Britt Skrabanek

Le Food, Le Drool

Ah, food. How you sooth me, energize me, and whisk my troubles away. How you bring me joy, fulfill me, and…

Oh, hello there! Sorry, I just went into a food love coma for a moment, but I’m back.

So, last week I chatted about our invasion of Montreal. Today, let’s talk food!!!

It’s no secret around the cyber world (this blog, my other blog, FB, Twitter) that I worship food.

So much that my idea of a shopping spree is going to our local Co-Op and spending without remorse. So much that purchasing our very first food processor a couple of weeks ago has made me insanely happy. So much that we even named said food processor “Bruce Lee”. He likes to chop shit up and he does it like a boss.

Anywho, one of the main reasons we gallavanted up to Montreal was for the food scene. There’s a lot of hype, saying it’s one of the food capitals of the world.

Was it the food orgy we were seeking? Um, let’s just say we’ve had better.

But, let’s also say that there was no possible way for us to eat at ALL of the restaurants there. I’ve never seen so many spunky cafes crammed together in my life. Also, we like to travel on a budget so we usually rock the apartment rental and cook a lot of our own food.

(A quick warning to budget traveling foodies…prepare yourself for the ultimate food tax at restaurants AND grocery stores in Montreal. You’ll be taxed twice and it will hurt your feelings when it happens.)

Anywho, since I just so happen to be married to the best chef in the world, there were many cozy nights spent on the terrace like this…

le plateau montreal — Our Stupendous Terrace in Le Plateau

One of the things we’ve learned over the years from the great Anthony Bourdain…when you first arrive somewhere, get your happy butt to the market. You will instantly connect with the people, culture, and pulse of your unfamiliar surroundings.

On our first morning, we took the Metro straight to the market. The Jean-Talon Market, mecca of grub.

jean talon market mushrooms — Mr. H Cruising the Shrooms

The French do three things brilliantly: cheese, chocolate, and bread. In other words, throw your healthy morals out the freaking window, ditch the skinny jeans, and indulge your ass off.

We received this cheese recommendation from a young fellow at the Jean-Talon Market, which was used in the terrace pasta above. It was creamy perfection and we ate it every day.

quebec cheese — The Cheese Wrapper (sorry, we ate the actual cheese)

We explored chocolate in many glorious forms…

jean talon market creperie marche — Slingin’ Crepes at Jean Talon Market

jean talon market crepe — Salted Caramel, Butter, and Chocolate Crepe at Jean-Talon Market

Juliette et Chocolat brownie and latte — Bananatella Brownie (Banana and Nutella) at Juliette et Chocolate in the Latin Quarter

There was a bar of chocolate called Caramel Crack from a chocolatier in the Plateau that was to die for. It was my kind of crack! (Sorry, no pic. We ate that puppy on the long road back home to Milwaukee.)

Lastly, we dipped a fresh baguette in a yummy tomato broth Mr. H fashioned to go with our mussels.

jean talon market seafood — Jean Talon Fish Market

Mussels are everywhere in Montreal. To save some bucks, we recommend fetching your own at the Jean-Talon fish market and enjoying them at your leisure.

In the end, Montreal is a fun romp for foodies who like the richness of French cuisine. Know that you’ll pay out the ass for food taxes, the chocolate anywhere will knock your damn socks off, and you’ll probably need to detox when you get home.

A Coach’s Lesson, in 6 Words

Happy Wednesday, fantastic friends! Just wanted to reblog this fun/inspirational piece from Eli over at Coach Daddy. He masterfully coordinates these “6 Words” posts, bringing peeps from all over together to dish out 6 words about various subjects. Along with yours truly, 50 other bloggers, readers, and strangers dished out 6 words based on the prompt “What’s one thing you learned from a coach?” Being that I grew up dancing, I added these six amazing words from one of my ballet teachers…24. “Forget everything, be true, just move.” Be sure to check out the rest of these one-liners for some mid-week warm fuzzies (and some good laughs) over at Eli’s place.

Just a dad ...

You can learn a lot from a coach.

Not all of it’s good. I remember a frustrated soccer coach who slammed his notebook to the turf after our team scored, then barked out the F word. Hayden, then playing U8 soccer, turned to me, mouth open slightly, and blinked several times.

I swear a light bulb illuminated above her head.

Thanks, coach.
Many other lessons are far less R-rated. Well, some.

View original post 842 more words

The Grit and Grace of Montreal

old port of montreal — Mr. H at Old Port of Montreal

If Brooklyn and Paris mated, their love child would be Montreal.

Grit and grace. Hard asses and romantics. The ones that won’t look you in the eye and the others who stare right at your ass.

This paradoxical city is emphasized further by its language tug-of-war. French is everywhere: the parking signs, the menus, the spoken greetings.

Yet, a sorry attempt at some high school French by an American tourist (yours truly) flips the switch. Seamlessly, as if “Bonjour” were never stumbled over, the conversation morphs into English with a peculiar flourish.

Walking down the street is a puzzling treat as English and French interlace. A couple at a table next to us bounces back and forth – a French question, an English answer, then one, then just the other – like a nail-biting tennis match for the ears.

Taking a road trip will only confuse the American more. Living in the U.S means conquering an ocean to hear that steady foreign hum.

Although Ontario looks a lot like Wisconsin, there are doors like these in the rest areas…

Eventually, there’s no more English. None. Our foreign experience creeps up on us in the form of construction signs and unpronounceable roads.

Where the hell are we? North America? Canada?

No…Montreal, Quebec.

Each languid day is strange – no schedule, no obligations. And, Mr. H. and I wander around this land without time.

One of the deepest ways to connect with someone means surviving together in a place where nothing makes sense, somewhere that is the antithesis of home, routine, and grind.

Travel makes the heart open to possibilities. And, so we opened ours to Montreal and did all of this…

And, we got down at Piknic Electronik at sunset on an island. Yeah, it was cool…

But, what about the food, Britt? Montreal is one of the foodie capitals of the world, isn’t it?

Indeed, it is. So, food gets it’s very own post next week. Get ready to drool.

The Falls of FUBAR

Flowing energy rushes toward the edge, a slave to its inevitable fate. It builds and builds and builds some more, unwilling to compromise.

Suddenly, it slips.

For a few precious seconds it suspends high in the air, engaging in a soundless symphony.

Then, it falls.

The finale is deafening, like cymbals clanging against the bottom of an unforgiving pit. This masterpiece draws us in – millions year after year.

Niagara Falls.

Embarking on a road trip to Montreal made this a no-brainer overnight stop for us. Mr. H and I booked a crappy chain hotel on the Canadian side, followed our trusty electronic maps, and strapped Ken Follett the cow in his seat.

Along the way we admired ~~Provence~~ upstate New York…

Ten lengthy hours after leaving Milwaukee, we arrived.

It was dark. And the border crossing at Niagara Falls, Canada was completely FUBAR.

Labor Day weekend. Border strike. FUBAR.

There’s something bittersweet about driving across North America, making it to your destination in decent spirits – cramping with hunger, aching from head to toe, delicates lodged in places – and being trapped with all the other bleary-eyed, naive tourists in this…

…for a freaking hour.

Naturally, Mr. H. wasn’t havin’ it. I love him even more for rescuing us from our gridlock hell to nowhere. My hero!

Destined to sleep in our truck on the side of a potholed street, we stumbled into a nearby hotel and luckily they were able to accommodate us. (Nothing like flushing money down the shitter on that unreachable hotel on the Canadian side, eh?)

As usual, we made the best of the situation. We lowered our standards and gleefully stuffed our faces in the familiar chain restaurant attached to the joint.

Mediocre fried food. Cold beer. We were saved.

Feeling tipsy, our sanity obviously questionable, we decided to go to the casino across the street to drink our touristy sorrows away and people watch. We’re not gamblers, so this environment fascinates us.

After a while, what initially seemed intriguing became ho-hum, borderline depressing, and our eyes became heavy. So we stumbled back to our hotel, scented with cigarettes and defeat.

The next day, despite our irritation with the whole charade, we went to the damn falls. We were a tough crowd, but Mother Nature won us over with her minxy appeal.

The credit card bill, the slot machines, and the traffic disappeared in that moment.

Niagara Falls…are they really worth it? The blood, the sweat, the tears?

Hell yeah they are!

Gone Road Trippin’

My dear, fantastic, rad, amazing sweet ones…

I will be out of the blogging office starting tomorrow, August 29th. No social media, pix, comments, likes, etc. – I’m going dark.

Mr. H and I will be embarking on a road trip (or, le road trip as we are lovingly calling it) to Montreal. It’s been almost an entire year since I’ve had a vacation.

(Gasp.)

Tell me about it!

I’ll be back on September 10th with some North American tales. In the meantime, stay cool, be cool, and…I’ll miss you guys!

Yours truly,

Britt