Blog

Here I am a week after Labor Day weekend, the holiday that hit us stealthily. For me, that moment has turned into a sort of celebration that evokes mixed feelings. Usually, this long holiday is the time to get a break from work and celebrate our accomplishments.

It has recently become the moment when I commemorate my younger sister's death—the year 2020, being my first year.

My heart was sinking in the ocean's depths, while its surface was lulling my body. I was so comfortable in this unbearable lightness that I wanted this feeling to last forever. That said, besides the opportunity to celebrate our hard work, another undeniable truth emerges after the long weekend: the end of summer is approaching.

At the start of the summer, I knew for a fact that it would happen, but I refused to believe it that would scroll like a movie played at double speed.

However, I cannot deny that culinary achievements have emerged during these few days of sweet laziness. 

Indeed, exquisite meals resulted. 

I had good excuses for cooking. A few tantalizing New York Times newsletters found their way into my inbox to inspire me with meal ideas featuring seasonal ingredients.

I stayed home alone with my little one for one of the rare times, while Mr. Agréable had returned to his mother's side in Trois-Pistoles. In the end, his father's health was fleeting and seemed to be fading slowly. 

But all is not doomed to gloom.

On Friday, I received a duo of 9-year-old diners excited to see the biggest draw for two weeks: two 6 week old gray and black tabby kittens born in the countryside. We had brought two of them home to choose one after a few weeks of observation.

Knowing that I'm not as entertaining as those furry little balls—and neither as entertaining as Mr. Agréable, an unequaled tongue-in-cheek, by the way—I tried to delight them with my cooked dishes. A thorny task, my friend. 

But I had concocted a wise plan. As a woman alone at home, before accepting to venture onto the slippery slope of receiving three over-active kids, they were subjected to my kitchen dictates. They would come to my house only if they ate all my food—all of it!—without exhaling complaints. 

Nothing is more disappointing than seeing children push away their barely eaten plate because of an onion slice, a green speck, or an imperceptible pepper dot. In my hyposensitive adult eyes, anyway. 

My winning tactic was to make pasta. But not just any pasta. Pasta with a little twist: mashed corn as a creamy white sauce. I give myself a mark of 14/20 for this exploit. 

Three and a half of five people loved the dish: starting with me, my son, and one of his friends. The half person comes from the fact that his other friend loved my dish until chili flakes betrayed him and turned him off. He was unable to get up from the table before fulfilling his contract. Dictatorship is wonderful.

The other days turned out to be more graceful.

Saturday, I made my first Pappa al Pomodoro (bread and tomato soup) ùwith Roma tomatoes. I let myself be carried away by this dish whose tomatoes' elemental flavor, now sweet and now tangy, was on point. Bright and fragrant, they were enriched with good fruity olive oil and soft, puffy bread (homemade, too). Note: I think heirloom tomatoes would have been a hit. 

On Sunday, my little monster and I left town early to breathe the fresh air an hour and a half north of Montreal, in Saint-Donat—a comfortable program on a beautiful sunny day. 

I left with the idea of ​​making plum crumble, something that had been running through my head for a few days. Indeed, I had seen these pretty dusty purple jewels appear on the stalls. I had spotted another type of plum, Italian plums, but I had taken local plums instead. I still had the regret to have brushed against the other kind and to have abandoned them in their square wooden bed.

So that morning, before heading to the Laurentians, I stuffed the ingredients I needed in a bag, and I stopped at the neighborhood grocery store to pick up fifteen of those oblong Italian babies.

Eager to taste these unusual plums, my little monster swallowed one on the way while we were traveling the roads with mountainous and green horizons. I, too, was tempted to savor one.

But I tried to save the other fruits for the best part.

We arrived shortly before noon. My hosts, Yolaine and Peter, were quick to treat us to sugar-free cranberry veggie cookies. They then took us to a lake two steps away from their chalet to enjoy the first part of the day. Along the way, we lost Peter, who had met a neighbor and stopped to exercise his excellent chattering skills. 

The children bathed in the lake a bit, while we sat on a bench watching them, inhaling the fresh air and letting our hair dance in the wind. The late afternoon involved a little walk in the woods where we philosophized on sensible but challenging to apply ideal parenting theories while my son was practicing his photographer skills. 

As a parent, you would be acting as a guide, as a resource person to help your child, this new traveler lost in earthly space, unravel his emotions, and know himself well inside to develop his full potential. Deep understanding and adapting life lessons to the child's unique character traits would be the approach. But you should not forget your self-understanding and self-development—your daily challenges.

This little intellectual stroll was rewarded with olive focaccia, patiently waiting for us on the kitchen counter. But before we sat down to the table, I got busy to make my crumble, while Peter had gone to stock up on other food. 

The plums' bellies were ripped open, pitted, cut in half, and placed in a baking dish; they were stirred with a little flour and spices and covered with a thin white coating of flour, mixed with brown sugar, non-dairy butter, and spices.

All that remained was to put everything in the oven except that...

Failing to have any aluminum foil, I covered my dish with stove rings, then slipped it into the oven until we finished our meal. 

Once again, I was dealing with hard-to-please children. My hosts' children had withdrawn from the table because, they told me, the crumble was not their cup of tea. 

But luckily, I raised a gourmet. 

He was waiting for this moment and was very happy to stuff himself with dessert. After almost 45 min, the crumble's sweet scent perfumed the kitchen to such an extent that Peter's hunger worsened. It was high time we put it into our mouths. I opened the oven, and the plum jam was bubbling in their juice and bursting from the heat. They were ready to be attacked by our forks.

The topping was pale brown and pleasantly lumpy, crisp in some parts, chewy in others, soft where it meets the jammy fruit below. The plum filling was so solidly tart that it reminded me of the taste of lemon.

I think that's why my little monster served himself with two significant portions. 

In fact, we all followed suit. During our tasting, Peter told me about an effective person's organizational skills, which made me feel out of place. I could only wipe away this grievous awareness or reminder by dipping my spoon into a third portion.

But all good things come to an end.

Darkness had arrived, and the time had come for us to hit the road again. I got into my car, sad to see another day of the long weekend disappear, and drove through the night to Montreal.

We arrived a little before midnight. After the obligatory nightly personal care, we threw ourselves into our beds, drunk with happiness and aware that we still had Monday left—that extra day to be happily unemployed and celebrate our achievements from the last three days all lightly.

Hi there!

I'm on a mission to help you get nutrient-dense, easy, and mouthwatering plan-based recipe ideas so you can feel stimulated, well-equipped, and confident to eat and cook better.

Learn more about me →

My week in the Bas-Saint-Laurent region was not just about flitting from one place to another and spending my time discovering the area. I had important things to do.

My first mission, dear guest, was to give Mr. Agréable support, who was giving it to his parents. A worrying situation had arisen. Over the past month, my stepfather's cognitive state had dramatically deteriorated in an unexplained way. For a month, he had been fading at home.

This expansive ninety-year-old, this man who could monopolize a conversation by spouting his prewar memories, political speeches, and so on, was now giving laconic answers, dozing in his chair all day and had lost his appetite. He had been suffering from Alzheimer's disease for ten years—fortunately, in a rather mild way—and now, we were wondering if his days were numbered.

Michelle, an elegant woman with short hair and constantly red-painted nails, spent most of her days physically striving to help her husband, this tall man of six feet, to move around, dress, and bathe. She was busy changing the bedding due to nighttime accidents. She was saddened to feel lonely by the lack of lively exchanges.

So she was impatient to see us.

If it's true that Jim had weakened, I never ceased to admire the tenderness, the concern, the love, inexhaustible, that my mother-in-law squandered. When he had been dozing in his straw-yellow swivel chair for a long time, she would shout cutely at him: "Coucou!", and her husband's velvet eyes widened happily. Sometimes she would tell him that as she leaned in and gave him a loving kiss on the forehead. I could see his face light up, and his smile broadening instantly, as his trembling hands and slender fingers took her face.

After 60 years of marriage, these two looked like lovebirds.  

My second mission was intentional.

It consisted of sliding my demi-glace sauce into any dish—or any dish—so I could taste the result of my labor of the week before. So, I brought one of my jars that I was planning to leave with my mother-in-law as soon as I finished my cooking experiences.

Wait, I have to share something with you. I'm a firm believer in coincidence.

A theme followed me throughout this stay. The mushroom theme. Mushrooms haunted me everywhere: in my dreams, in the only available vegan meal at the Mange-Grenouille inn in Bic, in my hike in the forest and other impromptu meals.

It was enough to make a girl believe she was madly being hunted down.

Well, I ended up performing what the fungal spirits were blowing at me on the second night of my arrival.

My shiitake mushroom demi-glace was impatient to stay in her little Mason jar and never missed a single opportunity to look me straight in the eye every time I opened the fridge door.

That night, Michelle had made snow peas, which had been soaked in a pot of water for a few hours. Thanks to the provisions I had brought from home, I sautéed red peppers and onions in a pan, added the snow peas in the dance, and incorporated the brown gelatinous sauce. At the first drop, it sizzled on the black surface. When the vegetables were done sautéing, I transferred them to a round baking dish that I brought to the table among the plates.

Despite the complexity of the situation, the meal went off with grace.

Now we didn't want to be shamefully accused of parricide. So Mr. Agréable and I were sitting at the table's ends, opposite the elders, to respect social distancing just as we had done the day before. We started with rosé and Vichyssoise-style leek soup, but without cream and without chicken broth.

Jim, haggard-eyed, was sitting in front of his plate and eating very slowly, and Michelle was delighted to finally see him eating more than usual. The conversations with him were quite mysterious.

Sometimes he'd be asked about some memory, but he'd always respond by saying with his quavering voice, yes, sure that's it, that's what I probably said earlier. And when Mr. Agréable asked him:

— So, dad, what was the best time of your life?

He slowly lifted his head, looking at his son, and a long pause ensued.

— It must have been when you were ambassador, right? He continued. Your meeting with Fidel Castro when we lived in Cuba must have been a highlight!

But the ex-ambassador was walled up in silence, and it felt like his story had suddenly evaporated from his memory. After a few moments, he replied:

— Well... I'll have to think about it.

No matter the question requiring to fish out in the reminiscences of a distant past—even not too distant—Jim sheepishly gave a simple and sure answer and never said I do not remember.

Mr. Agréable and Michelle let go, and in the end, only three of us were talking.

The second topping of sauce was in sight.

On the third night, lamb was offered for the omnivores with a green salad for everyone. I bypassed the meat meal by sautéing cubed tofu in a splash of oil, then, once golden, in tamari. Then came the demi-glace.

To my expectation, the sauce crackled in the pan as soon as it came in; but to my surprise, mixed with the black sauce, the steam rose, bathing my face in a hot and intoxicating scent, then filling the air with heady smoke.

Mr. Agréable used it to coat the cauliflower first steamed, then sautéed. The menu was complete.

This time around, we weren't asking Jim questions that were too many compromising. If he was called upon, it was to keep his head above water like a person treading water in the middle of a vast ocean.

While Jim had invisible blinders, I only had eyes for my tofu, of which the sauce was glistening on one of the square surfaces. I stuck my fork into the soft dice and stuffed a few pieces into my mouth. It was incredibly tender, with a meaty flavor tinged with salt. It was so uplifting that for a moment, I disappeared into the flavor.

And so, at this very moment, I let go, and there's was only two of us talking.

Now I was longing to put my sauce on something else, like a dog with its tongue hanging out waiting for the next dish.

In fact, I had only one idea in mind. A single obsession that I needed to satisfy.

I desperately wanted to coat the sauce on some pasta.

Unfortunately, I couldn't satisfy my desire.

After our three other days of excursion in the region, we returned last Friday to Trois-Pistoles to end our stay. So far, our only concern was to give Jim the necessary care.

He had received an assessment from a nurse who strongly recommended that the family bring him to the emergency room as soon as possible for observation. This is what we ended up doing. You can quite understand that I didn't feel very creative.

This is how my adventures in the Bas-Saint-Laurent region ended, dear guest. But if you ever decide to travel to the area, let yourself be tempted by the gourmet treasures at Bic (Chez Saint-Pierre) and Kamaouraska (Le Café du Clocher).

We returned to Montreal last Sunday in stormy rains with the loot of our trip: sourdough bread and antique finds.

We called Michelle when we got back, and Jim was still in the hospital.

But she announced to us the good news. My stepfather had contracted a urinary tract infection, which put him in a state of delirium. It turns out that anything can upset the cognitive state of an elderly person with Alzheimer's. After the right medication, he would return to his normal state, we were reassured.

A few days later, good old Jim had's talkative nature returned.

Now I'm home and can happily focus on my next assignment.

Oh Bas-Saint-Laurent, we seem to be playing the hard-to-get game, but I must admit, you ended up charming me all the same. We meet on the shore in Trois-Pistoles, and you offer me pure air, magnificent sunsets, and peace of mind.

You waltz your waves on the rocks every four hours, and I watch them tenderly, knowing full well that swimming in your arctic waters would turn me into a stone statue. You always wait for me with infinite patience, even when I'm stuck in an absurdly long line of vehicles of several kilometers, extending from the Fromagerie des Basques on Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, at the Highway 20 exit.

We arrived at my in-laws' chalet on a Saturday evening after a disorganized departure (on my part) and wandering strolls in Montreal. After seven years of regular visits, the cottage in Trois-Pistoles has become my place of soothing and healing, with its convex floor in the living room, its rooms merged into one (for example, a sink in the bedroom), and its straight view of the St. Lawrence River. We go there at least three times a year.

Not long after our arrival, my in-laws, my darling, and I sat down with a convivial meal and a glass of rosé. (My little one is being taken care of by his father in Paris.) After a quiet evening, we went up to our room, got ready to sleep, and threw ourselves into our semblance of a king-size bed, two small beds pushed together like Siamese twins.

But we sleep very well there.

As I sleep upright, I never slump into the slot. And waking up in this bedroom is like feeling the soft caress of the hand of a tender and loving mother on the cheek. The light and brisk winds slip through the windows, brush our faces, and leave their scent of salty air in their path.

We had moments of sunshine during the three days that we stayed there, but the sky clouded pretty quickly, and the rain then poured down on us. This prompted me to stuff myself with food literature on my new e-reader.

Then, we went to the Auberge Mange-Grenouille in Bic village. The small white front door, reminding me of Alice in Wonderland, set the tone. Under the warm and subdued lights, we were welcomed in a warm atmosphere and a heterogeneous, burlesque, and theatrical decor. I felt like I was part of a 17th or 18th century still life canvas.

On either side were the waiting rooms with sumptuous sofas. Each room contained an upright piano with all kinds of antique decorative objects on them: busts, old books, and small terracotta plant pots. In the left corner, khaki statues of a man dressed as a senior military officer and a woman in an evening gown stood in front of the wall painted with a greenish landscape. The place was filled with huge flowerpots and flowering branches. Next came two dining rooms, large rooms with solid wood tables and overstuffed chairs.

The one at the back, surrounded by large windows, opened directly onto the picturesque garden and gave the impression of being in a treehouse perched high in communion with nature. In the corners, slender white birch trunks crossed the floor, and flowering branches hung from the ceiling. And to accentuate nature's expression, two java finches chirped in a cute little cage under gold-colored cherubs, which, tilted down, floated in the air with trumpets in their hands.

Everything was so enchanting.

And other things enchanted us even more.

The next day, after burning two hours of energy and calories on the steeply climbing trails at Parc régional du Bic, we discovered two large, bright red containers that were serving street food.

It was the Cantine côtière, Chez Saint-Pierre restaurant's new endeavor to adapt to the Covid-19 crisis's constraints. The co-founder Colombe St-Pierre is an award-wining chef who was named chef of the year at the last Gala des Lauriers de la gastronomie québécoise (2018).

Mr. Agréable ordered a lobster roll with shrimp, a sort of club sandwich typically garnished with coleslaw, mayonnaise sauce, and seafood; his sandwich had a fennel salad instead. I opted for homemade fries and vegetable antipasti.

At the inn, I went to pick up some kitchen accessories bought earlier in a shop, then we settled down in its garden to enjoy our meals.

When Mr. Agréable unpacked his lunch, I was jealous to see his sandwich so beautifully presented: his hot-dog bun tainted in black ink was filled with a dripping pale green sauce, shrimp, fennel ribbons twisted like streamers, all topped with pink flower petals.

But my choice did not disappoint.

The tomatoes, almost whole, were tasty and perfectly caramelized. With each incision of my teeth on their fragile skin, their juices exploded up to my throat. The zucchini melted in my mouth. The fries had a rustic taste, and the accompanying ketchup sauce, amber-colored, was sweet on the tongue. The flavors were perfectly balanced. It was not too sweet, not too sour. Despite my humble choice of food, several moans ensued.

After this two-day stay, we moved towards Kamouraska village. But first, we hunted for fresh strawberries and rarities in antique shops.

And we had achieved our goals.

We had a 1.5L cardboard basket of passionately red strawberries, transparent brown retro water glasses, and a few miscellaneous items for my photo ops.

At Auberge Le 112, in Saint-André de Kamouraska, the welcome was not warm, compared to the previous inn. The hostess looked horrified by our early arrival and our basket of bloodthirsty strawberries, risking to soil the crisp white sheets in the room. We placed our provisions in a fridge, stashed in a room next to the dining room by her indication. Then, Mr. Agréable brazenly dropped his luggage in the lobby before leaving.

Failing to find attractive restaurants, we headed to the heart of Kamouraska, which was buzzing with life. Like flairless and lost paparazzi, we tried to spot the home of a Quebec actor-slash-director. We had heard that he owned a home in the region. A salesperson in a boutique showcasing Quebec's crafts even boasted that it was at the main road's bend. We looked at one house perched on top of a hill and determined that it was it. (We later found out that he was wrong.)

We then moved to the Café du Clocher. 

Sitting at the corner of a terrace to admire the coastline, we had a late lunch, each eating lentil soup, a veggie-pâté sandwich for me, and a lobster roll with crab this time for mister.

It was pleasant and sunny, and after a while, we trotted over to the Niemand Bakery, where a line stretched down the entire alleyway of the Victorian house. We found Denise Pelletier, the baker, closing the gates and warning stray customers of the impending closure and assured unavailability of her famous multigrain bread within the next few days.

Humans operate by imitation, so we joined the lineup. We tried to bribe the baker to give us her sourdough starter to reproduce at home. Despite her interest in my ethnic big teardrop earrings and consideration for a fruitful exchange, it wasn't enough to spellbind her.

But what luck we had!

She gave us the very last loaf of bread before she could make more two days later.

We entered a last antique shop to complete our walk, where I bought an old flour sifter with a crank in a kind of metal cylinder. I was hanging out inside the store, hoping to find something unique, while Mr. Agréable was out faster than me.

Aside from his lack of interest in the proposed products, he was outraged by the sight of a rococo lamp made up of a black man holding a lampshade like an umbrella. When I asked the salesman in all lightness, mischievous, what the lamp with a negro as a foot lamp was, he stammered, awkwardly groping the neighboring lamp—a kind of statue of liberty—while giving its specificities with its back turned.

I pointed out the said lamp and inquired about its popularity. "This? Oh yes, it's very trendy, he stammered. People are snapping it up in online marketplaces and paying double the price." It was captivating.

It's a shame that I missed taken a picture of it to show it to you. I later tried to find it on the internet, but I couldn't find any trace of this thing.

In the car before heading to the inn, we took a bite of our gourmet treasure.

My thumb pierced a crisp, solid surface and sank into a spongy and moist crumb so wet I was surprised. This triggered my libidinous impulses—the texture was so damp and enveloping. I carried a wildly ripped piece to my mouth, and the crumb tasted perfectly toasted, slightly tart, nutty, with complex and subtle aromas. The freshness of this bread was on point.

And with good reason!

Kneaded and shaped by hand, Boulangerie Niemand's bread is well baked in a deck oven. And the wheat or rye grains from the region are stone-ground in their mill.

Our day ended with our return to the inn. The hostess accompanied us to our room, with a dissuasive and aloof attitude. Was it the fear of contracting the COVID?

Anyway, the refined charm of the room's rustic-meets-modern interior design compensated for her questionable reception. A few water features, a black painted clawfoot tub with sparkling silver faucets and a white pedestal sink, stood against a wall opposite our sleek four-poster bed.

After a delicious nap in our cozy bed, we walked through the inn's front yard under a now cloudy sky towards the central kitchen and had a modest but convenient supper of multigrain bread and strawberries. Then, we ended our evening with relaxing activities. I slipped into a bubble bath listening to Chill & Soul music on Spotify while Mr. Agréable feasted on a playful read.

Shortly after, we had turned off the lights hoping for the following day in the Bas-Saint-Laurent to be even more charming.

To be continued…

Hi there!

I'm on a mission to help you get nutrient-dense, easy, and mouthwatering plan-based recipe ideas so you can feel stimulated, well-equipped, and confident to eat and cook better.

Learn more about me →

Be warned: if you are a hard-core foodie, cover your ears. My next words will be obscene, to say the least: I'm not a real cook. A genuine passionate cook.

I don't follow restaurants that open and close and reopen. I don't watch out for cooking fads. I don't attend cooking classes. I don't do wine tastings or culinary tourism. Well, I never did.

Yes, nutrition and health inspire me. And food science piques my curiosity. The truth is, I'm more excited about wowing my friends to receive a shower of compliments than creating new impromptu recipes. Call it low self-esteem, I don't know, but it makes me feel good.

Cooking entails a lot of work. I speak for myself, eh.

It doesn't excite me to spend a crazy and nerve-racking time in front of the stove for more than 1 hour to be successful with a few dishes. It doesn't amuse me having to clean up the spills that have flown on the stove, on the floor, or under the cooker hood. And I don't get excited about washing counters spotted with bits of ingredients and the uncountable pots and pans.

Cleaning cookware and everything else in between put me off.

I once saw a girl's Instagram post showing her messy counter as one would see at the end of a meal for ten. She had a gypsy fashion style with a floppy hat. After commenting poor you, you'll have to clean all these dishes, she replied that this was what she loved to do. It soothed her. Either she was a big liar, or I'm abnormal.

I cooked with a friend who tidied up right away after using an ingredient. Super efficient. Obviously, that's the right thing to do, but I just can't do it.

Thus, to avoid spending time in the kitchen and cleaning dishes, I could eat green lentils right out of the pan with every meal. Bland quinoa too. With a little salt. And olive oil. And some spices.

Okay, I digress.

This story begins with meal kits that I was receiving every week a few months ago. 

They arrived at my door, in a big box, with three sets of ingredients separated in portions in advance and sometimes, partially prepped to cook homemade meals. What do you mean? You say.

Well, it wasn't my idea. It was Mr. Pleasant's initiative.

An ingenious trick to enjoy cooking 

I was delighted to chill three times a week and be catered to. Sometimes a girl just wants to be lazy.

So, yes, Mr. Pleasant enrolled in a membership to the Goodfood home-cooked meal delivery service, similar to Hello Fresh in Germany or Blue Apron in the United States. 

To please everyone, he opted for vegetarian meals. To be honest, it made the guys happier than me. Many of the recipes contained a ton of cheese. I don't eat it, you know. 

But I was able to find a way to take advantage of it too.

Goodfood's dishes are supposed to take the time indicated, but honestly, it always took longer than expected. It would've been less the case if I had practiced the recipes a gazillion times. I must say that I'm a turtle in the kitchen too.

If it weren't for the pre-cut ingredients, it would've been even worse. We receive almost everything so that it's also premeasured. 

Indeed, the ingredients are often found in mini-containers or sachets prepared to make your life easier. Sometimes that's overkill, I think. You can end up with a peeled garlic clove or three parsley sprigs in a small bag or container.

My negative comment: at the end of a recipe, although made from recycled materials, too many bags and small containers filled my trash. It was dreadful.

Otherwise, their success undoubtedly lies in the preparation speed, the tasty side of the dishes, and the instructions to follow in their recipe cards. 

In the front sheet, these recipe cards indicate the ingredients and the material to use. On the back, you find the step by step recipe with photos.

Anyway, everything was delicious.

My palate reveled in world-inspired dishes. 

Goodfood offered us recipes from all over the world. From the East to the West, passing through Italy, India, and Morocco.

We feasted on the red lentil dal in coconut milk, served with a spinach salad with currants and hot naans. We loaded our bowls with the veggie Chili Verde with White Beans and Butternut squash, accompanied by homemade tortilla chips. We attacked the Lemony Risotto with Green Peas and Basil, topped with fresh mozzarella—for the guys—and served with an arugula and red cabbage salad.

Before I completely finish you off with these painfully tantalizing descriptions, I'll tell you about my top dishes. I licked my chops with two absolutely scrumptious dishes. 

I made several moans as I slurped the Mee Goreng (spiced fried noodles) with fresh Shanghai Noodles and Crunchy Multi-Colored Vegetables. It was topped with crushed peanuts and flavored with garlic, lime juice, and cilantro. (The Mee Goreng is a staple of Indonesian street food. Here it included red peppers and multi-colored Nantes carrots.) 

And most of all, I almost passed out tossing the Roasted Sweet Potatoes topped with Chana Masala and sprinkled with fresh mint. They were all resting on a refreshing avocado purée or sauce with cucumber. The sauce was supposed to be raita made with yogurt and mashed avocado, but I took it out since I'm anti-dairy. The avocado purée contained basic ingredients that would be found in guacamole. It was di-vine.

Even though the sauce had been stripped, a lot of whispers and sighs ensued.

Every time I cooked the dishes, I scanned the recipe cards to understand why the dishes were so tasty. 

And after a few cooked meals, a light bulb flashed in my head. 

Astonishing revelations.

In fact, the recipes were mouthwatering due to two things: the sauces and the spice blends. 

Know, dear guest, that I have excavated for you. As I told you earlier, Goodfood gives great recipe cards that show the right place, the ingredients, and the material to use and, on the back, the step by step recipe. 

But they do not always detail precisely the ingredients of mixtures of spices or sauces. In particular, the veggie demi-glace.

And they were the ones that intrigued me enormously.

Like a truffle animal, I spotted the treasure on the main packaging. Noticing the addition of cornstarch, I concluded that demi-glace is no less than thickened broth. Buying a store-bought demi-glace is a solution, but I prefer mine done from scratch.

To make a long story short, I tried to thickened a broth with corn starch, but it didn't turn out with the same texture or taste. 

But my deep curiosity has paid off.

Finally, I ended up finding a recipe for demi-glace on the Internet that I reproduced recently. It contains a combination of sweet, savory and pungy vegetables, and shiitake mushrooms.

When I finished preparing my sauce, I was delighted! And I got an amount that will last me for a very long time.

The demi-glace was complex and aromatic, rich but certainly not too thick, silky. It revealed a sequence of aromas that opened with the wine's slight brightness, continued with the round and woody flavor of shiitake mushrooms and ended with the sweetness of beets and carrots. 

I don't know a better way to describe it as a sauce that felt impeccably French; that is, it tasted harmonious and refined.

It's scrumptious enough to turn me into a cook ready to clean up the spills caused by my clumsiness and lick them lovingly.

Get the recipe here

Hi there!

I'm on a mission to help you get nutrient-dense, easy, and mouthwatering plan-based recipe ideas so you can feel stimulated, well-equipped, and confident to eat and cook better.

Learn more about me →

Right now, I'm in a shopping state of mind that's worrisome. My mouth waters on handcrafted kitchen accessories and tableware websites. All this, to dress up my photos and my kitchen. But not just that! To also cheer me up.

It's not that I'm depressed or anything, no. I'm bored. Boredom is never good, yet I have so much to prepare! I worked hard for you, dear guest.

Recently I cooked demi-glace and numerous impromptu dishes that would be worth being presented here. I savored lemony risotto with green peas, pearl barley risotto with mushrooms, Panzanella salad... Yesterday we stuffed down honey-roasted cauliflower and celeriac bowls on a bed of couscous, covered with a tomato and cucumber salad and drizzled with pomegranate dressing.

And guess what? I'm still nurturing my wild yeast. This is my third one. Long story.

So last Sunday I went on this website that I mentioned once, Chic & Basta. This website showcases Quebec artisans’ products.

And above all, highly sensuous pottery

Like many, I let myself be seduced by the craft of the time. That time when we worked the land in the circles of women farmers.

Now everything handmade is beautiful. I understand why pottery is all the rage. It's become sexy!

Several restaurants have contributed to this enthusiasm as of late. It took birth with the nomination of Noma, a restaurant in Copenhagen in Denmark, prized as the best restaurant in the world in 2010. The star chef René Redzepi used many local ceramics.

And many chefs, and others, imitated him. Now we see light beige or gray sandstone, matte, almost everywhere.

The movement "From farm to table" influenced everything around gourmet eating and added a rustic, naturalist, hyperlocal aspect. Will we see a "From balcony to table" movement soon?  We shall see.

Anyway, I’d been coveting the products of L’Atelier Trema for a while. They are much like other pottery I've seen on American interior design websites (especially Californian interior design). Unfortunately, the ones I wanted were out of stock everywhere. In any case, it would surely cost me an arm and a leg to deliver the goods to my homeland.

So, decisive, I surfed in the section of the said collection on the website, put the items in my cart, paid and ran away from my computer so I wouldn’t regret it. The deal was quickly sealed.

Yesterday I heard the doorbell ring. Obviously, I wondered who would to that in this time of confinement. I’d completely forgotten about my weekend purchase.

But when I opened the package… Oh! How rejoiced I was. Magnificent.

It only took three days for them to receive my goods with no shipping charges. And they are hyperlocal. As you can see, what we seek is often closer to us than we think.

Now I'm glad I dressed up my kitchen. And for the few purchases that I made, I think I don’t have to worry about my state of mind.

Hi there!

I'm on a mission to help you get nutrient-dense, easy, and mouthwatering plan-based recipe ideas so you can feel stimulated, well-equipped, and confident to eat and cook better.

Learn more about me →

A few nights ago, I woke up with a jolt in the middle of the night. A horrible thought shook me. I won’t be able to make my sourdough bread!

Okay, I know I’m obsessed with it. This is my third post on the subject. And it may not be the last. *Singing voice*

Just recently, our government announced for ALL stores to close on Tuesday, March 24th. When I found out, I only had 24 hours left to go shopping. My Banneton (pronounced in French) basket!

The day before yesterday, I spoke to a friend who told me how carefree she was regarding this pandemic. At first, she invited people to visit her. She invited children to play with her kids too. Totally nonchalant. No one is calling her now.

The air has thickened. We’re breathing mistrust. Fear.

Oh! Montreal! You who were such a welcoming city. Now you've become austere, gray. I was so happy in the woods. The cottony snow that fell a few days ago is melting in the city. And there’s no one to walk in the slush.

To go back to being carefree, I don’t exclude myself either. But since that famous night, I only think of bacteria.

My leaven worries me.

The preparation of the leaven worries me.

The explanation I gave you about the preparation of the leaven worries me.

And then, this other thought haunts me: No way! Did I tell you to mix the dough with your finger?! That was before the damn virus arrived. We want our bacteria, but not that thing in the bread! Yeah, I can see myself giving sourdough and COVID-19 bread. This is carelessness.

Shortly after, the panic subsided. This ugly virus – because it’s really ugly; Have you seen its face? – will be scorched during the cooking process. Yes, burn baby, burn.

During the day, I went on a frantic quest.

I called two kitchen supply stores near me to find my coveted banneton. Hoping to run, to throw myself on the floor, and to slide under the door right before it closes downward. Like the heroes of action movies do.

So, the first interlocutor didn’t know what it was. When I said it in English, "bread bowl" with my rudimentary description, he replied that he didn’t have one. Modern city-dwellers no longer use this kind of thing. Oh, okay!

The second one also gave me a negative answer. He asked me what the advantage was, to which I replied I don't know. According to him, any salad bowl would do the trick. Okay, well, let's give up, then.

Do you know what it is by the way? In case you don’t know, a Banneton basket is a wicker basket without handles that helps you raise round bread. I saw this stuff for the first time in the video demo to explain how to make sourdough bread.

Last night I had a strange dream.

I dreamed that I was making super creamy tomato soup in a cream-colored casserole dish. After, I poured it into a bowl. Everything seemed to flow wonderfully well without splashing when suddenly, I discovered solid bodies in the bottom.

There were whole ingredients left: round red tomatoes and something else that I can't remember now. But I think it was beige. Round too. Did that mean that...?

As soon as I woke up, I grabbed my cell phone. Look here, dear friend, this is not one of my usual ritual morning practices. Not first thing in the morning with my half-opened and crusty eyes.

The other day, this is what happened to me and the poor guy had to get lumbered with 1 hour 30 min of public transport in the cold Montreal winter to get to work at 8 am. I saw him sitting at his desk, telling me he was worried about me. It was only then that I noticed my blunder. Sorry, Olivier. Fortunately, he forgave me.

So yes, I hurriedly grabbed my cell phone.

And I can't remember why, but I thought of a unique place.

It was a little hardware store specializing in kitchen supplies in Little Italy close to my home – La Quincaillerie Dante.

The explanation of my gesture is coming back to me now. I was thinking of the photos I wanted to take during the day. After this, I wondered if this hardware store didn't have some pretty accessories that I could have delivered.

In these times of confinement, it’s better to take the opportunity to pimp your kitchen. And by extension, transform your home into a pleasant space, right?

Their website seemed well designed. In the product field, I entered the word "banneton". By chance. And boom. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There it was smiling at me through the small screen.

So, was that the meaning of my dream? To get a Banneton basket at any cost to successfully make my sourdough bread? I will do it for sure.

I miss Little Italy too. Oh! Sweet Dante street. So many pearls to discover:

• Anatol spices for its wide variety of spices (over 600 spices), nuts, grains, loose teas;
• Pizzaria Napoletana, established for 70 years, for its range of thin-crust pizzas, its sober decor and its nice terrace (inside, it's like being in a huge family dining room);
• across the street, its sister, Miss Napoletana for her products imported from Italy and her “carreto” (ice cream and sorbet cart) of gelato in summer;
• Pasticceria Alati-Caserta for its delightful Italian desserts (approved by P'tit Montre) in a retro setting.

Little Italy, I will wander your streets more often. In the meantime, the ride will be virtual so that my sourdough and I can rest in peace.

[P.-S. While we’re on the subject of online shopping, I should also get a casserole dish, by the way. I don’t have one.

P.-P.-S. I want to send all my prayers to the Italians right now who are losing a lot of their loved ones.]

Hi there!

I'm on a mission to help you get nutrient-dense, easy, and mouthwatering plan-based recipe ideas so you can feel stimulated, well-equipped, and confident to eat and cook better.

Learn more about me →

Like anything shady or that doesn't appeal to me at first, I was taken aback when I started to really love avocado.

No, no, I'm sorry, I'm fooling you, as I have been fooled myself, by the way. In fact, the avocado in question was concealed, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, in a raw chocolate mousse. I admit, dear guest, it’s a cheating scheme on behalf of a faux gourmet, it's no way to appreciate food if it's not in its raw, natural state, but still, it was a good prelude.

I was in my early thirties, becoming a raw food neophyte when I discovered the recipe of a certain Jennifer Cornbleet on YouTube. My palate was still a stranger to this unsweetened pear and, needless to say, I didn't expect it to amaze me under the guise of a decadent dessert. You can imagine my surprise when I brought to my lips a caress of creamy avocado mixed with chocolate, dates and maple syrup, a sweet and velvety bite more deceptive than any secret.

Admittedly, I didn't get exposed to the true nature of avocado, but this fruit intrigued me seriously. It intrigued me enough for me to examine, as I was removing the frills, what was really going on under there. Over time, my taste buds have improved, my wisdom broke through and it didn't take long before I really appreciated the taste of avocado.

Now, I found myself spreading it on toasts, slipping it into green salads–or fruit salad–, and even, imagine, eating it raw directly with a spoon. Talking about evolution.

But my evolution sometimes has limits.

Last weekend was the 54th edition of the Super Bowl, the pinnacle of American football, and images of avocados invaded my mind. More specifically, images of guacamole. This year, we were entitled to something unique–we were witnessing the victory of a team with our very own, Laurent Duvernay Tardif (originally from Quebec).

And this is where my evolution has limits: I don't watch football at all–even less the Super Bowl. Okay, sometimes the halftime show piques my curiosity, I anticipate any gossip-rich event, but otherwise, you won't see me in front of my TV for that sort of thing.

On the other hand, I’m sure that my visions foreshadowed the tide of supporters nailed to their couch, somewhere in their men cave, to taste Buffalo wings — perhaps cauliflower to be trendy —to dip nachos or bread in guacamole, in other words, ground testicle sauce?

Quite a semantic chaos exists regarding the origin of the word guacamole and its meaning.

Ground testicle sauce is what circulates on the Internet, like an ugly indelible rumor. There are beliefs that the word "Avocado" comes from the Spanish "aguacate", itself derived from the word "ahuacatl" in the Nahuatl language which means "testicle", by analogy to the shape of this organ. I think Wikipedia claimed this before but corrected its entry. (Only English. In French, this erroneous meaning still remains).

But from the very beginning, this word has always meant nothing other than "avocado".

It seems that nahutlphones, if I may say so, were making an euphemism by calling their genitals "avocado" just as people say in French slang "fried eggs, watermelon, grapefruit, melons, pears, coconuts, mandarins, walnuts, strawberries, hazelnuts” to denote “breasts”; "Sausage, noodle, carrot, cucumber, baguette, andouillette, sausage, eggplant, leek, nem, banana" to designate "penis".

Although these words are deliciously cute analogies, that doesn't make them primary meanings. Besides, in all cultures and since the dawn of time, our jewels have always evoked gastronomy. As an illustration, in English, we say "weiner" (sausage) for "penis"; the Hispanophones say " huevos" (eggs) for "testicles".    

On this note, I will quote a specialist in Nahuatl culture who says:

[...] we would not generally consider as "partly correct" to say that "schnitzel wiener" means "penis schnitzel" or that "nut case" means "testicle box". Spanish speakers would also not think it sensible to say that "torta de huevo" means "testicles sandwich".       

So the Nahuatl word "ahuacatl" (pronounced / a: wakatl /) does not mean "testicle", but due to the evocative form of the fruit, it can be used metaphorically in this extended sense.

I love it. I also love Google Translate’s translation from English to French of "nut case" for "nut" as the metal fastening. Like, you really have to trust writings that are considered authorities.  

All this is fascinating, and I must undoubtedly devote a whole historical article on avocado and guacamole, but just like everyone else who stops more at the gastronomic dimension than the historical dimension, I’ll settle with tasting it thoughtlessly as the properly said nut-based avocado sauce.

And it was quite special.

It seems like I could never get away from my first misleading connection with avocado, and so I have to disclose another deception. For this blog, my mission is to share with you dishes containing accessible ingredients, but caught up in my own madness–who knows–I added a rarely used and out of the ordinary ingredient (in American culture): tomatillos. In a can, on top of it.

I don't know what took me over me, but lo and behold, I went overboard. I hope you will forgive me. This is something quite correctable, you’ll just have to replace them with red tomatoes.

In short, it was quite an experience.

Get the recipe here

If you try this recipe, I want to know about it! I always appreciate your feedback. Leave a star rating in the recipe card right below and/or a review in the comment section further down the page. You can also follow me on Pinterest, Facebook, or Instagram. Sign up for my email list, too!