​To me, the kitchen has always been the warm, throbbing heart of the home. It’s the first fuel-stop for the day, a place I can center myself cooking dinner after a work day, and on nights of insomnia sneak into under cover of darkness, lit only by the refrigerator light, for a solid bite of calm. How many times have you witnessed the Kitchen Migration phenomenon during a large gathering? You know, where everybody always ends up in the kitchen? It’s a buzzing hive of activity, and each bee has its duty: You’ve got your Doers there, your Helpers, and your Entertainers, and that one bee just wondering when the food will be ready, antennae lazily bobbing about, bottle cradled protectively against their chest looking for a bottle-opener.  

The kitchen doesn’t necessarily have to be all about the food, either. I remember dressing in front of an open oven door on chilly mornings in Florida, when I was four-years-old, turning around to warm every side of my little body equally, like a well-toasted marshmallow. And later in life, pulling all the pots and pans out of my mother-in-law’s cupboard so my toddler son could beat on them with a wooden spoon—instant entertainment center for a visiting child.

In her small house in Greenacres, Washington (at that time just as country as it sounds) my grandma lived in the kitchen, phone stretched from the wall, the receiver cradled at her neck yak yak yakking, while she vigorously peeled vegetables at the sink, stirred a bubbling pot at the stove, canned her garden’s bounty to be added to the rows of gleaming glass jars lining the basement walls, and baking pure and heavenly bread.  One snowy night on the slow and cautious drive home from her house, I sat in the back seat with a freshly baked loaf, snuggly wrapped in a tea towel. I was pleasantly drowsy, the bundle warming my lap, and the smell lured me into sliding off my mitten and fumbling my hand inside the towel until my knuckles thumped hollowly against the heel of the bread. I straightened my fingers and gently pushed through the crust, opening a steamy doorway that wafted out the tantalizing aroma of yeast, flour, and cozy kitchen. I closed my fingers around some of the bread and brought it up to my mouth – chewy, comforting, tasty goodness filled me to the core; fed my very soul. I went in for more. My soul was insatiable. Tunneling my way into the loaf, tearing off chunks from the sides, the top, scraping at the bottom with my nails, I filled my lungs with the earthy vapors, marveled at the warm, fluffy texture as I balled it into small Lori-fist-shaped pieces and chewed blissfully away. When we arrived home I brought in the swaddled shell of a loaf and placed it lightly on the counter. (In hindsight, I imagine this was a moment when it became apparent that my hungry soul had absolutely no willpower and was even kind of sneaky.)

As a young wife and mother, I carried on the tradition and made my own bread. It was economical, tasted great, and kneading was a pleasant, productive way to work out the stress that came along with those same roles of wife and mother, as well as being a student in college. Even during lean times the motions of making and baking bread filled the house with quiet contentment, which was picked up by my not-even two-year-old son, when one day he tiptoed into the kitchen to see a loaf cooling on the counter covered in a towel, and turned to me, finger to his lips, and whispered “Bread sleeping.”
​
It was during this time that my mother-in-law, always a steadfast encourager of all my creative endeavors, gave me a set of four clay baking tiles, and a clipping from a magazine on how to make pita bread. The flying saucer-shaped individual loaves turned out to be easy, and fun to make. Rolling little balls, and flattening them into discs, and watching them balloon in the oven was a simple and satisfying treat. When I came across the tiles in the pantry last week in a narrowly-dodged notion of reorganization, I was inspired to bake pita to go with our lentil soup. Have some flour, salt, yeast and water? Then you can do it, too. If you don’t have a mixer with a dough-hook, get your hands in there and knead for 10 minutes. It’s messier, but with a little flour on your nose, you’ll look like a bread-making warrior, and can punch and pull all your worries away for a little while. 

Pita Bread
1 Tbsp. yeast

1 ¼ cups warm water

1 tsp. salt

3 to 3 ½ cups flour
 
Dissolve yeast in warm, not hot, water in the bowl of a mixer until bubbly (about 5 minutes). Add salt and 1 ½ cups flour and with the dough hook, beat to make a batter. Add additional 1 ½ cups of flour until it's a rough, shaggy blob. Knead 8 minutes until dough is smooth and elastic. Add more flour if it is too sticky.
 
Turn dough onto a lightly-floured surface and divide into six pieces for standard-sized pitas. Roll dough into balls, then flatten with a rolling pin into even (this helps with future-puff), ¼-inch thick discs. Let rest on the floured surface 30-40 minutes until slightly puffy.
 
Preheat oven to 425F.
 With a large spatula, flip the rounds of dough upside down onto a baking sheet, (or pre-heated waiting-in-the-oven clay baking tiles). Bake 10-15 minutes until lightly golden and hopefully puffy. (Even if they don’t balloon you can split them open for stuffing use.)

(Recipe borrowed and adapted from this site, because I have no idea where that original magazine clipping is hiding...)

​I’m told that as a small child I was caught multiple times with a saltshaker in hand, the holes clogged up with clusters of wet salt. While I had a severe slug phobia, and may have brandished the shaker as a weapon against potential assault, the deliciously salty pattern of dots on my tongue gave away my true purpose. I was branded a Saltshaker Licker. Later, I could be found burrowed into whatever cozy spot in the house took my fancy at the time – a pile of pillows in a corner, a plush armchair with my legs draped over the side – deeply engrossed in a book, holding a cube of chicken bouillon, granular streaks of deep yellow dissolving on my tongue.
 
When my family lived in Japan in the early 70s, I was introduced to osembei, the roasted rice crackers glossy with soy sauce, which had the added satisfaction of being crunchy. Japan was also where I developed a liking for the one-two-three-punch pucker of the sweet, sour, and salty Li Hing Mui, a shriveled mauve-colored plum. I could nibble on the fleshy perimeter of the seed for hours, like a mutant albino squirrel working at a nut.
 
Considering my history, it should come as no surprise that my biggest sin in the kitchen is over-salting. The rule about tasting the dish before reaching for the salt was made for people eating at my table. I have learned over the years to steady my hand, to consciously hold back, but there is still the occasional mishap when I’m spacing out thinking about something else, not tasting enough as I go, where (gasp!) even I think it is too salty. I can easily get carried away on a soup, for instance, but fortunately by throwing in some kind of starchy vegetable, grain or pasta, perhaps, they can be easily saved. That said, the following soup I made was perfectly seasoned. (I know, big salty lead-in and then I kill it.  Creative license, baby.)

​A few days ago it was a dark and stormy day in Shorelandia, and I was reluctant to leave the shelter of the house (lazy and didn’t want to get wet), so rustled about in the pantry and fridge until I had the makings for a lentil soup. At this point, I would usually start by sautéing some onions, adding garlic and spices, the (salty on purpose) stock I recently made from the stripped chicken carcass, the lentils, and go from there. Leftover spinach in the freezer? In it goes. All is fair in love and cooking, right? But I’d remembered seeing a recipe on Pinterest that caught my eye, and low and behold, it had the added serendipity of being in one of my favorite cookbooks!  This one is adapted from an adaptation (at what point does it just become your own recipe, I wonder?) of the one from Once Upon a Tart, a bakery/café in New York whose owners had the generosity of spirit to share their recipes with the world. Next time we go to that whirlwind of a city I’m finding this place and hugging them while I reach for a muffin. From tarts, both sweet and savory, to soups and salads every recipe in this book has been a wonderland of goodness!  
This soup will fill your house with the scent of warm spices, and hearty soup.  Enjoy!  

Lentil Soup with Coconut Milk and Indian Spices
Serves 4
 
1 1/2 cups French green lentils
 (or brown, or even split yellow or red lentils if that’s what you have in your pantry—keeping in mind they’ll make a thicker, creamier texture and cook quicker)

6 cups vegetable or chicken stock

1 1/2 tsp. turmeric

3 Tbsp. butter, vegetable or coconut oil

1 large onion, diced

4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed

1/2 tsp. ground cardamom

1/4 tsp. ground cloves

1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon

A pinch of freshly-ground nutmeg

1 (14oz) can coconut milk
A few handfuls fresh spinach (or frozen, thawed and squeeze-dried), chard or kale, washed, tough stems discarded and cut into ribbons (optional)

salt and freshly-ground black pepper, to taste
 
Rinse the lentils and pick out any *debris. Combine them in a pot with the stock and turmeric and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat slightly and simmer until the lentils are soft, about 20 minutes.
 
While the lentils are cooking, heat the butter or oil in a smallish skillet and sauté the onion over medium heat, stirring frequently, until browned and caramelized in places, about 12-15 minutes. Add the garlic and spices and fry just until deeply aromatic, about 30 seconds. Scrape the contents of the skillet into the pot with the lentils, and add the coconut milk and optional greens. Bring everything back to a gentle boil and cook another 10 minutes, or until the flavors have blended and the greens are tender. Add salt and pepper to taste.
 
Serve hot, or keep warm until everybody gets in one place and you’re ready to eat.

As the picture shows, I served it with homemade pita bread, but that recipe is for another time.
​ 
*Every recipe I’ve ever read using lentils says to “rinse and pick out any small stones or debris found” which makes one wonder who fell down on the stone pickin’ job, and what possible other ‘debris’ there could be in there…

​I was on a walking errand yesterday and needed to buy some coffee. Now, Joe and I are fairly particular in the coffee we buy and love, and unfortunately there are only a couple of places that carry this fair-trade, bird-friendly/shade grown, picked-by-Third-World-grandmothers brand. So I had to make a decision: wait until after dinner and drive to the market, or get the couple of groceries I needed at the place I was close to, and choose a different coffee. Practicality won – a rare thing relative to most of my decisions, so please take note.
 
I approached the coffee aisle with trepidation, bracing myself for disappointment.  However, I was happy to find my old friend, Tony’s Coffee, from my old stomping grounds in Bellingham.  (I literally stomped there a lot; this is not just an idiom in this case.)  I stood there a moment, breathing in the stimulating smell of the piles of beans crowded in their plastic prisons waiting to be sent to the grinder (is the aroma the scent of fear coming off their glistening bodies?), and reached for the Sumatra, my old standby from the early days of cup supping, my fingers grazing it’s natural brown bag with the elephant.  But just to the right, bright graphics and the color red beckoned, and I, a middle-aged woman in a middle-waged income bracket, the living and breathing target of all savvy marketers world-wide, succumbed, dropping all loyalties and romantic memories of my past relationship with Tony’s, and turned to the Raven’s Brew Gourmet coffee.
 
With shining red on every bag, edgy, dark and mysterious artwork, clever slogans to go with each variety, and enticing superlatives, they had me.  I’m so enamored of their designs I want to buy posters, (Raven’s Brew sells them!) but the thought is thwarted by lack of wall space, and my very practical nature.  I went for the Wicked Wolf – “Grannie’s Gone but the Coffee’s On” being the final deciding factor.  In a different mood, I may have chosen Deadman’s Reach – “Served in bed, raises the dead,” or the kinda-crude, but entertaining Three Peckered Billy Goat – “Sup from the cup that keeps you up”  (which I liked so much I incorporated cup supping up above if you didn’t catch it…). But the Dark Roast is what I wanted most, as I was planning on serving it with some sweet, cake-like, banana bread.  With chocolate. And ginger.
 
If you don’t know about Molly Wizenberg, and/or her blog Orangette, treat yourself after you finish reading this post, (or bounce on over right away, because I won’t know you did anyway) and go there.  She’s been writing about food for years, and takes great photos, and has a trendy restaurant in Ballard she opened with her husband (who she met through her blog), and I’m pretty sure we share the same birthday and she has reddish hair, so she must be cool.  Plus I met her at a reading and book signing and can confirm that yes, she is cool.  The following recipe, mostly verbatim, comes from her book, A Homemade Life, and differs from the one you’ll find on her blog, but I like this one better.  I’ve never had a complaint serving it to anyone, and catching up with an old friend over a cup of espresso and a warm slice (or two) of this bread on a sunny weekday morning is just about perfect.  As she advised me when she signed my book, enjoy it all!

Banana Bread with Chocolate and Candied Ginger
6 Tbsp. (3 oz.) unsalted butter
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
¾ cup granulated sugar
¾ tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. salt
¾ cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/3 cup finely chopped crystallized ginger
2 large eggs
1 ½ cups mashed banana (about 3 large ripe bananas)
¼ cup well-stirred whole-milk plain yogurt (not low fat or nonfat)
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan with butter or cooking spray, and set aside.

In a small bowl, microwave butter until just melted. (Be careful of hot erupting butter bursts.)  Set aside to cool slightly.
 
In a large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt.  Add the chocolate chips and crystallized ginger and whisk well to combine.  Set aside.
 
In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork.  Add the mashed banana, yogurt, melted butter, and vanilla and stir to mix well. Pour this mixture into the dry ingredients, stirring gently with a rubber spatula and scraping down the sides as needed, until just combined.  Do not overmix. The batter will be thick and somewhat lumpy, but there should be no unincorporated flour.  Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, and smooth the top.

Bake for about one hour on middle rack, until the loaf is a golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the loaf in a pan on a wire rack for 5 minutes.  Then tip it out onto the rack, and let it cool completely before slicing–unless you absolutely can’t help yourself, in which case, dig in.
 
Molly notes that fully cooled, this bread freezes beautifully. 

​ 
On a recent cleaning jag I discovered a gift card with a healthy balance on it to Habitude, a luxurious local spa. Woo hoo, free pampering! I decide to treat my feet to a pedicure, which you may be amazed to hear, I have never experienced. At the ripening age of 54 I was a pedi-virgin.
 
Two days before my appointment I’m idly running my fingertips over the tops of my toenails as I read a book, and notice a sharp, uneven nail. Momentarily forgetting pending pedicure I grab onto it and tear it off. I’m left with a ragged, obviously torn, nail, and immediately fear judgment from the pedicurist. They’ll lift an eyebrow, purse their lips, and silently reproach me for my reckless move, wondering how I made it to my age taking care of my feet this way. They’ll pet the hair on my two biggest toes, my little furry friends, and tsk, lifting the other eyebrow. (Am I supposed to shave them, pluck or wax? These things just weren’t covered back in the 70’s when I learned these types of grooming rites from my visiting adult sister; thank you, by the way.) They’ll notice the slight green tinge on the very tip of those same two nails that I was never able to remove entirely since the summer when I painted them a bright, neon green, constantly flashing up at me like M&M’s producing a smile and a sudden craving for crunchy chocolate.
 
Then they’ll notice the scar swooping across one of those big toes. I was six, wading in the shallows of the Spokane River, with sneakers on as was required under matriarchal law, but nonetheless managed to find the one broken beer bottle in the area and sliced my toe open and we had to go rushing to the nearest military hospital clear on the other side and outskirts of Spokane. Multiple tears where shed, multiple stiches were sewn. These toes have been places.
 
Today I walked my adventurous toes into the sanctuary of self-indulgence – all dark mauve walls, dim lighting and aromatic scents – the spa. When asked to select a color for my nails while my chair was being readied, I was left alone with a shining array of shades, in such a poorly lit display I considered pulling out my iPhone and using the flashlight, but it felt like such an old-lady move, I just put my reading glasses on and held the bottles up to the nearest soft beam, twisting and turning until I chose a sparkly teal named Out Loud.
 
The last time I was here, I was in for a foot massage, stripped down, fluffy-robed and slippered in a private room. When having my feet washed, I mentioned/fessed up to having a wart on my foot, and the masseuse got up to get some prophylactic gloves, making me feel dirty, tainted. I was hoping for an organic skin on skin experience, not one hampered by slippery latex. It was like the back seat in high school all over again! And yet, the job was done regardless, and it was a lovely, satisfying experience, and safe for all involved.
 
Today for my Ultimate Pedicure the pedicurist wore gloves, too, but since it was half massage and half procedure that involved shiny metal tools lined up neatly on a tray by her stool, it seemed appropriate. Her touch was so soft I hardly felt her hands as she lifted the top of my foot from the warm, soapy tub under my chair and began her magic. As she clipped and filed my toenails she told me they looked nice and I did a good job. I glowed with the praise, like the teacher’s pet I once was, admiring my creamy, elf-like feet, the only dainty part of my entire body. Then she lifted my heel out of the water, turned to look at it and gasped. Gasped like I had another set of digits growing out the back of my foot, with little tiny mouths on each toe filled with blood-drooling fangs snapping at her purple-gloved hands. I could have feigned surprise – I was successfully pretending to like the vile herbal tea, after all (I would be sure to ask only for the refreshing cucumber and lemon water next time). But I knew with that sharp intake of breath that I would have to rush to explain that I really did try to take care of those heels, the Hobbit-as-compared-to-the-Elf portion of my feet, but nothing seemed to work. Been that way all my life. The thick calloused heels look like they’ve walked from the Shire to Mordor and back again, vertical fissures filled with mud and twigs, or at least black wooly sock-fuzzies needing to be extracted with tweezers. My little Asian weaver of foot-healing spells, kept asking me with wide, beautiful and compassionate Anime eyes if they were hot, until I finally figured out she was saying ‘hurt,’ which they weren’t. Hurt, nor hot. She gently sanded and tutored me on heel care, using one new cheese grater-like file for each foot (not standard, I was told, and I am sure I will be used as a horrifying example for future pedicure clients for months), and after a soothing seaweed wrap (disappointingly not actual strips of seaweed like you find on the beach slithering around my ankles and feet, but a thick green concoction she brewed up and painted on with a giant paint brush and actually smelled pleasant), doubled the amount of hot paraffin usually used in the bag-and-wrap portion of my treatment, which rolled off cleanly in such a satisfying way (what sorcery is this?!), leaving behind a foot fresh and pink as a newborn baby’s – but not as wrinkly. Every competently conjured step she reassured me that it would “feel good, make soft” and the incantation worked.
 
After a light, but lovely, massage from calves to toes (highlighted by her asking me if I worked out, no doubt because of my taut calf muscles even when relaxed, while pressing the good tip-reassurance acupressure point on my sole), she painted my toes Out Loud. (I quite enjoyed typing that…) While the polish was drying between coats she moisturized my hands, briefly massaged them, then moved on to my shoulders and neck, perched on the arm of my chair so she could use all of her whopping 80 pounds of torque, resulting in relaxed release and a total drop of tension with each breath. I’ll have what she’s having.
 
When she led me to the after-room for water, nuts, dried berries and for some more drying time, she grabbed my comfortable-yet-kinda-crap shoes I had hidden under my purse when I took them off. As I followed in the spa-provided flat, white flip-flops (in my naiveté I hadn’t even thought to bring sandals), shuffling slowly with my freshly sparkling toes, I saw one of the sweat-stained inserts from my shoes on the floor and snatched it up before she could see, at least one embarrassment avoided. Since I didn’t have the patience, even in my near-catatonic state, to wait for the 40-minute total dry time before I could wear my shoes that are not sandals, I slipped out after paying and scooted around the building in the cheap flip flops, tissue still wedged between my toes to the car. I drove home barefoot, because against the law or not, I was not going to ruin these Elfen toes.

Every once in a while when my son is visiting, he asks me “How many cookbooks do you have, mom? Wasn’t the last count over 80?”  It’s usually asked with good humor, or sometimes in a boasting manner to a new visitor who might be eyeing the scattered groupings of books about the house, cooking-related and other.  I downplay it, and say it’s something like that, maybe more.  Well, I just counted and if you include memoirs with recipes, and I do, I have around 140. I think I’m more proud than embarrassed – books have always been my friends, and a cookbook is one you have a solid history with; memories triggered by smell, that produce squirts of saliva in the back of your cheeks, a yearning.  I love opening to a page with a smudge of butter on it and recalling the happy mess I made while assembling say, a new kind of cinnamon roll with the vibrancy of lime and cardamom.  I make notes alongside the recipe with substitutions, or advice to myself on a certain technique.
 
I’ve made New Year’s resolutions to make a recipe from a different cookbook once a week for a year, but sadly, like most of my well-intended declarations, I never kept it up. There was never anything keeping me accountable.  Until now.  If you find I’ve skipped a week, get on me people!  Beg me, berate me – kindly, though. Rudeness is unacceptable and will be met with squinty-eyed displeasure and a Delete Comment button. Playful banter is welcome. Ask if I’m okay, if I need some caffeine, or inspiration, which sometimes turns out to be the same thing…
 
Last week I included a recipe for Pumpkin Glory Loaf from the Flying Apron cookbook, and today I want to share another comforting fall (two words that go together so often, “comforting” and “fall”; something about the cooling weather and outbreak of sweaters that inspires people to cook again after a skimpy, too-hot-to-cook summer, perhaps) dish that stands on its own. The following is adapted from Smitten Kitchen (which I never grow tired of saying, it’s just so clever and cute).  I opened the book at random, and landed on this recipe featuring root vegetables served with quinoa and a tangy dressing. I stuck with the choice, and was not disappointed. The smell of roasting vegetables, shallots, and cooking bacon filled the house with a sense of downright contentment.  Smitten Kitchen doesn’t include bacon, but I had some in the fridge that we cured and smoked ourselves that is honestly better than anything you could buy, and, well….bacon!  I’ll cover the bacon curing process for another time, how about? 

​Roasted Baby Roots with Sherry-Shallot Vinaigrette
½ cup uncooked plain quinoa, rinsed
Coarse salt
3 small shallots
Olive oil
1 ½ lbs. mixed root vegetables (radishes, turnips, parsnips, beets, etc.), tiny if you can find them, scrubbed, trimmed of all but a bit of stem, and halved lengthwise
Juice of ½ lemon
Freshly ground black pepper
 

​Dressing
2 Tbsp. sherry vinegar (or white wine vinegar)
1 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar, plus more for finishing
2 big pinches of coarse salt
3 Tbsp. olive oil
Freshly ground pepper
 
To Serve (optional)
Dabs of soft goat cheese
Dollops of thick yogurt
Bacon, cooked, and crumbled
 
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
 
Bring quinoa and 1 cup of lightly salted water to a boil. Cook for 10 – 15 minutes, until quinoa has absorbed water. Set aside.
 
While grain cooks, prepare vegetables. Peel shallots and separate cloves, if there is more than one inside. Place in medium-square of aluminum foil (perfect for that bit you washed and saved from your last pizza!), coat with a few droplets of olive oil, and wrap in foil, creating a packet. Place on rack in oven.
 
Coat baking sheet or roasting pan lightly with olive oil. Arrange the root vegetables in one layer, and drizzle lightly with additional olive oil. Squeeze lemon juice over vegetables. Sprinkle generously with salt and freshly ground pepper.
 
Add roasting pan to oven. Roast veggies for 20 minutes or so, then flip them and roast for another 10, or until tender and a bit crackly. (Larger ones might take longer to cook through.)
 
Remove vegetables from oven, set aside. Remove shallot packet with tongs. Carefully remove the shallots (they’ll try to slip away), and toss into blender. Blend with sherry and balsamic vinegars and 2 pinches of coarse salt and some pepper. Drizzle in olive oil. Sample vinaigrette, and adjust seasoning to taste.
 
Spoon three-quarters of quinoa onto a platter. Arrange roasted roots over quinoa, and sprinkle with remaining quinoa.  Drizzle the entire dish with the vinaigrette. For a little extra, you can finish it with additional droplets of your balsamic. Serve with goat cheese or yogurt, if using. And to boost the flavor even more, add some cooked, crumbled bacon.
 
Makes 4 servings.

I applied for a part-time job today while wearing my fuzzy leopard-print robe and the Hello Kitty slippers I picked-up for free at a local Burning Man event.  To further help with the visual, this was while curled up on the purple velvet chaise lounge, sipping coffee from the over-sized “I (heart) Mini” mug we got when we bought our Mini Clubman.  I feel I should be swooning from the sheer pathos of it, back of hand to forehead, eyelids fluttering, chin to the heavens.  Poor, poor pitiful me.
 
Joe has been taking Sookie, said Mini, to work, or most days the Park-n-Ride for the bus to work, (a reward for being the sole bread winner right now, the rational/sane one who knows how to bite his tongue when the boss goes crazy, and still has a job), since supposedly I’m at home most of the day, job-searching, writing, and not in much need of a car.  (I’m certainly not watching the modern-day equivalent of a soap opera, albeit high-brow soap opera, the BBC’s “Call The Midwife,” eating a pity cookie and burying the evidence wrapper in the trash.)  This means that when I do drive, I have to take what used to be a perfectly fine car, but I have recently been referring to as the Jetlopy, our ’99 Jetta.  It has very dramatic cracks on the windshield that get the evil-eye from me while I’m behind the wheel, and some bubbling of paint, and those types of headlights that are dulled like cataracts, even after you rub with toothpaste like in that amazingly clever Pinterest fix.  The interior is littered with mysterious bits of man-trash I don’t know if I should clean or not as I’m not privy to their importance. I forget which way to push the gear-shifter into Reverse, how to turn on the dash lights, the driver’s seat is stuck in the Slouchback position Joe prefers so that I find I’m working my abs to sit straight (there’s a plus!), I’m forced to listen to regular radio, with commercials, or people asking for money, instead of the Sirius radio Sookie plays from her bitchin’ Harman Kardon sound system.  But, the Jetlopy is paid for and still running, so needs must, eh?  (Certainly not a phrase someone would pick up from a BBC show. Certainly not.) I find my hand twitching up off the steering wheel when I encounter Mini’s, in the start of a Mini’s Unite solidarity wave, but stop when I realize I’m in the wrong car. In so many ways…
 
Another disadvantage to being unemployed-hoping-to-be-self-employed, is that by sleeping until I am done and taking my time getting ready for the day, means that the towel I grab off the heated towel rack is no longer warm when I step out of the shower. The timer is set for a little before Joe gets up until a little after I would be leaving on a normal work day. I know, boo hoo, right?  I suppose I could get up earlier so I could still have that warm, comforting cotton on my face, like nuzzling into your grandfather’s flannel shirt.  Or reset the timer to go a little longer, but that would not fit in with my newfound frugality, nor my life-long energy-conserving ways.  I may just have to suffer in pouty silence. 

This weekend we answered the lusty call of local craft beer and distilleries, the Prosser Beer & Whiskey Festival, and ventured over the mountains to the agricultural heart of Washington State. In three hours of driving time we careened down the mountainside, leaving a rainstorm behind us in Seattle and bursting through the clouds into a painting of the sunny, dusty plains of the Old West. As the temperature rose we looked out upon miles of red-tinted rocks, rolling plains dotted with cattle, green sloping orchards, and the occasional tumbleweed scampering across the highway in mortal fear of every vehicle in its path ignoring the posted speed limit of 70 MPH and racing forward with the exhilaration of a wild Mustang running free. 
 
A couple hours after our arrival (we were graciously hosted in the home of a friend, filled with tantalizing smells and as cozy as staying in a carefully-crafted country boutique!) our designated driver approached the Prosser Wine & Food Park where the event was held, and the wind picked-up and the blue drained from the sky to be replaced with an eerie beige color, framed by apocalyptic black clouds.  Dust, smoke from a nearby fire, and strong winds did little to deter us, as we clutched our logo glasses and tokens, hair whipping, and entered one of two huge pavilion-style tents, flags a flapping, in search of sustenance.  Inside was a wonderland of libations (with a smattering of food and retail booths – one of which was Damsel in Defense, with a display of Tasers in ironic cheerful colors that kept drawing me back, but to their credit they stuck to their stun guns, and did not allow me to test any of them on anybody, now matter how harmless I tried to look with my innocent freckles), with offerings from over 20 breweries and distilleries, from 12 Spirits (Seahawk-inspired) to Moonshine Zombie Whiskey: “Whiskey with a bite!” (my unofficial vote for best name and slogan).  I was focused on the spirits; in particular the cocktails, such as a Cherry Moonshine Margarita from Swede Hill Distilling, and a Cucumber Vodka concoction from RiverSands Distillery.

Cherry Moonshine Margarita
2 oz. Swede Hill Cherry Moonshine
6 – 8 oz. margarita mix
Shake with ice and serve in chilled,
sugar-rimmed margarita glass.
 
Cucumber Vodka Martini
2 ½ oz. Kennewick Cucumber Vodka
½ oz. of dry vermouth
3 slices of cucumbers
1 cup of ice
Place all of above ingredients into shaker.
Shake for 30 seconds to soften and blend flavors.
Pour into Martini glass and enjoy!

As a home brewer and environmentalist, Joe was intrigued and impressed by Solar Spirits, who, as you can guess by the name, utilizes solar energy to reduce their environmental impact. Whether it was an IPA or a potent pour of whiskey we were treated well, even as we jostled against the crowd and battled the wind which had a playful habit of flinging our hair into our faces blinding us, or picking it straight up off our heads in an unflattering Cindy Lauper style from the 80’s whenever a camera faced our direction.
 
While we warmed up from the generous pours of alcohol, curly fries made from a mountain of super-sized potatoes peeled with the help of a huge, mesmerizing spinning drill, and super tasty ceviche tacos from El Buen Gusto and some crazed-wind dancing to the live band, the thought of the mechanical bull stoutly residing in one corner of the food tent kept snuffling at my thoughts. It’s one of those bucket-list items that’s gotten dustier over time, and while I was grateful that I possessed enough common sense not to ride the creature, I was also a bit disappointed that same common sense (let me just say it: age) prevented me from a thrilling bit of fun I would have jumped at 10 or 15 years ago.  I tend to think I’m much more fit, or at least stronger, than I really am, and though I could envision my vise-like thighs gripping the saddle and giving a Rebel yell that would electrify the crowd into a cheering frenzy, the thought of my skirt creeping up offering an unabashed view of those thighs, the gawdawful double-chinned photo resulting from shriek of terror (i.e. Rebel yell), and inevitable instantaneous fall from bull onto ground, fat-cushion and bouncy-castle material surrounding bull not withstanding, resulting in bruises lasting for the next six to nine months and possible sprains, breaks and ligament tears I would forever refer to as my Bull-riding Injuries from the Fall of 2015 stopped me.  Or maybe I'm finally old and wise enough to know my limits and not to drink too much. Who knows?  We’ll see what happens next year.
​

My son’s curly head pops into the frame of the front window and I set down my glass of wine, (which I debated having as I didn’t want to seem like a Mad Men lush, but decided I needed as a relaxation aid and prop to show that I am indeed in a calm, easy-going state and not the overly-eager Nervous Nellie I actually am), jumping up from my seat with a loud stage whisper to Joe: “They’re here!”   The Man-Child and his lady hesitate as they approach the door, so I creak it open just a couple inches and stick my freshly-tinted lips through and breathe out a going-for-chills “Are you…frightened?”

Ever since I made this dinner-date to meet her, I’ve wondered if it is normal for the mother to be experiencing the butterflies, worried about that first impression, going to great lengths (or rather “somewhat great lengths” because “great lengths” might be a small exaggeration, but “minor lengths” is not even a thing, is it?)  to plan the perfect simple-yet-tasty, gluten- and dairy-free meal. Could this be The One? The woman who will turn my son into a happy man who realizes he wants children, and who will be the mother of my beautiful grandchildren I would so love to have? (Run away, GFG, run away!) I woke up Sunday morning fretting over what to wear.  Nothing frumpy, not too fancy…black. Specifically, a black short-sleeved tee and a flattering yoga-type skirt that doesn’t actually trip me – too often – and bare feet. Top it with a bold and bright orange squiggly necklace handmade by a friend, and a dab on the wrists of melted soy candle wax I kept because I liked the scent, and the outfit silently screams Me.  Joe sniffs his pits, changes his shirt and he’s done.

I guess this moment is so important to me because it hasn’t happened in a while.  Man-Child’s last girlfriend was mysteriously kept from us for well over a year.  Joe met her once, briefly and accidentally, on a dark winter’s night when we stopped at a convenience store for something on the way to a party.  I missed the chance encounter, simultaneously regretful and grateful, (regrateful?) as I was waiting in the car, seat extended fully back as I was in a corset so tight it did not allow me to sit upright, wearing a white mask and holding a bouquet of white roses against my plump corpse-like body.  (We were on our way to a Winter Solstice celebration, and I was dressed as an Ice Queen.  Of course.) 

The girlfriend before that was more present in our lives, but the first impression was a bit embarrassing.  Joe and I had been to an Oktoberfest party that morning, followed by the Fremont Oktoberfest, and ending with an impromptu dinner at our place for just a couple friends.  We were all outside in our clothing-optional hot tub under an illuminating full moon, and feeling no pain.  Then the back door opens and Man-Child comes out chuckling, and introduces his girlfriend to everyone, while I stick out my naked arm, careful to keep everything from the neck down under water.

Sunday’s dinner was perfect, all good smells, old-fashioned blues on the stereo, candles and coziness, and Gluten-free Girlfriend is a petite, magical elf of a woman, with manners to match her bounteous dimples.  Before dessert (that could have been cooked another 10 minutes, but everyone was gracious about it—nothing raw in it, after all), we huddle on the front porch and oooh and ahh over the blood-red super moon eclipse, and I take it as a good omen.  Love is in the air in Shorelandia.

Cooking is almost always a joy for me, but what I love even more is feeding people good food – to see their eyelids flutter with pleasure, a little moan maybe, involuntarily making its way out of their throat, an exclamation of “Oh. My. God!” spoken around a mouthful of deliciousness, hand cupped below their chin in case anything has the audacity to fall out.  It’s common for me to stop in the throes of preparing a meal, or putting things together for a party, and approach whoever is near with a spoon, or a tidbit, or a fingertip of whatever is making my heart pound at the moment.  Black bean hummus on a homemade pita chip, a creamy mustard sauce, a perfectly charred piece of marinated meat, have all made their way to unsuspecting souls, who over time have learned that this is what sparks happiness in me.  Food for pleasure is my love language.

Whenever I have someone new over for a meal, I make a point of asking them for aversions, allergies and preferences.  In this day of Paleo, vegan, nut-free, dairy-free, gluten-free, and Olly Olly Oxen-Free (which, to this moment I thought was “all come free” until I looked up how to spell Olly – thank you Urban Dictionary; how useful you would have been in my pre-internet childhood), you pretty much have to ask, unless you just don’t care.  Frankly, not caring would be so much easier, and I would be lying if I didn’t fantasize occasionally about just making whatever I want, regardless of anyone’s special needs. When you find yourselves in a similar mind-set, I suggest taking the apron off and going out to dinner.

All that said, a couple weekends ago my son the Man-Child came over with his new girlfriend, whom we’d never met.  This is a milestone.  We went through a period where he kept his girlfriends at arm’s-length, I suspect because we had a nasty human habit of getting attached to them, and when they broke-up it was like someone took our puppy away.  So, when he called me up and asked when we could meet this new puppy, I invited them to dinner, asking him the requisite questions right away.  Gluten-free, no red meat, light on the dairy.  I was tempted to get more details from him, my preferred method of sneak being texting, but alas, my son is a long-haired neo-Luddite techno-phobe, so I was on my own.  I didn't know if the gluten-free is by choice or necessity, but I did a little research regardless.  Beautifully Blended gives a fun-yet-thorough explanation, with handy charts and a huge list of ingredients and foods to avoid, which I have already pinned to one of my Pinterest boards for future reference.  Some of the less obvious, hidden glutens were a big surprise to me, like bouillon and curry powder (I’m assuming because they are processed). As when shopping for a vegan meal, I now have a better idea of what to look for when reading labels on pre-made and/or processed food. 

For this meal I played it safe and went with one of my favorite chicken recipes for the entree, and made kebabs with the bold flavors of lemon, garlic and mint often found in Moroccan food.  I’ve also made this with lamb, and pork with great results, as well, but like I said, for this meal I was playing it safe.

Moroccan Kebabs
¼ cup olive oil
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice
4 large garlic cloves, minced
1 Tbsp. chopped fresh mint
2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. grated lemon peel or zest (remember to grate before you juice the lemon!)
1 tsp. ground black pepper (pepper through cumin, freshly ground, if possible)
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. ground cumin

2 lbs. well-trimmed boneless chicken, lamb or pork, cut into 2-inch cubes
12-inch long metal skewers (or bamboo skewers soaked for at least 30 minutes)

Whisk first 9 ingredients in a medium bowl to blend. Transfer 1/4 cup marinade to small bowl; cover, chill and reserve as basting sauce.  Add meat to remaining marinade in medium bowl; toss to coat.  Marinate 2 hours at room temperature or cover and refrigerate overnight.
 
Prepare barbecue (medium-high heat).  Remove meat from marinade.  Thread cubes onto your skewers, dividing equally. Brush all skewers with some of reserved 1/4 cup marinade. Grill meat to desired doneness, turning occasionally.    
 
Makes 4 servings.

For the side dish I thought a combination grain and salad would go nicely with the chicken, and add some vibrant color.  The following recipe for Black Rice Salad with Mango and Peanuts from Bon Appetit has a chewiness and freshness that really appeals to me, with a lingering taste of summer about it. I was actually surprised not to see fish sauce on the list of gluten foods, but double-checked the label, and anchovy extract, salt and sugar is all there is in the Thai Kitchen brand I have. I ended up skipping it anyway, but still.  Black rice, also more exotically called Forbidden Rice, is available in the bulk section at my favorite local fancy-schmancy grocery store, but I’m hoping it’s offered elsewhere, as I wouldn’t substitute it in this recipe – the bite of nutty flavor really makes this salad.  As a plus, it’s a little powerhouse of nutrition, as well!

Black Rice Salad with Mango and Peanuts
2 oranges
¼ cup (or more) fresh lime juice
2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 Tbsp. fish sauce (such as nam pla or nuoc nam; optional)
2 cups black rice
Kosher Salt
2 just-ripe mangoes, peeled, pitted, cut into ½-inch dice
1 cup fresh cilantro leaves
1 cup finely chopped red onion (about ½ large onion)
½ cup unsalted, dry-roasted peanuts
6 scallions, thinly sliced
2 jalapeños, seeded, minced

Remove peel from oranges. Working over a medium bowl to catch juices and using a small sharp knife, cut the orange pith of each orange.  Slice orange, separating into little triangular chunks, and set aside.

Add 1/4 cup lime juice, oil, and fish sauce (if using) to bowl with orange juice; whisk to blend. Set dressing aside.
Bring rice and 2 3/4 cups water to a boil in a large saucepan. Season lightly with salt. Cover, reduce heat to low, and simmer until all liquid is absorbed and rice is tender, about 25 minutes. Remove pan from heat and let stand, covered, for 15 minutes. Spread out rice on a rimmed baking sheet, drizzle with dressing, and season lightly with salt; let cool.

Place mangoes and remaining ingredients in a large bowl. Add rice and toss gently to combine. Season lightly with salt and more lime juice, if desired.

Makes 6-8 servings.

Once the Man-Child and his lady (it occurs to me I don’t know her age!) were fed and we were at the lounging about stage, tummies content and discussing climate-change and possible solutions, I offered up a modest, and not-too-show-offy dessert.  For this I went to my extensive – or so it seems to my husband – cookbook collection, and perused Flying Apron’s Gluten-Free & Vegan Baking Book.   The restaurant is local, and I know firsthand how at least a couple of the final products taste (yum!), so I was feeling confident, though I’d never made this particular recipe.  Dark, rich and full of autumnal spiciness, it lived up to its promise to be “warming and satisfying without being too sweet,” and has the wonderful lofty name of Pumpkin Glory Loaf.

 Pumpkin Glory Loaf
1 cup buckwheat flour
2 cups brown rice flour
1 3/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. ground cinnamon  
1 tsp. ground cloves
1 cup safflower oil
1 cup molasses
1 cup maple syrup
1 can (15 ounces) pumpkin purée or 1 3/4 cups cooked squash, sweet potato, or pumpkin
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup chopped toasted walnuts
1/2 cup raisins (I might leave these out as they’re not my favorite)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Combine the buckwheat flour, brown rice flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and cloves in a large bowl. In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the safflower oil, molasses, maple syrup, pumpkin, and vanilla until well mixed. With the mixer on low speed, add the flour mixture until well mixed, about 3 minutes. Fold in the walnuts and raisins.

Line the bottom of two 8 1/2- by 4 1/2-inch loaf pans or one 10-inch square cake pan with parchment paper, or grease and dust with brown rice flour. Pour in the batter.

Bake until the cake springs back when you press the center with your finger, about 50 minutes. Cool for an hour before slicing.

Makes two 8 1/2- by 4 1/2-inch loaves, or one 10-inch square cake.
​

As with the spices for the kebab marinade, I ground the cinnamon and cloves for the dessert loaf.  The whir of spices in the grinder is always a briefly-noisy indication of something good to come, and the aroma of those two spices in particular is like Fall Incarnate.

Anxiety is too light a word to describe my feelings the last few weeks. Pure, unadulterated Angst, with a capital A, is perhaps a tad closer.  After 23 years of working the same job I went against the cardinal rule my father ingrained into each of his three children as we reached working age, and quit my job without having another lined up.  No two-week’s notice, just a fast and vicious sword-play of words, then something clicked in my head and I couldn’t take it anymore; reading the same kind of documents every day, doing the same tasks, working for a mercurial man I had some respect for, but apparently not enough. I had my Popeye Moment:  “That’s all I can stands, but I can’t stands no more!”  I fear I may have a problem with authority figures…me and everybody else, right?
 
After my first week of decompression, emotions ran the gamut from arms flung wide, skirts a-twirling atop the mountainside to opening my eyes in the morning, realizing I quit my job and jolting awake like I was being hit in the chest by a bicycle-pump sized needle full of adrenaline.  Our income is halved, and after working for a small company for so long, I simply cannot see myself suiting-up this soft middle-aged body and heading for a corporate job.  My self-esteem was shot after only one week.  What will it be like in another week, and another, and most likely another? My husband is supportive, but his sleep is also fitful, (we wake in a tangle of sweat-damped sheets anchored down by our talented surfing cat) and since he does the bills he knows where we are financially better than I, and how very little we can go on without a double income.  He tells me to breathe easy, we’re better off than he thought, that we can manage a while longer if we are very frugal.  Day Two I text him that I am Ms. Frugality 2015.  I will change my middle name to Frugal (which is infinitely more interesting than my real one of Ann—no offense to any Ann’s out there, or my parents).  I’m going to get Frugal Rules tattooed on my money-spending (I mean saving) hands – in a dramatic Gothic font, for free by my cousin the tattoo artist, because I’m just that thrifty.  But being frugal doesn’t make the car payment on Sookie, my 50th birthday present dream car Mini Cooper Clubman in Chile red.  Just a couple weeks of being unemployed after over 30 solid years of working, ecstatic at my bravery/stupidity at leaving my job in such a dramatic manner, and reality is nipping at my rough, dry heels.  Tomorrow will be here before I know it.