HERE IS THE APRIL COLUMN I WROTE FOR THE GREAT NORTH ARROW. SEEING AS MANY OF YOU CAN'T GET COPIES OF THIS GREAT ONTARIO PUBLICATION, I HAVE DECIDED TO OFFER IT TONIGHT AS MY DAILY BLOG. BY THE WAY, THE GREAT NORTH ARROW IS PUBLISHED IN DUNCHURCH, ONTARIO.
SO WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL ABOUT HANDWRITTEN RECIPES?
I can remember as a rookie reporter, suffering dearly for my craft back in the late 1970's, driving hundreds of miles on assignments in the West Muskoka area for our newspaper, The Georgian Bay-Muskoka Lakes Beacon, in MacTier. In the early spring, it was as picturesque as any place on earth, with an illuminated mantle of old snow visible in the moonlight, through the evergreen woodlands; yet the liberating scent of open earth that I could detect, just having the window open a crack. The chilly night air would keep me awake at the wheel.
I hate to admit I drove this way because it was unsafe. I had places to be and outside of sleeping in the car, no money for a motel room. Even though I was a pretty experienced driver, some of the icy conditions on the back roads, even in April, were quite a challenge. I was a reporter. I didn't want to make the news, by winding up down one of the many ravines I passed getting from here to there.
Traveling the country lanes of Muskoka, particularly in the early evening, just as the moonlight had begun its spring haunting over the old farmhouses, I used to occupy myself by imagining what was going on in these rural kitchens that I, a hungry reporter, might sincerely enjoy, if by chance, invited to stop over. I still do this today when Suzanne and I are out on an antiquing adventure. It’s the dinner hour that always fascinates me. Just as it did when I was a lonely single, working through dinner, and driving past these historic, friendly looking abodes with their twinkling lights, visible candles and oil lamps engaged on the tables. I imagined the wonderful cuisine being prepared in that farm kitchen, and I suppose it was, as a writer, the catalyst for many kitchen related feature articles from that point.....and from that perspective; the passerby looking in and wishing that instead of driving past, I might instead, and as a real treat, be invited to partake of the evening’s cuisine.
While putting most concentration on the state of the open road, I kept myself awake with this kitchen-fare curiosity. I could so vividly imagine grand harvest tables with a crispy, brown, sage covered old Tom Turkey sitting there all hot and buttered, awaiting the carver’s first cut. I could visualize the sideboard loaded with pickles and sweet relishes, a bowl of steaming dressing, and big vessels of squash or turnip. It was a case when imagination was my best advantage, as in a lot of these motor trips, I was pretty much broke and heading home to a somewhat empty cupboard. It was the way many reporters operated in my day, the printed word being far more important than contented tummies. We sacrificed for our craft. I wasn’t much of a cook anyway. But imagining such wonderful fare was within my creative license anyway, and it didn’t cost me a cent.
There were times on the beat however, that I would arrive to do a story on an anniversary couple, for example, just in time for tea and treats. I'd be waiting for the arrival of M.P. Stan Darling, or M.P.P. Frank Miller, to present government recognition plaques. The kind folks of West Muskoka always fed the hungry reporter. I was fed at many events I covered, and for a hungry, lonely guy, many of these get-togethers were more fun than work. I’d get the story, the photograph, and a plate of roast beef courtesy the local Lions Club. or a recreation group hosting a fundraiser. I was food-conscious as a writer and I guess it was a natural progression then to wrap-up my years in journalism, composing websites about recipes and dining traditions in this part of Ontario.
Imagining what was going on in these farm kitchens wasn’t too much of a stretch for me, as I visited many houses of friends with my parents, during my formative years, and watched as hosts of events prepared their food. I wasn’t satisfied with just eating the local fare but I wanted to see how it came about. I can remember looking in the kitchens and seeing the chaos of preparation, and saw clear evidence of handwritten recipes strewn on the counter-tops, as if they had been both the first and last defense of a really good dinner party. I loved all the hub-bub associated with kitchens......a fetish? I don’t think so but it has been a pretty powerful and life-long addiction to the culture of the kitchen.
The author in me was fascinated by both what I could see, and could not (and had to imagine instead), in these warm kitchen windows, in the farmhouses and neat little homesteads and cottages, I passed quickly by on my reporting jags through the Ontario hinterland. I would love to have visited each one, and experienced not only the food but the family aura that made the kitchens such fabulous places to hole-up; especially when all else in the daily routine became tiresome and oppressive. I felt like that a lot. Alas, when I got home, well, there was just something missing. A partner for one thing! I had just recently been dumped by a long time girlfriend, and admittedly I was a wee bit despondent about this sudden change of life.
As part of the settlement of the relationship, she got the friends, and kitchen gatherings of old mates became pretty thin after this. It was pretty much my cat "Animal," a few hockey mates who dropped over for beer when they heard I had a few, and small social events that were not quite culinary extravaganzas. I did give it the old college try but there always seemed to be something missing. I knew I had to make some changes because this wasn’t my concept of a good life. A good life was having a home where people wanted to visit; and an abode that had the kind of kitchen that would attract a country fiddler, at the same time as comforting a poet philosopher, a political wannabe, an out of work store clerk, a maiden in distress, a bartender with a night off, or a flutist looking to entertain. I wanted my place to be a safe haven, where over a good feast the problems of the world would be debated and resolved.
It is wrong and sexist for me to say it was my partner Suzanne who made all the difference. As a home economist by profession, it’s true, she made me cease eating potato chip and oyster sauce sandwiches, (a lowly reporter’s quick fix before another meeting) and turned me against processed food in return for lemon chicken, casseroles to die for, roast beef that melted in my mouth.....and desserts that were heavenly. Suzanne helped me refine my kitchen fantasies. I begged her to allow me to participate in food preparation......even if that only meant being offered a seat to watch. I am a pretty fair cook of basic foods now, thanks to her tutorship for all these years. And it brought to our combined home, here at Birch Hollow, a true joy for time spent in preparation of food, as much as in its ceremonial consumption as the glorious end to the cooking adventure.
When I’m out on a spring reporting junket now, I still can’t help looking longingly into the distant windows of old, cheerfully appointed farmhouses, and those neat little bungalows tucked into the budding landscape, bathed with the moonlight’s milky glow, and wonder about the respective dinner fare being served to the eager inhabitants tonight. What time tested recipes might have been employed to make these hot dishes, and the cake under glass on the oak sideboard? An idealist? A Rockwelian hold-out? A spirit encased in sentiment? You bet! When I come upon these handwritten recipes, some more than a century old, well folks, I just can’t help myself....I just get lost in time and tradition but I always return in time for dinner. In the next issue of The Great North Arrow, I'll give you some heritage insights about handwritten recipes, and why we need to conserve them for posterity.
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