ReallyGoodWriter | Food • Writing • Poetry Iambic Cafe

food & poetry, but mostly the poetry of food

Food • Writing • Poetry

Thanks to dear prairie expat poet Nancy – she’s here in Saskatchewan in spirit, and certainly by email – for pointing me to a lovely UK poetry site, Poetry PF where I saw some familiar names and faces, and lots of good poems.

But dropping out of the virtual clouds and back to earth where we’re enjoying balmy -10c weather with sunshine and heaps of ornamental hoarfrost… who’d visit Muenster without stopping for a sniff at the Canadian Prairie Candles shop? Just the place to thaw your frozen nostrils on a fine winter’s day. They have a staggering selection of scented votives, very reasonably priced. Among the dozens of seriously intoxicating flavours we investigated today were Let It Snow; Plum Spice; Wedding Day; Blackberry; Freshly Mown Hay; Bailey’s Irish Cream; and (oh yum) Banana Nut Bread. We have long admired their custom made grain elevator candles, but it’s worth noting they’re writer-friendly in there, so if you want something different for your book launch, talk to them about having a candle made from your book cover.

And my, we do enjoy an annual trawl of the treasures at The Muenster Consignment Centre. This year we spotted, among the everythings, a reading lamp whose stand was a glow-in-the-dark fist; a couple of old flip-down toasters (working) suitable for use in a hermitage; red cowboy boots; a siwash (Cowichan) sweater; an old painted cowboy lunchbox. We did not buy it all, because as the saying goes, if you have everything, where do you put it?

The Muenster Family Restaurant is only open till 4 on weekdays, but its kitchen is blessed with Shirley, one of the former cooks from St. Peter’s Abbey. She made Kathleen, Mari-Lou and me a dandy brunch today, eggs as we like ’em and lovely bacon and hash browns, with a generous hand on the coffee pot. The lemon-poppyseed muffins were warm and wonderfully lemony. Across the room we spotted fellow literary diners Paula Jane and Kimmy; from the oo-ing and ah-ing going on during their soup course, they were having themselves a noteworthy bowl, and we left them tucking in to some very special cheeseburgers with crinkle cut fries and gravy.

After last night’s massive snackathon – jalapeno havarti, pita with red pepper feta, asiago cheese and tzadziki dips (thank you oh thank you Kimmy) – and a nice buncha grapes – we were treated to a reading by the erudite and entertaining Myrna Kostash, who graced us with a sample from her memoir-in-progress – and a visual nod to Saint Demetrius.

A couple of days last week we dropped our pens and headed into Humboldt to re-stock the chip supply and do a little shopping. We decided to lunch in town, and took ourselves to a prairie gem, the Prairie Perk. Land of latte, but they make a fine brew. I had their cafe breve on my last visit: and what a wonderful substance it was. A close relative of cappuccino, a mountain of thick creamy foam surmounting an excellent roast. Satisfying in every way, not too big: not too small. The box of Mexican chocolate perched discreetly on the countertop augers well for their hot chocolate, which they promise is the best in town.

But it was their soup of the day that’s earned my slavish devotion. Sopa Poblano, which seems to be a Latin cousin of leek and potato soup, a smooth suspension of potato with a well aimed bolt of green chile to finish. This recipe looks pretty close; I can’t wait to experiment at home.

Right next door to Prairie Perk was the real reason for our visit: our cherished clothing store, The Cottage Boutique, which obligingly holds its Winter Blow-Out Sale around the same time as our colony each year. There is much rejoicing on both sides when the writers waft into town and stagger out again adorned and laden with those understated beige bags.

Here’s a little bit of a poem – a ghazal of sorts – from a previous year, commemorating a visit with Lorri and Maureen, which will be in the new book:

Winter Sale, Humboldt

Holding the door for each other, we file in
and blossom in three directions.

When you reach into the unknown
hangers click an abacus along the rack.

Colour pulls our hands into its field:
some treasure lies camouflaged in there.

The door chimes and opens, chimes and closes:
shimmering breath of a room of women.

Were ever so many chips consumed by a single group of people over a 14 day period?

We have been glorying in the crunch of many flavours. Three years ago we discovered an outstanding number at Extra Foods in Humboldt, President’s Choice Rosemary-and-something, but it has vanished from the shelves, along with the end of its name, and is sadly mourned.

But we live in the present, and here are, I believe, our locally available firmest favourites, in alphabetical order. In short, we like ’em all (but Miss Vicky’s could really be our chip of choice).

Doritos Dillicious Taco Chips
Lay’s Dill Pickle Chips
Lay’s Plain Salted Chips
Miss Vicky’s Lime and Black Pepper
Miss Vicky’s Sweet Chili and Sour Cream
President’s Choice Parmesan and Garlic
President’s Choice Roast Garlic
Tostitos Hint of Lime

Though we have been going mainly dipless, we surely did enjoy our revered blog guru Tracy’s home made salsa while it lasted. And it must be clearly and definitively stated that although Brenda would never normally eat such things, she showed real class when she invested in an armload of chips for the troops one snowy afternoon at the Humboldt IGA.

The gin drinker in me quietly wishes to point out the perfect harmony I discovered between Lay’s Dill Pickle Chips (or Tostitos Hint of Lime) and a large G&T; with lemon.

As the colony progressed, things got more and more excessive. We augmented our chipping with some dipping into other food substances, aside from smoked oysters. Mari-Lou once again demonstrated her elegant way with roast garlic (plus brie plus jalapeno dip) on french bread. Annette offered us some healthful options: green grapes, shrimp rings; and chipped in with Bernadette to assemble some mighty nachos. And last night we were the grateful recipients of a hit and run appetizer strike from the kitchen, when an artfully presented tray of hand-piped tuna and egg salad materialized in the lounge at the appointed hour (thank you Brother Pius!)

Of course, there is also nothing like a good bowl of popcorn, which we enjoy thanks to the colony’s air popper and the tireless efforts of those who know how to aim it.

Well: now that the gravy situation has been smoothed out, we can focus all the more clearly on what follows our savoury. I have long suspected some unidentified Great Desserts of the Fifties cookbook has provided the backbone of our meals here. Let me pay tribute.

Our first night we were met with an outstanding bread pudding – more of a bar, really – just chewy enough, with fruit, probably apples, huddled somewhere in the sweet middle. We’ve had raisin delight, butter tarts, chocolate wheat puff squares, rice krispie squares, a chocolate-cornflake concoction, almond crunch made with cornflakes and coconut (there’s not much you can’t do with breakfast cereal, one of us astutely observed between bites). There were gooey chocolatey coconut drop cookies, which one colonist identified as hermits (very fitting). And an absolutely heavenly rhubarb crumble, freshly crisp and perfectly sweet.

But let’s be honest: what can round out a simple chicken dinner (with gravy) better than a tub of chocolate and vanilla ice cream that you scoop out yourself and eye through the meal until it has just that perfect gloss that tells you the moment of ice cream bliss – the happy balance of smooth and soft but still frozen – has been reached and it’s time to apply the spoon.

On the other hand, yesterday’s lunch triggered something…

Jello

O red mystery, o berry
of the world’s branch.

Powder of my childhood
lunchbox, a fingerdip surprise
for snack time, cherry dust
in a tupperware nest…

Horrors. Something was amiss in the kitchen… the first few days of colony we were gravyless, desolate. Two roast dinners came and went without a drop to drown in. Nought but a few tears moistened my roast potatoes on Sunday, and we quietly despaired amongst ourselves in parched mutters. However, glad to say things have righted themselves since and our universe floats once more in its happy sea.

As fate would have it, when I was at the AWP conference last year I picked up a copy of Poetry International 9 (2005), which we’ve all been browsing and which – wouldn’t you know it – includes a recipe-like poem called Gravy, by Barbara Crooker, which tells us to:

Scrape off bits of skin, bits of meat; incorporate
them in the mixture, like a difficult uncle
or the lonely neighbor invited out of duty.

Thus inspired, and still rejoicing after dinner, I reached for the gravy dish myself last night:

Gravy and More Gravy

Who’d want to live
in a world without gravy,
which makes all things
equal on the plate,
which gives potatoes
a smooth ride, which
comforts the meat
it came from….