I was feeling overwhelmed by food. Not eating it. I’m doing research for a food writing course that I’m teaching at Western University in January and I could write a book with the information that I’m amassing.

Food writing can touch so many genres: reviews, reporting, narrative, memoir, profiles. Food writing  also draws on so many life experiences — sex, philosophy, biology, anthropology, sociology…

I went to a food writing seminar on the weekend to help clear the haze and find direction.

Called Eating Your Words, four writers, with four very different perspectives spoke about food:

Ian Brown, a feature writer for the Globe and Mail told elaborate dramatic stories of food and memories; Margaret Webb spoke about the politics of food writing.  Author of Apples to Oysters. A Food Lover’s Tour of Canadian Farms (www.margaretwebb.com) she stressed the importance of  knowing where your food comes from and sustainable agriculture.

Corby Kummer, notably the author of author of The Pleasures of Slow Food, talked about editing and the importance of reading your work out loud; Michael Symons from Australia has written One Continuous Picnic: A History of Australian Eating and A History of Cooks and Cooking. Michael talked about the history of food — there’s over 3,000 years of it to be exact.

After they all spoke, I asked a very non-technical question: “what is your favourite meal.” Here is my favourite response:

Ian Brown begins to tell an elaborate story gesturing with his hands and contorting his face for emphasis. He was on an anniversary dinner with his wife when they recognized some friends. Ian hugged the woman and began to feel warm, very warm. “I never thought I had any feelings for her, at least that way, but yet I was getting really hot.” But as he turns around, he notices his linen suit jacket is on fire. As he looks up, four waiters are running towards him with glasses of water. Ian begins doing the running man, slowly. The crowd of foodies are busting a gut laughing.

“For me, great food is about memories, nostalgia and connection with family.” The flaming jacket will certainly stick out in my mind.

Then it dawned on me: stop trying to make this food writing course about what it should be and focus on what food means to you. Thanks Ian for reminding me of that. By the way, his favourite meal is steak and kidney pie.

Melanie

My two food experiences this weekend couldn’t have been farther apart, but equally tasty and famous in their own right.

The first, Violas subs, is located across the road from the Outlet Mall on Military Road in Niagara Falls, NY. From the plastic menu, I order a capicola (Italian pork shoulder) with tomatoes. Behind the counter, the owner is frying up meat that isn’t generic luncheon sandwich meat. The cash register is an upright clunker circa 1960, when the place opened. When the hoarse sounding woman asks if I want it hot or cold, I make the mistake of asking if they have whole wheat buns. She looks at me as if I have two heads. White. Bread. Only. I feel like a huge food snob.

But, don’t get me wrong. It was hands down one of the best sub creations I’ve ever had–take that Subway. Sandwich artists my ass.

That night, we decide on the Tasting Menu at the Peninsula Ridge Winery’s newly managed The Kitchen House Restaurant: peninsularidge.com. Chef Ross Midgley (a Maritimer so you know he’s a good guy) and his wife Wendy, a sommelier, work together–she in front of the kitchen, he in the back.

The dining room is located in a red brick Victorian home overlooking the acres of vineyards on the Beamsville Bench–a land of perfect grape growing soil in the Niagara Escarpment.  The air sweeps across Lake Ontario, picking up warm air, and then it hits the wall of the escarpment and drops it back down. This cycle continues and means this area in Ontario has a longer growing season than the rest of Canada. www.escarpment.org

That’s why so many of the restaurants in the area can offer a seasonal menu–you won’t see a strawberry on a menu in December! A tasting menu is a series of dishes paired with wine, but not just any wine, the chef has chosen wine that brings out the flavours of the food. And, instead of a full glass, servings are about two ounces; it’s just enough to swish around your mouth.

For three hours, Nancy and I moved through five, yes, FIVE different plates…here’s a virtual taste of my favourite. Caramelized goat cheese with arugula (a bitter tasting green) and beets served with Peninsula Ridge’s Wisner Sauvignon Blanc.

Ok, I’m skipping right to dessert! Ross says that he’s tried to take this off the menu a few times –change it up a bit–but that guests keep asking for it. Sophisticated smores. Ross has taken the traditional graham cracker, melted marshmallow and chocolate that Canadians love to make while camping and made it elegant: the melted marshmellow is soaked in icewine and sits on top of chocolate ganache and the cracker. It’s served with a vidal ice wine, which is equally as decadent.

Gatta run. Literally. With the amount of calories I consumed this weekend, I’ll be cycling, running, jumping, swimming….dog sledding…rope jumping…

One Canadian dollar is equal to 93 cents American right now. Niagara Falls, New York, is directly across from its Canadian version, separated only by customs agents and a 300 feet deep gorge.

On both sides there are Factory Outlet stores promising name brand clothes so cheap they’re practically giving it away, but rumour has it that the US stores are even cheaper. How else can you account for the fact that hundreds of people are idling their cars for hours on end waiting to get across on a gorgeous autumn day.

I plan to investigate, closely.

To get to the Military Road outlet, take the Lewiston bridge located in Niagara Falls, Canada. Once across the bridge, head straight onto the I190 highway. Don’t forget your passport! Then, look for the Niagara Blvd turnoff. After a few major intersections, you’ll hit Military Road–turn left on the Fashion Outlet is on the left. Be warned: we drove around 15 minutes looking for parking. Nancy kept reminding me: “be patient.” She could sense my road rage building!

But, before you even get there, you must face: THE CUSTOMS OFFICER!

After almost two hours on the bridge to cross through customs into New York, I start to get nervous. Ever since 9/11 USA customs mean business. They’re not out to make friends. My friend Nancy opens our passports to our photos. We’re ready. “Hey ladies, how are you?” Whef, a human.

Crossing over into the US from Canada, nothing seems different, except for a few details: highways are replaced with Interstates; kilometres with miles; Tim Horton’s with Dunkin Donuts. And remember K MART? It’s still alive and well in USA.

For the life of me I can never distinguish a five dollar American bill from a twenty, from a one. It’s all grey-ish green. Oh, but there is Abe Lincoln. For a good conversion site hit www.xe.com.

But the deals aren’t tremendous. Yes, despite being surrounded by more stores than I’ve ever seen under one roof such as Banana Republic, SAKS, GAP, and JCREW, which I’ve only known through ordering online cause we don’t have a Canadian store, and COACH (the handbag store) where people lined up like teenagers waiting to see the new Twilight movie, I only found a few meager items. A $20 Nike workout top normally about $60.

And a word to the wise: be prepared to pay TAX. Dirty word. We were told to park, go through a confusing set of line ups, to finally pay $20 on our $200 worth of purchases. It turns out that your personal exemption for staying 24 hours or less is $50.  Who goes waits in line for two hours to spend $50?

We’ve heard stories of people spending upwards of $700 in one day and never paying. Confusing. To read the ‘rules’ visit the government site:

http://www.cbsa-asfc.gc.ca/new-neuf/advisory-avis/2007-09-28-eng.html

So, despite not coming home with gobs of clothes, the trip with Nancy made it all worth it and then some: sticking her head out the window, she diligently caught all the highlights on my crappy digital camera. She even climbed into the back to catch this photo. Loved every second, Nance.

More to come tomorrow.

With Tom gone home–taking the crappy weather with him–I prepped to ride a loop farther north outside the town of Goderich on part of the Goderich triathlon route–brave Melanie!

I meet up with Con Melady–a local rider, born and raised in this area. I mentioned that I love to travel. Con agreed, but added: “Why would I want to leave this place?” As we ride, I can see why. We leave the circular downtown and ride across the Menesetung Bridge: built in 1907 as part of the

railway, at the time it was the longest bridge in Ontario.  

This trail, the Goderich to Auburn Rail Trail G.A.R.T., is on the abandoned Canadian Pacific Railway.

It’s flat for a good 15 kilometres; with all the leaves off the trees, the ground feels spongy. The leaf smell is intense. Fall. In stereo.

We hit the end of the line: the Maitland River and a bridge that is no more. The bridge has been dismantled when the rail lines were ripped up. All that remains are the concrete supports:

Unlike yesterday, the wind is calm, and the sun is bright. On a wide farm road, Con stops to pick apples–the ones that have already fallen on the ground are the most ripe. Tt seems so natural to pick food from the trees; in this place it’s not uncommon. The calories give me a little zip–I’m trying to keep up with Con. I’m sure he’s is trying to kill me after three hours plus on this God forsaken bike (ha ha).

Just to tempt me with food, we stop at the brunch buffet at the Benmiller Inn (www.benmiller.on.ca). Just outside Goderich, the place screams WEDDINGS! It’s just so dam quaint. I hate that word, but I’m at a loss here–it’s picture perfect. See:

The end is marked by extraordinary homes –Victorian wooden homes with fancy gables around the windows and patios that wrap around the entire house–porch swings for the summer evening. This is a gem I found in Goderich on the way back; reminds me of the house from Psycho.

After careening down the mountain with full brakes on, only to climb back up into Goderich (why must hills be placed at the end of a four hour ride!), we come into Goderich, which incidently is named the prettiest town in Canada. Look at the turret on their library! You just don’t see that kind of architecture anymore.

Below is a picture of the Huron Historic Gaol, which was a prison from 1842 until 1972. Apparently it was a model for humanitarian prisons at the time.                         

Before I headed home to London, I contemplated having a dip in the saltwater pool back at Brentwood (brentwoodonthebeach.com), but I was tired and aching for home. That’s what a good trip will do–send you home feeling satisfied.

An hour north of London there’s a gargantuan lake: Lake Huron is part of the great lakes, but it feels like an ocean; it’s so large you can’t see land on the other side. Don’t trust me, see for yourself:

I’m here for the weekend to cycle in Huron County (www.ontarioswestcoast.com)–a smattering of small towns in Western Ontario with over 100 kilometres of lakefront. Bayfield, Grand Bend and Goderich are known for their wicked beaches, while inland, farming dominates: more agricultural goods are produced here than each of the four Atlantic provinces. Beans, beans and more beans. Reminds me of that little ditty we sang growing up: “Campbell’s soup makes you poop, down your leg and in your boot!” I digress.

It’s probably the last day of riding before the winter takes hold, but we’ve picked a few rides from the Huron County Cycling Guide (the brochure is on the web site above). On the Saturday, Tom and I start in Zurich (www.zurich-ontario-canada.com) population 126 and yes, it has Swiss roots. Cycling out of the town, yellow brick homes abound! This is so Ontario.

As we begin, we’re cycling right into a nasty headwind. I feel like a seagull over the ocean—not getting far I might add.

Luckily the farms distract me; most barns have the owners’ family names on the facade:

Earl H Becker and Family, Windy Heights Farms Inc., Randy and Nancy Regier & Family and the Hartman Homestead since 1860-see the dots of white on the lawn? Those are little sheep!

The cycling route is only 21 kilometres but we pass through two townships: Zurich and then Dashwood, home of the Friedburg days, an ode to their German roots! Look at those ominous clouds. Yikes.

Riding a small incline, with the wind at our backs, a truck pulling some oversized farm equipment waits until we reach the top: “He doesn’t want to squeeze us out,” yells Tom. No highway traffic in Dashwood.

On the way back, with a wicked tailwind that pushes us back, we make it back in 20 minutes. I’m ravenous hungry by now. Tom recalls seeing a bakery on the way in. That’s the great thing about small towns—there’s always a bakery.

The bakery is inside the convenience store that also doubles as a video store, and ATM machine outlet. I grab a fresh loaf of raisin bread, caraway multigrain, croissants, and some bagettes. I can’t get the bag of buttery raisin bread open fast enough back in the car.

Post ride. I’m craving food and beer:

We’re staying at the Brentwood Bed and Breakfast www.brentwoodonthebeach.com. It’s a giant new house on the lake in a quiet suberb half way between Grand Bend and Bayfield.

We throw the bags in the room and walk to the backyard and down the steep stairs to the beachfront—the wind is wickedly wild and the rain is coming down on a slant. On the shore there are hammocks, a bombfire pit and sitting areas. It’s empty. We’re alone. I like it. Crowds are so cliche.

But we’re not alone at the b and b: a group of needle workers are here for a retreat. They’ve been coming almost every year since the place opened up 20 years ago this year. We’re scared–I’ve heard that needleworkers can get pretty wild. Ha ha.

They haven’t all arrived when Tom and I leave for a beer in Bayfield, about 15 minutes drive north. Bayfield is a cutesy town—chocolate shops, cafes, organic farmer –but the gem is The Black Dog Village Pub and Bistro.  Oodles of beer, Toronto quality food and pictures of black labs on the shelves. Nirvana. www.blackdogpubbistro.ca

That night, as every weekend, there’s music at the Black Dog. Tom and I plant our bums on stools at the bar. I’m drinking an English beer called Hobgoblin. I’m a sucker for the elf on the label. We plan to stay for a drink–we stay for three. The show ends. “Huh, you need to lock up? Oh, alright. When do you open in the morning?”

Rob Szabo is a Toronto based musician—he reminds me of a Jim Cuddy (as in Blue Rodeo) without the rodeo sound. (www.robszabo.com) Meaning, it’s mellow and the lryics are evocative and real.

In the morning, we have German pancakes with cinnamon and apples, poached eggs and homemade salsa. Joan and Peter are the owners.

Joan feels familiar right away as she tells me bits and pieces of her life. Tom leaves after breakfast–watch for tomorrow’s post as I reveal all the trouble I get into on my own!

Melanie