Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Soups and Sales

After last night's massive snackathon - jalapeno havarti, pita with red pepper feta, asiago cheese and tzadziki dips (thank you oh thank you Kimmy) - and a nice buncha grapes - we were treated to a reading by the erudite and entertaining Myrna Kostash, who graced us with a sample from her memoir-in-progress - and a visual nod to Saint Demetrius.

A couple of days last week we dropped our pens and headed into Humboldt to re-stock the chip supply and do a little shopping. We decided to lunch in town, and took ourselves to a prairie gem, the Prairie Perk. Land of latte, but they make a fine brew. I had their cafe breve on my last visit: and what a wonderful substance it was. A close relative of cappuccino, a mountain of thick creamy foam surmounting an excellent roast. Satisfying in every way, not too big: not too small. The box of Mexican chocolate perched discreetly on the countertop augers well for their hot chocolate, which they promise is the best in town.

But it was their soup of the day that's earned my slavish devotion. Sopa Poblano, which seems to be a Latin cousin of leek and potato soup, a smooth suspension of potato with a well aimed bolt of green chile to finish. This recipe looks pretty close; I can't wait to experiment at home.

Right next door to Prairie Perk was the real reason for our visit: our cherished clothing store, The Cottage Boutique, which obligingly holds its Winter Blow-Out Sale around the same time as our colony each year. There is much rejoicing on both sides when the writers waft into town and stagger out again adorned and laden with those understated beige bags.

Here's a little bit of a poem - a ghazal of sorts - from a previous year, commemorating a visit with Lorri and Maureen, which will be in the new book:

Winter Sale, Humboldt

Holding the door for each other, we file in
and blossom in three directions.

When you reach into the unknown
hangers click an abacus along the rack.

Colour pulls our hands into its field:
some treasure lies camouflaged in there.

The door chimes and opens, chimes and closes:
shimmering breath of a room of women.

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