My return to Bad City left me with some serious time-and-space-perception issues, a heavy suitcase to carry without someone's help and this feeling of my brain being all wrapped up in cotton, like the one you find inside Canadian pill bottles (and it might in fact be there for the same exact reason that is, Google and common sense enlighten me, preventing breakage).
In the twilight of my return (the afterglow of sunset, or the first dim light of the morning, I wouldn't know. I am having breakfast for lunch, dinner and actual breakfast until I work out which is which), what I came back to find is that, be it in Bad City or by the breath-taking cliffs of the Pacific coast or along the sunniest Victoria bay or looking out the hotel window with the best Lost-in-Translation view of Vancouver, the heaviest thing you can possibly carry around in your suitcase is your mind.
What I also found, is that friendly drooly hairy cuddly mastiffs and marzipan tea and gallons and gallons of vanilla extract (like bringing back a litre of maple syrup doesn't also make me cry with joy) and Mickey Mouse plasters and Oreo crumbs and pumpkin-shaped candles and lovely lovely people who feed you oatmeal (and hug you), and hanging out by Police Museums and mortuaries and tiny art galleries on your birthday and drinking Shirley Temples at grown-up bars and vegan cupcakes and vegan cinnamon rolls (one too many) and vegan chocolate marshmallow pies and vegan Sailor Jerry Coke floats at Twin Peaks themed pubs and vegan everything and cream soda and root beer and Chinese gardens and red bean bubble tea and sushi at nutcase Japanese restaurants and being suspicious towards brown shoes and hated on by the raw vegans and searched by airport security for transporting life-size Mexican skulls in your hand bag; all this, and in fact more, makes it painless enough to carry all that weight down the escalators and on the tube for ages and finally all the way up two flights of stairs back home.
If at that point you also realise that your heart (and your brand new uber-cool hand-crafted birthday bag) doesn't feel all that heavy after all, head out again - you can be the bearer of gifts and snus and hang out at the Persian cafe and have your dates (I see a pattern there).
Now, we are soon to find out whether there will be any photographic evidence of all the aforementioned beauty I've seen (an excessive amount of tears has been shed already, not to worry) and it looks like there's not going to be any wedding taking place any time soon, soz for the ironic and/or misleading recipe theme. But you will still be all ready to make your own version of Matrimonial Cake, because it's mind-liftingly and heart-liftingly and suitcase-liftingly delicious like very few other things on this planet.
To celebrate Canada, and my success in carrying my heavy suitcase all the way there and back.
195g (1½ cups) plain flour
140g (1½ cups) porridge oats
215g (1 cup) soft brown sugar
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
¼ teaspoon salt
170g (3/4 cup) margarine
Date filling:
350g (2 cups) chopped dates
100g (1/2 cup) sugar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
180ml (3/4 cup) hot water
Start by making the filling: place chopped
dates, sugar, lemon juice and water in a pan over medium heat and cook for 15
minutes. Set aside to cool.
Next preheat the oven to 175°C (350°F) and
lightly grease a 20x20cm (8x8”) square tin. In a bowl, combine flour, oats,
sugar, bicarbonate of soda and salt, then mix in the margarine until it is well
combined with the dry ingredients but the mixture is still crumbly. Press half
of the mixture onto the bottom of the prepared tin, spread the date filling
evenly over the top, then sprinkle with the remaining flour mixture, pressing
it down lightly.
Bake for 30 minutes or until the top turns
golden brown.
Let cool, cut into squares, make some maple
tea that you’ll drink from your new Vancouver Starbucks mug (god forgive me),
or grab some cream soda, or Cold Brew coffee,
or root beer, then consider legally marrying this sweet delicious thing.
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