I was born at the dawn of multiculturalism
in this country, at the corner of Lawrence & McCowan in Scarborough, Ontario,
Canada. My parents came to Toronto from Trinidad & Tobago, a place where
multiculturalism was a way of life. Caribbean food, especially food in
Trinidad, like the people, comes from a mix of all of the cultures who settled
the island, whether they were brought by slave traders, were the slave traders themselves, or
emigrated during British rule.
My experience of Canadian food is probably different
than most, since as a kid, Canadian food meant grilled cheese & fries with
ketchup at the Kresge’s counter with my mom at Eglinton Square after my checkups
with the doctor. Canadian food was the food my mom didn’t cook at home. I grew
up on roti and curry, thick chicken soups, callaloo, pelau, salt fish buljol,
baiganee, and other Trinidadian staples. My mom only started buying Kraft
Dinner after I was old enough to be seduced by television advertising and asked
for it by name. My mother grew up on a farm in Trinidad. My grandfather raised goats and chickens, had the occasional steer for beef, and grew fruits and vegetables by the bushel. His farm had a small swamp on it where he and my uncles would catch fresh blue crab and crayfish and cascadoo (a hard-shelled fish that is special to Trinidad, and has nearly become extinct now), among other fish. So my mother knew a thing or two about choosing fresh vegetables, meats, and fish.
Just before I turned 4, my parents moved
from Victoria Park and Ellesmere all the way to Newmarket, Ontario. My parents
wanted to have a nice house with a yard for their kid to play in. Newmarket is
also near the Holland Marsh, and every weekend we would venture up to Bradford
to buy our vegetables and fruits for the week. My mother trusted the produce
straight from the farm over produce at the grocery. It seems obvious now, but
in 1974, people were still enamoured by tinned vegetables, TV dinners, and
instant mashed potatoes.
The backyard at our new house was huge
(definitely larger than most suburban yards these days). The previous owners left
us with a large back garden, which included a large, flourishing plant of
rhubarb. My mother had no idea what to do with rhubarb. We planted our tomatoes
next to it, because, well, all of our neighbours planted tomatoes. It seemed
like the Canadian thing to do.
(Those tomatoes we planted near the rhubarb
were the sweetest tomatoes I had ever tasted in my young life. I used to eat the ripe ones right
off the vine (because what 4 year old in 1974 would even think about washing a
fruit!) and get in trouble for not leaving any for my mom. To this day, I
prefer the taste of a Canadian backyard-grown, vine-ripened tomato over any
other tomato on the planet.)
As for the rhubarb itself, my mother asked
our neighbours, two elderly British ladies who lived together in a large
farmhouse-style home to the back of our house, what she should do with this
plant. The ladies were more than happy to help her out, and told her to wait
until the rhubarb stalks were pure red, then they would be ready to be picked.
They were going to give her a recipe to make a pie out of the fruit (and yet
even though I know rhubarb is technically a vegetable, to this day I still call
it a fruit). They showed her how to make
a shortcrust dough, and then showed her how to cook down the rhubarb for the
filling and add sugar and spices and then put it into the crust and bake the
pie.
It was probably the second most disgusting
thing I’d eaten in my life. After liver.
I hated anything tart, and the tanginess of
the rhubarb, even with sugar, was too much for my 4 year old palate. I spat it
out and swore I’d never eat those red stalks again, and for 35 years, I didn’t. It wasn’t until I had a child of my own and moved
out to Ajax, because I wanted to raise
him in a house with a backyard, and discovered the green belt at this end of
suburbia, where the strawberries smelled like heaven and the rhubarb was redder
than the ripest berry, did I decided to give rhubarb another chance. Then I
learned that the key is to NOT cook the rhubarb before putting it in the pie!
For those of you who are now craving
strawberry-rhubarb pie (since strawberries are now in season), here’s my own personal
recipe for the filling. Pie crust is more about technique than recipe, so
whatever you choose for your pie crust, if it’s Crisco, butter, lard, or some
combination of those, the key is to freeze
your fat, and then use a box grater to grate it into the flour mixture (I use 2
c flour, 1 Tbsp sugar and 1 tsp salt for 1 cup of fat). Use a pastry blender or
knife to mix the grated bits in, then add ice cold water, bring it together
using the knife you used to stir in the bits of fat, and then dump the lump
right onto plastic wrap. Wrap that lump of dough and then shape it into a ball
(I shape mine into discs so they chill through, but to each their own) while in
the wrap. Wrap overtop of this and then refrigerate overnight or for a minimum
of 2 hours. Not 20 min. 2 hours.
Strawberry Rhubarb Pie1 pie crust recipe that will make a top and bottom crust.
For the filling:
2 cups diced fresh rhubarb (try to get it redder
than the ones in the picture)3 cups diced hulled fresh strawberries
¾ to 1 cup white granulated sugar
½ cup packed brown sugar
½ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp nutmeg
½ tsp ground cardamom
¼ cup cornstarch or 1/3 cup tapioca starch
Pinch of salt
1 beaten egg
1.
Combine rhubarb,
strawberries, and ½ cup of white sugar in a bowl. Toss the fruit in the sugar,
then dump it all in a colander and leave it to drain in the sink or over another
bowl for at least 45 min but no more than 1 hour.
2. When the fruit has been sitting for about 30 min, preheat oven to 350F and line bottom of pie dish with bottom crust. Put bottom crust back into the fridge until your fruit is drained.
3. After the fruit has been drained, put it into another bowl and add remaining ingredients. Toss to combine well but work fast since your fruit will be mushy and liquidy.
4. Take bottom pie crust out of the fridge and add fruit.
5. You may choose to top the pie with a lattice using the second half of the crust. It looks prettiest, but if you just want to put the top on and cut a nice pattern in it, you can do that too. Don’t leave it without a top, though. Just make sure to put a top on with ventilation, and crimp the edges well.
6. Brush pastry with beaten egg and place in oven for 20 minutes. You may choose to TENT a piece of tin foil over the pie at this point, but be careful not to squish or tuck the foil onto the pie itself.
7. Continue to bake the pie from 45-60 minutes more, or until the filling is cooked through and bubbling, and your crust is golden brown. Remove from oven and let cool somewhere where nobody will try to eat it. (Good luck with that).
