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 |  Some of my musings. |
| This past Sunday hubby and I set forth on a road trip. We were in the mood to explore and just get away. We set our sights on a little town known as Midland, Ontario an estimated two-hour jaunt south. Despite a road closure and a winding, country detour we reached our destination unscathed. We had fancied checking out The Butter Tart Festival and we were not disappointed. Of course we anticipated some walking, but we were innocents, newbies. The festival celebrating all things butter tart stretched along a waterfront and miles of streets closed to vehicular traffic. We followed throngs meandering, strolling, ogling a plethora of enticing butter tarts. What you may ask is a butter tart? It's a flaky pastry, caramelized crust, ooey-gooey sweet filling ambrosia adopted by Canadians as their national dessert. The inherent Canadian calories are a given. This delectable treat has a history dating back to pioneer cooking. The earliest published recipe appears in a fund-raising cookbook from 1900 in Barrie, Ontario. The Quebecois claim the butter tart as their own as well. In the 1600's "filles a marier", or 'marriageable girls' learned to bake concoctions from maple syrup, butter and raisins. Hmmm, could this have been part of a dowry? Imagine the marital contract. The skill and recipe would have sealed the deal. "I, Lise Marie, promise to supply my husband with a lifetime of butter tarts, 'til death and/or an inconceivable flour shortage, or dementia steals my recipe preventing my baking." Were there butter tart rivalries? Divided loyalties? Intrigue? Petty jealousies? Espionage? Sabotage? Did housewives spy on each other seeking the secrets, the methods to the perfect butter tart? I suspect most family recipes were guarded in an oral tradition passed down to the next generation of wannabe bakers hanging from mamma's apron strings. I envision the fine cloud of disturbed flour swirling in the heated air radiating from a pre-heated oven. A dusting settles on perspiring cheeks. Cracked egg shells nestle next to worn, ceramic mixing bowls cradling the sugar and butter within. Smooth, tiny hands and gnarled, veiny ones press pastry rounds into a battered, blackened tart pan. Mouth-watering scents waft through the kitchen. At the Festival I perused traditional and innovative butter tart offerings. Many vendors displayed the usual tarts with raisins, pecans, walnuts, or cocoanut. A few dared to experiment with chocolate in the form of Skor, or Nutella flavours. Appealing to the camping/outdoor enthusiasts one baker touted the S'more butter tart replete with a tiny marshmallow on a stick hovering above a pseudo , tiny campfire. The maple bacon butter tart intrigued me. American interference/influence? Bacon-makes-anything-taste-better mentality? |
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