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Mr. Thirsty is Screaming

9/22/2016

I’m lying there unable to communicate except for a flutter of my hands. I’m seeing monster faces in the pattern of the acoustic tile ceiling, because, well, that’s what I do. Pandora is playing a Billy Joel song and my dentist is testing his 20-something assistant on her 70s music knowledge. She’s heard the name…He proceeds to tell her about Billy as he knows him – heavy-set, bald, bug-eyed – in his soft and adorable Colombian accent, but can’t remember the name of the beautiful model he was once married to. My eyes are wild behind my protective eyewear, darting to the doctor, the assistant, doctor, back to the assistant, pleading with my eyebrows for them to rip the duct tape off my mouth and let me speak! He fashions my baby tooth to look like an adult one, and sweat forms on my brow as I furiously attempt to mentally transmit the model’s name to him, to throw my voice over to the assistant like she’s a ventriloquist’s dummy, but only this comes out: iheee innneee! I’m the monster in Young Frankenstein in top hat and tails dancing with Gene Wilder and putting on the ritz. Christie Brinkley! Alas, it’s drown-out by the screaming of Mr. Thirsty vigorously sucking the saliva out of the bottom of my mouth. To not be able to sing to all the pop 70s songs of my youth, to not pipe in on the conversation when little-know-it-all me knows the answers; this is true torture!

For now I relax. Or try to – my mouth has become a construction site, as the doctor moves on to removing the last of my ancient fillings from the Land of Metallica and replacing it with a crown. Singing under his breath, “Hold me closer tiny dah-han-cer,” he’s pushed the heavy drilling equipment up to 11, a cloud of fine tooth bits is spattering everything within a three-foot radius, a hot, iron smell fills my nostrils, and over the heinous high-pitched sound my stomach growls. My brain has been tricked into thinking it’s snack time by the sluice of water, metal and mmm-mmm calcium and my stomach responds with a roar like it’s never been fed before. I’m embarrassed at its gullibility.

I’m left alone while the gloppy mold of my new tooth crown is setting, and close my eyes. My teeth are clenched down in a bite, and I do some deep breathing for five minutes, until I feel something wet trailing down the side of my neck and realize I’m so numb I’ve unwittingly drooled Niagara Falls out of the side of my mouth. I’m busy cleaning myself up with my completely useless bib when the assistant comes back in. She gets busy inserting a cord around the remaining bottom of the tooth, which apparently proves difficult.

“Your tissue is very buoyant.”

“That’s what she said!” I couldn’t help but reply. In my head.

When I'm finally done and checking out at the receptionist’s desk, I try to apply some tinted chap stick but my upper lip is still numb, and I fear I’ve smeared it all over my face. I smile sheepishly as I leave, but when I get to the car and glance at the rearview mirror I see nothing but a palsied sneer, a lame Elvis impersonator in the driver’s seat. With a sloppy pink clown mouth.

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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.

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 tarragon leaves
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 tarragon, 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!

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.

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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Salvador 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.

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.

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

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

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

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

Baked with Martha

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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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