“Couldn’t you at least put out a little cheese?”
The Prosecution, Exhibit A: See inside the oven?
In our mom’s mind, we didn’t get enough vitamins.
Ga-ack. Cough, cough, cough.
This week, a few questions from readers, all about baking:
I can never decide when I go snowboarding whether it’s that the scales fall from my eyes and I achieve clarity of vision, or it’s more that the blinkers go on, logic goes out the window and all I can think about is shredding the gnar.
I have a plan. I’m going to tap the thermostat up to “Caribbean,” suspend a dozen light therapy lamps like solar panels from my living room ceiling, change into a sun frock, pry open a beach chair, and lie upon it.
It was the winter of 1993. Dean and I (for he was not yet Chefhusband) had coaxed his elderly orange Volkswagon Rabbit over Roger’s Pass, en route from Kelowna to Winnipeg, where we’d spent my first ever Christmas with his family.
After a day spent touring the Points East Circle Drive on Prince Edward Island, on a warm evening in July, we make our way to Charlottetown, where our hotel room smells funny.