Old Fashioned Granola Recipe

here's how to make classic granola - image Stacy Reynaud

It's $20 for 500 grams of granola on Hornby. Why? 

I made my own. Nothing fancy, just old-fashioned granola. 

It's vegan if that makes any difference.

Granola lasts about two weeks in an airtight container. 

Buy a vacuum sealer, and you can keep it for six to eight months! I just bought this one, and I love it.

INGREDIENTS

• 4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
• 6 tablespoons each of pecans, pumpkin seeds, almonds*
• 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon cardamom
• 1/3 cup coconut oil (melted)
• 1/4 cup agave syrup
• 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

STEPS

1. Preheat oven to 300 F.
2. Grease a large baking pan (I use vegan butter).
3. Mix the oats, pecans, brown sugar, salt, cinnamon and cardamom in a large bowl.
4. Combine the oil, agave, and granulated sugar in a small saucepan.
5. Bring to a simmer; immediately remove from the heat and stir in vanilla.
6. Pour over the oat mixture.
7. Stir well until thoroughly combined.
8. Spread in the prepared baking pan.
9. Bake until golden brown - between 25-30 minutes - stirring every 8-10 minutes.
10. Transfer the pan to a rack and let cool completely*

* I soak my pecans and almonds in water for a few hours and then bake at 250 F for 50 minutes. If you do this, too, remember that the nuts are already cooked and burn when you put them in the oven again for 30 minutes. I learned the hard way! 

* Because we're using coconut oil, the granola sticks together quite well (coconut oil solidifies when cool). I let my granola cool for about an hour, then use a spatula to lift it out of the pan and break it up.

Doused in Mud Soaked in Bleach

My home on Hornby Island

Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach 

As I want you to be 

As a trend, as a friend 

As an old memoria 

 - Kurt Cobain, Come as You Are

It was Christmas Eve, and I wanted to dress up. 

I'd only packed a few things in my duffel bag for my two-week stay, 

yet here I was on week thirty-two. 

 

men's vintage jeans - six sizes too big 

wool sweater – heavily repaired 

burgundy toque – stretched out 

men's 50-year-old down coat – shedding feathers 

hiking boots - muddy 

I felt as dumpy and worn out as my clothes. 

I can't remember if I was wearing the faux fur coat when I took off from Vancouver nine months prior or if I'd shoved it into my bag on my rush out the door. Nevertheless, it hung on a hook-shaped piece of driftwood nailed to the wall beside my front door—now, more dusty home decor than a wearable garment. 

I knew it would be my cat's, and possibly my Dad's, last Christmas, but something in me wanted to get dressed up, and that fake fur coat was the dressiest thing I had.

My fuck this, I don't give a shit anymore attitude wasn't fully developed yet at nine months in, but it was strong enough to construct a whatever; I'm going to find some people to stand around with. 

I polished up my boots and grabbed the dusty coat on the way out the door. I was headed to Ringside to see if I could find some humans. 

Ringside is Hornby's version of downtown and is located at the Island's only four-way stop. It consists of six vibrantly painted hand-built caravans organized in a circle - hence Ringside - a conglomerate of local artisan wares, tie-dyed tourist crap, seasonal tacos, and city-priced coffee. It's also a dependable spot where locals gather for rumours and news. You go to the gas station parking lot to find out where to get an iron clawfoot tub, but if you want to know whose nephew is sleeping with Colleen's daughter, you go to Ringside. 

The past nine months were difficult for everyone on the Island because of the pandemic. The Co-op constantly ran out of food and supplies, people were divided by medical beliefs, and the winter hurricane winds had started early. I wasn't sure what I'd encounter at Ringside, but I hoped it was humans. 

Walking across the gravel parking lot, I saw I wasn't the only one who'd made the Christmas Eve pilgrimage. Ringside was bustling. Folks dressed up in moth-eaten fur coats, Halloween top hats, silver garland boas and a vast array of Christmas accoutrements. Some stood alone, some in pairs, but most looked awkward and uncomfortable. 

It was a gathering of misfits, bound not only by our haphazard Christmas finery but also by faith and resilience. We'd pulled ourselves together in whatever way we could and left the isolation of our homes to acknowledge a tradition that not many of us followed. We were drawn together with the same hope—a welcoming face and a friendly smile. As much as our situations were ripe for despair, our faith and resilience won. 

Although I didn't talk to anyone on Christmas Eve, being surrounded by and connected to those raw souls was more than enough.

Voodoo

We got together at Dave’s Halloween party, and he died in an avalanche in Whistler in March. 

I was briefly living in Kelowna. 

He was living in Whistler. 

We knew each other for years. We were in the same scene if you will. 

Steep runs, 

deep powder 

and 

adrenaline. 

Both of us painfully shy and awkward, 

too timid for anything beyond a nod and a “Hey.” 

The Halloween party was loud – 

there was some thrash band – 

and clumps of people I’d never seen before. 

I stood against the back wall, 

fur-clad with leather pants and a crotched bikini top. 

He approached me from out of the shadows. 

“We’re supposed to be together,” he motioned his hand at us. 

He was fur-clad, with tight leather pants and shirtless. 

Rock and roll wallflowers guarding the nearest exit. 

Shortly thereafter, we were at my place making “rock star nachos.” 

And shortly after that, I was stopped short by a huge Hendrix tattoo on his right shoulder. 

He stayed with me for a few days. 

We listened to music, 

played air guitar to Hendrix, 

laughed nonstop 

and had a glorious time. 

He was tender, corny, polite and beautiful. 

We made plans for Spring when I’d move back to Van. 

But he died before it could happen. 

I often think of that Hendrix tattoo; the first time I saw it, 

his beautiful smile, 

and our Spring that never happened. 

Last night, I dreamt of him. 

We were riding bikes and had stopped at a crossing. 

He leaned over to me and whispered, 

“I’m going to die soon.” 

But I already knew.

Blackberry Mojito Recipe

What to do with blackberries?

Make blackberry syrup,

then make a blackberry mojito!

Last year, I spent two days cutting down blackberry vines in my yard. This year, they're back in full force. I read that dumping boiling water on the roots will kill them, but I haven't tried this yet.

I'm trying to live off my land as much as possible this summer - I have blackberries everywhere - they're food, might as well eat them - or drink them!

Here's how to make a blackberry mojito. I adapted Natalie's recipe from Tastes Lovely and Dana's recipe from Minimalist Baker to suit my taste.

INGREDIENTS

• 2 oz rum
• 2 oz blackberry syrup
• soda water
• 7-10 mint leaves
• 1/2 lime (quartered)
• 1 cup crushed ice

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Grab a  highball glass 
2. Add mint leaves, lime wedges, rum and blackberry syrup. 
3. Muddle with the base of a wooden spoon if you don't have a muddler. 
4. Make sure the limes are muddled and the juice is squished all through that goodness. 
5. Stir it up a bit. 
6. Add crushed ice. 
7. Top with soda water and garnish with a wedge of lime. 

Stir it up from time to time as you're cocktailing - it keeps the melting ice flavoured with the blackberry mint lime rum goodness!

Check out my Pinterest for more cocktails.