Deep Fried Texas

It started off with an innocent appetizer upon our arrival. Feeling the Texas heat seep into our bones, chugging pints of the local craft brews and then…somehow our trip transformed into an eight day pilgrimage of deep-fried crab, avocado, pickles, pulled pork and bacon-wrapped this and that. While Virginia may be for lovers (as their license plates dictate), Texas is for eaters.

If you didn’t get the memo–on the 8th day, God made deep-fried jalapeno balls stuffed with pulled pork and called them something fancy: Armadillo Eggs. And they were good. So good they came with directions to the emergency room 2.5 miles away from the cholesterol crime scene.

T-Bone Tom’s Steakhouse is the deep-fried go-to in Kemah, Texas. Guy Fieri of The Food Network’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives (DDD) gave his coveted approval to the Armadillo and Shark Eggs (jalapenos stuffed with crab, shrimp and cheese) and DDD ear-marked T-bone Tom’s Sausage Sandwich. Kim and I could barely eat our balls (four ostrich-sized “eggs”) and packed up the monster sandwich for a shared brunch the next day. Have you checked out the interactive site for DDD? The Food Network On The Road allows you to search a city and find out where Guy has been and burped.

Our original intention was to find some surf and turf at Stingarees on Bolivar Island. We took the free car ferry from Galveston with crab legs and salty tequila-punched margs on our mind. However, Stingarees was closed until 6pm but the marina also housed the more casual Down Under pub where we joined day-drinkers and birder-types heading home from the tidal flats and burrowing owl stomping grounds. It was a tough decision between the fried fare: crab patty burgers, po’boys, boudin balls (deep-fried pork and rice balls) and fish tacos. Kim opted for the greenest choice–deep fried pickles with a dilly mayo. I ordered the fried shrimp po’boy on a buttered and fried bun. Hypertension level: soaring to a record high.

It gets worse (but better really, from a totally non-health conscious point of view). At the Fisherman’s Wharf we ordered a round of Saint Arnold’s Elissa IPA and the Galveston Trio. This platter is exactly what you would demand before the electric chair: Gulf shrimp stuffed with jack cheese and wrapped in bacon, deep-fried panko-rolled crab-stuffed jalapenos on a bed of fried matchstick onions and, stop the presses–a rich crab and queso (cheese) dip with a pile of tortilla chips for dunking.

Analysis so far? Texans love their deep-fried balls. At Landry’s Seafood House in Kemah we uncovered the ball show-stopper: crab-stuffed avocado “lightly” fried with a heavy-duty chipotle ranch dip and fire-breather side salsa.

Feeling rather sluggish on my morning runs along the jetty of Surfside Beach, we thought chicken sandwiches at Sharkey’s would be a smart departure from the steady feed of stuffed balls. My vision of 12 grain bread with thick slices of beefsteak tomato, some greens and non-deep-fried chicken was squashed. The white bread Texas Toast was saturated with butter–enough to allow me to skip lip balm application for three days. And, there was more mayo than chicken on the sucker.

Of course, to round out our Texas experience, we had to do a taqueria. They lined the freeway in between every Cracker Barrel, Denny’s, IHOP, Whataburger, Jack-in-the-Box, Chick-a-fil and Fudrucker’s. At El Pike Regio we packed back Pirata Regios–tortillas loaded with beef and guacamole and a thin hot-as-hell salsa. For $10 bucks we had tacos, a gallon of agua de Jamaica (hibiscus juice) and a smoky bean and jalapeno soup. Olé. Plus, we could watch the latest Spanish soaps at full-blast on three flatscreen televisions.

And just as we had sworn to a salad-only existence once we returned to Toronto, we discovered these at the convenience store. Margarita beer chips with that perfect kettle-cooked crunch. Paired with a Landshark lager and a lampshade, these chips took my Best Ever award, ousting my fall back Terra Sweets and Blues.

 

Editor’s note: I’m happy to announce that after eight hoggy days of pig-outs, sleep-ins, extended happy hours and being relative beach butts, we are actually gout-free. And, kind of longing for those Texan deep-fried balls.

Pumped About the Pumpkin: Fall for These!

It’s here. The time of year when flip flops slowly give way to scarves and the security of denim jackets. Crisp, curling leaves litter the sidewalks and the air is heady with sweet smoke from stoked wood fireplaces. Halloween “fun-sized” candy creeps into workplaces, because when it’s fun, calories don’t count, right?

Embracing the seasonal change is made easier by limited-time-only autumnal pleasures. Fall is not only signalled by a temperature drop and bracing mornings, but by the return of frothy pumpkin spice lattes and decadent cream-cheese stuffed pumpkin muffins. Kraft caramels, candy corn and Cadbury Screme eggs (with lime green fondant) also act as a pleasant balm to summer’s end.

This year, everyone and everything seems to be pumped by the pumpkin. Godiva sucked me in with their oh-so-pretty pumpkin spice ganache and pumpkin cream cheese truffles. Seriously, the chocolates could double as costume jewelry or museum showpieces under glass.

Rumour has it that Paulette’s Original Donuts & Chicken is seducing Leslieville with get-‘em-while-you-can pumpkin spice donuts. Tim Horton’s is hot on the scene too with day-glo orange sprinkles adorning the usual offerings of glazed goods.

Cool Hand Luc on King West promised me another barrel of pumpkin ice cream was to arrive this week. The day I stopped in they were sold out. I settled for a thick and rich butternut squash soup instead and marvelled at how a place could serve up soup and ice cream with equal popularity and success.

The seasonal showcase is alive and well at Jimmy’s Coffee on Portland too. The generous and dense slabs (think Texas Toast) of pumpkin loaf are woodsy, moist and perfect gut-fillers for romantic fall walks through the transforming trees of Trinity Bellwoods Park.

 

*I can attest to the year-round addictive qualities of Jimmy’s sweet potato and pecan muffins too. With big hits of nutmeg, these heavy-weights are the best thing to pick at with a dark Hendrix roast in the dying afternoon light on the front patio. It’s like swallowing all of October. (Loaves and muffins are both made by Circles and Squares bake shop.)

For die-hard pumpkin pie lovers, drop into Wanda’s Pie in the Sky in Kensington for a sugar and spice and everything nice fix. If you can resist instant gratification, tote your slice home and do it up with proper East coast flair: drizzled in dark ribbons of maple syrup. I’ve been spoiled by the introduction and can have pumpkin pie no other way.

Pumpkin cheesecake in the making. Culinary wizardry credit to PJ Moore.

For pumpkin strayers but autumn lovers, The Pie Shack in the Beaches is hawking wedges (a “slice” is ¼ of a pie in these parts) of apple cinnamon pie this month. Add a dollop of ice cream, whipped cream or cheese to round out your sweet fantasy because $6 is cheap happiness.

Not into the baked goods and calorie monster lattes?

Grab a stool at Hair of the Dog on Church street where they’re pulling pints of Great Lakes Brewing Company’s pumpkin ale. With a swizzle of whipped cream on top, this one could be liquid pie in a glass. Handlebar (located in Kensington Market), the kid sister bar of Leslieville’s Avro pub, is serving Nightmare on Mill Street, another homerun for the Mill Street microbrew—this time marrying pumpkin and spices in a non-cloying way. The clove finish and just-baked pie inhale is the best way to toast fall.

If you’d rather pull on pajamas and download the 1978 slasher Halloween (starring siren Jamie Lee Curtis), turn on the gas fireplace and rest assured with your LCBO pumpkin beer bounty. Mill Street has 6-packs of Nightmare on Mill Street and its Oktoberfest brew on sale.  Black Creek Historic Brewery has launched a 500ml ginger-kicked pumpkin ale, joining the fall guy club with Beau’s 600ml tribute (Weiss-o-Lantern) and St. Ambroise’s 4-pack (whose apricot beer is legendary). Up the booze ante with Shipyard’s Smashed Pumpkin (Portland, Maine). Warning: at 9% alcohol, you might end up as a jackass-o-lantern.

Creative and ambitious sorts can stop in at Bloor Superfresh just west of Spadina to purchase the kind of pumpkin Linus dreamed of in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown ($90). Mid-size but still gargantuan selections will set you back $25 (urban pumpkin prices, groan), but, they are gourds on steroids and you’ll need some serious muscles or steroids to get the suckers home.

 

Other fall things you should keep on your radar:

 

Thanksgiving poutine

Smoke’s Poutinerie is advertising (insert drum roll and dramatic gasp here) “Thanksgiving Poutine.” All the usual suspects (fries, curds, gravy)—loaded with turkey stuffing. Yeah, holy crap.

City of the Dead

Get in the full Halloween groove with the Necropolis Cemetery tour on October 21^st at 1:30pm. Visit the graves of William Lyon Mackenzie and his family on 200 Winchester Street near Riverdale Farm.

Church Street October 31st

On October 31^st, Church street in Toronto is the place to prowl. The gay village strip closes to vehicular traffic from 7—11pm and drag Queens do it to the nines. The costumes are what your 5-year-old self envisioned, but never accomplished with pipe cleaners and crepe paper. Bar hop from the slick Smith bar to the thump and boozy martini grounds of Byzantium to the beefy boy crowd at Woody’s. Or, just spike up a hot cocoa and enjoy the zany parade of the dressed-up and dressed-down on the street. Tricks or treats will be easily found.

1984 Flashback

 

 

 

Dear Lynn Crawford: A Cuban SOS

 

Dear Lynn Crawford, steely Iron Chef competitor, former executive chef of Four Seasons New York and Toronto, top dog at Rubywatchco and firecracker host of the Food Network’s Pitchin’ In–

CC: The Barefoot Contessa, Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver, Anthony Bourdain

S.O.S! Cuba needs your knives and spice racks!

Ten years ago my partner and I went to Holguin, Cuba. The water was just like the glossy brochure: like 7-up, like Perrier, like all those things that are promised.  The sand is tumbled diamonds, as soft as walking through flour.

But, the Cuban food. Insert groan here. Welcome to the all-inclusive buffet, more commonly referred to as the “barfet.” There has to be a PhD thesis in here somewhere—about the hysteria created in normal citizens over an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s as though we believe that our stomachs are sudden bomb shelters. We must take stock! Eat as much as we can! Quick! More!

But we couldn’t. Even if we wanted to, we were appalled at how the entire barfet offering was deep-fried. All the fresh fruit was submerged in cloyingly sweet syrup.  The sodium content of normally healthy vegetables made my aorta take on the pace of Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me documentary heart.

The fish was so salty it tasted like it was sweating on my plate. I was retaining more water than information. Although, that might have had some correlation to rum intake. In this vein, Cuba took top marks. The daiquiris and pina coladas were boozy, frothy textbook perfect rum shakes. They became our meal replacements because we couldn’t bear another agonizing walk along the buffet line.

Scroll forward ten years, back to Cuba. Back to Holguin even—but without the cushy, sanitized all-inclusive experience.

I had earned the Willy Wonka golden ticket–a travel writing scholarship awarded by the Adventure Centre, that had me hopping on 10 day Geckos Viva Cuba tour as a participant. I had the opportunity to eat, imbibe and delve into textures and terrains of Cuba that were amiss in my not-so-cultural visit in 2002. And write all about it for the Matador Network.

So, Lynn Crawford, I knew eating was going to be a daily challenge. And I’m no fusspot! I’ll eat testicles, insects, that green glop on the lobster’s head, hot sauce made from fire ants, piranha, tripe soup even!

I knew that Cuba had one reliable fall back in its pizza, so I wasn’t totally alarmed about returning to the island for two weeks. Which makes me feel like a fussy teenager, unwilling to try anything that might have the likes of curry or cilantro in it.

Cuban pizza is a godsend though. In Trinidad, 20 minutes from the south coast’s best beach (Playa Ancon) I found solace AND the best mango and pineapple pizza on the terrace of Restaurante Trinidad Colonial. For 10 bucks I had a pizza as big as a bicycle wheel and two cold beers, oblivious to the sheets of rain blamed on the aftermath of Tropical Storm Isaac.

I know what you’re thinking. Surely, on a tropical island there has to be some enterprising chef taking advantage of the local produce veta madre (mother lode).  There has to be something more amazing than pizza to eat!

I’ll take a pass on the guavas. Those suckers have lethal pits for anyone with dental work. Clarification: guava pits are dangerous for anyone with teeth, in general. They are as hard as peppercorns!

I applaud the Cuban pineapple though. The watermelon is a little anemic, its flesh was a consistent cat tongue colour, and not as sweet as the Californian cannonballs we import. Cuban bananas are often freckled more than an Irish kid and ready for banana bread, but the plantain…it makes for such addictive chips—I’d even take a pass on Tostitos for the dense and starchy crunch of plantain.

So, Lynn, here’s my beef. Cuba has avocadoes as big as footballs and they refuse to make guacamole. When I returned to Toronto I immediately pulled up the menu of Julie’s Cuban Cafe on Dovercourt. HA! Guacamole. Our Geckos guide Leo sneered at me when I said he could make a mint if he opened a tortilla chip and guacamole stand. “That is Mexican. We are Cuban.” So! I balked, “I’m Canadian, I make guacamole!”  He wouldn’t budge on his stance. The Cuban avocado is like green butter, as rich as a handful of macadamia nuts. It’s often served on a side plate with sliced beets, green beans and wimpy carrots. Boo.

I want guacamole.

Leo teases me with talk of the Christmas avocado, three times bigger than the ones we’ve seen for sale along the Obispo in Havana. Shame. I bet a Christmas avocado would feed 40.

Cuba needs a Christmas avocado guacamole intervention.

And how about some hot sauce? I thought every island had their own fiery concoction. I am at the rationing stage of my Marie Sharp’s grapefruit hot sauce, procured on a February trip to Belize. In fact, I’ve hoarded two extra bottles that were intended as gifts. It’s citrusy with a surreptitious drop-kick. Surely Cuba could whip up its own blazing counterpart?

The only condiments that grace a Cuban table are (50% of the time) white vinegar and oil. Slim pickings. Some of the hotels we stay at have ornate displays of HP, A-1, ketchup and mustard—showcased like they are fine wines.

One hundred percent of the time, mayo makes an appearance. It’s the Cuban cure-all. Mid-trip we take shelter from the rain at ZinZin in Santiago de Cuba. Between serenades from the Cuban playing showtunes on his Flamenco guitar, our server delivers fresh bread and an accompaniment to our table.

Tipsy from afternoon mojito intake, we all greedily grab at the bread. It’s so fresh and pliable! I slather on more butter than I normally would, slightly starved from a slim ham and cheese toastie lunch by the pool.

“This isn’t butter,” Jacqueline remarks.

I agree.  “What is it?” I struggle to place the taste.

“Mayo!”

We are eating not “bread” per se, but sliced hot dog buns with mayo. And we think it’s the best thing ever.

I entered the danger zone that night.

Lynn, the baguettes in Cuba could be used in a cricket game as bats. I am embarrassed to be so complimentary of white hot dog buns!

Could you run a workshop on 12 grain bread baking? Even 7 grains would do. Any grains? The bread that is served with breakfast is already in a crouton state. Is it pre-toasted?

I wouldn’t even feed most of the bread I eat in Havana to birds. They would never fly away again with its weight. Every endemic Cuban bird would become a flightless turkey.

Am I simply missing North American preservatives? Food dye #5?

I am a big cheerleader of eating local and I KNOW that Cuba has very local mangoes, sugarcane and coffee. The island outside of city centres is verdant and pastoral. The red dirt pulls me back to Prince Edward Island in a flash.

All the essential elements of an awesomely stocked kitchen grow in Cuba: sweet potato, lychee, okra, peanuts, coconut, plantain. Pork. Beef. Chicken (often joked about in trip guides as being “born fried”). Lobster, red snapper, mahi mahi and shrimp are on every menu. But, they get overcooked to the point of the fish doubling as a shoe insole.

And the stew. Not a stew at all. I had a rabbit stew at El Nardo and it was actually a rabbit leg in OXO cube gravy. At El Barracon in Santiago de Cuba I have the lamb stew, and it’s just lamb in gravy. The kind of gravy I loved in high school on a $2 plate of fries. Not stew. But the gravy is better at El Barracon.

So, why? Why the OXO cube gravy? Why all the mayo? WHY all the lacklustre stale white bread-cheese-ham sandwiches?

I am barely surprised when I place my order at Plaza Vieja Factoria and am told that they are “out of Cuban sandwiches.” How can Cuba be out of Cuban sandwiches? It’s like Manhattan being sold out of Manhattan martinis.

I do find passable snacks like Pelly pork rinds. Cubans are mad about their “aerated chips.” All of them are of the cheezie family consistency—more air than substance, and called chicarrons.  Even the chicarrons would be better with guacamole.

Don’t even get me started on the coffee. Most mornings I can’t figure out if I’m drinking coffee or tea. The UHF shelf milk (long lasting milk that doesn’t require refrigeration) adds floaty bits that make the cofftea more mud puddle than breakfast beverage.

I come to realize (and in the end, even our Cuban guide agrees) that Cuba prides itself more on quantity than quality. Dinners are like Italian weddings with seven courses. I would never normally eat a plate of watermelon and pineapple followed by black bean soup, some polenta, then a plate of soggy green beans, avocado and boiled beets and another dish with a chicken breast and three cups of rice. PLUS, one of three typical desserts: ice cream, bread pudding or sponge cake. With espresso. Ugh.

Creme de Menthe on bread pudding. If a Christmas tree barfed, this is what it would taste like.

Lynn, can you help? I know the premise of your Pitchin’ In show. The whole island needs your kitchen brains and pizzazz. I know you’ve already set the menu: snapper flambéed in dark rum, grilled espresso-rubbed pork and plantain on sugarcane skewers, mango cobbler with avocado gelato…

SOS.

Cuba needs you Lynn Crawford.

(But, we need you too, in Toronto.)

Signed,

I-ate-pizza-for-10-days-Jules

#Trending In My Life This Week

Sometimes there are a lot of things and thoughts that collide at once, that all deserve their space, but are more suitable for a bar stool conversation. Semi-related, but not really, this week is a bright spot: an awesome movie find, the close of an exceptional book, a new downtown patio to drink upon and the ongoing obsession of finding a house to call ours.

In no particular order, this is what has been trending in my week.

#Jeff, Who Lives At Home

Any film with Susan Sarandon listed in the credits is a shoo-in for me.  Jeff (Jason Segel) is an authentic  30-year-old slacker inspired by the movie Signs. Consumed by finding and following the semi-obvious “signs” that appear to him in his mother’s (Sarandon’s) basement, Jeff is certain that he is within reach of his destiny.  His brother, Pat (Ed Helms), opposite in all possible ways, is a twitchy paint store manager blow-hard who thinks a new Porsche will cure his tanking marriage. The brothers ram heads like rutting elk and can find little common ground outside of a blood tie. Their lives tangle into a fisherman’s knot when they witness Pat’s wife obviously in the throes of an illicit affair.

While the boys duke it out, Jeff’s awareness and perception—often lost in the haze of his chronic pot smoking, begins to make sense to Pat. What happens next unfolds without a sign for the audience. The emotional impact of the final scene is wholly unexpected and will leave even the steeliest of hearts feeling like they’ve swallowed knives instead of popcorn. Yes, you will cry. Like a child with a skinned knee. You will ache for Sharon’s (Sarandon) lonely existence, longing for attention and affection despite her brave exterior and I’m-just-fine-on-my-own stance.

The writers weave in surprising twists and earn kudos for a tight and realistic script. Jeff, Who Lives at Home is an honest portrayal of how easily relationships can dissolve—whether it be with a spouse, brother or mother. And the signs, well, they’re everywhere. You’ll see.

#One Bird’s Choice

On my list of (probably) 138 books To Read, One Bird’s Choice by Iain Reid was chosen primarily for its portability. I have finally caved to the sensibilities of my right shoulder.  I am a firm believer in “fashion hurts,” and I insist on carrying my oh-so-cool shoulder bag from Amsterdam because it is oh-so-cool. What I refuse to carry now is hard-copy books. I can’t. Unless I skimp on the weight of my lunch, I just can’t tote hardcovers anymore in my sub-5K walking commute.

So, One Bird’s Choice was the likely choice due to its featherweight category designation—in addition to the rave reviews and firework displays it received for his porcupine quill-sharp writing.  I packed the book for our getaway to The Pinery Provincial Park. I read the entire book (nearly) to Kim, out loud on the beach.

Apparently I’ve got a trending theme of slackerness this week. One Bird’s Choice chronicles Reid’s decision (and aftermath) to move back in with his goofball parents on their serene “Lilac Hill” hobby farm in Ottawa.

As the seasons shift from the winter of Reid’s discontent to a spring fever of renewal and gratitude, life with his parents is a quiet riot. There are generous doses of melancholy, comic encounters with the resident guinea fowl Lucius and a gentle meditation associated with life on the farm. His initial resistance to admitting to his permanent covert accommodations eventually twists into what life should be. Time spent wholly engaged in conversation, petting cats, drinking coffee, musing, napping, observing, Hockey Night in Canada, digging the shit out of sheep barns, eating mom’s lemon loaves (and cookies and apple walnut cake) and just being. And, lucky us! We get to eavesdrop on all those conversations and cheer the emergence of a wayward urban refugee writer finding solace.

#Poetry Jazz Cafe

As much as I adore the beer taps and smart handle of the place, Thirsty & Miserable in Kensington Market smells like a dog that has swum in brackish water. The wet dogness doesn’t dissipate, even after 3-4 pints. I know, I’ve tried. However, just south of the great-named-bar-that-smells-like-the-fish-market-next-door, there’s Poetry. Dark as a carnival haunted house, it has groovy by the neck. Kim and I feel our way to the back to where we’re meeting my friend Keph. Earlier in the day I had read online about their intimate patio. From here we can still here the jazzy beats, but at a level that still permits conversation. Weathered mill carts, makeshift benches, Adirondack chairs and bistro tables fill the tidy pea-gravelled space that is bigger than any Toronto backyard. The tall boys (Guinness , Stiegl, Strongbow), and the pints of Steam Whistle, Keith’s and Hoptical Illusion (Flying Monkey’s Brewery) fuel an easy night of chatter. We chatter even longer when a bowl of super-salty popcorn arrives by surprise. Which, in turn, encourages another pint.

The patio fills before dusk. Unpretentious and as relaxed as hanging out in your own leafy space, this place is going to be a future soupy night go-to for Friday night flat-lining.

 

#Banh Mi Boys, 392 Queen West (at Spadina)

Their lemongrass pork sub stuffed with daikon, pickled carrot, cuke, mayo and cilantro gets kicked-up a few infernos with three different hot sauces. Bahn mi subs from this joint (the 5 spice pork belly with pickled relish is love in a bun) make me want to wear only sweat pants, watch thirtysomething re-runs and eat only these. For breakfast even. Less than $5 bucks a pop and paired with a blood orange San Pellegrino, they push Subway to the curb.

MLS

I think Kim and I have looked at over 548 MLS listings. I “drive” around Guelph in circles (I could find a quick job as a cabbie with my new found directional sense of the city), waiting for the dream house listing to FINALLY appear. We have moved our initial search out of Dundas, Waterdown and south Burlington. We want a place with personality that bleeds charm right out of its brickwork. We’d be smitten with anything that ticks off 97% of this checklist:

No pool (due to previous experience and severe novelty worn-off-ness)

Absolutely no hot tub (due to previous nightmares)

No finished basement (we are both basement-haters)

Pedestrian-friendly location: just far-enough from the traffic hum but close enough to find a pint or Americano

Preferably old hardwood, exposed brick, wainscoting

A backyard suitable for bonfires and plein air dining

Kim would like a furnace that doesn’t tick

I would like a fridge that doesn’t operate at the decibel level of a Mack Truck

NO TENANTS (especially the type that re-enact Jurassic Park scenes from above)

No white-fluffy, ribbon-wearing, below knee-level barking dogs in a 100 foot radius

A Wolf stove would be really nice

A workshop space so Kim can be all handy and build remarkable things with her tools and saws that every man envies

Front balcony for morning coffee-drinking and nosey-neighbour-type spying

Barn board, exposed timber beams—bonus: attic space for writing the Next Great Novel

Century home or raw loft space WITH balcony (no concessions)

A scalding hot shower with endless water pressure unlike my parents (the equivalent of being pissed on by a horse). Clawfoot tub separate. No wrestling two shower curtains around claw foot. Been there.

Gas fireplace for wintry nights and wintry wine-drinking. One in the bedroom too, best yet.

Kim’s request: “no messy trees” (i.e. wind-weary willows or berry-bearing trees that attract birds that shit purple bombs on her highly-polished black Saab

That je ne sais quoi. The kinda place you walk into, close the door, breathe deep and contemplate never leaving.

 

What’s trending in your life?

 

 

Camping Gets An Upgrade

There comes a time when every urban urchin needs to turn down the static of the city’s frequency and retreat to the restorative properties of terra firma at its best. Of course, at age 37, terra firma is feeling more firma than ever after three nights of camping at Pinery Provincial Park on Lake Huron. However, there is much praise for the soundtrack of such tree-centric sanctuaries: lulling waves that Mother Nature cranks to the max, the threading of the wind through feathery pine tops and the lonely call of the whip-poor-will.

Finding a campsite at one of Ontario’s provincial parks is much like booking your wedding venue. Keeners have already staked out premium spots in the dead of February and hog them for the majority of the summer. I can see why.

When we departed on Monday morning, the Saab was stuffed fuller than a pinata. My watch didn’t find its way to my wrist. For the next four days we operated on basic human instinct: hunger, thirst and sleep. Recreational reading was punctuated by tepid tall boys and picnics of various essential elements: guacamole, salty Fritos, roasted red pepper dip, jalapeno havarti and sweet potato crackers. We grazed, we dozed, we wandered barefoot.  At dusk we sauntered back to our campsite, any latent stress completely evaporated with talk of spicy sausage and Weber burgers on the grill for dinner.

The cicadas buzzed like overloaded electrical wires and petered out with the fall of dusk. Slowly, we watched the woods transform into the pages of fairy tale lore. Fireflies mixed with the suspended stars until the soupy humidity of the day thinned out and encouraged long sleeves. We piled the kindling and split ash in a Boy Scout-approved teepee-style and gave in to the sway of childhood nostalgia: eating cloying sweet marshmallows until near-sick.

We awoke to the scamper of drag-racing red squirrels. A resident pair kept close eye on our cache. I think they suspected we might be carrying Squirrel peanut butter, the one with the peanut on top. If the squirrels were taking inventory, they would see that we took no shortcuts in comfort, ambience or bomb shelter-worthy canned goods. Not to mention our booze cartel of pink Prosecco, Malbec, gin and enough beer for two college football teams. We decided to do it as deluxe as possible. Inflatable Queen mattress (not those horrible maxi pad thin Thermaphores), real pillows (not balled up clothes) and pretty much all the pleasures of home, minus the walls and roof and fridge that makes ice on its own accord.

While some people take valuable days to decompress on vacation, we seemed to be breathing in tandem with the pines upon arrival. Not that I would choose to permanently sleep on an inflatable mattress….but, there is a different awareness and heightened sensory intake when you wake up outside. The crisp clarity of the air beckons stiff coffee, banter about the neighbouring birds and drop-in butterflies. My hoodie smelled like the unmistakable morning-after-campfire bacon bits scent. Inhaling deeper, I am glad that we get to stoke up another blazing fire that night. But first, a leisurely breakfast is all we’re obligated to do for the next few hours.

Kim and I assume unspoken roles, as we do. She is quick to boil the water for coffee and I take on the whipping of eggs and dicing of red pepper and onion. We meet somewhere in the middle, well entrenched in the premeditated laziness of the day ahead of us.

We’ve upgraded our Coleman stove menu from last year–our inaugural camping trip at Long Point Provincial Park on Lake Erie. Over coffee and the last bits of breakfast blotted up with a tortilla shell, we anticipate our al dente and al fresco menu post-beach. We decide to take camping to the next level with a jar of Jamie Oliver coriander and cashew pesto, penne and pine nuts (not locally sourced). The plastic checkered tablecloth will be spread on top of the picnic table, easily transforming our campsite into a pop-up Italian resto in the pines.

Each day we return to our site famished and sighing aloud from the joy of nothingness. The sun has warmed us right to our bones. Kim and I are sheer experts at this napping, wading and beachcombing business. My surf shorts are weighted down with more than a few polished stones. We walk the length of the sandbar to Port Franks, admiring cottage architecture, impromptu lakeside bars fashioned out of driftwood, greeting wag-happy dogs and exchanging pleasantries with the beach bum set.

Another fire is lit, snapping and spitting embers in no time. We pull the picnic table closer to the flames and talk as we do: all over the map. Always scheming of where to travel next and how we might opt out of this thing called work for more of the life balance equation.

The zen of the woods is like a medicinal salve.  We solve the world’s problems each night and find solace in the stillness. I am thrilled to be away from clocks and social media appliances and obligations. I am thrilled to eat everything that causes hypertension, high cholesterol,  heart attacks and gout in a span of four days. We drink and eat and lie about like royalty. And, not to brag, but our campsite even had an en suite.

Isn’t it time for you to get away? Grab the one you love and get grounded!

Serious Eating Misadventures

Late Thursday night I posted a photo on Facebook of something that hit my barf trigger. My sister was surprised and admitted that she was beginning to wonder if I had experienced any food misadventures and if I was withholding information. Kiley also confessed that she was less than sympathetic in my near-barfing incident and cited a childhood emotional scar that involved me feeding her soft cat food. Attention readers: Please note, yes, I did feed her cat food on the sly, several times, but, the moment she was referring to was a Hostess potato chip with anchovy paste on the underside. Not cat food as per usual. What big sister doesn’t take such liberties?

Of course, I’ve eaten a lot of terrible things. However, I like to think that I’ve educated my palate to be open to radical experiences and surprises. I do have texture issues and I know my instant barf triggers by heart:

1. Peanut butter more than 1mm in height. Slathered on like cake icing and I am gagging. As much as I love it, scooping a hoggy spoonful straight out of the jar is something I could never do. Not even for $100.

2. Havarti cheese. I love this cheese too (dill and jalapeno most of all), but if the cube is more than 2cm x 2cm, I am also gagging.

3. Fettucine Alfredo. Swallowing hard now as I type the words. It’s like eating cellulite. Cellulite Alfredo.

4. Sushi. Ten years ago I was sushi’s biggest fan. It was my “if you lived on a desert island and could only eat one thing, what would it be?” choice, hands down. It was Easter, 2001. Spicy salmon rolls. Near death experience. I was vomitose (a word I coined that is similar in nature to comatose, but, instead of being in a coma, being in the state of vomit). I have tried valiantly (three times so far) to rectify this disappointment, but, each time the flashback is crystalline. Even the poster advertising sexy sushi at Benihana in the elevator at the Fairmont Royal York Hotel makes me uneasy. Sticky rice, soya sauce, wasabi, ginger, salmon—all of these elements have been ruined for me. But, I will try again.

And therein lies the problem. I try and try again. Thursday’s photo was part of my recent research for a feature with the Matador Network on cheap eats in Toronto. Chinatown is always the perfect resource for this. Poke into any place around Spadina and Dundas and you can find complete meals for three bucks.

I had selected a tamale-type item for $2.25 at the Golden Butterfly Bakery. The description was promising: rice, pork and peanuts. Wrapped in a corn husk and bound with twine like a lovely present it seemed like the perfect dinner.

Except, it tasted like cold cat puke. It was like a leftover food snowball. The rice was so sticky it stayed more on the fork than in my mouth. The peanuts were soft and bloated. The pork(?) was more like jerky and of a strange shade. The snowball tasted vaguely like chicken soup powder, but together, the texture did me in. Even with a gallon of beer to slide it down, I was still heaving. I ate more than half, not wanting to waste a good $2.25.

What I ate as a chaser will follow in the Matador article, so, no spoilers! However, I have discovered out-of-season pseudo mini candy apples. Stay tuned.

When you attempt snacking under $5 (as is the guise of my latest article), you are prone to some misadventures. After tossing the remains of the cat puke corn husk feature, I remembered a similar experience in Chinatown last year.

After a shiatsu treatment at the Oriental Health and Beauty Centre, I was ravenous. I popped into a bakery near Huron street and found a steamed bun as big as a bocce ball. Size does matter! I needed serious carb uploading. I paid less than $2 for a massive bun that was described as a “steamed bun with meat.”It was distinctly dusk as I walked past the Art Gallery of Ontario and came to a dead stop. Initially alarmed, and far from the glow of a streetlamp, I realized after super-close inspection that the rubbery mouthful was part of a hard-boiled egg, not a condom. A few steps further I bit into a surprise wiener. And then? Wait for it…a chicken wing! With bone-in! I couldn’t believe the value in my $2 find. Not only did I get bocce ball-sized bun, but it included a wiener, whole egg and chicken wing. Which gave rise to the inevitable question: What came first? The chicken, the egg or the steamed bun with the chicken, egg and wiener?

It was actually not the greatest thing I’ve ever eaten for $2.

In Koreatown last year, I was seen plodding along Bloor, scarfing back a sticky and very sloppy (not first date material) Korean pancake filled with brown sugar syrup and crushed nuts. Seeking out an unusual accompaniment, I bought a generic brown rice beverage in a can. There was no translation on the can but the cashier made a “shake-it-up” motion with her hand. I shook it, fearing a geyser as soon as I snapped back the tab.

No geyser. I had no idea what to expect either. I took a gigantic slug as the Korean pancake seemed to be sitting precariously in my throat like a wine cork. Imagine my surprise when my mouth was suddenly full of worms. Hundreds. I stepped into a side alley and did a big splat and cough. Turns out the worms were not worms at all, but brown rice. It was a brown rice beverage, but, I was anticipating the likes of soya milk—clearly sold with no soya beans rolling around in the bottom of the carton.

That wormy surprise was high on the gross meter. But, I took a few more tentative sips, just to make sure. Yup. The idea of swallowing liquid and rice grains is not desirable.

Also not desirable would be the roasted lima beans I had in Quito, Ecuador. When in Rome…they were being sold everywhere, and after scaling a South American Everest knock-off to see La Virgen de Quito up close and personal, a Biela lager and roasted lima beans seemed to be appropriate. That is until I popped six beans in my mouth at once. Charred black, swallowing the beans felt like I was getting my stomach pumped with the charcoal content. Worse? I felt like I was eating my own teeth. The lima beans were harder than my molars and tasted like nothing more than charcoal briquettes and a root canal. The Biela beer was satiating and a welcome chug after a mountain climb in soupy heat though.

I could go on. Ask my brother about the goat cheese we had at Toronto’s Wine & Cheese show. I swear it was pissed-on sweat socks formed into a cheese slice. The stench was nearly toxic and we wondered if we were being poisoned. The taste? It was like an old man had farted in our mouths. To ward off the fart breath we drank a dozen more wine samples and opted for a touch of alcohol poisoning instead.

There were lots of questionable items in Africa too—but, I actually genuinely loved the tilapia fish that was always served whole, looking very much like a fossil exhibit from a museum.

So, yes, I have eaten many dodgy things that don’t make my glossy online mostly bacon-themed photo albums or blog posts.

What will it be next? I promise to share next time.

Holy Cow: A Tribute to Toronto’s Burger Week

The patty pandemonium has come to an end. Or has it just been kickstarted? The Grid’s wildly popular Burger Week (May 30-June 3) upped the carnivore ante by issuing a glossy map of 24 hamburger haunts in last Thursday’s hotly anticipated issue. Eighteen of the mapped restos were offering $5 burgs in the company of ”Platinum” (Barque Smokehouse) and “Black Tie” participants (ie: The Drake, Bestellen, Utopia, Brassai and e11even) who donated $5 from the sale of their upscale burgers to The Stop Community Food Centre. Today, (while I worked with a frown and missed the event) the propane paparazzi gathered at Artscape Wychwood Barns for slider samples and revelry with all the beefy contenders. Sigh.

However, I did my part in Burger Week and saddled up to my favourite go-to, The Burger Bar & Tequila Tavern on Augusta in Kensington Market. The $5 patty was dressed up for the cocktail party in Sriracha hot sauce and miso mayo. Wolfed back with a Nickel Brook spiced ale 8% cuvee and a pint of Sawdust City session beer, we heard angels sing on high.

As a loving tribute to burger week, here’s an uncensored and shameless look at some of the burgers that have made me blush as of late:

Gourmet Burger Company’s Aussie Burger: fried egg, pineapple, bacon, cheddar, GBC sauce, lettuce, tomato, 100% beef.

The Rectory Cafe (Ward’s Island): Ontario lamb with gorgonzola, brie and a generous smear of dijon.

The River Cafe, Calgary, Alberta: Olson’s Bison Burger. House-smoked bacon, brie, roasted potato.

Chez Victor, Quebec City: The Deer. Venison, brie, pears in a reduced red wine and rosemary jus, lettuce, maple mayo, mustard.

Gourmet Burger Company’s Mushroom Melt. Portabello and sauteed mushrooms, brie, mayo, lettuce, tomato. Heavy on the sweet potato frites.

Brazen Head, Liberty Village, Toronto. (Disclaimer: it’s no longer on the featured menu). Panko-crusted chicken breast with mango chutney and smoked bacon.

Phinley’s Diner & Dairy Bar, Stratford, Prince Edward Island: The Sticky Burger. Peanut butter and barbecue sauce with old cheddar and bacon–a surprisingly good marriage.

And, after this beef montage/homage, I bet $5 you’re thinking…I need a burger. Stat.

Find one in your radius and read everything burger in The Grid’s burgers-gone-wild feature. Most importantly, report back here!

Tell me what your latest and greatest burger love is.

The World’s Simplest Scavenger Hunt: Gratitude & Inspiration

Sometimes future blog content clings to me like Saran Wrap until I acknowledge it. Often it sneaks up on me, manifesting in unexpected but repeated ways. Today began with mindless Facebook drifting, after very intense MLS searching, driving a cursor around Dundas in mad circles, wishing and willing a century home with a price tage under half a million to appear.

Kerri Minns, who I arm wrestled for the title of G Adventures Coolest Adventure Travel Intern in 2010 (she won, and talentedly so) often posts engaging and idea-erupting updates and links on her very articulate Facebook page. Sometimes they are Instamatic sugary donuts portraits, or just smartly snapped pictures of an open newspaper. Today she reposted this quote (source unknown): “In order to lead a fascinating life–one brimming with art, music, intrigue and romance–you must surround yourself with precisely those things.”

Like.

And, for a reliable creative boost and further inspiration injection, there’s always been Brene Brown and her WholeHearted Living manifesto that serves as verbal Red Bull. She is best known for embracing imperfection and saluting vulnerability. Brown’s site is dense with ideas, and her thoughts today fuelled my run through the breezy, fertilized and newly mulched suburban streets.

Brown’s post was simple, a “play list” of all that she was grateful and inspired by today from the likes of cilantro Thai grilled chicken to Willie Nelson’s latest album Heroes. And, with much credit to her, I am piggy-backing on her post.

Today I’m feeling very grateful for and inspired by:

1. Long Way Down. A few months ago I read Ewan MacGregor and Charley Boorman’s Long Way Round (2004), chronicling their enduro 20,000 mile ride across 12 countries on tripped-out BMW bikes. This time the macho boys are riding from Scotland to Capetown, South Africa. During my reading epidemic yesterday, I didn’t budge from my lounger until they crossed the Libyan border en route to lunch in Alexandria. Reading their impressions of the oppressive heat, obnoxious traffic and wayward camel crossings brought the carefully preserved memories of our  time in Egypt to the forefront.  The books we brag about are always the ones that successfully take us elsewhere, inward, backward, or to that high-security place in our mind’s matrix.

2. Offloading. Last week, Kim and I were on a “working holiday” in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. We were dutifully helping her parents move into an envy-inducing tony condo space (granite, stainless steel, oh my!) from their idyllic ranch of 30 years, complete with resident foxes in the woods just yonder. I’ve moved my parents once (after nearly 30 years in one house), and several friends (several times). After this recent move, Kim, Scott, Lynne (her siblings) and I came to an agreement. From now on, we are only allowed to collect our thoughts. Kim and I are known minimalists, and still, after seeing how 30 years of living can so easily escalate and accumulate, I couldn’t wait to come home and offload anything remotely unnecessary. My urban space is around 800 square feet, and after moving back and forth across Canada and sojourning to Africa twice, my cardboard box count has continued to dwindle. If something doesn’t have a story or a purpose, I am repurposing it (ie. how many martini glasses does one really need?). In the end, we are only left with our thoughts, anyway. Hopefully.

3. Banana Bread beer and a pale ale made with pinapple juice? I pick up hard copies of The Grid, NOW, City Bites, Food & Drink and Toronto Life for serious ongoing inspired eating research purposes. And, as an already avid thought collector (as witnessed on this blog–three years of blathering thoughts-strong), I like to keep these scavenged places documented in one coveted master list, mapping out all that I need to drink and eat in the city. A Gut Positioning System, if you will. It’s my version of a Five Year Plan.  I had read about the UK Wells Banana Bread beer somewhere in my reading travels and sourced it out at the RBC LCBO on Front. And in bonus beer news, Kim and I discovered Spearhead’s Hawaiian Pale Ale, brewed with pineapple juice at La Mexicana on Yonge. Tomorrow I plan to eat a Hrvati burg to support Toronto’s $5 Burger Week (Ontario beef, smoked mozza and caramelized onions on a Croatian steamed bun). It’s good to have goals. Even Burgers-To-Eat goals.

4. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Whether we are reading about or watching the intricacies, demise or foibles of other lives, it helps frame our own world in a gentle, fluid way. The trailer for this Judi Dench and Bill Nighy flick sucked me in months ago. Like the media approach of Never Let Me Go and Limitless promised, such movies are the scaffolding of coffee shop and bar stool conversations. Not total blockbusters, maybe, but, they force-feed troubled thinking and lend to mind-wandering through internal emotional forests days after. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel was a genuine and amusing look at an eclectic group of souls struggling to embrace their autumn years in India. The maelstrom of thoughts hummed louder than the handfuls of buttered popcorn being ingested as I watched it.  Could we? Would we? India, no. Never say never, but, no, never. But, where would we want to spend our golden years? I love how movies generate thoughts and engage constant plotting of our own life’s script.

5. Not climbing Everest. I’ve read several disturbing accounts of Canadian Shriya Shah-Klorfine’s death this week. I think many Twitter followers were appalled to learn via rabid feeds from recent climbers like Sandra Leduc (@sandraclimbing) of the number of dead bodies dotting the path to the summit, transforming the peak into a surreal high altitude morgue. Of the 3,000 climbers who have attempted to conquer the mammoth, over 200 have died. Due to the tangible danger and expense of removing the bodies, many remain exactly where they have last fallen. When I read Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air a dozen years ago, I found great inspiration in the bull-headed determination and unstoppable emotional force of those who needed to climb the mountain. But, I also found peace in knowing that I wasn’t hard-wired for that experience. I could live very happily without that pull and overwhelming need to summit.

6. Emily Haines! I know I’m late to catch on to her after her storied history with Broken Social Scene and Metric, but, after watching Daydream Nation, I found myself listening harder to the soundtrack strains than the actors dialogue. Does anyone remember Aussie folkies Frente? Their cover of Bizarre Love Triangle? Labor of Love? Very vocally reminiscent.  Another Australian darling is also on my  LOVE-wanna-hear-more radar: Trysette. When I was in Entebbe, Uganda, I drank many bottles of red wine with Trysette’s sister Merryde at the Gately Inn. Silky Fingers is often on repeat at my place, much to the chagrin of my upstairs tenant (payback for her Yo Yo Ma and sugar pop music interference).

7. Petting some dogs along my way. I met and had a heavy pet with “Pearl” yesterday. She lives just around the corner and is the most adorable (x 1,000) beagle, ever. Petting random dogs is just all around good.

See? It’s everywhere. The world’s simplest scavenger hunt, really. From banana bread beer to wagging dogs.

Inspiration and gratitude–where are you finding yours today?

Cheese Whiz Waffles and Panty Rippers

Reina's hangover helpers --Cheese Whiz and ham waffles

Our sense of smell is a remarkable gateway to our past. There are scents that transport us to a time and place with the inertia of memory on auto-pilot. Zest soap: my great-grandmother’s bathroom. Tiny Tom donuts: the CNE fairgrounds, Labour Day weekend. Gasoline on a still and frozen winter morning: snowmobiling with my grandfather. Alone, they are generic smells, but they take us to individual and treasured parts of our being. I could type out a list of words and I bet five bucks you have a story or person attached to it. Pot roast. Drakkar Noir. Those grade school purple-inked ditto machines that we all got high on before a pop quiz. Wet dog. Sulphur. Mothballs. Root cellars. Lilacs. Tequila. Espresso. See?

When I leave Body Blitz at day’s end, I distinctly smell like spa. If I’ve been to Jimmy’s coffee shop on my break, then I smell like a hybrid: Americano meets spa. Both accessible and instant escapes. Mid- January, a sexy Italian fusion joint opened beside our spa. As I exit the spa’s back door now, I am spirited away by the best smell I know. Fire. The kitchen’s Tuscan wood fire grill cuts out the King West neighbourhood I stand in and throws me headlong into Africa. I’m taken to the Tuesday night markets in Entebbe where vendors beg for your business, motorbike taxis insist on their services, skeletal dogs pick at open garbage heaps and wood smoke clouds the air.

Coconut snapper at Iris Sunnyside, Hopkins Village

The smell of fire takes me a lot of places around the world, and as I walk towards home, away from Gusto and their Tuscan grill, I find myself back in Belize.

Lonely Planet had warned that Belizean food wasn’t remarkable enough to rave about, but not terrible enough to complain about. Arriving with few expectations we readied ourselves for a solid three week feed of starchy rice and beans, wimpy chicken and dismissable warm beer. Kim and I quickly found ourselves with not enough hours to eat all that we wanted.

Mayhem and marvel at Wish Willy's

Caye Caulker, a car-less island 45 minutes from Belize City, was the most satisfying eating safari I’ve been on. Mobile vendors presented a carousel of inviting snacks in the form of warm, spice-hopped corn and chicken tamiltos. We bought jugs of just-blended melon, mango, orange and banana juices (to help balance the local paint-thinner vodka). A sinewy boy sold us iPhone-sized squares of his mother’s prized coconut fudge at the Split for less than a dollar. We had thick and dense banana bread and impromptu pillowy brownies at Wish Willy’s. We didn’t order the brownies, it was merely part of the Wish Willy experience that night. Maurice, a giant chef with a giant personality,  made his way to each table, regardless of whether customers had been served or were midway through dinner, to offer them a generous wedge of his signature brownies, straight from the pan they were just baked in.

By far, our experience at Wish Willy’s was the most comical. We could tell by the number of Belikin beer bottles on each table that “rush” or “fast” was not on the menu (and adherent to the Belizean motto of “Go Slow”). In fact, there was no set menu. A few entrees scratched out on a blackboard offered suggestions, but nothing that was advertised was available. I asked for conch skewers and was served spicy shrimp. Kim requested the curried pork but was convinced to try the snapper. Maurice later insisted she had chops because he ran out of snapper, but a beer later he asked Kim how the snapper was.

Step aside Colonel Sanders

Syd’s Fried Chicken took my Top Swoon Meal award. For $4.50 US we had a chicken leg and breast that was the equivalent of a wayward Thanksgiving turkey. A small army of vocal cats joined us in the garden area for dinner, expressing their mutual love of Syd’s chicken. It was like a Belizean take on Shake n’ Bake served with enough rice to throw at three weddings. With a petting zoo underfoot.

Reina’s Bakery was a carb-load sanctuary after a night of rum-heavy panty-rippers at the Thirsty Lizard. For $2.50US we had Bon Appetit magazine-perfect waffles with ham and (say it isn’t so!) Cheese Whiz. Kim was reduced to moaning over that brunch (mostly due to the Cheese Whiz and ham fusion, somewhat due to the panty-rippers). The syrup was dark and heavy and the punchy coffee helped realign our rum-logged heads.

Sometimes Things to Eat For Less Than a Dollar proved to be not-so-great gastro-intestinal ideas in Belize. This was discovered after buying grapefruit juice (to finish off the rocket fuel One Barrel rum we’d been nursing) and tablate from a singing Rastafarian on the bus. He hopped on as we idled at the Dangriga station with a cookie tray and a song and sold us a coaster-sized tablate for 50 cents. It was definitely a member of the fudge family, heavy on the sugar, butter and coconut frontier. Probably made with a little E.coli in less than sanitary kitchen conditions. But, c’mon, for 50 cents? It became our version of a cheap and instant cleanse when paired with the river juice probably made with ditch water.

The buses in Belize offered a convenient assortment of local ’fast-food’ options. Vendors randomly jumped on the buses at unmarked stops along the Hummingbird Highway to hawk massive cinnamon buns, hot tamales and durosa. The durosa was another under-a-buck option that was questionable. Wrapped in a corn husk it was enticingly described as shredded plantain in a sweet coconut milk-tamale stuffing. It was more like wet barf in a corn husk. Kim wouldn’t let me finish it.

Belizean Seaweed Shake--they promise to "Bring out the man in you"

Better finds were the Irish Moss seaweed shakes at The Shak in Placencia (also available pre-made at convenience stores in plastic bottles). The shakes had an egg nog consistency and a subtle-not-sickly sweet custard taste with a good hit of nutmeg. The peanut shake was too much like Kraft peanut butter blended with table cream. Whipped a little thicker, it could have been served on a bed of noodles with cilantro as a Thai dish, not as a sweltering afternoon thirst-quencher.

Cheap eats were easily found near the beach in Caulker, allowing us to ditch our Pee-wee Herman one-speed bikes in the sand and kick off our flip flops while our order made its way to the grill. Budget Man and Fran’s pumped out hefty coconut curries and slaw (Budget Man by day, Fran by night) that were full of heat and authentic Belizean kick. Fran’s communal picnic table was never empty. Her blackboard seafood specials varied and when she sold-out, she went home.

In Hopkins Village we made dusty and dark treks to  IRIS Sunnyside cafe for golden coconut-crusted grouper and collards. (Since our return home I’ve given the coconut-crust treatment to shrimp and chicken). We subjected ourselves to the wind-whipped patio of The Barracuda Bar and Grill at Beaches & Dreams Resort (warm and boozed by the 2 for 1 sunset drinks) where we had blackened Cajun barracuda bites that we still rave about. Alaskan expats and chefs Tony and Angela Marsico also impress with killer flatbread pizzas, high octane cocktails and spoiled resort views.

Bravoo Over Proof -- bottled headache!

And the ceviche! Electric lime and generous amounts of conch and shrimp…we had it everyday.  I couldn’t get enough of the soursop juice, Marie Sharp’s grapefruit hot sauce, The Shak’s banana pancakes, mango-coconut shakes and salty plantain chips. Kate’s Bakery baseball-sized pumpkin muffins in Hopkins set the bar too high for anything I might find in Toronto. And the street hotdogs in Placencia with embarassing amounts of mayo, chopped onion and jalapenos? The jerk snapper and Dog House coconut water and rum sundowners? Unmatched.

Yeah, big sigh.

Best pit stop on the Hummingbird Highway

I drift back to Placencia and our most expensive beers of the trip ($15US) which we downed sitting all fancy and rich-like at Francis Ford Coppola’s Turtle Inn. On the flip side, I smile bigger at a flashback of our last Belikin beers which we had in plastic cups with (more!) of the infamous Belize steamie dogs at Jet’s Bar in the Belize City airport (on AOL’s Top 10 Airport Bars in the World list). I think of the charming simplicity of Mrs. Bertha’s tamale stand. The mmmm-inducing lobster and baked breadfruit at Rose’s in Caulker. The greasy and dangerously good fry-jacks (deep-fried dough) in Cahal Pech, immersed in a cacophony of tropical bird sound.

All this because I smelled a fire.

We can travel to places so easily. The best part is we can bring them back with us too.

Doughnuts Gone Wild

Oh the saccharine days of youth, when “calories” were absent from our vocabulary and comprehension. Doughnuts tasted better then as they were acceptable at any time of day, and didn’t necessitate a higher intensity workout or instill guilt. They were a breakfast menu item before an early morning soccer game and certainly passable as a hors d’oeuvre before Sunday pot roast. One could live on Timbits alone when pulling an all-nighter.

Despite all the adverts for acai this and that, Zumba, bootcamps, Shape-Up shoes (and flip flops!), Weight Watchers loaves of bread, yoga-everything and acknowledgement that doughnuts are mere lard and icing—the dangerous doughnut is making a comeback. It’s the year of the Dragon AND the doughnut. Cupcakes and their red velvet loveliness have been pushed to the curb by the nostalgic resurgence of a childhood classic.

In Toronto, gourmet hot dogs and artisan grilled cheese sandwiches are also hogging the press. Duck and pulled pork poutine reviews are clogging blogs. Bannock on Queen is merging all the fatty trends with a duck poutine pizza. The Thompson Hotel Diner is plating “grilled cheese burgers”—a beef patty juxtaposed between two grilled cheese sandwiches. Joining the heavyweight ring is “The Butter Burger” at The Stockyards Smokehouse & Larder. It shares a griddle with red wine butter, bone marrow and blue cheese.

And this brings me to bacon. It’s weaseled its way into every food group: PC Black Label bacon marmalade, bacon & cheddar popcorn, bacon ice cream, maple bacon donuts and even bacon-washed whiskey. TOCA at the Ritz-Carlton, Toronto, took bar snacks to the glass ceiling by offering maple syrup-infused bacon strips with hoity cocktails.

It’s no surprise that doughnuts have pushed their way back into the spotlight too. In comparison to the goliath burgers and poutine pile of curds and WEIGH, Tim Horton’s doughnuts score a more impressive nutritional mark. The Tim’s caramel apple fritter is only 310 calories, 0g cholesterol, 10g total fat, 5g saturated, .1 trans fat, 51g carbs, 17g sugar, 4g protein, 2% fibre and 15% of your daily iron intake.

I can’t even recall the last time I had a real-live-doughnut. In 2008? Uganda, I think. However, I’m a sucker for fusion, upscaled nostalgia and bacon-anything.

When I was 20, I remember pacing in the congested office space at Youth Challenge International, just hours before our group was to fly to Costa Rica. Phil, a team leader with swagger and developing country prowess, divided the room when he entered with dozens of Tim’s doughnuts. They were pillaged by most, but I shied away (because calories had entered my vocab and comprehension). Phil insisted. I resisted. “Trust me. A few days in the jungle and all you’re going to think about is doughnuts.”

My god, he was right. I thought about stupid doughnuts for three months straight. After a steady fill of lacklustre porridge, beans, rice and bananas, I’m surprised I didn’t build a raft and then a plane to get myself out of that very jungle and to the closest doughnut shop.

Even Africans are gaga for doughnuts! My craving-ravaged jungle term served as a quick reminder that passing up on a mandazi might also be something that I would regret. Deep-fried in cooking oil, sometimes dusted in sugar, they became an inevitable weakness. Wrapped in newspaper for less than a quarter, they paired well with the local Ugandan beer Bell, hot and milky ginger tea, Tangawizi ginger beer and lemon Krest soda pop. They paired well with everything and stirred up weepy memories of home. Despite the Ugandan sun saturating my t-shirt and cargos with sweat and the vervet monkeys chittering in the trees, I thought of Canada and doughnuts. I’d trail off on a memory of my dad taking us to Tim’s for the liquid invert sugar rush of hot chocolate after skating at the rink. There would be coveted Boston Creams, strawberry-filled powdered sugar bombs and any of those kid faves groaning with artificially-coloured and flavoured sprinkles and dots. In my data bank, skating equated doughnuts, as did badminton tournaments and any trip into town with my dad where he made us wait in the stifling Oldsmobile while he did banking or got a haircut from Caesar.

Tim Horton’s has always provided a reliably warm glow to any Canadian’s heart. The sappy Christmas commercials and stronghold in our childhood has created a familiar place where a coffee can still be a coffee (but you can get the fancified kind if need be, but you shouldn’t there). Despite their baked good expansion, Tim’s still churns out maple dips, old fashioned glazed, walnut crunch, Dutchies and honey crullers with the same guaranteed taste as anything mom bakes. A 1982 chocolate dip couldn’t be differentiated from a 2012 dip.

But, this is the age of Top Chef, Iron Chef, Cake Boss and the Next Great Baker. The doughnut as we know it needed a makeover. As Melissa Etheridge said, “the only thing that stays the same is change.” And along came pastry chef Ashley Jacot De Boinod and her lard wonderland, Glory Hole Doughnuts, to change our baked good frontier.

On January 14th, The Grid exposed Glory Hole to the hungry masses and, gasp, introduced us to De Boinod’s chicken and waffle doughnut. Chicken and waffle and maple. How fantastic is that? Imagine (with slack jaw): vanilla cookie waffles, buttermilk-battered popcorn chicken and a thick maple glaze on a pillow of a doughnut. And it gets better. She also makes peanut butter and grape jelly (swoon), apple pie, lemon meringue, maple bacon, dulce de leche and coconut cream doughnuts.

Available only at Thor Espresso Bar (35 Bathurst St.) and Burger Bar (319 Augusta) or by direct order, they are impossible to get your greedy hands on. I’m at my fifth failed attempt (at both locations) and have gone to such dire lengths as to follow Thor on Twitter (@thorespressobar) to get a by-the-minute doughnut cargo report. They are usually gone by the time I wake up.

In the interim? If you fancy yourself a fix, and are disappointed by a sell-out, Little Nicky’s (at Queen & Peter) cranks out hot, bite-sized CNE/Tiny Tom-esque doughnuts for cheap (6 for $2.75, dozen for $4). Caplanksy’s food truck, if you catch sight of it, serves up maple and beef-bacon doughnut holes. The Hoof Cafe has gained notoriety for its bone marrow donuts. At the 2011 CNE, Epic Burgers and Waffles scared crowds with the debut of its “doughnut cheeseburger.”

And here’s even more lard hotspots: a precious list of the best donuts in Toronto.

What doughnut do you pledge allegiance to? Have you been lucky enough to nab a Glory Hole? Does the mention of Tiny Tom’s make your heart race a little? C’mon you’re in good company. Dish! What’s your guilty pleasure?

The chicken & waffle in all its lardy glory

Glory Hole Doughnuts