I remember a Christmas eve vividly from decades ago.  We were allowed the special privilege of opening a gift early and I spotted a small rectangular box that I was certain was my long-awaited Barbie doll.  What I opened was my first bottle of cologne which was lovely of course but I was SO disappointed.  And then I remembered that Santa hadn’t come-no wonder Barbie wasn’t waiting for me under the tree! And in truth, she wasn’t there the next morning either as Santa thought that I would prefer the red-headed Midge doll.  I will admit here that I was disappointed again, but as is my attitude in life- “a gift is a gift” and I mustered up a way to be delighted by the gesture.  Besides, Midge did look a little bit like Ann Margaret in Bye Bye Birdie……

My Mom and Dad always did the best they could with six kids and one modest income.  Many items were hand-knit and hand-sewn but Santa always came through.  What I do remember perfectly is the indulgence and abundance of food.  My Mom would spend an entire day making potato and Velveeta perogies (she is convinced that Velveeta is better than cheddar), another day holopchi (with lots of sauteed onions, bacon and ground meat in the rice mixture), another day for egg rolls (over-stuffed with bean sprouts, celery, carrots and chicken), another day for her home-made buns and still another for her butter tarts.  Dad was assigned with going to shop at his friends’ who made the best kielbasa in Winnipeg.  But this practice had to cease because no one would sit near us at Christmas eve service later that evening.

On the day of the dinner Mom would make a huge batch of breaded chicken legs and thighs (she can’t understand why anyone would prefer white meat) or a batch of slow cooked ribs or more recently a prime rib roast.  The prime rib is always assigned to Brother #1 who is an expert in ensuring that the middle is served medium rare.  And there always has to be two meat choises, just in case, God forbid, she missed the mark with the first offering.  She prefers turkey but knows that everyone else in the family will dine on turkey the next day for Christmas dinner.

These days, my sweet Daddy is gone and Mom is not able to host any more or manage all these tasks in her kitchen.  Brother #3 and his “saint” of a wife (she hates it when we call her that) have been the hosts for the last number of years.  But Mom is still the co-ordinator of some items and she makes her lists and her phone calls and assigns who will find the best Baba-made perogies and how they must be served with sauteed onions and bacon.  Each item is carefully considered and takes hours in the planning.  So even though Mom is 85 this year and my own kids are grown, my Mom is still gifting us with the indulgences of our childhood-not in things per se, but in demonstrating the abundance of her affection for all 35 of us with food made with love.

 Kath’s quote: “In my experience, clever food is not appreciated at Christmas. It makes the little ones cry and the old ones nervous.”-Jane Grigson

There was an emptiness in our hearts this Christmas; a void left by the absence of my beloved Brother #2.  Tom you always made Christmas a time to honour the traditions of our family and we had to find a way to gather strength and carry on those traditions without you.  You were missed terribly, especially by Mom.

Where do 35 people go out for brunch with 1 day’s notice in Winnipeg?  When D’s family assembles for a brief weekend each Christmas, the time is short and very precious.  One of our traditions is gathering for one last meal together before heading back onto the highways for the road trips to Minneapolis and Dauphin or to the airport for the flights to Toronto and Calgary. 

This year, Christmas kind of snuck up on us and although we were pretty organized for the festivities themselves, we didn’t plan for the morning after.  Then we remembered how easily the Pony Corral had accommodated us the year before and took a chance.  Well not only did they have space for us at short notice, it was in a separate area of the 2nd floor balcony with our own fireplace, coat rack and TV screen to check the NFL scores. 

The challenge of pleasing such a diverse group of diners at a reasonable price is a huge one but the Pony Corral’s extensive menu covers off everybody’s tastes.  I choose a chicken souvlaki pita and D an omelete.

Others ordered sandwich melts and burgers.

Bigger appetites, tucked into steak and eggs.

But I was most impressed with the selection on the kid’s menu.  This foot long was well priced and just what the younger set had in mind.  The food kept them interested until we started a round of “telephone”.  The game starts when one person whispers a message into the next person’s ear and you pass it along to see how accurate the end message is delivered.  The first couple  of rounds were very accurate and then the youngest member of the family started to mix things up with his take on how the messages should go.  Hilarity ensued.

A restaurant can’t be all things to all tastes but the Pony Corral comes pretty darn close.

Kath’s quote: “It matters not how simple the food — a chop, steak or a plain boiled or roast joint, but let it be of good quality and properly cooked, and everyone who partakes of it will enjoy it.”-Alexis Soyer 19th century French chef

I have just returned from a 9 day winter vacation where I did a whole lot of nothing except drink and eat (more about that later), collect shells on the beach and read in the hammock strung across our balcony.  Interpret this as: bliss. 

I try to rotate my reading selections between non-fiction, what I refer to as “literature” and finally- fascinating fiction.  The fascination part changes according to whim.  Ever since my travels to Italy I have been on a kick of novels set in Italy but they must also have to do with food.  On this trip I read “Delicious” by Nicky Pellegrino which I will write about in the future.  Just before we left I read her “Recipe for Life”.  Those of you who know me well, will understand that her books are the perfect blend of many of my loves:  Italy, strong women, cooking, eating and the exploration of food as a means of expressing love.    

Her books are not available at the Winnipeg library so I actually had to buy a number of them.  Usually I rave about a book and then cannot pass it along because of my library addiction.  I won’t tell you a whole lot more about it; this excerpt will give you a sense :

“She smiled and went over to the sideboard where she retrieved a tattered old handwritten recipe book.  Its pages were frayed and falling out the ink faded and smudged in places, but she held it as though it were something very precious.

“This belonged to my mother,” she explained, turning the pages so I wouldn’t have to touch the book.  “She was an amazing cook and collected recipes all of her life”.  Many of the dishes we make come from here, others we’ve come across ourselves or concocted over the years,  Every day I learn something new about food.  That’s why I love it.”…

“Food is so important.  In my family its how we speak to each other, express gratitude, show we care, sometimes even say we are sorry.  Good food must be made with love.  You can taste if it’s not.”

“Even restaurant food?”

“Of especially that”.

Cooking with love was a new idea to me but there was certainly nothing stressful about working in the the kitchen of the trattoria.  Once customers began to arrive, Raffaella moved to the front of the house, showing them to their seats and taking orders.  I ferried food to the tables, cleared away dirty dishes and filled tall glasses with ice cream or tiramisu for dessert.  In the kitchen, Ciro seemed in control.  He worked with quiet concentration, occaisionally asking me to plate up a dish for him, making himself understood with the pointing and clicking of fingers.

Out in the dining room and on the terrace beyond it, customers were eating.  This was not refined picking over plates with knives and forks we saw at Teatro.  No one came here to be seen or to socialise.  They were solely for the food and they enjoyed it, bending their heads over the dishes, slurping hungrily, wiping up every last slick of oily juice with crusty bread. 

Once everyone had eaten and left, we stacked the dirty dishes and Ciro put out food for us.  The fish, as they had promised was all finished, so instead we had my herb ravioli drizzled in a sauce of crushed walnuts and dressed with shards of pecorino cheese.  There was a little of the octopus to taste , some of the chicken stew, a bowl of steamed greens dressed with lemon and olive oil and some crusty bread.

We ate it out on the terrace with a glass of white wine that tasted like apples and Rafaella told me about their lives.”

Can’t you just smell the smells of garlic and onions and feel the evening breeze on your face?  Can’t you hear the waves lapping in the distance and taste the crispness of the wine?  Ah, I love books that sweep me away.

Kath’s quote: “It is good food and not fine words that keeps me alive.”
Moliere