Finding room for bulk halloumi

And other thoughts on how to feed a crowd

When my husband was in high school his parents bought a house in a bankruptcy sale on the Northwest Arm. It was a ranch-style home, wide and long, with windows facing the water. The main floor was open concept with a kitchen at one end and bedrooms at the other. When my mother-in-law moved in she said the house was a ghastly chocolate brown with soft pink fixtures in the bathrooms. But this painting¹ hanging on a wall above the wide stairs that curved down to the basement, pulled everything together. It was left behind by the previous owners, maybe because it fit the space so perfectly, maybe because they left quickly, maybe because they couldn’t imagine it anywhere else. When Rose’s husband died and she sold the house, the painting travelled with her for a while then eventually it found its way to us. We hung it down the hall from our bedroom next to a west-facing window. Buses whirred by, students shouted from the street below and my boys with their sleepy footsteps stumbled past it every morning. The painting cried out for the ocean. So this summer I packed it up and brought it to the cottage we share with my sister and her family and hung it on the wall.

My sister and I promised each other to not let the cottage become a communal dumping ground. But there’s a natural ebb and flow to stuff and things like extra oversized saucepans, Corning Ware casserole dishes and a two dozen devilled egg plate are keeping the corner lazy susan cabinet from spinning. We have four coffee makers on the counter - drip, espresso, pour-over and a cute little yellow stove-top espresso maker. Or there’s the vintage milkshake maker, found at a yard sale by our neighbour Tony.² Tony died last spring. How can we give it away? 

And then there’s food. We don’t have room for big bags of flour. Our freezer fits a loaf of bread, popsicles and two ice cube trays. But the cottage needs to expand and contract on a daily basis. Our older and younger sisters, cousin, aunt and parents share a cottage nearby. We host, share meals, and come together around the table all the time. The numbers vary. The other day I heard my older sister say while setting the table, is it just us tonight? Am I setting for seventeen? 

I like filling the space we have with eggs, meat and haskap berries from our friend Stephanie at Sweet Earth Farm. The sourdough from the Earltown General Store. Lettuce from my dad’s garden. But every so often, Costco is the answer. I am a new member, despite the butcher at my local grocery store asking me ten years ago, after staring at my three boys dripping off my grocery cart, why aren’t you at Costco? I smugly told him I didn’t like bulk, nor did I have room for it. I wanted just enough, because that’s when creativity flows. That was when the boys were little, when our house was smaller and I didn’t need a 46 pack of hamburger buns from time to time. 

My friends have guided me through the Costco process. Park on the side of the building, around the corner where it’s quieter. Keep pace with the other carts. Stick to your list (my mother-in-law once came home from Costco with a cedar sauna). Buy things like your favourite nuts, seed butter, olive oil and cheese. And when you get to know the place, begin ordering online. 

This brings me back to the painting that hangs so happily on the edge of our cottage kitchen. The artist has depicted a rocky beach typical of the eastern shore of Nova Scotia. There’s a wooden row boat pulled up onto the rocks and a log weathered by the waves. Tucked in amongst the scene is a flat piece of driftwood with mottled red-brown paint clinging to the side. It reminds me of a piece of halloumi, sliced and browned in a dry fry pan. We have a double pack of halloumi in the fridge, a spoil from our trip to Costco. We’ve been grating the block then frying the small shards before tossing them in salads. Or frying slices and serving them with ripe peaches. It’s these touches, bought in bulk under the fluorescent lights of Costco, that add a salty squeak specialness to big family meals. And even better, two blocks of halloumi fit next to the butter on the door of the fridge.

PS- do you shop at Costco? If so, what’s your favourite thing on your list? I’d love to know.

1. The artist’s signature reads S CRICHTON. Does anyone out there know this artist? I’m looking at you Mary Evans :)

2. Tony was an incredible collector of antiques. He has a cameo in the early days on in The Food Podcast, where he takes us on a tour of his salt and pepper shaker collection. You can listen to the episode here.