forage

You'd be right in thinking that I am including this photo of Tiny a little gratuitously. (See the artistic contrast of grubby boy with fresh picked flower?) It really has little to do with the topic of today's post.

Except if you look in the top righthand corner.

Wild violets.

These wild violets represent my first real foray into foraging in Canada. Sure there was once an idyllic afternoon spent picking plump blueberries in an overgrown graveyard in Salvage, Newfoundland. But, really, that's almost the stuff of gothic romance novels, not real life. No, no, in real life you stumble across a reference to violet jam while avoiding your real work and then begin to wonder whether this could bridge a gap between real work and, well, something more necessary. Like poetry. Or beauty. Serendipity. Goodness.

A little research later (more avoiding of real work), and it was confirmed. The little purple flowers that compete for space between grass, dandelions, and clover in our backyard, are, indeed, wild violets.

Our early spring crop was not going to yield the two cups required of jam, and so the search began. It will be a while before I can look at green patches—city parks, sidewalk verges, cracks in the pavement—without searching for little pops of purple. However, on an evening walk by the river, we found them—carpeting, flowing, filling, growing—growing, growing everywhere. You can almost imagine it. I should have been in a flowing white dress with a basket.

Of course, I wasn't. (That's what happens when poetry goes on in real life. Instead, I was dressed as I was with a dog puppet expertly tucked under one arm, an actual dog tramping and trundling, and a blue bowl, too small for the task at hand.)

You do what you can with poetry.

While jam seems inevitable at this point, it was not to be. The pesky matter of a sign claiming they (curse them) would be spraying pesticides for Japanese knotweed, was just ambiguous enough to bring doubt as to time and place. Those beautiful, abundant violets were, necessarily, abandoned.

But not so the plans for jam. A few days of foraging fields (soccer), front yards (other people's), and backyards (our own) and we were back in business.

Et, voilà! Or should I say, And, Violets! (Jam, that is).

Worth it, don't you think?

chocolate

I have chocolate poisoning.

On Good Friday I woke with clear intentions, a watertight plan and Resolve (note the capital r).  I was going to enjoy the Easter weekend, and all its foody goodness, but I was going to exercise restraint, modelling moderation and healthy choices that would inspire impressionable young (and older) minds.  It all began well.  There was a salad lunch counterpoint to a hot cross bun breakfast; there was a long, brisk walk with the dog before homemade whole grain pizzas.  And even though a bottle of wine disappeared between the two of us that evening, it didn't feel like the beginning of a dangerous, slippery, sliding slope of debauchery.  Because it wasn't.  It was merely evidence of two grown ups enjoying a rare Tiny's-in-bed-and-we're-Freeeeee! treat.  

Saturday dawned promisingly (although slightly hazily, let's be fair) and the delicious but not too dangerous Easter meal plan continued.  Balance continued unabated (bacon at breakfast but greens at lunch) and a feeling of virtuousness began to wash over me.  "See," I thought to myself, "you can have fun without blowing all weight loss efforts completely out of the water."  Yet, there is an inevitability to this story that is as predictable as the Fundy tides.  Yes, there was moderation; yes, there was balance; yes, there was a clear plan.  But there were also taxes and I had not factored their weight into my Easter equation.

Perhaps it all went wrong when we decided to fill the forms out by hand rather than pay to do it all online.  Or perhaps it is the simple fact that working out your yearly taxes is eye-crossingly, mind-numbingly boring, whichever way you do it.  Whatever the cause, by Sunday, when I was filling out the forms for the third time (having noticed mistakes on the first and second attempt), I sought to relieve my swimming eyes and turned them from the forms and figures to rest on the large dark chocolate bunny gifted to me earlier that day.  Maybe it was its (slightly demonic) green eyes, maybe it was the way I felt it was quietly mocking me from its cellophane nest as I filled out form number 933 but, suddenly, I reached over and snapped off a little bit of bunny ear.

I know I need say no more.  Except to say that the fall was utter and complete.  The taxes are still not finished and I have chocolate poisoning.  We can only hope for a better day tomorrow.

organise

Organisation is a tricky beast.  I find I long to be both well organised with smoothly running systems and to be free to do what I want, when I want, in equal measure.  These two parts of my personality bicker, endlessly. However, it seems that my old life - which erred more on the free-to-be-me side - does not mesh well with my new, I-have-a-toddler-who-is-completely-dependent-on-me-for-his-well-being-and-requires-more-than-buttered-toast-to-survive life.

Enter the meal planner.

Of course, there was a degree of rebellion at first (my free-wheeling side was feeling pouty) but, by the weekend, order and systems reigned and a plan was devised.

There was even nuance - Meatless Monday remembered; Terrible Tuesday (where my OTL isn't home until late and I'm frazzled and looking for the hidden booze by 8.30pm) catered for; and Thick of Things Thursday (where there are a number of separate extra curricular activities planned for both parents and only one car to accomplish it all) smoothly accommodated.  All was going splendidly and To Plan, most importantly, until Tiny decided to help me unpack the groceries this afternoon.

Nine (9) (yes, that is nine, neuf, neun, nueve) cracked eggs later and our first ever family meal plan was necessarily abandoned.

No worries, mate.  Here's a little recipe we like to call Emma's Eight Egg (one was too far gone to be rescued) Corn, Peas, Sun Dried Tomatoes and Basil Slap Up, Last Minute, Winging It Frittata.

I knew my spontaneous side would find a way to have a say in the end. 

cup

Dear God,

Please don't tell me I've just discovered the three minute Chocolate Cake in a Cup recipe.

Love

Emma

PS:  Mum.  It's 17 points.  Per cup.  Cough.

PPS:  We did have a tofu stir fry beforehand and so that cancels things out a bit.

PPPS:  And it's Meatless Monday, so it's for a good cause.

PPPPS:  It was a noble act to eat it, actually, come to think of it.

crunchy

After an unexpected week away from the blog, I logged in last night to add the Queensland Flood Appeal icon to my sidebar (please check it out and participate in some fabulous auctions) and realised that I'd left you all with a very depressing photo as your week's furrybees entertainment.  We are all better now and just have the lingering tickle-coughs that last forever and remind you of your brush with death (or with a winter cold, if you don't want to be quite so dramatic).
So, I thought I'd post a photo of this to cheer you up.

It's actually not much better than a black and white photo of cough syrup, I realise this.  But it's full of such wholesome goodness that you'll be healthier just having looked at it.  Here it is in close up.

Yes, you're right.  It doesn't get any better in close up.  However, as our first ever Mushroom Sesame Tofu Stew, it was delicious.  I would only tweak it ever so slightly at the edges, if I were to make it again.

We have just started to participate in Meatless Monday you see, and this was our first go.  Tiny gobbled it up and I think this confirms me, once and for all, as a Crunchy Granola Mother.  It even has the ultimate in hippy food - tahini - in it.  Tofu and tahini.  It doesn't get much crunchier than that, my friends.  Just wait until I make him take a carrot salad to school for lunch.  The boy is going to be teased mercilessly for his plaited sandals.

Speaking of which (or should that be whom), Tiny has been working diligently alongside me as I type, bringing me gifts to treasure and savour as I think and write.

This may be his small way of getting back at me for the plaited sandals to come.  Each day he spends some very pleasurable time completely emptying the pantry of all the food within his wee grasp.  Every day, that is.  Several times a day.  All of the food.  I'm choosing not to see it as a commentary on the food that is in there but as evidence of his obvious genius.  Yes, that is a big leap, but I'm his mother and I'll do what I like.

See.  Look at him here with another offering.  Genius.

savouring

Merry Christmas everyone.

Well, it's here and nearly over (how did that happen?).  So that it doesn't pass unremarked on this blog, and so that you all can feel even a little of the warm, furry bee that is Christmas here, here are a few festive photos for your Christmas viewing pleasure.
 

 He stood in awe of the sparkly tree that had come in the night.

Before long, he'd taken his first bite.

Without a minute to spare, the cooking began in earnest late last night (Christmas Eve Eve) and continued this morning (after we'd thrown in the (tea)towel at midnight).

My OTL is fearless when it comes to gluten free pastry.  Having no cooking pretentions frees you up immensely, it seems.  He doesn't know this is supposed to be very hard.  They are cranberry and apple mince pies (and are delicious, if I do say so myself).  I feel a Christmas tradition beginning.

Undaunted, he went on to a gluten-free tourtiere which, in my haste to get us all on the road for our Chrissie holiday, forgot to photograph. 

 

And this was my first baking extravaganza off the rank. The gluten-free version of the Down Under Christmas Cake.  Bouyed by thinly veiled panic and can-do Christmas-miracles-do-happen spirit, I went from this straight into gluten and dairy-free Pumpkin Pie (which I also forgot to photograph).  True to form, none of these recipes have been tried and we are now travelling Ontario to force previously untested goods onto family.  Now that's Christmas spirit.

Best wishes to you all.  I had better rush before Santa catches me.

May the new year bring peace on earth.