This much is clear. The iconic butter tart is everything a dessert should be.
It is more proof that nothing succeeds like excess. It commits unabashedly to over-the-top, tooth-aching, sugary sweetness. Julia Child would heartily endorse its endorsement of butter. It pays no heed to the currently popular culinary buzzword “healthful.” In a nutshell, it lives up to all the prerequisites of its much-loved confectionery genre.
Kensington Market: my neighbourhood, my family – my first real home.
Located in the heart of downtown Toronto bordered by College and Dundas to the north and south, to the east and west by Spadina and Bathurst, this unique enclave is a quirky, edgy, messy mish-mosh of old and new.
My recent annual visit to London (U.K.) was the best yet. And, as a long-time defender of British food – yes, this in the face of doubters and haters who think gray roast meat and overcooked brussels sprouts typify that island’s grub – even I was surprised at the high quality of chow (almost) everywhere we ate.
The last and only time I had been to San Francisco was in 1968, a year after the so-called summer of love.
My then-husband John Kane had a friend living in Haight Ashbury which I recall as a hotbed of head-shops, tie-dye T-shirts, peace symbols and crunchy granola. I also recall buying my first item of vintage clothing in that lively neighborhood: a fur jacket that I wore until it fell apart and was the bellwether of a sartorial style that is my chosen one to this day.
