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Aloha Mole

9/1/2016

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“I’ve got this mole, see,” I said in my best gangster talk as I flipped ashes from my imaginary stogie onto my skirt that was bunched up around my waist. The paper modesty drape crinkled as I shifted self-consciously on the doctor’s chair. He wanted to know what prompted me to come in. “It’s…different.” I hesitated.
 
Earlier his nurse had asked where the mischievous mole was located, and I indicated with my hand. “Your thigh?” His finger paused over his digital notepad.
 
“Uh, no. It’s on my…. pubis?” My mons, my hoo-hah, my-god-I’m-nearly-55-and-I-don’t-really-know-what-I-should-call-it-anatomically. Is that a blush or a hot flash I’m feeling? I considered Googling it when I was in the dermatology waiting room with all the other redheads, blondes and fair-skinned of our species, (and one poor teen with acne that made me cringe inside with sympathy). The nurse wrote it down, so I figured one of us knew. He then asked if I would be more comfortable with a female in the room during the (male doctor’s) exam. I shrugged my shoulders indifferently, but secretly wished for an overweight assistant; I don’t feel that uncomfortable showing my body, but the fat…not so much.
 
I read recently that "The mythical explanation of antiquity was that the gods, concerned that some mortals were just too beautiful, sent dark spots down to mar pretty faces." My face is liberally spattered with freckles and beauty marks, that kind-hearted euphemism. Thank you very much you jealous gods! But the Mons Mole, hidden in its Top Secret location since birth like a discreet tattoo, always held a certain aura of mystery about it. “Has he seen your mole?” became a friend’s code for a relationship’s…progress, shall we say.
 
“Different how?” the dermatologist prompted me.
 
“Well, it’s tender, and it’s grown horns.” I demonstrated by wiggling my index fingers at the top of my head. The doctor rewarded me with widened eyes, and eyebrows shooting up over the rims of his glasses.
 
“Now I’m intrigued! Let’s have a look. Will I be able to see it easily?” he said as he snapped his purple gloves on and reached for a magnifying light. I could sense his eagerness and was happy I could make his day a bit more fun; if there were Master’s Degrees in Lightheartedness I would have one.
 
“Oh yeah,” I nodded. Put that magnifying glass back, honey, and say hello to my lil’ fren.
 
We decided to remove it. It was a bit hard to say goodbye to this part of me, this piece of myself, but it was probably for the best. The doctor picked up on my sense of humor ("Can you see any gray since you're down there?") and said that they were going to mount it on the break room refrigerator. I was comforted by the thought of its little horns waving back and forth as the fridge door was opened daily.

I considered ending this post with a recipe for Pumpkin Mole, but that’s too far, even for me.
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Melty Goodness

8/10/2016

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​I’ve been somewhat obsessed with the neighbors’ melted blinds this last week, so it comes as no surprise that my recipe of choice last night was a Crab Melt. I’d like to think it serves as a good example of my ability to take something negative and twist it, if sometimes absurdly, into a positive.
 
The recipe comes from A Boat, A Whale & A Walrus, a local cookbook by Renee Erickson. It’s filled with menus, recipes, beautiful photos and stories sprinkled throughout about everything from her summers in Washington as a kid to the food suppliers she uses for her restaurants. The recipes can be elegant, yet simple, and always fresh. Like the Pacific Northwest itself, now that I think about it.
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This Crab Melt is so easy and straightforward I had to wonder why it was even included. But…..delicious! I’ve been eating more sensibly lately, avoiding carbs and bad fats and the like, so this was a truly decadent treat. I wanted to use fresh crabmeat, so sauntered up to the seafood counter at a local grocery store and asked for a pound. That’s all he happened to have, and as he handed me the container he hesitated and told me the price. I froze in shock, but I saw a challenge in his eyes – real or imagined – and pride made me take it from him with a forced insouciance. Plus, the thought of the canned stuff by the tuna fish that always seems to have a lot of cartilage in the meat made me throw my self-imposed budget to the wind; I wanted the real deal. Fresh, succulent Northwest goodness.

I made a half-recipe, as it was only for my husband and I, and it made plenty – enough for dinner again tonight. Neither of us is a fan of tarragon, so I swapped that out for fresh garlic chives from the pot on the back porch. I also used Vegenaise instead of mayonnaise. When I want authentic mayo I make it from scratch, but for day-to-day use I like the vegan version. Using fresh crabmeat was the right call, as when I taste-tested the mixture for seasoning before piling it on the English muffin, I wanted to eat it all up right then! We both waited patiently (well, one of us did) while our little toaster oven took forever to broil, getting that sharp cheddar to that perfect melted, golden stage.

I served this with a coleslaw made from what I had on hand: chopped green cabbage, the last of a bunch of cilantro, (so mostly stems), a dollop of Vegenaise, a bloop bloop bloop of rice vinegar, a sprinkle of whatever is in the sugar bowl (Splenda) because it was closer to my hand than the pantry, and a couple generous pinches of Thai ginger sea salt and vigorous grinds of the pepper mill. Can I hear a YUM?


Crab Melts
(makes 8)


4 English muffins, split
2 lbs. picked crabmeat
½ cup mayonnaise
1/3 cup chopped fresh garlic chives
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
6 ounces strong white cheddar, such as Beecher’s Flagship


Toast the English muffins until lightly browned in toaster, and preheat the oven’s broiler setting to high.

In a large mixing bowl, blend together the crabmeat, mayonnaise, chives, and salt and pepper to taste. Place the muffins on a baking sheet, cut sides up. Pile the crab salad onto the muffins, then top the crab with the cheddar.

Place the baking sheet on a rack about 4 inches from the broiling unit. Broil the melts with the door partway open until the cheese is melted and bubbly, turning the pan once if needed to melt the cheese evenly, 3 to 5 minutes total. (The meat inside doesn’t need to be piping hot.) Serve immediately.  

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Blind Obsession

8/10/2016

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I kept wishing they would take the blinds down. Every time I walked past our dining room window, I stopped and stared across the driveway at those blinds. At first glance they just looked broken, like someone bent the slats down when peeping through them and they stayed that way. Then you would notice the odd warping, and realize they were melted. And there was a one by two-foot rectangle just gone, a black absence in the neat pattern of lines at the top. It was so hot in their living room the blinds melted.
 
The night of the fire I couldn’t fall asleep so slid into a kimono and settled myself on the couch with my book. I was reading for a while and had just raided the fridge for a tasty bite of leftover sausage and settled back into my nest, back to my story. Then I heard a large truck pull up in front of the house. It didn’t move, and I turned to see red lights flashing in through that middle part of the curtains that seems to only close all the way half the time. I got up and pulled them aside. A fire truck was in front of our house and the one next door, and our neighbor was standing in her robe in her driveway lit by the truck’s flood lights, hand to her mouth facing towards her house. I ran outside.
 
A smell of burning plastic assaulted me as I flew over the lawn in my bare feet. Once I got to J I could see smoke silhouetted against the black sky. I took her in my arms and asked if she was okay. Once she confirmed she was I asked her firmly where T was, and she nodded toward the driveway saying “There.” Relief flooded through me as he came towards us, in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, his bare chest looking so soft and vulnerable next to the half-a dozen fire fighters fully geared up around him. He joined us, and somehow I grew twice my size and enveloped them in a big mama bear hug of safety, murmuring over and over to them that they were okay, while at the back of my mind I was embarrassed that I had sausage breath. My next thought was that I had to get a robe for T.
 
This was a week ago, and there’s been a fire restoration truck there for a few days now, slowly hauling our friends’ heavily smoke-damaged lives out bits at a time. Incredibly frightening what built-up lint in the dryer hose can do. They were not injured, the house is still standing (though unlivable for at least a month, most likely longer) they have each other – they’re getting married next week; the wedding dress was thankfully at her mom's – but they’re left in a daze of “what ifs.” 
 
The blinds were untouched for a week, and became my obsession. I would make up reasons to walk past our window so I could look at them. They hung there, partly intact, partly drooping in a plastic palsied frown; a grotesque reminder of the biggest “what if…” What if they hadn’t woken up?
 
If I were an artist, I would take charcoal from the charred floorboard that was beneath the dryer that now sits alongside the washer, both burnt-out hulks of sadness in the backyard. On a white wall I would sketch a living room, with family photos, books, a couch with that special pillow that was finally just right for taking a nap. Then I would blow the black dust from my hands over the scene, draw a window over it, and hang those melted blinds over it all. You would smell smoke and plastic, and you would be able to feel the horror of “what if.”
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Quirky Musings from a Quirky Mind

7/15/2016

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Post-Camping Nirvana. You know. When you tumble through your door after a few days in the woods, kick off your boots, and head for the bathroom, where it is blessedly your own, clean, you don’t have to pull your bandana over your face to prevent barfing, nothing is below your tush but porcelain and water, and visions of that creepy thing from the X-Files that lurked in the hole of outhouses don’t exist. Then that blessed manna from modern plumbing, the hot shower. Down the drain goes the bug spray, the dried sweat, the rivulets of dirt dried to mud on your ankles. And washing your hair! Biodegradable Dr. Bronner’s you’re cool and all that, but give me some Bumble and Bumble in that seductive summer scent of coconut and I’ll give you a new woman. And what could possibly be better than slipping that clean body into your own bed, cool, smooth sheets on an actual mattress a foot thick, a real pillow and not some bundled t-shirts because you forgot the pillows for camping?
 
Sometimes I wake up with this fluttering in my chest, a shot of adrenalin racing through my veins, and I think: Panic attack? Or is this strange energy called being rested and fully awake? It’s so rare I would hardly know. Should I take a pill to calm the storm, or stretch my arms up into a salutation of the sun?
 
I was at a museum recently and while I loved reading about the history of each piece, standing absorbed in interest, admiring the craftsmanship, the beauty, I was aching to touch everything. To trace my fingers along the whorls in a chair finely wrought in Celtic patterns by an anonymous carver from Romania, designed by their queen who came over from the British Isles. To cup my hand around the cool, smooth haunch of a Rodin statue. To poke my finger at the waterproof jacket made of seal intestines that looked amazing like a lightweight quilted parka from REI. To add to this hell of holding back my tactile desires were the often crookedly mounted placards, and even some paintings tilted slightly to the left. Unthinkingly, out of habit, I reached my hand out to a corner of a painting and gently pushed it up, but was met with resistance. It was permanently crooked. I gave a sigh and shuffled on.
 
Sometimes I wonder if I have some sort of neurological disorder that makes squares and rectangles appear slightly tilted down to the left. Or are they sliding up to the right? To this day our wall-mounted TV looks off-kilter to me, even though Joe has adamantly defended his carpentry skills, even whipped out a level to prove it is true. Regardless of science, if my eye sees it as crooked, isn’t it crooked? I see it as my civic duty to straighten frames in doctor’s offices, cafes, stores. Sometimes I do it matter-of-factly, like it’s my right to fix it, and other times I surreptitiously snake a hand out and do it on the sly. I always feel better for having done so, and wonder why it doesn’t bother anyone else. How long has that poster of Clean Hands Save Lives been tacked up on the wall so obviously wonky, and is it just me that feels slightly alarmed? I have to adjust most of the pictures on the walls of our home almost daily. Was there some earthquake in the wee morning hours? Does our old house settle that much during the night? My father, bless his OCD soul, pencil-marks the corners of frames so he knows exactly where to adjust any that are misbehaving. Are quirks passed on to new generations?
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Messy Hands, Happy Heart

7/13/2016

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It’s my husband’s birthday, but we’re flat broke, because I haven’t had a job in 9 months, (except for that time I worked at the front desk of the salon, and quit the next morning, leading one to believe I confused getting a “day job” with working one day. Also, several months ago I gave up looking for work entirely, as I needed to help a friend by becoming, essentially, her caretaker, but that is a story for another day.) This is what really sparks creativity – that mother of invention, Desperation.
 
I bustle about the kitchen and pantry to see what I can come up with for a special birthday dinner. Leftover salmon (that our generous neighbor caught) from last night, and a chunk of Parmesan wink at me enticingly from the refrigerator, and I think: Salmon Fettuccine. No pasta, though. But wait! I have flour, some semolina and eggs! I peer up onto the high shelves of the pantry where my dusty, forgotten kitchen helpers sleep, undisturbed, beside the big Halloween bowl I only use for passing out candy, and behold the Atlas pasta maker we got for a wedding gift nearly 23 years ago. The stainless steel of the heavy machine gleams with promise as I pull it out of its box. Fresh, homemade pasta is on the menu tonight!
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​I have a food processor I can throw the ingredients in, but I prefer to get my hands messy, give my forearms a 10-minute workout, to knead looooove into the dough. I turn on Pandora and create a Mambo Italiano station, and after mixing the flour into the crater of egg, oil and salt, I happily knead away to the accompaniment of the likes of Dean Martin, Sinatra, and Bobby Darin. “When that shark bites….” Palm pushes down on the dough, push, push, push.  “With his teeth, babe.” Half-turn, push, push, push! When it’s elastic and smooth, I form it into a ball to rest, and I run to the store to get cream for the sauce, because all I have on hand is fat free half and half, and that simply will not do. I also get a bag of dark chocolate Hershey’s Kisses to make a perky, shining trail to the bedroom. For dessert…
I decide chunks of our home-cured bacon would be good in the dish, so get half-a-dozen slices cooking in the toaster oven, while I triumphantly unearth a jar of capers I bought a few weeks ago. This salmon fettuccine promises to be downright seductive, with little pockets bursting with flavor in every bite. My favorite kind of meal.
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The process of thinning the dough through the hand-cranked pasta machine is so satisfying. All those years of Playdough training as a child finally pay off. It takes time, no doubt about it, but the texture is perfect, and when I’m done with the process the entire kitchen island is covered with drying fettuccine noodles. I mince a shallot, and finely grind some Parmesan as prep. Pour myself a glass of wine, while Sinatra croons. After melting a cube of butter, I add a half-cup of olive oil, and sauté the shallots. I throw in a cup and a half of cream, the bacon cubes, and capers, and simmer it while the pasta water comes to a boil. Right before I add the pasta, I sprinkle the cheese in the cream pot, stirring until it’s thick and smooth like chowder. The pasta cooks quickly, like 2 minutes. After I drain the pasta and plate it, smother it with sauce, then grate some more Parmesan on top, I step out to the back porch and cut some garlic chives for garnish. One birthday dinner, complete. Life is good in Shorelandia.

Fresh Egg Pasta Dough
2 cups flour, plus extra for dusting (I use ½ semolina, ½ flour)
3 eggs
1 tsp. extra-virgin olive oil
½ tsp. salt
 
Make a well in the flour. Pour 2 cups of the flour into a mound on a clean work surface. With your fist, gently make a well large enough to hold the eggs in the center of the mound.
Pour the eggs into the well. Crack the eggs into the well, adding a teaspoon of olive oil and the salt, if you want a little more flavor to your pasta, and I know you do.
Whisk the eggs. Using a fork, carefully whisk the eggs in the well, without drawing in any flour, until they are just mixed together.
Draw in the flour. Move the fork in a circular motion to gradually draw the flour into the center and stir it together with the egg-oil mixture. Gently draw in more flour and mix it in this way until all of the flour is blended in (use your other hand to help reinforce your wall of flour), and you have a shaggy mess of dough. 
Bring the dough together. Use your hands to bring the mass of dough into a ball. When all the flour is combined, if the dough is still sticky, sprinkle more flour over the dough, a little at a time, and mix it in. 
Knead the dough. Use a scraper to clean the work surface, and dust the clean surface with flour. Transfer the dough to the floured surface and knead it by pushing down and away from you, give it a half-turn, and repeat until the dough feels smooth and satiny, 7 to 10 minutes. Sprinkle on more flour if the dough becomes sticky or soft during kneading. Test by poking your finger in the dough; if it comes out clean, you're good, if it's sticky, add flour.
Let the dough rest. Clear away most of the excess flour on the work surface. Shape the dough into a ball by rolling it in a circle with both hands, applying pressure to the bottom so that the dough tucks under itself and the ball tightens up a little. Cover the ball with a large overturned bowl and let it rest for up half an hour up to 2 hours before rolling.

Makes about 1 pound.

If you don't have a hand-cranked pasta maker, simply roll out with a pin, or a wine bottle, until thin enough, let dry a bit, then cut our your lengths of fettuccine, or whatever shape, and let dry a bit before cooking. It only needs a couple minutes once it's but in the boiling water, so don't go away once you throw it in there! It will be firm, yet tender, to the bite when it's done. 
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Invasion of the Antbots

4/29/2016

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PictureSalvador Dali walking an anteater. But of course!
They appeared out of nowhere yesterday on my crumb-free, clean kitchen counter, slowly milling about near the food compost pail. It was like looking down at a dysfunctional marching band from the cheap seats in the stadium. Tiny black ants unresponsive to finger squishing – I had to use the back of my nail – and, I discovered after shaking a paper towel of supposedly dead ones into the sink, resistant to drowning (I don’t believe they survived the garbage disposal though…bwahaaaahaaa!). Immediately I removed every item from that section of the counter (including a sugar bowl, which you’d think would be wildly popular, but apparently this species has discerning tastes and snubbed their miniscule proboscises at New Stevia) killing any strays that had wandered off from the band. There was no sign of them above the sink in the vinegar and oil cupboard, nor beneath the sink. I cleaned everything with bleach, kept a vigilant eye out, thumbnail at the ready, and for the rest of the day I suffered from Delusional Parasitosis, (thank you Internet!) that feeling that your skin is crawling with bugs. I scratched my head like a flea-bitten animal; I clawed at my arms and legs until my skin was red. It’s happening again right now as I type. Because although there was no further sign of the wee pests yesterday afternoon or evening, this morning when I was in my most vulnerable state of pre-coffee, just-tumbled-out-bed-to-feed-the-starving-attention-deprived-cat, they were back.
 
The cat alerted me. She was standing near her wet-food bowl and she meowed in a different tone than usual. A “What is it, girl? Is Timmy down the well?!” type of meow. I reached down to get her bowl to wash before feeding her, and low and behold, the leftover food I thought she was being too picky to eat was being devoured by carnivorous ants. I was instantly awake and grinding the intruders and cat food in the disposal. I returned to the scene and smashed the ones who had either had their fill of Friskies or were fashionably late to the party. Again, it was as if they appeared from nowhere; there was no trail, no conga line to outside. I saw a couple near the floorboards, and stationed myself on the kitchen floor with my cup of coffee, reading glasses on (they’re so small!) waiting to ambush them. I got down on my belly, ant-eye level, to stare at the red Marmoleum for signs of movement, iPhone beside me as it occurs a picture would be nice for the post I’m writing in my head. Apparently they are camera shy.
 
I fantasize about having a mini-anteater for a pet, and wonder how soft they are, for petting and cuddling purposes. (Tangential research reveals that anteaters are extremely unsocial, yet check out this description by Jeff Corwin where he “…rhapsodizes about the anteater’s ‘angelic face … Its dense pelage is as soft as cashmere and has the color of golden honey. It even smells nice, like clean linen.’ Meeting the ‘angel of the forest,’ Corwin was euphoric: ‘This mysterious, almost magical creature sends my heart aflutter each time I have the rare privilege to set my eyes upon it.’”) Wearing my readers I see just how dirty the floorboards are, so I clean some more. I recall a dream last night where I was vacuuming a friend’s house, and wonder if my subconscious is telling me to clean my own house better. Nah. I think these are Antbots.
 
How diabolical would that be? Antbots! Able to infiltrate easily, indestructible and they drive you insane…even when they’re not there. But of course, there’s no such thing. (Except for this!) It’s getting chilly here on the floor, where I’m still sitting, though now with my laptop, thinking about micro-bots and magical anteaters. I haven’t seen any invaders for a while now, so I think I’ll go take a hot shower and scrub my skin until it shines.Then I'll come back and re-nail the baseboard to the wall.

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Tulips and Bellinis = A Perfect Day

4/12/2016

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Painted acres of ultra-vibrant tulips, sunshine, views of snowy Mt. Baker lording over the northeast, and the San Juan Islands disappearing to the north and west – this is the phenomenal Skagit Valley in April.
 
For years on my way to and from my family home on Whidbey Island I’ve been passing through this area, the fertile swath of agricultural land between the Puget Sound on the west and the Cascade Mountains to the east. There’s a shortcut, of sorts, where you turn off Interstate 5, or Highway 20, and slow your pace while the neat rows of crops flicker past your window. You can drive serenely through striped acres stretching across the valley, often hosting hundreds of fat, white snow geese who will take your breath away when they rise together, twisting magically into the air, their alabaster wings contrasting starkly against the blue or gray sky.
 
Once the spring arrives, Snow Goose Produce slides open their doors and walls, and you can’t help but stopping in to browse the open-air market, filled with all manner of tempting local goods, produce, cheese, seafood. If your will is strong enough to drive by the heaps of bright woven baskets, and lush plants displayed outside, the tantalizing scent of homemade waffle cones might make you pull over. Just across the Skagit River and up the road is the Rexville Grocery, where you can pop in for an espresso, or tasty hot food, or a pint of local brew. They’ll also pack a picnic for those romantic souls who desire a laid-back gourmet lunch among the celebrated tulips that adorn the fields this time of year.
 
Of course, I’m one of those romantics. When I heard the tulips were in bloom, I planned out a menu, prepared everything the night before, and on a sunny Friday, the first day the fields were open to the public, we set out for an entire day of downright Downton Abbey-esque decadent leisure. Attired in fancy hats, swirling skirts, lace and pearls – Joe in a Cubavera shirt in beige tones to match his hat and chinos – our intrepid trio traipsed from the grassy parking lot still wet with dew according to our long hems, to join the throngs of nature worshippers lined up to go into RoozenGaarde, the tulip mecca of the Pacific Northwest.
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We were all giddy from the sun, the silent explosion of flowers, the springy bounce of hardened-mud trails underfoot. The tulips were very patient as they were ogled from all sides by the tourist paparazzi, serving as the background for countless selfies, regaling us with their unwavering simple beauty. But after a couple hours our stomachs led us away from the colors and towards the promise of our picnic.
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We drove a short way to a sandy beach we shared with bald eagles and an intermittent handful of people strolling along the water’s edge, where we spread out on a large tapestry, and toasted the stunning day with Honeydew Bellinis. In consideration for our food-sensitive guest, Pixie, the meal was entirely vegan and gluten-free, each bite bursting with the freshness of the season. With the bay and San Juan Islands splayed before us, Joe played the flute, and I strummed the ukulele and sang. Pixie got out her art supplies and painted pastel patterns on shells. We shared meringue cookies with people who walked by. We abandoned our shoes and happily dug our toes into the sand. For one glorious day we forgot about our troubles. To sum it up, (and you really must say it in your head with an upper-class English accent): It was delightful.
 
Vegan, Gluten-Free Picnic Menu
 
Honeydew Bellinis
Asparagus with Vinaigrette*
Lemon-soy Carrots
Cumin-spiced Pepitas
Grapes
Fusilli with Lemon Pesto*

Vegan Meringues (made with aquafaba, or 'bean juice' a simple, amazing egg replacement!)

*Recipe adapted from Seattle Picnics, 1991 edition 

Honeydew Bellini
4 cups 1-inch cubes ripe honeydew melon (about ½ medium melon)
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
2 750-ml bottles Prosecco
 
Line large strainer with 2 layers damp cheesecloth; set over large bowl.
 
Puree melon, sugar, and lemon juice in blender until smooth.  Pour melon puree into lined strainer.  Let puree drain until only pale green pulp remains in strainer, about 30 minutes.  Discard pulp in strainer.
 
Pour generous 3 Tbsp. melon juice into champagne glasses, fill with Prosecco and serve.
 
Serves 10 
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​Asparagus in Vinaigrette
2 ½ pounds thin, tender fresh asparagus
2/3 cup olive oil
½ cup white wine vinegar
½ tsp. Dijon mustard
½ tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 – 2 Tbsp. minced shallot
1 – 2 Tbsp. minced garlic chives
 
Wash and trim asparagus, then steam over boiling water just until tender (about 10 minutes). Drain, rinse with cold water, and drain again.  Arrange in a glass dish.
Whisk remaining ingredients in a small bowl, and pour over asparagus. Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or up to 1 week.
 
Makes 8 servings.

Lemon-soy Carrots
4 carrots, peeled and sliced into rounds
¾ cup soy sauce
4 lemons, juiced
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
2 Tbsp. olive oil
 
Gently boil carrots for 2 to 3 minutes.  Immerse in cold water.  Drain.
 
Combine remaining ingredients.  Pour sauce over carrots and refrigerate in a large covered container.  Carrots will keep for 10 to 14 days.
Cumin-Spiced Pumpkin Seeds
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3/4 cup shelled raw pumpkin seeds (pepitas)
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
Kosher salt
 
Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add pumpkin seeds and toast, shaking pan often, until seeds are brown, about 4 minutes. Add cumin seeds, then gradually add sugar, then lime juice, tossing constantly to coat seeds with melted sugar and juice. Transfer pumpkin seed mixture to a foil-lined baking sheet; spread out and let cool. Season with salt.
Fusilli with Lemon Pesto Sauce
2 cups fresh basil leaves (1 ounce), rinsed, patted dry, chopped
4 tsp. sesame oil
6 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
¼ cup gluten-free soy sauce
2 tsp. finely chopped fresh ginger
2 tsp. sugar
10 oz. fusilli (corkscrew), or some type of gluten-free pasta
 
In a blender, combine basil with oil. Blend until puréed. With blender running, add remaining ingredients, except pasta, and blend until smooth.
 
Following package instructions, cook fusilli; drain well. Pour sauce over hot pasta; toss to mix. For picnics, tastes best at room temperature.
 
Makes 8 servings
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Vegan Meringues
Liquid from one 15-ounce can of chickpeas (about ¾ cup)
¾ cup granulated sugar
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
Pinch of cream of tartar
Dribbles of beet juice
 
Heat the oven to 250°F and line one or more baking sheets with parchment paper. Pour the chickpea liquid (aquafaba) into the bowl of a stand mixer and beat with the whisk attachment until stiff peaks form, about 15 minutes. Gradually beat in the sugar and cream of tartar, then the vanilla and dribbles of beet juice until it reaches a pink tinge you like.
 
Scoop or pipe the aquafaba mixture into mounds onto the baking sheet(s) and bake for 90 minutes. (The meringues will be hard to the touch.) Let meringues cool on the baking sheet for 10 minutes, then serve. (Meringues can be stored in an airtight container for up to three days.)
 
Yield: 30 to 35 meringues
Time: About 2 hours, almost entirely unattended

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We've really got to get together sometime...

3/30/2016

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And one day, you wake up and see your phone on the dresser and you yawn and poke the Facebook app to get that morning happy-jolt of connection with all your friends and you see a picture of two old buddies that makes you laugh, but you read the comment with it, and the comments below – “condolences” and “sorry for your loss” – and the laugh chokes in your throat.
 
My friend Sugar was killed in a motorcycle accident last week, and I just found out yesterday. We worked together for over 5 years, developing a fun relationship where we would email and text each other like two naughty students passing notes in class. An accomplished bass player and songwriter, he was in a couple of bands while I knew him (many before that) and he humbly gave me their CD’s and always made sure to send me a postcard from the Corn Palace or Germany when he was on tour. He and his wife – a beautiful and powerful singer – came to see me play and sing in the band I was in, and Sugar was always full of positive encouragement for my music, bringing me Sarah’s special tea and honey to ensure a smooth voice before a gig. He was an avid motorcycle rider, but he never made fun of the scooter I rode – the little sister to his gorgeous Harley. We got together several times outside of work, and after circumstances separated us a year-and-a-half ago, we still kept in touch, sporadically, via phone.
 
When does a friendship evolve from nearly daily checking-in calls, where you lift the other up, help them over an obstacle, calm them down when they’re in a fit of fury, to those people who say: “We’ve really got to get together sometime…” but you don’t, and then suddenly they're taken, and through the tears you’re left wondering why you missed that last show they played, and you find yourself lost in a picture of his handsome face and a smile that always left you feeling better. He was gentle, sincere, and yes, sweet like his name. He was a cowboy, a rock star, a whiskey-drinking friend to giggle with. You search for YouTube videos so you can hear his soft voice and admire his all-black cowboy outfit and signature shades – he was a sharp dresser on and off stage. Then you stumble across the story of the accident and see his motorcycle abandoned on the grass and the weeping starts again. And then your thoughts bleed out to all your other friends who may have fallen into that same category: “We’ve really got to get together sometime…” and feel overwhelmed that maybe tomorrow will be too late.
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Baked with Martha

3/15/2016

2 Comments

 
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My cooking philosophy is “Macht alles mit liebe,” which loosely translates from German to “Make everything with love.” But sometimes, I confess, I’m not feeling the love. Last week I was on a yo yo-coaster of emotions due to stress, depression, insomnia, so that when Friday mid-morning came and I had assembled all the ingredients to make a dessert for that night’s dinner club – Deep South theme – my anxiety flared even a little higher. Where is the love? I was screaming inside. Emergency measures were needed. In my case it was a little plastic bag with a harvest date and a skunky-smelling herbaceous-looking clump: G-13 X Blueberry Haze.

Let me say that beyond sparse experimentation in my youth, I’ve never been a recreational drug user. I don’t know if it’s my genetic makeup or personality,  (“Really, you don’t smoke pot?!?”  “Uh, no. I’m just like this…”) or what, but I seem to have a high-tolerance level, and pot never did much for me, so it was easy to “Just say no.” Why bother? But when my prescribed anti-anxiety medicine didn’t seem to be lifting the baby elephant so stylishly draped across my shoulders, exercise was not exorcising my demons, and I found myself suddenly weeping uncontrollably simply entering a grocery store, I considered following Alice and spelunking down into Wonderland: Drink this and it will make you small, eat this it will make you tall. Smoke this Blueberry Haze and make a Classic Banana Pudding from Paula Deen’s Southern Cooking Bible. Hilarity will ensue.

Right away I realize one of my ears is clogged, but I figure it’s due to the massive coughing fit and gagging I experienced after my two drags (post-edit: I’ve been informed it should be “hits.”) I try to clear them by plugging my nose and squishing my ears out, like scuba diving. The thought of how similar I’m feeling to diving and being underwater makes me giggle, and I realize the stuff must be working. Let the pudding making begin!

My previously 98-pound weakling math skills have become non-existent, buried in a pile of sand kicked at me by the muscle-flexing G-13 X. The first thing I need is ¾ cup of sugar, but the measuring cups on the kitchen island are mocking me: I can’t seem to make the correlation between the physical size and the actual measurement. Concentrating very hard, and proceeding with sloth-like slowness, I manage to measure out the proper amount of dry ingredients. They get the best thorough mixing in the history of mankind. I reward myself by scampering over to the office nook with glee to write down the amusing thoughts in my head, and laugh at myself because I’m doing so. I’m a clean-as-you-go type of cook, so I wash the dishes as I’m through with them, only to get distracted by the suddenly very clear spots on the toaster oven. They must be cleaned. Now. I decide I need to write this down, and add an illustration of the oven with the spots so I won’t forget.

My laughter draws our houseguest out of her room. We decide this would be a great cooking show. Baked with Martha. I tell her if I’m still laughing like this in an hour to call an ambulance. She beams a beautiful grin at me, making me feel lyrical so I grandly tell her “She’s the Devil’s Mistress with flowing mermaid hair.” I pull out the scratch paper from the cookbook where I’ve now hidden my notes and write this down. I circle “Devil’s Mistress,” draw a bold arrow to it  –> “Heavy metal band name.”

As I go into the pantry I am certain that I will forget what I’m going in there for, and sure enough, I do. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I go over the recipe for the millionth time and remember it was the pan. I go back to the pantry singing “pan, pan, pan, pantry!” I pour half the pudding into the pan (pan, pan, pantry!) and read that I need “about 50 vanilla wafers…” and the world stops. I bought Mini Nilla Wafers, at the time cleverly thinking more surface area to volume types of thoughts, but now there’s a giant neon exclamation point over my head! There’s going to be waaaaay more wafers to count! I shrug my shoulders and carefully place each cookie, rounded side up, in perfect lines in a single layer across the pudding’s surface, then top each cookie with a banana slice. This seems to take a satisfying amount of… forever. I wish I was a graphic designer, or an artist, or a computer-person so I could design emoticons that express how I’m feeling: Stonicons.

I finally manage to get the banana pudding into the fridge to chill its required minimum of 4 hours, and retreat to the couch to do likewise. The pudding? Turned out great despite the obstacles. 

Classic Banana Pudding
Filling
¾ cup sugar
½ cup packed light brown sugar
½ cup cornstarch
¼ tsp. salt
6 large egg yolks
4 cups whole milk
8 Tbsp. (1 stick) cold butter, cut into small bits
4 tsp. vanilla extract
About 50 vanilla wafers (or half an 11-oz box)
3 large or 4 medium bananas, cut into ¼-inch-thick slices
 
Topping
2 cups heavy cream
3 Tbsp. sugar
 
For filling, in a medium bowl, whisk together white and brown sugars, the cornstarch, and the salt. Whisk in egg yolks and ½ cup of the milk until thoroughly combined.
In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, bring the remaining 3 ½ cups milk to a boil over medium-high heat. Whisking constantly, gradually pour the hot milk into the egg mixture. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly with a heatproof spatula, until a few bubbles rise to the surface and the mixture thickens, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and whisk in the butter and vanilla.
Spread half the custard into a 13 by 9-inch baking dish and smooth the top. Top the custard with the vanilla wafers in a single layer. Place all of the sliced bananas on top of the wafers. Spread the remaining custard over the surface. Cover the surface entirely with plastic wrap (touching) to prevent a skin forming. Refrigerate until thoroughly cooled and set, at least 4 hours.
When ready to serve, prepare the topping: In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, or using a handheld mixer, beat the cream and sugar at medium-high speed to medium peaks. Spread the whipped cream over the surface of the custard and serve.
 
 Serves 8 to 12
 
From Paula Deen’s
Southern Cooking Bible
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Cafe Flora's French Dip Sandwich – Earthy Vegetarian Garlicky Goodness

2/24/2016

1 Comment

 
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While preparing the following dish I felt like a medieval sorceress conjuring a different physical sensation with each step. The Mushroom Essence was simmering away for hours, tantalizing earthy steam heavy on the garlic clearing the sinuses. When the shallot, garlic, white wine, and garlic chives (plucked from my herb pot on the back porch while cackling with joy – Harbingers of Spring!) were cooking-down, mouths were watering uncontrollably. While the Portobello mushrooms roasted, slick with olive oil and garlic, stomachs were growling, cheeks were flushing with heat, and anticipation. 

​Did you notice mention of garlic, perchance? Here’s a confession: I am a garlic fiend. Wait, let me say that a different way: I am a Garlic Fiend. Almost any recipe I ever come across that lists “1 - 2 cloves of garlic” automatically gets doubled. At least. Of course I take into consideration that the size of a clove of garlic can range from a teeny-tiny, insignificant sliver that’s too much trouble to peel (put these aside somewhere so you can throw them into a simmering pot of stock in the future – peel and all, as it will be strained anyway), to a big, juicy nugget of a clove that inspires a just-struck-gold feeling of euphoria. But in cooking, indeed maybe a few too many areas of my life, I am not a fan of holding back. 
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​My attention was brought recently to my Café Flora cookbook (where this recipe hails from, with a couple minor variations) sitting on the shelf demurely in its sort-of lonely vegetarian slot. This restaurant has been serving up creative and delicious vegetarian and vegan dishes since 1991, and is not only renowned in Seattle, but the entire US! They’ve got an eco-conscious philosophy from the organic, local menu to the building itself, using reclaimed wood from local farms and soy-based stains on the floors. If you’re in the area go there. Meat-eater or not it will delight you. If you don’t or can’t go, and like a beefy-tasting-yet-vegetarian sandwich, make this. Dip a corner into the steaming magical mushroom concoction, roll your eyes upward and grin. Spring is on its way.

​Mushroom Essence
 
½ pound whole crimini or domestic mushrooms, including stems
6 cloves garlic, lightly crushed
2 Tbsp. tamari
 
Combine the mushrooms, garlic, and 6 cups of water in a 3-quart saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and cook at a low boil. Cook for about 1 hour, or until the liquid has been reduced to 2 cups. If you want an even more intense mushroom flavor, keep the saucepan on the stove for several hours at a very low simmer, until the liquid has been reduced to 1 cup or less.
 
Strain the liquid, and add the tamari. (Just disregard the mushrooms – they’ll be depleted of flavor and just rubbery nothings after this.) Keep warm until ready to use, or refrigerate or freeze for use later.
PictureThis makes the best garlic bread!!!
​French Dip Spread
 
1/2 tsp. olive oil
½ large shallot, minced
½ tsp. minced garlic
1 Tbsp. chopped fresh herbs (parsley, thyme, chives, or basil),
or 1 tsp. dried
2 Tbsp. white wine
¼ pound (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature (or soy-based margarine for vegans)
Salt and freshly ground pepper
 
Heat the olive oil in a small skillet over medium heat. Add the shallot, garlic, and herbs, and cook for 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the wine, and cook until most of it has evaporated, but the mixture is still moist. Remove from the heat, and cool completely.
 
Add the cooled shallot mixture to the softened butter, and mix well. Add salt and pepper to taste.

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​Café Flora French Dip Sandwich
 
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 tsp. minced garlic
3 Portobello mushrooms, reserving the stems for Mushroom Essence
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 large yellow onion, halved and sliced in thin crescents
1 rustic baguette
French Dip Spread (recipe above)
Optional: 4 slices Swiss, mozzarella, or provolone cheese
(I used Beecher’s cheddar and it was soooo good!)
About 1 1/3 cups Mushroom Essence (recipe above)
 
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Mix 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and garlic in a small bowl. Brush the Portobello caps on both sides with this mixture, and sprinkle each side with salt and pepper. Place gill sides down on a baking sheet, and roast for 25 minutes. (Leave oven on for subsequent step.)
When mushrooms are cool enough to handle, slice each cap thinly, trying to get at least 8 – 10 slices per cap. Set the mushrooms aside.
 
While the Portobello caps are in the oven heat the remaining tablespoon of oil in a pan over medium heat. Add the onion, and cook for 5 minutes, stirring once or twice, until it has begun to soften. Turn down the heat to low, and cook the onion for 15 – 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
If the onion starts to stick, add 1 to 2 tablespoons of water (or some of that white wine since you have it), and stir to remove any bits of onion from the bottom of the pan. When done, the onions should be various shades of brown, soft, and sweet. Remove from heat and set aside.
 
Cut the baguette into 4 equal portions, 5 or 6-inches long. (Don’t use the ends.) Slice each hunk in half lengthwise. Spread each of the 8 halves with 1 tablespoon of French Dip Spread.
Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Place as many baguette pieces as can fit in the pan spread-side down, and griddle the bread for 3 minutes. Repeat this process for remaining bread.
 
Place 4 baguette pieces, griddled side up, on a lightly oiled baking sheet. Top each with ¼ of the Portobello slices and sautéed onions. Top with a slice of cheese, if using.
 
Put these 4 bottom halves in the 350-degree oven, and bake until the cheese melts and the sandwich is heated through, about 10 minutes. Top with remaining buttered halves of baguette, and bake for 3 minutes longer.
 
Slice each sandwich in half at an angle (carefully, or everything will smush out), and serve with a side bowl of Mushroom Essence as a dipping sauce, about 1/3 cup for each serving.

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Working at Home

2/18/2016

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​My morning task today is to file the bills and paperwork that's been piling on top of the file cabinet for months and months (plus a secret cache in between the armoire and cabinet where I hastily stuffed a pile of paper in a whirl of some speed cleaning before a party) drag it all onto the floor so I can sort it, then I look at the top of the cabinet and it’s dusty so I move the plant that lives there and dust it and then I'm thinking a sarong or scarf would look cute draped over it to cover up the worn area that got ruined by water spillage from overwatering the plant once or twice – water on wood, no good, no good – so I walk over towards the closet area where the scarves and the sarongs are and I see a little dust devil peeking out from underneath the bed so I stop and grab it and then I get down on my belly to look and realize that it really needs a thorough dust mopping under the bed and maybe I should add cleaning the house to my list of chores today, and I wonder if there’s a better place to store the LED hula hoop, but I carry the little devil to the bathroom trash can then I get distracted by my bangs for a minute in the mirror because they look like Mr. Peabody’s and/or Sherman’s then turn around and realize I haven't had any of the coffee that I poured a while ago that is now in the cup on top of the clean filing cabinet, so I have a big swig and look at the backyard through the sliders and the cat is moonwalking in front of the door inside barfing. I struggle with the Kleenex box (if you can call it a ‘box’ because it’s cylindrical…can you?) because they came in a set of three and very cleverly fit into the cup holders of the car but I ran out of Kleenex for the bathroom the other day so grabbed one of these and have been mauling them ever since trying to get them out of the ‘box.’ I get a couple tissues, clean up the barf, roll up the rug to put in the laundry basket which isn't there because it's in the basement where there may just possibly be wet laundry stinking of neglect. The laundry is dry and survives the sniff test so I haul it all up, and now there is a mountain of clothes, sheets and the tips of two dark cat ears on my bed whispering: “Fold us!” (the laundry not the cat, of course) to me sitting in front of my pile of paperwork. I sort the papers into piles in a semi-circle around myself, legs splayed and bare feet and toes wiggling to some inner song and see that I still have remnants of sparkly teal polish on several toe nails from that pedicure I had back in September and decide I will remove at least one distraction, but realize the alcohol wipe I'm using just ruined the edge of my thumb nails that I painted last night on a whim with sample polish (in the exact shade of purple of the chaise lounge!) that I got from my Buy Nothing Project group in an Ipsy bag, (which was what I really wanted – the bag) which I’d never heard of but it had all these hair and make-up samples in it and I was selected because the giver asked for funny memes or stories to help her make her selection and out of 55 people I was the only one who wrote a story—using all the product names and descriptions, which was pretty clever if I do say so myself: 

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​Product Placement: Octavio kicked the colorful Fallen Leaves on the trail down to the Balm(y) Brazilian beach. The bright lights and City Color behind him, he walked barefoot in the sand as he waited to Meet Matt Hughes who promised to divulge to him “My Amazing Hair Secret.” Before him hundreds of Jelly Pong Pong fish swam in the surf, their tendrils shining like gossamer. He waited for hours and must have Dose(d) off, as when he opened his eyes he was startled to see a brilliant Novex streaming across the matte black sky.

​I've also discovered through the stinging of alcohol on my finger pad that I have a splinter or miniature puncture wound, so I go get the magnifying glass (with a carved bone handle that we bought in an antique store in Portland years ago on a wonderful get-away/foodie fest/shopping spree) for closer examination and see no splinter but do see I did a total crap-job on polishing my nails and blow it off because no one’s going to be looking at them with a freakin’ magnifying glass after all, but now that I’ve put it out into the Interether I can predict kindly-disguised comments in the near future on how they don’t look that bad, or worse, confirmation of their sloppiness, but I like them anyway because they’re all purple and shiny, and a little bit punk. After finally finishing the filing, I decide I’ll take a picture of my nails on the couch, so take a squeegee I have for the sole purpose of spot-cleaning the couches but in my over-zealous raking break the handle. I fix the handle, take the photo and wonder when my hands started looking so old. They're still good for filing, working around the house and writing, though.
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Dancing the Blues

2/10/2016

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​It seems as if this January the Reaper awoke from a holiday stupor, burped up the last dregs of alcohol, rolled some kinks out of his neck, cracked his knuckles and scythe a-swingin’ started mowing down creative souls left and right. With David Bowie he cut a large swath of my youth out of my heart.
 
At high school dances in the late 70’s whenever I heard the beginning of Suffragette City I would stop whatever I was doing if not already on the dance floor, and grab a hand to drag a partner out, or if no one was around fly solo, dancing with abandon and joy. When it came to the climax of the song I was sure to throw back my head and howl the loudest: “Awwwwww wham bam, thank you ma’am!” Then continue dancing, a whirling blur of long blonde hair and thrusting hips.
 

My best friend Hannah was responsible for most of my musical education from my teens onward, including David Bowie. She adored the Thin White Duke with an unrivaled passion. We would sit on the floor of her college dorm room listening to album after album of Bowie in the candlelight, getting lost in the lyrics, alternately pumped up and calmed by the music. She read to me from the liner-notes, knew every word to every song, glowed with reverence while I was comfortable just knowing the chorus, enjoying the feelings each song evoked, and rolling a particularly poignant or poetic phrase around in my head with pleasure.
 
In college student dances evolved from DJ’s to more live bands; in the early 80’s a mix of skinny-tie New Wave and the leathery whiff of bad boy rock and roll. I remember one time in particular dancing with Hannah, and the unmistakable opening riff of Rebel Rebel whipped us into a proper frenzy. I was wearing black tights and leotard with a wrap-around skirt and when the lead singer sang “Rebel Rebel you’ve torn your dress” I tore off my skirt and flung it over to the side of the dance floor. When the lyrics came around to that line again he changed it to “Rebel Rebel where is your dress?”
 
The first week of mourning Bowie’s passing was spent watching videos, listening to his music in the car, grabbing dusty CD’s and riding a nostalgic wave along with the rest of the world. This last weekend, nearly a month later, Hannah and I joined a sold-out crowd of fans at a local venue, The Tractor, to see a tribute band called Bowie Vision. The band was phenomenal. They didn’t impersonate or dress up, but got down to business playing and singing the songs we all know and love. The stage was packed with eight band members, each impressive in their own right, but the lead singer, Stefan Mitchell, brought it all together with charm and style. I realized as the show went on that the beauty of a tribute band, especially this one considering the sad timing, is that everyone is welcome, even encouraged, to sing along, whereas at other shows I’ve had to talk-down overzealous fans whom I felt were competing with my enjoyment of the person I paid to hear and see sing. Ahem.
 
Hannah, true to form, danced and sang every word to every song, so that by the end of the night she was hoarse, but smiling. I was holding my hard cider can for a large portion, which slightly hindered my dancing, but was delighted to find that when the audience sang loud enough the can vibrated with the raw energy. A tall Flannel-Shirt in front of me stood unmoving throughout the show while we all undulated, sweated, and pogoed around him, and I was sorely tempted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that if he wasn’t going to at least tap his foot he had to move somewhere else. I was wearing red boots (yes, I “put on my red shoes and danced the blues”) and started poking a pointy toe between his legs, unbeknownst to his stoic self. You do what you gotta do to deal.
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Potluck Christian?

1/18/2016

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​Rows of tiny shot glasses are lined up on the counter at my eye level, sparkling clean, dazzling in the kitchen light, and my salivary glands spurt into action as a pitcher carefully fills each with deep purple liquid, and my grandmother places each onto a silver communion tray. The tray is carried upstairs to the church where the baptized will reverently throw back the shots and I remain behind in the basement, happily guzzling my juice from a regular sized glass. It’s 1967 at Greenacres Christian Church and the blood of Christ comes from a Welch’s grape juice can.
 
My memories of upstairs are few: nuzzling next to my Grandma Esther’s solid body on the pew, wrapped in a second-hand black wool coat I adored, the pastor’s voice lulling me to sleep; hearing my grandmother enthusiastically singing the psalms, high and slightly off-key; singing Christmas carols in the choir, dressed in red robes, my first taste of the stage. Downstairs, though, was the throbbing heart of the church to me, where women in homemade aprons bustled around in the kitchen stirring, cooking, chatting amiably, and set out their most popular dishes for the Sunday potluck the likes of sweet and sour frankfurters, Jell-O and marshmallow salads, and the most heavenly pink chiffon pie Louise, the organ player, always made.
 
When my grandma gave me a spiral-bound cookbook compiled of recipes from all the church ladies (and a few men) in the early Eighties, I was thrilled! Here in my hands was a time machine to first and second grade. Reading the recipes brought me right back to that noisy basement, and the sunny grass area outside the church where I ran wild with my cousins stopping by the loaded tables to grab a bite of grandma’s rhubarb bread. Now, over 30 years later, the book still sits on my shelf, well-thumbed, a rusty paperclip marking the equivalents and substitutions page. I feel a melancholy jab in my chest and a tight feeling in my throat as I read my grandma’s name under a recipe or two in the yellowed pages.

This popover recipe is so simple I have it memorized, yet I enjoy taking the book down and flipping through to find it. Nowadays I substitute the milk with almond milk, and they puff up just fine with no difference in the taste. Split them open when they’re hot, spread with butter and be transcended.
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​I showed a friend the cookbook recently and she asked what type of Christian church it was, and I was stumped. “Ummm….Good ones?” The sermons may not have stuck with me, but the principles always have. I’m a member of the “I may not be spiritual, but I practice being a good person” club. There should be more of us, in my opinion. And more potlucks.

​No Beat Popovers
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1 cup flour
½ tsp. salt
 
Break eggs into a bowl; add milk, flour and salt.  Mix well with spoon (disregard lumps). Fill greased muffin pan three-quarters full. Place in oven. Set controls to 450°. Turn on heat. Bake for 30 minutes.
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Makes 4, if using jumbo muffin pan.
 
Secret:  Starting with cold oven. And don’t peek for full 30 minutes!

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Black Bean Coconut Soup

1/5/2016

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Picture Sorry, we were too busy eating it to get a more decent picture.

​Starting on January 1st each year I transform into an annoying organizational fiend, whisking all traces of Christmas away into the basement storage area (or, as is more often the case, supervising less-clumsy and much taller husband of said whisking — I like to do the cleaning afterward) where they will lie dormant until next December. Then my eyes rove around the house looking for something that might be improved, say the pantry that could really benefit from some faux-brick on one wall and a purge of seldom-used appliances. Or the ‘recipe bench’ which is one section of our chaparral table seating bench where I’ve stuffed cut-out and original hand-written recipes for years and is wasting away of neglect and begging a muffled-paper plea to be transferred into a computer file for much easier access.
 
On this rainy January day I have swaddled myself in sweats and my husband’s polar-fleece pullover, and have come up with a dinner plan that does not involve going out into the chill damp to grocery shop, but only padding in my socks over to same-said sans faux-brick pantry mentioned above. Unfortunately the recipe I have in mind had to be unearthed from that messy bench, with only the clue of remembrance; I knew I was looking for a 3x3-inch purple Post-it note written in my hand with a, perhaps magical, silver-inked pen. I scrawled it down some years ago after eating a wonderful black bean soup in a local upscale Mexican-style restaurant. From the menu description, and a highly-developed sense of taste and smell, (my heretofore unacknowledged superhero power), I ciphered out the ingredients, and worked out an acceptably similar homemade version.
 
I did not have jalapeños in-house for the mild mouth-tingling bite of pleasurable heat, so used freshly grated ginger, instead, for a new variation. Enjoy!

Black Bean Coconut Soup
1 cup onion, chopped
1 ½ Tbsp. olive oil
1 small green jalapeño, seeded and finely chopped
1 small red jalapeño, seeded and finely chopped
3 large garlic cloves, minced
2 15-oz. cans black beans, drained
1 15-oz. can coconut milk
1 cup or so of water
​Vegetable bouillon, for seasoning
 
In a large, heavy saucepan, heat olive oil over medium heat and sauté onions until softened. Add jalapeño and garlic, stirring for a minute.

Add beans,  coconut milk and water to cover beans, and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce heat and cover partially. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until flavors are melded — about 20 minutes.

Using an immersion blender, puree the soup either until smooth, or about half-way so you get some nice chunks of texture. (If using a traditional blender, puree in two batches.) Thin with additional water, if desired. Stir in veggie bouillon to taste.

Ladle soup into bowl, and garnish with chopped cilantro (optional).

Serves about 2.
 


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What's Mew? Seattle's First Cat Cafe 

12/30/2015

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I was going to be in the neighborhood, so it was with great excitement that I made the trip to the current cat craze coffeehouse, the first in Seattle, nay, Washington State, the Meowtropolitan Cat Cafe. (As the name suggests, the venue itself is begging for puns, so pardon my jumping in on the pun fun.) I envisioned having a leisure cuppa while being charmed by alternately lazy or playful cats of all colors and sizes, endorphins oozing out of my pores. I’d read the articles and hype leading up to the opening recently, and was surprised to see it required reservations. Now they are open and their website is up, I understand the rationale  – only 10 people at a time are allowed into the separate cat lounge to interact so they don’t get over-stimulated. The website suggests placing reservations two weeks in advance, and the $10 cover charge includes a drink and 50 minutes of feline fun time. The cats wear g-strings so you can stuff in a tip when they are particularly cute. (Okay, that’s a total lie.)
PicturePartial view through the full-length window into the catatorium. (My phrase, not theirs.)

​The cat area is nicely done, a glorious cat haven, with high ceilings, scratching posts, wooden cubicles lined in burlap they can chill in, ramps and high spots to climb nearly out of petting reach, and a bridge I kept hoping one would venture across, but alas, was not meant for my peeking eyes. After sanitizing your hands in a double-door area between the café and the cat zone you can bring in your beverage and torment the kitties with feathers on sticks and pet to your furry heart’s content – if they deem you worthy of their attention. Unless you rub yourself with catnip before you go in, (oh my, isn’t that a brilliant idea that has the potential to go horribly awry!) I would say you should keep your expectations low. They are cats, after all. They sleep two-thirds of the day, and there are nine other people in their room vying for their blessed attention all day long.

PictureTasty Herkimer coffee!
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​Of course you can also walk in simply for coffee and pastries; they have some adorable trendy cat-faced macarons, that were frankly too cute to eat. I had a “Death by Turtle” bar, which I managed to survive. They offer your usual beverage choices – including a “catpuccino” plus a mocha cleverly named the “meowca,” which looks good in writing, but when the barista called it out everyone shared the same perplexed expression trying to cipher out what he was actually saying. Like, sorry dude, I don’t speak that jive cat language! I had my 8-ounce latte in a porcelain cup on a saucer, which gets a thumbs-up in my book, though when I placed my order after several scrambled minutes of waiting  – in a jagged queue that wasn’t designated as either an order or pick-up line – I wasn’t asked my choice of “here or to-go?” and noticed every other customer had the sadly universal wasteful paper cup. (Come on, Seattle! Haven’t you got with the program yet?!) Seating consists of a few rustic wood tables and a bar top area at the counter as well as one with four stools at the window looking into the cats – the prized area for those of us too cheap to pay for cat time. There is also a full-length window next to the front door, two-people wide, which was usually occupied while I was there, so I spent most of my time head-bobbing back and forth to catch sight of the promised cats. Other than that, the best place to get your voyeur on is looking through the window from outside.

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Considering they booked over 800 reservations in the first few days of opening, I suspect they’ll do well. They need to work some bugs out on the coffee front, but I imagine they’ll be successful at adopting cats out, and providing a feline-fix for those sad folks who don’t have the pleasure of a cat at home. My cat café curiosity is quenched. Meow I know. 
​

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Waiting Room Blues

12/19/2015

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Part 3
I’m in a low-income psychiatric clinic waiting room today. It smells like smoke, wet coats, and hopelessness. It’s a sad indication of our current society that I’m thinking this would be the type of place someone would come in and start shooting. I spend a few minutes figuring out the best way to save the most people and stop the gunman, because I’m sorry but I couldn’t just let it happen. My 20-pound purse could possibly disarm him, and I know my MacBook could probably cause some damage. I dropped it on my lap last week and the starship-shaped bruise is still on my thigh. The woman sitting next to me looks normal enough, but she’s chewing her gum and I can hear her breathing, the teeth chomping away, her slurping up of the saliva squirting up out of her glands. I type harder and faster to counteract. Crazed Christmas music is playing – Trans Siberian Orchestra – and it’s making me tense. I overhear a patient saying she had to stop taking her medication because she was low on money, that she’d start taking it again at the beginning of the year, and I want to help, to pay for this month’s meds as a gift, but we’re low on money, too. The temperature is pleasant enough but the heating system has a high-pitched whine like someone relentlessly trying to start a car on a cold morning with no success. Whitney Houston has taken over the airwaves and she sounds crazed as well. Maybe it’s me. I’m wearing a sheepskin vest that’s quite cozy and bohemian looking, but I find it hard to get comfortable in these plastic chairs. It’s bringing back unpleasant flashbacks of parent-teacher conferences. The horrible whining has stopped; turns out it was someone’s car. I find it ironic that I have considerably relaxed when Mr. Grinch comes on. Am I a Grinch this year? A Scrooge? I’m just getting sapped being strong for others. I want to let myself be sad, but you just have to keep going on, don’t you? 

Part 2
​In the waiting room at the clinic again, fourth time in two weeks – I’m the driver. My health is fine except for a gnarly cold that has been producing Blue Ribbon-sized googies – like I could take these babies on tour. Step right up, ladies and gents, behold the amazing two-pound gunk! I’m sitting in the upstairs area, a few empty chairs well lit by windows, yet I can hear a vet on the phone downstairs who has a very clear, loud, frustrated voice that’s projecting up the stairwell, trying to illicit help from some type of legal authority by the sounds of it. I know he’s a vet, because he mentions it a lot, just in case we forget for a second. The entire time I’m there staff from the clinic attired in assorted ugly Christmas sweaters walk back and forth with decorations, crockpots streaming trails of tantalizing meat smells, salad bowls, trays of goodies, for their company party while this man accompanies the jingling bells of their festive jewelry and the parade of cross-eyed snowmen leering out at me from their sweaters with his complaining, berating, negative attitude, heavily sprinkled with “eviction.” I’m trying to feel empathy for the man, yet can’t help wondering how it feels to be on the other end of the phone – you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, dude – and how the staff party will be able to shrug off the heaviness of their jobs for a moment of lightness while the guy’s endless futile phone calls are being broadcast into their room while they bite into a bittersweet Christmas sugar cookie.

Part 1

A man steps into the waiting room filling the door with his frame, proceeds to take off his puffy green coat, followed by the ceremonious unwinding of a colorful fleece blanket from around his substantial girth, where it gets caught on his tonsured, sweaty head, his face broad and red-weathered, his eyes intelligent, though I’m trying not to make eye contact, because I don’t want to get drawn into his crazy, but then my interest is piqued when he starts mumbling poetry like Whitman, Kerouac, Morrison, sprinkled with lyrical flowing biblical references, and when a name is called “Christine is an angel” barely audible under his breath as he waits for the nurse to call him in for his appointment, only when she does comes out she tells him they can’t help him today, and he politely asks for a clean bandage and a pair of scissors, and gently schools her on how he does it and she nods, and says a few canned words that make it seem like she’s listening as she backs away, “a huh, a huh,” dismissing herself to get back to her other more important duties stepping backward cautiously and never returning  with a bandage, so the man struggles to lean over and pull up his pant leg, jeans folded up so 6 inches of pale denim are exposed, revealing worn tennis shoes too narrow for his feet, the shoe strings wrapped around and around the bottom and over the top of his foot, and grunts as he finds the end of the Scotch-taped Ace bandage, and breathlessly begs pardon from the two women sitting across from him, saying he would do this at home, but he doesn’t have one.

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Life is Upside-Down Cake

12/10/2015

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Every year after Thanksgiving it seems as though December pops up like a Jack-in-the-box, momentarily terrorizing me, and then making me laugh in embarrassment; I knew it was coming all along, but it still surprises me. Life has been challenging the last couple of weeks, and instead of embracing December, I feel like putting on some boxing gloves and pummeling that Jack-head until it rolls off its spring. Instead though, I shall grin and bear it, and cheerily share a recipe with you that would be a great host gift, one they can put aside and dig into the morning after the party, as is, or warmed.
 
This recipe comes from my James McNair cookbook collection, breakfast. I made it with cranberries to get into that holiday groove, and the tart pop of the warm berry bursting in your mouth balances the rich sweetness of the cake most pleasantly. I also have to note that any recipe that has the instruction to “lightly beat” or “crush” or “smash” is always an extra point in its favor with me. If you’ve ever wondered what that means, simply loosen your grip on the implement of the moment, whether it be a fork, whisk, back of your chef’s knife or pestle, rock your head back and forth and sing “la la la.”  Light of hand, light of heart.

Upside-Down Breakfast Cake
11/2 cup (1 stick) plus 2 Tbsp. unsalted butter,
at room temperature
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 ½ cups fresh blueberries, blackberries, or cranberries
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 ½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
¾ cup sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature, lightly beaten
¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice,
or ½ cup freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbsp. grated or minced fresh lemon zest,
or 2 Tbsp. grated or minced fresh orange zest
(If you use blueberries or blackberries,
add lemon juice and zest;
if cranberries, use the orange juice and zest.)
½ tsp. pure vanilla extract
1/3 cup milk (not nonfat), at room temperature
 
Preheat an oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter a 9-inch round cake pan (or 8x8-inch square), and set aside.

In a bowl, combine 2 tablespoons of the butter and the brown sugar and mix well. Spread the mixture evenly in the bottom of the prepared pan. Spread the berries evenly over the mixture and set aside.
 
Place the flour, baking powder, and salt together into a sifter or fine sieve and sift onto a sheet of waxed paper or into a bowl. Set aside.
 
In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a flat beater, or in a bowl using a hand mixer, beat the remaining ½ cup butter at medium speed until soft and creamy, about 45 seconds. With the mixer still running, slowly add the sugar, then stop the mixer and scrape the mixture that clings to the sides of the bowl into the center. Continue beating until very light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Slowly pour in the eggs and beat until smooth, about 2 minutes. Stir in the lemon or orange juice and zest and vanilla.
 
Using the mixer on low speed or a rubber spatula, fold in about half of the flour mixture, then the milk, and finally the remaining flour mixture.
 
Spoon the batter over the berries. Bake until the top is golden and a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out clean, 50 – 55 minutes. Remove from the oven, run a knife around the inside edge of the pan, cover the cake with a serving plate, and invert the cake onto the plate, fruit side up. Cool slightly before serving warm.
 
Serves 8 -12.
 

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Post-Holiday Walk of Shame

12/1/2015

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After two-and-a-half Thanksgiving-type food gatherings I am left wondering: is December 1st the worst time of the year to start eating right and exercising again, or the best time? Will I be setting myself up for failure?
 
I’m overweight. I’m fighting genetic obesity, and a fierce love of food, and enjoy curling up and reading, or writing, sitting stationary for hours at a time, which is not conducive to anything near svelte. Every year starting with Halloween, (those little fun size Reese’s peanut butter cups and Butterfingers made by the devil himself, in particular), it’s one big food fest until the end of the year. There’s this sexy pagan god running around with an enticing platter of food I can’t resist and I follow him for a couple of months, grabbing whatever I can and stuffing it into my eager gob. And every year a little more weight decides to stick around. But right now, I want to pull on some sweats (for exercise, not cozy-pants comfort) and start hitting a punching bag marked with different areas I feel really happy about punching: fat, money, crazy world, sadness, frustration. 
 
This recent glutton-fest started with an entirely vegan and gluten-free dinner last Wednesday, with hummus, homemade gluten-free pita, (which was like a rich mochi cake, all gooey and not very pita-like, but served its scooping purpose well), green cilantro chutney, cucumber raita, Moroccan carrot salad, dolmas with chanterelles instead of meat and a spicy tahini dipping sauce. I made everything myself (with Joe saving my impatient patootie from the sticky pita dough just before I hurled the entire globby mess across the room, which would also have been unsuccessful as it was sticking to my hands making me look like a rice-flour covered zombie). Regardless of the starchy pitas, the meal was a success, filled with vibrant lemon, garlic and spices. When our guest bit into her first dolma she covered her mouth, closed her eyes in what looked like pain and emitted a low moan that increased in volume to a wail. I was worried she had bitten her tongue, and asked if she was all right, but it turned out to be a food-gasm. Now I know.
 
Thanksgiving itself consisted of the half-meal. I had one bite of turkey. It’s kind of complicated, but even when family is falling into a hole, I’m grateful that I can be there to lend a hand and a hug. Or give a hard loving push, depending on the situation.
 
Saturday we had what I christened Our Big Fat Italian Thanksgiving with my side of the family. Classic lasagna, fettuccine, panzanella salad, spinach salad, red wine, decadent desserts (recipes to follow in separate post when I’m not talking about how fat I am) —it was heavenly! And we’re not even Italian. I just wanted something other than turkey and potatoes. Cheese, that’s what I wanted, and it was delivered!
 
 My dad took my family out for breakfast the following morning for one last hoorah, (spellcheck suggested 'hookah' here, which I thought was very humorous...) and though I had resolved to select a simple, healthy meal, the bacon, tomato, avocado Benedict started batting her eyelashes on the menu at me in all it’s creamy, salty, saucy glory and I had to order it. To my credit I saved half of it for this morning’s breakfast, but walking out of the restaurant I waddled like a penguin to the car, tummy leading. The post-holiday walk of shame. When we got back to my parent’s house we stepped through the door into a cloud of lethargy, each retreating to a couch or chair and nodding off. I took myself back to my old bedroom, now an odd mixture of sewing-room and guest room, with only a couple of hints of my past existence – a smiley-faced candle, a cat candle with enormous eyes, a Japanese doll – and rolled my sausage body onto the bed. The trip home was a haze of sleepy.
 
So, determined not to go through the next month in a food stupor, I made a wellness appointment with my doctor for two weeks from now, so I have a little time to start taking my calcium supplement again, and exercise away my food sins. Wish me luck!
 
 

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Me and Mario, Down by the Cool Yard

11/20/2015

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​​I’m tucked away in my office nook, mid-afternoon sunshine spilling in through the window, my copy of the cookbook, Molto Italiano, by Mario Batali at my elbow. Mario is staring at me out of the radiant orange cover, and I notice that wherever I move, his eyes follow me. He’s leaning on a monster-sized wheel of cheese, that’s producing some saliva in my cheeks. He looks friendly, and confident. He looks fun. He kind of looks like me. Separated at birth just a few days short of a year, Mario and I are a couple of gingers who love to cook, and have overcome I believe, at least for the most part, some anger issues.
 
Yesterday when I pulled this book off the shelf, and gathered my ingredients for the following chanterelle recipe  – yes! Chanterelles, those meaty exotic morsels that appear for a limited time here in the Pacific Northwest, gathered by an elite group of mushroom hunters that spread like ninjas across the forests – I entertained this Foodie fantasy of hanging out with Mario.
 
We’re working side by side in a kitchen preparing a simple Italian lunch, both of us in Chuck Taylor high-tops – his orange, mine black – a bottle of wine open on the counter, flipping each other shit, or bashing each other playfully with a well-seasoned frying pan. After lunch we hop on our scooters, racing each other to this little café that Mario tells me has the best espressos. As we sit at our table on the sidewalk in the sun, sipping coffee and talking food, books, and music, people walk by nodding at him, and acknowledging his food god presence, and I bask in the glory of being his sidekick for the day, one of the cool kids at last.

​Grilled Marinated Chanterelles
Funghi Marinati
 
¼ cup plus 3 Tbsp. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon (separated)
½ medium red onion thinly sliced
5 large yellow, red, or green Anaheim chilies,
stems, seeds, and ribs removed, cut into 1/8-inch-wide julienne,
4 cups wild greens, such as mizuna or field cress, washed and spun dry (or substitute baby spinach)
1 lb. chanterelles, brushed clean
1 Tbsp. freshly ground black pepper
Salt
 
Preheat the grill or broiler.
 
In a 10- to 12-inch sauté pan, heat ¼ cup of the olive oil over medium heat until hot. Add the lemon zest and onion and cook until the onion is soft and translucent. Add the chilies and sauté for 1 minute. Toss in the wild greens and lemon juice and remove from heat.
 
In a large bowl, toss the chanterelles with the remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil and the black pepper to thoroughly coat. Spread out on the grill rack (use a wire mesh rack if necessary so the mushrooms don’t fall through the grill grate) or on a baking sheet and grill or broil, turning often, for 8 to 10 minutes, until softened and lightly browned.
 
Add the chanterelles to the greens, place over high heat, and stir gently with tongs to wilt the greens. (I used spinach and found they wilted as soon as I threw them in with the onion and chilies, so this was irrelevant.) Season with salt, transfer to a serving bowl, and enjoy.
 
Makes 4 servings.
 
I served this with an entrée of plump pork medallions, which I topped with dollops of a sauce made of about ½ cup of gorgonzola, a tablespoon or so of butter, and two fat garlic cloves, chopped, and melted together for 30 seconds in the microwave.
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My Oh My, Tamale Pie

11/15/2015

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Before the creation of Notes from Shorelandia, I got out my writing ya yas by posting overly long, most likely overly descriptive entries on Facebook. While my friends were all very appreciative, I felt guilty taking up their time with more than a picture, or couple of quick sentences, and have since moved on. Now they have the choice of if, and when, they want to continue to read.
 
Following are a couple of those entries from last year, as I think they aptly describe the beginning of a neighborly friendship here in Shorelandia:

-Nesting in the love seat, with the cat vying for space with my book on the pillow balanced on my belly, iPhone, water and Kleenex at arm's length, drowsily watching steam from the laundry vent dispersing into the gray, drizzly day outside the window, trying to decide if I should nap or forage for food, nap or forage, nap or forage? And there is a knock at the door. Blanket, book and cat fly off me and I stumble to open the door, rumpled and mussed in Joe's sweats and polar fleece, mouth-breathing all the while. "Tamales?" It's the enterprising Spanish-only speaking lady who lives down the street, holding out a cooler filled with steaming pollo y puerco tamales, and I buy two of each and I try to tell her  – Filomena is her name, hereafter known to me as Saint Filomena, Patroness of Tamales – I'm sick and yes I can get my own plate and my name is Lori, and I want to cry I love her so much, but all I can manage is a very sincere and heartfelt "gracias."
 
-Filomena, Patron Saint of Tamales has re-entered our lives! (Are there Matron Saints?) She has been noticeably absent for months, but with the return of the blessed rain, she appeared on our doorstep again tonight. I have successfully arranged to have nine tamales, in a mix of chicken and pork, delivered from her loving, skilled hands to our door tomorrow night. My mouth drools already in anticipation of that first bite through the steamy, smooth outer cornmeal layer to the spicy meat hidden within. I am saddened though, that neither one of us has improved our language skills enough to converse without our fingers waggling, and sweat appearing on our raised brows as we search desperately for the right Spanish/English word. I'm pretty sure I got the price, time, and quantity correct though, and that I thanked her properly, told her daughter she was beautiful and to have a good night. De nada, baby.

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​Our relationship has progressed since then; I’ve given her some goodies of my own that I’ve made, (like Mexican wedding cakes and spicy chocolate cakes in the shape of sugar skulls for Dia de los Muertos) and she likes Joe’s homemade hard cider (sidra de alcohol). Hugs, smiles and good food go a long way to break the language barrier. She popped by today bearing a foil-wrapped platter laden with tamales, leaving a few behind for us even though our emergency tamale fund had not been replenished since last she was by, some time ago. (I never have cash in my wallet anymore, so try to keep a couple five dollar bills tucked in some books just in case of Filomena visits.) Mañana. I love the element of surprise in not knowing when she’ll show up – it’s an unexpected gift.
 
I don’t recall my mother ever making tamales for us when we were kids – I have my doubts whether the Navy Commissary carried corn husks – but I do remember her tamale casserole. Simple, hearty and filled with the spicy warmth of chili powder, which at the time probably seemed quite exotic to me. A couple days ago I wanted to make something with chicken, and looking for inspiration picked up one of a dozen James McNair cookbooks I have, Chicken. The man is awesome. His cookbooks are gorgeous, with plenty of photos of artfully styled food accompanying the recipes. (I forgot to take a picture of my finished dish, so have used the one from the cookbook below.) I don’t believe I’ve ever made a recipe from any of his cookbooks we haven’t raved about. Some I return to again and again. This recipe for Chicken Tamale Pie is going to be one of them.
 
Let me say that “pie” is a fancy word here for casserole. (James McNair says that he got the recipe from a friend of his who entertained Richard Nixon during the early days of his political career in California, calling it President’s Pie, as it was one of his favorites.) McNair added the cheese, and I added a couple of chipotle chilies from a can I’ve had sitting in the fridge for a while. If you don’t have a Patron Saint of Tamales in your neighborhood, and are too (lazy) busy to make your own, this is an excellent alternative. 

Chicken Tamale Pie
4 cups chopped fresh tomatoes,
or 1 can (28 oz.) Italian-style plum tomatoes, with their juices
1 can (16 oz.) cream-style corn
3 – 4 tsp. salt
1 medium-sized onion, chopped
½ cup olive oil
1 ½ Tbsp. chili powder, or to taste
(and/or 1-2 canned chipotles chilies with sauce)
1 cup milk
½ cup yellow cornmeal
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup pitted ripe olives
2 cups coarsely chopped, cooked chicken
1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese, mixed with
1 cup shredded sharp Cheddar cheese
Olive oil for drizzling
 
Combine tomatoes, corn, salt, onion, olive oil and chili powder in a large saucepan and cook over medium heat for 15 minutes.
 
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
 
In a mixing bowl, stir together the milk, cornmeal, and eggs; add to the tomato mixture and cook, stirring constantly to prevent scorching, until thick, about 15 minutes.  Remove from heat and stir in the olives and chicken.
 
Pour mixture into a lightly greased shallow ovenproof dish. Top with the cheeses, drizzle with oil, and bake until the pie is firm and the cheese is crusty, 35 – 45 minutes. Serve piping hot.
 
Serves 6.
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This is from the cookbook, Chicken, by James McNair, Copyright 1987. Doesn't it look good?
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Veterans Day

11/11/2015

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PictureCapehart, Oak Harbor, Washington











​When I was a kid, Veterans Day was a mix of somber acknowledgment and celebration, filled with parades and accolades. Growing up as a Navy Brat it was more than a day off of school, when the banks were closed and the mail didn’t arrive. More than the purchase of a red paper poppy from the increasingly older folks wearing Navy blue aircraft carrier ball-caps and a smile stationed at little tables outside your grocery store. On one military base where we lived, it was climbing up onto a gigantic amphibious vehicle with the aid of a strong man in green along with hordes of other wriggling kids for a ride around the base, flags waving at every light post. Gathering at the football stadium to watch the Marine color guard in full dress uniform bearing flags, swords at their hips, the only sound the solemn click, click, click of the drummer keeping pace behind them.  When the flags were in place the band would march out, again, all in full dress uniform, instruments and spotless white gloves shining in the tropical sun, John Philip Sousa blasting its way into the very core of our beings, filling us with pride and strength, excitement.
 
When my father was stationed in Vietnam I was in first and second grades, with probably not much of a clue as to what was going on, except for maybe a nagging feeling of fear for my father, angst at his absence, resulting in a lot of drama from a certain spoiled 7-year old Daddy’s girl.  With shame, I remember how I would howl with pain at missing him, crawl into my mom’s bed, (where apparently I kicked her in my sleep,) in retrospect feeling awful that I was so selfish and unable to imagine what my poor mother was feeling. We’d get letters from him and he’d tell me he’d give me a dollar for every A I got on my report cards, (I opened my first bank account with those dollars), to be a good girl for my mom, and to remember to brush my teeth, because the little kids over there didn’t brush well enough and had black teeth! (Something like that you remember 45 years later, I tell you!) At Christmas he sent silk pajamas for us all, my mom looking sexy and statuesque in the Vietnamese styling.  Mine were pink and shiny, with a luxurious foreign feeling to them. To this day whenever my father starts to tell us a tale from back then, I sit enthralled and filled with wonder. Just by chance, he helped a woman deliver a baby in the shanties of Saigon.  He went off on some secret mission that he wasn’t really supposed to be on, bringing back a Soviet rifle as a souvenir. He was living in a hotel that was bombed.  And he wasn’t even a soldier—he was a behind-the-scenes man. I can’t even conceive the things he doesn’t tell us.
 
So, on this day, Veterans Day, I thank my father, my brother and brother-in-law, and all the other fathers, mothers, brothers, sister, sons and daughters who have served and are serving our country, whether by choice or not.  Wartime or peacetime, I am grateful for your presence.  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

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Freebies?

11/9/2015

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The phone pulls me out of a dream, and I fumble around, limbs and hair everywhere, extricating myself from flannel sheets and feline, yanking out my earplugs (apparently not adequate enough to drown out my full volume ring tone of “What is love? Baby don’t hurt me…”) and locate the source of interruption. I throw myself onto the mobile grenade to silence it – company is sleeping in the other room. I tap something green to answer: “slllllgggghhhello?” Dead pause as I slurp on my night guard, then take it out. “Hello?”
 
“Hi, this is Dan from blah blah blah. This call is recorded for….”
 
“This is not a good time,” I say. “To call.” Somehow I feel it needs clarification. Thirty seconds ago was a really great time, all warm and DEAD ASLEEP in my bed, thank you very much.
 
“Okay. I’ll call back at a better time.”
 
I hang up and wonder how he’ll know when a better time will be. (My recent call log tells me 2:17 PM was a better time for Dan.)
 
I’ve been getting a lot of these calls lately, from unknown numbers, and a flood of emails of biblical proportion. I know it’s my fault. In a curious, and I must say in my own defense, frugal state of mind, in the Spirit of Saving Money, I clicked on one of those ads proclaiming if I just answered a couple of questions I could get free samples mailed to me, and choose the products I want to try. I start answering the first survey, and about halfway through, realize this is all a terrible mistake and try to back out. But somewhere along the line I gave them my email and phone number. (Did I just hear a huge collective intake of breath and No, Lori, no!?) The Hell Gate has been opened and all the call center demons are on my tail.
 
I get a call the next day, from Jerome, who is really friendly, and maybe I’m well-rested and in a Polly Anna mood, because I talk to him a minute because he wants to send me some free money-saving coupons, $300 worth, and yadda yadda yadda, $19.95, yadda yadda yadda, magazines. 
 
I stop him.  “Magazines?  We stopped all our subscriptions a couple years ago...we just had too many to deal with…everything’s on the Internet.”  He then pauses, then downgrades me to “up to $100 worth of coupons” (I feel like I’ve just lost $200) and to hang on so I can talk to his supervisor to verify. I talk to the supervisor, who says everything Jerome just did, blah blah blah, all sugar, no spice, and then I come to what senses I may have left, and tell her you, know, I’m really just not interested.
 
“Did Jerome not do a good job of telling you about our program?” She’s arching an evil brow on the other end of the line, eyes smoldering, whip twitching by her thigh, nostrils flaring as she sniffs out Jerome.
 
Oh, man, lady! I don’t want to get poor Jerome in trouble! Jerome was great, really, love the guy, want to hang out with him over beers and burgers, I just changed my mind somewhere between yadda yadda and blah blah blah.  I hang up quickly.

Over the last two weeks I’ve been dealing with my foolhardiness and unsubscribing to emails and deals (edeals? That should be a word, if it isn’t already). The demons have gone underground. I imagine the freebies and coupons are working for someone, and they’re saving tons of money, which is wonderful – no judgment here. I’m just a little worried about Jerome.

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Naked Bacon

11/5/2015

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​A year and a half ago Joe and I attended a home-cured bacon workshop. While we were camping. At a nudist resort. I know, what are the odds? And to ease your mind, to push out all those disturbing pictures that just popped up in your head, or health concerns about hairnets and such, I was fully clothed as a Steampunk cowgirl and Joe was a sort of tribal creature, with a Mohawk made of crow feathers. (He might not have been wearing a shirt, but a fringed leather vest. But that’s okay, he was mostly just watching.)  I, however, jumped right in helping to mix the cure with my bare hands, and rubbing those pork bellies with a passion. When the workshop was over we had a couple pounds of pork each in plastic zip-locked gallon bags, which we placed in our cooler for the next few days. A week later when we were back home, Joe smoked it, we cooked some up and we were hooked! Once you’ve home-cured your own, you won’t want to go back to store-bought. Any recipe you make that has bacon involved goes to an entirely new level when you use your own home-cured bacon. Trust me.

Don, the host and teacher of our workshop, is now our good friend, and local All Things Meat guru. He’s a big man, with a bigger heart, full of life and a passion for food – my kind of people. For those who don’t have a local source, check out Michael Ruhlman. The following recipe is adapted from his, with a little of my own spin. The first batch we made on our own ended up being too salty (it will happen, I’m told), but mostly because I didn’t measure properly, and used too much cure for the meat. An ounce per pound is a good rule to follow.
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If you do end up with super salty bacon on your hands, don’t waste it – improvise! I salvaged ours by chopping up the cooked bacon and creating a new recipe: Bacon Basil Salsa. It’s a sanctified salsa sensation in your mouth. Once you take a bite you’ll be doing the Happy Dance in your seat. If you have home-grown tomatoes, onions and basil, it’s even better. If you make your own Cotija, let me know. You would rock my world if you showed me how. 
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Home-Cured Bacon
(Makes 5 oz. of cure)
​
¼ cup (2 oz.) coarse kosher salt
2 tsp. pink curing salt #1
4 Tbsp. *coarsely ground black pepper
4 bay leaves, crumbled
1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 cup brown sugar or honey or maple syrup
5 cloves of garlic, smashed with the flat side of a chef’s knife
2 Tbsp. juniper berries, lightly crushed (optional)
5 to 10 sprigs fresh thyme (optional)
 
5 pounds pork belly, skin off
(I like to cut into five 1-lb. pieces for more cure-to-surface action)
2-gallon, or 1-gallon zip-top bags if you don’t have a container big enough to hold the belly(ies).
 
Mix salt and spices together.
 
Put your pork in the zip-top bag(s) or on a sheet tray or in a plastic container.  Rub the salt and spice mixture all over the belly.  Close the bag or cover it with plastic wrap, and stick it in the refrigerator for seven days (get your hands in there and give the spices another good rubbing around midway through, or if you’re really hands-on, flip it and rub every day).
 
After seven days, take the pork out of the fridge, rinse off all the seasonings under cold water and pat dry. Put meat on a rack on a sheet tray and place in a 200 degrees F oven. Leave it in the oven for 90 minutes (or, if you want to measure the internal temperature, until it reaches 150 degrees F). If you have a smoker, by all means smoke it!
 
Let it cool and refrigerate until you’re ready to cook it. (It’s easier to slice after it’s been refrigerated.)
 
*If you have a battery-operated pepper mill, or a coffee bean grinder you use for spices, by all means use it for the pepper! Manually grinding those peppercorns will (seemingly) take forever. And tire-out your wrists and forearms like you’ve been wringing chicken necks all day. Not that I know, but I can certainly imagine. 

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Bacon Basil Salsa
Tomatoes, preferably homegrown (say 2-3)
Basil (about a cup, chopped)
Onion (half a large one)
Home-cured bacon (to taste)
Cotija cheese (3-4 oz., crumbled)
 
Chop, mix, devour.
As you can see, quantities are flexible…
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Bread Baking Bliss

10/30/2015

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​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. 
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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...)
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My Salty Sins

10/27/2015

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​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!  
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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…

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    Hi, I'm Lori, a lover of feeding people. Be it with words, whimsy, or some tasty food, I want to warm your belly or your heart.  Or at the very least tease out a little smile.

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