works of wanderlust

Tag: party food

  • weekend wrap, eighteen

    We lucked out and got a couple nice autumn weeks to walk through the trails and sneak in some colourful runs, but it seems as if October has other ideas for us. The weather turned cold over the weekend, dropping into the freezing temps for Sunday morning.

    This weekend we:

    Went out for dinner on Friday night. No one wanted to cook and everyone was on board with sushi, so as the sun set we went off to local japanese place and ate our fill. Along with other things, the Kid is now perfectly fine with raw fish sushi. If that sounds strange, just consider that she has been inching towards it with sushi rolls that are more in the imitation crab, avacado, or tempura shrimp realm and is only now embracing salmon and tuna rolls. In other words, we can order a little bit more ambitiously and she’ll just eat whatever. Another unseen benefit of her aging out of childhood.

    She did, however, invite company over to watch a movie so Karin and I were relegated to the main floor of the house. We played some board games. I won. Enough said.

    Saturday morning the ladies were going in six directions with appointments and other stuff. I played some video games for most of the morning, but joined them just before lunch to brave the hoards that had descended upon Costco. My reward was a hot dog. 

    The dog joined me for a bit of a lazy walk. I’ve been working on my daily sketching challenge so I went to the park to draw something. She sat content by my side for nearly an hour as I worked on the shading of a copse of trees.

    That evening we had invited to the fiftieth birthday party of my former boss. We’ve kept in touch, and she pinged me earlier in the week to see if we were free. The place was packed and it was a bit of a rager for a fiftieth. Matched her style, though, and I had a good chat with some former colleagues who had made the shortlist. A limoncello shot was later regretted. 

    Sunday was a crazy run day. I met a few of the crew in a weird neighbourhood in Mill Woods for our ten klick pre-run. We ran a bunch of trails with which I was formerly unfamiliar, all of which ended us at the Towne Centre parking lot. Then we stood around in a crowd of about six thousand people waiting to run the Run for the Cure 5k breast cancer run. SL is a manager for CIBC bank, the title sponsor, so she rallied us onto her team and we wore colours and rounded our our ten klick pre-run with a crowded five klick fun run to make our training distance fit. Then we went for pho. 

    I was hosed for the rest of the day. The combination of running fifteen klicks, partying the night prior, and standing around in shorts in the sub-zero temps spent what was left of my energy and I chilled on the couch until dinner, then chilled on a different couch until I went to bed. I did fit in there somewhere reading all the social media posts about the teachers strike, but once again having a semi-adult daughter pays off.

  • taking stock, making stock

    New Years Day and it’s officially 2023.

    We host a party every new years with our camping friends. We don’t camp on new years eve, but instead we cook a big meal in our warm house and then wander over to the park to skate or sled or (if they’re not cancelled like last night) watch the fireworks.

    We play games. We talk. We drink and we cook a big meal.

    We splurged last night and spent inflation-grade prices for a huge piece of beef prime rib that we cooked and carved and served.

    Left over was a small stack of beef bones that I carefully shaved the best bits of meat off of and then promptly hid in a baggie at the back of the fridge. Gnawing on a big old bone would not be unheard of with our crowd, but I was saving these for my New Years Stock.

    Recipe

    beef bones and leftover trimmings
    onion
    garlic
    carrots
    parsley
    celery
    bay leaves
    spices
    water

    In a big ol’stock pot, bring it all to a boil then let it simmer for as long as you can. Four hours, for hours, for ever. Ideally about five to ten hours of cooking renders all the beef tissues and pulls all the aromatics from the vegetables and turns leftovers into a golden-hued liquid that is amazing for all your upcoming cooking needs.

    New Years is a time for taking stock.

    We make resolutions to be better or do better or feel better.

    I made stock, which was a kind of literal taking stock of some things about using up leftovers and cooking even more at home and thinking about flavours and ingredients and other foodie-type thoughts.

    Not a bad way to end the old year, and an even better way to start the new one.

    Happy New Year.

  • Potluck Impossible

    As the sun sets this evening I’ll be partaking in a strange and magical event that has become rare elusive these past eighteen months: a small housewarming party.

    A dozen or so (fully vaccinated) friends and I are converging on the newest abode of one of them to sit and chat and eat and chat some more.

    And as per usual, the most daunting part of the occasion is spending my Saturday afternoon trying to figure out what kind of dish I should bring along for shares with everyone.

    The time honoured tradition of a potluck-style party has stumped many who have planned attendance at gatherings of any size. Bringing a sharable dish to someone else’s event is seemingly simple, but cooking for a crowd can open up a whole host of contemplations and considerations.

    I mean, lately I’d bake up a big loaf of sourdough to accompany some other contribution. But not only did I put this off and run short on time, I had put it aside as an option this time because the hostess has lately taken up her own sourdough habit after I re-invorgated her access to a starter.

    So, what to bring?

    Inevitably, some folks will show up with something tasty and simple, like a deli plate or a vegetable platter, and maybe a bottle of wine tucked under their arm. These are staples and great additions, but one always risks being the second or third one to show up with an “oh… another cheese ball!”

    At least one person is bound to have stopped on their way over for a takeaway solution, like a bucket of fried chicken from the drive-thru or a tray of spring rolls from the local dim sum. This is always a hit, and I would never complain while always eating my share of these offerings, but deep down I feel like it would be a bit too much of a shortcut to match my desire to cook or prepare something personal.

    The option that I do envy is the person with their special dish.

    THE dish.

    That thing they always bring to parties. The plate or bowl that never fails to appear in their potluck parade. Their speciality. You know the one.

    I don’t have one of those.

    I want one of those.

    I want that go-to. I want to have a potluck platter with which I always show up at parties.

    I want a plate that I unveil to knowing nods, a tray that is cleared before the night is over or a bowl that is scraped clean as people argue politely over the last morsel. I want to bring the kind of thing for which people ask me the recipe and to which I smirk and say, “I’ll send it to you” but never do because it’s THE thing I bring and don’t want to spoil it for myself.

    It can’t be too spicy. Many people like heat, but it frightens just as many others away.

    And the serving-size commitment level needs to be low, allowing guests to try a bite and then go back for a second or third helping. Forcing a full slice or a portion that takes over a quarter of one’s plate turns potential samplers into skeptics.

    This hypothetical dish of mine also needs to be some kind of side that can hold its own across different food themes. We’ve all encountered that one dish that is inexplicably out of place among everything else, the one that tastes great but somehow just doesn’t quite belong.

    I want to have one of those recipes to which I always turn when the invite comes through, something that I know I can pull together in a couple hours and do my part for any party.

    It might not be an impossible potluck search, but I haven’t found that dish yet. My dish.

    Not yet.

    So tonight, yet again, I’ll probably just bring a…

  • Bread, Un-Servable

    We had a small get-together in our backyard over the weekend.

    Because as the number of new infections drops and more people get vaccinated locally, the restrictions have been eased and we figured a few people over for drinks and food was now not only possible, it was lawful.

    Of course, I baked a loaf of sourdough as part of my contribution to the potluck.

    I mixed up a nice blend of that local rye flour and some white, rested it in the fridge for an extra-long, extra-souring first proof, overnighted it on the counter so I could bake it the morning of the party as to ensure maximum freshness and…

    How am I going to serve this thing? I thought.

    My guests and I had been particularly careful in organizing everything to make sure all the local health guidelines were, if not followed to the letter, nodded to in respect.

    We had carefully sanitized and bundled out bunches of wrapped utensils.

    There were single-serve plastic gloves so everyone could dish up.

    The main dishes were brought by the guests and picked to be you-touch-it-you-eat-it type foods like fried chicken, pizza, and samosas.

    The beverages were all canned, and single serving.

    And even the birthday cake (it was a birthday party) was individual cupcakes where we sat in a big circle and sang to the birthday gal and she blew out the single candle on her chosen treat.

    But then I had this loaf of sourdough I had proudly baked. I suddenly didn’t feel comfortable serving it. I’ve been baking loaves of my sourdough for so long, and yet just for us to eat, that I didn’t even consider the high-touch, social nature of this bread.

    Usually at a party I set out a loaf of bread on a cutting board with a bread knife. Guests can cut their own slice… but that created a situation where lots of people were interacting with the whole loaf and the knife.

    Occasionally, I cube the bread into generous chunks for dipping either in something like a spinach dip or oil and vinegar, but a dip seemed like the kind of communal eating situation we were deliberating steering clear of.

    Sometimes I’ll slice it just before I serve it, which would have probably been the best option, but even then I’m the one who is touching every slice and exposing the bread to the air and our house and…

    I was being overly cautious, I know, but we’re right now in this moment of time when people are just starting to trust shared spaces again. The metaphor is something like slowly slipping into a icy mountain lake a little bit at a time, or clearing out the clutter of a big mess one piece-by-piece. The road back to normal is slow and careful. And that’s where I am: not quite ready to serve a loaf of bread because I didn’t think anyone would feel safe about eating it.

    So I didn’t feel right about serving it. Friendships are built on trust and respect, and when people come to your space put their trust in you to serve them food, to me respect is putting aside your ego – even the pride of a perfectly delicious loaf of freshly baked bread – and sticking with the agreed upon party plan.

    On the up side, I do have a lot of leftover bread.