The candy apple: Sweetness with a dash of darknesst
Somewhere in the dark recesses of my childhood memories, wedged between paper skeletons and pumpkin guts, lives the candy apple. You know the one – luridly red, glassy, and glossed with just a hint of menace. It wasn’t the type of treat you'd find in the grubby pillowcases we used as candy sacks. It was special, mythical even. Like an artifact found at the witching hour, demanding you eat it with both hands and half a heart.
You’d reach for that candy apple with caution, feeling the stickiness coat your fingers, knowing it was dangerous and not caring. The crisp snap of the shell, the bite of tart green apple underneath that gaudy candy armor – the contrast was addictive. A taste of fall, but also of something darker. There was no way around it. The candy apple was delicious in its deception. A trick and a treat in one.
And that’s where the story turns. Just think about Snow White, biting into that poisoned apple offered by the Evil Queen. A luscious, shiny, irresistible red orb that held promises of sweetness, hiding a brutal betrayal within. As kids, we were captivated by that forbidden, fruit-centric tale of beauty and poison, seduced by a villain who wielded candy like a weapon.
The candy apple taps into that same twisted vein of dark fairytales. It’s a reminder that innocence can be a mere glaze over danger. Sure, there’s no poison in a candy apple (not usually), but there’s still something slightly perverse about it. It’s an indulgence, a sugar-drenched temptation, balanced on the edge of the knife that could slice it.
And it was always the grown-ups who warned us about it, who fed us stories about strangers offering candy with strings attached. As if they hadn’t spent the past month handing us candy by the fistful and telling us to trust in the magic of Halloween. But that candy apple? It was always a little more than a treat. It was a dare.
Maybe that’s why we bit into it with all the excitement and thrill of Snow White herself.
Asian-style beef noodle
- 12 oz rice or egg noodles (or pasta of choice) - I like thin egg noodle myself, prepared as per package instructions
- 2 tbsp butter
- 2 tbsp cooking oil
- 1 large onion or shallots, sliced thin
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 inch fresh ginger, grated
- 1 pound (500g) ground beef, pork, turkey or chicken
- 1/4 cup soy sauce or tamari
- 1/4 cup gochujang paste (you can find this in the asian section of the grocery story or on amazon)
- 2 tbsp tomato paste
- 2 tbsp honey (I found a spicy honey at my local grocery store - works a treat here!)
- 1 package of stir fry vegetables (about 3 cups) (fresh is better but frozen works too)
- 1 tbsp rice vinegar
- 1/2 tsp red pepper flakes (more or less - depending on your spice level
- 1 tbsp sesame oil
Prepare your noodles as per package directions. Drain and toss with 2 Tbsp butter or oil after cooking and let melt so it doesn't stick together.
Heat 2 Tbsp of oil in a wok or frying pan and add the sliced onions and fry until soft and translucent, add the garlic and ginger and toss for another minute or so.
Add ground meat to the fried onions, garlic and ginger and break up and toss until cooked through.
Add the soy, gochujang paste, tomato paste, and honey and mix well, heat for 2 minutes.
Add the stir fry vegetables, cooked noodles, rice vinegar, pepper flakes, toss in the meat mixture, cover and cook for 5-8 minutes.
Drizzle with sesame oil and serve!
Feel free to finish if off with a bit more soy sauce and sriracha for extra salt/spice.
Burned-end eggrolls: A Canadian essential England hasn’t met (yet)
Imagine my dismay—my slow-burn heartbreak—as I scoured England for the perfect, fried crisp of a burned-end eggroll and found, time and again, nothing but silence. The eggrolls I had known back in Canada, delicate bombs of crispy perfection, were nowhere to be found on this side of the Atlantic. You’d think that in a land famed for fish-and-chips’ crunchy, deep-fried exterior, there’d be something on offer like a decent eggroll. I’ve learned the hard way: not so.
Back in Canada, burned-end eggrolls aren’t just on the menu; they’re essential. In every Canadian Chinese restaurant, you’ll find these crackling beauties. They are wrapped a little too tight, fried a little too dark, the edges singed to that perfect crispy crunch where the flavors all pull together. A bit of soy sauce, plum sauce or just take them plain—the right ones don’t need any extra flourish. My absolute pilgrimage-worthy favourite? Golden Palace on Carling in Ottawa, the veritable shrine to all things eggroll. Step in there, order a few dozen to go, and your heart's already on a one-way trip to fried bliss.
But living in England, well, no one even knew what I was talking about. Here I was, obsessed, explaining to friends what they were missing, craving that crunch, and willing to sell my soul for it. So, the mission began: researching, testing, and making so many eggrolls my pub kitchen became a deep fryer in disguise. There were epic failures, rolls so misshapen they looked like sad dumplings, or crisped so far beyond recognition even I couldn’t eat them. But little by little, I got closer, finding ways to fold the dough tighter, to fry it at just the right temp. I had to go to war with these eggrolls, but I was determined to win.
Then, on my last trip back to Canada, I made a beeline for the Golden Palace. I sat down and ordered three dozen to go, packed with care and frozen so they’d survive the transatlantic flight. I had no illusions about eating them fresh out of the bag—this was an undertaking. I was going to reverse engineer these things to finally bring a taste of burned-end heaven back to my own kitchen.
I can’t say I’ve cracked the code entirely, but I’ve gotten close. There’s a whisper of that perfect crunch, a memory of the burned edge in every bite, and a bit of Canada smuggled into each one. England might not know what they’re missing, but in my kitchen, those egg rolls—and all the hours spent replicating them—mean Canada isn’t as far away as it sometimes feels.
24 October 2024
How a bowl of chowder schooled me in the ways of Bermuda
Bermuda—idyllic, pristine, and the kind of place that draws families for its pink-sand beaches and glossy travel brochures. But I wasn’t interested in the perfectly curated tourist experience when I went there as a teenager. No, what captured my curiosity (other than this really cute military guy named Shane) was the grit beneath the glam, the authenticity hidden behind the tropical postcards. And like any great journey, it was the food that taught me the most about the place.
I remember wandering the streets, looking for something real. It didn’t take long before we stumbled upon this little dive, a place that looked like it had been forgotten by time—where paint chipped off the walls and the ceiling fan creaked with every slow, lazy turn. I don’t even remember the name of the joint, but I remember the smell—a mix of fried fish, salt, and vinegar that punched you in the face as soon as you stepped inside. It was like an unspoken promise: you’re about to eat something good.
The fish and chips? Perfection, old-school. Wrapped in newspaper, greasy and unapologetically delicious. The kind of meal where you don’t talk much, just a nod of approval between bites as the flaky, tender fish breaks apart under your fork. There’s a kind of magic in simplicity, in food that doesn’t need to scream for attention because it knows it’s got nothing to prove. This place wasn’t trying to impress tourists; it was cooking for locals. And that’s always a good sign.
But the real revelation? The Bermuda Fish Chowder. I had no idea what I was in for when I ordered it. It was just another dish on the chalkboard menu. I figured, “Why not?” It seemed fitting. And I’d be lying if I said I was expecting much—how good could a bowl of fish soup be, right?
Wrong. So wrong.
It came out steaming hot, dark and rich with a broth that had the depth of a thousand sunsets simmering in it. You could tell it had been bubbling away for hours, flavors merging, transforming, becoming something more. One spoonful, and it was like the island itself was talking to you. There was the briny hit of the ocean, balanced by a warmth that came from deep within the pot, helped along by a splash of Gosling’s Black Seal rum and the island’s secret weapon: sherry pepper sauce. That sauce had heat, but it wasn’t just fire for the sake of it. It was like the wind on the open water, stinging your skin but making you feel alive.
This wasn’t your typical chowder—no cream, no fillers. It was a no-nonsense bowl of soul, filled with chunks of fish that tasted like they were pulled from the water minutes ago. Every bite was an education in the flavors of Bermuda, in the island’s way of mixing the old world with the new, blending British traditions with island spice. I’d never had anything like it, and honestly, I haven’t since.
Bermuda Fish Chowder stayed with me, long after the trip ended. It’s the kind of dish that brands itself on your memory, a marker of time and place that transports you back to that hot, sticky afternoon in a dive that smelled like the sea. The world outside didn’t matter at that moment. It was just me, that bowl of chowder, and the realization that sometimes the best meals are the ones that surprise you—the ones you don’t expect.
Bermuda was beautiful, sure. But it was that damn chowder that made me love it.
23 October 2024
The Fruit Cocktail Cake: A Boozy Legend That Refused to Die
If you’ve spent any time at neighborhood potlucks, you know that every event has its star. Some dishes just don’t mess around. There’s always that one thing that disappears off the table before you even finish your first plate—usually, it’s something like a casserole or fried chicken, maybe someone's secret family chili. But at every potluck I’ve been to in my little corner of the world, it wasn’t any of those. It was my neighbor’s fruit cocktail cake.
Yeah, you heard me: fruit cocktail cake. A Frankenstein dessert made from canned fruit, dripping with booze, and finished off with this unholy liquid icing that seeps into every square inch of the thing. It’s the kind of cake that’s impossible to forget, even if you’re not sure whether you actually want to remember it.
For years, she refused to give up the recipe. My neighbor guarded that thing like it was state secrets. You’d ask, and she’d laugh it off, throw out a “Maybe someday,” then smirk like she was enjoying every second of the mystery. People begged. People tried to reverse-engineer it from memory. They failed, miserably. And so the legend grew, each potluck only stoking the fire.
The thing about this cake is that it had no business being as good as it was. It started with canned fruit cocktail, that old-school monstrosity of diced peaches and pears floating in a syrupy grave. But somehow, this cake transcended that. The moment it hit the table, you’d watch people sidle up, eyeballing the glistening surface, knowing they were about to go in for round two of something they’d promised themselves they’d never eat again.
The kicker? The booze. Disaronno. Almond liqueur. A liquid sugar bomb that drenched the cake to its core. You’d take a bite, and before you even swallowed, that boozy warmth hit the back of your throat. You weren’t just eating cake—you were having a moment. A weirdly nostalgic, slightly tipsy moment, where canned fruit and liquor somehow collided into something dangerously addictive.
The icing was the final punch in the gut. It wasn’t some fluffy buttercream or a drizzle of glaze; no, this icing was liquid sugar on steroids. Poured hot over the warm cake, it soaked in like a sponge. You’d poke your fork into the cake and watch it spring back, saturated with this syrupy madness. It made every bite impossibly moist, as if the cake had been slowly melting into itself. And, frankly, it was kind of obscene.
I tried for years to figure it out. I thought I could nail it—how hard could it be? But it never worked. Mine was always either too dry or missing that hit of flavor that made you come back for seconds even though you knew better. And each time I failed, I’d watch my neighbor show up with her cake, looking smug as hell while people circled it like vultures.
Then, one day, out of nowhere, she gave it up. No fanfare, no buildup. She just handed me the recipe, like she was passing off a grocery list. It was almost disappointing, like the myth was better than the reality. But that’s how these things go, right? You build something up in your head until it’s more than just a cake—it’s a story, an event, a symbol of something you’ll never fully understand. And then, when the truth comes out, you realize that it was simple all along.
That’s the thing about food, though. It’s never just about what’s on the plate. It’s about the memories it kicks up, the stories it tells, the weird way something as basic as canned fruit can become legendary. It wasn’t about the cake—it was about the idea of the cake, the hunt, the secrecy, the anticipation.
But here’s the real kicker. Even now, knowing how simple it is, even though the myth has been cracked wide open, that cake still slaps. I’ve made it a dozen times, and every time I do, people lose their minds. They line up for seconds, thirds, cutting off tiny slices so they can pretend they’re not eating the whole damn thing. It’s a cake that defies logic, like a guilty pleasure that refuses to die, no matter how much you try to rationalize it.
So yeah, the secret’s out. The fruit cocktail cake has been unmasked, and now anyone can make it. But just because the curtain’s been pulled back doesn’t make it any less of a show. It’s still there, on the potluck table, gleaming under the cheap fluorescent lights, tempting you to take one more bite even though you already know better.
Some legends live on, even when the mystery is gone. This cake is one of them.
22 October 2024
Meatballs and Memories: A Tribute to Jim Jenkins
I remember the man before I remember the meatballs, but not by much. Jim Jenkins—my dad’s best friend and neighbor—was a fixture of my childhood, a constant presence who made the world seem a little more grounded. He was the kind of guy who’d show up unannounced to fix a broken gutter or help haul firewood, always wearing that easy grin, the one that let you know things were under control. And then, there were the meatballs.
Jim didn’t just make meatballs; he *crafted* them. These weren’t the limp, bland hunks of meat you’d find in a cafeteria tray. No, Jim’s meatballs were transcendent—spiced with something that was almost alchemical, slow-cooked to perfection, and carrying the kind of flavor that could make you rethink what you knew about comfort food. Every potluck dinner was an event, and Jim’s arrival with a tray of his signature meatballs was like the opening act of a rock concert. People gathered around in anticipation, plates in hand, conversations dropping off as they waited for that first bite.
There was something personal about his cooking, as if every meatball carried a little piece of Jim with it. They were made from the same care and attention that he applied to everything in life. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was just damn good meat, but when Jim was in the room, and those meatballs hit the table, you knew you were in for something special.
Potlucks were a big part of our community. Neighbors brought casseroles, salads, and desserts—but it was Jim’s meatballs that stole the show every time. They had this magical ability to bring people together, to make everyone shut up for a minute and just *appreciate* the simplicity of good food made with love. Jim never bragged about them either—he wasn’t the type. He’d just set them down with a wink and a shrug, maybe crack a joke about how he hoped they weren’t “too spicy” for anyone. Of course, they never were. They were perfect.
Jim was a man who knew how to live well, and I don’t mean in some flashy, high-octane way. He knew how to appreciate the quiet moments, the warmth of a shared meal, the satisfaction of hard work done with your hands. His legacy isn’t just those meatballs—though God knows they’re legendary—but the sense of community he fostered every time he showed up with that tray. In a world that can feel overwhelming and chaotic, Jim Jenkins was a reminder that sometimes the most important things in life are also the simplest: good friends, good food, and a table full of laughter.
Jim’s gone now, but every time I smell a simmering pot of sauce or bite into a meatball that’s just a little bit better than it has any right to be, I think of him. And I smile, because guys like Jim? They don’t come around often, but when they do, they leave you with something unforgettable.
I’d give anything for one more potluck with Jim Jenkins and his perfect meatballs. But more than that, I’d give anything for just one more conversation with the man himself. Because like his cooking, Jim was someone who always left you wanting just a little bit more.
21 October 2024
Beet It: How My Dad Turned a Humble Veg Into Soup Royalty
Borscht—deep, earthy, and unapologetically bold—was more than just a soup for my dad. It was the kind of dish that drew on the marrow-deep satisfaction of hard work and simplicity. Beets, his favorite vegetable, were the heart of it. He saw them as the underdog of the vegetable world: overlooked, misjudged, yet capable of greatness when given the time to shine.
He’d spend hours tending to his borscht, a quiet ritual that began with a small mountain of crimson beets. He knew instinctively when they were perfectly roasted—soft, but with just enough bite to hold their own in the soup. Dad understood that borscht wasn’t about speed or convenience. It was about patience, about coaxing out every bit of flavor from the beets and layering it with the subtle acidity of vinegar and the rich comfort of slow-simmered beef broth.
For him, the beauty of borscht was in its contradictions—sweet but tangy, hearty yet fresh. He’d drop dollops of sour cream into the deep red broth, watching it swirl like clouds on a stormy sky. I’d sit at the table, watching, waiting, knowing that his borscht wasn’t just food—it was a lesson. A lesson that something as humble as a beet could become extraordinary, if you were willing to put in the time, the care, and the soul.
Dad never rushed the process. In his world, good borscht was never just thrown together—it was cultivated. Each time he made it, the soup evolved, as if he were chasing the idea of perfection, knowing full well that the real joy was in the chase itself.
20 October 2024
Duck, Duck... Rice: A Love Affair with Arroz de Pato in Portugal
I’ve eaten my way through a lot of countries. Some dishes I remember because they blew my mind, some because they damn near killed me, and others just because they were there, in the right place at the right time. But then there are the meals that get under your skin, stay with you long after you’ve paid the bill and walked away. Meals that don’t need to scream for attention or come with a Michelin-starred pedigree to knock you on your ass. Meals like Arroz de Pato in Portugal.
It was one of those sticky, golden afternoons in Porto when the light makes everything look like it’s dipped in honey. The city was sweating out the last of summer, the Douro River rolling lazily by, and I was wandering, aimless, jet-lagged, and hungry in that gnawing way that gets louder the more you try to ignore it. I hadn’t come to Porto with a plan. No list of must-visit restaurants, no recommendations. I wanted to feel the place—really feel it—and let it show me where to go.
And that’s how I ended up in a narrow alley somewhere near the Ribeira district, following my nose into a small, unremarkable taverna, the kind of place that feels like it’s been around since Vasco da Gama was still sailing. No fancy signage, no tourists snapping photos for Instagram, just a few locals hunched over plates, heads down, speaking in that rapid-fire Portuguese that’s as much music as it is language.
I knew what I was here for the moment I sat down. Arroz de Pato. Duck rice. I’d read about it somewhere—maybe in one of those travel guides you toss into your bag at the last minute and never look at again. But it had stuck with me. Duck, slow-cooked and shredded, mixed into rice, crispy on top with slices of chouriço. Simple. Honest. The kind of dish that sounds almost too straightforward, like it doesn’t want you to know just how good it really is until you taste it.
The waiter—a man who looked like he’d spent his life in this place, wearing a permanent expression of mild disinterest—didn’t say much. Just a nod, and within minutes, the dish was in front of me.
At first glance, it was underwhelming. A brownish mound of rice with chunks of dark duck meat hiding beneath a layer of crispy, roasted skin. The chouriço—Portugal’s gift to the world of sausages—was dotted around like bright red punctuation marks. No pretensions, no flourishes. Just food.
But the smell... that’s where it started to pull me in. There’s something about slow-cooked duck that wraps itself around your senses like a blanket. It’s heavy, earthy, with that rich, fatty aroma that tells you time and patience have gone into this. And beneath it, the familiar scent of garlic, mingling with the smokiness of the chouriço. I could feel my stomach rumbling, impatient.
I took a bite.
And here’s the thing about Arroz de Pato: it’s not trying to be a revelation. It doesn’t need to be. It’s comfort food, pure and simple, but comfort food with depth. The duck was tender, almost melting into the rice, which somehow managed to be both light and crispy at the same time. The top layer had been roasted to that perfect golden-brown crunch, while the rice underneath soaked up all the juices from the meat, rich with fat, garlic, and that smoky, slightly spicy oil from the chouriço. It was the kind of dish that makes you slow down without even realizing it, savoring each bite because it’s not just about flavor—it’s about texture, warmth, and memory.
This was a dish made by someone who understood restraint. No unnecessary frills, no excessive seasoning, just a balance of flavors that spoke for themselves. It was as if the duck and the rice had been in conversation for hours before I arrived, quietly trading secrets until they reached some kind of understanding. And now, all I had to do was listen.
The restaurant itself was hushed, the afternoon light filtering through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden tables. I could hear the faint clinking of silverware, the low murmur of Portuguese from the table next to me, but it all seemed distant, like I was wrapped up in this moment with my plate and my glass of local red wine, the kind that stains your teeth and leaves you a little more flushed than you’d like to admit.
By the time I finished, I wasn’t just full—I was satisfied in a way that goes beyond hunger. I felt like I had been let in on something, a secret that had been passed down through generations, from mother to daughter, from cook to cook, always just below the surface of this quiet little country.
As I paid the bill—ridiculously cheap for what I’d just experienced—the old man behind the counter gave me a look. It wasn’t much, just a slight smile and a nod, but in that moment, I felt like we understood each other. No need for words.
Stepping back outside, the heat of the day hit me again, but I didn’t mind. I wandered down towards the river, the scent of duck and garlic still lingering in my memory, mingling with the sound of the city as it carried on, oblivious to the little revelation I’d just had.
Arroz de Pato. It’s not just a meal. It’s an invitation to slow down, to pay attention, to appreciate the simple things done right. It’s the kind of dish that reminds you why food matters—not just as sustenance, but as history, as culture, as connection. And like all the best meals, it leaves you wanting just one more bite.
19 October 2024
Auntie Margaret's amazing chocolate brownies
For many summers growing up, we would file into the car and drive 24 hours to visit the Millard family in Winnipeg... more specifically Auntie Margaret's cottage on Winnipeg Beach. The drive felt endless - hours of farmland and bumpy roads - but it was worth every mile, knowing what was waiting for us at the end: Auntie Margaret's chocolate brownies. Not just any brownies, but the kind you dream about, rich and gooey, with that perfect crinkly top.
I can still see her tiny cottage, white paint chipping on the walls, the smell of lake air and pine trees surrounding us. Auntie Margaret, always in her faded apron, would greet us with a wave from the porch, where she'd sit with a cup of tea and a tin of those famous brownies. With ice cream of course!
18 October 2024
Rolling with Baba: A Cabbage-Filled Legacy of Love and Holupci
Some dishes stick with you, not because they’re flashy or complicated, but because they’re rooted deep in the soil of who you are. They remind you where you come from, who you love, and why you keep coming back to the same table. For me, it’s holupci—Ukrainian cabbage rolls. And nobody made them like Baba.
Baba wasn’t just my dad’s older sister. She was more than that. She was a grandmother in every way that mattered. The kind of woman who wasn’t just present in the background of your life but at the forefront—cheering you on, supporting you in ways that no one else did. She had this way of making you feel like whatever you were doing was the most important thing in the world, and she stood behind you with a fierce, quiet pride.
Her holupci were legendary. Simple, humble, and utterly perfect. A dish passed down through generations, made the way only someone who’s spent a lifetime honing a recipe can. Every roll of cabbage, every spoonful of rice and meat, was a testament to patience and care. It was a meal born from necessity, like so many great dishes, but in Baba’s hands, it became something transcendent.
The process started early, with the familiar sight of her wrinkled hands peeling back the cabbage leaves, one by one, as if each leaf held a secret. She’d mix the filling—a blend of rice, pork, and beef—seasoned just enough to let the flavors sing without drowning out the essence of the ingredients. Then came the rolling, methodical and precise, but with a softness that came from years of practice.
The rolls were nestled into a pot, covered in tomato sauce, and left to simmer for hours, filling the house with that unmistakable aroma that said, “You’re home.” And that’s what Baba’s kitchen always felt like—home, in the truest sense of the word. No matter what chaos was swirling around outside, inside, it was warm, welcoming, and full of love.
Sitting down to eat her holupci wasn’t just about the food. It was about tradition, about connection, about being part of something bigger than yourself. Baba never made a big deal out of it. She’d quietly place the dish on the table, wipe her hands on her apron, and sit down with that look in her eye that said, “Eat. You need to eat.” And you did—because how could you not?
Her cabbage rolls weren’t delicate or refined. They were hearty, honest, the kind of food that sticks to your ribs and leaves you feeling like you’ve been wrapped in a warm embrace. But more than that, they were a reminder of who Baba was—strong, steady, always there, always giving. She supported me in every endeavor, no matter how crazy or far-fetched, with the same quiet strength she put into making those holupci.
Now that she’s gone, I find myself thinking about those cabbage rolls more and more. Not just the taste—though I can still remember the exact flavor of that tomato sauce, rich and tangy, the way the cabbage softened just right—but what they represented. They were her way of showing love, of passing on something that would outlast her. And in that sense, they’ve become a part of me too.
I’ve tried to recreate her holupci, but it’s never quite the same. It never will be. Because it wasn’t just about the ingredients or the technique—it was about Baba, standing in her kitchen, rolling those cabbage leaves with the same care and attention she gave to everything in life. It was about the hands that guided me through every endeavor, the heart that believed in me no matter what.
Holupci were more than just cabbage rolls. They were a connection to Baba, to my heritage, to a simpler time when love wasn’t spoken but shown—through food, through actions, through being there, day after day. And while I may never be able to make them exactly like she did, I carry her with me every time I try.
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