Always.
Never.
Not if Bieber’s watching my every move.
Maybe.
(The Butterfinger Bites, if you’re offering, Rocket Fizz.)
Indubitably.
(American-style iced coffee > Australian-style iced coffee.)
Shhhh. I know. You don’t need to tell me.
Won’t repeat.
(My gluten-free dairy-free poppy seed cake is better. Probably because I use sugar.)
Will repeat.
(Happiness is freshly-baked snickerdoodle cookies.)
Recipe here.
Heel click,
Hannah
A few weekends ago, somewhere between the eighty-hundredth snowfall and the snow that fell several days ago (six months of winter what), I was sitting at the table sipping coffee and thinking about how the “5C and rain” forecast made me want to stay inside.
Then I looked up the actual weather on my phone. 18C, it said. 18C. I screamed (literally) and leapt across the room to wave my phone in my housemate’s face.
“Is this real?” I shrieked. “Is this real?”
It was. I immediately left my coffee half-finished on the table, pulled on a light jacket and boots, and ran outside into the sunshine where it seemed the whole of Toronto was basking in the sudden warmth of this one single day.
After ten minutes of walking through bustles of people in the nearby park, I looked down and realised that I was wearing my grey thermal underwear. Just that. Just long johns.
I’m blaming this for why I darted into the nearest grocery store and ended up with Limited Edition Birthday Cake Oreos. I’m sure you would have done the same.
Can I ask you North Americans something? What, pray tell, is “birthday cake flavour”? To me, birthday cake is any cake that is made for a birthday. How can that be one flavour?
From my dedicated efforts at deduction (looking and eating), all I can surmise is that “birthday cake” means sprinkles and a taste like straight sugar on steroids punched in the face by vanilla frosting on steroids.
I ate all but the first cookie in this package heaped with salted peanut butter, for that was the only way I could cope with the sweetness. Never again.
Can I ask you North Americans something? What, pray tell, is “ranch flavour”? To me, a ranch is a place where cattle and horses are bred. Why would you want a chip that tastes of dirt, animal sweat, manure, and grass?
Thankfully, these tasted more tangy and salty than manure-y. I enjoyed the airy and crunchy texture. But still.
Such a shame. I was really hoping for an unripe tomato flavour. Be better, Be Better.
Points for hexagonal chips, though. I ain’t ne’er seen that before. These were a bit taco-y, tangy, salsa-y… easy to eat.
However, Kettle Corn remains my favourite, so I wrote it a poem:
Oh light and crispy
Salt and sweety
Kettle Corn
You I will eaty.
The end.
Was it the evening of youtubing old Savage Garden video clips and discovering a Songza channel dedicated to the music of Dawson’s Creek that led to my nostalgia-tinged rummaging through old photos from Australia, or did the yearning for friends and family back in Australia lead to the searching out of nostalgia-tinged music in the first place?
We may never know.
Remember this Raw Falafel Salad from Vegie Bar in Melbourne? It was one of the dishes Lisa and I shared on the day we met for the first time; the day that changed my life.
(Think I’m being hyperbolic? I’m not. I wouldn’t be in Canada if I hadn’t met Lisa that day and realised, in a burst of sunlight, that this person had always been in my heart, always, even before I knew she existed.)
The thing is, I forgot to tell you about our second day in Melbourne. Lisa posted about it here, so all I really need to say is this: we went to Shakahari for vegan deliciousness, it was indeed delicious, and our waiter fell in love with Lisa from the moment we entered the restaurant and he noticed her ballet-dancer turn out.
I almost feared he’d try to slip a love potion into Lisa’s lunch of beans, brown rice, veggies, and peanut sauce, but thankfully such liquids only exist in Harry Potter-esque fiction.
I didn’t have to fear my papaya salad being tampered with, though, because the waiter was so enamoured with Lisa and her stories of dancing that he often seemed to forget I was there. But who could blame him? Lisa is magnificent. As was the papaya salad.
(Hey Lisa, guess what? When you wrote in your post, in January 2012, that you had “no doubt we’ve forged a long-lasting friendship that will flourish even across the world”? High five, my friend. High five.)
Please resume your seats.
On my final night in Canberra last year, eight hours before I needed to wake up and head to the airport for my flight to North America, my parents took me to The Ginger Room for a farewell dinner (I’ve previously blogged about The Ginger Room here).
My parents and I each had three courses that night but, as I was focused more on spending time with my parents than taking food photos, I’ll only post a few dishes. Such as, for example, my dad’s “five spice aubergine rolls, pumpkin, feta, beetroot yoghurt, red coconut sauce”, which tasted vibrant and lovely.
I have no words for this plating.
(Except for “lamb backstrap, shiitake mushroom, king brown mushroom, cavolo nero, garlic sage mash”.)
This was my “kingfish, ginger prawn, thyme, orange bonito broth”, which I chose because I only eat food that is royal.
My almost-favourite dish of the night was this “pickled vegetables, Asian noodle salad”, because PICKLES. VEGETABLES. THE WINE I WAS DRINKING AT THE SAME TIME.
All very, very good.
However, my favourite, favourite, favourite course of all was (no prizes for guessing this) dessert. For two reasons.
The first reason was that the “vanilla marshmallow, lavender crumble, pistachio, rosewater, black cumin ice cream” included a squillion flavours that I adore. Pistachio and rosewater and heady cumin and lavender and yes yes. This came together marvelously.
The second reason was, of course, that my dessert came with a message of hope and encouragement for my trip that the waiter himself organised after overhearing my parents and I talking about my imminent departure.
Sometimes it’s the little touches that make a dinner memorable.
And sometimes it’s just the simple fact that you shared it with people you love.
The end.
It’s time for part two of the Vegan Valentine’s Day Gift Box of Wonderment! If you’re inclined to think that nothing could compare to the lavender chocolate cup and insanely good truffles of part one… read on.
As if in reward for having braved the chocolate truffles, I found slipped against the side of my heart-shaped tin a dark chocolate bar positively festooned with almonds and figs.
And lo! The underside of the chocolate had been decorated with one of the chocolate transfer sheets I myself gave Lisa for her birthday! The transfer sheets I’d bought in New York! New York! Lisa! Chocolate! All the good things.
Remember how I said that Lisa and Nicole are chocolate masters? Hooooooly yes. The aroma was richly chocolate-y with hints of vanilla, and the bite was crisp, yet melted smoothly. It was quite a sweet chocolate, making me think of palm sugar and sunny beaches and more vanilla. The figs were chewy and deeply flavoured with figginess, and the almonds lent a lovely roasted crunch.
You’re in luck: the recipe for this gluten-free chocolate chip almond cookie can be found on Nicole’s blog. Never let it be said I don’t care about you.
As a devout lover of my own raw vegan brownies (both the original and carob versions), I was looking forward to trying this firm-chocolate-topped version. Nutty, sweet, chewy…. it met my expectations.
Hello there, beautiful.
Don’t be shy, now. I’m just undressing you is all.
Why, aren’t you just the prettiest raw vegan Moonie Pie in the world? Yes you are. Oh yes you are. (Not only was this made by Lisa and Nicole, but the recipe is my friend Heathy’s, whom I visited last year.)
If only there were a part three to this box of treats.
I have a special treat for you today.
Although, well, it’s perhaps maybe a little bit more truthful maybe perhaps just a little bit to say that, two months ago, Lisa and Nicole had (made) a special treat for me.
This led to my pretense, today, that the treat is yours. After all, reading about a box filled with vegan (predominately raw) heavenliness is as wonderful as tasting a box filled with vegan (predominately raw) heavenliness, right? Right.
I think my nose just grew.
Throughout 2012, Lisa and Nicole delighted the tastebuds of many lucky Torontonians by way of their Vegan Treat of the Month Club, which entitled all who signed up to six different raw vegan desserts for only $10 every month. During my time staying with the incomparably wonderful Lisa last year, I helped make (and taste) a number of these treats, and boy. Goo-ood-oh.
Flash forward to February this year when, following my concussion, Lisa came to visit with a bright red Valentine’s Day Vegan Gift Box in her hand. It was the sweetest thing. So sweet, in fact, that I’ve had to break the review into two parts…
I’ve waxed lyrical about my love of lavender in sweet treats before, and this jumbo-sized vegan dark chocolate cup with a lavender filling only bolstered my affection.
Also, just look at that beautiful, glossy, unblemished temepered chocolate, will you? Lisa and Nicole are chocolate wizards.
Anyone who has read my blog for a substantial period of time likely knows of my antipathy towards truffles. The simple truth is that truffles don’t float my boat.
Except when they’re these truffles. Oh. My. Giddy. Heart.
That right there, my friends, is a raw vegan dark chocolate truffle filled with a toasted caramel ganache. It tasted like the richest, silkiest, deepest ganache crossed with brownie batter, and it melted on the tongue in the same way a cloud made of ganache would melt on the tongue. Insane.
Lisa refused to give me a cheat sheet of the box’s flavours, but I believe this was a chocolate hazelnut truffle. It put Nutella to shame.
Even better than the Nutella-esque truffle, though, was this deeply spiced creation, which my notes describe as “chai truffle nutmeg cinnamon silky lingering love!”
Lingering love. That sounds about correct for a Valentine’s Day-themed collection of decadently swoon-worthy vegan chocolates, right? Right.
And that time, my nose stayed just the same length.