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jamiemaw

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Everything posted by jamiemaw

  1. Ah, the chip-butty, another national staple of precombinant carbohydrates and fats.
  2. I rest my case. Time to call off the dogs.
  3. No, we've had them for a good long time here as well. But of course for quite a while they've been known as 30-centimetre-long hot dogs. Approximately yours, J.
  4. It Takes A Nation To Grill A Dog For anyone familiar with the unarguable provenance of quality British bangers, Jack’s plaintive cry for help might at first seem quizzical. After all, sausages rate second only to chicken tikka as the British National Dish. Whoops, I'm sorry, that's Jordan. But clearly Jack is a chap of quality – whom I personally believe can cut the mustard – and so I should like to leap to his defense. But there are several cultural disconnects at work here, each of which, I suspect, describes significant divergences between the culinary semiotics (although I vastly prefer semiotic-free dogs) of New World and Old. To wit: 1. Great Britain's Post-War food and steel shortages, and adulterated baked goods; 2. The unknown science of outdoor grilling in the UK (Baden Powell completely skipped the Boy meets Grill chapter); 3. We incinerated our witches over open flame; you merely drew and quartered yours. (I grant you this explains your superior butchers); 4. The lingering grasp of the class system there; and 5. The absolute requirement of the English chattering classes to take their meals at table, even on the battlefield. So precisely how do these points connect, and how do they help in excusing Jack? Let's begin, shall we . . . Although hot dogs, and their forbears, have been extant for centuries (it didn’t take as much imagination to place a sausage in a bun as you might think, and much less than, say, eating the first oyster), mass production of same did not begin in earnest until after the Second War. In the late 40’s though, Great Britain was still severely constrained by food shortages, so much so that hungry Brits stormed the Commonwealth countries and America in the hundreds of thousands. Journeyman pay at the time was several times in Sydney what it was in the English Midlands. And food was prolific in the colonies, as was the move to its mass production and the introduction of frozen and increasingly processed foodstuffs for all the citizens. In North America it was the profligate era of Ike-and-Mamie food, backyard cookouts and ersatz aprons: Leisure became an industry, as did leisure food. But I digress. Because also lagging Britain’s postwar food recovery was something much worse. Bangers and mash, long before England rediscovered its culinary roots under a leaf of arugula in 1989, was still very much a below-the-stairs, working man’s dish. And add to that a crippling shortage of quality tensile steels that led to fewer than 700 barbeque grill units being produced in the post-war period 1947 – 1951! Those that were produced, although of stout manufacture, were painted the same shade of British Racing Green as period lawnmowers and were relegated to the bottom of the garden; in time they became geranium incubators. Provision of heat in barbeques was provided by coal laid down in a pan beneath grills that were adjusted by Morris Minor window handles that, not unlike post-war British lovemaking, would slowly lower the protein in question, or more correctly, the questionable protein, down to assume the position. Once there, and unlike modern British lovemaking, especially in the case of Mr. Jude Law, it would be allowed to lie about for some time. Even today British grills look like solar-powered alien terrestrial vehicles, although this version, a mere $2,000 is actually fuelled by charcoal. And this less expensive model, at about $200, is also charcoal-powered, but couldn’t get Jenna Jameson hot. Those few Englishmen who took up the culinary garden arts were looked down upon, even as they affected sporty cravats, matching paisley oven mitts, asbestos pith helmets festooned with specialized grilling goggles, A-1 admixtures and fine Sheffield-plate flipping, stabbing and garrotting tools. But it really wasn’t done to cook outdoors, you see, (more Jeevish than Bertie) except amongst the more bohemian classes. So therein, quite simply really, lies the difference. Quality dogs being neither boiled nor griddled -- but grilled – requires a Barbecue Nation. But that culture – the culture of men scrumming around outdoor shrines to open fire with cold beer ahand – simply does not exist in the British Isles. Compare and contrast the pasty-complexioned Brit with the North American or Australian male, whose love of open fire and smoke reveals a primal urge that also explains excellence in rugby football. Just look at our tools for one: Gigantic spatulas with serrated cutting edges so fierce as to decapitate interloping louts with but a single slice; hefty grate lifters and swabbing brushes; tongs long enough to retrieve errant ping pong balls from beneath the woodpile . . . from next door! But if you have ever seen an Englishman try to grill, then you will know exactly what a pathetic spectacle it is: Steaks that you can read a newspaper through (often macerated in salad dressing for some reason), drizzly weather, sparky Welsh coal, warm beer and nasty sunburns do not a party make. As don’t ‘potted’ clumps of suspicious seafood during British heat waves, when the needle can easily push past 70. This hilarious phenomenon of a barbeque-challenged nation was broadly acknowledged in the popular cuture of the swinging sixties. During the Harold Wilson regnum it was famously enshrined by Alan J. Lerner in the 1964 musical – ‘My Fair Lady’ – in the song “Why Can’t the English . . . Learn How to Steak?” Other attempts have been made by the Brits to come to terms with both Hot Dog and Barbeque culture, but it has been half-hearted at best. For a time, ‘links-style’ golf courses became popular across the land, but these proved but a passing fad. And you may have noticed that Jack himself, as his food blogs attest, enjoys a good banger too, but fried on the Aga, and eaten with cutlery. Perhaps it’s best he eat his sausage sitting down, though; it’s safer when your tongue’s so firmly in chic. And let us not forget that Jack’s version of outdoor cooking comes in the form of an oven, not a grill. In fact his outdoor oven, I’ve covetously noticed, is just large enough to make an installment on global warming. No harm in that: it rains a lot in the Isles, even in July, and Cambridge is the coldest town in England, although this week that torch is passed to Winchester where a chill wind passed through. Strangely, Jack ignores the fact that England is the greatest sandwich nation on earth. The ultimate white bread finger food was invented there after all, by a card sharp parvenu, the Earl of. Stranger still, Sandwich's ancestral home was but a stone's throw from Jack's pizza oven in Cambridge. Do you see a theme here? Back to sandwiches, now chains such as Boots the Chemist and Prêt a Manger offer staggering assortments of the sarnie species, divided, like Tory politics under Thatcher, into equally strident camps of 'Wets' (leaky lobster mayonnaise from Prêt) and 'Drys' (assorted 'Italian' luncheon meats, headcheese, scant marg on mealy brown from Boots). The British Sandwich Association cosely monitors the proceedings. Truth be known, we have also noticed that Jack permits that other ubiquitous finger food – pizza – to be fired in his outdoor oven. But only, as I’ve heard from the usual sources, upon written application.
  5. I have spent my entire life in pursuit of semiotic-free hot dogs.
  6. Good morning John, Long a fan of cassoulet, I anticipate yours with unrepentant glee. Happy birthday, Jamie
  7. Looks like her Zucchininess is taking a well-deserved snooze, Pan. Yes, some of DECK Kitchens are attenuated to FNP, one specifically for FNP with diabetic dietary needs.
  8. A meagre one word per kilometre. And I was shocked that you didn't mention Chez Jim Lakeside - "Where Important People Come to Dine, and Then Leave."
  9. jamiemaw

    Making gravlax

    We can access fresh, wild salmon year-round, but I realize that is unusual. And knowing this isn't the case for most North American cities (well, OK, I was personally curious), this summer we ran side-by-side comparisons of both barbecued and baked preps, but not gravadlax (cured). The difference between slow-thawed FAS (Frozen at Sea) and very fresh (overnight) salmon was only slightly noticeable; the FAS product was very good. In fact, I would argue that it is better than much of the so-called 'fresh' that is often shipped eastward. That fish may have been out of the water a week by the time it is consumed. That's why, like in any business transaction, we only buy fresh fish whole so that we can look it in the eye. With respect, I would argue strenuously here, as I have in numerous other threads on this subject that - although farmed product makes more than passable gravadlax (in fact, that's its highest and best use) - that the damage inflicted on our coastal ecosystems and biomass through pollution, as well as to our wild stocks through the contagion of sea lice, is simply far too big a price to pay in order to pay a (temporarily) smaller one at the checkout. So this winter, checkout FAS . . . And take the cure! Jamie
  10. jamiemaw

    Making gravlax

    I'd give it a go. Just thaw the frozen fillets sl-ow-ly, on ice, in the fridge. Blood oranges are pretty prolific here right now, but I'm sure that other citrus, such as a combination of grapefruit and orange/mandarin, would do just fine. Bon chance! J.
  11. jamiemaw

    Making gravlax

    We've had the best results from fresh, wild salmon, either small Spring (King) or sockeye. Fillets from a six to eight pound fish are about ideal for a 1.5 " to 2" slice breadth (depending on the bias cut) and are the most attractive for presentation of the whole side. Slowly thawed FAS (Frozen at Sea) usually works almost as well although denaturing may occur, where the freezing process can inhibit the solubility of the brining liquid. I see that it was two years ago when this thread started, and that folks were still buying farmed fish at Costco. (Although gravadlax is probably the highest and best use of farmed product because it introduces flavour, the flesh is more susceptible to maceration due to its constrained environment (lack of exercise) and artificial feed.) Thankfully, more recently gained knowledge of the damage inflicted on our coastlines by fish farms through pollution and sea lice in our wild salmon populations has changed consumer opinion away from the purchase of farmed product. Here's a favourite gravadlax recipe of ours, from Vancouver Cooks: Citrus-cured Wild Salmon with Blood Orange Vodka Blood Orange Vodka 26 oz. bottle Vodka 2 to 3 blood oranges, sliced 1 stick cinammon 1 star anise Place the ingredients in a bowl and refrigerate for two days. Saving the vodka bottle, after two days strian the mixture back into the bottle and freeze indefinitely. Salmon: 1/4 cup + 2 Tbsp. brown sugar 1/4 cup + 2 Tbsp. sea salt 1 fillet wild Sockeye salmon, skin on, 3 - 4 lbs. 1 bunch Thai basil, cut into chiffonade 1 bunch mint, cut into chiffonade 1 lemon, juice + zest 1 to 2 tsp. coraiander seeds, crushed 3 oz. blood orange vodka Combie 1/4 cup of the sugar and 1/4 cup of the sea salt in a bowl. Place salmon, skin side down, in a large casserole dish. Rub sugar/salt mixture over the entire surface of the salmon. Cover the dish tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for two days. Unwrap salmon then sprinkle with the remaining sea salt and sugar, basil, mint, lemon juice and zest, coriander seeds and vodka. Wrap salmon tightly in plastic wrap (or cover salmon with plastic wrap and cover dish tightly with plastic wrap). Refrigerate for 3 to 4 days. Unwrap salmon, rinse under cold running water. Pat dry with papaer towels. Serve thinly sliced on dark or soda bread with creme fraiche and chives. Accompany with blood orange vodka, plain vodka, or pinot gris.
  12. Why that's right nayyyybourly of you Jamie! Make sure Eva gets some licorice tea and propylis throat spray. I had that nasty throat bug a week ago. Zuke ← Eva has been taking oregano oil for her sore throat. She smells like a Greek restaurant - pass the feta. Condiments of the season, Jamie
  13. Zuke, I'm very grateful for this diary. I'll never forget the day that we both appeared on the Vicki Gabereau show on CTV. You made the audience stand still with your performance. And as I recall, we also made her stand still with the response to her question as to the principal ingredient of coq au vin, i.e. "a dependable old cock." That show remains one of her, ah, most memorable - art requires risk. I hope that you share the "Christmas Present" story with Ullie. I've read it to numerous kindergarten and primary school classes and always look forward to their reactions - virtually everyone has a Bill Hockey character skirting the edges of their lives and memories. I'm also delighted that you will be discussing sustainabilty on the grand prairies, an issue near and dear. Your voice on our local forum has been filled with light; I'm glad that many others will be allowed to share it now - there are many stories in the naked city. Merry Christmas, Jamie
  14. Looks like a great itinerary, Zuke. May the horses be with you! Christmas hugs, Jamie
  15. jamiemaw

    Stollen

    Here's the link to the sction of the blog regarding Thomas Haas and his stollen moments.
  16. jamiemaw

    Stollen

    If you take a peek at my food blog (General Food Topics) in its latter stages, you'll see the stollen production line at Haas. Short of going to Munich, it's by far the best I've found locally, and compared to what you'd pay in Germany, very reasonable.
  17. I know where I'm going for New Year's Eve. Here. It should be a pretty good time, being my first year at the Marina. Seems like restaurants take care of their staff when they have to work on a party night. Supposedly we're going to get our a$$es handed to us that night. I'm looking forward to it. The last New Year's Eve I had off was 2000, which I spent with my lovely wife near her hometown at the Crawford Bay Hall, in beautiful Crawford Bay, B.C. just across the lake from Nelson. After work, I will be joining my family and friends for some drunken card playing. Sounds like a full evening to me! -- Matt. ← At $15 a bowl, that must be some soup!
  18. Bacchus at The Wedgewood is a very cosy room with live music. We'll be going there next week for our annual Christmas family luncheon. Their New Year's party was mentioned in The Globe and Mail today: If you're looking for an elegant capper to '05, look no further than the Wedgewood, which is consistently rated one of the top hotels in the world. The four-course celebration at Baccus restaurant will focus on the sumptuous French cuisine of chef Lee Parsons. Pianist Gregory Shea will entertain diners at their tables - before or after they slip upstairs to take in the view of the city skyline from their balcony or the suite's double soaker tub. Philip Meyer, Canada's classiest hotel manager (seriously - he's like velvet0 says guests can expect a warm, refined atmosphere among the rich cherry wood and Italian chandeliers, "not a big party or balloons and noisemakers." Bacchus New Year’s Eve Dinner 2005 Prepared by Executive Chef Lee Parsons Fine Tomato, Basil & Caramelized Onion Tart St. Maure Goat Cheese, Organic Greens or Crab & Lobster Cakes Sweet Red Pepper Chutney, Fine Herb Salad Pressing of Quebec Foie Gras & Poached Quince Pear Aged Balsamic Gelee, Toasted Brioche or White Bean Soup Shaved Black Truffle Grilled “Sterling Silver®” Beef Tenderloin Potato Galette, Fricassee Of Woodland Mushrooms Cabernet Vinegar Jus or Herb Crusted Queen Charlotte Halibut Creamed Savoy Cabbage & Leek, Parisienne Potatoes Shellfish & Saffron Broth or Slow-roasted Breast of Grain-fed Pheasant Fondant Potato, Braised Red Beets, Roasted Salsify Juniper & Gewürztraminer Sauce Bitter Chocolate Decadence Cake Marmalade Ice Cream or Vanilla Bean Crème Brûlée Hazelnut Shortbread Cookies or Aged Stilton Cheese Apple & Port Compote Coffee or Tea Petit Fours $135.00 per person (Gratuity and taxes not included) 845 Hornby Street Telephone (604) 689-7777 Website: www.wedgewoodhotel.com
  19. Of the many reasons not to invite me over for dinner, I suppose this one ranks just below fondling the help, telling off-colour jokes in front of my hosts' children, and drinking their wine cellar dry. Here's how it actually looks when I'm on tour . . . "Mr. Maw will no doubt also offer to prepare a meal based on his extensive but regionally focused repertoire. Allow me to describe how this works. After leading you on impossible and highly expensive goose chases to local butchers, fishmongers, greengrocers and wine shops (beware his Siberian Peach Pie with Chateau Petrus, 1931), Mr. Maw will come down from his evening bath, circa nine o’clock, wondering why you and your family look so tired. "He will then enchant your other guests with tales of foreign intrigue, win all of the party games and seduce your neighbours’ wives. Their husbands will never speak to you again. He will then take all of the credit for cooking the meal, even if in tones of faux-modesty (“Heavens, it really wasn’t anything at all”), which your wife (who actually prepared the meal according to his specifications and recipes) will misunderstand and blame you for over the next decade. Your son, who has been hefting cords of firewood to Mr. Maw’s in-suite fireplaces all evening, will herniate a disc in his back and have to retire from any notion of a rugby career. Your daughter will never marry." The rest of the piece is here.
  20. The intermission Muzak was killing me, so . . . POLITICALLY CORRECT: Gastronomic Language of the Banal-Retentive Politicians are the same all over. They promise to build a bridge even where there’s no river. - Nikita Khrushchev “To PC or not PC, now that is the question,” my elegant luncheon companion invoked in the downtown dining room called Bacchus. Eva is well-schooled in matters culinaire; I had been watching the swoop of her hair as it fell in a Veronica Lake waterfall, deliciously close to her soup. “You’re right, you can’t be too careful these days,” I drolled pleasantly, unruffled by her rising invective, and concentrating instead on the piece of clam lodged between my new crowns. “From the tone of your voice I suppose you’re referring to the Politically Correct, and not the demise of the Progressive Conservatives, or whatever they call themselves now,” I asked. “Just look at this,” she announced, unfurling the morning tabloid. The headline read, 'FISHERS AGAPE AT SOCKEYE CLOSURE.' “I’m just old enough to remember when a fisher was something that mountain climbers tried not to fall into,” she steamed. "Especially on their way home from the pub,” I allowed. “Rather ironic, too, that no self-respecting “fisher” would wrap his,” I paused, “or her catch in this nasty newspaper.” “And look at this one,” she exclaimed, shaking her finger at the business section headline—'CHAIRS SHUFFLED ON B.C. FERRIES BRIDGE.' “You see, even our public servants have been reduced to mere sticks of furniture.” “So in a PC board meeting, I guess the Chair could table the motion? I asked.” “Yeah, and then you’ve got the whole damn dinette suite,” she said. * * * After the bowls of cassoulet had been delivered, we ate quietly before she continued. “It must be particularly difficult to be PC in your line of work. I mean, don’t people ask you how you could possibly write about 14-course tasting menus when so many people in the world go hungry, especially after the tsunami and the hurricanes?” Oh sweet duck reduction, I thought. Her question had momentarily soured my lentils—they took on the taste of tin foil applied to molar fillings. “Good gravy, Eva! You just have to be clear,” I said. “For instance, while I was waiting for you, I ltold our waitress — excuse me, our female server — that I'd be donating her tip to help restore the offshore kelp forest." “Hmmm, and was she pleased with this news?” Eva asked. “We can only hope,” I said, wiping some pre-Mussolini Brunello from the sleeve of my suit. It married well with some foie of sparrow. “Besides, I’m simply trying to assist my fellow countrypersons to come to grips with our collective fear of sensuality. I mean, after all, this is the country that gave the world Hush Puppies. The shoes I mean.” “Hmmm,” she said, exhaling deeply, “and enough of this crêpe!” as she pushed an earthy-smelling pine mushroom pancake away. “Besides, eating is the only thing that Canadians are still allowed to do three times a day,” I said. “Well, as long as we take huge helpings of visible free range fibre,” she said “and keep our veal, foie gras and caviar predilections in the closet, maybe the Culinary PC Police will leave us alone." * * * “In the light of what Proust wrote with so mild a stimulus, it is the world’s loss that he did not have a heartier appetite. On a dozen Gardiner’s Island oysters, a bowl of clam chowder, a peck of steamers, some bay scallops, three sautéed soft-shelled crabs, a few ears of fresh-picked corn, a thin swordfish steak of generous area, a pair of lobsters, and a Long Island duck, he might have written a masterpiece.” - A.J. Liebling I took a large slice of tarte Tatin for my dessert. Eva had a plate of fruits. A purée of raspberries lapped against her figs and promised to stain her teeth the colour of the Renaissance. “A.J. Liebling was profoundly non-PC,” I started, “but persons of the opposite . . . gender loved him for what he was. And there was much to love.” “If you keep eating like this you’ll end up looking like Liebling.” “Trouser-challenged?” I asked. “Fat.” “Liebling simply put his mouth where his money was,” I said. “He was a glutton.” "Horizontally-challenged, a person of size, a larger-than-life character,” I said. “He ate and drank to excess,” Eva said, really throwing down the gauntlet, for she knows full well my love for Liebling. “He simply loved life and let it love him. His very name announces that,” I said. "He was a blimp, for goodness sake.” “No, he was simply an early adopter of the politics of inclusion.” “He took up the whole sidewalk.” “He provided his friends with a feeling of approval towards life.” “He had gout." “Rheumatism of the over-served.” “He could eat the GDP of several Red States in one sitting.” “He simply thought that a clear soup was more important in life than a clear conscience,” I said. * * * Finally, over coffee, I told Eva what I thought she might care to hear: “I think you’re better,” I said, “You haven’t said anything remotely PC for the last ten minutes." But she wasn’t quite finished with me. “I just realized,” she said, “that the only way to stop you from eating all this stuff is if I let you keep your tongue in cheek.” “You must excuse me,” I said, “I didn’t realize I was being so obvious. I’m afraid I have something snagged in my new crowns.” “You’re excused,” she said. “Do you think they have any decent Scotch in this joint?”
  21. Thank you one and all. Your kind remarks have gone a long way to relieving my post-partum blog depression. On the plus side of the ledger, however, I now seem to have a 24-hour gap in my day . . . Best always, Jamie
  22. Christmas Present Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. --Hebrews XIII-ii, The Holy Bible What I know about angels I could write on the head of a pin. Sure, the fallen ones are easy to spot—Satan, Beezelbub and their bad boy cronies—they should get an afterlife. But lately I‘ve been looking for my own angel, an angel of goodness, the one I lost as a little boy. To this day I can’t be sure if humans are the invention of the angels (virtual reality), or if the reverse is true—real virtue. What little I do know about them is that they are most likely to appear to us at times of mortal mercy, or unbounded joy, when we love for the sake of loving and not just for being loved: Christmas-time. The name of my angel was Bill Hockey—he was the guy who told me the reason he could fly was because he took himself lightly. All children know that there is no such thing as an imaginary friend, there are just friends. Just as every child knows that there is no such thing as quality time, there is just time, denominated in the longer minutes and hours of childhood, when it has even been known to stop still. Like you, when I was little I had the Christmas canon read to me—of the triumph of Tim Cratchit and of Scrooge’s timely redemption. And I heard the Christmas liturgy, over and over and then I sang the urgent descant of its hymns: “O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shi—ning, it is the night of our true saviour’s birth.” I found Bill Hockey in West Vancouver, B.C.—at 726 Parkside Road, WAlnut 2-7997. Or maybe he found me. Bill would be my constant companion for all those moments of childhood that pass as slowly as years. Years that would end on Christmas night, 1957, when Bill Hockey walked away from me, almost forever. Christmas rituals, then: That the painted Noma lights would be laid out on the living room carpet to be tested before they would begin to snake up the tree. That the large glass balls would go on the heavy bottom branches of the Christmas tree, the smaller ones above the candy canes and somewhere near the middle. And, inviolate, that the silver tinsel must be strung, one strand at a time, just so—a short loop over the branch to maximize length, reflection, drama. No tossing. My brothers and I had already checked the Christmas Eve kitchen: The giant tom turkey with extra drumsticks lay in state at the bottom of the McLary refrigerator. It would be slow-roasted tomorrow, its back broken if it came in over 25 pounds so it would fit in Mum’s spiffy new Moffat range. The crates that Jack the vegetable man had hoisted over the Dutch door lay in the cooler: Brussels sprouts, cranberries, squashes, carrots, boxes of Mandarin oranges, celery for the stuffing, a quarter bushel of russets that would later test Uncle Pete’s wrist. On the counters, under long sheets of waxed paper, lay the baking: shortbread, sugar cookies, cheese biscuits and mince tarts. Our grandparents would bring the Christmas Day pies tomorrow morning from the Dainty Maid Bakery on South Granville and the “special orange” cake from Notte’s Bon Ton. All was set. * Christmas Day. First up, silent house, too early. Smells of cedar—the tree and embers. My younger brother Ian and I paused like deer at the head of the stairs, looking at the presents. They had grown in our short night’s sleep—they spilled out to the hallway: Santa’s at the very front, with no wrapping, just manila tags with wiggly printing as if someone old, and very thoughtful, might have been struggling with each child’s wishes. Then finally the protocol of Christmas morning. Only Santa’s presents and stockings before breakfast, plus another from Gramma in Montreal. This one a constant: A postal tube containing our Canadiens’ calendars and itchy woollen hockey sweaters. Then breakfast: a strip of sirloin steak, shirred eggs nudging buttered Irish soda toast, and a whack of Mum’s good marmalade. More gifts from the tree then, lunch and off to play—Meccano sets to assemble, chemistry sets to blow up, Strombecker road racers throttled till the hand controls melted in our hands, Lionel train track tacked to the flipside of the ping pong table. * In Mum’s kitchen, the giant tom had long ago entered the Moffat. It was sitting in an old and trusted roasting pan under the shade of a brown paper shopping bag, doing a slow brown. This was her trick, that mother of ours, how she could crisp a bird exactly the colour of our Laurentian burnt-sienna crayons, cook the drums through, and still keep the breast meat moist. Now I know how it’s done, and I can tell you only this: It requires saltwater, strong arms, no small joy, children and uncles and witty aunts and friends crowding the stove, and a tumbler of Dewar’s, maybe a few. Then Uncle Pete would take his cufflinks out, roll the sleeves of his best Straith’s shirt to the elbows, and begin to attack the potatoes. He would add cream and butter and more butter with abandon, and whip the glorious mixture until it began to shine. Would you know the rest? Distended bellies on little boys? Parents and relatives, and their friends who had no other place to go to, laughing into the night? Or the Christmas my brother Kit arranged the seat on our great-aunt Datie’s chair (she of the generous posterior) so that she fell through and became firmly wedged. It took two men to pull her free, while she laughed on. Good sport. Or the wistfulness that can follow Christmas dinner, when the carcass of the turkey is returned to the kitchen for Boxing Day sandwiches and the laughter dims a little when someone at the table feels the pull of someone not there. This was the day my life was to change completely and forever. For this was the Christmas—after the extra leaves had been placed in the dining room table, the places set with best silver and Christmas crackers, the bowls of fresh cranberry and orange sauce placed down the centre of the table under the candlesticks, and just as our parents were enjoying their first drink—that I realized that something was terribly wrong. Bill Hockey was late for dinner. “Bill Hockey isn’t here yet, Mum.” I went and sat in the den window. I looked out on the snow under the streetlight. Mum made quiet arrangements, and soon an extra place and Christmas cracker were set beside mine for the absent guest of honour. I looked through the den window hoping that Bill would step out from behind the big cedar tree at the end of the driveway; I knew he was standing there, in the shadows, in the quiet of the snow and night. When the turkey had come out of the oven to rest, and the gravy was being started, my father came into the den. He looked out the window with me. He was smoking his pipe. “I think we should go and look for Bill Hockey, Dad. He might be lost,” I said, quietly. We got our coats from the hall closet and walked to the garage. Without a word, Dad started his Oldsmobile Super 88, backed out, and we drove off down Parkside Road. For almost an hour we searched the roads and parks for Bill Hockey. “If he’s lost he must be cold,” I said. Then, except for the Christmas carols and Bing Crosby on CHQM: just silence, as we looked some more. And when we could look no longer my father said, “I think that Bill must have joined his family tonight, and perhaps he couldn’t let us know. Why don’t we see what Mum has ready.” And so we did. Walked into the kitchen that held all the warmth and smells of Christmas. Mum came to me, kneeled and asked, “Any luck?” “No, we think he’s gone home to his family tonight, in Montreal,” I said. She hugged me, rubbed my cold ears, and asked me to help her with the gravy boat. My brothers, despite an impeccable record, didn’t rag me that night. The place for Bill Hockey sat empty the whole dinner, through two servings of turkey and mince pie à la mode, while friends and relatives wore tissue paper hats, laughed, proposed toasts to the cook, to the day and the year, and when the fine-hipped bottles of Lindeman’s Riesling cut in, to just about anything at all. And then Dad said, “And here’s to Bill Hockey, who had to go home to Montreal to see his family. I hope that he’s having turkey and happy too.” And then my father looked at me, the way he looks at my mother on their wedding anniversaries. I looked for Bill Hockey many times after that Christmas night, wondering what new boy he might have befriended and if he was someone who needed him more than I did. I looked especially hard on the nights when the Montreal Canadiens won the Stanley Cup—Jean Beliveau was skating around the Forum, the trophy held high. I always hoped that Bill would rejoin me to share in the rejoicing of all the fans. Bill Hockey was the last one to know my every thought. And it is only as I close this book of childhood Christmas photographs that the pictures are revealed: That the wonder of the child is not to ask if the angel might come back to save him—but what virtue the boy must come to know, to save his angel, unawares.
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