• On writing

    I’m at Panera, making myself write because I don’t want to write. Writing is such miserably hard work, especially when I don’t have anything pressing to say, but, nevertheless (insert martyr-like sigh), I’m forcing myself to Put Forth Words because this blog has become one of my disciplines; it’s one of the ways that I keep myself mentally healthy. It’s also one of the ways that I drive myself crazy. Go figure.

    Yesterday when we got home from church I felt blah, grumpy, out-of-sorts, dissatisfied, and apathetic. So I took a nap (was rudely awakened when Sweetsie chucked a book at Miss Beccaboo and Miss Beccaboo screamed like a stuck pig), went for a walk in the warm sunshine (a much-needed jolt of vitamin D), and drank coffee. After the Make-Things-Right Trilogy, I was finally able to start functioning. I made a double batch of chocolate frosting, turned six pounds of ground hamburger into sloppy joe meat, washed dishes, made phone calls, baked a batch of Julia Child’s Swiss Cheese crackers (butter, of which there was a half a pound, poured off the cookie sheets and puddled on the oven floor, clouding up the kitchen with stinky smoke), and processed half of the broccoli that Mr. Handsome brought in from the garden. But I didn’t write.

    Last weekend I saw Julie and Julia with some friends, and while I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, the parts that bothered me most were when Julie would sit down at her computer and type out a blog post. Just. Like. That. She had a full-time job, spent her (late) nights cooking and still managed to write witty, entertaining posts almost daily.

    Yes, I know I’m not supposed to compare myself, but those little pictures of someone effortlessly writing are enough to almost make me slap my laptop shut in despair. Writing for me can be torture. It can be fun, too, so I guess that makes my hobby fun torture, or torturous fun, whichever way you want to look at it. I’m a sucker for a good time, no?

    I break my writing process into three parts. Part One is the urge to write. If I’m lucky, it’s also the thinking part where I have an idea worth pondering. This part, if I have a good idea, is great fun because while I’m in this stage I easily create fabulous literary works of art…without ever cracking my laptop. More often than not though, I have the need to write something without any clear direction about what to write. I get a niggling IgottawriteIgottawriteIgottawrite feeling, but I have nothing to say, and, as you can imagine, this is a rather uncomfortable feeling.

    Part Two is a nasty slap in the face. I struggle (sometimes in vain) to get the words down on paper, a process which is almost never as smooth as I had hoped, nor the end result as witty. It’s the dirty stage, filled with editing, stops and starts, and the occasional Give Up, but it’s also a relief because I’m making myself do something.

    And then, if and when all the words line up right (or semi-right), there is Part Three, the moment of “publication” and the sweet buzz that follows. That buzz lasts for just about twenty-seven minutes, and then it fades away into a pleasant nothingness where I loll about guilt-free, reveling in having completed my job and not needing to do any more work.

    That blissful, blank, stuporish space lasts no more than a day, and then I’m back at Part One, with the bothersome need to write. If I don’t heed those urges, I feel guilty, and if I still don’t heed them, then I become depressed (no one cares, so why bother), and if I still don’t heed them, then I become belligerent (you can’t make me write, so there). And then I have to force myself to sit in a chair (thanks, Panera, for such a comfy stool) and write, even if I have nothing to say. Which, if you haven’t already noticed, I don’t.

    But at least I’m writing.

    So phooey to Julie and Crew for giving the False Impression of Easy Writing. Even if writing sometimes comes effortlessly and quickly (glory be!), it doesn’t always come that way. It’s like anything in life—you get the good stuff via the smokey kitchen, dirty hands, failed attempts, and aching muscles. Usually it’s worth it, though sometimes it’s not.


    So now I’m going to tell you about apple chutney. (Hee hee hee. You probably thought I was going to tell you about Julia’s cheese crackers, but, as you can see, I’m not. They weren’t good enough to validate a buttered oven floor, or for me to encourage you to smoke up your kitchen. [However, I don’t count the whole endeavor as a complete fail because I did learn some things, but I’m not going to go into them now—my point is simply that failures are not worthless, though most of the time I feel that they are.])

    This apple chutney is worth a retelling here, not least of all because there was no smoke involved. The chutney is tangy-sweet, made with, among other things, garlic, cayenne pepper, honey, and cinnamon. It’s a delicious addition to pork, if you are a pork-eating sort of person, or with something as simple as fried potatoes and bacon (oops, the piggy wiggled in there, too). I made this to go with mashed potato pancakes, and the crispy, cheesy, bacon-y pillows of potato were enhanced tremendously by the vinegary fruit. I still have most of a pint of chutney in the fridge and a latke recipe that is screaming to be tested, so I know (and hope) we’ll have at least one yummy supper this week.

    And now that I’ve completed a post, I can take a guilt-free break from this torturous addiction of mine. Whew, hallelujah, glory be, and … until next time.


    Note: I’ve been in Panera for two and a half hours, have drunk one and a half cups of coffee (only a third of which was caffeinated—I had my morning coffee before I ever left the house), have eaten two buttered hunks of baguette, and have taken two potty breaks (soon to be a third). I will not publish this post till I get home, so I’ll expend at least another half hour of mental energy on this project. Just so you know.

    Apple Chutney
    Adapted from Beni’s Family Cookbook by Jane Breskin Zalben, a collection of Jewish recipes. Does this mean that I’m committing a sacrilege by recommending that this chutney be eaten with pork? If so, my apologies.

    Zalben says you can use other fruits besides apples, mangos and peaches being two possibilities. If you like the citrus-y flavor, add some orange zest as well as the juice.

    7 cooking apples, cored, peeled, and coarsely chopped
    1 tablespoon peeled, minced ginger root
    1 clove garlic, minced
    1 teaspoon ground cloves
    1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
    1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
    1 cup honey
    juice of one or two oranges (or ½ cup orange juice)
    1 cup cider vinegar

    Combine all ingredients in a heavy bottomed saucepan. Bring to a boil and then lower the heat to simmer. Cook, uncovered and stirring occasionally, for about an hour, or until the mixture has thickened and is no longer juicy. Serve warm.

    Yield: About three cups.

    About One Year Ago: Two Thanksgiving Things.

  • Pot o’ porridge

    I didn’t get any cooking done this morning. School work took up the whole five hours (included in that time was a ninety minute National Geographic movie on space exploration), but we had an unexpectedly fine time. For some inexplicable reason, even though it was a gray, rainy mess outside, we didn’t indulge in our usual Monday Morning Grumpfest. This unusual turn of events was a special treat, one that left me with a tummy full of warm fuzzies.

    At least that’s how I would still be feeling if the kids had gone straight to their rooms when I sent them upstairs after lunch (an experiment of peanut sauce over glass noodles [oops, I guess I did do a little cooking after all]—the kids didn’t like it, but I think it was the odd-textured noodles that they reacted to and not the sauce which I happened to find delish) instead of playing a rousing game of Alligators and Chase and Shriek. I now have a sore throat, and I wasn’t even playing their game. Not intentionally, anyway.

    But I’m hopeful that The Baby Nickel will soon quit bouncing around beside me here on the bed, reciting (over and over and over again) “There Was A Little Turtle,” and that my café con leche will soothe my raw throat, and that those warm fuzzies will make a return visit before the rest hour is up. In the meantime, I’m going to tell you about my new oatmeal, something that warms my tummy regardless of what day of the week it is or how well my children are behaving (or not).


    I love oats in any form (if you don’t believe me, look here and here and here and here and here), but I really like oatmeal, so light and nourishing. With a thin dusting of sugar and a few glugs of cold milk, it becomes The Perfect Comfort Food. (My husband and I have agreed to vehemently disagree on this topic.)

    A few weeks ago I bought a bag of steel-cut oats and tried out a new kind of oatmeal. Sadly, the kids revolted. They didn’t like the chewy little beads and begged me not to ever make it again. I only halfway respected their pleas: I don’t make it for them anymore; I make it for me.

    Because as it turns out, I happen to love those chewy little nubbins. I cook me-self up a pot o’ porridge (sorry about lapse into Irish brogue; we watched Billy Elliot last night) and then stash it in the fridge. Then midmornings when I get hungry (I don’t like to eat oatmeal first thing in the morning, preferring instead to have a piece of toast with my morning coffee), I pull out my container of precooked (and, I’ll be honest here, gross-looking) oatmeal and spoon a bit into a ramekin. I pop the oatmeal into the microwave for a warming jolt, then sprinkle on some dark brown sugar or maple syrup, add some dried strawberries (or toasted walnuts and dried apples or coconut, dried bananas, and pecans), top up the cup with milk and slurp away.


    The best part of the whole deal is that the kids don’t ever pester me for a taste, a bit of knowledge that sweetly gilds my warmly-fuzzied oatmeal lily.

    Steel-Cut Oatmeal

    I find this oatmeal to be a bit more viscous than oatmeal made with rolled oats, but once it is reheated and mixed with milk, that component almost totally disappears leaving you with just the toothsome little bits of goodness. Yum-yum.

    4 cups water
    1 cup steel-cut oats
    ½ teaspoon salt
    1 teaspoon vanilla
    1 tablespoon butter

    Put the water in a saucepan and bring it to a boil. Add the oats and salt and stir well. Put the lid on the saucepan and remove it from the burner. Turn the burner to low and, if you have a gas stove, return the saucepan to the burner. (If you are like me and have an electric burner, keep the pan off the burner for a minute or two while it cools down; otherwise, the oatmeal will bubble over and make a mess of your stove.) Let the oatmeal simmer for another 20-40 minutes, stirring every five minutes or so (and more often towards the end of the cooking time).

    When all the water has been absorbed, remove the pan from the heat and stir in the vanilla and butter. Put the lid back on the kettle and let it cool to room temperature, at which point you can transfer the oatmeal to jars or plastic containers before storing them in the refrigerater.

    To serve, dish the desired amount into serving bowls, reheat in the microwave (or, if you are microwave-less, in a pan on the stove top), sprinkle with sugar or syrup, fruits, and/or nuts, and milk or cream.

    Yield: 4-5 good-sized serving, or 8-12 midmorning snacks

    About One Year Ago: Potato-Leek Soup

  • Getting my just dessert

    This has been a week of abysmal mistakes and abject failures, kitchen-wise.

    There was the following, not in any particular order:

    *The butternut squash salad with tahini dressing. It was probably my fault that it turned out smooshy and bitter and gross; I think I over-roasted the squash and I didn’t have cilantro and my tahini is ancient.

    *The baked carrots were totally the fault of the author of the recipe book, though it might be my fault for choosing to make something out of a cookbook that is decades old and was published to promote the Troy-Bilt rototiller.

    *The chocolate-filled puff tarts were ho-hum as was the upside-down apple tart. (Maybe I’m getting picky?)

    *The purple cabbage with apples needed a number of changes but wasn’t good enough to entice me to make it again.

    *The honey cakes—oh, the honey cakes!—the eight little loaves hadn’t been in the oven but for five minutes when I spied the little glass of premeasured spices sitting on the counter. For that mistake I almost cried, and then I threatened to drink five bottles of hard lemonade (but I didn’t). Miss Beccaboo came in and sat down on the edge of the sofa where I had hurled my beleaguered body and said, “Everyone has bad times,” and then she draped her little self over mine in a giant hug.

    *The red lentil coconut curry. I bought red lentils with the express purpose of making this curry, but then, after I had already spent ample time chopping and sauteeing, I discovered that the can of coconut milk sitting on the shelf in the back hall was actually a can of coconut cream. I called Mr. Handsome and wailed my sob story into his eardrum. He, under my frantic direction, petitioned Coworker Sam for coconut milk (they were working at Sam’s house) and Sam found some and Mr. Handsome ran it home to me. But I didn’t have any cabbage for the curry and I forgot to chop the kale that I was using as a substitute and then I didn’t add the kale early enough so it didn’t get sufficiently tender, and all in all, it was rather disappointing (albeit nourishing).

    *The Spanish rice (that I made last week, but while I’m on a roll I might as well tell everything) that never got all the way soft and I made my family eat it anyway.

    (It wasn’t just in the kitchen that I was having problems. Last night I hopped into the shower and started to wet my wash cloth, but I noticed it felt funny, light and smooth and thin. I wiped the water out of my eyes and looked down. I was holding my pair of clean panties, still folded but wet. I had grabbed them off the floor where I had tossed my pile of post-shower clothes. I am losing it, I tell you, losing it.)

    The chickens, at least, ate extra well this week.


    This morning I woke up determined to have a kitchen success. I intended to make several new recipes (I don’t know when to call it quits, do I?), but just in case the apple chutney, pumpkin cream, and mashed potato cakes flopped, I would also make some pots de crème. I had made these pots of spoonable chocolate before, but this time around I was going to use Baileys in place of the rum, so with that minor adaptation, it classified as an experiment.

    As I anticipated, it was a flaming success all right.


    My small jug of Baileys was nearly empty (bedtime toddies of spiked hot chocolate have a way of depleting the liquor cabinet), so when I went in to town last night to drop off Yo-Yo at a friend’s house and pick up a friend for Miss Beccaboo, I stopped at the ABC store. The girls followed me in (the friend’s mother had said it was okay for me to run by there—I wasn’t being irresponsible, I’ll have you know) and stood very still, taking care to keep their arms close to their sides and not touch anything because I had warned them against being spazzy.

    Then this morning, while the kids were still finishing up their granola and corn chex and milk and dried strawberries and raisins and apple coffee cake and hot chocolate (it was just a hodge-podge breakfast, but written out like that it sounds rather impressive), I whipped up a blender full of the silky chocolate, along with several tablespoons of cream from the new jug of Baileys. I let the girls sniff the bottle’s contents and they were pleasantly surprised at how good it smelled.


    And after lunch when I gave them each a little spoonful out of the test cup, they positively purred with pleasure. So, even though this is supposed to be an adult dessert, it’s not really, at least not according to the children’s tastebuds. Keep this in mind: if you are going to be serving this to an intergenerational group, make a couple sans spirits for the young’uns; otherwise, you may instigate a revolt of the tiny people.

    Oh, and speaking of Baileys, I once knew this girl—still do, in fact—that went camping with her dread in-laws and before she would get out of her sleeping bag in the morning, her husband had to bring her a giant mug of coffee, a full half of which was Baileys. (That same husband also served my husband a mug of Baileys, but my husband fell asleep before he got to the bottom of the mug.)


    I don’t think these pots de crème will make you fall asleep. They’re more likely to make you swoon in ecstasy and then tear your clothes off and run out of the house buck naked. (I just watched Like Water For Chocolate.)

    And, for the record, I have never torn my clothes off and run outside naked.

    At least not where pots de crème were involved.


    Chocolate Pots de Crème
    Adapted from Christmas from the Heart of the Home by Susan Branch, a book that the Langdons, family friends of ours, gifted to me eighteen whole years ago

    As I already said, the original recipe calls for rum, but I found that to be too strong. I love the Baileys (as if that weren’t already clear) and I think you could up the amount—maybe to a total of five or six tablespoons—and still not overdo it, though I’m not sure how that would change the consistency. Also, you could substitute other liquors, such as Crème de Menthe, Amarula, or Kahlúa, or, if you don’t like alcohol, feel free to leave it out altogether.

    If you prefer, use three-fourths cup of whole milk in place of the cream and milk.

    Use your favorite chocolate; if you skimp on quality, the end result will suffer. I used 60 percent Ghirardelli chips, so I didn’t have to bother to chop them first.

    ½ cup milk
    1/4 cup heavy cream
    6 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, chopped
    1 large egg
    2 tablespoons sugar
    1 teaspoon vanilla
    pinch of salt
    3 tablespoons Baileys Irish Cream
    whipped cream, for garnish

    In the jar of a blender, combine the egg, salt, sugar, vanilla, and chocolate. (I put the egg in first because I don’t want it to come into direct contact with the scalding milk.)

    Heat the milk and cream in a saucepan just till it gets to the boiling point. With the blender running, carefully add the milk. Blend for about thirty seconds. Add the Baileys and blend briefly. Pour the chocolate into four or five of your smallest, funkiest dishes. Cover with plastic wrap and chill thoroughly.

    When ready to serve, remove from the refrigerator and top with whipped cream.

    About One Year Ago: Feminism, part one