Love Apples

Rosemary Is for Remembrance. Only I Forget.

I l-o-o-ve rosemary. We grow it on our small upstairs balcony. I break off a bit of a branch when I go by it, and munch. I admit it's not for the wimpy. It does taste something of the coniferous. It's a bit twiggy in the mouth. Only to my obsessional thinking, this adds to the experience.

Of course in lamb. And I can't think of socca without it. And for a sort of remembrance cake I've made for sad occasions that need subtle marking. And.… And.... And.... I've even taken to tucking some in the phone pocket of my briefcase, to use in lieu of mints.

It's a source of automatic joy to me. I don’t question it. Who wouldn’t like it?

Last weekend, I flew some with me, bursting with immoderate pride to ----'s cottage. She said a quiet thank-you just in passing, but hey... I'm used to being around friends who are less crazed than I am re. food. A few days later, still at the cottage, I notice we haven't used it, and it's at the point of passing beyond reach into herby heaven.

I say aloud that we need do something with it quickly. She tells me, amused that we're here again: that for 16 years I've knitted much of my life to hers, and yet I keep forgetting she hates rosemary.

"Really?????"

"Oooh really."

"Who doesn't like rosemary??"

"Er… I don't."

Then I remembered my brother doesn't like dill. Something else my pink-eyeglasses-wearing brain rejects. Who doesn't like dill?

Pete's Frootique, Bedford, Nova Scotia.

Good thing I didn't notice that Pete's Frootique used cutesy spelling until after I was taken with it. Good thing, too, I had happy associations to Bedford, Nova Scotia long before I saw their with-friends-like-these-who-needs-enemies slogan manifestly devised by a department of tourism civil servant proving many a stereotype: a large highway placard announces "BEDFORD--A TRADITIONAL STOPPING PLACE!"

Admittedly, it mightn't be that much of an understatement. And to be wholly honest, on this trip, we did stop on nothing more than a quest of airport-food avoidance. But once we did, I remembered just how delightful Frootique really is.

Figs, grapes and some unabashedly sensual cheeses made for supper. And for pantry supplies I picked up some dried mustard and Marmite (I really did!), as we were running low, and some quince paste because it's hard to help oneself.

A note of warning for long-time fans of the CBC. It turns out to be impossible to walk through the aisles without reciting on a loop, mimicking Pete's accent and slightly-alarming hand twiddle, "This is Pete from Pete's Frootique. Toodleedoo!" Though I'm sure that when R. asked if this made for legal grounds for divorce, it was merely academic.

http://petesfrootique.com/

Lobster

I'm not sure why one starts a blog. It is a good medium for an exhibitionistic introvert, so perhaps that's it for me. (Oooo--let's change my byline!) As to the reason it's a food blog, the answer will take a time to parse out, but will surely say that food is at the root of how I relate to the world and to myself.

Even as I started it, I didn't have a preconception of what kinds of things I might post. Yet I did look forward to what my first lobster entry would be. R. was born in the Maritimes. In the most urban of days, he still hears the call of the sea. Due to our several trips out each year, and as the trips have awaked the puddle of the primordial that resides in me, I now hear it too. And ocean, or at least our bit of it, means we'll have lobster for supper.

Here is this weekend's incarnation. I'm just back from my annual pilgrimage and lovefest in Nova Scotia: a long weekend of godkids and other objects of my affection. Tumbling ocean waves, lake, canoe, bonfire, guitar strains, sea shanties. We usually make lobster at the cottage, but this time a perfect day brought us to a Lobster Dinner--one of the great Maritime traditions, usually held in white clapboard Church Halls. It was everything it was meant to be, plus a pounded copper boiling pot all asteam, that had originated in the galley of an American ship captured by the Brits in 1813.

Lobster is often made all wrong. It's ruined by sauces, overcooking, wrongminded cooking. I don't think I'll give many out-and-out recipes in this space, but here's one that I hold sacred, and that I think anyone who has a chance of making lobster should learn by heart:

-Anyone who recommends steaming, either doesn't care for you or doesn't care for lobster.

-Visualise the pot you're choosing for boiling the lobsters. The biggest pot in the average well-equipped kitchen might accommodate four lobsters at a time, but many stockpots will only accommodate two. You want enough water to completely cover the lobster and surround them amply enough to be able to come back to the boil quickly after you've added them.

-If you're able to use sea water, do. It provides, perversely, the perfect level of salinity for their cooking. Otherwise use tap water, and add two handfuls of sea salt for the amount of water that will cook four lobsters.

-Bring the water up to a rolling boil. Add the lobsters head first, one at a time, choosing the largest one to go in first. Have the pot covered until the water has returned to a strong boil. Once it has, set timer for 12 mins for lobsters that weigh about 1 1/2 pounds each, (you count 10 mins. for the first pound per lobster, and 4 mins for each additional pound per lobster). Use the same water if you have more to boil.

-Serve with nothing, or with butter and lemon juice that have been boiled together for a few minutes to emulsify, and to sweeten the lemon a bit: the juice of two lemons per 1/2 pound of butter.