I learned to love bannock the way you learn to trust a friend — slowly, with practice and the occasional burnt edge. One rainy afternoon, I folded flour and water into a sticky, forgiving dough, and within twenty minutes I had a warm, golden disc that smelled like comfort. My first attempt was rustic and…
One morning, bleary-eyed and craving something honest and comforting, I bit into a peameal bacon sandwich and it felt like home in a mouthful. That single, salty-sweet bite rewired my idea of breakfast and weekend cooking. Since then, I’ve kept a small ritual: thick-cut peameal, a hot griddle, a simple mustard, and a plan for…
I learned to make tourtière the way most of us learn the important things: by doing it badly, then fixing it until it behaved. The first pie I baked was lopsided and stubborn — the crust split, the filling was under-seasoned, and I ate it anyway because hunger makes you brave. Over time I turned…
A sticky note on my fridge says “Tea, breathe, bar later” — a silly little reminder that grew out of the kinds of afternoons when comfort matters more than speed. I made my first Nanaimo bars on a gray weekend when the oven felt like too much commitment; the kitchen smelled like chocolate and coconut,…
Midmorning, cup of tea untouched, I watched the oven door like it might cough up a tiny miracle. The first bite of a butter tart still tastes like welcome — warm, a little gooey, and impossibly comforting. I kept a sticky note on the fridge with the one thing every emergency needs: a short plan….
I learned to love poutine the way I learn most good things: by accident and with my fingers a little sore from holding a fork too tight. One rainy evening, warm socks and a stubborn chill, I pulled a bag of frozen fries from the oven, shredded a block of squeaky cheese curds, and poured…