There is something wonderfully improbable about rhubarb. After months of cold and dormancy, up it comes—vivid, vigorous, and seemingly indifferent to the season that preceded it.

Tart, crisp, long and colourful, rhubarb spreads like a weed, grows in the most inhospitable conditions, puts up with neglect, allows us to force it into existence and generally tolerates our bad behaviour. It is a plant that resists easy categorization: a vegetable that appears most often at dessert, a medicinal herb turned comfort food, a harbinger of spring that is harvested by candlelight in the depths of winter.

Cut into a fresh stalk and you are rewarded with an indefinable scent: green and fresh, sharp yet subtle, a whiff of freshly cut grass and a promise of good things. Oh what a thing of beauty.

A seasonal centrepiece

Rooted in medicine, harvested by candlelight

Rhubarb fans are legion, nowhere more so than in Britain and North America, where this humble plant has found its way onto the dessert course for hundreds of years. But rhubarb didn’t start its journey as a compote, cake, cordial or jam.

The Chinese first discovered rhubarb’s astringency to be effective as a laxative. Greek and Roman writers recorded the medicinal use of rhubarb and transmitted the name through the Latin term rhabarbarum, from which the modern word ‘rhubarb’ ultimately derives: rheum, the plant genus of which rhubarb is a cultivar, and barbarum, the Latin for barbarian.

It wasn’t until the 1800s that rhubarb’s culinary prowess came to the fore. According to Dennis Duncan of High Altitude Rhubarb, widespread consumption of rhubarb began in Britain in the early 19th century, growing in popularity as an ingredient in desserts and wine making. With a short growing season, the discovery that rhubarb could be “forced” (grown out of season in the winter), caused its popularity to reach fever pitch, peaking just before World War II.

And this is where the most romantic part of rhubarb’s history comes into play.

The rhubarb triangle

In long dark barns across a small patch of West Yorkshire, a great agricultural tradition continues. This is the “rhubarb triangle,” a nine-square-mile area between Wakefield, Morley and Rothwell. Here, from January to March, fuchsia-pink forced rhubarb, prized for its subtle flavour, is picked by hand, by candlelight, so that the delicate stems are not turned green and hard by photosynthesis.

from Mysteries of the Rhubarb Triangle, The Guardian

Forcing is not the exclusive domain of rhubarb. Greenhouses, cold frames, and hotbeds have long been used to satisfy our thirst for delicious things that are not “in season”. An advocate for buying asparagus in May and tomatoes in August, I’m not usually in a hurry to get something before Mother Nature delivers it. Yet the decidedly romantic Rhubarb Triangle in England makes the practice more palatable.

Forced rhubarb from the Triangle once made up nearly 90% of winter rhubarb. While the quantities are far lower today, Yorkshire’s fuchsia-pink, delicately flavoured stalks are still prized for making ruby-coloured treats. You can experience this delicacy at Wakefield’s annual Rhubarb Festival.

Across the Atlantic, rhubarb has inspired its own celebrations. In Sumner, Washington — the self-proclaimed Rhubarb Pie Capital of the World — summer arrives with Rhubarb Days, a festival devoted to ruby-red stalks in all their forms. There is something comforting in knowing that a plant is still capable of drawing crowds together in celebration. Few crops carry such a curious mixture of folklore, history, and affection.

Moments of pleasure

The Rhubarb Triangle, family desserts, spring itself—these are all layers of remembrance. Rhubarb is exactly that kind of trigger food: a smell, a taste, a colour that carries entire seasons and histories with it.

Perhaps that is why rhubarb inspires such devotion. Every spring, we greet it as though it were an old friend returned. We cut into those vivid stalks and find the same scent waiting for us: green and fresh, sharp yet subtle, a promise of good things.

Its presence marks not abundance but anticipation—the brightest note in spring’s unfolding song.

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Rhubarb upside-down cake

adapted from Melissa Clark, The New York Times

serves 8-10

While strawberries and rhubarb have long had a love affair with one another, I prefer to give this most ephemeral of vegetables a starring role all of its own. Rhubarb comes in rainbow of colours, from the palest tender green to deep vibrant red. For this cake, try to seek out the deeper-hued stalks. They make for the prettiest topping.

Ever since this recipe appeared in the New York Times in 2011, I’ve made it at least a dozen times. The minute those long scarlet stalks of crisp-tart rhubarb appear at the market, I reach for this tried and true favourite. But what if it could be made better, easier and even more delicious?

With some modifications I now have the ultimate version of this spring classic. This buttery upside-down cake showcases rhubarb at its best: tart, jammy, and nestled beneath a tender lemon-scented crumb.

Note: Use a 9-inch cake pan with a minimum of 3-inch sides, as the batter rises generously during baking and the pan will be quite full. Once inverted, the cake settles considerably, but the extra depth is important while it bakes. Check the cake periodically toward the end of baking; if the top is browning before the centre is fully baked, loosely cover it with a piece of tin foil and continue baking until done.

Ingredients

2 sticks plus ½ stick (284 g total) unsalted butter, at room temperature

6 cups (680 g / about 1½ lb) trimmed rhubarb, cut into ½-inch pieces

2 tsp cornstarch

¼ cup plus ½ cup (150 g total) granulated sugar

¾ cup plus ½ cup (280 g total) light or dark brown sugar

2 cups (227 g) cake flour

1½ tsp baking powder

½ tsp fine sea salt

Zest of 1 lemon, grated

1 tsp vanilla extract

4 large eggs

⅓ cup full-fat sour cream

2 tsp lemon juice

1. Heat the oven to 325°F (165°C). Generously butter a 9-inch cake pan with a minimum of 3-inch sides (or a 10-inch cake pan with 2-inch sides) and line the bottom with parchment paper.

2. Put the rhubarb in a medium bowl. Whisk together the cornstarch and ¼ cup of the granulated sugar, sprinkle over the rhubarb, and toss to combine. Set aside.

3. In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

4. In a small bowl, rub the lemon zest into the remaining ½ cup granulated sugar with your fingers until fragrant and evenly combined.

5. Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream 2 sticks (227 g) butter for 2 minutes. Add the lemon sugar and ¾ cup brown sugar and beat on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes, scraping down the bowl as needed. Beat in the vanilla, then add the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Mix in the sour cream and then the lemon juice. The mixture may look slightly separated, but it will come together once the flour is added.

6. With the mixer on low, gradually add the flour mixture and mix just until combined, scraping down the bowl as needed.

7. In a small skillet over medium heat, melt the remaining ½ stick (57 g) butter and the remaining ½ cup brown sugar. Whisk together until smooth and bubbling, about 2-3 minutes. Pour into the prepared cake pan, then spoon the rhubarb and any juices evenly over top.

8. Spoon the batter over the rhubarb, covering it completely, and smooth the top. The pan will be quite full, but the cake will bake up beautifully.

9. Bake for 1 hour 15 minutes, or until the top is firm and springs back lightly when touched and a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. If the top is browning before the cake is fully baked, loosely cover it with foil and continue baking, checking every 10 minutes.

10. Cool the cake in the pan on a wire rack for 20 minutes. Run a knife around the edge, place a serving plate over the pan, and invert the cake while still warm. If any rhubarb sticks to the pan, simply scrape it onto the top of the cake. Let cool for about 1 hour before serving.

Sources

Davidson, Alan. The Oxford Companion to Food. 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014.

Duncan, Dennis. “Mysteries of the Rhubarb Triangle.” The Guardian.

Lee, M. R. “Rhubarb (Rheum Species): The Role of Edinburgh in Its Cultivation and Development.” Journal of the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh 47, no. 1 (2017): 85–90.

Unschuld, Paul U. Medicine in China: A History of Pharmaceutics. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986.

Xiang, H., Y. Zhang, Q. Xu, et al. “What We Already Know About Rhubarb: A Comprehensive Review.” Chinese Medicine 15, no. 88 (2020).

Yorkshire Forced Rhubarb Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) Specification. UK Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs (DEFRA).

It seems as unlikely a place as any to forage for wild mushrooms. But I see the picture in my mind’s eye, details diminished with time, like a faded photo that’s curled around the edges. Maybe I’m 4 or 5. My sister and I are with my mother and one of her friends. We’re in an overgrown field of rough green terrain. Close by, and surreal to my adult memory, there are likely signs of Windsor’s industry – electronic grids, metal towers. I imagine that the treasures discovered, gently unearthed, brushed of dirt, and carefully placed in a plastic bucket, must have seemed all the more precious to my mother, found as they were in this mechanised landscape. A world away from the Italy where she was born.

Magic Mushrooms

What kind of mushrooms were they? How did they know where they were? Or for that matter, whether they were edible? What did she make with them? Unanswered questions, untold stories. And memories that remained submerged in my mind until a trip to Italy in 1993, and my second encounter with the art and magic of foraging.

My cousin Giacomo was an opera lover, mountain climber, a gardener and the fastest driver I’ve been in a car with. He was also a forager of the highest order, and his specialty was porcini mushrooms.

Everyone gets excited by fresh truffles. And undoubtedly those rare and expensive creatures deserve a special place in the kitchen. But I will never forget the meal that Giacomo made us with his cache of fresh porcini mushrooms. Huge, meaty and gorgeous, quartered and sautéed simply with garlic, parsley, olive oil and splash of white wine, this was dinner, with nothing more than crusty bread needed to make a meal.

The Landscape of Ideas

Fast forward to 2017, when I went to Sicily to participate in a 10 week farm to table program called Cook the Farm. An accumulation of ideas, questions, knowledge, and above all a program focused on fundamental curiosity about the intersection of food, tradition, modernity, sustainability and globalization.

Foraging in Sicily

Which brought me back to foraging, and to Claudio Bincoletto, who came to spend two days with us during the program. Claudio grew up on a 60-acre farm just north of Venice, and remembers foraging with his mother from a very young age. An organic farmer, a chef, a horticulturist and sustainable landscape expert, Claudio sees foraging as a way to connect with something elemental in us all.

In a setting as different as it could be from my childhood roots, the day we spent in the fields of Sicily revealed an abundance of riches. Wild fennel, mallow, borage, wild leeks, mustard greens…all picked with restraint, leaving the bounty behind to continue to propagate and flourish. The best part, of course was spending the next day in the kitchen with Claudio, cleaning and cooking our treasures into delicious dishes: wild greens soup, salad, and frittatas.

Back home, there are plenty of wild things to find. One of my favourite market vendors, Forbes Wild Foods, employs a network of foragers across the country to find, harvest and preserve the goodness growing right in front of our eyes. Like all responsible foragers, Forbes doesn’t plunder the land, which is why their products are so precious.

In the abundant months ahead, what appears on our plates goes beyond what’s at the grocery store. The farmers who care and till the land, especially our smaller producers, often delight in experimenting and coaxing fine things to eat out of the land that are rare finds.

With care and imagination, we can bring the landscape of ideas to our plates and bellies, and in doing so, really sink our feet into the soil and connect to a wellspring of sustenance that’s increasingly rare to find.

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Spring onion loaf

adapted from Olive magazine

When I go to the farmers’ market, I always take a look at what’s on display at the Forbes stand. Beyond the cedar jelly, preserved fiddleheads, wild Saskatoon berry compote and other delicious goods, there’s often something freshly foraged. Like the best harbingers of spring, seeing something green at Forbes means that winter is loosening its claw hold, one stubborn finger at a time. If I’m lucky, Forbes will have wild onions or ramps, also known as wild leeks. This precious greens, harvested with care, can be used in place of standard spring onions with delicious results.

This loaf recipe uses readily available spring onions (scallions), but if you have a source for ramps, try the variation in the headnote below.

Ramps (Wild Leeks) Variation:
Instead of the spring onions, use 8–10 medium ramps (wild leeks). Use all of the leaves, but only the bulbs from about 5–6 ramps, as the bulbs are much stronger in flavour. Slice the bulbs thinly and roughly chop the leaves. Cook the bulbs for 3–4 minutes before adding the leaves for the final 30–60 seconds.

Ingredients

7 ounces (200 gr) spring onions (green onions/scallions), bottoms trimmed and finely sliced (about 12–16 spring onions, depending on size). Use both green and white parts

10 ounces (300 gr/2½ sticks) butter, plus more for the loaf pan

2 cups (480 ml) buttermilk

9 ounces (260 gr) self-rising flour

8½ ounces (240 gr) polenta

2 teaspoons baking powder

4 teaspoons granulated sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat the oven to 375°F / 190°C.

2. Melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the spring onions and cook for about 2 minutes until softened but not browned.

3. Add the remaining butter and the buttermilk to the pan and heat gently until the butter melts completely. The mixture may look slightly separated. Set aside to cool.

4. In a large bowl, mix together the flour, polenta, baking powder, sugar, salt, and black pepper.

5. Whisk the eggs lightly into the warm buttermilk mixture.

6. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Do not overmix.

7. Butter a 9×5-inch loaf pan and line it with parchment paper. Pour the batter into the prepared tin and smooth the top.

8. Bake for 45–65 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean, or the internal temperature reaches 205–210°F. If the top begins browning too quickly, cover loosely with foil for the remaining baking time.

9. Cool in the pan until just warm before removing and slicing.

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

Mother Nature is a clever matchmaker.

Yet in the antiseptic world of the modern grocery store, we’ve long ignored her inherent wisdom. Why else would we be able to buy wooden tomatoes and anemic corn in December, or strawberries and asparagus in October? If we followed the rhythms of the seasons, the produce aisle would be decidedly less varied in the long months of winter.

We’d understand that our cold storage friends - carrots, potatoes, turnips, beets, cabbage, apples - were designed to play well together. Whether in a savoury stew, a roasted veggie platter, or a deep dish apple pie, the winter harvest is meant to satisfy our somnambulant desires for richness, warmth and depth.

I can accept all of that, really I can. Still, the changing of the guard sure has taken its time in coming around this year.

A change of scenery

It’s been the dreariest of springs. Cold, wet, the sun as aloof as the prettiest girl at the dance. With every false start of a warm sunny day, the clouds have quickly followed, nascent sprouts shivering and nary a bee in sight.

You might say that it was serendipity that brought us to Italy in one of the coldest Aprils I can remember. We had originally planned to travel to Jordan and Egypt, but when the war with Iran made those plans seem unwise, Italy stepped in almost effortlessly.

Maybe it was the comfort of returning to a place we know so well, or the promise that even after so many visits Italy always surprises. But really, in my heart, I know it was something deeper — a longing to return to the homeland of my parents after being away for nearly ten years…to steal away, to unplug, wander slowly, and let beauty overcome me.

And as it always does, Italy did not disappoint. With a world of new discoveries in Puglia, it was the spring markets brimming with fresh bright things to eat that brought me the most joy.

But when we arrived back in Toronto last Wednesday, we were greeted with the same sombre grey skies we had left behind, the thermostat an inhospitable 6C. Spring, it seemed, was still under its Sleeping Beauty spell.

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

—Lao Tzu, 6th century Chinese philosopher

Yet there’s a pleasure in the slowness too…the understanding that we’re not calling the shots here. It’s not nature’s petulance we’re experiencing but her selectivity, with a healthy dose of patience on the side. It matters not that my British friends have been greedily eating rhubarb for weeks. In the here and now it’s our turn to feast.

As we shake off our slumber and run gladly into spring’s open arms, Mother Nature wakes us up ever so subtly, softly, gently. Not for spring the intense flavours of summer’s sultry heat. The season’s best mirrors the fresh tender green of our awakening appetites. Sugar snap peas, ramps, artichokes, fiddleheads. The tender pink of rhubarb and the slightly spicy pale red of radishes.

And of course asparagus. Asparagus, with its stalwart spears always at attention, the king of my spring heart.

So let the revelry begin. Let me keep my fluffy blanket ready for chilly mornings, my extra socks handy, my hot tea at hand and the thermostat humming. The intemperate weather is not in my control but as spring’s offerings find their way to my table, I can feel their tender goodness coursing through my veins and I feel the gladness that only this delicate season can bring.

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Roasted asparagus and morel mushrooms with shallot-tarragon butter

serves 2-4 as a side dish

Asparagus may well be my favourite of spring’s green things. There is nothing like the squiggle of joy I feel when the first tender stalks appear at my local farmers’ market. For a few frantic weeks, it’s everything asparagus.

I’m always on the lookout for new ways to prepare asparagus. Before the season is over, I’ll be trying this salad from , with its combination of asparagus, redcurrants, lemon and mint with plum & olive tapenade, and this gorgeous 20 minute penne alle bice with asparagus, walnuts and robiola from .

But no matter how I cook asparagus—in a bright green soup, baked into a quiche, or served simply with gribiche—the pairing I return to most is with morel mushrooms, another fleeting treasure of the season. Earthy yet delicate as feathers, morels are the perfect dance partner with asparagus.

A note on cleaning morels:

Those gorgeous honeycombs that give morels their unique and beautiful appearance are also perfect tiny repositories for dirt and grit. This simple three-step process takes but a few minutes. Be gentle and only clean the morels just before you will cook them.

1. Gently shake the loose dirt and debris from the mushrooms. Place your mushrooms in a paper bag and ever so gently shake. Remove the mushrooms from the bag, leaving the dirt and grit behind.

2. Give them a bath. Submerge the mushrooms in a large bowl of cool water. Gently swish them around to remove more dirt. Using a slotted spoon, lift the mushrooms out of the water, allowing as much water to drain before placing them on a clean tea or paper towel.

3. Dry the mushrooms. Gently pat the morels dry, shaking them to remove more water from the honeycombs.

Ingredients

1½ pounds (680 gr) asparagus spears, tough ends removed

¼ pound (113 gr) fresh morel mushrooms, cleaned and dried (see headnote)

4 tablespoons (56 gr, ½ stick) unsalted butter

2 shallots, minced

2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon

1 teaspoon kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, more to taste

1. Heat oven to 450°F.

2. Clean the morels (see headnote). Cut large morels crosswise into rings 1/4 inch wide, leaving smaller ones whole.

3. Place the asparagus and morels in a 9x13 rectangular casserole dish or rimmed baking sheet large enough to hold them in a single layer. Set aside.

4. Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. Add the shallots and sauté for 1-2 minutes. Stir in the chopped tarragon, salt and pepper.

5. Drizzle the shallot butter evenly over the asparagus and morels and using your hands, carefully toss the asparagus and morels until evenly coated, then spread them into a single layer again.

6. Roast until the asparagus is starting to brown but is still crisp and the morels have browned, about 10 minutes. Transfer to a serving dish, and drizzle any pan juices on top. Serve immediately.

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

Among twisted olive trees and the whiteness of the masserie, Puglia appears both ancient and young at the same time.

—Guido Piovene, Viaggio in Italia

By the time RAI, Italy’s national radio broadcaster, commissioned him to travel across the country in 1953, Guido Piovene was already an established novelist, foreign correspondent, and cultural critic. He was chosen not because of his travel writing credentials, but rather as an astute and thoughtful observer. Piovene had the sensibility to capture through a discerning lens the atmosphere, contradictions, and regional identities of a nation rapidly transforming in the aftermath of war.

Over more than three years of travel, Piovene documented an Italy suspended between tradition and modernization as it emerged from wartime devastation and began a fragile economic boom. Originally conceived as a series of radio reports, the project evolved into a book, Viaggio in Italia, now considered one of the defining works of modern Italian travel literature.1

But Piovene was not just cataloguing monuments or history. He was trying to answer a broader question: What kind of country was Italy becoming after the war? And what kind of legacy would be left after decades of Fascism, in a country still in so many ways not a single nation?

That perspective makes Viaggio in Italia much more than a travelogue. It became a cultural portrait of Italy at a transitional historical moment.

As I’ve travelled along this magical stretch of Italy from calf to heel, Poivene’s characterizations of Puglia are as true and timeless as they were when he wrote them more than 70 years ago.

May I offer some of his beautiful words and images we’ve captured during our time here to invite you to discover it for yourself? (All quotes from Guidi Piovene’s Viaggio in Italia).

A white region, dissolved in light

The olive tree here is not decoration but destiny.

There is in the towns of Puglia an ancient, almost eastern calm.

Time here seems slower and more remote.

The wind shapes everything: trees, walls, even character.

The sea enters daily life like a continuous light.

I hope you have enjoyed this taste of Puglia.

Ciao for now, ragazzi. I’m off to soak up more of Puglia before I go.

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To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

My love affair with Italy started at birth.

With a father born in Veneto, and a mother from Istria, with its mixed Italian heritage, Italy always felt like a home I didn’t really know but would recognise immediately the minute I got there.

Over many years and many trips back to this magical place, that sense of belonging, of being part of something I didn’t know before, has never failed to surprise me with a catch in my throat and a deep tug in my heart.

And although it’s taken me nearly a lifetime to make my way down to the heel of the boot, to Apulia, that same sense of belonging is here, waiting.

Tutto fa brodo

—Italian idiom; every little bit counts

If you’re not Italian, you might argue that the food is more or less the same, the imposing cathedrals in tiny towns equally mystifying, the fast drivers who are always in a rush to get somewhere so they can go senza fretta.1

To see all of Italy as one is to lose sight of the nuances, the little things, that give it the richness of a thousand regions.

So let me share these subtle cues, these small but significant differences that make Apuglia a region apart. And let me remind you that I still have many days to spend here to find those beautiful gifts that I know will be uniquely Pugliese. With thanks to Richard, who took many of these beautiful photos.

Colour…

…in ceramics, on doorways, mosaic domes.

Bread…

…in all its guises. As friselle, tarelli, a whole grain grissini, an imaginative sauce for la cucina povera2, a beautiful addition to soup or as a substitute for meat in polpette.3

Living things…

…in every corner, nook and alley.

Unique architecture…

And of course:

Beautiful things to eat…

…from chicoria, nespole, puntarelle, artichokes, agretti and salt cod.

I’ll be back next week with more of my impressions of this wonderful corner of La bella Italia. Until then, take in all the beauty that surrounds you.

A presto.

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To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

This week I’m sharing my latest piece from the Abundance Writing Group Gathering, led by the delightful . If you’re a recent subscriber, I’ve also included a couple of links below to previous issues of the Dispatch, so you can get a flavour of what I usually cook up every week.

Each month, Abundance Group Gathering attendees are given a prompt with the singular instruction to take no more than an hour to write and see what results. When we meet, we discuss where the prompt led us, what the process was like and a few brave souls share their writing with the group.

This month’s prompt: Too much

The piece below was more or less what I wrote in an hour, with some tiny edits. When you look at what I scribble down, you can understand why it’s sometimes difficult to decipher my original meaning!

Too much

In my life of food, it’s always been too much or not enough.

The “not enough” part is, of course, a fallacy. As anyone with an Italian mama knows, abundance at the table, even in the most modest of homes, is always assured, the result of time, ingenuity, and the lurking fear that not everyone will get their fill.

Perhaps it is the immigrant’s story—the understanding that coming to an unfamiliar place is no guarantee that it will, in fact, be the land of plenty.

My mother took this brave new world in stride. The modern conveniences of row upon row of packaged food…the peanut butter and jelly swirled together in a single jar that I longed for her to buy…a bright orange concoction named Cheez Whiz that did make it home, meant to be spread on toast (or in my case, eaten by the spoonful), a can of “meat” mimicking ham and made with God only knows what…the hotdog of the tinned food world. All of it strange and somehow comforting in its abundance on the store shelves. Most of it bypassed for more familiar fare.

In our tiny kitchen, with its bright yellow Formica table, Italy was always on the plate. All manner of good things came forth: homemade pastas and gnocchi, cabbage rolls and baking sheets of pizza, bubbling pots of minestrone, lasagna when time and occasion merited it. We could eat to our heart’s content and know that the proverbial pot would never really be scraped clean.

In sharp contrast to the full table, one of my sisters barely ate enough. A picky eater made worse by being continually forced to finish her plate, she eschewed tomatoes wholesale, a sound and stunning rebuke of all the delicious things my mother made. I knew pizza bianca before it was trendy, gnocchi dressed with breadcrumbs toasted in brown butter, lasagna and cabbage rolls with nary a hint of tomato sauce.

All these variations, delicious because that was the only way my mother knew how to make food, were in addition to all the things. So along with the brightly hued pizza and pasta and cabbage rolls, there were the anemic versions of the same dishes, everything looking like it had been kept in a dark basement too long with the mushrooms.

There was simply too much of everything.

Perhaps it was these schizophrenic meals that mapped in my mind, making me believe that in order to get my fill, I needed to have it all.

And so I began to eat too much, but in the surreptitious way that a crafty overeater does: a stack of saltine crackers mortared together with salty butter, an extra piece of pizza, a row of cookies from the package, not joyfully, but with a guilty tinge.

It’s been the work of a lifetime to find the balance and strike the “I’m full” chord in my mind no matter what’s left on the plate. I’m learning to revel in plenty without having to eat every bite. Now, I’m just as likely to say “it’s too much,” to trade plates with my husband so he can finish mine too.

It’s complicated, I know.

Still, I am an avowed eater, a cook who will always make an extra dish for fear of running out, get a thrill from the farmer’s market stalls full to overflowing with far more things than I can ever buy, dither over menu choices, never be able to decide what that last meal might comprise.

And still, there’s a deep gratefulness shaped by knowing how fragile “enough” can be for many, how little separates having it from nothing at all.

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Check out these recent Dispatches for my usual style of writing and some good recipes to try, including my favourite granola recipe, and a fantastic sardine rillettes.

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

It was shortly into my marriage that I knew I was in trouble.

We were having dinner at my in-laws’ house in August when my mother-in-law asked me “So, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?”

My heart sank. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to spend time with my husband’s family. It was more about the unknown, the moments that I couldn’t imagine yet but that just might happen and that I just might miss if we locked in. Committing so far in advance to anything was closing all the doors of possibility that lay ahead.

Spontaneous combustion

In my childhood home, planning ahead, much less being on time, was an ever-receding goal. There never seemed to be a moment when someone wasn’t being rushed or was rushing out the door, a family of White Rabbits continually checking their pocket watches. It was the way things were, and with my innate lack of understanding of how long things actually take, it was all right by me.

When you’re not a planner by nature - or nurture - living in a scheduled, plan-ahead world can seem stifling. And while there’s no question that planning is critical…in business, in our personal lives, to help us achieve our goals, ambitions and the right outcomes…there’s also an element of flexibility and creativity that can get lost.

The stage door moment

But sometimes all it takes is a spontaneous decision to elevate an already perfect experience.

We were in New York seeing Der Rosenkavalier, one of my husband’s favourite operas, with some of his favourite performers. This was to be one of the last times that soprano Renee Fleming and mezzo soprano Elīna Garanča were performing in roles that had help define their careers. In an epic production lasting more than three hours, the two women shone, their performances as soaring as their voices.

Standing ovations complete, we wafted our way out of the Lincoln Center close to midnight. As we headed to the street to hail a taxi, on impulse, I asked my husband if he knew where the stage door was. No, he did not, and anyway it was late. But I persisted. Why not find that stage door, meet those women, be groupies for a moment, and prolong the evening’s magic?

Reluctantly, he followed me as I used technology to guide us into the labyrinthine underbelly of the Center. And there we were, amidst a clutch of super fans. As the performers came out, relieved of heavy makeup and wigs, we applauded them, they generously posed for selfies and the connection created a magical memory.

It was made all the more special because it was unplanned, a moment we would not have mourned if it did not happen, yet made all the more precious because it was spontaneous.

It takes as much energy to wish as it does to plan.

— Eleanor Roosevelt, You Learn by Living (1960)

And yet, when it comes to planning a trip, something switches in my brain. Perhaps it’s the idea that there are so many possibilities, the fear that I will overlook an extraordinary experience, that prompts me to start planning in advance. I go down the rabbit hole of seeking out the best local restaurants, overlooked sites, off-season activities, festas and sagras and saint’s days and street festivals and unexpected happenings.

I admit to an old-fashioned love of travel guidebooks and I still have a decent number on my shelf. The Colosseum and its history hasn’t changed, nor have the locations of the Senso-Ji temple in Tokyo or the Lion Rock fortress in Sri Lanka. And like clothes that were tucked in the back of my closet that now fit me, I revisit these old friends gladly when travel is on the horizon.

This time around, there’s been neither the luxury of time nor the comforting illusion that I could just wing it. There had been a plan—Jordan and Egypt in mid-April—but with everything unfolding in the world, that didn’t seem exactly wise. Why not Puglia in June? Until suddenly the dates moved up and departure is now a week from today. Phew. I don’t think we’ve ever planned a trip this quickly. The big pieces are in place—flights, hotels, a car. And now it’s time to sit back and let serendipity and a handful of really good personal recommendations guide us.

A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.

—Lao Tzu, Chinese philosopher, from the Tao Te Ching

If this quote from Lao Tzu sounds like advice for people who travel without bookings, digging a deeper reveals a more nuanced and thoughtful meaning.

This reflects the Taoist principle of Wu wei, or effortless action. The point is not to force outcomes or cling to rigid plans, but to let things unfold as they are. Being not intent on arriving does not mean you never reach a destination. It means you are not obsessed with the endpoint or rushing through everything just to get there.

What I’ve learned over a lifetime of travel is that planning only gets you so far.

Leaving room for the unexpected, days with plenty of white space and wide open windows. It’s being a flanneur with a three-hour glass of wine at a streetside cafe in Paris; visiting a Jain temple in Mumbai and, by chance, arriving during Paryushana, a joyful religious festival, and being invited to the communal table; travelling the rural roads of Ireland to seek out a young cutler and having an oyster knife made.

The memories that make a trip meaningful, the replays that spring unbidden to mind, are most often the ones that had no plan or forethought. They bloom naturally, revealing themselves with patience, waiting for us to pay attention, to look beyond the monument.

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Smoked trout salad with pesto beans and greens

serves 2

It was 5 pm on Tuesday and I hadn’t planned anything for dinner. I went to my freezer and saw that I had a whole smoked trout filet waiting patiently on the shelf. Why not a smoked trout salad? Dinner dilemma solved. It’s also as tasty with a good quality oil-packed tuna instead, and since you’re much more likely to have a jar or tin of tuna on the pantry shelf, it’s made easier by half.

Making the leap from spontaneous moments to spontaneous cooking requires the same spirit of flexibility, creativity, and ingenuity that might lead you to a stage door…or a delicious dinner. It’s all about having the right staples in the cupboard.

The key is to choose good quality ingredients to start with. Yes, beans are probably better from dried, freshly made pesto can’t be beat, and seared tuna is divine in a salad. Still, a jar of high quality imported tuna, organic canned beans, and top drawer jarred pesto are excellent sub-ins. With a little imagination and some greens, a lovely salad can be made in minutes.

Note: At the height of summer and basil season, I make a large batch of Marcella Hazan’s excellent pesto and freeze it in small containers. It’s made better by following Marcella’s advice: don’t add the cheese and butter before freezing, but only after you’ve defrosted the pesto. The flavour will be brighter and fresher as a result.

Ingredients

1 14-ounce (398 ml) can of cannellini beans (about 2 cups)

⅓ cup pesto (homemade or store bought), more to taste (see Note)

1 8-ounce (226 gr) whole smoked trout filet* or a 6-ounce jar of good quality oil-packed tuna

4 cups mixed salad greens

Fresh herbs to finish, optional

Salt, pepper, olive oil and lemon juice to taste

1. Drain and rinse beans and gently heat in a small saucepan, or microwave for one minute. Stir the pesto into the warmed beans and set aside. The beans can be made ahead and left at room temperature until ready to serve.

2. In a medium bowl, mix salad greens with salt, pepper, olive oil and lemon juice to taste. Start with a teaspoon or two of the lemon juice; you want it to heighten the flavour, not overpower it. Place in a serving platter or immediately divide between two bowls, and top each bowl with 1 cup of beans.

3. Remove skin from the smoked trout and break into bite sized pieces. Divide the trout between the two salad bowls, finish with herbs if using and serve.

Sources:

Pluralism Project. “Paryushana and the Festival of Forgiveness.” Pluralism.org. Harvard University.

Eva Wong. Taoism: An Essential Guide. Boston: Shambhala Publications.

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

We April babies know the travails of navigating capricious weather.

April is a month of all feast or famine, some of that being perilous to more than just our mood. Days of blindingly welcome sun make the growing things snap to attention, only to be nipped in the bud by a late-to-the-party frost. The regret of putting seedlings out or planting prematurely. And the rain, the interminable rain.

Those persistent grey skies burrow deep into our psyches. In the downpour, we can get lost in the dreary thoughts that come floating to the surface of our minds. When everything’s wet, it can take a long time to get dry.

That’s when we need rainy day people.

Rainy day people always seem to know when it’s time to call
Rainy day people don’t talk, they just listen till they’ve heard it all
Rainy day lovers don’t lie when they tell ‘ya they’ve been down like you
Rainy day people don’t mind if you’re cryin’ a tear or two

—Rainy Day People, Gordon Lightfoot

There’s a certain kind of friend that always knows what to do. Rain or shine, they’re the reliable ones, the ones you can call for anything at all.

Yet with their dependability, rainy day friends sometimes get forgotten when it’s sunny weather. When you’re flying high, their subtle and sure friendship can get overshadowed by the dazzling light of your busy social scene. It’s in the slump, the gathering dark storm clouds, that rainy day people shine.

Our rainy day friends don’t need our energy to fuel their spirits. They’re comfortable illuminating and reflecting our light back, letting us bask in the warmth they exude. The quiet certitude of rainy day people is as sure and true as a steady rain pattering on our gardens, feeding and nurturing the deep roots beneath.

And so I’ve learned to love the rain, and never more than when I can sit in a sheltered spot, surrounded by greenery, hearing the drip drip of the drops on my terrace umbrella, watch the rivulets wind down the tender plants, trace the watercolour grey in the sky.

In the stillness of those moments, I tend to my own rainy day nature, with the same nourishment and gentle care I get from my rainy day friends. And, as my friend pointed out, to remind myself to shine a light back on those steadfast and true companions. Because as any gardener knows, it’s not the cloudburst that keeps the earth growing; it’s the sure steady rain that slowly, carefully seeps far down to the roots below.

When the rain comes down, listen closely. The laughter you hear is all the good things growing.

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—
And I love the rain.

— Langston Hughes, “April Rain Song,” The Brownies’ Book

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Scenes from a birthday weekend

The days leading up to my birthday yesterday were anything but sunny. Temperatures dipped and swung like a runaway kite, Tuesday brought snow, and by week’s end the sodden sky seemed determined to empty a season’s worth of rain.

The combination of pelting rain and a one hurtling 18-wheeler after another whizzing by made our six-hour drive to Montreal on Friday pretty miserable. But as we drove into the city the rain stopped, the sky loosening its grip at last. With hand on heart, Mr. Cohen welcomed us to his city and all was right with the world.

Montreal’s vibe is both European and modern, a city whose mother tongue is French but whose culture has a world beat. One-way streets, incredible museums, excellent restaurants at every turn, cobblestones and cathedrals and cafes with really good coffee…Montreal is a city in which to walk, to explore and most of all to dine.

And dine we did.

Consider this a highly selective, far-from-exhaustive list of places to eat the next time you find yourself there. We zeroed in on the Griffintown/Little Burgundy stretch of Notre Dame West for many of our meals, but don’t miss my Old Montreal favourite and Saint-Henri’s hottest breakfast spot.

Note: While the quality of the food and service is top notch at all these places, none are “fine dining” white tablecloth kind of places. Above all else, the focus of the service and hospitality is to ensure that guests are comfortable and having a really great experience.

Seasonality rules most menus, so while I’ve offered up reccos on what we enjoyed this weekend, items often change to reflect what the local framers have on offer.

Breakfast/Lunch

1. Arthur’s Nosh Bar, Jewish classics served with a twist and a lot of family pride. No-reservations breakfast-only hot spot that closes early in what is otherwise a quiet stretch of Saint-Henri.

   Pro tips: if you’re in Montreal for a four day weekend, go to Arthur’s on Monday to beat the weekend brunch crowd. Whenever you go, ask about half portions so you can try a variety of things.

   Don’t miss: Salmon gravlax; syrniki (cottage cheese pancakes); citrus tahini crunch; chocolate babka

2. Barley, a Middle-Eastern inspired breakfast place in Little Burgundy.

   Pro tips: Barley is a great option for either breakfast or lunch; they also close mid-afternoon. Barley takes reservations but we were seated immediately without one. Don’t be tempted by the very long lines down the street at September; Barley’s menu is way more interesting than the pancakes September is famous for.

   Don’t miss: Avocado toast that is all about the avocado, plus some zhoug for good measure; fatteh—a fabulous one dish bowl that combines toasted pita chips, eggplant, chickpeas, labneh, chili, pickled red onions and pomegranate arils. Barley also has killer coffee.

Dinner

1. Vin Papillon, a cosy neighbourhood wine bar and restaurant in Little Burgundy from chef Marc-Olivier Frappier, with a vegetable-forward seasonal menu. This is the place that other chefs go and relax when they want excellent food, great service and a stellar, unusual wine list.

   Pro tip: Like many popular spots, Vin Papillon only reserves one month out. Mark your calendar and opt to sit at the bar. The restaurant also has adorable booths built just for two so request one for a chummy date with your beau.

   Don’t miss: Cabbage is having a moment and every place we dined had a unique take on this most versatile veg. Razor clams were spectacular, calamari and beef skewers exceptional and charred broccolini special a highlight. We were so hungry that we acted like normal diners and didn’t take any photos.

2. Garde Manger, opened in 2006 by chef Chuck Hughes, delivers a high-energy, seafood-forward experience in Old Montreal—think oysters, seafood towers, and a dining room that gets louder as the night goes on. It’s as much about the atmosphere as the food. This is a must visit for us every time we’re in Montreal, and while the crowd leans heavily towards visitors as opposed to locals, the staff make you feel like they saw you just last week.

   Pro tip: The same one month out deal here. Mark your calendar and be ready to have FUN with the staff. Jian, who served us on Saturday when we sat at the bar, was bartender/eagle eye/server and co-conspirator with David, the front of house manager, keeping the vibe lively. You may just down a shot or two in comradeship with this hospitable bunch.

   Don’t miss: Seafood is the star, and seasons matter here. Snow crab, white asparagus, rhubarb were all offer and we opted for a number of appetizers, rounded out by fois gras. Cabbage showed up here too and a refreshing chicory salad was the right balance for all the richness.

3. Foxy rounds out the list, and is another Little Burgundy gem, and true neighbourhood spot. After visiting a cabane au sucre for lunch (more on that in a future post!), we wanted our last meal to be a shareable and delicious lighter bite. Like many of Montreal’s best, there is a very marked focus on the seasons, on vegetables and plants and making what’s at the market the star. The menu proudly features a deep list of all of the local producers and farmers that Foxy sources from.

   Pro tip: Foxy is a casual place; there was a multi-generational table celebrating a family birthday, three girlfriends having dinner, couples like us hanging out. You’ll fit right in with jeans or whatever makes you feel at home.

   Don’t miss: Cabbage again! This time with a delicate made-in-house jambon blanc (white ham). The carrots were on a bed of mixed herb and carrot top sauce, and scattered with toasted quinoa, cardamom and sesame. Our shared sweet potato gnocchi with rabbit were delicately delicious.

Let me know if you’re heading to Montreal! There’s so much to discover and I’d love to share more of my favourites with you 💕

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

Is there anything more intimidating than a blank page?

Perhaps a blank mind, that panicky feeling that, just when you need to have a burst of inspiration, start that project, finish the outline, write the strategy, suddenly everything has dried up, as arid as the Sahara.

Or perhaps you don’t think of yourself as creative at all. Creativity is often framed as output…being “good at something”: having a talent that’s distinctive and recognizable, whether that’s drawing, singing, photography, fashion design, woodworking or even arranging the flowers just so. Creativity becomes performance art, something we do for someone else instead of ourselves.

When we hesitate and start second-guessing our innate ability to create something wonderful, we become our own worst enemies. What if creativity isn’t something that you do, but something that you let happen?

All grown-ups were once children… but only few of them remember it.

— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

We all know this and see it: children have an abundance of creativity. They dance spontaneously, they combine clothing in the most, ermmm, imaginative way, they draw outside the lines, using the printed page as a starting point for unbridled energy, colour and confusion.

For those lucky amongst us to have been raised by families that cherished this outpouring, our creativity can continue to flower and grow, branching off and winding tendrils around our life choices, whatever they may be. All that joie de vivre wells up unbidden, a natural spring source that started bubbling in our childhood, and never runs dry.

In the weeks leading up to the Food Writers’ Retreat, that spring of creativity was on my mind. As and I prepared to lead a conversation at the retreat on living a creative life, the conversations we had—and later shared with the group—began to crystallize my own sense of what keeps me open, curious, and alive to the world of possibility.

It also led me to the work of Mihály Csíkszentmihályi.

Flow state

Creativity is a central source of meaning in our lives… when we are involved in it, we feel that we are living more fully than during the rest of life.

—Mihály Csíkszentmihályi

We all know what being in the zone, in the groove or having everything click means.

What you may not know is that the concept of a flow state was first developed by Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, a Hungarian-American psychologist whose work focused on optimal experience and human flourishing.

Having grown up in wartime Hungary, Csíkszentmihályi was shaped early by the question of what makes life worth living, a curiosity born out of witnessing the suffering around him during the Second World War. After moving to the United States, he began developing his ideas about flow in the 1960s and 1970s, drawn to moments of deep absorption and engagement.

While studying creativity, he noticed that painters would become so immersed in their work that they lost track of everything else—food, time, even themselves—and that the act of creation mattered more than the finished piece. He began to see that this kind of experience wasn’t limited to art, but showed up across all kinds of activities, wherever people were fully engaged and doing something for its own sake.

At a time when psychology was largely focused on illness and dysfunction, Csíkszentmihályi turned his attention instead to these moments of aliveness—an approach that would later help shape the field of positive psychology—eventually naming this state “flow.”1

Creating is about being our most human selves.

—Jason McBride, Canadian writer, editor, and cultural critic

Understanding creativity as a central source of meaning can be revelatory, especially when we’re surrounded by those we consider to be “more than” us. More talented. More successful. But what if the “more” is really about being the most we can be, as McBride says?

Since the retreat weekend that sparked all this rumination, I’ve been thinking about how to keep the wellspring of creativity as that central source of meaning—not just in a space and time where the travails of daily life fall away, but even more so when the demands of our busy minds, lives, and the grief of the world weigh us down.

If I might sum it up somehow, I think it comes down to three truths: notice more; follow curiosity; let things be imperfect. As Rebecca said so beautifully:

About that blank journal at the top of this post.

It was the same journal we gave everyone at the start of the weekend. Along with inspirational and thought-provoking journaling prompts: How will you give your creative mind the space and freedom it requires?… What does it mean to create without attachment to outcome?… What is here now?, the blank cover was meant to prime the pump and get the creative waters flowing through our veins.

We provided a beautiful John Derian sticker book, full of botanicals, colours, fragments of images, oddities and wonderments. Over the course of the weekend, everyone shared the book, creating their own magical stories born out of their imaginations and some inspiration.

A joyful life is an individual creation that cannot be copied from a recipe.

—Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, Hungarian-American psychologist

What will your creative life recipe be? How will you decide the ingredients, choose the implements, bake the cake? What will you notice, pour yourself into, leave behind?

There’s no single way to fill a page, or decorate a journal’s cover, just as there’s no single way to live a creative life. It begins the same way, every time—with something blank, a moment of attention, and the willingness to begin.

*The beautiful journals of Retreat attendees , Alex Sharp, , and yours truly

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Creamy cauliflower soup

adapted from Lidey Heuck, The New York Times

serves 6

When it comes to cooking for others, we can get caught up in believing that elaborate is best. The show of effort, the complexity of techniques or ingredients can fool us into believing that the end result will be worth the stressful effort. That may seem particularly true when it’s high-stakes cooking for a group of food writers, recipe developers and cookbook authors. But people who are obsessed with food are generous souls, and seek nothing more than to gather round the feast; we know that every dish is made with love and offered with generosity.

So when and I made lunch at the Food Writers’ Retreat, I chose what I would make based on two criteria: what I love to eat and how simple it could be. But I also wanted to put my imprint on these familiar, simple dishes. I loved the sound of cauliflower soup with rosemary and with a little imagination, made it even better. Roasting the cauliflower, amping up the aromatics with the rosemary oil…little touches made a big flavour difference.

Note: You’ll use the same skillet to make both the rosemary oil and the croutons, so leave the thin layer of rosemary oil in the pan. Leftover rosemary oil will keep in a sealed container at room temperature for up to 1 week. You can make more of the delicious croutons. Cool them completely, and keep them in an airtight container for a few days or as long as they will last.

1 medium head cauliflower, cored and broken into 1½-inch florets (about 2½ pounds)

1 tablespoon olive oil

For the rosemary oil

¾ cup olive oil

4 x 4-inch sprigs fresh rosemary

For the soup

2 tablespoons rosemary oil (see Note)

1 medium yellow onion, chopped (about 1 cup)

1 garlic clove, minced

1 quart low-sodium vegetable or chicken stock, plus more as needed for reheating

2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more to taste

3-4 grinds fresh black pepper, plus more to taste

2-3 cups rustic country bread, torn into bite-sized pieces (see Note)

1. Heat the oven to 400°F / 200°C. In a bowl, toss the cauliflower with the olive oil and season lightly with salt and a few grinds of black pepper. Spread the cauliflower on a baking sheet in an even layer and roast until just tender and starting to turn golden brown in spots. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.

2. Make the rosemary oil: In a medium skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the rosemary sprigs, then reduce the heat to low and sauté for 5–7 minutes, until the sprigs begin to gently sizzle. Remove the skillet from the heat and take out the rosemary sprigs. Pour the oil into a bowl and let it cool. If desired, return the rosemary sprigs to the oil to further infuse as it cools.

3. In a heavy pot or Dutch oven, heat 2 tablespoons of the rosemary oil over medium-low. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender and translucent, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds.

4. Add the stock, roasted cauliflower, salt and pepper, and bring to a boil. Lower the heat, cover, and simmer until the cauliflower is fully tender when pierced with a fork, about 7-10 minutes.

5. Transfer the vegetables, stock and ¼ cup rosemary oil to a blender in batches and blend on high until creamy. Taste and add more rosemary oil, salt and pepper to taste, and blend to combine.

6. Make the croutons: Heat the reserved skillet over medium heat. Add the bread cubes, sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and sauté, tossing often, until golden and toasted, 4 to 5 minutes. Set aside to cool.

7. To serve, garnish each serving with a swirl of rosemary oil and a few croutons. The soup will thicken as it sits; add more stock as necessary when reheating.

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To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

I’ve been trying to find my way into a story about the inaugural Food Writers’ Retreat I attended last weekend.

I had an idea that I would write about storytelling; the power and magic that’s inherent in hearing someone share something deeply personal, meaningful, or just plain funny. And maybe the moment when, with a startled gasp, you recognise yourself in the story being told.

Or about the way that a house full of nearly strangers, some acquaintances and a few good friends can be woven into a tapestry full of diverse and colourful threads.

Through travelling to the Poconos together…making meals as a team…learning how to do improv…write a cookbook proposal…take better food photographs…expand our culinary horizons by using Indian cookery techniques…having deep and personal conversations...every opportunity for interaction tightened the warp and weft of the beautiful magic carpet we were making.

All wrapped up in a generosity of spirit and a welcoming hospitality that was as big as the state of Pennsylvania and as intimate as a family gathering. It was all of this and so much more.

Scenes from a Food Writers’ Retreat

1. A warm welcome and personal touch from

2. Travelling to the Poconos with newfound friends Betty Williams & Kerry Faber

3. Jenn making first night cocktails

4. Dynamic mother-daughters trio Marjory Pilley Sarah Pilley and Emily Pilley

5. Rebecca Blackwell teaching us how to point and shoot

6. The Morning Glories: Betty, Anne-Marie Pietersma & Elizabeth Baer

7. Dianne Jacob imparting wit and wisdom

8. Lunch chefs Janet Mary Cobb, Rachel Ciordas & Lori Olson White

9. Jenn with her kids Colton and Alex.

Digital relationships in a virtual world

When I started my first food blog in 2009, I was on a simple mission: to find and follow like-minded folks who loved food as much as I did. And boy, did I find them.

It was the first time that I formed friendships and close relationships through technology. Twitter and Instagram led me to IRL events, meet-ups and food happenings, from Pistoia in Italy to Ottsville, Pennsylvania. Those in turn, led to friendships that have persevered over time and miles.

I’ve had cocktails in Umbria, ice cream in London, a nifty Sazerac in SoHo, frozen yogurt in Washington D.C., a kitchen meet-up here in Toronto, all with friends I met first online. There is something that gets stripped away when you communicate first through technology, an immediacy that can be both fast and meaningful.

But it’s been a long time since I bought a plane ticket to spend the weekend with people I’ve never met before. And in a world where we can rightly blame social media for making us feel more isolated than ever, it was Substack that brought us together.

This magical, marvelous food on our plate, this sustenance we absorb, has a story to tell. It has a journey.

—Joel Salatin, American farmer, author, and speaker

Writing can be a lonely endeavour. The solitary effort, internal focus, the feast or famine of words flowing versus a dry well…it’s the exact opposite of a team activity.

And for the most part, that’s okay. But still, great writing most often comes from inspiration, from being of the world and in the world. There’s something singularly energizing when you find your people. They are the ones who can understand your impulse to do the laundry or tackle some weeding in the garden at a particularly thorny juncture in your story, or your obsession with styling every dinner just so, in case anything turns out to be camera-worthy. It’s finding them that’s the hard part.

And so it was that Jenn Sharp decided to do something about it. An early member of the Food Writers Forum and Mastermind for Food Writers on Substack, Jenn—who is a born hostess and people convener—saw an opportunity to make our nascent community a truly thriving one.

Jenn sent out a call to the Substack community last July with a simple idea: what if some of the people who’d been chatting, and liking and subscribing and generally supporting each other’s Substacks met up in person? That she miraculously, effortlessly made this happen was a gift to the 20 of us in attendance.

Just one post won’t capture everything, so over the next two weeks I’m going to dive a little deeper into what we learned, ate, shared and laughed about.

As I pour through the photos and my fulsome memories, I’m reminded that stories unfold over time and space, that the telling in one place of a singular event might capture the essence, but not the whole. But that’s okay. Because I know I will be telling stories, as I have already done, about this extraordinary weekend for months to come. Stay tuned for more on how this magical weekend came together and what we did there.

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You can read other Retreat reflections here:

: Food People are the Best People

: IRL. But with magic.

: Finding Your Tribe: A Food Writer’s Retreat That Changed Everything

My favourite radicchio, orange and fennel salad

serves 4-6, scales up or down

There is no doubt that whoever first invented this brilliant combination of of citrus and anise was Italian, and all roads lead to Sicily as the source. A bread basket of an island that grows just about everything I want to eat, its abundance of citrus and wild fennel have long been combined to make a refreshing salad, served Italian-style at the end of the meal. Common add ons have come to include slivered red onion and briny black olives for a wonderful combination of flavours.

But my roots and heart lie in Veneto and it is there that I turn to inspiration for my take on this classic. Combining a mix of Radicchio di Chioggia (deep red) and Variegato di Castelfranco (a pale pink and creamy white variety), the radicchio’s bitter edge is softened and enhanced by both the citrus and the fennel.

I give the salad a further nod to Sicily’s Arabic roots with a healthy scattering of pomegranate arils and a drizzle of pomegranate molasses to finish and enhance the vinaigrette.

Best of all this salad can easily be made for a crowd, as I did at the Food Writers’ Retreat, where my salad complemented a creamy cauliflower soup I made, along with ’s potato-scallion flatbreads and chickpea salad. Watch for those recipes in future Dispatches!

Ingredients

Note: before you start, have an attractive wide serving bowl ready to put the ingredients in as you prep them

2 heads Radicchio di Chioggia or a mix of Radicchio di Chioggia and Castelfranco, leaves separated and washed, torn into bite sized pieces

4 oranges (varieties like blood, Cara Cara, or navel), peeled, pith removed, halved and cut into chunks.

Half a large white fennel bulb, cored, trimmed and cut into thin slices

½ cup pomegranate arils (seeds)

1 teaspoon Maldon or other flaky salt

Three turns of freshly ground pepper

1 tablespoon good quality olive oil

1 teaspoon aged white wine vinager

A drizzle of pomegranate molasses

Put all the ingredients in the bowl in which you will serve the salad and toss to combine. Season with salt, pepper, olive oil, vinegar and a drizzle of pomegranate molasses. Toss again to distribute the vinaigrette, taste and adjust the seasonings to your liking.

If you’re drawn to discovery, reflection and the shared experience of food, subscribe to The Delicious Bits Dispatch. You’ll feel right at home with this weekly newsletter that finds magic in the beautiful details of everyday life.

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To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

I’m sharing a bonus post this week that’s not the usual.

In January, I joined a merry band of writers under the gentle and witty hand of Mark Diacono to practice our writing skills. Called the Abundance Writing Group Gathering, every month, we’re given a prompt with the singular instruction to take no more than an hour to write and see what results.

When we gather, we discuss where the prompt led us, what the process was like and a few brave souls put up our hands to share our writing with the group.

This month’s prompt was: I didn’t, but I like it now

, , Kelly and I shared our writing, and the disparate places this simple prompt took us could not have been more gloriously different.

To read aloud what you sit and produce in the silence of your mind is both exhilarating and intimidating. But in this intimate online setting, the words hold deeper meaning, the feedback is generous and the hour flies by.

Here’s what I wrote in an hour.

I didn’t but I like it now, this getting up early.

The edge of light like icing on top of the buildings, the moon saying how’d you do to the sun before passing the baton.

The city looks weirdly futuristic, even though an old fire hall…a church steeple… an ancient tree belie the idea.

In the predawn morning, I feel the sense of possibility, an unbroken egg teetering on the edge of the bowl waiting for the decisive wrist flick to crack it wide open. In the here and now, I am not yet late or run out of time or impatiently waiting on the subway car.

I can still choose the skin I want to inhabit today…

…casual chic in denim and leather;
…buttoned up corporate in navy head to toe;
…flirty and feeling 40 in a floral dress.

The early morning is an offering that allows me to think of the hours ahead and make decisions. Not exactly planned or within the lines, but loose, confident, a cocky teen swaggering down the street of my schedule.

The best kind of early morning, of course, is before the alarm clock rings: a slow fluttering of my eyes awake, knowing without looking that I had a full 45 minutes more.

But still, I’m awake now, and the aerie view from my bird’s nest terrace is an ever-changing canvas. Not quite and sometimes never an arbiter of the day ahead…a tease of pink and fiery clear sky, or a brute of an angry Zeus, busily gathering thunderbolts hidden behind a grey roiling curtain of clouds, both as petulant and changeable as toddlers.

That I missed so much of this in my idle and frivolous youth, is not to be mistaken for regret. Because I really didn’t like it then, the unwilling separation of my warm body away from a tangle of sheets and blankets, my mother’s insistent voice calling me to svegliati! the reluctant making of the bed.

There I might have found the book I tried to vainly read until the end, with a purloined flashlight. I might have wanted to wander back into a dream, cinematic in length and scale, me the star player in a melodrama so like the old black and whites I adored.

When, then, the shift?

It wasn’t in the early days of my irresponsible adulthood, with its all-nighters and projects left to the very last moment. Never a planner, I; the midnight hour was my friend, the darkness and silence of nights in that tiny first flat as comforting as a weighted blanket. Part vampire, perhaps, my senses alert as a nocturnal creature, eyes adjusting to the dark, a cat on the prowl.

It was only when I moved into a wee fairy tale house with my husband that Helios started to claim my early morning devotion with a sentinel’s clarion call, its first early beckoning at an ungodly hour.

What messenger was this?

I remember going outside and peering into the trees, trying to train my eyes to follow that thread of sound as if it were a scored line of music. And there, there, it was, brilliant red, high, high on the tree branches, full-throated and glorious—as thrilling as anything I’d seen or heard before. A cardinal, a morning miracle.

Now, I sit above the city, a condo dweller who feels like she can touch the sky. It is harder to see the cardinals as I peer into the leafy trees that front my view, but if I’m quiet enough, early enough, I can still hear them along with abundant house wrens and song sparrows, humble kin to their more glamorous cousin but no less joyful and effusive in their song.

The rituals of morning…the steaming coffee, the hungry cats arching at my feet, a snatch of lovely reading before I’m beset with news… my husband still soundly asleep. I am in my element.

And while it is true the glorious sunrise I saw at 6:40 am might have ducked behind rain clouds by the time I leave home at 8:30 still, I know it is there. My little secret, a gift, a reminder that brighter days are always in the offing.

And if I didn’t like it now, that preternatural dawn, how flat and bereft might the day be in its absence.

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If you’re curious where this prompt took other writers in the group, I’d encourage you to read the pieces and wrote.

Taisty Bytes

I didn't, but I like it now

Hello, friends…

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2 months ago · 6 likes · 11 comments · Mark Thomas

The Greedy Gardener

I didn’t, but I like it now

The gardening bug didn’t bite until I was well into my thirties. I didn’t have parents or grandparents who were keen gardeners, mostly due to the fact they had no garden or at least not until much later in life. Most of my younger years were spent living in flats too, where the only outdoor space was a balcony. My first English boyfriend’s mother (the…

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2 months ago · 5 likes · 8 comments · Marjan

And if you want to be inspired by a generous community of writers who love words as much as you, consider joining Mark Diacono for this group, and so much more.

Visit Mark Diacono's Substack

I’ll be back with my usual Dispatch on Sunday, with a full report on the inaugural Food Writers’ Retreat plus some delicious recipes to share from that fabulous gathering.

If you’re drawn to discovery, reflection and the shared experience of food, subscribe to The Delicious Bits Dispatch. You’ll feel right at home with this weekly newsletter that finds magic in the beautiful details of everyday life.

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

There’s a feeling of expectancy in the air.

The first day of spring arrived last week, and I don’t need an artificial springing forward of the clocks to tell me so. Even before last weekend, the birds have been calling to me earlier and earlier with their morning song. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” they beckon. “The shoots are poking through the ground, the snow is melting. Wake up!”

March 20 also marked Nowruz, the Persian New Year. Always coincident with the spring equinox, Nowruz is a 13-day festival centred around the earth’s cycle, fresh starts, growth, rebirth and a celebration of nature. The lead up to Nowruz might also involve khune tekuni: spring cleaning. It literally means shaking the house up. In the act of opening the windows wide, beating the carpets, washing the windows to a sparkling shine, the path forward is paved for fresh beginnings.

And yet, renewal is never untouched by the world around us.

It’s impossible not to acknowledge the war in the Middle East and the weight it carries for so many. For those living through violence, uncertainty, and loss, the idea of fresh beginnings can feel painfully out of reach. And yet, spring and Nowruz endure. They arrive, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the cycle of life continues. That cycle offers something important…the promise, however fragile, that hope can still take root.

Spring drew on…and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps.

—Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

What is it we want? So many things, right now. Immeasurable. Small and personal. Vast and wide-reaching. Above all, we want the promise of spring to seep into the heart of darkness that surrounds us.

It’s no coincidence that as the earth awakens and shrugs off its winter mantle, it shakes our foundations. We are propelled forward, sometimes with our heels dragging, towards the sun.

It’s been easy to fall back into despair, to lose faith, to abandon hope. But the earth around us is wise beyond measure. She marches forward with a springtime palette of tender green, daffodil yellow, crocus white, rhubarb pink. Awakening us to the possibility of tomorrow. Above all, spring reminds us that hope is perhaps Mother Nature’s best gift.

I don’t know about you, but I am finding that in this season of new beginnings, I have a naive faith in human goodness.

Spring will come and so will happiness. Hold on. Life will get warmer.

—Anita Krizzan

Indeed.

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Rhubarb khoresh (khoresh-e rivas)

Food of Life, Najmieh Batmanglij

serves 6-8

While forced rhubarb hasn’t found its way to the greengrocer yet, visions of the delicate pink stalks have been haunting me from my friends across the pond. As I wait impatiently for its arrival, I’ve been thinking about what I’ll make first.

When I thumb through my cookbooks for recipes with rhubarb, desserts top the list. But if I dig a little deeper, the savoury side of rhubarb makes an appearance. Beyond rhubarb chutney or a mostarda, there are new treasures to be discovered.

In Persian cuisine, the use of the word khoresh is a general term that refers to stews of all kinds. Many Persian stews are known for their tangy character, often achieved through the use of souring agents such as sour grape juice (verjus) or dried limes. Rhubarb finds a unique place in khoresh-e rivas, a slow braised stew that combines meat or chicken with the vibrant flavours of parsley, mint, saffron, and fresh rhubarb. It’s not the work of thirty minutes; this stew is braised in stages, with a final finish in the oven to gently cook the rhubarb.

You’ll be well rewarded for the effort with this highly flavourful dish. Serve it over rice or, if you want to stay true to its Persian roots, a rice scented with saffron is lovely too.

Ingredients

4 tablespoons neutral oil, butter, or ghee

2 medium onions, peeled and thinly sliced

1 pound stewing meat (spring lamb is best but you can also use beef or veal, or boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into 2-inch cubes)

1½ teaspoons sea salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon turmeric

3 cups chopped fresh parsley

½ cup chopped fresh mint

¼ teaspoon ground saffron dissolved in 1 tablespoon rose water or water

1 tablespoon tomato paste

2 tablespoons fresh lime juice

1 pound fresh rhubarb, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces

1. In an ovenproof Dutch oven, heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium heat and brown onions and meat, about 10 minutes. Add salt, pepper, and turmeric, and sauté for 1 minute.

2. Pour in water—2½ cups for meat and 1½ cups for chicken. Bring to a boil, lower to a simmer, cover and cook over low heat: 1 hour for meat and 1¼ hours for chicken, stirring occasionally.

3. While the meat is cooking, in a wide skillet, sauté parsley and mint in the remaining 2 tablespoons oil over medium heat for 10 to 15 minutes until aromatic.

4. When the meat has simmered for an hour, add parsley and mint mixture, saffron-rose water, tomato paste, and lime juice to the Dutch oven. Cover and simmer 55 minutes longer over low heat.

5. Heat oven to 350°F (180°C). Arrange the rhubarb on top of the meat. Place a piece of parchment paper over the khoresh and pierce several holes in the paper with a skewer. Secure the parchment paper in place with a tight layer of aluminum foil. Pierce several holes in the foil and place the Dutch oven in the oven. Cook for 25 to 35 minutes or until the rhubarb is tender. Rhubarb is fragile; the pieces must be cooked but not to the point of dissolving or falling apart.

6. Gently mix the rhubarb into the khoresh, taste and adjust seasoning. If the khoresh is too sour, add 1 tablespoon sugar.

7. Serve over saffron-scented or plain steamed rice.

Sources

National Geographic, “What Is Nowruz? Persian New Year Traditions Explained” .

History.com, “Nowruz: Persian New Year, Origins & Traditions.”

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

Today I saw the first green chive shoots in my container garden.

Tiny bright and brave, they were pushing up through the hardened earth and the freshly fallen snow of a winter that seems twice as long as usual. I have yet to see a robin, but I know it’s only a matter of short weeks until we can fling open the windows, and only a few short days until spring is officially here.

All of this conspires to make us feel lighter—the anticipation of sweaters being put away, the snow tires removed, missing gloves forgotten—but even before the early rhubarb or sweet spring asparagus come out from under cover and beckon us to eat beautiful green things, this coming week is one that gives us an opportunity for a bit of early spring indulgence.

The sacred origins of everyday foods

Many everyday foods also have a place in religious traditions.

Bread, apples, honey, ghee, dates: all are foods that have spiritual significance beyond their quotidien use. But as cultures became more secular, what we ate at the everyday table lost any special significance, and some of those original associations may have been lost in translation.

Still, in many parts of the world, particularly those with Christian roots, celebrations rooted in feast days remain a vibrant part of local culture and tradition, including the making of special recipes that have deeper meaning.

When the saints come marching in

This week in particular has two distinctly different celebrations, each born from a saint. The first is St. Patrick’s Day, celebrated on March 17. Why you’ve undoubtedly heard, and perhaps participated in a St. Paddy’s Day toast or two, what you may not know is that this massively popular celebration began in the United States, becoming an export back to Ireland in the 20th century.

Irish soldiers in the British army marched in a St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York City in 1762, the beginning of an instant parade tradition that spread afar to Australia, New Zealand, the United Kingdom and Canada. And yes, Ireland. Although St. Patrick’s Day had long been observed as a religious feast in Ireland, the first official parade in Dublin did not take place until 1931.

Unlike other religious observances that were rooted in ritual first, the parades, wearing ‘o the green, silly hats and shamrocks of St. Patrick’s Day festivities lack deep food traditions. While a reveller might start March 17 with an Irish fry up, and there may be plenty of soda bread, corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew and Guinness on offer, food is a supporting player, not integral to the whole.

So to really understand the convergence of religious observance and its expression through food, we have to go to Italy. Naturalmente.

Feast days and food ways

Throughout Italy, many cities, towns and small villages celebrate feast days honouring their own santo patronos (patron saints). Both famous and obscure, these saints give rise to traditions that go back hundreds of years, creating a thread that weaves ancient beliefs and rites with modern day sensibilities (check this website to find out more).

If you live in an urban centre with an Italian community, you might have been lucky enough to stumble across one of these festivals. What you would have seen are processions, the saint’s icon floating high and reverently above the crowd. There might have been the wearing of traditional costumes, special markets, and most certainly food.

But to truly appreciate the all-encompassing nature of a feast day celebration, there’s no better place than in Italy itself.

Father’s Day, Italian style

In Italy, many people celebrate not just their birthday, but their onomastico—the feast day of the saint they’re named after. Rooted in Catholic tradition, each day of the year is dedicated to one or more saints, and if your name matches one, that day becomes your personal celebration. Rather than marking age, the onomastico honours identity, faith, and family heritage, since many Italians are traditionally named after saints or relatives. The day is often celebrated much like a birthday, with well-wishes, small gifts, sweets, or special foods—and in some regions, it’s considered just as important, or more important, than a birthday itself.

Take San Giuseppe. While my father was a Giuseppe, and we didn’t celebrate his name day, in Italy it’s a big deal.

The Festa diti San Giuseppe is celebrated across Italy on March 19, as that is officially Father’s Day (because Saint Joseph is kind of the ultimate dad). Of course Italians have to make every celebration their own, so you’ll find some specialties that are specific to a particular region: frittelle di riso from Tuscany, bigné di San Giuseppe in Rome, zeppole in Naples, pasta con le molliche in Basilicata and Puglia. You can find countless authentic recipes for these delicacies, each with their own special imprinteur.

What you might not find is the distinctly Sicilian iterations of the festa di papa. There, the food traditions are deeper, broader and somehow more mystical.

To the table

It is uniquely in Sicily where you will find the Tavola di San Giuseppe—St. Joseph’s Table. The practice of creating large food altars dates to the Middle Ages. According to legend, a severe drought and famine in Sicily miraculously ended when the farmers prayed to St. Joseph, and the rains arrived.

Thus was born the tradition of erecting altars of abundance as an expression of gratitude, and still today you will find these very elaborate tables, groaning with food, in private homes, churches and community centres across Sicily (to give you a sense of sheer volume, there can be up to 100 types of food on these altars).

Cooking for this festa is a serious business in Sicily. The foods represent both the past and the future. The past are the fava beans and lentils, the foods of winter. The future is represented by the greens of spring: wild mustard, wild fennel, chard. Spices are used to represent richness and prosperity. Savoury is balanced by sweet.

Two of my favourite Sicilian dishes are also consumed during the San Giuseppe feast. The first is a classic: pasta con le sarde: bucatini pasta served with a sauce of sardines, wild fennel, golden raisins, pine nuts, onions, white wine, olive oil, saffron and bread crumbs. The second is less recipe than staple: sautéed bitter greens served either alone or in combination with other ingredients.

And of course there are the sfinci: fried cream puffs served hot with a dusting of cinnamon, confectioner’s sugar, and honey, or, cold and open-faced with a smear of ricotta cream and decorated with candied orange.

You might want to try to make one or all three of these recipes on March 19. If you do, you’ll be part of an ancient tradition dating back hundreds of years. You’ll bring the spirit of Sicily into your kitchen. And you’ll be well-fed to boot.

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Pasta con le sarde

serves 4

I admit that, while this pasta dish is stellar, it loses a bit of of its authentic lustre because of the absence of wild fennel. Growing freely all over the island of Sicily, wild fennel is a harbinger of spring that gives a wonderfully unique flavour to the dishes it graces.

One other change of note: this dish is typically made with raisins or currants and pine nuts, but I like the clean crunch of chopped almonds instead, an authentic substitution that I learned in Sicily. Seek out a recipe for the original for a real treat.

Ingredients

Breadcrumb Topping

1 teaspoon ground fennel seeds

1¼ cup bread crumbs

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

¼ cup olive oil

2 tablespoons granulated sugar

1 large garlic clove, peeled and lightly smashed

Sardine Sauce

1½ cup minced peeled and cored fennel bulb, fronds chopped and reserved

2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more as needed

1 cup minced yellow onion

1 large garlic clove, peeled and lightly smashed

¼ cup tomato sauce

⅓ cup raw almonds, roughly chopped

1 pound/340g sardines, cleaned and cut into 1-inch pieces

1 tablespoon tomato paste, dissolved in ½ cup (120ml) dry white wine

Pinch saffron (dissolve this in the wine too)

1 pound (450g) bucatini or spaghetti

Make the breadcrumb topping:

Heat the olive oil a medium skillet over medium heat. Add the ground fennel seed and cook until fragrant. Add breadcrumbs, salt, sugar and garlic clove and cook, tossing, until golden. Discard garlic and transfer breadcrumb mixture to a bowl and set aside.

Make the sardine sauce:

1. Bring a large pot of water to boil. Add the chopped fennel (not the fronds) and cook until the fennel is tender, about 15 minutes. Drain, reserving water.

2. In a large skillet or sauté pan, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onions, garlic and drained fennel and sauté until fragrant, being careful not to let either turn brown, 2 to 3 minutes.

3. Add the reserved fennel fronds, the tomato sauce, the almonds, the wine and saffron if using. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Simmer for 5-7 minutes and then add the sardines. Simmer a further 3-5 minutes, or until the sardines are cooked through (they will break up as they cook). Taste and adjust for seasoning.

4. Bring the reserved fennel cooking water to a boil, adding more water as needed and salting the water to cook the pasta. When just al dente, drain the pasta, reserving a cup of the cooking water.

5. Combine the pasta with the sardine sauce, adding some of the pasta water. Bring the sauce to a simmer and stir the pasta with tongs to ensure it is being coated with the sauce. When the liquid has absorbed, serve the pasta, passing the breadcrumb topping separately.

Sources

Ken Albala, ed. Food Cultures of the World Encyclopedia. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood Press, 2011.

Martin Stack. “The First St. Patrick’s Day Parade.” Smithsonian Magazine, 2012.

Massimo Montanari. Italian Identity in the Kitchen, or Food and the Nation. Columbia University Press, 2013.

Mike Cronin and Daryl Adair. The Wearing of the Green: A History of St. Patrick’s Day. Routledge, 2002.

An American in Italy. What Is an Onomastico? https://www.anamericaninitaly.com/how-to-speak-italian/what-is-an-onomastico/

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

In cooking, as with any science, there are rules of nature that bear following.

The rules usually based on chemistry. Eggs will curdle in a sauce if you cook them over high heat. Brown sugar becomes hard if not kept in an airtight container. Kneading dough forms gluten, essential for an excellent loaf of bread. You can freeze eggs but not milk. And salting your water while cooking pasta really is a good idea.

But unless you’ve gone to culinary school or spent time in a professional kitchen, the things we learn in the kitchen come over time, slowly and with trial and error. Most often, they come from our childhood kitchens. The “right” way to do something may be nothing more than a preference or a habit that our cooking parents taught us, and that we’ve made our own.

Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.

―Pablo Picasso

Things become particularly heated when it comes to cult favourites. Don’t ask two Romans for the “right” way to make bucatini all’amatriciana. The debate could go on for hours about whether or not pancetta is an acceptable substitute for guanciale, if onions should be used, whether to cook the sugo with white wine. You’ll never get consensus. Substitute paella, chicken adobo, shepherd’s pie for the pasta, throw the gauntlet down between two aficionados and watch the dishes fly.

Yet, the luxury of rules comes from having all the right ingredients on hand…and isn’t that counterintuitive to how the best of these dishes were created in the first place? From la cucina povera in Italy, cocina de aprovechamiento in Spain, prosta kuchnia in Poland, and mottainai in Japan, cultural cuisines and signature dishes were often born in improvised moments.

That’s because cooking—and food itself—is a most generous teacher. With an open mind and a curious palate, even the most seasoned cook can learn something new, no matter if you are an amateur in your home kitchen or a professional. With curiosity comes flexibility.

We are never more fully alive, more completely ourselves, or more deeply engrossed in anything than when we are playing.

—Charles E. Schaefer, American psychologist

Cooking, at its best, is a form of play: an experiment, a conversation, a willingness to try something just to see what happens. It invites improvisation and rewards curiosity, asking us to engage with our senses and with one another. The kitchen becomes a place where rules are tested, ideas are shared, and discovery is constant.

Enter Jacques Pepin and Julia Child.

Separately Jacques and Julia are culinary icons. Together, they had a beautiful friendship of mutual love, respect, shared passions, and yes, heated debates. Watch any episode of Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home, the well-loved and iconic PBS series that first ran in 1999, and you see the intense curiosity and interest in what each has to teach the other.

After a lifetime of cooking and creating, they demonstrated in their uniquely warm and approachable way that cooking is a journey, never a final destination. At the heart of each interaction, there is a spirit of play, each knowing there’s a rulebook to follow, and that the real fun comes when the experimenting starts.

The companion cookbook is one of my favourite gifts from my husband, and my signed first edition holds special pride of place on my shelf. Reading it is like eavesdropping on a conversation between two best friends, who invite you to pull up a seat to the table. Always instructive, interesting and with variations to try for every dish, it’s a book that holds infinitely more than a collection of recipes. The reader is invited to come along for the fun, and play in the kitchen.

More than that, it’s a reminder that an original recipe is like a pebble. Dropping it into a pond creates ripples worth exploring. And while every variation may not be to your liking, it may be a welcome reminder that there are many ways to be right in the kitchen.

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Mediterranean seafood soup with rouille

from Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home

serves 6

This recipe may look a little daunting at first, with its long list of ingredients and many steps. But just take 10 minutes to watch this video of Jacques and Julia making the soup, and you’ll see that at its heart, this is an easy, infinitely flexible recipe. More of this, less of that, potatoes instead of fish: Jacques and Julia always remind us that there is no one right way, but the way that works best for you.

For the soup

1½ pounds fish fillets, a mixture of two or three different types of fish (you may skin them if you wish)

1½ pounds small clams (little necks or cherry stones)

½ pound scallops

3 tablespoons olive oil

1½ cups chopped onions

1 cup thinly sliced scallions, white and green parts

1 tablespoon chopped garlic

2 cups fresh or canned tomatoes, chopped into chunks (reserve any juices and no need to seed)

1 cup white wine

4 cups fish stock

1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme

Salt and pepper to taste

1 teaspoon saffron threads

1½ tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon

For the rouille

1 slice firm homestyle white bread

2 large garlic cloves, peeled and minced

1 small potato, peeled, cooked and cut into quarters

¼ cup chopped roasted red peppers from a jar

¼ cup broth from the soup base

Salt and pepper to taste

Pinch of cayenne

1 cup olive oil

For serving

1 baguette, sliced and toasted

Make the soup base

1. Cut the fish into even chunks about an inch thick. Scrub the clams and rinse both the clams and the scallops to remove any sand.

2. In a large stock pot or sauce pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onions, scallions and garlic and cook until soft, about five minutes.

3. Add the tomatoes and their juices, wine and fish stock, and season lightly with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil and then simmer briskly for 10 to 15 minutes, with the pot partially covered.

Make the rouille

While the soup is simmering, make the rouille.

1. Tear the bread slice into pieces and put the pieces in a food processor with the minced garlic and potato. Process until very finally chopped.

2. Add the red peppers, ¼ cup of broth from the soup base, and season lightly with salt, pepper and a pinch of cayenne. Process until completely smooth.

3. With the machine running, pour in the olive oil in a slow steady stream, taking about half a minute or more so that an emulsion forms. Process until completely smooth; taste and adjust seasoning. Place the rouille in a small bowl and set aside.

Continue with the soup

Bring the soup base to a boil and add the clams and the saffron. Cook for about two minutes. Add the fish and scallops, return to a gentle boil and cook for 2 to 3 minutes just until the fish pieces are cooked through and opaque and all the clams have opened. Stir in the tarragon, taste and adjust the seasonings for the final time.

To serve

Spoon some rouille on half the toasted baguette slices. Ladle the soup into large soup bowls and serve the croutons beside or on top of the soup, with the extra croutons and rouille alongside.

If you’re drawn to discovery, reflection and the shared experience of food, subscribe to The Delicious Bits Dispatch. You’ll feel right at home with this weekly newsletter that finds magic in the beautiful details of everyday life.

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Sources

Charles E. Schaefer, When Children Play: The Story of Right-Brain Development, New York: Play Therapy Press, 1993

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

In what has turned into another dark moment, it would feel strange to write my weekly post without acknowledging the events of the past few days, and the terrible weight of uncertainly that hangs over so many. As events unfold it’s hard to imagine what we might look forward to with certainty.

While there’s no easy answer, this is when we can turn toward the ordinary rhythms and small rituals that steady us. It is here that we find our footing and the space we need to be present and reclaim a little balance.

And so today, I am grateful for the lightness in the air that is whispering spring is coming, spring is coming. A dozen birds crowd around our feeder, preening in the sun, echoing the call. Snow is still on the ground and in the forecast, but seed catalogues are filling the mailbox with another kind of promise.

And I turn, as I’m wont to do, to the comforts of the kitchen for solace and glimmers of joy.

Anticipating the moment

Look up the opposite of “instant gratification” in a thesaurus, and what you’ll find might surprise you.

Phrases like “self-deprivation” “impulse control” “austerity” “renunciation”: all suggest that an instant moment of pleasure, delayed, is akin to some sort of painful abstinence program.

I prefer to think on the bright side. Not having something in the here and now, immediately, instead gives me a sense of anticipation. And it turns out there’s some science to back that up. Anticipating something—whether it’s an event, a holiday or even a purchase—can give us a sense of pleasure that may be even greater than the thing itself. It’s an often-ignored source of happiness, similar to the joy we get when we look back on something wonderful.

Yet there’s no denying the thrill of the spontaneous moment, the thing that doesn’t require advance planning. It’s the struggle between chasing fleeting moments of happiness today and laying the groundwork for future joy.

Perhaps the key is to choose both.

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The sunshine state

Eating seasonally and locally is a good thing. Really it is. Except when you live in a cold climate and the months drag along. Cabbages, parsnips and potatoes may be all very well and good, but a little sunshine goes a long way to making these last days of winter bearable.

Enter preserved lemons.

When you can make something with ingredients you probably already have on hand, it’s even better when it can be made in less than 30 minutes. That’s the instant part. The anticipation comes from the slow process of letting salt and lemon juice work its magic over weeks to turn a jar of citrus sunshine into a flavour hero in your kitchen.

Preserving lemons isn’t new, of course. The first mention of the technique is widely agreed to be by Ibn Jumay, a 12th-century Egyptian physician who wrote perhaps the world's first cookbook devoted entirely to lemons, On Lemon, Its Drinking and Use. Combining lemons with salt, long a preservative in hot climates, gave cooks the ability to carry bright flavour forward into months when fresh fruit was scarce. What began as practical preservation soon became a culinary signature, especially in Morocco, where preserved lemons were added to slow-cooked stews, grain dishes, and festive meals. The taste itself became inseparable from place.

And there preserved lemons remained, largely unknown in Western kitchens until Paula Wolfert and Claudia Roden emerged on the cookbook-writing scene. Roden and Wolfert were among the first to treat North African and Middle Eastern cuisines as sophisticated traditions rather than curiosities. Preserved lemons—along with other myriad ingredients and cooking techniques—entered English-language home kitchens largely through their work.

When you just can’t wait

As I was researching the rich history of preserved lemons, I discovered a different version for preparing lemons for cooking from none other than Roden herself. Her method isn’t a true preservation at all, but a quick softening of fresh lemons—a weeknight stand-in for the slow alchemy of salt and time.

As she wrote in The Guardian in 2021:

In keeping with the days getting longer, inch by inch, I made up a batch of preserved lemons, and while I wait for the unique blooming of their flavour, I’ll be boiling some too, to enjoy in the here and now.

March is here. And with it, crocuses will be pushing out of the hoary ground, birds will be singing an hour earlier, and between the boiled lemons for now and the preserved jar for later, I’ll have both the present and the promise of what’s to come.

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Preserved Lemons

Based on the traditional Moroccan method documented by Paula Wolfert in Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco

makes one half gallon jar

This super easy seasoning ingredient is quick to prepare, slow to mature. But like all good things, it’s well worth the wait. Be sure to scroll to the end for a link to some great ideas for using this delicious and versatile ingredient.

Special equipment:

1 half gallon wide-mouthed sterilised Mason jar (8 cup capacity)

A pestle or other flat surfaced implement to tamp down the fruit

Ingredients

1 wide-mouthed sterilized 2-quart (8-cup) glass Mason jar or two 1-quart (4-cup) glass mason jars (see Note)

10–12 unwaxed unpeeled lemons, plus 2–3 additional lemons for juicing (see Note)

1 cup kosher salt

Note:

• If using two Mason jars, divide the lemons equally between the two

• If using Meyer lemons, be aware they are sweeter and less acidic than standard lemons, but they preserve well using the same method.

1. Cut 6–8 lemons lengthwise into quarters, keeping them attached at the base. Pack generously with salt inside and out. Press into the jar, packing tightly. Sprinkle additional salt between layers.

2. Continue until the jar is nearly full. Juice remaining lemons and pour enough juice over the packed fruit to completely submerge. Seal and leave at room temperature, out of direct sunlight, turning or shaking daily for one month.

3. After one month, refrigerate.

4. To use, rinse the quantity of fruit you need, according to your recipe, removing and discarding the pulp if it’s not required. Preserved lemons will keep up to a year. The brine can be used in dressings, marinades, and sauces.

I made preserved lemons—now what?

Preserved lemons are one of those things that sound good in theory, but are confounding in practice. Preserved lemon does work almost anywhere lemon or salt will work: it’s amazingly versatile. But telling home cooks to toss it into “everything” isn’t all that helpful, and even the classic suggestions of “tagine” and “grain salad” can only take you so far in getting through last year’s jar.

So follow the path started by Wolfert and Roden, eagerly followed by inventive chefs, and start thinking about preserved lemon in red lentil soup, shrimp pasta, radicchio and citrus salad, roasted salmon—even a preserved lemon cocktail and tea cake. Check out this post for 17 wonderful recipes to make the most of preserved lemons.

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Sources

Ibn Jumay. On Lemon, Its Drinking and Use. 12th century, Cairo

Toby Sonneman. Lemon: A Global History. Reaktion Books, 2013

Claudia Roden. A Book of Middle Eastern Food. Thomas Nelson, 1968

Paula Wolfert. Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco. Harper & Row, 1973

Claudia Roden and Molly Tait-Hyland. “My Secret Ingredient: Boiled Lemons.” The Guardian, 21 Mar. 2021.

Mary Ellen Snodgrass. World Food: An Encyclopedia of History, Culture, and Social Influence from Hunter-Gatherers to the Age of Globalization. M.E. Sharpe, 2009.

—John Shedd, American author

What is an original?

An original thought, idea, recipe, piece of art, fashion design?

I was thinking about that this week as I was making granola, tweaking and adjusting the recipe as I went. And it also got me thinking about where the brilliant idea for granola first came into being.

Origin stories

Granola was first called granula by its inventor, Dr. Caleb Jackson, who created it as a healthy breakfast alternative in 1863. Made of graham flour baked into sheets that were broken down and re-baked several times, the end product had to be soaked in milk overnight to be edible.

Milk and cereal - a completely original idea that sparked a breakfast revolution.

The concept of healthy grains for breakfast owed its next iteration to Dr. John Kellogg. Kellogg is usually credited with the creation of granola, a name he trademarked in 1878 (after Jackson threatened him with a lawsuit). Kellogg’s version used rolled oats and wheat flour and soon he was selling two tons of the stuff a week. That eventually led to cornflakes. I suspect Tony the Tiger and sugar-frosted flakes were not part of the original vision.

Then came C.W. Post. Post had granola while he was a patient at Kellogg’s sanitarium in the late 1800s. Fascinated by the sanitarium’s all-grain diet, Post first created Postum, an all-grain coffee substitute and then Grape-nuts in 1897. Post’s daughter, Marjorie Merriweather Post, would go on to helm a food empire to rival Kellogg’s (you can read here about the formidable Marjorie, who married four times, ran the business for 40 years, foresaw the potential of frozen food dinners in 1929, and died a billionairess).

Granola has long been associated with hippie culture, becoming shorthand for a generation that adopted a back-to-the-land sensibility and the dietary ideas to support it. Some stories claim granola was even airdropped to concertgoers at Woodstock, although the historical record is less certain. What is certain is that by the 1970s, good-for-you granola came into its own, cementing a permanent place at the breakfast table and beyond.

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.

—Martha Graham, American choreographer

So what does this history of granola have to do with originality?

When I searched for granola recipes online, I got back 73,500,000 results. While many will be the same thing, presented different ways, many many more will be granola with a personal twist: more pecans; less honey; skip the coconut; use date syrup; add cinnamon, use tahini. That granola will be slightly different every time, under every hand that makes it. And all will be original ideas sparked by some dry sheets of graham flour first made in 1863.

Perhaps the most important thing about ideas and creativity and originality is that there will be many more failures than successes. The trick about ideas is knowing which ones to keep and which ones to throw out. As Linus Pauling, a Noble Prize-winning biochemist, said: If you want to have good ideas you must have many ideas. Most of them will be wrong, and what you have to learn is which ones to throw away. There’s only one way to find out whether something will work or not, and that’s to try it and fail first.

In the end, good ideas are always the product, and the benefactors, to one degree or another, to what has come before. The infinite echoes of our hive mind, busy at work producing creative honey.

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My favourite granola

adapted over and over again from The Cookbook: Fortnum and Mason, Tom Parker Bowles

serves 4, with delicious leftovers

Forget Jackson and Kellogg. The genesis of this particular granola is from Fortnum and Mason, or rather the absolutely smashing cookbook that Tom Parker Bowles wrote about F+M in 2016. The beauty of granola is its absolute flexibility. Don’t like pecans? Add more almonds. Love raisins? Stir them in at the end so they don’t dry out while baking. The possibilities are endless, which is the root of originality.

Ingredients

¼ cup/55 grams butter

3 tablespoons/60 grams honey

1½ tablespoons date syrup

¼ cup/55 grams Demerara sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

½ teaspoon fine sea salt

Grated zest of two tangerines or oranges, plus the juice of one tangerine or orange

⅓ cup/40 grams chopped walnuts

¾ cup/75 grams chopped pecans

⅓ cup/40 grams raw pistachios

⅔ cup/50 grams flaked almonds

½ cup/70 grams raw sunflower seeds

1½ cups/125 grams rolled oats

1. Line a large rimmed 13x18 baking sheet, or two smaller rimmed baking sheets, with parchment paper. Heat the oven to 300F/150C.

2. Put the butter, honey, golden syrup, sugar, salt, vanilla, tangerine zest and tangerine juice in a small saucepan over low heat. Stir until the ingredients are all blended and the sugar dissolved. Set aside.

3. Combine all of the dry ingredients in a large bowl and stir until combined. Pour half the liquid mixture into the dry ingredients and stir to combine. Pour in the rest of the liquid mixture into the bowl and mix until everything is thoroughly coated (your hands are a good tool for this!).

4. Spread the granola evenly in the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour, turning the granola every 15 minutes or so, until the mixture is golden brown. Leave the granola to cool on the baking sheet for 10 minutes, and then break it up with your hands until the granola is separated into small granules. Cool completely and store in an airtight container.

To serve:

Top plain yogurt with the granola, and add fresh berries, dried fruits, a drizzle of honey or a squeeze of tart cherry juice concentrate. Or just eat it by the handful - it’s a perfect energy boost any time of the day.

Check out some of my other favourite granola recipes from some of my favourite Substackers, including , , and .

Bake Experiments

The Happy Middle

Hello and happy new year lovelies! I hope you all had a good one. Sending you love, light and joy for the year ahead…

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Edible holiday gifts you'll be proud to give

This holiday season, I’m skipping the requisite gift guide and sharing something a bit more personal: a collection of edible gifts you can make at home that are guaranteed to delight and impress anyone on your list. They may look like something you’d find on a store shelf, but they taste so much better…

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EDIBLE LIVING by Sarah Copeland

A GOLDEN-ERA GRANOLA

Welcome!! ~ This is a reader supported publication. Upgrade to paid below for full access to recipe archives, complete travel guides, essays and more. ♡ Other ways to support my work? Buy my books and forward this post to a friend…

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Trifling w/ Food

Team Crunchy or Smooth?

My dad loved cashews. When I left home to work in a test kitchen one of my take-home gifts for him was homemade cashew butter. This was lo…

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Sources

John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic

Andrew F. Smith, Eating History: 30 Turning Points in the Making of American Cuisine (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009).

Barbara Haber, “Granula, Granola, and the Cerealization of America,” Gastronomica 2, no. 1

Richard W. Schwarz, John Harvey Kellogg, M.D. (Nashville: Southern Publishing Association, 1970)

John Harvey Kellogg, The New Dietetics (Battle Creek, MI: Modern Medicine Publishing Co., 1923)

Mark Pendergrast, For God, Country, and Coca-Cola (New York: Scribner, 1993)

Anthony Lukas, Marjorie Merriweather Post: The Woman Who Built General Foods (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2012)

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

This is the final piece in a three-part reflection on how we grow and change, often outside the timelines we imagine for ourselves. If the first explored blooming more than once, and the second invited us to see more clearly what has been present all along, this last post asks a deeper question: what happens when clarity begins to shape our choices?

→ Read Part One → Read Part Two

Over dinner with friends recently, the conversation drifted to what happens when we go.

Some were firmly in the camp that once you die, that’s it. No afterlife, no heaven or hell. Others believed that energy is infinite: that the life spark that gives us breath returns to the ethos, becoming part of the greater whole.

Still others were in the past lives camp, the notion that we’ve been here before, some of us many times. Old souls vs. newbies, reincarnating until we get to a final state of nirvana.

As I listened to the debate, I wondered whether our belief has any material impact on how we’re living today, in the here and now. If you believe you’ll be back for a second round, is there less of a sense of urgency? If your energy is part of the greater cosmos, are you more attuned to the earth’s cycles, the ebb and flow of the ocean, the movement of the stars? And if you think this is your one and only time around the sun, are you grabbing every opportunity, every moment with both hands?

While I don’t know where I really sit on the debate, my inclination has always been that this one wild and precious life is about more: more experiences, more adventures, more boxes checked. Making the most of every moment.

But is that really the goal? In the race to get to everything on my ever-growing bucket list, what might be called for instead is a pause.

If the earlier parts of life are about building and blooming, and later parts about seeing to seek understanding, perhaps this stage is about discernment: deciding what deserves our energy and our presence.

The bucket list

Although it seems ubiquitous now, the term “bucket list” first appeared in 2007, after the release of the movie of the same name. The plot revolves around two terminally ill men, who meet as hospital roommates. When one writes a list of things he wishes he had done, the other insists they go out and do them.

That journey ultimately becomes less about crossing things off the list and more about confronting regret and repairing relationships, redefining what makes a life a well-lived one.

The notion of fulfilling our dreams and finding something deeper through a bucket list immediately captured the collective imagination, becoming a mainstream life-planning concept in the process.

The bucket list quickly evolved into experience badges of honour and Instagrammable achievement. “That’s on my bucket list” came to encompass everything from eating at a top-rated restaurant, owning a coveted car and seeing the Pyramids to learning to scuba dive or climb Mount Everest. Moving from meaning into consumable aspiration, we went back to ticking off boxes and bragging rights, making that the main event instead of the experience itself.

The idea of finding joy—the film’s tagline—quickly got lost in the quest for more.

About the same time, as part of a company-wide innovation program where I worked, every employee was asked to create a bucket list of things they’d like to do. The lists were posted outside each office door—an instant and unexpectedly personal introduction to who was inside. Long after the program faded, the lists remained, sparking conversations in hallways and over coffee.

What a difference a life makes.

Shall I tell you that I did not check off a single item from that long-ago list?

And shall I also share that a richer, fuller life has emerged — not because I abandoned that list, but because I’ve come to discern that not everything is worth doing? When you use a finer filter, what remains is a purer substance. Not fewer choices, but infinitely better ones.

Now is the time to know that all that you do is sacred.

—Hafiz, 14th century Persian lyric poet

Perhaps this is what these past weeks of reflection have really been about.

First, trusting that we don’t bloom just once, that there is no single moment in which our lives must crystallize. Then, learning to see more slowly and recognise what has been present in us all along. And with that clarity, finally, choosing with intention, comfortable in the knowledge that what we do becomes who we are.

In the cacophony of a world that seems to be hinging off its moors with increasing speed, it’s easy to feel adrift, to clutch at things that on the surface feel thrilling but ring hollow. How grounding to remember that not everything must be done.

Life does not deepen through accumulation, but through attention—through recognizing what has meaning and allowing that to shape our days. Discernment becomes expansive, filling our hearts with joy.

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Butternut squash & lentil stew

recipe and photo credit: Nicki Sizemore

This wonderful stew may have a long list of ingredients, but it takes no time to assemble and put in your slow cooker for an aromatic and hearty dinner. This recipe from is part of a compendium of fantastic curry recipes gathered by and — you’ll find the link below to explore.

Mind, Body, Spirit, FOOD

Slow Cooker Butternut Squash & Lentil Stew + Endings and Transformation

This slow cooker vegetarian stew is hearty yet light, featuring tender cubes of winter squash; protein-packed lentils; silky spinach; a gentle lace of curry, ginger and cinnamon; and finely chopped dried apricots (which are the secret ingredient, lending subtle sweetness). It gets topped with a crunchy-chewy apricot cashew gremolata and a swirl of cooli…

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a year ago · 16 likes · 4 comments · Nicki Sizemore

For the base:

2 tablespoons virgin coconut oil or extra virgin olive oil

1 small onion, finely chopped

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 large garlic clove, finely chopped

1 tablespoon finely chopped ginger (from a 1-inch knob)

1 tablespoon ground cumin

1 teaspoons curry powder

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes

For the stew:

4 heaping cups cubed honeynut or butternut squash (from 2 pounds of squash)

1 cup green lentils, rinsed in cold water

1 14-oz can full fat coconut milk

1 14.5-oz) can diced tomatoes

⅓ cup finely chopped dried Turkish apricots

1 cinnamon stick

1 bay leaf

3 cups low-sodium vegetable or chicken broth

2 tablespoons fresh lime juice

1. Heat the oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion, and season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until slightly softened, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic, ginger, cumin powder, curry powder, and red pepper flakes, and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute.

Do Ahead: The aromatics can be cooked 1 day ahead. Let cool, then cover and refrigerate.

2. Scrape the onion mixture into a 4- to 7-quart slow cooker. Add the cubed squash, lentils, coconut milk, drained tomatoes, chopped apricots, cinnamon stick, bay leaf, and broth. Season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook until the lentils are tender, 7 to 8 hours on low or 3 to 5 hours on high.

3. Stir in the lime juice, and season the stew well with salt and pepper. Ladle into bowls and serve.

For more great curry recipes, explore below!

ChutneyLovers

Curry Night: A feast of curries from around the world

This Curry Night post brings together a global collection of curry recipes written by experienced food writers, spanning Sri Lankan, Indian, Bengali, Thai, Japanese, East African, Jewish South Asian, and plant-based traditions, offering both classic curries and thoughtful adaptations rooted in real home cooking…

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4 months ago · 25 likes · 21 comments · Annada D. Rathi and Lisa McLean

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To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch: a weekly missive for the curious, with discoveries, reflections, and a seasonal recipe worth lingering over.

This post is the second of a three-part series about how we grow and change, often in ways that don’t follow a neat or predictable path. Last week I wrote about the relief of knowing there isn’t just one prime of life. This week I ask: what changes when we stop moving quickly past what’s already in front of us?
Read Part One →

Seeing isn’t a passive act. It requires participation. It requires curiosity, attention, and imagination.

—Elif Shafak, Unmapped Storylands

In a recent post, writer Elif Shafak reflected on whether we actually see what is right in front of our eyes, or simply skim the surface. Using a 19th-century painting as an example, she explores how much we miss when we give short shrift to what our eyes take in.

At first, the painting appears simple—three diners eating in a cafe—but closer and slower looking reveals surprising details: flies and bees, conflicting facial expressions of anger or invitation, ambiguous gestures, hidden stories. The more we look, the more we see and in seeing, there are more questions than answers, meanings layered beyond the comprehension of a cursory look.

Shafak asks: “When we look at the world around us, at least every now and then we can quietly ask ourselves: “What is it that I am not seeing?”

That question—what am I not seeing?—has been rumbling in my mind, not just a spring well for creativity and exploration, as Shafak suggests, but as a lens through which we view everything around us, one that requires a constant fine-tuning and calibration to get deeper.

To see slowly is to see more completely.

—Michael Findlay, art dealer and author

That idea — that seeing isn’t automatic but cultivated — is something that author Michael Findlay explores beautifully in Seeing Slowly: Looking at Modern Art.

The average museum-goer spends roughly ten seconds with a work of art—including reading the wall label. Ten seconds to absorb years—sometimes decades—of thinking, making, failing, revising. With photography now allowed, even encouraged, the imbalance becomes even clearer: visitors often devote more time positioning themselves in front of a painting than to actually looking at it, backs turned, phones raised.

Art is increasingly treated like social media, documented to be consumed quickly left behind as we move on to the next image.

Findlay writes that “real seeing isn’t just about looking with your eyes — it’s about engaging your attention without rushing past what’s right in front of you.”

What if we brought that same kind of attention to ourselves?

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.

—Marcel Proust, French novelist, literary critic and essayist

For years, my husband Richard gave only a passing glance to his own gifts, assuming there was nothing there that required closer attention. He thought that the way he noticed balance, pattern, and nuance—his visual acuity—was simply how everyone saw the world. Because it felt effortless, it didn’t register as a distinctive skill.

A designer creating objects meant to bring humour, beauty, and delight into everyday spaces, Richard often brushed his work aside, referring to it as “making things people don’t really need.” It was an offhand phrase, offered jokingly, a way of describing his work without quite claiming its value.

Over time, Richard saw that what felt incidental to him was, for others, a source of pleasure and connection. As he better understood his unique perspective, he began to follow that creative impulse beyond objects and into writing, trusting that the same sensitivity to balance, tone, and nuance could shape a larger narrative. That book is nearly finished.

From there, his love of beauty—in music, art, and design—has led Richard into fulfilling work with nonprofit arts organizations. What had once felt like a small, easily dismissed skill revealed itself as a perspective that had many pathways to follow.

That shift — from downplaying a gift to seeing it clearly and letting it shape a life — can change everything.

Coming into focus

Seeing slowly is a way of not rushing past ourselves. It asks us to notice what’s already present — the instincts, inclinations, and ways of being we’ve learned to overlook.

When we take the time to really see, what once felt familiar can begin to feel consequential. Gifts we dismissed and capacities we minimized come into clearer focus, not because they’ve changed, but because we have.

Learning to see this way doesn’t demand reinvention. It asks only for recognition — of what has been there all along.

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Sicilian fish soup

adapted from Cooks Illustrated magazine

serves 6-8

When I spent ten weeks in Sicily almost a decade ago, it felt as though I were encountering Italy for the first time. There is a different texture and in the light, the hardscrabble green pastures both soft and sharp against the sky. Food shaped by history, hardship and the imprint of many cultures is more alive and mysterious. And the people hold a toughness born from the land itself, paired with a fierce loyalty and a genuine, open-handed welcome that is impossible to forget.

In the time I spent there, I was able to see deeply—especially through the cuisine—how Sicily expresses itself. Sweet and sour flavor combinations sit at the heart of its cooking, a balance shaped by centuries of trade, conquest, and survival. This soup sits at the intersection of all those conquests, with the sweetness of pine nuts and raisins —common ingredients in the Sicilian kitchen—to the briny bite of the olives and capers. Add a pinch of red pepper flakes for heat, if desired. Serve with crusty bread or bruschetta—toasted slices of country bread rubbed with garlic and brushed with olive oil.

Ingredients

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped coarse
1 large garlic clove, minced
½ cup dry white wine
28 oz can diced tomatoes
2 large bay leaves
Salt and ground black pepper
2 cups fish stock
¼ cup golden raisins
3 pounds halibut, black cod or a combination of both
2 tablespoons drained capers
½ cup green olives, pitted and quartered lengthwise
¼ cup pine nuts, toasted
¼ cup coarsely chopped fresh mint leaves

1. Heat the oil in a large stockpot or Dutch oven. Add the onions and cook over medium heat until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cook until aromatic, about 30 seconds.

2. Add the wine and simmer until reduced by half, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the tomatoes, bay leaves, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil over high heat, reduce the heat, and simmer until the mixture has thickened to the consistency of tomato sauce, 15 to 20 minutes.

3. Add the fish stock and raisins and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer until the flavors meld, about 10 minutes.

4. Stir in the fish, capers, and olives and bring back to a simmer over medium heat. Simmer for 7 minutes, stirring a few times to ensure even cooking. Remove the pot from the heat, cover, and let stand until the fish is just cooked through, 2 to 3 minutes. Discard the bay leaves and adjust the seasonings. Serve immediately, garnishing each bowl with pine nuts and mint.

Sources

Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time, vol. 5, The Captive, trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin (New York: Modern Library, 1992)

Michael Findlay, Seeing Slowly: Looking at Modern Art (Munich: Prestel, 2017)

Nick Chayka, “How Long Do People Spend Looking at Art in Museums?” Artsy, January 2015.

This is the first of a three-part series about how we grow, change, and come into our own, often in ways that don’t follow a neat or predictable schedule. This week I’m reflecting on late bloomers, second acts, and why being a lifelong learner should be more than a tag line on your LinkedIn profile.

At their best, birthdays are both celebratory and reflective. And, as we get older, it’s not that the birthday cake or the cards and gifts are appreciated less; it’s that the reflective part becomes even more important.

It’s very easy, as the age meter ratchets ever higher, to feel a sense of running out of time. No matter that longevity has increased, that 50 is the new 40, that we have more opportunities to reinvent ourselves than ever before. It’s more that the value placed on our experience, empathy, compassion, and ultimately wisdom doesn’t seem to have as much currency in a high-tech, youth-obsessed culture.

But who is it that set the clock on when we are at our very best? And is that really just a singular moment in time?

Different people peak at different times… We don’t have one prime of life. We have many.

— Rich Karlgaard, Late Bloomers: The Hidden Strengths of Learning and Succeeding at Your Own Pace

In fact, neuroscience shows that different parts of our brains peak at different ages, giving us multiple periods of blooming across our lives.

Look up “late bloomer” and you’ll find a pretty consistent list of people who succeeded late in life. Julia Child (53 when Mastering the Art of French Cooking was published); Colonel Sanders (65 when he started the first Kentucky Fried Chicken); Ray Kroc (who opened the first McDonalds when he was 54); Grandma Moses (who started painting when she was 76).

We hold up these examples because they give us hope: hope that if we haven’t truly found something that fulfills us, fuels us, inspires us by a certain age, it’s not too late.

But there’s a very important kernel at the heart of these tales that may be missed. What those late bloomers had was the sum total of their life experience. That accumulated wisdom—the many “prime of life” moments that Karlgaard writes about—add a richness and depth to the moment. And some of the most profound wisdom comes from failing and learning from the failure.

As I approach a rather momentous birthday this year, I’m thinking more about the art of possibility—how, at any age, growth can open paths that are unexpected and deeply rewarding.

One friend, upon turning 65, took up acting after a very successful career in human resources (if you live in Colorado, you may have seen her latest commercial). Another, at 57, completed his PhD in a field completely unrelated to his profession. His thesis turned into a book deal, and he’s publishing his second book this October. And, lest we think that second acts only happen after 50, a 45-year-old family member got his Masters at 40, became a professor and is now completing his PhD.

It’s about time

Our high-drive competitive society loves to make rules for us, laying out a linear path for all to follow. But a prescribed list of life milestones doesn’t allow for detours, roadblocks, setbacks. In life’s off-roading moments, it’s easy to get panicked about losing time, falling behind, being overlooked, or worse.

As we get older we should—we must—begin to trust the timing of our lives. Not just that “things happen for a reason” but that there is something wonderful to discover, if we try. After all, isn’t the comeback always greater than the setback?

As you read this, where are you at? More importantly, what are all of the incredible things you have learned and seen and done to get you there? Late bloomer or second act—it matters not. A very wise friend said to me recently “If you don’t fall on your face, you’re not moving forward.” Just remember the collective wisdom you bring to this day, this moment, will give you enough momentum to pick yourself up and fly, if you let it.

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White bean and lamb stew

Noor Murad, Lugma

Serves 4–6

Richard is the resident stew- and soup-maker in the household. When the temperature plummets to deep-freeze levels, that’s when I’m especially grateful for his skill in the kitchen.

This was the first recipe we’ve made from Noor Murad’s lovely new book. I suspect there will be many more to follow.

Ingredients

1 oz (25g) ghee or 3 tbsp olive oil
1 pound, 2 oz (500g) boneless lamb shoulder, cut into 1½in cubes
1 red onion, roughly chopped
3 fresh bay leaves
1 cinnamon stick
3 garlic cloves, crushed
2 tbsp tomato paste
8 oz (220 g) canned skinned plum tomatoes, chopped
2 x 14oz (397 ml) cans cannellini beans, drained
1 tbsp cumin seeds, finely crushed using a pestle and mortar
1 cup chopped cilantro, plus more to serve
2 jalapeños, thinly sliced into rounds, seeds and all
2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat the oven to 350°F/170°C

2. Melt the ghee in a large, heavy-based, lidded Dutch oven over a medium-high heat. Pat the lamb dry with paper towels and season all over with ½ teaspoon salt and a good grind of pepper. Once the ghee is hot, add the lamb to the pan and sear for about 5-7 minutes in total, turning as necessary, until nicely browned.

3. Add the onion, bay leaves and cinnamon and cook for about 3 minutes, stirring often, until softened and lightly coloured. Add the garlic and the tomato paste and cook for just a minute more, stirring all the while.

4. Pour in 2½ cups (600 ml) water add ½ teaspoon salt and a good grind of pepper and bring to the boil. Cover and transfer to the oven for 1 hour and 40 minutes, stirring halfway, or until the lamb is tender.

5. While the lamb is cooking, add the jalapeños to a small bowl with a pinch of salt and the vinegar and mix to combine.

6. Remove the lid and stir in the tomatoes, beans, cumin, cilantro, another ½ cup (100 ml) water, ½ teaspoon salt and a good grind of pepper. Replace the lid and bake for 30 minutes more. Let settle for 10 minutes before serving.

7. When ready to serve, transfer the stew to a large shallow bowl, and serve the pickled jalapeños alongside.

Sources

Rich Karlgaard, Late Bloomers: The Hidden Strengths of Learning and Succeeding at Your Own Pace (New York: Crown Business, 2019)

Scott Barry Kaufman, “Peak Performance and the Neuroscience of Aging,” Scientific American, 2015

To everyone new here, welcome. I’m Elizabeth, the writer of The Delicious Bits Dispatch, a weekly missive for the curious, blending discovery, reflection, and musings, always wrapped up with a seasonal recipe worth lingering over

Is there anything more satisfying than curling up with a new issue of your favourite magazine?

Whether your passion is music, food, long-form fiction writing, fashion….there is a periodical just for you.

That simple pleasure hints at something deeper.

Magazines have always existed somewhere between information and imagination. They carry ideas, but can also stir longing—for beauty, creativity, escape, connection, tastes. Long before they were measured, and then destroyed, by circulation or ad buys, magazines offered a space where words, images, and design could come together as a singular expression of distinct points of view.

To love magazines is not simply to consume them, but to recognise them as an art form in their own right—and, just maybe, as inspiration for our own creative impulses.

A platform for ideas

While the first “magazine” was published in England in 1731, it was really in the 19th century that magazines actually came into their own. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the United States, where magazine empires began and flourished.

Yet, even as the new medium proliferated, with every innovation, whether radio, television, or the internet, the imminent demise of the printed word was continually remarked upon.

And indeed, magazines have borne the brunt of the long-predicted print media fallout. The first seismic loss was Gourmet in 2009, a beloved magazine first published in 1941. A cultural icon that encompassed travel, politics, design, and lifestyle alongside food, Gourmet treated eating as a way of understanding the world and in the process, created a singular style of journalism.

Gourmet also cared about great writing as much as it cared about food. Its pages regularly blurred the boundaries between food writing, travelogue, and literary essay, and the magazine’s contributors were drawn from both culinary and literary worlds, with everyone from James Beard, Laurie Colwin and M.F.K. Fisher to George Plimpton, Paul Theroux, Ray Bradbury and David Foster Wallace amongst its contributors.

In this sense, Gourmet is best understood not simply as a food magazine, but as an expression of what magazines, at their best, can make possible.

The pleasures of a slow read

Even as many magazines have ceased to be, I’ve been encouraged by the heroic rise of the magazines of the future.

New titles continue to appear, many of them niche, carefully produced, and published less frequently—quarterly, biannually, annually. These are magazines designed to be kept rather than skimmed, often focused on a single subject or sensibility, suggesting that the slow read still has currency.

Magazines are personal and broad-ranging, bespoke and unexpected. The shiny pages beguile, the crack and whisper of the pages, even the advertising (especially in those back issues), intrigue. They invite lingering.

Beyond reading, magazines engage the sense of touch through glossy or matte, thick or thin pages shaped by the publication’s style and budget. The fragments of images, words, textures can be lifted out of context and made to speak anew. And it is here, in this act of selection and rearrangement, that magazines begin to move from art form to raw material. A collage created and shaped by the words and images of others, but uniquely one’s own.

Cut and paste

And so it was that this past Saturday afternoon found me surrounded by magazines, scissors, a glue stick and a large white piece of Bristol board, its size and blankness at first overwhelming*.

But almost like an Ouija board drawing me to the right letters, as I slowly flipped through the magazine pages, unrelated images and words beckoned, their context and connection still hidden from my inner view. As I began to arrange these fragments on the board to build my collage, a story emerged at once revealing and exciting.

Focus and let the wheel spin. Be quiet, said David Bowie. Forget to do lists of twenty impossible things. Know that my inner clock is a colourful chaotic mess of joy, and will never likely be pointing serenely to 10 minutes to 10. See deeply and joyfully.

Dive deep. Go back to Italy as soon as possible. Continue my culinary journey, starting with the WSET wine course I’m starting next week. Learn to love artichokes. And always remember to escape to the forest and breathe deeply. Most of all, live in Technicolor, as Lucia did.

The making of the collage drifted into this morning. As the beginning of today’s snow storm took shape and built two foot high drifts against my windows, I was as intent on my task as a child building an intricate Lego tower. And like that child, with each piece that fell into place, I felt a thrill as the story revealed itself, a larger-than-life roadmap to discovery.

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*This weekend’s collage was inspired by my participation in the New Year’s Journaling Project, a 30-day ritual designed by the wonderful Suleika Jaouad. Follow the links to learn more.

Slow-roasted salmon with mushroom-leek broth

Sue Li, New York Times

4 servings

Yesterday the scene at the grocery store brought back those early days of the pandemic. Long snaking lines, bread shelves empty, carts piled high with frozen pizzas, ice cream, potato chips.

I had a different objective. Plenty of vegetables to augment my well stocked freezer; oranges, radicchio, fennel and pomegranate for the salad I’ve had on repeat; and especially shiitake mushrooms and leeks to complement the beautiful salmon we bought at the farmers’ market.

This oh-so-simple dish is both nourishing and comforting, not quite a soup or stew but substantial enough to feel just right on a snowy evening.

Ingredients

1 (1½-pound) piece skin-on or skinless salmon
2 tablespoons sesame oil, plus more for serving
Kosher salt
2 medium leeks, trimmed, white and light greens cut crosswise into 1-inch rounds (about 2 cups)
8 ounces fresh shiitake mushrooms, destemmed and sliced
4 cups chicken broth
2 cups cooked short-grain white rice
Fresh ginger, peeled and cut into very thin matchsticks, for serving

1. Heat oven to 325 degrees. Place salmon skin-side down on a baking sheet. Drizzle salmon with 1 tablespoon sesame oil, sprinkle with about ½ tsp salt and roast in the oven until cooked, 25 to 30 minutes. Remove salmon from the oven and let it rest another 5 minutes.

2. While the salmon roasts, heat remaining 1 tablespoon sesame oil in a pot over medium heat. Add leeks and mushrooms, season with 1 tsp salt, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the leeks and mushrooms are lightly golden on the edges, about 10 minutes.

3. Add chicken broth and simmer until the leeks are tender, 20 to 25 minutes. Season with salt.

4. To serve, divide rice among four bowls. Scoop salmon by the spoonful onto the rice, and ladle vegetables and broth over salmon and rice. Top with ginger and a drizzle of sesame oil.

Sources

British Library. “The Birth of the Magazine.” https://www.bl.uk/romantics-and-victorians/articles/the-birth-of-the-magazine.

Baughman, James L. The Republic of Mass Culture: Journalism, Filmmaking, and Broadcasting in America since 1941. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992.

O’Neill, Megan. “How Gourmet Changed Food Writing Forever.” Eater, October 8, 2015.