field research on the local food movement taking place in a tiny, down-and-out town called Hardwick. Truly in the 'attic' of America, I came to realize very quickly that Vermont is like no other place I'd ever been in the States. Indeed, it was like no other place I'd ever been in any of my travels. I briefly considered taking up permanent residence in a treehouse I'd discovered while wandering through town, but resigned myself to the fact that I was not meant to live in a tree, particularly in such a northerly climate. So, after a most memorable American Thanksgiving dinner with new friends, I begrudingly drove my Echo north to the Quebec border and promised myself I'd return to this magical place soon.

And I did. I returned just over a month later, just in time to welcome in 2010 (by a mere 6 hours!). I spent 4 days enjoying Vermont again, as 32 inches of snow blanketed the city of Burlington. Then, again, I had to return to Canada. Back to the reality of my thesis and the tremendous amount of work ahead of me.

I determined that I'd be ready to defend my thesis by September and would visit Vermont just prior to my oral examination in order to pick up some bonafide local food for my defense and catch up with the people I'd been so fortunate to meet while living in Hardwick. But, of course, life happens and things like finishing a thesis become secondary to important distractions such as summer patio drinking, Facebook, and the Steak Man (if there were a disacknowledgements section in my thesis, I daresay these three might make the grade!).

September arrived and I was still writing my thesis. I had a minor panic attack. My procrastinating ways were going to cost me major $$. A whole more semester's worth of tuition to be precise. So I started writing frantically and re-scheming how I could best organize my defense date to fit in with a visit to Vermont. As luck and timing would have it, it seemed I'd be ready to defend by the end of November. Hmmm...do I smell smoked turkey and a rematch of street hockey?

Yes, that's right, I made it back to Vermont for a second American Thanksgiving with Joe, Maura, Charles, Holly, et al (there were, I believe, 15 of us at dinner). Here's the whole turkey tale:

It was 4pm on the eve of Thanksgiving by the time I found my way into the heart of downtown Burlington. I'd been driving for two days. It turns out PEI is a far distance from the rest of civilization. Why, it's even a 7-hour drive to Maine...and Maine hardly counts as civilization. I was early for dinner plans with Joe, Maura, and Phil, so I did what any Canadian would do with spare time in the States - I shopped. It was great, because the stores were really quiet. Why shop on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving when you can wait until Black Friday and risk getting trampled to death in order to save 20% off something that's overpriced to begin with and that you clearly don't need?

I spent the majority of my shopping dollars on food/wine (surprise surprise), and picked up a few gifts including one for me (b/c every girl deserves a little luxury), then met up with my good Vermont friends. We finally sat down to dinner at around 8 (apparently no one likes to cook for themselves on the eve of Thanksgiving) at The Farmhouse, a former McDonald's that had been converted into a trendy resto serving up 'homey' meals sourced from local farmers.I love how in VT, the McDonald's gives way to a super popular restaurant that serves local food. I opted for the pork burger, which was topped with an egg. It was delicious, and the company was great. Joe kept saying 'you must be so excited about your thesis' to the point that I actually became excited about the fact that I had finished writing and was about to defend. To be honest, I'd not really stopped to breathe and take in the fact that I had reached a semi-notable milestone in my academic journey.

After a delectable dinner at The Farmhouse (below, see picture of my meal, a pork burger topped with a fried egg – yum!), we retired to Joe & Maura’s home. Maura had passed up dinner so she could prep for Thanksgiving. Joe and I found her in the kitchen making magic with onions and leeks. More beverages and conversation ensued then it was off to bed. A big day lay ahead.

We didn’t leave for Charles and Holly’s until 3.00. This gave Joe and I plenty of time to discuss the challenge of making the tennis balls used for street hockey heavier and less bouncy. The previous year Joe’s solution had been to fill the balls with caulk, but, as we discovered, the caulky balls didn’t hold up under constant stick action. The end result was balls leaking with caulk. Clearly, we didn’t want a repeat of this incident. Joe had surmised that the caulk and ball plan could only be executed if there were a way to seal the caulk in and ensure the seal stayed. We tossed around a few ideas, but nothing seemed likely to work, so we gave up and watched some football on T.V. I really think the Americans got the short-end of the stickwhen it comes to unofficial national sports – hockey is way more entertaining than American football.

Just like last year, we swung round to pick up Harold. He came out carrying his fiddle case and big cookie sheet with a huge oval shaped pastry on it. Evidently it was his second attempt of the day at making his father’s salmon casserole recipe. The thing was massive; more than one salmon had most definitely been sacrificed. We arrived at Charles and Holly’s house. The hockey ‘rink’ had been upgraded since the past year with a real backboard to keep Joe’s balls from flying into the street.

The drinking began in earnest. I was briefly reminded of a Sunday meal I’d enjoyed in the south of France with my friend, Sarah, where her boyfriend’s grandfather insisted I do a shot of strong liquor at noon, in preparation for the four hours of eating that would follow. I am simply not capable of such copious amounts of alcohol and food consumption. But I tried my best to keep up with the Americans and, admittedly, did find myself quite enamored with the smoked sausage that Maura and Charles had made at Penny Cluse. Harold’s salmon casserole was also divine, and Joe’s meat dip was also quite tasty.

We wiled away the afternoon eating and drinking, as more and more guests arrived and hugs were doled out. Some of the faces were familiar, others were new. Eventually, driveway hockey commenced. Alas, my game skills had not improved with age and I made neither any goals nor any assists. I did, however, get kudos from Charles for my enthusiasm. Yay for enthusiasm!!!

Dinner was served at six, with thirteen people sitting down around a long table adorned with countless side dishes including creamed onions, sweet potato casserole, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, and so on and so forth. Bellies were stuffed to the brim, then it was back to the drinking.

To be more specific about the drinking, Joe had brought a huge bottle of Whistlepig Straight Rye Whiskey with him. He and another guest were raving about it. It was apparently bottled at a Vermont distillery and had been awarded the highest ever rating for a rye whiskey by the Wine Enthusiast (I have no idea why the Wine Enthusiast would be rating whiskey, but apparently it was a big deal). Now, here’s the really interesting part….apparently this distillery is quite new and hasn’t actually been around long enough to age its own 10-year old whisky….so the distillery purchased the whisky from a producer, then bottled and labeled it with its own Whistlepig label (all legally, of course). And you’ll never guess where that whisky producer was located. Yes, that’s right, the Whistlepig Whiskey was, in fact, from a Quebec distillery. Just one more example of the Americans taking some thing Canadian, relabeling it and marketing it as their own. First it was basketball they claimed as an American sport, then they tried to stake claim on the telephone (invented by a Scotsman living in Nova Scotia), and now they’re staking claim on our whiskey. When will this madness stop???

Joe smashing ice to pair with the "American" whiskey (see photo to right). This picture is just amazing b/c of the transparency of the skillet - it makes no sense.

At any rate, the evening wound down with The Word Game. I won. No surprise there, I was playing with Americans after all.

We made our way back to Joe and Maura’s house, and I went to bed, spent from a most wonderful American Thanksgiving. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about how fortunate I have been to have encountered such kind and interesting people on my journeys throughout the years. Vermont has and always will hold a special place in my heart, because it is where I finally came to fully know what it means to be part of a community. That still resonates with me, and as I look to the future, I find myself driven to be a part of building community in the place I’ve chosen to call home – this little island on the east coast of Canada. And I truly hope some of my Vermont friends will visit me on PEI, I am certain they would love it here (in the summer).

Best. Steak. Ever.

In life, there is steak and then there is STEAK. Yes, that's right, the capitalization of the second version makes all the difference in the world.

This past weekend I had STEAK of the Porterhouse variety and it was, as the title suggests, the Best.Steak.Ever. It's possible, however, in my assessment of this particular steak, that I am also considering other elements of the dinner that made it absolutely delightful. There was, for example, the yummy side of mixed vegetables that had been slow-cooked, along with the steak, on the BBQ at low heat. Oh, and of course, the appertif to the meal included aged cheddar cheese and red pepper jelly from Riverview Country Market (highly recommended). The PEI Liquor Commission recently saw the light and started stocking OPEN Gwertz-Riesling (a Niagara wine), which also made everything taste particularly sweet and lovely. But if I had to pinpoint the one thing that made this particular steak dinner the best I've ever enjoyed, it wasn't even an edible component. Indeed, it was the man who made the meal and then sat down to enjoy it with me.

I love it when a man offers to cook for me (it doesn't happen often). And when he makes an amazing meal, even better. But I have to admit that even if the steaks had been burnt I'd still be quite over the moon about the meal because, well, I suppose I must confess to being enamored (I say this in full knowledge that he will be reading this post and, quite possibly, other members of his family too!). That's right, in the most unlikely of places (PEI), when I *really* wasn't expecting it, I found myself in the company of someone I wanted to get to know more. A lot more.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Rewind a few weeks to a rainy Sunday evening, post-10 km race and I find myself sitting at the Olde Triangle with the Steak Man (if you're wondering what his real name is, think Skywalker...or a dog's name...). Despite being in a state of exhaustion from running in the a.m. (mostly related to the fact that I had to get up at an ungodly hour, rather than the actual run itself), I was excited to be on this date. First, it meant I could indulge in an alcoholic beverage. About six weeks prior I'd promised myself that I would only drink alcohol if I were on a date, and the only other guy I'd been on dates with didn't drink (clearly, that was doomed from the outset). But it wasn't *just* because I could drink that I was looking forward to this date, I also had an intuition I'd enjoy this person's company. My intuition rarely steers me wrong. We stayed at the bar until they started stacking the chairs.

He suggested dinner the following weekend. We ended up at Rum Runners on Water Street upon his recommendation - he insisted I would not be disappointed. I had a feeling I might be underwhelmed by the food, based on reviews from friends and family, but I really didn't care in the least. In the end, we both found the food disappointing, but it didn't put any sort of damper on the evening at all. I was delighted to be drinking wine (yet again) with Steak Man, in a cozy pub where all the servers spoke with lovely British accents.

After the RR date, it was evident we were both inclined to set a third one. I determined that I would impress him with my stellar cooking skills. Or so I thought. Except that I neglected to follow the golden rule when making dinner for someone: Never, ever try something new in the kitchen. Pffft, I thought to myself, such advice is only for kitchen novices! Clearly I should use this as an opportunity to cook up the massive free-range chicken I have to pick up the day before. Truth be told, I really had no option but to cook that chicken, as there was no room in my freezer. But really, it might not have been the wisest decision to attempt roasting a 1o pound chicken on a Friday evening after work, especially given that I'd only ever roasted one other chicken in my entire life.

Unsurprisingly, dinner was late. Apparently it takes a few hours to cook a big bird. It also turns out that, in the absence of an electric knife, my carving skills are rather lacking. I had flashbacks to Grade 2, when Ms. Diezel wrote on my report card that I didn't know how to hold my scissors. To this day my sister still laughs at the way I handle them. Also, mental note for future - sometimes less is more, and more is just glue. Yes, I had the brilliant idea to tamper with Chef Michael Smith's recipe for brown butter mashed potatoes. All he wanted me to do was brown some butter and add it to the potatoes, then mash. Ah but I had to be 'creative' and pour in a bit of milk and, what the heck, some pure maple syrup too! I'm glad I had indulged in some Open by the time the bird came out of the oven, as I was able to partially blame the mini-disasters of the evening on the alcohol I'd consumed. Also, the Steak Man was a trooper and made his way through the gluey clump of mashed potatoes sitting on his plate. I like to think I redeemed myself with my old stand-by spinach salad and bananas foster dessert, both of which seemed well received (then again, he insisted the potatoes were good too, so I'm not sure where sincerity ended and sympathy began). In any case, I daresay the evening was a success despite minor setbacks in the kitchen because he insisted that the next dinner would be made by him.

Which brings us to the aforementioned steak dinner of this past Friday, which, it should be noted, was a particularly blustery, dark, and rainy one. The steaks had been soaking in Innis & Gunn beer all day (!). He told me they were big. I figured he was exaggerating, as men are want to do when it suits, but he wasn't. These steaks reminded me of the ones that some restaurants feature along with a challenge 'if you can eat this steak in under an hour, you eat for free!). So I took a picture (see below), and then took my first bite. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Apparently I make my appreciation of food well-known to fellow diners. I figure it's an important part of sharing the eating experience and make no apologies for my enthusiasm. It was entirely warranted in this case.

And that is how I came to have the best.steak.ever.

It seems this blog post has become more than a tale of two steaks, but that’s not surprising. Rarely is a food experience limited to the pleasures (or disasters!) that end up on the dinner plate. I look forward to more BBQs with Steak Man (don't worry, I will find a better pseudonym for him, I just lack the wit right now) and hope I semi-redeemed myself the following evening when I brought over lamb sliders stuffed with chevre and bacon.

Duck, Duck, Goose

I'm sitting here on my comfy red microfibre couch. It's 11.30 p.m. on a Thursday evening. The calendar tells me it's October 28th, but the breeze blowing in from the window is deceivingly summer-ish and my thermostat reads 24.5, despite my attempts to cool the place to 21 degrees.

Life is good.

Earlier this evening I had dinner with four of the most wonderful people I've been blessed to have in my life. Did I say dinner? I meant to say dinner and wine. Oh, yes, wonderful wine. And when my company departed for their respective homes in the countryside, I was left with a bit of wine 'energy' , alone in my apartment. Clearly I had to remedy this situation immediately. So I called Keri, but she was 'watching tv with Andrew'. Then I called Jen, but she already had 'uptown' plans. Finally, I called Katie, a newly found and fantastic friend. Turns out she was in the exact same predicament as me (drinking alone)...except she'd been baking since 5pm and needed someone to help her sample her pumpkin tarts. So I ditched my non-existent plans to thesis write, grabbed a half empty bottle of wine and hopped on my bike. Did I mention I LOVE living downtown?! It's true, I haven't been able to maximize the luxury of being in the 'Tribeca' of Charlottetown, but on occasions such as tonight's, I'm so very glad to live in town. On a somewhat related note, I went three whole weeks before I needed to fill my Echo gas tank!!

Anyways, tonight was great - from dinner to biking through downtown Ch'town to pumpkin tarts with Katie, but here's the best part: tonight is not an anomaly, rather tonight is representative of what PEI has been like since I returned in June. Yes, I daresay PEI has exceeded my greatest expectations, especially since Labour Day. I mean, really, we all know how fantastic an Island summer is, but it can be deceivingly so, especially with an endless stream of 'friends from away' returning home, visitors coming to check the East Coast out, and tonnes of great festivals, etc. to enjoy. Normally, however, Labour Day is supposed to mark the end of this illusion and one must prepare for hibernation. Except, erm, that hasn't happened. Since Labour Day I've been meeting loads of fantastic people, many of whom share my passion for food and there's been plenty to occupy the hours of the day and night. Of equal importance, I finally feel settled. It's been a long time coming, five months to be precise. Finally, I have a job, I have a place to call my own, I have a great group of friends, new and old, and I am closing in on the submission of my thesis.

Yes, I am most definitely glad I decided to come home.

(PS - it turns out my writing is not improved after wine consumption..)