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cooking with conuma (bread week pudding with citrusy coconut cream)

I can’t resist sharing this with you; conuma the yoga cat.


PS: I have to get this out of my system. Bread Pudding Anyone? (salads are up next, so get ye your fill o’carbs now).

citrusy coconut bread pudding

(Recipe after the jump)

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on january bread (roasted chicken sandwich with lemony mayo)


This January there has been not enough shredding and just enough bread. The snowpack is terrible and low but at least my kitchen is cozy-full. This makes my heart happy. While January is typically the month to espouse low-carb resolutions, green eating, and clean food, this year something deep inside me loves and wants only the pleasure of a perfect sandwich when i sneak home for lunch, a pile of bread pudding on a quiet day off, and afternoon snacks of homemade cheese jauntily set beside garlicky olives, summer-canned chutney, and a piece of crunchy toast. I feel an interesting sense of guilt towards these beautiful, homemade, albeit carb-laden choices- shouldn’t I be encouraging juice cleanses? avocado smears? smoothie overdrive? I love vegetables and exercise and want to be the kind of women who cultivates a living whole food diet and manages to eat cold healthy things in winter; but right now it is january and as usual I am drowning in stews. Braises. Pot-pies. I am snacking on yummy whole-spelt berry muffins between clinic appointments. Ensconced in faron’s lovely sourdough. The raw food from my garden consists of slug-eaten baby turnips. The kale looks sad. The seasonal choices are yams and cauliflower.  I am tired of all of these things and don’t want to keep buying lettuce driven all the way from california. While calls for dietary change ring left -right -and centre, choosing warm carbs feels right in this season of slowing down, letting the quiet in, for fuelling ski-days, and soothing my poor ears from the horror that is myself learning the beginner violin.


It does make me wonder: when did healthy eating become about rules instead of instinct ? Why did bread become so loaded? When did the internet fill with encouragement to find yourself through sparsity and elimination in the darkest, loneliest month of the year? When did weight loss become about food guilt instead of fostering love of movement and spirit in our bodies? Why do we put such pressure on ourselves to make anew when its cold outside and we just want to knit? Why not set goals in July when the sun is high and one can’t help feel enough with the chance to run in the woods and float in rivers all of the time? Goals formed in those kind of moments might make more sense: july hopes are for barbecues and hiking trips not clean-photo-shoot living and the pursuit of unrealistic perfect health.


This year I am hoping to finally shed the mantra of “good enough is not good enough,” set in my overachieving little grade six heart by a well meaning childhood teacher. I was a seriously nerdy kid who loved to do things extra-well. I remember when the cut out letters of that mantra appeared on our class room board and how I was like, yep, got that. For sure. I can over-achieve not letting anything be good enough! I will win at math, studying, and life!

Ive carried that elementary school motivation around so hard now for decades that good enough really doesn’t feel good enough. Great advice for spelling review and dutifully finishing my medical charting: but crappy words for diets and life. In this vein Ive spent the last three weeks quietly miserable trying to meet my annual goals of winter austerity, chilly drinks, and the challenge to chipperly “build myself my best life.” The thing is, building my “best life” just makes me feel gross.

Why? Because the good enough best life is already here. I already built it by waking up in the morning and by being alive. The best life lives in little things- goose down duvets, braised tacos, slow cooker oatmeal mornings chatting with faron about what happened in dream world last night, and coffee in front of the wood stove. Its in the magic of night-mountain bike riding and winter-camping in the van. It’s in this most-perfect roasted chicken sandwich. Maybe instead of yet another 30-day challenge, I just need to bring on the bread.

Ps: What do you think? Are january cleanses helpful? A useful re-boot? A guilt-laden exercise? Necessary evils?

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saqqiumijuq ᓴᖅᑭᐅᒥᔪᖅ (saq-qiu-mi-juq)

coral harbourSaqqiumijuq   ᓴᖅᑭᐅᒥᔪᖅ    (Saq-qiu-mi-juq)

ᑕᒃᓯᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᓄᓇ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓕᖅᐸᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᐅᒥᕗᖅ.
Taksiqtillugu nuna takuksauliqpat saqqiumivuq.       
When the fog lifts and one is able to see farther out to the land

With great luck I am once again in Nunavut. Delicious adventure abounds. I am currently perched in a small town named Coral Harbour on South-hampton Island. The year is coming to a close. On Friday I will go home and experience my personal solstice: once I turn South the days will never be this long again. Sun rising after 9, twilight misting across the dim hours of day, then setting in to darkness just after lunch. The air is predictably cold. If I don’t first tumble across banked ice as I walk to work, the space between boot and ground produces a satisfying high-pitched squeak of frozen snow that carries my mood forward for hours. I have been North for three weeks- delivering babies, meeting mamas, taking blood pressures. The normal tasks of my north and south life. No different than home, I spend hours trying to convince folks to drink a little water, smoke fewer smokes, take some vitamins even though they are made so large one can’t help but barf. Like down South, much of this process is futile but us helpers like to help so we offer our magic formulas for quitting, leaving, financing, educating, and living anyway. Different is running to the health centre at two am and hoping no one delivers before I have time to warm up the car as twenty minute of idling before driving is a golden rule I don’t dare cross. I screw up all the time at language, not spilling coffee everywhere, and messing up the blasted electronic medical system meditech, but i really don’t want to break the car. Different are the families waiting in hordes at the birth centre with toddlers tucked in warm parka hoods (amautis) and cousins hoarding the coffee mate in the snack room. The collective joy when a baby boy arrives and pounds of new clothes seem to materialize from the northern store in an instant of relatives and love. The harshness of a world where not every child is wanted, not every woman wants to be a mother; and the challenges of riding their wave without dragging my entire heart along. The quiet fear when things slip sideways and help is an airplane and two icy runways away. Different are the sassy outpost nurses, the shared housing, the snow machines trying to kill me on the non existent sidewalks, and the dinner invitations that materialize out of thin air because we are all in this together in this frozen town. The sense we need each other so we might as well laugh as the stores drain out from bad weather (with no cargo plane in sight), the past makes you sad, and the future could be hazy. Might as well laugh, strike up the bingo, and call a friend to come over. Saqqiumijuq: watching the fog lift, letting it go, sliding forward into clear skies.

Happy solstice friends; I am not writing much these days but I am sure glad you are here.

PS: More photos at: https://www.flickr.com/photos/elizorliz/

hello chilly mornings (plum clafoutis)


The leaves are off the silver birch and I am now in my third decade. It’s the first week of October and both of these things surprise me, even though seasons and birthdays are two rare things one can predict. I’m dreaming of third decade goals including goats, pizza ovens, and the world’s largest sunflower patch. That said, I am pleased that my nature continues to be steady: my heart is still mostly called to biking mountain passes and months spent in tents. We celebrated my birthday in the best way I could imagine- a cabin full of friends, a sky full of stars, and litres on litres of wine bag. I don’t know if it was that (or the glow stick filled piñata), but the world feels open and shimmery right now; nesting and adventure-schemes are merging into what will soon be the winter cocoon.

Basically, its my favourite time of year. Welcome October where quiet is encouraged and new ideas burst from the gift of long runs in the chilly woods and a little bit of slow! Welcome crisp leaves, cozy fires, soup, and saturdays with the pottery wheel! Welcome apples and pears! Although, I am only tentatively welcoming their friends- the bears. The other night we were out trail running in the rain and bumped into this moonlit glowing apple tree along the edge of a field. The fruit was glistening and faron and I were blissfully chomping on a tiny orb when we heard the distinct harrumph of large mammal from the bush to the left. We backed away a little, but then saw a group of horses in the distance so brushed it off. Called by the fruit, I swung my arm up towards the tree to grab another apple and my headlamp hit straight into the eyes of a bear. Baby bear. In the tree. Mama cub? Probably in the bushes. Magical, but oh nelly. Fall, in all its messy glory, is here.

making it.


fall gardenbirthday!

Why I am telling you this? While, apples and winter are about to take-over our world, there is a realm of other cozy deserts still to explore. Don’t give up on the stone-fruit yet! December isn’t here for months. I am making it my mission to savour fall and avoid winter bum out through denial of the darkening days.

Weeks ago I picked our plum trees bare in a flurry of over-tired energy; I was proud of myself for getting ‘er done but then quite sad that plum time was over just as it started. I might have exhibited a little prudence and picked bits off the trees at a time. Oh well. I thought I would have to wait another 11 months for more plums but then yesterday noticed a branch with some over-ripe leftovers peering over the neighbours yard. I almost died climbing up our moulding collapsing fence but I was desperate enough for this one last kick at the summer fruit can that I lunged repeatedly at the high branches across the air-space. I managed ten plums and only one leg scratch as collateral damage. The fence wanted mending anyway. And, ten plums is all one needs at a time. Really, any plums are enough for this cake (which also has the generosity to double as “healthy” breakfast the next day). And, if you must, softly cooked apples would work too. Hurrah for seasons and new beginnings. Clafouti anyone?

(Also, need to note; how ridiculous is this? http://www.cbc.ca/news/aboriginal/canada-sets-lowest-standard-at-world-conference-on-indigenous-peoples-1.2779590)

plum clafouti and kitty

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summer; slipped. (have yourself a raddler)



There have been moments where this summer felt sponsored by the heart of a teenage romance novel: river swims; ocean-side trail runs; friend reunions on the porch; mountain peaks nabbed during precious gasps of time off-call. Its been uncharacteristically warm and dry. The hills are so parched that occasionally the salt leaches from the coastal air and my nose fills with whiffs of ponderosa from my desert upbringing. The crunchy forest scent of old wood and dry needles sends me straight towards interior lakes, the whip of an early-morning fishing lure, and my papa cooking trout over a coleman stove. Last week I found myself running down a local hill as fast as I could so I could suck the smell of pine and dust of childhood memory deep inside my panting lungs. Beautiful, pure, summer.

We used the bbq so much that it took weeks to realize the new ceramic stove really sucks for anything except coffee making. And like any good narrative brought to you by heat, solo midwifery, a tender heart, and a pause to five years of constant (allbeit stimulating) moving of cities, there have been pangs of longing for alternate life choices that keep one on the road and ridiculous but unsurprising jealousy towards normal people that don’t have pagers that go off at 3:42am and could irrationally but metaphorically be everything you can’t.

berries! kate cuuuutttee cowichan life

mountain time

Now it is September and baby eggplants exist in the world. Baby! Eggplants! I can’t think of a better reason to settle a bit than growing a delicious purple orb. Mind you, this success story is due solely to the nice cowichan weather and the fact our place came with a set of bugs that prefer to decimate cabbage over aubergines, but its nice when things work out in your favour. The new house is slowly unravelling its boxes: the cat knows now to come home at night and nuzzles hard until you feed him, there is pleasure at new routine, pottery classes, and the familiarity of my feet on known trail. I’ve caught 12 babies since moving here and have not slept through clinic once. Win. This evening I walked in the door and poured myself a mix of beer and grapefruit juice that I will drink with bare feet on the wooden patio. Then, I will attempt to put up the peaches that I have procrastinated from tidy preserves into mushy must-now-become-jam. Messy life. Found home.

Have yourself a raddler; it will be delicious. 


1 can pale ale

1 can san pelligrino grapefruit

Mix the above together. Yumm.