Granville Island Public Market

A short walk and one bridge away from my apartment is Vancouver’s Granville Island Public Market. So when the Culinary Historians of Canada chose “markets” as this month’s topic for the Canada 150 Food Blog Challenge, I knew it was time to do some literary fare research on the surrounding neighbourhood of False Creek.

Whether it’s a weekend or weekday, the Granville Island Public Market is abuzz with summer tourists, foodie walking tours, and local shoppers relishing the sun after a rainy spring. Ranked as one of Canada’s most popular tourist attractions, the public market is what I would describe as a “must see, must taste” place.

Wandering through the market, you’ll discover seasonal produce towering in the aisles. Everything is within reach: fresh halibut from Haida Gwaii, fine cheeses, and artisanal chocolates. If you’re ever nostalgic for Montreal (as I tend to be), there are authentic bagels served warm from a flame oven.

But when you peer beyond the cornucopia of today’s Granville Island Public Market, you encounter multiple histories in this space. Writers in Canada have played a significant role in giving voice to these realities.

Granville Island is located on the traditional Indigenous territories of the Musqueam, Tsleil Watuth, and Squamish First Nations.

In her narrative essay “Goodbye, Snauq”, writer Lee Maracle, a member of the Stó:lo Nation, recounts how the Squamish resided year round at Snauq (now called False Creek) since the early 1820s. For time immemorial, Snauq “was a common garden shared by all the friendly tribes in the area…. On the sandbar Musqueam, Tsleil Watuth, and Squamish women tilled oyster and clam beds…. Wild cabbage, mushrooms and other plants were tilled and hoed as well. Summer after summer the nations gathered to harvest” (119).

Looking west across False Creek from 7th Avenue and Birch Street [ca. 1890] Photograph shows a house at 1304 West Seventh Avenue, the Granville Street Bridge, C.P.R. Kitsilano Trestle Bridge and Squamish village of Snauq. Photo Credit: City of Vancouver Archives AM54-S4-: Van Sc P58. Photographer: W. Chapman

In 1913, the Squamish people who were living near the south end of today’s Burrard Street bridge were manipulated and forced out of their homes and off their land by settler society. (Barman) The Squamish people’s unjust removal precipitated the Island’s construction, since the sandbar, or Snauq, to which Lee Maracle refers, was eventually built up and turned into Granville Island.

Today, if you head west from Granville Island, walking along the seawall and underneath the Burrard Street bridge, you will pass one of Vancouver Public Library’s Literary Landmarks that pays tribute to Lee Maracle and to her story “Goodbye, Snauq”.

Lee Maracle makes clear that the “Snauq supermarket” of locally sourced and cultivated food was eventually destroyed by Vancouver’s industrial development and urban settlement. (121) The inlet known today as “False Creek” was reduced in size and polluted by garbage, toxic chemical waste, and human sewage. (118)

Granville Island, Vancouver, 1932. Credit: City of Vancouver Archives, CVA 20-67

Reminders of this industrial chapter of Granville Island’s colonial history are readily visible when you visit the market. Many of the original buildings remain but have been refurbished to house the food market, artists’ studios, community centres, and shops.

Next door to the Edible Canada restaurant is a small parkade that was once the Canada Chain & Forge Company (est. 1922). A large piece of chain is affixed inside the parkade wall, a leftover discovered after the company vacated the property.

Today, one of the last remaining heavy-industry tenants is Ocean Concrete, which has been operating on the island since 1917.

Ocean Concrete’s silos, titled “Giants”, were painted by Os Gemeos, two Brazilian street artists, in 2014.

If you’d like a sense of Granville Island’s industrial past, I’d recommend Al Purdy’s visceral poem “Piling Blood”, which recounts memories of strenuous manual labour. During the Depression, Ontario-born Purdy “rode the rails” to Vancouver in search of work. One of his jobs was at Arrow Transfer on Granville Island, piling 75-pound paper bags of “powdered blood” from butchered cattle.

Memorial statue of Alfred Purdy in Queen’s Park, Toronto, by Edwin and Veronica Dam de Nogales. Photo Credit: Photo by Shaun Merritt, Creative Commons

In the poem, Purdy remembers that the blood meal (used as fertilizer) tended to “belly out / from the bags in brown clouds” and “settle on your sweating face” (13). Purdy’s other job at the time was working at Burns’ slaughterhouse on East Hastings Street. So between the “blood smell” that clung to his clothes and the “screams / of dying cattle”, Purdy recalls a haunting time living in Vancouver in the 1930s, a time when he “wrote no poems” (15).

Eventually, “Industrial Island” was transformed into the Granville Island Public Market, which opened its doors to the public in 1979. Today, the market is a food lover’s paradise. More than anything, though, the storied memories are what give shape and meaning to Snauq and Granville Island, revealing the complex and troubling histories of Canada’s past 150 years and beyond.

Barman, Jean. “Erasing Indigenous Indigeneity in Vancouver.” BC Studies 155 (2007): 3-30. Canadian Business & Current Affaires Database. Web.

Maracle, Lee. “Goodbye, Snauq.” West Coast Line 42.2 (Summer 2008): 117-125. Print.

Purdy, Al. “Piling Blood.” Piling Blood. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1984. 13-15. Print.

 

Text and Photo Credits (except where indicated): Shelley Boyd

Asha Jain’s Aloo Gobi

When the Culinary Historians of Canada announced that May’s topic for the Canada 150 Food Blog Challenge was “Food from Mother,” the timing was perfect. At the beginning of May, I was busy preparing a conference paper for an upcoming trip to Toronto, and at the same time shopping for ingredients at specialty grocery stores around Vancouver. The two activities were related, because I was both researching and cooking from a Canadian play: Asha and Ravi Jain’s A Brimful of Asha (2012).

A Brimful of Asha traces the story of the Jain family when Asha and her husband attempted to arrange a marriage for their son, Ravi. Originally produced by Ravi Jain’s Toronto theatre company, Why Not Theatre, A Brimful of Asha has toured across Canada and internationally with Asha and Ravi performing as themselves. You can see this mother-son duo on stage this summer if you happen to be planning a trip to New York City. A Brimful of Asha is part of Soulpepper Theatre’s 20th-anniversary tour of eight productions that are heading to New York’s Pershing Square Signature Centre from June 29 to July 29, 2017.  The tour nicely coincides with Canada’s 150th.

Back in 2014, I was lucky enough to attend a performance of A Brimful of Asha at Vancouver’s Arts Club Theatre on Granville Island. My Canadian drama students were captivated, particularly when Asha and Ravi welcomed the audience with a platter of warm samosas, and later graciously signed the students’ copies of the play when the performance ended. The published play extends this spirit of generosity by offering two recipes—for Aloo Gobi and Rajma— “from the Kitchen of Asha Jain”.

In the play, Asha relates her side of the story: how she very much wants her son Ravi to marry, to have a family, and to be happy. According to Asha, everything in life has “its charm at a certain time” (30). During the family’s original dispute, Ravi was single, in his late twenties, and nearing his “expiration date” for marriage. Time was of the essence, but Ravi only wanted to focus on his career. If you would like to know how this family conflict unfolds, I encourage you to see or read the play!

When you cook Asha’s recipes, you appreciate her motherly care. For Asha, timing is critical.  Adding spices is followed by waiting, and then stirring. Followed by more adding, waiting, and stirring. Attentive patience yields the best results, both in the kitchen and in life.  My hope is that in addition to her recent theatre career, Asha will consider a future role as cookbook author. Her Aloo Gobi and Rajma are stage-worthy.

Asha Jain’s Aloo Gobi (adapted from A Brimful of Asha):


Ingredients:

  • ½ head of cauliflower
  • 1 potato
  • ¼ cup of canola oil or ghee
  • 1 tbsp. cumin seeds
  • 1 tbsp. cilantro powder
  • 1 tsp. paprika
  • 1 tsp. salt
  • 1 tsp. turmeric
  • ½ tsp. mango powder (or lime juice — please see note below)
  • ½ tsp. garam masala
  • fresh cilantro (garnish)

Steps:

  1. Heat ghee on low heat. Add cumin seeds and cook for 30 seconds.
  2. Add cauliflower and potato (both chopped into bite-sized pieces) and stir until mixed and coated. Cover and cook on low heat for 5 minutes.
  3. Sprinkle cilantro powder, paprika, salt, and turmeric on top, but do not stir! Cover and cook for 5 minutes on low heat.
  4. Stir in spices until combined. Then cover and cook until cauliflower and potato are cooked through, stirring now and then.
  5. Sprinkle mango powder or lime juice* (*read note below) and garam masala on top, but do not stir! Cover and cook for 2 minutes on low heat and then combine.
  6. Garnish with cilantro and serve.

*NOTE: After trying 4 different Vancouver grocers, I had no luck finding mango powder, so I substituted with 1 tbsp. lime juice. My search for mango powder continues, as I will definitely be making this dish again.

Jain, Asha and Ravi Jain. A Brimful of Asha. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2012.

Text and Photographs: Shelley Boyd

“Tea Cosy Cafe”

Here at Canadian Literary Fare, when someone mentions “the first fresh foods of spring,” we dream of asparagus.

dreaming of asparagus

At this time of year, grocery stores are stocked full of these green, purplish-tinged bundles, making this vegetable perfect for the Culinary Historians of Canada April edition of the Canada 150 Food Blog Challenge. Before this springtime bounty disappears and April comes to an end, collaboration is key. From Alexia’s Montreal kitchen and my Vancouver desk, we offer some impressions of the creative life of the asparagus – how it has inspired writers and artists at home and abroad.

Arguably the most famous literary asparagus appears in French author Marcel Proust’s multi-volume À la recherche du temps perdu, translated as In Search of Lost Time, or Remembrance of Things Past (1913-1927). Proust cheekily describes these vegetables as celestial creatures —disguised goddesses who make their presence known long after one has eaten!

Literary critic James P. Gilroy tells us that Proust endeavoured “to discern the essence of things beyond their external covering,” as his “impressionistic description” was a tribute to Édouard Manet’s famous asparagus paintings Bunch of Asparagus, 1880 and Asparagus, 1880. (98)

Bunch of Asparagus

Asparagus

Numerous food writers have recounted Proust’s allusion to Manet (see The Rambling Epicure), curated creative recipes and interpretations of Manet’s still-lifes (see Megan Fizell’s Feasting on Art), and even explained the aromatic effects of this vegetable (see Sara David’s “Asparagus Pee Investigation” from First We Feast).

These connections between food and art, food and memory, and food and the body are certainly at the heart of Manitoban writer Sarah Klassen’s poem “Tea Cosy Cafe” from Dangerous Elements.*

Klassen’s asparagus poem is a Canadian reinvention of Proust’s magical description and Manet’s still-life paintings.

“Tea Cosy Cafe” opens with two adults ordering a health-conscious lunch: asparagus crepes, “without the béchamel,” and a side salad; a tuna sandwich, “no mayo,” and a peppermint tea.

The asparagus instantly summons memories of the speaker’s childhood. Suddenly there are images of her mother in a kitchen, working “quickly as if she’s running out of time.” It’s a spontaneous and transformative moment of recall where food becomes art, and the past becomes immediate and alive, related in the present tense.

eat your greens

snap off the woody bits

The mother stirs the cream and butter until it “bubbles in the pot.” Now, she “arranges buttered toast” and “piles it” with steamed asparagus tips taken from her garden. Next, she chops boiled eggs and “pours hot sauce / extravagantly over everything.”

roast in oven at 400 degrees for 15 minutes

Toast with bechamel and cheddar

The mother knows little of French culinary culture. She has never heard the words “béchamel,” “crepes,” or even “cholesterol.” Yet for her children-turned-adults, the meal remains a dark, sensuous magic served on mismatched plates. The remembered black coffee poured into “a chipped cup.”

serve on a mouse-shaped cutting board

As Canada’s spring of 2017 arrives and quickly passes, Klassen’s poem offers a verbal impression of asparagus memories from a decadent yet humble childhood, where “food is poetry and / dangerous” – and still shaping the now ascetic present.

Recipe Note from Alexia:

Try baking your asparagus at 400 degrees F for 15 minutes. Also, try putting the bechamel directly onto the bread and broiling it (with some added cheddar) for 5 minutes. Finally, Shelley suggested a lightly poached egg in place of the chopped egg. I think she’s absolutely right.

Or eat two of them

*If you’d like to read an earlier version of Klassen’s entire poem, see “Tea Cosy” in the open access journal Canadian Literature, volume 146, Autumn 1995, p. 85.

Gilroy, James P. “Food, Cooking, and Eating in Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu. Twentieth Century Literature, Vol. 33, No. 1 (Spring 1987), pp. 98-109, Jstor.

Klassen, Sarah. “Tea Cosy Cafe.” Dangerous Elements, Quarry Press, 1998, p. 39.

 

Text by Shelley Boyd

Photographs (except where indicated) by Alexia Moyer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fresh Eggs and Polenta Chips

The CHC’s Canada 150 Blog Challenge for the month of February is: doing without. Last week, Shelley sought advice on the matter from the redoubtable sisters of the backwoods, Catherine Parr Traill and Susanna Moodie. This week, Licia Canton has contributed another story of emigration: from sunny Cavarzere, in the province of Venice to Montreal- North. This is a story about missing home (and eggs fresh from the chicken coop).

by Licia Canton

I have always felt the need to go back “home” – to retrieve the tastes and smells I left behind in my hometown of Cavarzere, in the province of Venice. I was only four years old when my family moved to a basement apartment in Montreal-North. I missed the sunny, rural setting we left behind. I cried a lot that first year.

I cried on my fifth birthday in February 1968. There’s a silent film of me in front of a big cake. My father is encouraging me to blow out the five candles but all I can do is cry. Maybe it was the room full of people from our hometown, none of whom were related to me. Maybe I cried because the cake did not look like the one I had had on my fourth birthday. Maybe I was just unhappy after being uprooted and replanted in a foreign land at an early age.

They say I was a talkative and adventurous child in Italy. But in Canada I missed my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I missed a whole town full of people who knew who I was and who escorted me back home whenever I ventured to the piazza on my Graziella, the little white and blue bicycle I still have 50 years later. That bicycle was the symbol of my freedom. I could go anywhere, and I was safe. In Montreal, I was cooped up in a tiny, cold apartment. My parents wouldn’t let me go out to play. Big cars went by fast, even on des Récollets Street where we lived. I couldn’t play in the backyard because it was reserved for the owner of the duplex who lived upstairs.

licia-on-bike-1966

I especially missed the foods that I was used to in Cavarzere, those my mother couldn’t replicate. The bananas purchased at Steinberg’s grocery store did not taste like the bananas in Italy. They were big and odourless. The oranges felt like plastic. They didn’t taste right either. Cherries were hard to come by. My mother purchased red and green candied cherries one time. I still recall my frustration at the sight of them. That’s not what I wanted. I did not say so because I was sure my mother had spent a pretty penny for them. She ended up making a cake with them.

Mostly, I missed my daily breakfast routine. I fed myself because my mother was busy with my baby sister, three years my junior. Every morning I went into the warm, smelly chicken coop. The rickety door alerted the chickens, and they all scattered about when I walked in. I looked into every nest before choosing my egg. It was always a little dirty but very warm in my hand. Tap, tap. I cracked it open and drank it on the spot. Yes, there were eggs at Steinberg’s and at the dépanneur at the corner of des Récollets and Prieur streets, just a short walk from our basement home. But they were cold and spotless. Not what I was used to. My mother appeased me by making sbattutino.

Back then, I also missed my grandmother’s polenta crusts: ƚe croste del paroƚo as we call them in Venetian dialect. Every day Nonna Gemma made a big pot (paroƚo) of polenta for her numerous family members. Once the huge polenta was laid out to be eaten, the residue dried up in the pot. She let me scrape the crusts. I liked the polenta chips more than the polenta itself. The chips were a treat for me.

My mother made polenta in Montreal, but she did not have my grandmother’s copper pot. There were no polenta chips to scrape off. I was disappointed whenever I saw the pot soaking in sink.

In the early years, every time I came back to Montreal after having vacationed in my hometown I had to get used to the fruit again. For a long time, that bowl of fruit at the centre of my mother’s table provoked a sense of loss in me.

That is no longer the case today. In recent years, I have seen similar bowls of fruit in the homes I’ve visited in Italy. Italians, too, buy fruit at the supermarket. They also buy ready-made polenta.

Even today, when I am sad or disappointed I crave my mother’s sbattutino. Of course, it is not the same colour as the sbattutino she made for me with eggs from the chicken coop. But I cannot complain about my parents’ decision to emigrate. I know now that it was the right decision: it gave us all a new beginning and many years of happiness. I have gotten over my sadness. And I am also grateful that my early childhood memories are so full.

Text and Photo by Licia Canton