ハッピーバースデー!

Yeah, Yeah, I know what you're thinkin'. Everybody who's anybody has been to the Cake Box! (Why does that sound vaguely familiar? Why does vaguely familiar sound vaguely familiar? What can I say? I'm a hack!)

I recall my first experience visiting the Cake Box and feeling exceptionally out of place; I had just finished work, smelt of lime, fish sauce and 7Up, was in ragged, chemical splashed/bleached clothes (God bless kitchens) and was coerced by my eldest sister to tag along in order to pick out a proper colour swatch for a baptismal cake, as well as pleasant party favours that say, "Hey, man, we're Christian, my kid's going to Heaven someday, and he's got good taste in confectionary." It's always a fun novelty when people assume that when you cook, you have an insurmountable amount of knowledge about anything food. I was humble then. Now, I'm a total snob. Not connoisseur, but snob. Connoisseur implies practice, training, mastery; snob entails arrogantly assuming you know everything. I was never really arrogant; but people just stopped believing I wasn't an expert. It must have meant I was kind of an expert. I have lonely Friday nights and interest in food to thank for that.

My first experience with the pastries of the Cake Box was approximately three years ago when my sister had, from some rather wealthy friends I assume, received a birthday care package full of cupcakes from the joint. Everything from rocky road (whatever that really means for flavour) and chocolate mint. It was all down hill from there. But I say that in a good way. I was strung out on those things for days. I acted like it was no big deal, but I'd never tried anything- cakewise- more delicious. When I think of cupcakes I think of over sugared, saturated, usually dried pastries with a rather distinct- that meaning artificial- flavour. What is that artificial flavour you ask? Oh, you know it. Like the Japanese technique of KIME, it's something that must be experienced over and over again, felt by the body, before fully understood. I liken it to those decorative rose flowers put on cakes that kids always try to eat, the ones which are exceptionally chalky and usually give the eater cotton mouth, cut inner cheeks or the rare chipped tooth. That artificiality. The kind that when you first bite into something artificial and overly sweet you think, "Oh goodness, I want more!" And then you eat more and then reflect, Oh God why did I kiss her? I mean, why did I eat that much? You belly-acher, you. Now, I can't speak for the cakes, because I, unfortunately, never did get the chance to try the cake my sister bought, but I did manage to have my way with the typical short-bread-esque decorated cookie. You know? The food in the shape of food? Refer to Barthes. I can't articulate anything anymore, anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah- shortbread cookie on a stick. typical, familiar, not undelicious. But it's the cupcakes I'm after. The cupcakes I have to talk about. Flavours so faithful to the real flavours of the things they imitate, it's uncanny. Eating a chocolate mint cupcake made me wonder what came first, the cupcake or the chocolate and the mint. Was the cupcake the fruit of the chocolate mint tree? The flavours were so poignant, so real that I finally understood the notion and culinary theory of using real ingredients. We say it so often, but are the ingredients we use really "authentic" or genuine. These things made me believe it, or were so good at imitating things like lemons that I'm just another gastronomic dupe.

	Slim pickings.

For $2.25 a pop, I'd rather not know the beautiful (maybe ugly) truth. Yes, the place is pricey; yes, the place plays to the heart of puritans who watch Martha Stewart and believe they can, just by shopping and eating in the space, transform themselves into the idealized hostesses of a Victorian past. Pastels, contemporary furniture, cakes on display like out of bridal magazines, a pleasant all female staff that encourage customers to take pictures of the wonderful displays and edibles they gingerly make- but this is where I launch into a tirade. Because though it is my dream as a man to work at the Cake Box, I never can. Because the confectionary coalition of the Cake Box, I fear, enjoys the gender stereotypes that cater to a nostalgic past. When women were domesticated and therefore the only ones allowed in the culinary space. Pastels, paisley and Rococo are only things a woman can understand; the same goes for marriage, and cakes, and cute-commodified confectionaries like cookie shaped flowers, and tiny little cakes.

At least, this is exactly what I have deduced from visiting the Cake Box since its opening. Or maybe, just maybe, dear readers I'm a little bitter because I've never worked there and probably never will, sadly. Because for me, there is nothing more lovely than waking up, going into a kitchen where sweetness wafts through the air, a cup of French roast waits for me, and baking the most delicious cupcakes, as well as painstakingly putting little silver candy balls on frosted trims, talking about who's dating whom and how much I absolutely love what's going on in the world of celebrity. Oh goodness. But I'm far too manly for that. At least, that's the impression that I get. But I don't want to be too manly. I want to bake, I yearn to bake. Regrettably, I'm doomed to, like so many other customers, sit in the comfy chairs and at the conventional tables of the Cake Box, order an espresso, have a cupcake or two and watch the counter of the five young women who make more of the thing I'm eating that very moment. Like watching the girl you love kiss the guy you hate. That girl, the tenderly decorated cake; that guy, those stupid girls who have my dream job. That and working at Tsukiji as a fish monger. Okay, so I have a lot of dream jobs. But as far as I'm concerned, these kinds of double standards don't fly with me. Shoot. Hiring only women to contribute to an image, or make a space seem more welcoming. Phhh. They don't even say hello when you come in. They just look up and rock paper scissors to see who's gonna be the unlucky one to take the next order. If it were my place, I'd force them to all say hello; and if they didn't, like some English lady of the house I'd say, "say 'hello' girls." And then the girls would say, "Hello girls" and we'd all have a laugh. That's at least welcoming. But I'm not insinuating anything. I just hope I'm wrong and places don't hire based on ridiculous prejudices, not in the great equal West anyway. No way. My maleness can't work against me. Absolutely not. That's crazy. It's probably for the best I don't work at the place anyway. I'd eat the owner out of house and home. Literally; I heard they live on the upper floor of the cake shop.

At least, like some sad Bourgesian character I can go, buy a cupcake once in a while, put it in a nice little package, give it to a friend for their birthday, and live vicariously through the girls who tenderly package it for me.

All in all, the Cake Box isn't a bad place, not in the least. I can't say I've found a better place with more delicious cupcakes in the entire city. Pricey but expected. It keeps the unserious customers out. But this is at least one place that lives up to the old cliché that you get what you pay for.

So that's that. Yes, it's been around for a while, it does well, and there's probably been a billion other pieces written about. But none from this fella's mouth. None this real like the city it's situated in (Oh? Don't get the allusion? Guess you're not a fan then), none this honest; and for that, I make no apology (why does THAT sound vaguely familiar too?).

The Cake Box271 King Street West
Kitchener, ON N2G 1B1
(519) 579-6230
 

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Wild Leek Love

	Allium tricoccum, or unnerdily known as ramps!

I’ve been lucky enough this past year to be blessed with the company of a fellow food fanatic in my program- what’s that? Where have I been these past two months? Oh, y’know . . . around . . . eating. Apologies, dear readers. It will probably happen again, but not for a long time. I’d rather be honest. But I digress. As I was saying, I’ve been lucky enough to be blessed with the company of a fellow foodie; and after spending a hectic month or so blazing through papers about nothing else but food and food culture, I was happy to apply some theory to practice. Ecstatic, actually- if you really must know. So, aside from the typical restaurant excursion, many of which I went on I assure you, I did something truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly outrageous (to quote JEM). Said food comrade, whom hereon in shall be referred to as Guenther, introduced me to the wonderful world of wild leeks, otherwise known as ramps. Yes, yes, I know. Anyone who’s anybody in the fancy food world knows what wild leeks are. And if you don’t well, pshaw. Foodie, you are not. Well, in retrospect if that’s the case, then foodie I am. Because it took us a solid two days to forage for these little babies, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Guenther had loved wild leeks for a long, long time and I had not known about leeks for a long, long time until Guenther and I, before going out to lunch one day and venting our frustrations about Gramsci, hegemony and food (I know, right?), made sure to stop by the local farmer’s market (otherwise known as the St. Jacob’s Farmer’s market- of which I am not a diehard fan. Unfortunate? I don’t think so. It’s overrated, especially when a Mennonite sells you ‘locally grown’ food with a sticker that says it comes from Cali- Forn- I. A., but we’ll have to save that for another post) for the little jewels themselves, where I was, upon being given a bunch of roughly five runty stalks that resembled green onions except with maroon coloured stalks and flat shiny leaves for ends, inducted into the garlic-y, onion-y flavor hall of fame. Granted, they were good. For 4 dollars a bunch though, they weren’t great. I could understand however, the rarity and therefore kind of Bourdieuian cultural capital associated with getting something that only grows in the wild, in secret forests 2 out of 12 months in the year. Not necessarily illegal in Ontario, and super abundant in the US of A, but illegal for sale due to over harvesting in Quebec, ramps are a treasure for any food snob. And I admit, I did look forward to hunting down a batch, even if a small one. So, by brook and stream and bridge and driving in circles in the country (twice), and stopping at antique shops and roadside bake sales, we looked for spots to park the car, snuck on properties, waded through water, felt very spiritual, thought we saw ghosts, and finally, without proper gear, came across a spot. Only one. Actually, our third visited forest was the success. I mean, we could have found other spots if we looked harder (that’s a little foreshadowing for y’all), but we thought one underappreciated spot was enough. Actually, it was more than enough, way more than enough even for irresponsible foraging. But responsible we were. And this is how we were. I will tell you. Right. Now.


Serendipitously getting a good feeling that since there are plenty of forests surrounding the Waterloo Region and plenty of farms you’re bound to find ramps somewhere even if it means crossing a farmer’s land and potentially getting shot at (but not really). Regardless, it’s always good to be a sustainable forager, because ramps have not yet, for whatever reason, been domesticated. Good or bad- you could argue both. If you like adventure, good; if you like accessible ingredients, bad. But then, where’s the magic? Where’s the satisfaction of feeling like you worked hard for your meal at the end of the day? Hm? Exactly. I thought so. So, here’s a good rule of thumb. Don’t be greedy when sniffing out ramps. That’s right, I said sniffing. If in doubt, smell them out. Ramps are easy to identify by simply smelling them. They smell like garlic or onions or both. They grow in bunches, look like the beginnings of garden flowers- long flat waxy leaves before buds- and have purple stocks. Like many, many other plants. So, it’s easy to confuse a wild ramp with something like a Lily of the Valley- if you try really hard. Because once you find a patch, you’ll be instilled with some magical quality that allows you to find them everywhere. I mean, everywhere. SO everywhere that when we were through with our first hunt, I took my dog for a walk and ironically found some in the yard of someone in the neighbourhood. Talk about right under your nose. I tells ya, people just don’t know. Or care. But that’s okay. More for me. And you. But only if we’re responsible of course, because from what I’ve read, if you pull too many out of a bunch, they don’t grow back, numbers dwindle and *poof* they’re gone for good. That’s what happened in Quebec. Not to a point of extinction, but to a point that they cannot be bought or sold and if found, only fifty bulbs are allowed per stomach. True story. I read it on the internetz. So, how EXACTLY does one forage responsibly?

	Ramp pesto compliments of Guenther

Since Guenther and I never foraged for ramps before we made sure to spend a good night watching videos, reading books, and talking to scientists about how to properly gather ramps so we could gather more next year. Then we went hunting and when we found some, remembered what we had learned and applied even more strict rules while in the field, like mapping out the forest and zigzagging from top to bottom to make sure we didn’t visit any patches twice, as well as picking the largest ramps from the outsides of patches, and NEVER picking one bulb from one part of a patch and one from another.Why? Well, I argue better to take 3 from a group of four and leaving 1 to spawn rather than 1 from three sets of 4, because if I damage the root system those three sets might die, compared to only one set where 3 leeks were picked. This is important dear readers- you must pay close attention here. Yes, ramps resemble green onions, and therefore have roots and grow seeds, but those seeds grow in very specific conditions. From what I remember, a particular temperature activates an enzyme in the seed that causes it to wake and stay “aware” during the winter months where the minute change in weather in the early spring causes another change which allows the seed to start growing into a stalk. Sometimes seeds lay dormant for up to two years before growing. BUT, when they do grow they create something called a root ball, which resembles a teenie tiny celery root. The brain of the leeky limbs. If you take away the leek, breaking it off at the base of the bulb, don’t worry if you don’t get the “roots” to come along, you’ll only cut them off afterwards anyway; or even if you cut the leek with a pair of sheers as close to the bulb’s bottom as possible, you manage to save the root ball/brain which allows the plant to, apparently, re-spawn without the seed. But I don’t claim to be no scientist, so better safe than sorry, especially when rare foodstuff is involved; the same goes for endangered species (which one could very well argue are food in and of themselves- shame on me!). There’s a reason for these kinds of rules however, because like superstitions, rules make sure things stay policed and stay safe. But let’s leave that kind of stuff for Althusser, shall we?

	The rarest of the rare. White ramps!

To be even safer, regardless of the abundance, Guenthy and I made sure to pick no more than 6 from a patch (patches had, I estimated, at most 50 bulbs), and if we broke a stalk that counted as a pull. Also, if you make a mess trying to uproot them, clean up and try to make it as it was before. Don’t destroy the habitat. Never use a shovel to loosen the soil. Yes, wild leeks may be hardy because they’re “wild” but if they’re anything like garden vegetables, if you budge the soil, chances are, they’ll go the way of the vege-sauruses. Use a tuck trowel, not a spade or a spade like trowel. Too wide, too dangerous. When harvesting the ramps try to position the tuck trowel just under the bulb and feel/listen for snapping roots. That means you’re breaking the ramp off of the group. Wild leeks curve at the bottom, you can’t pull them straight up like domesticated leeks. If you uproot it and that root ball comes with, shame on you: you’ve successfully contributed to the destruction of one more magical foodstuff. You may as well go club baby seals while you’re at it. And if you break the bulb and it’s ugly. Oh well, throw your pride to the dogs. Take what Mama Earth gives. Your first couple of tries will be difficult, but be patient. I assume you will be. it’s a certain kind of person, after all, that says: Dude, let’s go forage today! Contrary to popular belief, ramps grow in loads of different soils and places, not just sandy and by water, like some web pages might say. We followed a river for an hour and forest that surrounded it finding nothing. And the ramps we dug came from some pretty tough dirt, so we broke a good bunch of bulbs, but felt good about it, because we could expect more next year. And of course when you find your spot, take a few the first time eat them and see if they make you feel wonky. And then come back like Guenther and I did the next day. If foragers were as responsible as we were, we wouldn’t have to worry about those leeky babies goin’ anywhere. To conclude, ramps grow roughly from late March to early June. So, one could ideally make more than one venture, always taking the oldest. I wouldn’t recommend more than once a month. Freeze what you don’t use. Jam what you don’t use. Pickle what you don’t use. Don’t let these rampies go to waste, especially since you know how much they sell for. New York Times called them the new arugula. Whatever that means. I wouldn’t recommend ramps raw. But hey, that’s just picky, fatheaded me. And if you find yourself gathering a lot, give them away to people who approach food as a way of life, not as something to stave off hunger. Let them eat cake (or brioche). Ramps are very versatile. Another good rule of thumb is: where green onions go, ramps are sure to follow. That is, you can use ramps as a substitute. We made pasta, mashed potatoes, ramp pizza, pesto. I’m making kimchi later.

Oh, and before I go- if you find a bunch of white ramps, make a wish, because even more dreams may come true. ダブル　ラブ。

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MUTINY!

That damned teashop sold me out! If it wasn't bad enough that tea all over this city is gentrified, the damned place I used to buy tea from moved to the damned brownfields and now charges a small fortune for the only jasmine I thought worth drinking. Don't get me wrong- I don't hate brownfields, they're great solutions to urban sprawl. What I hate is a city's tendency to shake people out like Robert F*ckin' Moses! Damn rich people. Damn Waterloo. They didn't give two shits when tea wasn't cool. Now it's all they need to get laid. Bastards.

I make no apologies.

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