Pitaless Cravings

Tags

cravings, food, pitas, pregnancy, restaurants, the pita house, Vancouver, wolfville

I didn’t have a lot of cravings in my last pregnancy, other than a brief longing for all things red. 

That was mostly because I was too nauseous to really enjoy eating much of anything.

I’m a little queasy this time, but I definitely have a craving.

It’s something I’ve craved before.

In the small town of Wolfville, Nova Scotia, there is a tiny little pita and juice bar with about three tables in it. It used to be called The Main Squeeze until they noticed that their pitas were more popular than their fancy juices. So now they’re called The Pita House.

They have this chicken club pita that tastes like God.

This is a picture of a SMALL. The large is DOUBLE THIS SIZE.

It’s a giant pita stuffed to overflowing with chicken breast, and bacon, and cheddar, and onion, and romaine lettuce, just DRIPPING in creamy garlic parmesan sauce.

Oh, and they’re ENORMOUS. An 8 dollar large gets you two meals.

AND I WANT ONE.

Now, mind you, I always want one. Every time I am back in Nova Scotia for a visit I go to get a fix. Last time I was home was a year ago, when my Aunt was sick. I was only around for a couple of days, so I ended up making a desperate phone call the morning I left for the airport. When the manager (who recognizes me whenever I come in) answered the phone I was so relieved.

“Oh GOOD, you’re open!”

“Actually, no, I’m just prepping, we don’t open for another hour,” she said.

“No! I’ll be at the airport by then!”

“Aw, swing on down now, I’ll make you one. What do you need?”

That woman is an angel.

Unfortunately, angelic as she may be, there’s still no way for her to make me a pita from the other side of the continent, which means that I have a PROBLEM.

Vancouver has a LOT of restaurants. Like, A LOT. In fact, I’m really not sure how it sustains that number of sushi joints. In a two minute drive from my house, I can think of FIVE sushi joints, just off the top of my head.

But do you know what I don’t have within a two minute drive?

A pita joint.

You know what I don’t have within a 20 minute drive from my house?

A PITA JOINT.

It makes no sense that a place as obsessed with healthy food as Vancouver (where they even put lettuce in donairs) doesn’t serve pitas.

I stopped a four, count them, FOUR, sandwich places today. NONE OF THEM sold pitas. Only one sold wraps, and those were pre-wrapped things on a glass shelf generically labelled “lunch wrap”.

And do you think I could stand the thought of eating ANYTHING else for lunch?

Nope.

Didn’t want McDonald’s. Didn’t want pasta. Didn’t even want a BLT sandwich.

I wanted a garlicky, creamy, chickeny, bacony PITA.

So I had to drive for a HALF AN HOUR today to find a pita place, because for some reason there are THREE pita places all within a few blocks from each other in Burnaby, even though there are NO OTHER PITA PLACES for a 40 minute drive in any direction.

First there was the awkward explanation to the staff about what I wanted, since they didn’t actually make it.

They were very understanding. The word “pregnant” has that effect on young twenty-something women. They think they’re seeing their future, and it makes them afraid.

Anyway, they sold me a chicken caesar pita but let me personalize it from their subway-esque make-your-own-wrap bar. Then they suggested combining schwarma sauce with caesar dressing, since they didn’t have garlic parmesan.

I tipped them.

I drove another half hour home and gobbled the damn thing. It was good. But it wasn’t GREAT. It wasn’t stuffed. It wasn’t dripping. It had way less chicken.

But I take what I can get.

Problem is, I want MORE. In fact, I want nothing else.

And I can’t drive an hour to get a pita or two every day.

Oh, and I hear what you’re asking – why not make my own, right?

I’m wiped. I’m just, like, completely exhausted all the time. I don’t even have the energy to sweep the floor. The house is a mess. I feel drugged. I find myself longing to curl up on the floor of a run on a dog bed at work (I don’t, though).

Just the thought of trying to put together a pita makes me want to go have a lie down.

…First world problems are hard.

NO EAT IT!

Tags

cats, food, funny, kids, toddlers

Food seems to be a shared obsession in my house.

Not only do PH and I have food issues, but our dog and cat constantly act like they have never been fed, ever.

Inexplicably Loved Cat is possibly the worst offender. When he was 12 weeks old, he stole a hunk of gouda out of the fridge, took off with it down the hall, had the plastic wrap off of it and ate most of it before Perfect Husband chased him down.

He is particularly obsessed with carbs, especially corn based products. If you have a bag of Smart Food, you cannot get him off of your lap.

It’s totally bizarre, because cats are carnivores, who don’t even digest carbohydrates properly. It’s like a horse being obsessed with meat.

Anyway, Owl has learned that his food just isn’t safe if he leaves it unattended.

After a couple of traumatic incidents where he returned to his cereal bowl to find that the food had disappeared, Owl has become hypervigilant about the cat.

If he needs to go potty while eating, he spends the entire time worrying about his food.

“Kitty no eat my food!”

“I won’t let Kitty eat your food. He’s not even in the room.”

“NO EAT MY FOOD, KITTY!”

“Owl, honey, he’s not even here. Let’s go potty.”

While he’s peeing he will point warningly at the slumbering cat and said “YOU STAY! NO EAT MY FOOD!”

“He is asleep. He isn’t eating your food.”

“No eat my food. No! STAY ‘WAY!”

“He is UNCONSCIOUS. YOUR FOOD IS SAFE.”

Owl is under the assumption that our cat is a ravenous beast, willing to consume anything and everything. Much like Owl, in a way.

If Inexplicably Loved Cat sniffs ANYTHING, Owl will storm in saying “No, Kitty! No eat it!”

The cat has been warned off from eating Owl’s coat, Owl’s hat, Owl’s boots, THE COUCH, and even the TV remote control, which Owl felt was in such peril from the cat’s depredations that he personally chased the cat away from it.

Between the cat eating our electronics and the dog drinking Owl’s pee, apparently nothing is safe from the ravenous appetites of the inhabitants of this house.

It’s surprising we still have a roof over our head, really.

OM NOM NOM

I EAT IT (Or, My Toddler’s Romance With Food)

Tags

babies, eating habits, food, play, sharing, toddlers, toys

When I was pregnant, I worried a lot about how my eating habits might affect the baby. 

I have some… food issues.

I didn’t want Owl to be another carb addict like me. 

On the bright side, he isn’t showing signs of having my obsession with potatoes and rice and pasta, but that’s only because it is eclipsed by his general obsession with all things that are edible.

He’s an equal opportunist feeder, who gobbles everything that slows down in front of him. He has been like this since he was born, considering that he was permanently attached to my booba for the first year and a half of his life, and that there are basically no foods that he will refuse to eat.

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He eats like a hobbit.

Waste Not, Love Not

Tags

food, love, marriage, relationships

A couple of months ago:

Perfect Husband: “Carol, why are there two waffles in the garbage?”

Me: “I made them and then realized we were out of butter.”

Perfect Husband: “So you THREW THEM AWAY?”

Me: “Yes.”

Perfect Husband: “Because waffles with syrup BUT NO BUTTER are inedible?”

Me: “Yep. The butter is a vital component of waffle eating.”

Perfect Husband: “How can you waste food like that?”

Me: “Would you eat something you didn’t want rather than just throw it away?”

Perfect Husband: “Yes!! I can’t just THROW FOOD AWAY.”

Me: “Why would I eat a high calorie fattening meal if I wouldn’t even enjoy it? Either way it’s a waste.”

Perfect Husband: “You and I are, in some ways, very different people.”

Yesterday:

Perfect Husband: “So, while you were at your friend’s house for dinner, I decided to eat hot dogs.”

Me: “Oh?”

Perfect Husband: “So I defrosted two hot dog buns. Then I took out the wieners, and I realized that they were two weeks expired. So I took out the OTHER wieners, and found that they were a month expired. So I took out the OTHER OTHER wieners, and they were TWO MONTHS expired.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Perfect Husband: “…So I THREW THE BUNS AWAY.”

Me: “…But why not just put the buns back?”

Perfect Husband: Because I’d already toasted them and put cheese on them.”

A moment of silence.

Perfect Husband: “…I HAVE BEEN HOISTED WITH MY OWN PETARD.”

Me: “I love you.”

Carbs, Glorious Carbs: Our Day At The PNE

Tags

family outings, food, PNE, the ex, the fair, tourism, Vancouver

A year ago, I dragged my pregnant butt down to the Fair at the Pacific National Exhibition, and waddled around in the sun all day with Perfect Husband. I was 9 months pregnant, due to go into labour at any second, and determined not to miss my chance for mini donuts before Babby burst his way into my life.

This year, we went back. Babby was still bulging around my belly, but he was 10 pounds heavier, outside of my body and actually much less encumbering than 12 months before.

Why drag our baby/my pregnant body to the PNE?

Because it is AWESOME.

There aren't enough oxen in baby books.

When Mommy blows out her candles, she wishes for a draft horse!

That's it, right up the cow's nose.

There are cows and horses and little bunnies to look at, which I like.

There are booths set up hawking all kinds of as-seen-on-tv products.

But mostly, we love the food.

Like a hotdog on a pretzel bun, SMOTHERED in macaroni and cheese, with crispy fried onions.

I EAT IT

NO, *I* EAT IT!

Boob-Lady scares me

Hey, onions! I eat dem.

Or deep fried Pop Tarts.

And most importantly, mini-donuts, those little cinnamon-sugar bites of heaven.

Deep fried pop tart... and mini donuts!

SO GOOD.

We walked around for so long that even Babby eventually passed out from sheer awesomeness.

Is... is he breathing?

I gained three pounds after our day there. But since I’ve lost five, I’m still ahead of the game and it was SO WORTH IT.

A Taste of Nova Scotia

Tags

food, mclobster, Nova Scotia, signs, travel

I feel like these images really get the Nova Scotia flavour across…

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Rage Babby Caught On Video

Tags

babies, baby's first solids, behaviour, food, rage, training

So, I know Babby is much better than he used to be, but he still has his ragey moments. Now, many of them related to food. Food that isn’t being served fast enough. He clenches his fists and screams in impotant fury when he sees food that is not immediately forthcoming.

Obviously, we’re not rewarding this behaviour. We hand him the food when he calms down a bit.

But in the mean time, it’s awfully funny.

And just to assure you that he does still have his cute moments, here’s a totally different kind of video:

Welcome to Vancouver, Babby

Tags

Anton's, babies, dining, food, love, pasta, restaurants, Vancouver

I was lured to live in Vancouver.

You could almost say “bribed”.

Many years ago, when PH was “just” my best friend, I flew out to visit him here. He met me at the airport with a kiss and a dozen roses. Yellow, tinged with red. Friendship turning to love.

The first place he took me was not the suspension bridge or Stanley Park.

The first place he took me was Anton’s.

He had me hooked.

By the end of the ten days, he was my boyfriend. Hell, to be honest, he was my future perfect husband, because we knew from day one that this was going to work.

PH would probably argue that he knew from day -1,460.

It wasn’t love that made me agree to move to Vancouver and live with him there, though.

It was Anton’s.

If you ever come to Vancouver, you may think that you have to go see a Canuck’s game, or visit Capilano, or the Aquarium. You may think that you need to eat sushi and walk under the cherry blossoms. I recommend all of these things.

But if you haven’t eaten at Anton’s, you haven’t experienced the best Vancouver has to offer.

It’s a no-frills establishment. No table cloths. Paper napkins. Wooden tables jammed together so tightly that you have to suck in your belly to reach your seat.

But it doesn’t matter when you try to go – it could be 9 PM on a Wednesday and there would be a line-up out the door and down the street.

Anton’s makes pasta like you’ve never tasted.

No amount of superlatives or comparative adjectives can really make you understand how good the food is there. I’ve been to Italy, and I still swear that they didn’t beat Anton’s when it came to pasta. Pizza? Wonderful. Meat? Out of this world. But if you want the kind of pasta that you dream about afterwards, it’s Vancouver you need to visit.

The pasta is fresh, and homemade. Not that dry stuff that you boil soft. It’s huge, too. Like it was made by giants. Genius giants.

The portions are gargantuan. Every time we take people, they say “oh, yeah, big portions, eh? Good, because I’m hungry from standing in line for half an hour” …but then when the food arrives they’re like, “HOLY FUCKING CHRIST THIS IS A LOT OF FOOD.”

After you’ve stuffed yourself to the point of bursting you look down at your plate and realize that it appears untouched. You lug the remaining pound or two of food home in a container. You will live off of the leftovers for the next 24 hours, and probably lick the inside of the container when you’re finally done.

There are no wrong choices at Anton’s, but everyone has a favourite. Mine is Tortellini Alla Panna, a turkey-and-cheese-stuffed tortellini in a cheesy Alfredo sauce, with chunks of ham. Amazing. Perfect Husband likes the Rigatoni Al Porto, a mountain of  pasta in a spicy garlic sauce with Italian sausage. Delicious.

We haven’t attempted waiting in line at Anton’s since Babby arrived, but recently Perfect Husband decided that we were going to get Anton’s. We called ahead when he got off of work and we picked it up to go (we also picked up some for a friend of mine whose husband is training in Alberta before being deployed to Afghanistan. Nothing brightens your day like unexpected Anton’s!).

You don’t get the massive portions when you get Anton’s to go (there’s only so much they can fit in one container) but it’s still delicious and it’s still enough for two meals.

And so, Babby was officially welcomed to Vancouver with his first taste of Anton’s.

Naturally, he loved it.

The weird thing is, he liked the spicy rigatoni best, even though we were afraid it would be too much for him. Crazy Babby.

My baby’s first word is going to be “poutine!”

Tags

carbs wonderful carbs, food, pregnancy, weight problems

This stupid delicate stomach is ruining all my plans of eating amazingly healthily and dropping pounds to become a beaming beacon of health. While I have only thrown up a couple of times, and feel okay most of the time, I can’t handle anything heavy. That means I’m avoiding even the leanest of meats in favour of a small bowl of spaghetti and cheese, or a grilled cheese sandwich. I haven’t touched a burger in I don’t know how long, which is good, but I also haven’t had any healthy meals, either. Pasta, sandwiches, fries.

I’m guzzling juice, which is technically healthy but also full of sugar. I’m also eating tons of fruit, which is full of vitaminy goodness.  But I really feel like the simple carbs are unhelpful… except that it’s all I seem to eat, plus the occasional blob of cheese for protein.

I don’t want to eat junk, but when it’s all you feel you can eat…

I’m gaining weight.

And don’t tell me that you’re supposed to gain weight in pregnancy, because I’m only eight weeks along. The Babby is about the size of one of the large raspberries that I drop into the blender when making a smoothie. This is NOT baby weight. This is a food baby.

…My Babby’s gonna be fat.

Damn you, West Coast, and Your Excessive Lettuce, Too

Tags

birthday, carbs wonderful carbs, food, Halifax, Perfect Husband, Vancouver

Perfect Husband’s birthday was last week. After weeks and weeks of me trying to convince him that he should get to pick his own birthday activities on his birthday, rather than just sit around the house like we always do, he finally chose to go to a BC Lions (that’s football, apparently) game and then walk across the street to try the Atlantic Trap and Grill. As he pointed out to me, I got to go home (ever so briefly) but he hasn’t been home since we got married. On his birthday, he deserves a Halifax Donair. If you look up Halifax donairs on Google (and I suggest you do so if you like schadenfreude, since the wingeing of ex-pat Maritimers is pathetic to witness), this place in Vancouver apparently serves decent Halifax fare.

We both suffered through the game (which was a loss so blatant and humiliating that the stands basically emptied themselves long before the end of the last quarter) and then we walked over to the Atlantic Trap and Grill. It had just moved locations to directly across from the football place thingy. It also had a sign outside that said “Enjoy Our New Menu.” That should have been a warning to us. But we were put off our guard. Drunkards were wrestling each other outside, and there was an Alexander Keith’s sandwich board outside. So far, so good. So we walk in, and there’s a big mat on the floor saying “Welcome to the East Coast.” It was loud, and had wooden barrels and lots of drunkards. Seemed authentic enough.

It was crowded and loud. We didn’t care. We perched ourselves on stools in the corner, like naughty children, near an advertisement for Kokanee, the BC beer that no one outside of British Columbia will even consider drinking. That should have been another hint. When we ordered garlic fingers and donairs from the server (wearing a football jersey which read “Russel Beers”) our blatantly Haligonian order made him pause awkwardly.

“Uh… just so you know… the donairs don’t come in pitas. They… they come in tortilla wraps” he said. We blinked owlishly at him for a moment.
“Ooh… kay…” We weren’t sure how to respond to that. Imagine if you ordered a burger, and were told “okay, but just so you know, they come in crepes.”

I wondered how many angry Genuine Maritimers had explained the pita vs wrap thing to our server. Clearly enough that he felt he had to warn us. We should have taken the hint, and left. When the garlic fingers arrived, we looked at them in confusion. They were served (get this, Maritimers) in a basket. That’s right. Like garlic bread. Not on a platter or pan, the way pizza should be served. And yes, it did appear to be cooked on pizza dough, but when we picked them up, they drooped impotently in our hands, and radiated that certain warm moistness that pizza gets when you warm it over in the microwave. They weren’t even garlicky.

The “authentic” Halifax donair sauce with which we were served was thick, and when you dipped your finger in it and lifted the finger towards your mouth, it left a trailing drip leading back down to the cup, much the way honey does. Oh, and by the way, it tasted like honey. Donair sauce is not supposed to taste like honey, since there is no honey in the ingredients.

“What the FUCK?” was my husband’s appraisal, “there’s LETTUCE under the garlic fingers.”

But maybe the donair… wraps… would be better. I had abandoned all hope, but my husband, clinging to the last moments of his birthday, clung to optimism.

Soon, more baskets arrived. In each, was a snug, red little tortilla wrap, bristling with healthful-looking lettuce and tomato. A hint of red onion peeped out from the leafy fronds charmingly.

“What the FUCK??” said Perfect Husband, “There’s FRIES. Everyone knows that the only appropriate side order to a donair is MORE DONAIRS.
… and WHY IS IT RED??”

We began eating glumly. Not only could you pick these up and take dainty bites out of them, but your fingers stayed relatively clean. This is wrong. A Halifax donair only has the pita bread to help absorb the worst of the sauce and grease. You eat them with knife and fork. After a few mouthfuls of crunching though salad vegetables, a hint of meat appeared within the red tortilla. Further in, the cloying honey taste of their “donair sauce” was also detectable. It was bizarre. It was like going to a movie “inspired by” your favourite book. You recognize bits of it, but this is not the same thing.

Seriously, how hard is it to make a decent Halifax donair? Crappy, dirty, two-bit corner places serve them all over frigging Nova Scotia. You can’t tell me that the Maritime cuisine is impossible to duplicate. I feel like calling up King of Donair and tattling on these people and their false advertising. Presumably KOD would come flying down to Vancouver to start a good ole’ Halifax knife fight with the restaurant owner, for daring to call this… this… healthy travesty a “Halifax donair”.

What gets me is that if a Vancouverite moved East, and went to a sushi restaurant, and ordered a BC Roll, and was served a salmon-head (eyes still staring) covered in rice and roe, with a seaweed salad served on the side, they’d be pretty annoyed. But it seems to be perfectly ok in Vancouver to take a delicious East Coast dish, then cover it with LETTUCE and healthy red tortilla.

Welcome to the East Coast, my ass. I feel the way that Chinese people must feel when they walk into a “Chinese” restaurant and see people eating Chicken Balls and Fortune Cookies.

You know your country is big when you miss the culture from your side of the continent.