Foodists

Sunday nights are generally reserved for something a little special, slow cooked roasts or something more elaborate inspired by whatever I was able to get my hands on at the farmers’ market or Granville Island, but…

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My love for Mexican cuisine started at the tender age of 17, when en route to Mazatlan, we stopped at a remote village somewhere just west of Torreón and entered a ramshackle hut where, amidst the dust of the road, I was…

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It is Sunday morning, one of those rare, sunny January days where brunch plans have been cancelled last minute and I haven’t made it out to do my grocery shopping. A quick glance in my fridge is less than inspiring;…

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Potatoes are one of those foods that somehow make me feel just a little guilty, mashed, baked, roasted, gnocci’ed, it doesn’t really matter. Like pasta, the sheer pleasure of consuming whatever varietal of…

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Stroganoff was one of the first recipes I learned through instinct, passed onto my mother through my Uncle Mike, a Ukranian neighbor in Calgary (who was also responsible for my early addiction to homemade perogies). It…

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