I cannot write a book review. After many years devoted to university degrees, the idea of sitting down and writing something so structured is torturous.

But I also can’t keep this book to myself. It has stolen hours from my sleep over the past week. Usually when my eyelids feel like weights I give into drowsiness, slip deeper under the covers and exhale that last deep breath as I flick off the lamp switch. But Barbara Kingslover has my attention so wrapped these nights that I’ve not only fought my heavy lids, but I’ve strained to read her words by LED headlamp just to respect Roddy’s slumber.

To give you some context on what I qualify as a scintillating read, I do not read harlequin romances, Danielle Steel or any such novel that evokes women to conceal the cover in public. I did, however, recently read the scandalous and very sexually descriptive D.H. Lawrence classic Lady Chatterley’s Lover. While it was a hot page-turner, Kingslover’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle wins my heart hands down. This book is a romance novel for foodies, with passionate detail of the joys of thoughtful, purposeful consumption of whole foods. And better yet, the farm wife is reinstated as a nurturing goddess, making magic in the field and kitchen.

The Kingslover family’s year of eating within their county limits and growing their own food has at once filled me with gratitude for being raised in a household which valued preparing and sitting down to dinner together, reinstated my convictions for supporting small local organic farmers (and despising agribusiness), and reopened a closed debate about vegetarianism. It has also made me crave the good life with a new sense of urgency.

Kingslover’s book put into finer focus my need for pastoral vistas, a cozy farmhouse, a flock of hens, a pantry full of my preserves and mead, and friends gathered round a blazing fire pit. And for this, I thank her by writing this non-book review.

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’m almost a year late in making this announcement, but better late than never. The Oxford English Dictionary announced last November that the 2007 Word of the Year is: locavore!

This is what they have to say about the term:

The past year saw the popularization of a trend in using locally grown ingredients, taking advantage of seasonally available foodstuffs that can be bought and prepared without the need for extra preservatives.

The “locavore” movement encourages consumers to buy from farmers’ markets or even to grow or pick their own food, arguing that fresh, local products are more nutritious and taste better. Locavores also shun supermarket offerings as an environmentally friendly measure, since shipping food over long distances often requires more fuel for transportation.

“The word ‘locavore’ shows how food-lovers can enjoy what they eat while still appreciating the impact they have on the environment,” said Ben Zimmer, editor for American dictionaries at Oxford University Press. “It’s significant in that it brings together eating and ecology in a new way.”

“Locavore” was coined two years ago by a group of four women in San Francisco who proposed that local residents should try to eat only food grown or produced within a 100-mile radius. Other regional movements have emerged since then, though some groups refer to themselves as “localvores” rather than “locavores.” However it’s spelled, it’s a word to watch.

I’ve always thought the word had a ring to it, and while I’m not an earnest follower of it’s principals to the core I love what it stands for. “Locavore” offers guidance – a lifestyle to aspire to.  And, more importantly, it’s brought so much more meaning to our meals.

What’s Thanksgiving without a bit of tomfoolery? Perhaps it was the fact that no “grown-ups” were invited to our long weekend festivities, or maybe it was being reunited with friends who share our hedonistic Edinburgh past, but high jinx were in the air.

After a night of dancing to house DJs Lawnchair Generals and playing in the park ‘til 6:30am, Asha, Vic, Roddy and I eased into our kitchen marathon with a trip to the bountiful pumpkin patches in Saanich. Rows upon rows of brilliant orange pumpkins filled the patchwork country scenery… and when no cars were in sight…

With this act, the games had begun and Thanksgiving suddenly became about the hunt for local booty to grace our plates!

Asha is a woman with culinary prowess. Once we had the trunk full of our base ingredients, she went to work creating our menu. A few pumpkins, a squash, and half a dozen onions were transformed into a rich pumpkin, asiago and chanterelle risotto, with apples from a colleague’s backyard baked in a hearty crumble for dessert. A delicious meal with free-flowing friends, which had heightened flavours from the thrill of the chase!

How did you spend your Thanksgiving?

After a dry spell of weddings (everyone seems to be having babies lately), Roddy’s younger brother and my little sister both got married last month. Conveniently, they married their brides in Ottawa and Toronto on two consecutive weekends. Andrew and Monique’s wedding was wild and splashy, and I’ll share stories when my camera is posted back.

Tori and Nancy’s was a calmer, chic affair which left many a tear falling down faces. The setting was a great old building in the Distillery District with exposed brick and rafters, and thirty foot ceilings: pure romance for design junkies! The highlight for me was playing de-facto bridesmaid and spending time with Tori and Nancy in the lead up to the big day: being their receptacle for rants, the makeup artist (Tori: “wow, you’re good at this!” Me: “Thanks” thank God!), the runner, the bread-maker, dishwasher, logistics planner (phoning a friend to find the best nail salon in town and fitting them in with 24 hours notice), MC, speech-writer, and glass topper.

What I didn’t expect, however, was the following:

1. how much I loved to be back in Toronto - stealing moments to myself in my old hood and wandering around the St. Lawrence Market,
2. how great it was get to know Nancy’s feisty family,
3. how fabulous it was to see my sister beaming - absolutely glowing for hours

Tori and Nancy honeymooned in Provence, France with my camera (more wedding pics to come) and I returned to my folks’ place for some much needed R&R after the two weddings. I felt like a wilted flower - “home” was just what I needed to savor the sensual novel ‘Lady Chatterly’s Lover’ and watch some old favourites on HGTV and the Food Network (more novel after living without a TV for over a year).

I also seized the opportunity to bake my grandma’s fluffy tea biscuits with her. At 96 she doesn’t bake much on her own anymore, so it was wonderful to see her get right in there to gently mix the dough with her delicate little hands. That’s sweet Ria and I at the wedding above… we’d love to hear your wedding stories!