The best thing I ever ate. . .

There’s a television show that airs on the Food Network called The Best Thing I Ever Ate. I’ve never watched it but I’ve seen its promo, many times. It involves Food Network chefs reminiscing about something wonderful they’ve eaten while a variety of culinary samples are paraded across our screen.

I don’t think any of their choices look particularly appealing but it’s all a matter of taste, isn’t it? Literally.

And I began to wonder what my response would be if I were asked: What’s the best thing you ever ate?

Well, let me tell you.

Years ago, on a trip to Portugal, we had landed in Lisbon late in the evening and decided to get up early and head for Faro, the capital of the Algarve, much to the south. We got to the train station just in time to be herded aboard — we heard the conductor use the word “Faro” so we assumed we were in the right car — and in spite of a crushing crowd, we managed to get a seat. A wooden seat, if I remember correctly.

We figured that once we got going, there would be some kind of vending service available — we’d had nothing to eat or drink since the night before — and we’d be able to get a cup of coffee, at least.

About 15 minutes into the trip, all the people around us began hauling food out of their bags from under their seats: spicy, garlicky sausages, cheeses, chunks of crusty bread. Bottles of red wine and water. They looked at us very kindly and offered to share their food but we didn’t really know quite what to do and we thanked them and tried to look as if we had already eaten.

The train was old and slow and a milk-run. It chugged through the Portuguese countryside and stopped at most towns and villages. If we hadn’t been in such need of food and coffee, it’s possible we might have enjoyed the scenery and the atmosphere.

At one point — I have no idea how long into the trip it was — when the train stopped, most of our fellow passengers stampeded off and returned minutes later laden with food and drinks from a platform outside the station. If only we had known what they knew!

It was early evening when the train pulled into Faro. I picture us being the only passengers getting off but we probably weren’t although many of our fellow travellers had disembarked at different stops along the way and the train had definitely emptied out. Faro seemed quiet and dusty and deserted. I felt we should have been riding in on horseback.

(This is a generic picture of Faro. It still looks quiet.)

We walked from the station to the centre of town — exhausted from sitting on those wooden seats all day and, of course, hungry and thirsty — and went into a dim little bar. The waiter brought us cold beer and we managed to communicate to him that we’d like some food too. He was solicitous but we were able to understand that the kitchen was closed. He gestured encouragingly, however, and seemed to say the equivalent of, “Just a minute, I’ll see what I can do.”

He disappeared and came back in a few minutes and placed a plate on the table. There was a crusty roll with a piece of meat inside — meat fried in olive oil and garlic. The oil was soaking into the bread — and that was it. Bread, a piece of meat, olive oil. The meat was not melt-in-your-mouth but it was not tough. It had texture and resistance. It could be chewed.

I cannot begin to describe how good that sandwich was. I can taste it to this day, as I write about it, and I can hear the crunch of that crusty roll as I bit into it. I have tried many times to duplicate it in my own kitchen but I’ve failed. I never expect to succeed.

I’ve eaten in many fine restaurants and been fed by family and friends who are excellent cooks — and I’m a pretty good cook myself. But I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything that I remember and can describe with such relish as that simple sandwich in Faro. It’s the perfect case in point for the expression, “Hunger is the best sauce,” — which I’m interested to see is usually attributed to Cervantes in Don Quixote.

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*This piece is from my archives. It was originally published at Sharon Fraser and readers have enjoyed it so I thought it was time to share it again.

Male friendships: smart-ass to interdependent to gently comic

A couple of days ago, I wrote about television and published a photo of Gabriel Macht and Patrick J. Adams who star as Harvey Specter and Mike Ross in Suits. It got me thinking about male relationships and how they're portrayed.

Harvey and Mike have a smart-ass relationship and work very hard at not showing vulnerability or looking as if they love each other. But they do love each other — as friends — and that breaks through the wise-cracking one-upmanship every now and then. It's not an uncommon type of male friendship and Harvey and Mike (Gabriel and Patrick) are very good at it.

There are a couple of other male relationships that I've observed lately, very different from Harvey and Mike's.

I started watching Community because William (my son) thought I would enjoy it. He's right. I did enjoy it. It's probably not considered to be in the top-tier of sitcoms but it has a lot going for it. When William first plopped his tablet down on my desk and said, "Watch this," and showed me a clip from the show, my first post-clip comment was, "Is that Chevy Chase?" Indeed it was but I decided to watch Community in spite of that.

The show is about a group of wildly diverse students at a community college who join together and form a study group. That's about it. Each episode involves a "situation" that the group gets into or has to get out of — hence, the "comedy." There are a few other characters — the dean, a couple of instructors, other students who aren't in the group.

But the reason it remains memorable for me is because of the relation between these two:

Donald Glover and Danny Pudi as Troy Barnes and Abed Nadir

Troy was a football star and prom king in high school and feels a little lost at community college. Abed had a difficult childhood. His father is a Palestinian from Gaza and his mother Polish American. He probably has Asperger's syndrome, reflected in his inability to pick up on social or emotional cues. He's intelligent, fluent in three languages (English, Polish and Arabic) and possesses keen observational skills.

He's been immersed all his life in pop culture and often sees things as scenes from movies or TV. He's the most interesting character in the group.

Troy and Abed have the most adorable relationship. After they get to know each other, they develop an interdependence which is cute and funny and so loving. They finish each others sentences and they understand each other in every strange situation. You know the relationship will have to change as their lives move on but you can only hope they will find a way to preserve the beauty of their friendship while moving out into the real world.

I love Troy and Abed.

Another TV show that couldn't be more different but is also about male friendships comes from BBC Four. It's called The Detectorists and it's about the "lives, loves and detecting ambitions of Andy and Lance, members of the Danebury Metal Detecting Club." It's not a sitcom, by any means. I've seen it described as a "gentle comedy" and it's certainly that. There's not a lot of action but once again, there's an endearing relationship between two men.

Mackenzie Crook and Toby Jones as Andy and Lance.

There's a lot of lovely rural England scenery as Andy and Lance meander around farmers' fields with their metal detectors. They occasionally go to meetings of the club — the club meeting room is so true to life — and both men have lives away from their detecting. But when they're together, they talk. It's chit-chat but it's about their lives — hopes and dreams, relationships, life's frustrations. They care about each other in such a natural way.

I take an interest in male friendships because of what I see all around me. One of my favourite photo combinations is a pair of pictures I took in my own living room. I post these pictures to Facebook every now and then and without fail, the boys in the pictures show up on my Facebook page to give a "like" or make a comment. Their comments always speak of true friendship and these boys, most of whom have been friends since grade primary, love each other like brothers.

The top picture is what inspired me to take the photo. The bottom is after I asked them to turn around.

They are, counter-clockwise from left: Rhett, Sebastian C., Sebastian K., Thomas S. and our William. They're all 20 and 21 years old now. When this photo was taken, they were 18 and 19.

Life moves on.

Scott and Bailey: my new best TV friends

The last time I wrote about television, I called my piece Love and s*x on TV: bringing the chemistry.

I said this:

Where does that chemistry come from? Is it just great acting? Is it great writing? Does it depend on how the actors feel about each other and about the characters they're playing?

I have these questions because I've been watching a TV series where I find a lack of chemistry. It's a little disappointing because it's a character-driven show and without the chemistry, there's a let-down.

Following that piece, there was an interesting discussion on Facebook about it and about TV and movie chemistry in general but no one ever asked which TV series I was watching where lack of chemistry had become an issue for me. I guess I'm the only one it mattered to.

So for the record, the show I was talking about was Suits, a slick fast-moving show about high-powered lawyers in New York. In retrospect, I think I should have been more specific. My complaint was that there was no chemistry. I should have made clear that there was plenty of chemistry on the show. It's just that none of it was between the romantic couples. It was between these two:

Gabriel Macht and Patrick J. Adams as Harvey Specter and Mike Ross

When Harvey and Mike were in scenes together, they were a pleasure. The dialogue was witty and clever, their eyes twinkled, they loved being together. They had chemistry. Their chemistry was so strong there was none left over for their girlfriends. (I just realized I'm talking about them in the past tense because I've watched all that's so far available on Netflix. They're still on somewhere though!)

The women in Suits were not strong characters. I think they were intended to be strong but — how shall I say it? — they were characters on paper only. There was something lacking in the fleshing out. The writing staff — some of them women — failed the women characters. Even their interactions with each other usually didn't ring true.

Harvey and Mike were cute and fun though. They were obviously what the show was about.

I'm an anglophile and most of my recent viewing reflects that. I seem to have zeroed in on Manchester where some of the best English programs are being made. I loved Last Tango in Halifax and Happy Valley, both set in the north of England.

Lately, I've been watching Scott and Bailey, a cop show set in Manchester:

All three of these shows are created and mostly written by Sally Wainwright. Her women characters — funny and flawed, smart and strong — talk and act and think like women.

There's nothing self-conscious about the writing in Scott and Bailey. The women spend their days in police procedural mode, looking for murderers, interviewing suspects, supporting survivors, taking care of their families, drinking at the pub.

When I finished the series, I missed the characters and wished they lived next door.

Me and the NDP; a little bit of history

I have never been able to relate to people who — during an election campaign — say, "I always vote for the candidate. It doesn't matter to me which party they belong to — if I like them as a person and I think they can do a good job, that's who I'll vote for."

I said to Dan earlier today, "I don't care if I'm madly in love with a candidate. If he's running for the Liberals — or even the Conservatives — I wouldn't vote for him." Dan said, "Thanks for the heads-up."

I vote for a Party. I've voted for the same Party in every election — federal and provincial — since 1965. I've voted NDP in all three Maritime provinces, in Ontario and in Quebec.

More than once, I've voted for the Party when the candidate was a name written in on the ballot, just to fill the space. I remember voting in two different New Brunswick elections at the Bay du Vin Rural High School — once when the leader was J. Albert Richardson, the other when the leader was John LaBossiere. I'm sure I knew something about them at the time but I have no memory of their campaigns at this point.

We always enjoyed looking at the poll-by-poll results in the newspaper because in the poll where we voted, there it was recorded for posterity: NDP — 2.

In Prince Edward Island, I remember waking up in the morning following the election that saw Brian Mulroney become Prime Minister. I can still feel the cold chill that gripped me when I tried to comprehend a political world that already included Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan.

Mulroney wasn't my fault; I had voted NDP which was then led by Ed Broadbent. It wasn't enough.

I moved to Nova Scotia shortly after that and have voted NDP many times, both provincially and federally.

But my very first election experience was in Montreal in 1965. I would have been 22 so it's possible I voted somewhere earlier but if I did, I don't remember it. But I remember 1965.

We were living on Aylmer St. in what was then called — probably still is called — the student ghetto. It was a lively neighbourhood with a lot of flavour, near McGill, near downtown, not that far from Park Ave.

I'm not sure how we became aware of our NDP candidate. It might have been something as simple as seeing a poster on the street. But of course it seized our interest because the candidate's name was Frank Auf der Maur. Auf der Maur was already a household name in Montreal, not Frank but Nick. Frank was Nick's older brother. When I was looking for some information about him earlier today, I found the write-up from his yearbook when he graduated from the Royal Military College in Kingston:

1956 No. 3525 C.S.C. FRANK SEVERIN AUF DER MAUR D'Arcy McGee High School. On October 6. 1934, the city of Montreal delighted in the birth of a favourite son marked by the hand of destiny to become one of the honoured members of the Graduating Class of '56 at R.M.C. After a successful stay at D'Arcy McGee High School, Frank decided to abandon the worldly pleasures of city life and retire into the more ascetic surroundings of Kingston.

During his four years at the College, Frank always maintained the same happy, debonair attitude which made him many friends and a reputation for being always ready for a party. Always an active competitor, Frank was for two years a solid bulwark of the Junior Football team before graduating to the Seniors in his final years.

Frank is a devoted Chemical Engineer and his future along this line is very bright indeed in the light of past achievements. After graduation from the College, our friend talks of entering McGill and possibly U. of Alberta. It seems that the west also presents certain definite social attractions difficult to neglect. His last summer's training in Edmonton has turned his ambitions westward. The very best to you, Frank.

We decided to go to one of his campaign events. I don't remember much about it. I think it was in a community hall of some kind — it was nice, not a bad venue. There were very few people there and I think a table where there was cheese and fruit and some juices. Unless I'm remembering badly, the candidate was a little tight. I didn't blame him. I would guess that by this point in his campaign, he would have loved to disappear.

His Liberal opponent was a handsome young lawyer, often described as Montreal's most eligible bachelor, John Turner by name. His campaign was high-profile, lots of media, lots of hangers-on, big crowds. He was a star. There was no crystal ball to foretell that Pierre Trudeau would come along and wring the life out of John Turner's political future.

He won that time anyway and was off to Ottawa and later, off to British Columbia where the rest of his political career unfolded.

But I voted for Frank because I believed in his Party. I most certainly believed in his leader.

Tommy Douglas was a star too. His platform that year was pretty straightforward:

New Democratic Party:

1. implement a national medicare program by July 1, 1967;

2. eliminate university tuition fees;

3. provide grants for universities' capital costs;

4. increased funding for technical training;

5. increase the minimum price for wheat;

6.increase the old age security payment from $75 per month to $100 per month at age 65;

7. implement economic planning program that lays down guidelines for wages and prices;

8. halt unjustified price increases.

Who wouldn't vote for that?

The NDP is an organization made up of humans and it can make mistakes. Sometimes they're stupid mistakes, sometimes they're terrible mistakes, sometimes they're both.

I've written this today to assure myself that in spite of the mistakes, in spite of my shock and anger at some of the things the Party does, I'm not abandoning the NDP and I'm not going to punish it. I'll still vote NDP and I'll hope it can find a way out of the fix it's got itself into.

I am angry though.

Me and the NDP; a little bit of history

I have never been able to relate to people who — during an election campaign — say, "I always vote for the candidate. It doesn't matter to me which party they belong to — if I like them as a person and I think they can do a good job, that's who I'll vote for."

I said to Dan earlier today, "I don't care if I'm madly in love with a candidate. If he's running for the Liberals — or even the Conservatives — I wouldn't vote for him." Dan said, "Thanks for the heads-up."

I vote for a Party. I've voted for the same Party in every election — federal and provincial — since 1965. I've voted NDP in all three Maritime provinces, in Ontario and in Quebec.

More than once, I've voted for the Party when the candidate was a name written in on the ballot, just to fill the space. I remember voting in two different New Brunswick elections at the Bay du Vin Rural High School — once when the leader was J. Albert Richardson, the other when the leader was John LaBossiere. I'm sure I knew something about them at the time but I have no memory of their campaigns at this point.

We always enjoyed looking at the poll-by-poll results in the newspaper because in the poll where we voted, there it was recorded for posterity: NDP — 2.

In Prince Edward Island, I remember waking up in the morning following the election that saw Brian Mulroney become Prime Minister. I can still feel the cold chill that gripped me when I tried to comprehend a political world that already included Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan.

Mulroney wasn't my fault; I had voted NDP which was then led by Ed Broadbent. It wasn't enough.

I moved to Nova Scotia shortly after that and have voted NDP many times, both provincially and federally.

But my very first election experience was in Montreal in 1965. I would have been 22 so it's possible I voted somewhere earlier but if I did, I don't remember it. But I remember 1965.

We were living on Aylmer St. in what was then called — probably still is called — the student ghetto. It was a lively neighbourhood with a lot of flavour, near McGill, near downtown, not that far from Park Ave.

I'm not sure how we became aware of our NDP candidate. It might have been something as simple as seeing a poster on the street. But of course it seized our interest because the candidate's name was Frank Auf der Maur. Auf der Maur was already a household name in Montreal, not Frank but Nick. Frank was Nick's older brother. When I was looking for some information about him earlier today, I found the write-up from his yearbook when he graduated from the Royal Military College in Kingston:

1956 No. 3525 C.S.C. FRANK SEVERIN AUF DER MAUR D'Arcy McGee High School. On October 6. 1934, the city of Montreal delighted in the birth of a favourite son marked by the hand of destiny to become one of the honoured members of the Graduating Class of '56 at R.M.C. After a successful stay at D'Arcy McGee High School, Frank decided to abandon the worldly pleasures of city life and retire into the more ascetic surroundings of Kingston.

During his four years at the College, Frank always maintained the same happy, debonair attitude which made him many friends and a reputation for being always ready for a party. Always an active competitor, Frank was for two years a solid bulwark of the Junior Football team before graduating to the Seniors in his final years.

Frank is a devoted Chemical Engineer and his future along this line is very bright indeed in the light of past achievements. After graduation from the College, our friend talks of entering McGill and possibly U. of Alberta. It seems that the west also presents certain definite social attractions difficult to neglect. His last summer's training in Edmonton has turned his ambitions westward. The very best to you, Frank.

We decided to go to one of his campaign events. I don't remember much about it. I think it was in a community hall of some kind — it was nice, not a bad venue. There were very few people there and I think a table where there was cheese and fruit and some juices. Unless I'm remembering badly, the candidate was a little tight. I didn't blame him. I would guess that by this point in his campaign, he would have loved to disappear.

His Liberal opponent was a handsome young lawyer, often described as Montreal's most eligible bachelor, John Turner by name. His campaign was high-profile, lots of media, lots of hangers-on, big crowds. He was a star. There was no crystal ball to foretell that Pierre Trudeau would come along and wring the life out of John Turner's political future.

He won that time anyway and was off to Ottawa and later, off to British Columbia where the rest of his political career unfolded.

But I voted for Frank because I believed in his Party. I most certainly believed in his leader.

Tommy Douglas was a star too. His platform that year was pretty straightforward:

New Democratic Party:

1. implement a national medicare program by July 1, 1967;

2. eliminate university tuition fees;

3. provide grants for universities' capital costs;

4. increased funding for technical training;

5. increase the minimum price for wheat;

6.increase the old age security payment from $75 per month to $100 per month at age 65;

7. implement economic planning program that lays down guidelines for wages and prices;

8. halt unjustified price increases.

Who wouldn't vote for that?

The NDP is an organization made up of humans and it can make mistakes. Sometimes they're stupid mistakes, sometimes they're terrible mistakes, sometimes they're both.

I've written this today to assure myself that in spite of the mistakes, in spite of my shock and anger at some of the things the Party does, I'm not abandoning the NDP and I'm not going to punish it. I'll still vote NDP and I'll hope it can find a way out of the fix it's got itself into.

I am angry though.

Feline escapades: a brief, incomplete report

The cats are always happier than anyone when the springtime weather arrives and they can bask in the sun, go hunting, and they don't have to worry about their paws touching snow. These little snowstorms that keep happening take them by surprise but they do seem to understand that the end of winter is at hand.

Grizzly is the older cat and he minds the cold. In the winter, we can go for days when he doesn't go out but in the good weather, he becomes just like a normal cat. When he goes out, he has much broader scope to pursue his long-time hobby.

Grizzly loves "found water." Never mind that he has a bowl at his feeding station in the kitchen where the water is changed regularly. When he scoots out the back door, he makes a mad dash for a puddle, an up-turned plant saucer, a little patch of melting snow on the deck table. He settles in and drinks and drinks as if he's been trekking through the desert and he's come upon a life-saving oasis.

It's a pastime he enjoys inside the house too. He stalks the person who waters the plants always in hope of a little overwatering that might fill up the catch basin under the plant. And when the forsythia was brought into the house for Easter and set up in the dining room, Grizzly thought it must be some kind of a special festival for cats. Just look at the accessible water in that vase.

We indulge Grizzly as much as possible but there comes a line he must not cross.

Every night, I put a glass of water — about half-full — on a low table by my bedside. A few mornings ago, I was still dozing, still wearing my sleep-mask, when I heard an unusual sound that I couldn't identify. Is it rain? Is it a bird tapping on the verandah roof, right outside my window? It was regular, rhythmic and I suddenly realized, it was "lap, lap, lap, lap. . ." I turned over and looked and there he was — Grizzly — quite happily settled in enjoying some new water that he'd just discovered.

I had to shoo him away and from then on, I have to put a cover on my glass of water. Grizzly and I are close — but not that close.

Meanwhile, his little brother keeps busy too.

One of our friends is having problems with a few mice in her house. This past week, I wrote her this note:

We have our mice brought in from the outside. A couple of days ago, Junior scratched vigourously at the door and when I opened it, he streaked in as fast as he could. It’s not like him as he’s an ambler but I soon saw that he was bearing a tiny gift. He went to the middle of the kitchen and dropped it quite ceremoniously and said, 'What a good cat am I.'

Mice tend to play dead – that’s why I can often catch and liberate them – but it was pretty clear to me that this one was already beyond any help I could give it. It was very tiny. Junior played with it a bit, tossing it high into the air, pouncing when it landed. He put on quite a show. Then he ate it! I mean it – actually ate it! Urban domestic cats rarely eat their prey because they’re too well-fed but what do you know? It happened.

Mustard: the tangy edgy condiment

I was born in Newcastle Creek, New Brunswick, on the shores of Grand Lake, and I lived there until I was five years old. Newcastle Creek was a hamlet. The nearest village — the place with a few stores and services and small businesses — was Minto.

When I was a tiny girl, my mother used to take my sister (she's four years older) and me to Minto on the bus — I can still smell the exhaust fumes from that rickety old bus — so she could do some shopping, get her hair done, maybe visit a relative.

Sometimes, she would take us to the lunch counter in the five-and-ten and we could order whatever we wanted. I remember Marilyn ordering a banana split or a sundae and Mum probably had some tea, maybe with a piece of pie.

I always ordered a mustard sandwich.

The waitress and/or my mother would always try to get me to add something to the sandwich but I graciously declined. I didn't want any ham or lettuce or even a piece of chicken.

I loved mustard sandwiches.

I think Mum was a little embarrassed but at least the waitress knew that I was allowed to order something else if I wanted to. I doubt that mustard sandwiches were on the menu so I don't know how they figured out what to charge. Probably the same price as a side order of toast.

I still love mustard and although I definitely have that squeeze bottle of French's, I've branched out into lots of different mustards.

When I'm in a tourist-y type town and we go to one of those lovely little shops that have local crafts and souvenirs and specialty foods, I always gravitate immediately to the mustard section. People have learned to bring me mustard as gifts too. Dan brought me this one from a trip to Saskatchewan for meetings:

The Saskatoon berry looks like a blueberry but it's related to the apple and its mustard is, indeed, fruity and delicious. I've used it in vinaigrettes but it's also good in marinades for meat or chicken or to brighten up a sauce.

Valerie brought me this one from Dijon, France:

It's mustard with figs and it's sweet and. . . figgy. I used it most recently at Easter as a base for a glaze for the leg of lamb:

It wasn't the only mustard I used for Easter dinner. The vegetables were actually called "Mustard Roasted Vegetables."

As you can imagine, the mustard — along with lemon juice and zest — added a sharp, tangy edge to the vegetables. The mustard of choice for this recipe was grainy:

I have other mustards in my pantry:

The seeds and the powder are used mostly for pickles although I have done some experimenting mixing the powder with various ingredients to make a condiment with a difference. Dan and I can both remember a comprehensive search all over town looking for brown mustard seeds. We can't quite remember what they were for but we think it must have been for a chutney and we must have decided that yellow seeds just wouldn't cut it.

I think that it's a rare day that I don't use mustard for something — sometimes just to give the boys a hot dog, other times to add an elegant finishing touch to a sauce or salad. I'm delighted to know that yellow mustard is not coloured by something awful and artificial but gets it bright hue from turmeric, a spice that happens to be good for us. I've learned — from 13 things you probably didn't know about mustard — that the ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans all used mustard. It's believed that the Romans were first to pound the seeds into a paste to use as a condiment. Trust the Romans.

And even though the mustard bottle may say Dijon, France, mustard is a plant — an herb — and much of it that's used around the world is grown in Canada.

So there you are: more than you ever wanted to know about my relationship with mustard!