How old you say your sister was?

I hadn’t seen him cry since he was about 8 years old. Not until the storm came and ravaged the city that he loves.

This was the boy who used to practice waking up on Christmas morning with me, ride skateboards down the neighborhood hills in Massachusetts, and who upset me so much that once, as a child, I dumped a whole bowl of cereal right over his head.

Then he was a man, and he was standing in my Canadian kitchen, taking shelter from the storm. Literally.

Just as I was moving to Toronto in 2000, Dan bought a 1976 yellow Volkswagen bus, born the same years as he, and drove down and over the US. He stopped and left Georgia (too racist), Nevada (Burning Man Festival was too fun to stay very long), and California (just too fancy). New Orleans was the place for this tall, dark and handsome double major in mathematics and music, who in my opinion, had actually triple majored in fun, making (and keeping) friends, and livin’ the good life. I often think that I should have done the same.

When the storm – most New Orleanians don’t even give it any respect by calling it by its meterological name – hit in 2005, Dan left for Texas, thinking that it was another hyped up network news story. Five months later, he was still on Cape Cod with our parents, not having been allowed back to his Ward. He checked GoogleEarth; his powder blue truck had floated away. His tools and belongings were most certainly damaged or looted. “I’m goin’ back, dude,” he repeated. “I’m goin’ back.”

There was a water line at five feet when he got back to his home on St. Roch. “I’m stayin’ here,” he repeated when he called upon his arrival in The Big Easy. “I’m stayin’ here and building this city back up.”

Sure enough, he’s renovated not only his own home, but also dozens others. Many of his friends returned. Some did not. Some of his neighbours returned. Many did not. He has done so much structural (both physical and social) work on his neighbourhood that when I was visiting a few months ago, the neighbourhood characters (it’s the only way I can describe them with brevity!) got out of their cars and homes when Dan walked down the road with a female version of himself at his side. I was an instant friend, and received countless hugs and immediate respect as “Dan’s little big sister.” The same happened as we passed bars and clubs at all hours of the day and night. The entire time that I spent with Dan and his lovely lady Lily, we ate until our jeans split and laughed until we cried.

It’s fitting that tomorrow is Mardi Gras, and it is – perfectly – Dan’s birthday. To celebrate the two, and to teach his message of perseverance, I made two massively delicious King Cakes. Tomorrow, I will visit my daughers’ school and tell the story of Uncle Dan and his flooded house, the floataway truck, and his dedication to rebuilding a city that he loves.

While I wish that I could deliver these cakes personally to the only human being to ever be allowed to call me “Butthead,” this project is local and I know that Dan wouldn’t have it any other way. (Plus, he’s enjoying Mardi Gras for the 12^th time in the Crescent City!) He’ll no doubt be thrilled to know that more than 20 young children will enjoy a traditional King Cake and hear his story.

I love you, Butthead. Happy Birthday!

They keep cool cats

I’m about to drop off a cake to my next-door-neighbours. These folks are, in a word, awesome.

First, they throw a darn good party. Whether it’s just us sitting around a fire in the back yard, or if it’s a retro 70′s party and I get to wear a costume that I haven’t worn still grad school and it still fits, these folks know how to get it going. (Plus, we are usually the only other neighbours invited, which makes it even better.)

Second, their kids are unbelievably wonderful. I know, I know, they’ll read this and remind me that I don’t have to live with them so I get to see them at their best. But don’t we all want to know that our kids are really great once they leave the house? There are four kids next door and every one of them is remarkably polite and fabulous with my children. Every single time their youngest comes over to our place – whether it is for 5 minutes or 5 hours – she leaves singing, “Thank you for having me over!” I also love that these people make their kids take the recycling and green bin out to the garage. Every time my offspring whine about doing anything around here, I threaten them with having to take the next-door-neighbor’s green bins out, so thanks, guys, for letting me “use” you!

This cake comes with a confession. I confessed to my neighbors in the fall, and this cake delivery is my last element in getting past a black mark in my culinary past. On Canadian Thanksgiving in October, I thought that it would be nice to make a cake for these folks. I knew that they were having company and with four kids, jobs, and it still being lawn-cutting weather, I thought I’d throw a cake in the oven and send it on by.

I made it in my grandmother’s antique bundt pan, and our house smelled divine as it baked peacefully. I took it out and once it cooled enough, I flipped it over onto a cooling rack.

It didn’t come out.

Shook again. Stuck.

Shook AGAIN. Crumbled out into a million pieces.

This was a terrible blow to my ego, which is regularly inflated with wonderful culinary concoctions. So the next day, before anyone else got up, I made another one. (And my kids get up early, so this was a real sneak. I had to do this re-do privately, lest anyone catch on to my inner breakdown over this whole cake thing.)

This time, I made the cake in a wonderfully ornate tin with lots of swirls and points on it. Why not kick it up a notch, since my first attempt failed so miserably? By the time 7am rolled around and everyone was awake, the smell was enough to wake the coyotes out back from their slumber.

Cake cooled. Turned the tin over onto a cooling rack. The “thunk” that is supposed to happen as Cake gracefully slides out of the tin didn’t happen. Shook it. Nothing.

Shook it again. Nothing.

Gave it a good whack with a wooden spoon. Cake crumbled into 2 million pieces this time. My kids looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes that say, “I’m really sorry, and this will be funny someday.”

In a state of fury and panic, iced with a layer of inadequacy, I phoned my Mom. I mean, what else do you do in a moment of weakness? She kindly asked if Cake could be put back together with icing. Umm, no.

All day I stewed over this cake and wondered what on earth I was going to do with TWO crumbled cakes (which, by the way, tasted fabulous, despite the poor presentation).

I got the brilliant (if I do say so myself) idea to travel back to the 70′s party that these folks held last summer and make a trifle. A quick stop to the supermarket for whipping cream and cookies resulted in a fabulously retro presentation. Relief. They say they loved it, and I can only hope that they were telling the truth! The trifle bowl came by quite quickly so I have little reason to question their honesty.

So, friends, here’s the cake that you were supposed to get – twice – last fall. You’re even awesome-r now and as Benjamin Zephaniah says in Neighbours, “You should feel good/ You have been chosen.” In fact, I think it’s we who are the chosen ones, as we scored when you guys moved in next door.

I may get rid of this recipe now, so enjoy!

Après ski

I swear, the bay leaf really landed there… It was not a staged photo!

I made dinner tonight for an absolutely awesome family who never fail to make us laugh and feel happy. Last week, we (the parents!) went out for whisky sours on my birthday. We all closed the place and left laughing as always.

For the past month or so, I’ve been promising to have this motley crew over to our place for dinner. There’s work, skiing, hockey, blah, blah, which has got in the way. So I made this amazing lentil soup and had my husband be the meals on wheels driver. He will probably not be home for 3 hrs because he will go in and start talking ski equipment, renovations, and will likely engage in a Mill Street Coffee Porter.

I deem it particularly important to keep ties with this tribe because our 4 year old daughter and their 6 year old son are apparently betrothed. My mini-me came home one day informing me of this arrangement. I was later informed by the parents of the groom that the bride had called it off. The handsome and gifted athlete of a young man informed his mom that he knew that they would nevertheless end up a couple because, “You’re supposed to marry your best friend and we are best friends so I know we will be together.”

Here’s to that, friends. You rock!

Canadian snowshine

The snow was coming down sideways today, so our ski gear lay waiting in our foyer till tomorrow. Just as I was wondering what I was going to do with two active kids on a blizzard-like day, a good friend called suggesting a day of spontaneous fun. The idea of going out for the afternoon prompted our youngest to proclaim, “I’m so excited for this day of my life!” Now, really… what better feeling is there?!

Upon our return, we whipped up these gorgeously delicious chocolate zucchini muffins. The excited-for-life youngest and I got some Donovan Frankenreiter going on the iPod and worked together to create this surf-inspired goodness.

For the recipe, and more about how these turned out, please visit my other blog: andadirtyhotdog.wordpress.com

We are on our way to drop off a big plate of these west-coast inspired muffins now. These muffins say big thanks for a very fun day.

Surf’s up!

Deep dish message

The person receiving my vegan homemade goodness this week is a wonderful colleague and friend. When I first met her, I thought, “Wow” (and that wasn’t just about her hair)! She’s remarkably accomplished, incredibly encouraging, and extraordinarily creative. I asked if I could throw out a few ideas about my research to her over coffee one day, and the rest, as they say, is history… Her support of my book on food communication has been unendingly enthusiastic and I truly appreciate what she’s done to help me in the past 6 months. I think that in the academic world in which we live and work, it’s easy to get caught up in oneself and one’s own research and teaching. My colleague is generous with her time and spirit to me and many others, and I truly admire and respect both her personal characteristics and her professional work.

I know that the past week has been tough for her and her husband, so I hope that this food delivery helps out in some small way — if only to know that they are being thought about and appreciated. My communication this week – with food as the medium – says, “Thank you,” “I’m thinking about you,” “I’m sorry for your loss,” and, again, “Wow!”

These are vegan orange and blueberry muffins. I made them in a deep-dish muffin tin so they’re big and hearty. I used whole spelt flour, so the muffins did not rise much, though the taste is still delish despite the somewhat grainy texture. I like to think that texture means “healthy!” They’re sweetened with maple syrup (a bit of Canadiana!) so they’re wholesome and tasty. Slap a little marg on there and you’re good to go!

For some great friends

My first soulshine delivery begins today!

This week the recipients are a truly fabulous family who helped us out more than they know last weekend.  On Saturday, my husband and I attended the funeral of a wonderful man and friend.  While we were there, some great friends (the parents of our daughter’s big mate) looked after our eldest kid, took her to hockey, got her dressed, gave her lunch, and kept her at their home all afternoon to play.  I didn’t worry about a thing that afternoon because I knew that my daughter was in wonderful hands and was playing with her buddy.  Turns out that my friend wasn’t feeling great that day and never once complained about having a houseful of rowdy kids.  What a woman!

The following day,  our two families went skiing for the afternoon.  It sounds idyllic (and really, it was), except that I hadn’t skied in, ohhhh, maybe 20 years!  The sheer terror that I felt as I was about to go down the kiddie hill was palpable.  The patience that our friend had for me was remarkable — he’s such an easygoing guy and his confidence in my ability to get from top to bottom was remarkably encouraging.  As I was trembling at the top of the hill, he told me that he “got lots of friends skiing in one day.”  True to his word, by the end of the day, I had done innumerable runs down the “big hill” (that’s the chairlift, not the double-black-diamond, of course).  We had a laugh with all of the kids and I’m hooked (again)!

These are wonderful parents, generous friends, and just an all around awesome family.  Today I made and delivered a vanilla and cinnamon cake.  There are 2 layers to this beauty — vanilla swirls together with a cinnamon and oatmeal mixture, making a really nice effect.  It smells divine and looks gorgeous when cut.

To learn more about our friend who passed last week, please visit defender5.wordpress.com.  Glen was a wonderful man and my delivery this week to our friends is one way of paying forward Glen’s generosity and warm, genuine smile.

We all need a little soulshine

I am a professor at a university in Ontario, Canada.  This blog began as a part of a course that I teach on Nonviolent Communication (NVC).  In this fourth-year level course, I asked my students to create their own Nonviolent Communication term project.  The idea of creating a unique NVC project was enticing enough to me that I decided that I wanted to participate, too.  Although I’m the professor, this is just one contribution to my own personal growth throughout the course.

This blog will chronicle my experiment with food and communication.  Food can mean many things — it can welcome someone, it can say thank you, I’m sorry, or the gift of food might be something made or bought from somewhere far away.  It is my objective to communicate with others with food as the medium.

Each week, I will make and deliver some food – perhaps vegan muffins, a vegetarian chili, a homemade cake – to someone who touched my life that week.  There will be a picture of the item that I’ve made, together with a description of the individuals or family who received the gift of food.  No identifiers besides the circumstances will be used.  If the recipients wish to make themselves known, they can do that, or they can keep their stash private.  Given the perishable nature of my creations, all of my efforts will be local, and I like that.

If something looks good, please feel free to ask for a recipe.  I can post it to my blog:  andadirtyhotdog.wordpress.com

The title of my blog is taken from the lyrics of Michael Franti’s “Soulshine.”  He’s my fave, and if he were nearby, I’d make him some vegan banana and chocolate chip muffins.  Visit Michael via:  http://michaelfranti.com/