savourytraveller

Am I the only one whose reader has been exploding with post after post of outdoor concerts, berry recipes, beach photos and various other summer worshipping material? I have moments of envy for that kind of commitment to blogging, and there may be a time in my life where I feel compelled and capable of documenting all the wonders of the season online but I came to accept that 2012 would not be that year. There’s been a lot of upheaval in our lives lately. We are trying to sell our home in a down market and my work has been intensifying steadily for months, calling for long hours and changing deadlines and a lot of hopping around between being a tactician and strategist.

It was more important to our sanity and our relationship to try being present in the moment, feeling free and reflective and utterly without care for time or responsibilities whenever those opportunities presented themselves. That, for me, is what summer is about. Slowing down, appreciating the small things and being spontaneous. So, after much unproductive critical self-analysis, I’ve determined this little blog caesura to be a case of practicing what I preach.

I know that I could have come here every other day and posted photos of the shiny bulbous blackberries we picked as the sun was going down last night, or my fire engine red gumboots in the mud while I gathered eggs and made funny noises at pigs with the sweetest two-year-old girl I know, or the cloudy vibrant pints of Whistler Brewing’s Pineapple Express Wheat Ale that we drank in the backyard on Saturdays after my long runs; but what would that say about both of us? I can only hope you were out making your own summer memories and that this little post-script from me will suffice.

Silky smooth white chocolate cheesecake and creme brulee ice cream from Gray Monk winery. Made worthwhile by the candid chat, white wine, candlelight and total heart-happiness of a date with my big sis.

Having a husband who embraces being silly. Exhibit A:

And B:

And I didn’t even post the one of him pretending to pee on the Olympic rings in Whistler.

Charcuterie in the sunshine.

What could I even say?

Being in the Okanagan for our nephew’s first birthday was more special to me than I could put in words (for which I am sorry since that is the purpose of putting it in writing!) It is hard to think of any moments in life that might not be made just a teeeeensy bit lighter after burrowing kisses into the chubby, soft little neck-shoulder-ear nook of a kid who loves you. Giggles very much appreciated.

The Farmer’s market in Penticton. Because you don’t always have to rush home from vacation. Also, there was a lady running a homemade cookie stand, therefore I believe my presence to require exactly no further justification.

B.C. trails.

Total awe and funky mushrooms really clear the mind.

Channeling our inner Andrew Zimmern and diving into offal tapas.

We are now capable of properly using the terms “barnyardy” and “poopy in a good way.” How cultured of us!

The PNE:

Award winning BBQ, bacon maple gelato, and rides. It turns out that if you are having trouble getting into vacation mode, spending a few minutes on the Til-a-Whirl just might get you there.

Mr. ST would be upset if I didn’t mention how much we enjoyed also all the cock and ass…..in the farm exhibition. Geez, you foul minded jerks.

Snuggling barefoot at the Vince Vacarro concert in Whistler’s Olympic Plaza. Watching with nostalgia, tenderness and judgement at a group of care free, inebriated girls swirling and jumping and singing to each other like no one else was there, directly right in front us.

I believe this means I am getting old. It’s okay.

Wicked train wreck forest art. There are still people out there who take waste and disaster and turn it into something beautiful.

Rhubarb. Simmered with ginger, lemon zest, butter and a bit of honey and you are the greatest topping ever for greek yogurt parfaits.

Girlfriends. I am big believer in quality over quantity and mine continue to deliver.

Good runs. Doesn’t everyone just want to run away sometimes and feel alive?

Simple date nights: secret beaches, good coffee, huddling in front of the sunset.

Mutually rewarding silence.

The echoing rush of a waterfall. Makes current struggles feel positively transitory and insignificant.

All of these were moments that lightened my step, or filled me with gratitude, or gave me pause to reconsider who I am, where I am, and whether I really need to know what’s around the next corner. Our home still isn’t sold, my career continues a shaky climb, but we are still dreaming together and I am feeling the joy of seasonal change from the inside out.

Here’s to transitions.

Maybe you noticed the Savoury Traveller has gone a tad quiet lately? Although we haven’t been doing any travelling worth mentioning, we have been on the move: we put our condo on the market and moved out while we wait for it to sell. Since then we’ve been over-stimulated by setting up new routines, finding new favourite places, and getting over our post-urban shock.

Sure, we are closer to some things we love, like the Rootcellar, a Red Barn Market and a winding system of regional running trails. I am loving the night time sound of crickets and little else. I never hear the wails of a drunk chick fighting with her boyfriend outside the neighbourhood bar anymore. Gone are the marijuana and cigarette smoke wafting in from the surrounding balconies or the nearby ballpark. But unplugging from all the conveniences and sights of downtown condo life has also been jarring: making coffee at home for the morning drive after years of a ten minute two-legged commute; humping the recycling to the top of the driveway on the right day. I shit you not fellow urban dwellers, there’s a RIGHT DAY for these chores, and no there is not an industrious person waiting to take our empties when we’ve screwed this up. Lastly, we’re living in an area where the food and beverage gems are not abundant – or easily found. So naturally, when we find a place we really like, there’s not just a sense of satisfaction and a desire to share with others, but a sense of relief, a feeling we are not crazy and that, perhaps, we are among our people after all. Cherries Breakfast Bistro is one such retro oasis.

It was a particularly difficult morning. I was squawking like a sap, coming to the cold realization that fuses throughout our current space cannot handle more than one hydro-sucking task at once. No more kettle plus toaster. No more blow dryer plus straightner. It was an unfortunate blow to the efficiency of basically all my existing routines. Instead of letting me squeal and stamp and ruin Sunday, Mr. ST suggested we try this new breakfast place (thank you urbanspoon geolocator!). What better way to work on my neurotic love of efficiency than by blowing off weekend errands and just brunching my face off? He rarely wants to go for breakfast, but I believe this was a case of strategy within the strategy

We shared a platter of breakfast sliders and these lemon ricotta stuffed crepes with fruit compote and whipped cream. Whoa, mama.If you think cream cheese frosting is good, if you’re a fan of mascarpone, if you have any dairy love in your soul at all, you will want to devour these, end of story.

The breakfast sliders were essentially Mennonite sausage BLTs on a dense and spongy cibatta but the real star was the bacon marmalade on the side.

Yes, you read that right and it’s ok if you’ve already left to get in the car. It’s sticky, and studded with extra crispy bacon bits and gave an unexpected lift to everything else in the dish. It brought out the sweetness of the tomato, it set off the saltiness of the sausage, and it was a decadent counterpoint to the crunchy fresh spinach leaves. Sorry for the blurry Iphone photo.

Since this first visit, we’ve also tried their bennies, breakfast pizza, banana muffins and a few bites of the peanut butter stuffed French toast when our friends were courageous enough to order it. Notwithstanding that the French toast nearly sent me into a diabetic coma, everything we have tried there has been nothing short of impressive and worthy of a visit from Guy Fieri or any other such obnoxious Food Network host who specializes in finding happening neighbourhood haunts.

The portions here are hearty, not heaping, and the prices are reasonable considering the freshness and creativity. Dotted around the restaurant are glass pedastals with sweetly decorated muffins and huge pans of iced sticky buns. And there’s something about counter service that’s refreshingly casual. Perhaps we’ve grown accustomed to avoid weekend breakfast outings because when we lived downtown it usually meant standing in massive lines of hung over hipsters and tourists for about twice as long as it takes to eat breakfast. Counter service automatically means this line is going somewhere, fast. Ok, clearly I’m not quite ready to let go of the neurotic love of efficiency……but I’m on my way, right?