Blog Posts

Blind Obsession

8/10/2016

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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Cafe Flora's French Dip Sandwich – Earthy Vegetarian Garlicky Goodness

2/24/2016

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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.

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.

This 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.

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:

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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Blind Obsession

Quirky Musings from a Quirky Mind

Messy Hands, Happy Heart

Invasion of the Antbots

Tulips and Bellinis = A Perfect Day

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

Baked with Martha

Cafe Flora's French Dip Sandwich – Earthy Vegetarian Garlicky Goodness

Working at Home

Dancing the Blues

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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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