(A group of concerned Moms decided to hold a “Doughnut Event” to raise money for much needed playground equipment. Being a mini-United Nations kind of neighbourhood, the doughnuts presented as an international event as well. . .)

The next booth represented Holland, a country I always visualized as masses of tulips, a few windmills and tasty cheeses. I now add Oliebollen.  Oliebollens are like dumplings made from enriched yeast dough and cooked in a deep-fryer. They are traditionally eaten on New Year’s Eve, but can be bought at oliebollen street vendors in November and December, as well as throughout the year at fun fairs–much like the fairs where I can buy my mini-doughnuts in Victoria. Oliebollens can be made plain or have raisins, currents and apples added to the dough. Both kinds usually get dusted with some icing sugar before serving. The oliebollen I sampled was filled, after frying, with whipped cream and/or jam and had a hint of citrus flavouring. It is not a sweet dough as the sugar and various fillings provides the sweetness. I bought two more  and popped them into my bag to share with my Hubby.

The French booth evoked delicious memories of New Orleans and the enjoyment of warm beignets with cafe au lait at the famous Cafe du Monde. Considered a part of a New Orleans breakfast, these deliciously tender pieces of dough, deep-fried and dipped in powdered sugar are decadent and dangerous. I considered them dangerous because it takes significant self-control to stop at one beignet. The beignets were sold 3 on a tray. One tray plus one beignet went into my doughnut bag. . .two beignets went into my tummy. I paused for my cuppa coffee.

Pazcki, a sugared doughnut from Lebanon and Syria, is made from flatbread dough–pieces are broken off and flattened with a hole punched in the middle. These pieces are deep-fried and then dusted with sugar. In some households, these doughnuts are also called Zalabia. Most of my warm pazcki, except for a small bite, went into my bag. The bite I had tasted was wonderful. but I was beginning to feel stuffed and my doughnut bag was running out of space.

I recognized the Churros and Sopapillas at the Mexican booth. I was told that sopapillas in New Mexico was used much like tortillas–to mop up beans and gravy. The one I tasted was of a dessert variety. As the quick dough pieces were deep-fried and puffed up, it was removed and drained from the hot oil, then tossed in a cinnamon/sugar mix. Three of these “little pillows” went into my bag to be enjoyed later. Churros are basically made from a choux pastry and deep-fried. The result is a very light piece of pastry, usually elongated and rolled in a cinnamon/sugar mix. Three churros went into my bag—oops, a bite was taken from one of the warm churros and it was fabulous, but I was really getting stuffed!

The German booth sold Berliners and Fastnacht. I recognized the Berliners as the familiar jelly doughnuts called “Bismarcks” at my local bakery. I was not familiar with fastnachts, which are made of yeast-leavened dough, traditionally eaten and enjoyed on Shrove Tuesday. Still warm, it was drizzled with a honey citrus glaze. And it went into my doughnut bag for later—much later . . . .

I saw my favourite booth representing China. “Uncle” Henry, an elderly neighbour  and his two sisters were making new batches of the Chinese doughnuts called Jian Dui–of which I was beginning to feel like one! Jian dui are fried bits of dough made from glutinous rice flour, filled with a red bean paste and rolled in sesame seeds resulting in small round sesame balls. The texture is crispy outside, slightly chewy and very tender inside. Three little balls rolled into my doughnut bag. . .

This event was a tasty adventure of sampling doughnuts from around the world. I was happy indulging my craving for doughnuts, but it will be a long time before I indulge again. The bakers had done a fantastic job to raise more than enough funds for better and safer playground equipment. I had a full doughnut bag to share with Hubby. I was assured that most could be frozen and reheated later.  Well, we shall see. . . .bombolone anyone? Or how about an oliebollen or a zalabia or a beignet or. . . . .?

Doughnuts–I have a passion for doughnuts. Mind you, I have a lot of passions, but doughnuts absolutely makes it almost to the top of my List. The top of that list is my Hubby and the next is dark chocolate, so I guess that makes doughnuts #3. What brought on this profound appreciation for a fried piece of dough  just before Lent last year, was a concerned group of Moms, who decided to raise money for some new playground equipment. And being a veritable mini-United Nations kind of neighbourhood, the women decided that a doughnut sale would make some money since this would be the last bit of sweet pastry for awhile.

My idea of doughnuts was mainly what I’ve eaten at the Canadian “Tim Horton’s,” with the usual jellies, sugared. cinnamon, long-johns, crescents, twisties, etc. And of course at the fairs with the famous mini-doughnuts that rolls off a conveyor belt, dropped in cinnamon-sugar and scooped into a brown paper bag–still warm from the frying process. Large supermarket chains with in-store bakeries made their own version of traditional glazed, plump jelly filled mounds and twisties with an orange filling or pecans or chocolate. Well, let me tell you–my doughnut education was sadly lacking because I discovered that like pasta, doughnuts truly are an international food.

We were all handed large paper bags when we paid our entry fee of two dollars. You only had to follow your noses to the large room for the doughnut event; a room already smelling like yeast, cinnamon, sugar and chocolate. And the smell of fresh roasted coffee, brewed to mate with a fabulous piece of fried pastry.

My eyes were drawn to the first booth that sold Italian doughnuts.  I will now remember Italy as the land of  Bombolone and Zeppole.  Never again will I merely think pasta, pizza and wine.  Bombolone are Tuscan doughnuts and unlike other Italian areas that claims bombolone, the Tuscan version has no cream filling. It is best served warm and is a mound of deliciously light dough, deep-fried and dipped in granulated sugar. It does resemble a Berliner or jelly doughnut, but without a filling.

Zeppole, according to Wikapedia, is an “Italian pastry consisting of a deep-fried ball of dough, typically about 4-inches in diameter. This doughnut or fritter is usually topped with powdered sugar and may be filled with custard, jelly, cannoli-style pastry cream or a butter and honey mixture.”  The zeppola I sampled was slightly more dense than bombolone and not as sweet. It is the fabulous fillings that makes these doughnuts decadently delicious. I did eat a whole one but another zeppola and one bomboloni went into my empty bag.

(To be continued)

There they were–a sea of tees heaped together in a rainbow of colours. The close crew necks, no low dips or scoops or off-the-shoulder; great colour choices; roomy tees without being snug; sleeves that dropped off the shoulders and were a tad longer than normally seen. And, best of all, not a cropped-top or a shortened length, ending at the waist, but draped gracefully down to the hips and beyond. BUT, these perfect t-shirts were for men!

I had searched high and low in ladies’ wear for a tee that I could wear for my body type; my short, slightly rounded with a yen-for-comfort body.  I didn’t want fancy doo-dads or sparkles or exotic graphics on my chest. I simply wanted a plain tee-shirt in a choice of colours. Who would have thought that menswear would carry such a selection with a rainbow of colours? What exactly made it so perfect for a male and not a female? I held one up–perfect. I could get away with wearing a small and it would still be roomy. What a bonus! It felt like a nice weight for 100% cotton. It was definitely not one of those sleazy tees that was practically transparent and actually became so if you were caught in a brief rain shower. These were superior tees that filled a very strict criteria, my strict criteria. Carefully, I checked again. Nope, nothing that determined it was a guy’s tee-shirt and not a lady’s.

Oops, “Muscle-Bound” wasn’t exactly a lady’s brand, but heck, labels could be easily removed.

“They’re lovely, aren’t they?” a motherly type beamed at me.

“They’re perfect!” I replied enthusiastically.

“Are they for your boys too?” she smiled at me.

“Definitely for my boys and the grandsons too,” I smiled back.

“I do love the colours and the length. I’ve been looking for tees that don’t have those awful scooped necks or tacky off-the-shoulder look.”

“Me too!” I declared in solidarity. “Why do men have such great colours? I don’t think I’ve seen too many males wearing peach, mauve or pink!”

“I’m sure the manufacturer knows we are wearing them too!” laughs my new shopping buddy.

“I’m searching for smalls in peach, aqua, mauve and pink,” I told her.

“Well, if you see any mediums in those colours, toss them my way and I’ll do the same for you with the smalls.”

Okay, so half a dozen tees were a tidge excessive, but where else would you find such a bargain at 3/$10—tee-shirts with all the features you ever wanted in a perfect tee, heaped on a table, just begging to be taken home and worn as a night-shirt, under a winter sweater or simply as a plain ol’ tee. . . . .

Hubby and I were enjoying our leisurely cup of morning coffee and half listening to CBC radio. The man on the air was interviewing the brew-master of one of the local micro-breweries. The expert brew-master was talking about the many species of trees used in flavoring and storing  beer. He especially mentioned the many micro-breweries he had researched up and down Vancouver Island, sampling the many different flavors of beers using oak, spruce, birch and other species of local trees. After the interview was over, Hubby looked over at me and suggested, “If he can do an interview talking about beer and trees, you can do one too.”

“But,” I replied. “What would I talk about? I don’t drink beer.”

“You can talk about brownies,” he said with a grin. “Think about all the research you can do. After all, the best research is the sampling part.”

I had to laugh, but then again, that tantalizing thought streaked across my brain cells. I had already done my terrific research on mini-doughnuts, locally crafted chocolates and outstanding Ploughman lunches at Victoria’s pubs. I discovered that 21st century pub lunches definitely included all the food groups and were deliciously healthy to boot!. Why not a search and snack of Victoria’s brownies? I would have to do extra elliptical work and a lot more walking up hills and. . . .heck yes, I was off and running to my first brownie.

My first stop was “2% Jazz,” my newest favourite coffee bar. We needed a new supply of coffee and what better place to choose a brownie to go.  There was only one kind of brownie in their showcase. It was vegan, was a decent size, looked moist and deliciously dark chocolate with a light layer of chocolate frosting. Driving home, I couldn’t resist and pinched off a small piece. My mouth was disappointed as it was a tad dry, had a crumbly texture and though it looked good, disappointed my taste buds.

A few days later, I stopped at “Bubby Rose,” a bakery with the most tantalizing smells wafting into the street. The smell of butter, chocolate, vanilla and cinnamon buns enticed innocent strollers off the sidewalk and into the bakery. I spied the perfect brownie. It was a generous size, sharable, had a crinkly chocolate top instead of any icing, was dark chocolate, moist, made with butter and decadently mouth-watering delicious. It was my favourite brownie so far. Although they weren’t brownies, I also purchased 2 mounds of dark chocolate macaroons–dense, moist and very chocolatey. The macaroons had the mouth and tummy calling for more as this was enjoyable gluttony, not part of the great brownie search, but merely the lure of dark chocolate and fine coconut.

Lunch the following week at “Moxie’s on Yates,” left hardly any room for dessert, but I managed with my choice of a “Bite of White Chocolate Brownie,” served warm and surrounded with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a smaller scoop of genuine whipped cream. Despite it being a “white” brownie with chocolate bits embedded in it, it was still tasty. And, because it was listed as a “brownie,” it was included in my research data.

A few nights later, we had a spectacular Italian dinner at “Il Covo Trattoria,” and what self-respecting brownie researcher would dare miss her chocolate fix.  Again, it wasn’t a chocolate brownie, but it was the best darn chocolate dessert ever–“Torta Al Cioccolato” which is described in the menu as “layers of chocolate cake and caramel reduction.” It came as a sinfully rich and moist, dark chocolate cake, with an artistic rendering of caramel reduction on the plate. This was generously shared with my two best “foodie” buddies, who love chocolate as much as I do.

I haven’t stopped my research yet, but I thought I’d post my preliminary findings . After all, dark chocolate brownies takes time to find and needs time to savour. At the moment, the elliptical machine, walking and line-dancing works off some of the calories, allowing the hunt for a perfect dark chocolate brownie to continue. Sigh–what we must do for “research.”

When I was a little kid, parents seldom worried that their children would be accosted by strange people or that their children would suddenly disappear, never to be seen again. Parents just knew that kids would dawdle and explore stuff along their route home. Kids were just being kids. Times were simpler and safer then.

I was never that child who traveled straight home from school. At that time, school was a 6-block walk from my home and there was a lot of stuff between home and school to explore. For instance, a block from school, my best friend and I would go rock-climbing. This was a small empty lot with a “huge” rocky mini-mountain right smack-dab in the middle. It was probably why nothing was ever built on that tiny lot because it would take an enormous amount of blasting to remove the rocks and blasting would cost a great deal of money. My parents could never figure out why I always came home with scuffed shoes and scraped knees. To reach the top of our secret mountain, it took plenty of stretching our short legs, reaching for finger holds and lots of giggling while clinging to the rocky surface. We were only six years old and so determined to reach the top that we never thought about how to get back down. That was one more mystery for my parents to figure out—how the back of my coat got this distressed look because Irene and I were too scared to climb back down, so we sat on our bottoms and bumped our way to the ground,

About 3 blocks from home, there was a corner store called “Gems” that sold penny candy. Whenever either of us had a nickel, we would head directly there and share in the bounty.  For 5-cents, we would have a nice bagful of strawberries made of chewy marshmallows, jaw-breakers, fat waxy red lips that were worn briefly, then broken apart and chewed; licorice whips, chocolate chews and so much more. I always thought that besides satisfying our sweet tooth, this was our earliest exposure to economics and the value of a penny.

A long block later, Irene would turn onto the short lane leading to her house. I had another block to go. On this final block, I would pass by a bright yellow house with the most spectacular garden. The lady who lived there was a thin, grouchy woman who devoted her energy to her flowers and each season rewarded her with a field of colours. When she was tending her flowers, I would always pause to admire her garden and say “Hello.” She would always ignore me, but one day she turned around and said “Hello” back. I was so astonished that I offered her my bag with the last of the penny candies. I had been saving the fat waxy red lips for last. With a small smile, she reached over to clip three dahlias in trade for the red lips and told me her name. It was Mrs. Spiggott and we became friends. Two years later, I moved to another school, closer to home. Mrs. Spiggott also moved away that same year. To this day, I often wondered what she thought of those fat waxy red lips and did she know what a treat it was to a six year old.

Years later, Irene and I took a stroll down our old primary school route. Our rocky “mountain” was still there and another group of little six year olds were climbing to the top. We both smiled as our mountain had shrunk considerably, but it still provided a lot of after-school entertainment. As for Gems, it was still on the same corner and still sold its immense choices of penny candy. Mrs. Spiggott’s house, with its beautiful garden as well as the houses on either side of her was now the site of a small apartment building.

The neighbourhood had changed but we had too. And that’s what life is all about—to feel the joy, accept the changes, acknowledge the progress and enjoy the adventures–lots and lots of adventures, both big and small.  After all, Life’s a series of challenges and goals, problems and puzzles, sorrow and joy. There will always be  spontaneous and wonderful moments that make you love and laugh—moments that will keep you happy, curious and eager for more. . . .adventures.

The latest newsworthy bit on cute little Prince George of England was, how he favoured a pair of navy shorts with pockets during his family’s trip to Poland and Germany. Georgie wore his favourite shorts four of the seven touring days. Don’t you just love this trivia?  But I’m completely in full support of the tiny tot’s wardrobe choice. After all, even adults have their favourites and we’re not likely to leave it in the suitcase either.

I, too, have a favourite pair of shorts and yet to find a suitable replacement.  My shorts began summers as a hot, vivid pink, but numerous washes over the years, faded it to a less vibrant rosy pink. I love the way it drapes with its loose, casual style. It has a wide comfy, elasticized waistband and very deep pockets that holds my cell-phone, tiny flashlite, small change purse, energy bar and bag of trail-mix—and oh yes, my keys.  Watching me coming, a person cannot detect any bulges or bulk in any of my short’s deep side pockets. When I embark on my power walks, I also wear my outdoor, trekking vest with  a dozen pockets–one cavernous one holds my bottled water.

The reason I’m mentioning shorts at all is that I quite understand Georgie’s preference wearing that particular pair of navy shorts. I’m sure it’s the pockets as his little fist–at least the left one–is always tucked securely into his left pocket.

I’m the same way.  I have to have pockets and they have to be deep enough to carry all the stuff I need to have on me. And, that’s the big problem I’m having right now. Ladies shorts are trim and form-fitting with no pockets.  If the designer stooped to add a pocket, it would be more decorative rather than functional.  I want my new shorts to be the same material  as my old ones–wash, dry and wear immediately with no wrinkles or crinkles. Any shade of blue, purple or rose-pink would be nice. I don’t want proper walking shorts that end below the knees–my shorts end slightly above and loose-fitting.  I’m not asking for much–just a decent, comfy pair of shorts with deep pockets.  With all the summer sales going on, I have yet to find my perfect you-know-what. Until I get another pair like the one I’m wearing now, I’m not giving up—I’ll keep on searching.

And like the Royal tot, I’m going to keep wearing my fave too. . . . .

My Dad taught me how to drive.  That was many decades ago. He had taught my big brother first and a few years later, he taught my younger sister. I was the last to learn. After my first Sunday afternoon, in the empty Woodward’s parking lot, Dad silently drove us home and told my Mom, “The next kid will have to go to a real driving school.”  To which my mother replied, “We don’t have any more kids. You’ve got the last one.”  And, Dad gave a huge sigh of relief and muttered something in Cantonese.

I didn’t think I was that bad, but long after I got my driver’s license, I realized that a parent and his offspring didn’t make good teacher/pupil relations. I do remember several Sundays where I drove the perimeters of the empty mall lot, parked in the diagonal parking spaces and parallel-parked along the curbs. That’s when I figured out Dad’s foot-tapping. When I got too confident and drove faster, Dad’s foot would move as if he was pumping the brakes. If I parked too close to the curb and scraped the tires or if I backed in too sharply and hit the curb, Dad’s foot would start tapping rhythmically. Finally, one Sunday Dad decided I was road-worthy to share a real road and drive with other cars.

I took the exit out of the lot and very carefully moved into the right lane of the then 4-lane highway of Blanshard Street–2 lanes heading into town and two lanes heading out. At that time, Sundays in Victoria were very quiet with hardly any traffic. Checking all my mirrors including the over-the-shoulder checks, I signaled and inched over to the centre lane. Dad didn’t say anything but his left foot began tapping. Getting braver, I signaled, checked and finally moved into the left turn lane. Dad’s foot stopped tapping. The light changed in my favour and I turned onto Finlayson where I kept driving until I was directed to move into another left turn lane.

This left turn lane landed me on Shelbourne Street, where I cautiously moved into the only lane heading north. Dad had me driving several miles, encouraging me to bump my speed up from 20 mph. to 30 mph. It was exhilarating. Soon signs popped up to indicate a turn into Mt. Douglas Park, a popular local spot for hikes, picnics and communing with Nature. There was only one narrow winding road in and one narrow winding road out. Belatedly glancing at my left side-view mirror, I realized I was leading a parade of 30 cars, all inching along as I was because no one could pass me. Horrified I asked Dad what I should do as there was no place to safely pull over. Dad calmly advised, “Keep moving, don’t stop and don’t let them make you nervous.”  Suddenly, a flashing red light loomed in my rear-view mirror and a loud-speaker blared, “Will the young lady in the red Corvair please move along a little faster. The ice-cream is melting in several picnic coolers.”

Mortified, I stepped on the gas and drove a bit faster until I finally reached the parking lot, pulled perfectly into a space and turned the car off. Good thing I was short and didn’t have to duck out of sight. Dad told me, “Only the couple of cars behind us knew you were the “hold-up” into the park. The other 27 cars don’t know and are just relieved the line started to move quickly. You did okay. Drive at the speed that feels comfortable to you. Maybe next time, boot the speed up to 40 mph. When you start driving on your own. you’ll know to keep up with the traffic. Right now, this was your first time on the road and you did good. We’ll park here for a few minutes and then you can drive us home.”

Fast forward a few decades later and I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my neighbour’s Toyota Highlander. Her daughter Lisa needed an hour of road practice and I was elected to be her legal driver. Approaching her driveway, seventy minutes later, I marveled at my Dad, who was able to sit in the car with all three of his off-springs on numerous Sundays, teaching us the nuances and safety of the road. My one road experience with Lisa reminded me of Dad’s unspoken wisdom: “Be calm, be patient and don’t yell.”

And in case you’re wondering, my foot did begin to tap, just like Dad’s. . . . . . .

I have a new research project–a project similar to the ones I did on Ploughman Lunches around Victoria and Mini-Doughnuts at Farmers’ Markets . My new research involves “Trail Mixes”–you know, that ubiquitous mixture of peanuts, raisins and other cut-up bits of dried fruit. It can be called by various names, depending upon what it is composed of. I’ve seen mixtures called “Dragon Boat,” “Sweet and Savory,” “Black Forest,” “Hikers’ Delight,” and many other names, but always, with the peanuts and raisins as its starting point. It has also been called “Mountain Man’s Mix,” but I’m not sure real mountain men would ever consider munching on a handful of nuts and bits of dried fruit while hunting bears.

I’m not sure how I got immersed in this project as I’m not a dedicated hiker, kayaker or mountain climber, but I do enjoy munching my way through my trail mix while I do my urban power walks. However, in my search for the perfect mix, I have definitely developed some likes and dislikes in the mixture’s composition.  Peanuts are fine but not in great numbers as some  mixes are 3/4 peanuts and the rest bits of dried fruit. However, I have discovered that of all the nuts, peanuts stay the crunchiest when mixed with dried fruit.  Raisins are okay but only the big, plump dark ones and definitely not those small, hard, dried ones. Dark chocolate is a must-have but not those teeny-tiny mini-chips, but those large, dark buttons that are worth at least a bite and a half when they pop up in the mix. And, especially none of those dinky pieces of white chocolate since we all know white chocolate is not real chocolate. Chunks of dried fruit such as dates, mangoes, apricots and cherries are excellent–large enough to know what kind of fruit you are eating but not so miniscule that it leaves you wondering what kind of crumb you just sent down your gullet. Bite-size pieces of coconut, not the flakes, plus a handful of roasted pumpkin seeds tossed throughout. That’s my ideal trail mix.

There are mixes that have some, but not the others. So far, I have yet to find a mix that has all these ingredients. The other day I decided to scoop up one of the  mixes that looked promising. The cut-up dried apricots and big plump raisins were mingled with roasted almonds and a few peanuts. I then scooped up small separate bags of roasted pecans, dried cherries and chopped dates to later add to my original trail mix. The barrel of Callebaut dark chocolate pieces had just been refilled so a small scoop of the chunky chocolate was also added to my grocery cart.

I had taken my neighbor’s little 4 year old with me and when I told her about my “project”, her big brown eyes got bigger as she decided to make her own trail mix too. Twenty-seven dollars later, Trisha and I were walking along the beach–each of us clutching our bags of original trail mix. Mine had most of the nuts, fruit and chocolate I had been searching for. But my “apprentice” decided to strike out on her own and made her unique mix of chocolate-dipped raisins, mini-marshmallows, gummi-bears and M&M’s.

In my defence, I can only say we did have a healthy lunch and Trish’s “trail mix” did have fruit–chocolate covered or not, raisins count as fruit.