:: little European touches around Gothic Cottage that make me feel like I’m France or Germany - I just need fresh croissants

:: speaking of patisserie, breakfast al fresco with Charentais musk melon and Ritter Sport complementing the French/German patio experience

:: Gladiolas from Cathy and Kaj’s market garden - these eccentric flowers add a certain Art Nouveau flair to the place

:: an overflowing basket of my meatiest tomatoes starring in a pasta dish shared with sweetest Stacey

:: a very uncomfortable and grouchy Yoshi finally recovering at home after a week and a half at the vets - means watching over him but puttering around these walls, in the garden, and cooking for friends is so nice and chilled

:: the tall, friendly Rivers Edge Goat Dairy guy who shared his blueberries yesterday at the Farmers Market… I went back for more

:: the sound of wind whipping sheets dry on the line

:: thunder and lightening shows

:: a black and white weekend with Billie Holiday and Stan Getz - it never ceases to amaze me how certain music can completely dictate the mood (check out Daniel Levitin’s book This Is Your Brain On Music for more)

:: bonfire pit ready for more action

:: visions: of wildflower and goldenrod honey here next season stoked by my honey guru Stacey, of renovations complete next month, and of an unfolding adventure soon

:: laughing so hard to this brilliant video my belly hurt

:: Audrey Niffenegger’s newest installment of magical-realism

:: prepping for a seasonal feast with Tori and Nancy this eve - Rivers Edge goat and pork sausages, my roasted carrots and my favourite summer salad on the menu

Hope you’re loving your weekend too!

When I crawled into bed last night and shut my eyes, exhausted and buzzing from two and a half full days, phantom base lines were still beating in my ears. So many highlights and I don’t have the stamina for complete sentences…

Best music:

:: Grand Analog

:: Horse Feathers

:: Shad

:: Royal Wood

:: Brasstronaut

:: Alex Cuba

:: Sunday morning Gospel Hour with Sarah Harmer, Frazey Ford, Horse Feathers, Basia Bulat, The Good Lovelies & Sam Doores

(so wish I hadn’t missed Matt Andersen, Beardyman and Shane Koyzcan but my oh my revelers are spoiled for choice with four stages and 67 bands)

Best of the rest:

:: Friday sunset and good laughs with old and new friends

:: farm sleepovers and breakfasts with most amazing Marianne, Tim, Heidi, Emily and Bo

:: Saturday rain and mud - ankle-deep and so many pairs of gorgeous mucky barefeet!

:: sparky mid-afternoon sunshine buzz courtesy of my local - Wellington Brewery

:: Main Stage living roof, solar-powered Sun Stage, water tanker of Guelph tap water, reusable dishes and wash stations

:: Mapleton Organics ice cream - oh the power of suggestion at work with sun-kissed beauties licking dripping waffle cones

:: baby Wyatt - just the most playful eight-month old and helping round out the next generation of Hillside lifers

:: solid Sunday sunshine mingled with Guelph Lake breezes

:: intimate and interactive jam sessions and musicians chilling out in the grass next to revelers (Hello Sarah Harmer! Would you like to share my ice cream cone?)

:: Bollywood dance lesson (please, please bring classes to Guelph!)

Until next year, Hillside, I’m so grateful you’re in my backyard!

Sorry for the late announcement. I’ve been juggling an amputee kittie, overflowing harvest, meals in Toronto, home renos, hosting, and my day job.

The lucky winner (chosen using random.org) is Shona - congrats!

Thanks to all who played along, and as soon as I have a moment to hunt down a copy for myself I’ll report on my successes and failures in French Cuisine. Let me know how you get on too!

What is it about goats? I know it’s not just me - just take a look at how popular they are at petting zoos! People lap them up, and I’m right there with the little four and five year old’s, chasing them around and picking them up when staff aren’t looking.

Today Roddy, Ewan and I found ourselves in the neighborhood of River’s Edge Goat Dairy, just outside of Arthur in Wellington County. We missed our turn initially, but I made sure we got there. I wanted to see goats, pet goats, and come home with goat cheese.

Their herd is incredibly cute, and their chevre is divine. The Wilman’s secret is selling only the freshest milk and cheese, and the result is a rich, smooth and tangy treat that drives my taste buds wild!

Ever since watching The Girl from Paris during my French film binge last year, I’ve held onto a fantasy of someday keeping goats of my own. It would not be in Canada, though. It would be somewhere bucolic with rougher pastures where I’d heard my goats through the hills and soak up the scents while the wind whipped through my hair. I’d craft the creamiest, most heavenly goat cheese concoctions, and play my guitar under a canopy of apple trees dripping with fruit (or blossoms, depending on the season).

Today, however, I saw goats as they are without the romance. I noticed their eerie, alien-like pupils. I saw how much they poo, and how it stuck to my favourite Onitsuka Tiger sneakers (why did I change out of my wellies when the sun came out?). And I thought of how much time they would take from everything else I love to do in my free time.

In short, today I learned to love the fact that a family in my county has decided to raise goats and sell delicious milk and cheeses, so I don’t have to. At least not yet.

Julia Child, why am I so late in discovering you?! When your name first came into my lexicon while I was interning for Food Network’s Opening Soon, I let the reference go un-researched. You sounded old fasioned and fluffy. I was drawn instead to the raw, behind the scenes expose of the restaurant biz, as told through the wry humour of Anthony Bourdain. I’ve matured in five years, however, and I’m now ready to dive into your tantalizing French recipes and learn more about your culinary journey.

Julia & Julia was an excellent primer to the life of the woman who brought French cuisine into the homes of Americans from the 1960s, and one of her loyal followers who blogs her way through a personal challenge to cook every recipe in Child’s famous cookbook in one year. Meryl Streep, phenom that she is, has set me on a mission to scour local bookshops for a used copy of Child’s seminal cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1 and get tucked right in. Rich sauces, homemade mayonnaise, heavenly pastries, and sinful tarts and cakes await.

My challenge: to locavore-ize some of Child’s buttery delights. I’m sure French cuisine will be a mission in itself, but I want to concoct recipes that highlight fresh, local ingredients, and also taste mouth wateringly delicious.

What about you? Are you inspired by the towering, bubbly, culinary genius? Tried any of her recipes? Want to join me in the kitchen with Julia? Leave a comment below before midnight on August 31st, and I’ll send the winner a free copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1. Yum! 

Meet Carlo Petrini - passionate founder of the Slow Food movement. Doesn’t he have great hands? I think they’re still field-dirty. And that relaxed pose! It looks like all that beautiful food came running to him, like little children following Jesus! I want to hang out with this chilled old guy. After reading this article in today’s Guardian, I’ve got yet another reason to dream of a pilgrimage to Italy.

I LOVE Italy. The food, the weathered architecture, the pace, the passione! I love films set in the country, and I’ve even endured the slightly annoying Jamie Oliver in his Italian escapades - just to see him loose a pasta making contest. I traveled back vicariously with Barbara Kingslover in her new book. There is so much more to this complex place than I could take in during one fleeting visit - like the tradition of city folk escaping to host farms to work the fields and experience the good earth. Hmm - B,B&F?

The biennial Slow Food Movement party, Salone del Gusto is on right now. That leaves me two years to stash funds in a Mason jar and brush up on my conversational Italian. There are big plans on the horizon that will likely divert those pennies, but a woman can dream!

Photo credit: Barry Lewis/© Barry Lewis/Corbis - The Guardian

There are days when I’m a whiz in the kitchen. Days when I can open the leaded glass cupboard doors with a sense of adventure, take a quick inventory of what’s on offer, and whip up a succulent dish which brings titillated nostrils into the kitchen in a trance.

And then there are days when, try as I might, my creations are destined to failure. This was almost one of those days. Somehow, the love and intention that went into my forays, although botched, redeemed my mistakes.

It all started with a deep desire to pour my heart into something scrumptious for my poor darling who’s suffering from dental surgery. Last Thursday Roddy had all four wisdom teeth removed – an excavation which has left him looking like Pob and feeling “weally weally wotton.” I, obviously, have been relishing the opportunity to pamper and spoil him. But he’s hardly given me the opportunity to play Nurse Andrea. The pain has been so severe he’s barely touched a morsel and has had precious few requests since the first afternoon of grogginess.

Today was my breaking point. My nurturing instinct was at risk of exploding if I couldn’t provide for my man. So, inspired by a recipe from Vegan Yum Yum, and driven by a deep, personal desire to finally make a sweet local treat I’ve been swooning over, I armed myself with a grocery list and struck off for the market. It was my Sunday afternoon mission, on this sunny autumn day, to warm our home with love: in the form of foods which Roddy did not request, but which he would adore.

Upon returning to our clean kitchen, a phone call to my Grandma was in order. I was somewhat shocked that she doubted my ability to multi-task – “I’ve never been able to carry out a couple of things at once,” she warned. But, phone wedged between shoulder and jaw I carried on, hands dusted with flour and cocoa as I measured out ingredients for the divine Vegan Brownies from the Rebar cookbook. (I’m obsessed with these brownies, and have dropped lots of cash for them at my neighborhood coffee shop.)

My Grandma and I chatted about the recent federal election, what we’re reading, her observations of Scandinavia, and of a recent report she’d read: apparently Danes are the happiest people in the world. I was just putting the brownies in the oven as we said our goodbyes and I-love-you’s.

A few minutes later I realized that my Grandma’s warnings should have been heeded. I had added a ½ cup of sugar to the mix. It called for 1 ½ cups. When I got over the initial shock, I decided to let it be – surely the super sugary carob chips and rich topping made with the finest Canadian Callebaut artisanal chocolate would sweeten the brownies up?

A little deflated, I got on with the next project: a roasted squash soup adapted from this recipe and one of Rebar’s. As it turned out, I only had half the ingredients I needed because I was set on using seasonal veg, and a spaghetti squash instead of a delicata squash. I am not a fussy eater, in fact, there are very few things I will not eat. Spaghetti squash is one of them. But this soup was for Roddy, and I would not be phased by another hiccup in my mission. Plus, at this point my brownies had (almost) cooled, so I could soothe my spirit with a wee taste.

Although they didn’t fill the house with the typical sweet aromas, my brownies were not compromised by the lack of sugar. They were so tasty that I carefully assessed and reassessed what a typical portion at the shop resembled, just to clean up the edges, of course. My attention to detail was sloppy, however, and the still gooey topping ended up everywhere but my mouth.

Then, I cut my tongue while licking the knife clean. When I burned four fingers on the hot edge of the roasting pan as I was fighting with the spaghetti squash, I was near tears. My acts of love were turning into a war in the kitchen.

But then, in an unintended role reversal, my ill, swollen-cheeked man came through to console and coddle me, and tend to my wounds. Luckily, the stringy squash was a shadow of it’s former self after a quick blast in the blender. And the hybrid soup was a creamy, absolutely delicious surprise (recipe forthcoming).

Thus, love endures in our kitchen.

Update: brownies are not the ideal treat to make someone who’s recently undergone dental surgery - but you all knew that.  Now, if anyone can offer advice on how to resist the urge to keep nibbling these delights, I’m all ears! At the rate I’m going, there will scarcely be a crumb left for Roddy.

I can appreciate an exceptional loaf of bread. After tasting what bread should taste like in Germany as a teenager, the Dempster’s my mom favoured just tasted like sawdust. Roddy’s mom, Shona, has a talent for crafting tasty, simple breads from scratch – breads which put our yeasty bread-maker numbers to shame.

Our bread-maker didn’t make it out west with us, so as Roddy tries to master his homemade loaves, I recently stumbled upon a wee gem: Transilvania Peasant Bread artisan baking on West Broadway. It was the fantastic wood-burning brick oven that caught my eye (or maybe it was the word ‘Transilvania’… what? Vampires in Kits?!). My friend Asha and I prospected the shop and were lucky enough to witness Florin, the bread maker, taking fresh loaves of his rye bread out of the oven.

These babies, as Florin tenderly refers to them, are yeast-free and contain a sourdough starter (or “mother culture”) which takes 3 days to mature. I’m not surprised that Florin was inspired to learn the art of breadmaking when he emigrated from Romania and couldn’t find any palatable bread.

Transilvania Peasant Bread is not completely local yet but he hopes to be someday (his flour comes from Rogers, a BC company, and Saskatchewan). Still, after leaving his basic but endearing shop, I felt more connected to my little corner of Vancouver. On my walk home I cradled my warm loaf of rye and caught wafts of the sweet bread, which tasted absolutely incredible.