After watching CookedÂ on Netflix, I was inspired to make my own sourdough bread. After all, Michael Pollan swore it was the easiest thing in the world. All it takes is flour, water, and some wild yeast encouraged by the bacteria floating through the air in your house. Easy!
My first attempt to make sourdough starter was an abysmal failure. The flour and water looked–and smelled–like glue, which I guess it was.
Then I showed up at work with a homemade sour cherry pie (that’s another post!) and started talking about baking with a colleague. Little did I know that she, too, had been inspired to attempt sourdough bread after watching Michael Pollan and she had met with some success. She offered to share some of her sourdough starter with me, pointed me to a website that had easy to follow instructions and then I was off to the races!
I had my doubts about the starter. It failed once again and I ended up with a loaf of glue. See specimen here:
So I decided to persevere. For those who know me–and I mean, reallyÂ know me, I am a relatively impatient person. So waiting for a sourdough starter to be ready, or waiting for bread to proof, are exercises in patience for me. And you can’t rush a good loaf of bread. I fed my starter again and decided to just watch it for about 24 hours. Sure enough it came back to life and started bubbling away, and almost “breathing”. That’s the best way I can describe it. It’s literally alive! When it had filled up the bowl, I decided it was show time.
I mixed the starter with flour and water and mixed it with the dough hook. I added a spoonful of kosher salt too. Some recipes tell you to knead the bread a lot and to do some of the kneading by hand to encourage the glutens to bind with each other. Other recipes say to be careful not to overdo it with the kneading because you don’t want to destroy the wild yeast in the starter that will give the bread that lovely bubbled centre. It’s really hard to know which recipe to follow and what measurements to use when you’re a beginner. This is when the internet is not your friend, but seems to be deliberately working against you to leave you second guessing which is the best recipe to follow.
In the end I found a pretty straightforward recipe at Cultures for Health. There’s even a nifty video that walks you through the recipe, but I decided to try it without watching the video. I think I might watch the video next time.
So here are the results:
In the end the bread was quite tasty–crispy on the outside and nice and soft on the inside with some air bubbles that are indicative of sourdough bread. There is a nice tang to the flavour and the kids seemed to like it, which is a good thing. It didn’t puff up as much as it probably should have after proofing, which could mean one of two things: the sourdough starter wasn’t as mature as it should have been to help the bread rise, or else I didn’t leave it to proof long enough (12-ish hours???).
I can see why making bread is addictive. It’s not an exact science, and yet the success of your bread making dependsÂ entirely on science.
The sourdough starter is once again percolating away in the glass bowl on the counter and I look forward to my next attempt at making a loaf of sourdough. Let me know what the secret of your success is when making sourdough. I could use all the help I can get!
I’ve thought a lot about how to tell you about my father. Some of you knew him longer than I did. Some of you only knew him through stories youâ€™ve heard about him.
Everyone has a story and my dad definitely has a good story.
My dad’s story began in Hungary–the only child of Lily and Leslie Grunwald born at the end of the Second World War.
With few surviving relatives, they remained in Hungary until the revolution in 1956.
At 11, my dad became a refugeeâ€”he and his father escaping through the night time with nothing but a suitcase and a Hungarian winter salami to bribe the Austrian border guard. This was all a great adventure for Peter.
He would joke with friends and family that he, too, went to camp as a child–refugee camp–even learning to ski in the Swiss Alps where all the children were taken for a 3 month “holiday.”
He and my grandparents eventually made it to Toronto when my dad was 13.
There was no such thing as ESL back then so he relied on the good graces of his new Canadian friends to teach him the language, which he picked up quickly and over the course of his life, mastered, probably better than some whose first and only language was English.
He lived down in the Annex for the remainder of his childhood attending Huron Public School, Harbord Collegiate and the University of Toronto.
While in university he took up international folk dancing, where he met the lovely and diminutive Maxine Solsberg.
The courtship was only about a year long–especially after Maxine’s father asked Peter whether or not he was going to ask his daughter to marry him.
Maxine accepted his proposal, with Peter sealing the deal by tying a string around Maxine’s finger in place of an engagement ring.
The wedding took place in the Solsberg’s backyard after a blustery late-August storm. On the menu was chateau Briande.
The next day the newlyweds were in Windsor where my dad began law school.
Over the next seven years my dad graduated law school, began practicing civil litigation and most importantly, became a father to a boy and two girls.
The 1980â€™s began with a move back to Toronto.
For my father, the next two decades were filled with the peaks and valleys of being both a parent and a child.
He was never shy about sharing his opinion and did so readily, especially when it came to the choices we were making.
From university courses to our life partners, he freely shared his views.
As young adults we may not always have appreciated or welcomed his thoughts, but they were always well-meaning and showed he deeply and truly cared.
My mind is full of images that epitomize my father.
I can picture him sitting behind his desk at work with the dictaphone held close to his mouth.
I can hear his conversations with my grandparents in a mysterious language that I can now recognize a mile awayâ€”even though I donâ€™t understand a single word of Hungarian.
I can hear his nasal inhale when he picks up the phone and says, â€œGood morning, how are you?â€
I see his night table covered in books by the likes of Carl Sagan, Stephen Hawking and Leo Tolstoy.
I can see him on his hands and knees tidying up the flower beds in the backyard on Digby Court.
I can see him watching my gymnastics performances from the sidelinesâ€”his pride practically oozing from his pores.
I can picture him watching a soccer game on TV or poring over the Globe and Mail Style section on weekends while munching on a box of matza. Yes, matza! Or a giant bowl of shelling peas.
I can see the top of his balding head as I stand on his shoulders and hold his hands in the waters of Georgian Bay, as I prepare to somersault into the water.
Holding his handsâ€¦I can see myself climbing on to his thighs and flipping around on the dance floor at simchas I donâ€™t remember. But I remember dancing with my dad.
I remember dancing with my dad at my wedding. In our backyard. This was as much my dadâ€™s wedding as it was mine. His involvement in the planning of the details was extraordinary.
And of course I can picture him at the head of the dinner table on Friday nights asking us how our week went and who wanted a glass of wine.
Heâ€™d eat my momâ€™s homemade chicken until there was a pile of cleanly picked bones on his plate.
Friday nights were less about religion and more about tradition for my father. He wasnâ€™t a religious man. He never read a word in Hebrew, but he respected following a Jewish life.
2004 marked a seminal moment in my fatherâ€™s life when Quinn, his first grandchild, was born. This is when he became Pete. Not Zaidy. Not Nagypapa. Just Pete.
Pete would see his love for music, books, food, theatre, sport and travel personified, not only in his children, but also in his grandchildren.
Five grandchildren! Quinn, Ezra, Annie, Levi and Jackie.
News of Peteâ€™s cancer came on New Yearâ€™s day 2012. Iâ€™ll never forget it.
As we prepared to welcome Levi and Jackie into the family, my father was staring down his own mortality. How cruel life is.
If cancer was a bull, Pete planned to grab it by the horns and ride it out as long as possible.
Only two months after Leviâ€™s arrival and Peteâ€™s surgery, he was on a plane to Florida.
And that was just the beginning of Peteâ€™s travels over the past four years.
He also made it to Argentina, Spain, Italy, Colorado and most recently a road trip through the Southern States with my mom riding shotgun.
But some of his best trips happened right here at home.
Trips to the hockey rink. Trips from daycare back to the house with the kids safely loaded into the car. Trips to school concerts and ballet recitals, soccer games and graduationsâ€”some as far away as Denver. Trips to the cottage. My father never missed an opportunity to spend time with his grandkids and celebrate a milestone.
What most people would consider banal, my father considered a true gift. Time with his grandchildren and childrenâ€”something he knew was in limited supply for him.
Just this past February he was back on a plane to Vail, skiing with his children and grandsons. Even his oncologist marveled at his stamina.
Bike riding, tennis and skiing helped him stay strong these past four years.
But it was also my mother who cared for my father when he was at his worst that gave him strength.
Even through her own cancer battle, my mom has been a rock. A matriarch in every sense of the word, my mom has rode this physically and emotionally exhausting rollercoaster with my dad in her own quiet way.
I am deeply saddened by my father’s death. We all are.
I dissolve into tears at the thought of a world without him.
His influence on my life, the life of my siblings, my children in particular was so profound that he leaves behind a void that cannot be filled.
I can torture myself and let my mind wander to all the moments in the future where he will be greatly missed.
But I have to try my hardestâ€”we all doâ€”to wander back in time to all the vivid memories we shared with him of a life well lived.
I admit I have not exercised every day in the past two weeks. I think I’ve missed three days. I’m not going to make excuses. Yes, there were reasons, but I’m not making any excuses. Instead, I am resolving to make the next two weeks epic.
We took the kids to the Mandarin restaurant on the way down from the cottage just over a week ago (I know, you’re thinking, “The Mandarin??? How is that a healthy choice???” Believe me, when you’ve got three hungry boys in the car, healthy choices is pretty low down on the list of priorities) and this was the fortune I got in my fortune cookie:
I’m taking it as a sign to do my best to be true to the sentiment that you can only have good health if you’re healthy and that means eating good food and exercising.
So I’m trying to stick to both without it being about how much I sweat and feel the burn or by depriving myself.
Exercise has entailed many activities included biking around the neighbourhood with my kids on this thing:
And I’ve even managed an early morning hike with my four-legged friend through the ravine in my neighbourhood.
Food is always a tricky thing for me. I’m battling gallstones right now, so most of the time eating meals isn’t that much fun, and sometimes I give up and grab something that tastes good, but isn’t good for me. For the most part I’ve been good, having lots of fruit for snacks like this:
Today, I managed to squeeze in a run at lunch time–half an hour and just over 5 kilometers. Not bad, eh?
I also just ordered a new bikini, which gives me even greater incentive to work on my figure for the coming summer.
Now all I need is a drill sergeant, a nutritionist toÂ make this into a reality TV show!
It’s June 1st. Today is Day One of my month-long fitness challenge. This post is my way of being accountable. It forces me to stay honest. There is no goal. No planned outcome. No guaranteed result. It is simply my way of maintaining some semblance of fitness each day. It doesn’t have to be a marathon. It doesn’t have to mean exercising to the point of exhaustion. Nor does it have to mean depriving myself of my diet. If anything, it’s about managing my expectations. I told my husband I looked at the photos from the race I was in this past Sunday and was unhappy with what I saw. Here’s what I saw:
He said, “then you have to decide what you want to do about it and make sure your expectations are realistic. And if you want a different result, you have to do something different. But remember–make sure your expectations are realistic with what you are prepared to do.”
So I’m going to be realistic. This is not about getting on some wagon that I am inevitably going to fall off. This isn’t a diet or exercise regimen that I am setting myself up to fail at. It’s about mindfulness.
So this is how my morning began: I laced up my sneakers…
I did about 3.5km. Did a bunch of sit ups–say, 80. Got on the scale. Here’s what it said:
I know it’s just a number. It’s not a bad number. I’m just keeping it real. Keeping it honest. It may not change when the month is up. It may go up. It may go down. But it’s MY number and I’m going to own it.
I made my requisite smoothie this morning (banana, strawberries, pineapple, chia seeds and a splash of OJ). Ate a whole wheat bagel with tuna and chopped egg.
It’s lunch time now and I’m having a garden salad with a hunk of salami.
I’ve got my calendar all planned out, but as my neighbour once said to me, “Man plans and God laughs.” So this is by no means the gospel (no pun intended!), but it’s a guide. (Today is a perfect example: I ran this morning instead of doing the Body Fit class at the Y).
So let’s see how it goes!!! Let me know if you have ever done a month-long challenge. How did it go? What was the best part? What was the hardest part? Would you do it again? What would you do differently?
I haven’t bothered to write about my plans to run a half marathon this Spring because…well just because. Other people write about that stuff all the time. I don’t like attracting attention to myself. And I tend not to talk about my fitness goals. But I’m going to now.
I’m on week 10 of my 12-week training program using the Nike+ Running App. I have beenÂ very religious about following the instructions on the app–running the prescribed distances, intervals and so on as laid out by the Nike Gods. But then my 40-year-old back and knees started to scream in protest. So in the last two weeks I’ve dialed it back. Instead of running upwards of 40 to 50 kilometers a week, I’m keeping it at about 30-ish.
There are plenty of people who ask the rhetorical question, “why do you even do that?” or “how do you find the time?” And to be honest, I think of the answers my dad used to give me when I was a teenager and complainedÂ about havingÂ to balance the demands of high school with the demands of my gymnastics training. He simply said, “make time or quit.” Quitting gymnastics was out of the question and the same is true for running. So that’s what I do. I make time. I believe that if it’s enough of a priority you will find the time.
Running is not only inexpensive–just strap on a pair of runners and go–but it is also the ideal tonic for stress and decompression. Focusing on an achievable goal that requires very little skill and a lot of mental strength has been invaluable to me. It has saved me from the peaks of anxiety and the valleys of what I call “professional soul-searching.” If ever I find myself in a rut, or a bad mood or anxious, my medicine has been running.
I am usually satisfied with running about 5 kilometres or a half hour run to rid myself of the hee-bee gee-bees, but I’m a sucker for goals and the Toronto Women’s Half MarathonÂ became my goal Â when I signed up back in November. Since then I’ve been focused on my training.
I am now less than 2 weeks away and just completed 21 kilometres in my training.
The last time I ran a Half Marathon was the Scotiabank Waterfront MarathonÂ about six years ago.Â It was excruciating and during the last 500 metres running up Bay Street I kept telling myself, “don’t puke and don’t pass out in front of all these people.” I crossed the finish line in 2 hours 29 minutes. My goal had simply been to finish. And that was after much needed bathroom breaks and stopping to stretch the illiotibial band that was causing unbearable pain in my right knee. Running might be simple, but easy it is not.
This time I feel like I’ve already achieved my goal. I’ve done the training. I have proved to myself that I can run 21 kilometres. And I even improved my time! My biggest fear is injury and I know I could be doing more “preventative” training and therapy in preparation.
So there it is: in less than two weeks I will join scores of women, many like me, who have nothing to prove to themselves or anyone else. They simply need to run–for whatever reason. It can be incredibly empowering to stand cheek by jowl with your fellow runner not as a competitor but as a comrade who can tell you with a quick glance and a comforting grin,Â “I know, you just have to dig deep and get it done. No judgement. No accolades. Just get it done.”
Fresh cut flowers are one of the simplest ways to remind yourself there’s life after winter. But if they aren’t in the budget, what about a flowering plant? It’s the gift that keeps on giving–if you have a green thumb.
I can’t say I’ve ever had much luck growing flowering plants at home. I never know how much water to give them, if they should or shouldn’t be in direct sunlight. Plant food, what’s that?
Call it beginner’s luck, but I’m pleased to say I brought my wee Christmas Cactus back from the brink.
I bought it at Ikea months ago. It was blossoming then, but within a week or two of bringing it home it stopped thriving. Kind of reminds me of the beta fish my son got for his birthday a couple of years ago. Apparently more fish food does not make for a healthier fish.
The cactus looked like it was on death’s doorstep when I moved it to the window sill in my laundry room. It found company with my three phalaenopsis orchids (which I also brought back from the brink, but that’s another story). Maybe it was the company, maybe it was the window sill, I really don’t know. But it began to grow new buds and that alone made me giddy.
This plant reminds me of my paternal grandmother, Lily. She adored these plants and the colour pink. I don’t think I ever saw her without pink lipstick on except at her sickest. She died far too young at the age of 69. I was 18. She was a stylish lady who loved to doll herself up. She could cook a wicked Hungarian meal and that included sinfully delicious desserts. And her home always had flowering plants. African violets and Christmas cacti come to mind.
So on this snowy, wintry day–less than a month away from what would have been my grandmother’s 92nd birthday–enjoy the colourful blooms of my Christmas cactus to brighten up your day. Who knows? You might be inspired to nurture a flowering plant too!
Last year my birthday fell on a Monday. It was the first day of a new job and I felt I couldn’t ask for the day off and really celebrate it the way I wanted to. I didn’t feel like telling my new colleagues, who were complete strangers to me. But I do remember buying myself a below average slice of red velvet cake at the coffee shop in the lobby of my building on my lunch break to mark the occasion.
I couldn’t even celebrate that night with my family because we were busy taking the kids to hockey games. It shouldn’t have bothered me because I was planning on celebrating that milestone birthday when the weather improved. Nevertheless the day was a bit of a disappointment and I vowed then that I would not let another birthday pass without marking the day in a special way.
Today began with breakfast in bed from my wonderful husband. Check out the apple swan he carved up! What he didn’t know was that I already had plans for breakfast with my Mom so the kids tucked into the cinnamon toast and scrambled eggs.
We headed over to Scratch Kitchen for breaky. I had this amazing dish called Soft Scrambled, which was full of sweet caramelized onions, pulled pork and other stuff I can’t remember on top of homemade rustic bread. Yum!
After breakfast we headed over to Costco (yeah, I know, not exactly the most exciting birthday destination) to do some shopping for food and other essentials. $325 later we bounced and hit the mall for a bit of retail therapy. The post-holiday sales were great, but most stuff was picked over so the choices were limited. I ended up getting a cute unstructured blazer from Maison Scotch for 70% off! Score!
Things picked up in the afternoon with a visit from my massage therapist who pummelled my leg muscles into submission. I thought I was going to barf it hurt so much. I have since learned there is a term for this sensation–it’s called an “autonomic response.” Apparently this is a good thing and means I am more in tune with my body. Not sure I need to feel everything to the point of being nauseated.
I whipped up a chocolate cake really quickly. I know what you’re thinking: “You mean you baked yourÂ own birthday cake? How depressing.” Not at all! I love to bake and it was cake in a box with homemade icing. Super easy. Super quick. Always a crowd pleaser. And pretty!
Dinner with the fam came next. It was perfect: Chinese buffet so the kids didn’t have to wait and order off a menu and they could pick what they wanted.
The night ended with a soak in the bath tub and the Downton Abbey Christmas Special.
It really was a great day. And that’s the point–it was great for me. I still think celebrating any birthday, milestone or not, is about more than the day itself. It’s about looking back and reflecting on how I grew and changed as a person over the last twelve months and what I managed to accomplish. It’s also an opportunity to look ahead to the next twelve months and set some goals. I’ve signed up for a half marathon. I want to take courses on photography and Photoshop and I’m chomping at the bit for another design project.
If this is what they call middle age, it feels pretty good to me.
I can’t make New Year’s resolutions. I won’t keep them. I know myself well enough that it just won’t happen. I, like all humans, am a creature of habit. And breaking old habits, or creating new ones is tough. So rather than set myself up for failure (or success for that matter), I’m simply going to document myself–habits, good or bad–as a bit of a social experiment.
I’m starting with breakfast. I have aÂ new habit that started back in 2013 after our trip to Costa Rica where my girlfriend made smoothies for us every single morning. So I now make myself smoothies almost every morning for breakfast. I recently purchased a Vitamix, which is the self-proclaimed king of blenders, because I’m convinced the quality of my smoothies will improve (ha!), although the real reason I purchased it was because it can blend frozen chunks of fruit, which my previous blender could not.
Today’s blend, however, is a bit of a departure for me.Â That, my friends, is where I am a creature of habit: banana, pineapple, spinach, almond milk. Done. Today’s blend: apple, kale, ginger, pineapple, almond milk. It’s definitely not as easy going down, but I could get used to it. And I think my body could use the nutrients.
Accompanying this lovely smoothie is a homemade granola bar care of Angela Liddon’s cook book, Oh She Glows. It’s the highlight of my morning with crispy bites of peanut butter and sea salt-laced oats intermingling with chia seeds, sunflower seeds, sesame seeds and other good for you stuff. I’m trying really hard not to gobble it up.
This is not a breakfast of denial. I enjoy this and my tummy thanks me for it. But I think I will have to expand my morning meal horizon and try and get some eggs or meat in there once in a while to boost the protein quotient.
I’m open to suggestions too–any good protein-packed lactose-free meals you can suggest would be helpful!
I decided to give this little pet project of mine a bit of a facelift with a new look. It’s cute, dontcha think? Very girly, which isn’t really me, but it’s easy on the eyes.
I don’t actually have much to tell you about right now so I thought I’d show off the planter at the front of my house. I’m proud to say that I’ve managed to use the same birch logs, some branches and the white berries in the arrangement for the last three or four years. I wish I could do the same with the evergreen boughs, but they just don’t last. Yes, very frugal of me.
New this year are the little battery operated LEDs, which I love, but seem to be rather unreliable. But you must agree, they really do complete the look, don’t they?
Happy Holidays to you all during this unseasonably warm winter evening!
Tonight we had all of our friends from the neighbourhood over to celebrate the eighth night of Hanukkah with us. I think we’re on Year 5 of our annual Hanukkah Party. What started off as a one-time shindig to celebrate the Festival of Lights with all of our gentile friends has turned into a bit of a tradition. And from what I hear, the neighbours look forward to the invitation!Â
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a bit of aÂ go big or go home approach to throwing a party so it should come as no surprise when I tell you I spend days preparing for the two or three hours of crazy that we host. It begins with copious amounts of baking, a Bar Mitzvah-worthy dessert-slash-candy table with a blue, white and silver theme and some delicious homemade latkes and hot corned beef sandwiches (full disclosure: this year I ordered the corned beef from Center Street Deli and it was well worth it).
I have a lot of fun baking and decorating the table and putting out a big spread for everyone. But man, I’m exhausted! So here are some of my photos of the dessert table, which seemed to garner most of the attention.