The Pear Tree Blog

Archive for February, 2010

The other night I picked up a copy of Coco Avant Chanel (Coco Before Chanel) from the video store, for a movie night with my husband. The film, starring Audrey Tautou as Coco Chanel, chronicles the early years of the fashion revolutionary.

We at the Pear Tree House have a tendency to try and pair our snacks with what we’re watching – at least in some vague way. Mackintosh Toffee with Stone of Destiny, for example, or fruit and cheese while watching A Year In Provence.

With this in mind I headed into the grocery store and down the snack aisle, my mind on what – WHAT? – would be a good pairing for a French bio pic about a fashion icon? Chocolate – fine chocolate – came to mind first. But then I thought about all those skinny supermodels who wear Chanel and suddenly chocolate seemed less appropriate.

Hot chocolate (coco) also came to mind, but I wanted something to chew.

I strolled up and down the cookie aisle, the drinks aisle and the junk food aisle and was about to head over to the bakery section (no, I don’t usually put this much time and effort into the snack pairing, but this was becoming a challenge) when my eyes fell upon the black licorice.

Black licorice.

Of course. It’s a classic. The little black dress of the munchie world. Long and thin. Simple, but by no means bashful. It was perfect, and I think Coco herself would likely have approved.

What’s your favourite snack/movie pairing?

I came across this quote recently, by Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy: “Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.”

I melted just a little bit inside when I read that. I suppose that, being a mother of two Very Small People, there tends to be a focus on milestones. The first time they roll over, the first tooth, the first step, the first day of school…. These are moments that are deservedly anticipated and celebrated.

One of our most recent milestones, here at the Pear Tree House, was our six-month-old’s first taste of solid food. As we did when her big brother reached that milestone, we turned it into a big “dinner party,” inviting over grandparents, aunts and cousins to witness the auspicious occasion.

It was just a tablespoon of rice cereal, served up in my own, Bunnykins baby bowl, but you’d think it was dinner with the queen the way the cameras were snapping and rolling. And everyone got a turn feeding the star of the hour.

But what I’ve come to realize, having gone down this road with one child already, is that some of the most cherished memories happen when the cameras are put away. In between milestones, you could say.

It’s the day you notice that your son can just reach, if he stands on his tippy toes, the bottom of the light switch, enabling him to turn it off. It’s doing a double take a few weeks later when, without effort, he is suddenly able to turn it on, too. It’s a good belly laugh together over nothing, or a dance around the kitchen to your favourite song. It’s moving up to the next size of clothing, and packing away a favourite – but too small, now – outfit.

Sometimes, I’m finding, it’s staying composed when someone grabs a piece of yarn and runs, unravelling the shaky start you’ve made on a knitted scarf. Or not minding if the floor and cupboards get a bit wet while two small-but-determined hands attempt to wash the dishes. These, I find, are harder to celebrate at the time – but I have an inkling of a feeling that one day down the road, remembering them will bring a smile to my face, and maybe even some sentimental tears to my eyes.

It’s why I deliberately held the anger back when The Boy emptied out a brand new Kleenex box and started polishing the floor with its contents, proclaiming, “I’m sure a busy boy!”

Because he is – he really is. And if I blink twice, I’ll miss it.

Yes, grand occasions are wonderful to have. Graduations, weddings, birthdays, anniversaries… And I hate to admit it, but sometimes I go from big event to big event with blinders on, so busy preparing for the next monumental occasion that I forget to soak up the small ones. Every now and then I have to stop and remind myself. I guess when I read that quote I realized that this now one of those times.

I’m not sure exactly how a Christian priest who was martyred for his beliefs became the namesake of the most romantic day of the year, but we’re not complaining. But in his honour, I decided to compile a list of romantic things – in keeping with the spirit of the day. Here’s what I came up with:

* Handmade cards (I made the one above this week, inspired by this post)
* Handmade anything
* A walk in the rain
* A cupcake for two
* Classic movies cuddled up on the couch
* Making plans – long and short range
* Cooking together
* Inside jokes
* Flowers just because
* Holding hands
* Sideways glances
* A slow dance under the stars
* Candy hearts hidden around the house to be discovered when least expected
* Traditions – the little ones that sneak up on you, like pancakes for breakfast Sunday mornings.
* Heart shaped pancakes with blueberry syrup
* French café music from the 1930s
* Reading out loud to each other

Of course this list isn’t nearly definitive, and for every person out there, there’s a hundred different ideas. I’d love to hear yours!

I bought the Lassy Mogs for my mum. I bought them because they have a perfectly quirky name and I knew she would love them based on that fact alone.

You see, she simply adores these British biscuits called Jammy Dodgers (“gooey, stretchy jam SPLODGED between two shortcake biscuits,” the box explains in the most unappetizing vocabulary possible). To be perfectly honest, they’re not my thing. I like neither the biscuits nor the rubbery splodgy jam between them, and I suspect that what my mum finds so appetizing about them is more the name than anything else. It’s a name she likes to say – partly because of it’s, umm, quirkiness and partly because they’re from England and so most people around here haven’t heard of them – which makes them so much fun to talk about. “Hmm,” she’ll say, “I could really go for a Jammy Dodger.” Or, “Care for a Jammy Dodger?” or, her favourite, “What? You haven’t heard of Jammy Dodgers??”

Now I could see if she developed a thing for Tangy Twiglets. While their name isn’t quite as idiosyncratic, they’re at least palatable – unlike their predecessor, Original Twiglets, which are basically stick pretzels with Marmite on them (did you see the Mr. Bean where he ran out and put the Marmite on real sticks?) Tangy Twiglets are coated in heavenly Worcestershire sauce. They crunch. They tang. What more could a person want? The fun-to-say name is pure bonus.

But this is about the Lassy Mogs.

I was shopping, not long ago, in The Real Canadian Superstore, when my eyes fell on this package of biscuits. For the record, I’m not generally fond of store-bought biscuits (Hobnobs and Fox’s Ginger Creams and Lemon Creams being the exception) and never even look at them when I’m passing down the aisle. But somehow, this time, the name jumped out at me. Lassy Mogs. Say it once to yourself.

The package describes them as soft fruit and nut cookies, made with butter, dates, raisins, molasses, pecans and a blend of spices. What a lark, I thought, what a plunge – - for my mum, I mean, NOT ME! So I bought them.

Now the irony: I meant to take them to her the next night, when I visited for tea. I forgot. I saw them sitting on my counter the next day and thought about taking them to her then, but got busy. Then I decided I’d better sample one first, to make sure they were an appropriate enough gift (not too hard, crunchy, stale, nasty – not that she’d object, she loves the Jammy Dodgers after all). It wasn’t hard, or crunchy. It was moist, spicy and totally tasty! So I had another. And another. Before I knew it, four of them had disappeared. I am now a certifiable Lassy Mogs fan. I even like the name!

Further investigation reveals that the Lassy Mog hails from Atlantic Canada, and is a classic, home-baked treat. The “charming” (according to President’s Choice) name is derived from the local dialect for the region’s widely used sweetener, molasses (“lassy”) and small, low-rising cake (“mog”).

It just goes to show that, yes, once again, you can’t judge a biscuit by its moniker. Well, except in one case – a Jammy Dodger is still one to dodge They’re available in Kelowna at Little Britain on Enterprise Way and at the Sunshine Market on Lakeshore Drive, if you don’t believe me. But I recommend you go straight for the Lassy Mogs. You’ll thank me for it, I know.

My mouth is a red, flaming, festering mess. It burns when I brush my teeth. Yet I. Can’t. Stop. Eating cinnamon candy hearts.

I’ve been binging. Again. It’s a weakness I have. Okay, a full-on addiction – one that happens every February when they bring out those infernal tokens of love.

It started a few years ago, this addiction to the Valentines Day Red Demon. I sit in front of my computer, writing, popping back three, four, five at a time. La brûlure, c’est magnifique.

After a day or so of this, however, my mouth gets kind of tender – tongue, cheeks, roof, gums. My blood sugar level must soar through the roof, making me grateful they’re not available all year round.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a hot food connoisseur. Sure, I like a little wasabi sauce with my sushi, and I can take a medium heat when it comes to spicy foods, but I don’t like to push it to a point of endurance.

Cinnamon hearts are a different story. They’re sweet, and not actually that hot when eaten in moderation. The problem is, like a crack addict, I can’t seem to eat them in moderation. Each one offers a hit that needs to be repeated until, before I know it, the lining of my mouth looks like it was ripped apart by a cougar.

It’s madness, I know, but what can you do?

Well, I know one thing I can do, and I had planned to do it this year: Don’t take the first one.

My intentions were good. I wasn’t even looking when I passed the big vats in the V-Day aisle that greets you first thing when you walk into the grocery store. Okay, perhaps I glimpsed, because I knew they were there. But that’s as close as I was coming to them this year.

Until. . .

I was at an office for an interview last week, chatting with the receptionist whilst waiting for my interview subject to arrive. There, on the counter, was a bowl full of the evil little things. “Look away!” I told my self, “Look away!” I did not succumb. Not even when I had to return later that day to take a picture (of the woman I had interviewed, NOT the candy hearts). But the second time was too much for me. And something overcame me. Something I could not control.

The Precious. We wants it. We needs it.

I got in the car and started heading home… past the first possible turn-off to my neighbourhood… and the second… and the third. The car was leading me. Driving me. To the grocery store. To the V-Day aisle. To the cinnamon hearts. To bliss.

I grabbed a bag and headed through the checkout. I suspect my hands were shaking. “I need it man, I NEED it,” I wanted to tell the clerk, my supplier. I headed to the car, lovingly cradling my drug of choice, then ripped into the plastic with animalistic abandon upon getting inside. My eyes shot wildly from side to side as I plunged my greedy fingers into the cache of cold, smooth hearts. I smelled them, deeply, before opening my mouth.

I started with one. Oooooooh! It was so good! It tasted like . . . another. Mmmmm, yeah, baby, hit me one more time!

And now, here I am, with open sores. It hurts to eat real food. But still, the cinnamon hearts go down.

I’m popping them back now, as I write – although I’ve limited myself to two at a time because last night when I tried to eat my husband’s pineapple-laced stir-fry my ulcerated mouth didn’t take it well. It’s been stripped, you see, of all its natural buffers. But yet, here I am again today, like a dog to its vomit, like a junkie to his drug. It could rot the teeth out of my mouth. I could become a diabetic. But still . . . “just two more,” I rationalize. “Okay, maybe three.”

Fortunately, said husband happens to care about me enough to seize what remains of the bag of goodness and ration me out a handful (or two) to do me. Like my safe injection site.

Ah, love is sweet. And spicy. Love is cinnamon.