The Beast called me yesterday at work to tell me he was bringing home a guest to dinner. This was great news for two reasons: first, I already knew what I wanted to make: spaghetti with ramps, some caesar salad, and rhubarb crisp for dessert. Ramps are sort of like little baby wild leeks. I saw a recipe for them in Gourmet a while back so when they arrived at my local green grocer–along with fresh rhurbarb–I knew what I had to do. When I told the Beast what I was making he kept saying, “I can’t wait to try ram meat.” And I would say, “no, it’s spaghetti with RAMPS. They’re like wild leeks.” And then he would say, “Yes! Rams are very wild and I bet they’re delicious.”
The second reason this was good news was because the Beast was bringing home Nick Edwards. Nick is a bit tricky to explain, but I’ll give it a shot. Imagine a very young Paul Newman, with a little Robert Redford. Now shake that glorious image up with the comedic timing of Charlie Chaplin and the goofy charm of, oh, let’s say Cary Grant in Bringing up Baby, and the bad-boy heroism of Brad Pitt as Tristan in Legends of the Fall. Every woman I know falls in love with Nick. Everybody else wants to claim him as their own: “I met him first” and “You don’t know him like I do–I know him inside and out.” I fear that if all his adorers were to gather ’round him, we’d tear him apart like crazed maenads hoping to consume his very beautiful being. Of course he belongs to nobody–he’s sort of like that
dog in The Littlest Hobo. That said, he and the Beast have forged a friendship over many years that makes my heart swell, and I always feel like a moth drawn to their light when I’m in their company: They paint and sketch together; make beautiful music together; go for weekend retreats to the cottage together; make each other laugh until they cry together; talk about books together; and nap together. It’s enchanting. And it’s extremely gay.
Foodie: (To Nick) Do you mind signing a waiver before dinner? It basically allows me to use anything you say in my blog.
Nick: No way. Not a chance. Unless I get a name. If he gets a funny name, then I want one too, like Chip– that little teacup in Beauty and the Beast.
Foodie: It’s Foodie and the Beast. And no way–you have to be Nick. Do you know how many hits I’ll get just from young girls googling your name?
Nick: Wait a second. You can’t write what I say because I won’t sound smart and then girls
will think I’m a dummy. (Nick makes his way to the dining room, which is also the library.)
Beast: Where are you going? I thought we were going to go upstairs and play the wooden flutes we just bought in Little India this afternoon! (See gay comment above.)
Nick: I need to read smart things. And then I can repeat them at dinner for this one over here (pointing to me.)
Once the boys stopped pretending to read Thomas Jefferson’s autobiography they left me alone in the kitchen to get down to business. Dinner prep was easy. I just had to blanch the ramps and then blend them with olive oil, lemon zest and some of the starchy pasta water. I know caesar salad seems a bit gauche, and for the record, it most definitely isn’t Italian (it was made on the fly in Tijuana back in the 20s), but last summer caesar salad had a bit of a renaissance in our home. I’ve made my own caesar salad dressing in the past, but in a pinch I go for Renee’s, and I’ve discovered these really fancy pepper & parmigiano-laced gourmet croutons that really spice things up. The pasta went over well. It tasted like 
Spring-time. Although if I make it again, I’d add way more than the teaspoon of lemon zest the recipe called for, and more parmigiano too.
When it comes to making rhubarb crisp, I’m very particular. I don’t mix rhubarb with strawberries. Ever. Rhubarb is one of the loveliest colours I’ve ever seen and when you add a little sugar, it’s the perfect compromise between sweet and tart. Adding strawberries seems so counter-intuitive. And when it comes to the crisp part, I use lots of butter, brown sugar and just enough flour and oats to bring it all together. No spices, like cloves or cinnamon, either. Rhubarb crisp should remind you of white porches in the summer of 1954 and ought to be served by big-breasted, small-waisted beauties wearing gingham aprons. Or Nigella Lawson. Or maybe Ricky Gervais.
I served mine, predictably, in jogging pants to the boys who’d moved to the couch. And what happened next was the reason I keep the rhubarb crisp simple: the Beast and Nick, or “Chip” began to moan and thrash on the couch in a fit of mouth pleasure bordering on ecstasy. Chip kept nodding yes, yes, yes with his head and used his spoon to point to his dessert plate. The Beast may have even howled. I just smiled at the boys, content in the fact that I’d fed them well without having had to hunt and butcher a wild ram.
Foodie: ** Beast: **
I love entertaining, but I’m small-time. My guest list usually includes two people, sometimes three, and never exceeds four. That makes six guests including the Beast and me, which is perfect because I have six plates. The truth is, I don’t think I can cook for more than six. Everything gets so complicated, and I don’t have very big pots. That’s why when the Beast and I were invited to my friend Alex Girl’s birthday party I was ecstatic because if there’s anybody that knows how to hostess, it’s Alex Girl and her formidable mother, Tracy, who owns and operates 
As predicted, drinks were in our hands before a thank-you escaped our mouths. Once all of the (very attractive) guests showed up, it didn’t take long before we were chit-chatting up a storm and eating burrata cheese, grilled bread, and deep-fried calamari with an anchovy aioli. Tracey manned the frier and replenished the piles of squid before they even thought about disappearing. Not being of a religious nature, this is my favourite kind of congregating: in a kitchen with charming people, eating and drinking delicious things. 
This Easter I decided to do my own dinner –including all the accoutrements–for the Beast and me. I spent an embarrassing amount of time researching my glaze for the 
that my older, wiser brother is bang on; delicious as it is, ham looks like human. Emotionally, I had a difficult time removing the skin. And I also felt resentful because everybody says, “oh ham is so easy to make. Only a real idiot could mess it up so don’t worry.” But nobody has the courage to tell you about peeling off a layer of dermis that still has fucking whisker things attached to it. That’s messed up.
I had much more fun using my mandolin for scalloped potatoes. I decided to use a simple recipe I found in a Canadian Living cookbook that simply called for butter, cream, salt and pepper. My mom always adds thinly sliced onion as well, so I did too. The peas were easy. I dazzled them up with a little fresh mint and olive oil. That left dessert. Only the cover of Goumet would do for the Beast–and for his older bro
ther and lovely fiance, who I invited over last minute when I realized I wasn’t really making a meal just for two, even if one of us is a savage. It was a port-glazed strawberry torte with a mascarpone filling, and it came out looking exactly like the photo in the magazine.
ay in my kitchen cooking and baking. And then it hit me: cabbage salad! How could I have neglected this detail? I scooted to the corner store for an Ontario green cabbage, whipped up the dressing of mayonnaise, white vinegar, sugar, salt and pepper, and dinner was saved–fitting for Easter, no?
up in the oven. Personally, I thought it to be one of the best meals I’ve ever prepared. Everything came out to the table looking like it was prop-dressing: the ham was glazed to perfection and the scalloped potatoes got all brown and crispy; But it wasn’t just the food that made my first Easter din
ner a success: our guests far outshone anything on the table, including that bottle of C
Foodie: Oh shit! Thanks for reminding me! I need to photograph this. Hold still.
The recipe called for a bread crumb crust. I happened to have half a loaf of that Epi multigrain bread that I’ve mentioned before (it’s well worth the $5.50 it costs at my local cheese shop). I just cut it into bits, blitzed them in my food processor and baked it along with some fresh parsley, salt, pepper, garlic & olive oil. The cassoulet itself was very simple to make, and it doesn’t take an engineer to grill sausages. Dinner was ready in no time.
It felt so sensually domestic, even though I was wearing a dirty jogging suit. And even though the cassoulet was inauthentic by French standards, the Beast and I may have fooled our dinner guest into thinking that we eat in the dining room every weeknight with real linen. 
