Recipes for Trouble

It was an ambitious plan, if not downright insane.

A BBQ to launch the summer (and my latest circle around the sun) with an Italian food theme, starring grilled pizza.

Er. Uh. How. Many. People. Did. You. Invite. To. This Party. asked The Librarian, trying not to sound nervous, as we prepped the six different dishes I had planned.

I. Have. No. Idea. I replied as I chopped wild mushrooms, caramelized onions, crumbled Gorgonzola cheese. Maybe. Twenty. Maybe. Thirty. Who. Knows.

It had been a long month. Hell, it had been a long year. Six-day weeks, ten-hour days. A bit of heartbreak, a ton of work, a lot of stress.

And friends,old and new, tumbling through the door, coming up the stairs of the deck, appearing out of nowhere, bearing homemade gnocchi, panzanella, pasta salad, and transnational items like guacamole, Brie, quiche, and Korean spare ribs. Witty friends, thoughtful, silly, sarcastic friends, slightly moody or completely cheerful, kooky, quiet, loquacious, insightful, nervous and calm friends. Colleagues, students and a huge dog, too.

Hair Dude calmly grilled the mushrooms and calamari for two different salads. Amid bytes of conversation and sips of wine, I put out a Sicilian sweet and sour eggplant salad. I returned to the kitchen, joined a conversation about really bad queer films, and prepped the pizza dough.

What’s. Up. With. That. Dough. said The Scrabble Player in her casual low-key way, sauntering over with a caiperinha (made by The Novelist) in her hand.

I. Have. No. Idea. I said for the second time that day. The store-bought dough was limp, washed out. People cast doubtful glances at it and made mental notes to fill up on salad.

Leave it to me said Scrabble Player in a resolute voice, as though she was planning to ace a Triple Word Score. Balkan Babe called me over the settle a dispute about the identity of a particular character in this blog (I’ll never say). Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a pair of biceps kneading dough.

It’s an amazing thing to throw a party and then feel like someone else is hosting it. The Librarian got plates and cutlery out, and The Novelist made sure everyone had one of her killer drinks. Everyone pitched in. Before I knew it, there was a full plate of food my hands, including two pieces of pizza: Pear-Walnut-Gorgonzola, and Sundried-Tomato-Goat-cheese. They were fantastic. They had a smoky taste, and the crust, from the grill, was crisp and chewy, almost like a Neapolitan pie.

It was one of those luminious spring evenings, shades of green glowing in the last of the evening’s light, sky like a swath of dark blue silk. It was one of those parties where hearts and minds are open to new people and new conversations, and the food creates sense and meaning and possibility out of it all.

Caramelized-Onion, Pear and Gorgonzola Grilled Pizza
Serves 10

* 6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
* 1 1/4 lb onions (2 large), halved and thinly sliced
* 14 to 16 oz pizza dough, thawed if frozen
* 1/4 lb Gorgonzola dolce, crumbled (1 cup)
* 2 pears, peeled and coarsely chopped
* 1/2 cup walnuts, toasted and coarsely chopped
* 1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

*
Heat 1/4 cup oil in a 12-inch heavy skillet over medium heat until it shimmers, then cook onions with 1/2 tsp salt and 1/4 tsp pepper, covered, stirring occasionally, until golden, 15 to 20 minutes. Transfer to a small bowl and keep warm, covered.
*
Prepare a grill for direct-heat cooking over low charcoal (medium heat for gas).
*
Stretch dough into a roughly 12- by 10-inch rectangle on a large floured baking sheet and brush with 1 Tbsp oil.
*
Bring dough, onions, cheese, nuts, pears, parsley, and remaining Tbsp oil to grill area.
*
Oil grill rack, then put dough, oiled side down, on grill and brush top with remaining Tbsp oil. Grill, covered, until underside is golden brown, 1 1/2 to 3 minutes.
*
Using tongs, return crust to baking sheet, turning crust over (grilled side up). Sprinkle evenly with onions, cheese, nuts, pears and parsley. Slide pizza from sheet onto grill and grill, covered, until underside is golden brown and cheese is partially melted, about 3 minutes. Transfer to a cutting board and cut into pieces.

She told me about her last breakup, a tale of high drama and breathless, reckless acts of betrayal.

We were eating pizza, the always-dependable Li Pecuri (arugula, goat cheese, sundried tomatoes) at Terroni.

I took a hearty sip of red wine. How. Can. Anyone. Be. Trusted. I mused, with not a little dramatic flourish of my own.

I. Have. To. Trust. she said. If I don’t trust I’m not alive.

Alphonso Lingis writes, “trust requires courage.” And, “trust is…giddy and lustful.”

Getting to know someone takes courage, and it takes time.

We finish our pizza, linger over wine and whiskey. The waitress gives up on us and goes to have a smoke in the back.

Sometimes you get a sudden glimpse of someone, like having a flashbulb go off in a darkened room. For a second, you see the future, and all the mistakes and great decisions you’ll make. All the ways you could be hurt, and all the pleasures you could have.

Trust is moving forward.

How do you trust yourself?

A lovely sensual dinner was had by all at the new-ish branch of Hanoi 3 Seasons on Queen Street East, last weekend.

I’ve always been intrigued by the name. As Writer Butch asked later, What. Is. The. Missing. Season?

Earlier in the day The Hair Dude, The Bohemian and myself had floated over to Ward’s Island for The Librarian’s graduation. As the sound of drumming and the aroma of sweetgrass drifted across the lawn, we could see this would be no ordinary commencement ceremony. Librarian has been studying expressive arts therapy, and as of last Sunday, is an accredited art therapist!

I once forced a gaggle of friends attend my PhD defence, so it was interesting to be on the other side of such a ritual. We sat close together, a little pod of support, worried we’d be asked to dance or confess.

There was an oasis of candles in the centre of the room.Hair Dude (Librarian’s partner) was as nervous, proud, and loving as I’ve ever seen her. The Bohemian exuded a dry, tasty wit. I was over-excited, restless, emotional, a little bit uncomfortable in my fancy shoes.

I cried several times during the ceremony. I glanced over at Hair Dude in embarrassment and caught her wiping away a tear.

We drifted back to Toronto on the ferry, tired and happy.

The day ended at Hanoi 3 Seasons, in a softly lit, beautifully appointed room, Buddha presiding over us. The owner, Hai Luke Tran, came and sat with us as he took our order. He solemnly congratulated The Librarian on her graduation.

The fusion-y North Vietnamese food was unusual, and kept our tastebuds on edge. We shared an appetizer (Hen): spicy baby clams with crisp black-sesame crackers. I found the clams a bit dry, but comfortingly tasty. My main dish was spicy prawns and rice with its delicious, strangely compelling mix of chili, lemongrass and dill.

Maybe the missing season is spring. It’s shorter than the others. Its breezes are unexpected, warm and chilly at the same time. They stroke newly bared skin, arouse suppressed passions.

The missing season is there, we just don’t get to experience it enough: it is growth and transition; celebration of a birth; compassion; community. It’s the fleeting pleasure of satisfaction: a meal or a day or a season in which desires are fulfilled, and the best moment is now.

She asked me: What. Did. You. Have. For. Dinner?

It’s. A. Problem. I said.

I hadn’t cooked much of anything in four months.

I’m. In. Relationship. Detox. I said. I was trying to be funny.

She persisted in writing to me about food. She referred to my takeout churassco chicken, my two-ingredient meals, my tuna melt, my toast with peanut butter - as a detox diet. She was trying to be funny.

People think, or hope, that they know you, through your words. I encounter this all the time. A flurry of intense fan letters may ensue: you feel flattered: known, and yet not known, too. It is an odd, yet distanced intimacy. Sometimes these connections transform into community, or even friendship. Even love. I don’t take them for granted, ever.

Sometimes, the food stories create uncanny understandings with strangers thousands of miles away.

Though I don’t really know her, she seemed to understand that cooking is part of the way I know, feel, and sense the world. Cooks cook. she said.

Something shifted.

I cleaned up my kitchen. Went shopping for groceries. Invited a friend for dinner. My heart fluttered, my breath was uneven. A relatively simple recipe, but I felt so out of practice.

What did we have for dinner? Honey-almond-apricot chicken with couscous, grilled balsamic-orange asparagus on the side.

To detoxify: to remove the poison; to remove foreign and harmful substances; to promote the recovery of a person from an addictive drug; the process of eliminating the build-up of wastes and toxins from the body, often accomplished with fasting, or adhering to specific diets.

My strange simple diet, metaphor for healing.

I emailed her back: I. Guess. I’m. Cooking. Again.

Chicken With Honey and Almonds
[Adapted from Mediterranean Cook by Paul Gayler]

Ingredients

1/2 onion, finely chopped
4 cloves garlic, crushed
1 tspn. finely chopped ginger root
A glug of olive oil
8 boneless chicken thighs
1 small can of chopped tomatoes
3 tbsp honey
1/2 tspn ground cinnamon
1 tspn ground cumin
8-10 dried apricots, sliced
a couple of handfuls of sliced blanched almonds
2 tsp sesame seeds
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Fry onions and garlic in olive oil until translucent. Add spices, stir until absorbed. Add tomatoes, honey, apricots, salt and pepper. Place chicken thighs in roasting pan, pour sauce over top. Sprinkle with almonds and sesame. Cover and bake until chicken is cooked, about 1/2 hour to 45 mins.

Serve with rice or couscous. Sprinkle chopped cilantro over top if desired.