Skyfa - My Friends My Networks

onions

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 06:18:00 GMT

Humble. Lovely. A pungency like no other. When I go for a walk around the neighborhood in the evening, I can tell the families that are cooking, from the smell of onions simmering in oil wafting out from the windows.

The way the papery sheath yields slightly tougher skin, and the tender flesh beneath it? Well, it has become such an overused metaphor for human learning or loving or the complexity of a situation that I cannot write it down.

It probably took less time to grow these onions from start to our kitchen table than a snowy day in Iowa in January 2007 until this evening.....

I can't do it. I can't write a post on onions tonight.

You see, I have been refraining. I have been biting my tongue and deleting the words when they fall in a mad dash onto the screen from my fingers. I've been working hard not to turn this food blog political.

But it doesn't feel honest to write a little rhapsody about onions when I can think of little else but the election. For almost two years, I have been reading and following, listening to speeches and dreaming of a future for my daughter with one person as president. Need I say who? Look, I'm a woman with the word yes tattooed on my wrist. It should be pretty obvious that I'm wild about the man who says yes we can.

For weeks -- really, for months -- I have been jittery and twittering, wishing and worrying, talking to everyone I know, and sometimes launching tirades into the air as the Chef and I drive around, Little Bean asleep in the back seat. I have never seen an election like this in my lifetime. Somehow, tonight feels like the night before Christmas.

And not just because it looks like my team might win. (It does feel like a sporting event sometimes, the way these silly things are run.) It's more because there were lines of people waiting ten hours to vote in Atlanta this weekend, because people are talking about issues in broad strokes about how this country could be run, because there's a palpable feeling of being involved these days. We've lived in apathy too long in this country. Something is starting.

Like onions simmering. The very act of putting onions in the pan can lead to something extraordinary.

So I hope that you take the time to vote tomorrow. We can all participate in this together. No matter how you vote, please do.

Perhaps, like us, you'll be cooking tomorrow, to share food with friends through this incredible day. We're making six recipes from our cookbook. Life goes on, no matter what happens. By the time our book comes out, in February 2010, whoever will be elected tomorrow will have been president for a year. Who knows where we will be by then?

I know, without a doubt, that the food we eat on this complex, historical, enormously important day? It will probably start with onions.

making cookies, spontaneously

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 04:07:00 GMT

"Sweetie, what day is it?" I whispered to the Chef in bed, as Little Bean fell asleep between us. She had been up for nearly an hour, kicking and smiling at the light fixture above us, cavorting at the sound of our voices.

"It's Thursday, I think," he said, scrunching up his face with the remembering.

"Oh fiddlesticks!" (I'm pretty sure I said something else, but I'll refrain here.)

"Why?"

"It's blog post day, and I don't have a recipe yet.

"Oops."

You see, we're cooking up a storm over here. We talk about food all day long, we shop for ingredients in the early afternoon, and then we're in the kitchen making at least four dishes a day. Right now, we're making up the recipes for the book that don't exist yet. The Chef salts food, and stirs sauces, and cuts into sheets of homemade pasta, and I write it all down. I ask a dozen questions and cook some of it myself to get the rhythm in my hands so I can translate it into words. And then we eat.

We have never felt so alive together. If someone said to me — "You've won the lottery. Now you can do whatever you want!" — do you know what I would do? I'd keep living exactly like this.

But when you make up four recipes a day, plus start jotting down notes for the next day's dishes that are already starting to appear in the mind, making up another recipe that will go on this website but not the book? Well, it slipped on by.

I thought of leaving a little placeholder here, send out an SOS and apologize. Stay tuned to next week.... But that didn't feel right. So, what to do?

A few days ago, the Chef and I were sitting on the couch, Little Bean between us, kicking and cooing. We started imagining what it will be like when she's older, and she has friends over. We both always wanted to have the house where everyone felt comfortable stopping by, spontaneously, without announcement. And so, the Chef started playing the part of Little Bean's friends, a few years from now.

"Mrs. Ahern, can I have a cookie?"

That did it. I needed to make cookies. I want to have an entire retinue of great gluten-free cookie recipes in my files, so I can make some for the little kids with grubby hands and big grins who wander through the door.

And so, these buttery jam cookies appeared. I tried the recipe this afternoon solely because we had all the ingredients on hand. Our refrigerator is stuffed with food, with plenty of flours and sugars on the shelves. After we came home from shopping at the Market (we ordered venison shanks! and bought caul fat for the sweetbreads!), I flew through the kitchen, putting together cookies.

I was trying to beat the light so I could take photographs.

In the middle of mixing and reaching for more ingredients, I started laughing. What an absurd situation. I have to make cookies now! And then it occurred to me -- this is the way I used to bake. Given a moment's notice, I could break out a batch of sugar cookies for a holiday party, or a baking sheet full of gingersnaps on a cold winter's night. It may have taken me three years, but gluten-free baking just feels like baking to me now.

For those of you who are new to this, persist. Believe me, it grows easier.

And these cookies, which I had never eaten, turned out to be a keeper. Fluffy as biscuits, faintly sweet with apricot jam, and pillowy with vanilla softness, these buttery jam cookies would be perfect with a late-afternoon cup of tea.

Or in the grubby hand of a grateful little kid.

I have learned so much about gluten-free baking since I began experimenting with recipes three years ago. In the past two weeks, as the Chef and I bake nearly every day, and he moves the dough around with his hands, I have learned even more about the body mechanics of baking.

One thing I know for sure: start with a great recipe.

Once I started to have a feeling for some of the flours, and I had worked out my favorite combinations for different situations, I went back to my baking books. Who do I trust, always? David Lebovitz is a genius. Julia Child always makes me smile. The folks at Cooks Illustrated have a new baking book I'm dying to buy, since almost every one of their recipes in the other books work like a charm. The Betty Crocker baking book still works. And there are countless other brilliant bakers who have a talent for not only making memorable baked goods but also expressing their technique in such a way that the rest of us can follow along.

(Who are your favorite baking gurus?)

Lately, however, my baking guru is Dorie Greenspan. (And actually, she was the author of that Julia Child baking book as well.) Her recipes work. Every time. She is meticulous and lovely. And I especially appreciate that she points out the sensory pleasures of a recipe, showing us what the dough should feel like underneath our hands and the cookies smell like when they are done.

Our copy of her book, Baking: From My Home to Yours, has multiple pages speckled with gluten-free flours and butter. I'm certainly not done baking from it yet.

We've changed this recipe of hers around a bit -- a little more flour, which seems necessary for gluten-free cookies -- and topping them with jam. But really, there's no need to experiment wildly when Dorie already invented these.

1/2 cup amaranth flour
2/3 cup potato starch
2/3 cup tapioca flour
1/2 cup sweet rice flour
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 stick unsalted butter, soft
2/3 cup sugar
1 large egg
2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2/3 cup apricot jam, plus more for topping the cookies

Preheat the oven to 375°. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, or a Silpat, if you have one.

Combine all the flours in a bowl. Stir them up well to make them one flour. Add the baking powder, ginger, and salt. Sift them into another bowl with a fine-mesh sieve. Set aside.

If you have a stand mixer, put the butter in the bowl and use the paddle attachment. (If you don't own a stand mixer, you can do this all by hand with muscles and a wooden spoon.) Beat the butter for about 30 seconds, and then add the sugar. Beat for only one minute. (When you over-cream the butter and sugar in gluten-free cookies, they spread out in a disappointing fashion.) Add the egg and beat for one minute more. Next, pour in the milk and vanilla. At this point, the batter will look lumpy, even curdled. Don't worry. Keep going.

On the lowest setting, spin the stand mixer and add in the jam. When it is incorporated into the dough, add the dry ingredients, 1/4 cup at a time. You will know you are done when the dough is thick, almost to the point that it resists being poked.

These cookies work best as small cookies, so spoon them onto the baking sheet with a teaspoon. Leave space between the cookies.

Bake the cookies for 12 to 14 minutes, turning the baking sheet halfway through the baking process. The cookies are done when the tops are firmish. They will be pale -- if you keep baking them until they are browned, you will have horribly stiff cookies. You're just looking for browning around the edges.

Bring out the baking sheet from the oven. Make a small indentation in the top of each cookie with the back of a spoon. Carefully pat a dollop of apricot jam into the indentation. Allow the cookies to cool for a few moments before removing them from the rack.

Eat and enjoy.

Makes 18 cookies, depending on the size you make.

squashes

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 04:06:00 GMT

Squash.

It just sounds good, doesn't it? Say it loudly, with emphasis, slowly enough to feel the final shhhh leave your lips. S q u a s h.

Really, it would be such a satisfying swear word.

Around here, we're trying to train ourselves to not use the typical words that rush from our mouths without thought, since fairly soon the baby will be taking them all in. She watches our lips purse and dance, studies them like an astronomer stares at the stars. When she begins talking, she'll use all our words. So we're trying out old favorites, instead. Rats. Mule feathers. Fiddle sticks. Now, I'd like to add squash.

It's squash weather. This afternoon, I looked out the window just beyond the computer. Outside, tiny flies danced above the green grass of the park across the street, lit up by the afternoon golden light. The trees that fascinate Little Bean when we walk through the neighborhood were lit from within, dark blond leaves crinkling into brown. Down the street, an orange explosion.

(A family story. When I was just over one year old, my parents were surprised to hear me say, from the back seat of the car: "Oh look, fireworks!" We were driving in autumn, and I caught a glimmer of that light on the trees from my seat.)

This is the only time of the year I crave my favorite squashes.

Give me butternut squash sprinkled with smoked paprika and good butter, baked in the oven until the flesh is melting into softness. Acorn squash baked with brown sugar, lots of salt and pepper, and an inch of water beneath it to keep it tender. And this time of year, I can feel the wet strings sticking to my hands from when we carved pumpkins for the front porch.

(Remember how gross they turned, when you forgot them out there, and the face fell into itself?)

I still haven't made a pumpkin pie from a fresh pumpkin, however. I have so much to learn.

So I have to ask you. What are your favorite squashes? And how do you like to eat them?

working on the book

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 17:01:00 GMT

"How about spiced prune chutney?"
He makes that face, the pursed lips and fast shake of the head.
"Why not?" I ask. Sounds good to me. I'd eat that with great cheese.
"Hmmm...No." At least he took a moment to think about it this time.
I love this banter, this back and forth. And besides, I really like discovering foods I have never eaten before.
"Zuni has a great recipe for spiced prunes," I suggest.
He answers this one immediately. "Nope. No copying other recipes and altering them slightly. These are all ours."
I backtrack, to explain. "Oh, I know. I agree. But I thought we could look at it for technique."
The Chef agreed. Every chef is inspired by other chefs. We pore over the cookbooks we trust for little tweaks and reminders. ("Ahh, that's right. We need ice-cold liquid with the ground pork when we make sausages.") But he is adamant, and rightly so: these recipes are ours.
"You're forgetting the fig chutney I served at the restaurant," he said.
"What, you mean the one that fills the fig cookies? That recipe's in the first book."
"No," he reminded me. "The one I make, with rosemary and red wine."
"Oh god, I love that one. You're right. That's the one that should go in the book."
He paused for a moment.
"Besides, I don't like prunes."

Well, that did it.

. . . .

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Little Bean is awake. She's lifting her legs, rising onto her butt, and slamming down her legs, in glee, again. She doesn't cry upon waking anymore, after a full night of sleep. Instead, she plays in her bassinet, moving and rolling, rising and thumping. When I do lean over her to say hello, she smiles so wide her face becomes a smear of smile. So does mine.

The Chef wakes up to feed her, and receives his own smiles. I drift back to sleep for a moment. And then the baby is in bed with us, looking up at the ceiling and smiling wide, as she moves from side
to side. We stare, transfixed.

But it doesn't take more than a minute for the conversation to begin.

"What about tackling that cinnamon rolls recipe today?"
"Ooh, cinnamon rolls," he says, his eyes widening.
"And we have to taste the sausages today."
"I want to see how those pickled apples turned out."
"Aren't the white beans still braising on the back of the stove?"

And the entire time, we are looking at Little Bean, calling out these foods to her. Her eyes go wide. She stops to listen. And then she kicks up her heels and begins moving again.

. . . .

Coffee and the paper. Throw in some reading of the cookbooks on the coffee table.

Little Bean, after we have held her and danced her around the living room (yesterday, her favorite song in the world was "Istanbul, Not Constantinople" by They Might Be Giants), falls asleep in her swing. We look at each other and move to the kitchen.

The Chef is chopping. I am mixing flours. The smells are rising.

. . .

Pike Place Market in the clear autumn sunlight. We stick cream and butter, milk and sugar in the basket beneath Little Bean's stroller. Chanterelles at Sosio's. A bag full of spices at World Spice, after sticking every one of them beneath Little Bean's nose. She always kicks. Talking about what to do next, and what to have for lunch.

It's 2 pm, and the Chef is not at the restaurant.

. . .

Little Bean is in her vibrating chair, looking up at us with wide eyes. She kicks and kicks, little coos emitting from her mouth. It's late in the afternoon, and she's far from fussy now. Both of her parents are with her, cooking and laughing, dancing in front of her from time to time. I pull the fresh vanilla bean from the bag and slowly wave it in front of her nose. She stops, and then starts to smile. The Chef laughs, his hands deep in the marinated pork he will be braising soon. Music wafts through the room.

. . .

We give her a bath together. She stares up at us with adoring eyes. She loves the warmth.

The same ritual, every night. Until this week, it was only me in the room with her. Now, we both speak in hushed voices in the small light of the room. Lotion and diaper, soft fleecy pajamas. White noise machine on. One book from each of us (perhaps Madeline or When the Sky is Like Lace), with the Chef acting each action out in exaggerated motions. He always makes me laugh. Lovely food, and then Goodnight Moon.

She's out.

. . . .

Music going. Simmering happening.

Do you think that sugar cookie dough is ready to roll out?
What kind of peppers are you going to use in the tomatillo chutney?
Let's be sure to get to the farmers' market early tomorrow.
How much molasses did you put in there?

He's cooking, dancing in front of the stove. I'm writing everything down.

. . . .

Hell, we even do the dishes now. For the first time since the baby was born, the kitchen is clean before we snap off the light.

. . . .

We're on the couch, wonderfully fed, by the food, and the day. Four more recipes done. Three, he loves. One, he needs to do again before he likes it at all. What would the fun be in four perfect recipes?

We hold each other as we watch Jon Stewart. I feel the laughter pushing his belly up. My eyes droop at the end of the show. Little Bean will be up in six hours. We really should be in bed.

"What are we going to cook tomorrow?"

We fall asleep talking about food.

p.s. We are keeping a set of photographs on Flickr called Working on the Book. If you want to see more of the process, go here. And kudos to anyone who has figured out what the Chef is playing with in the top photograph.

We are, of course, eating well around here. We're doing it all for you. We want our cookbook, and its 100 recipes, to be stellar, every recipe tested, every dish gorgeous. We have to eat it first.

But sometimes, it doesn't have to be complicated. On Monday morning, the Chef made us breakfast. We both felt so indolent. We didn't have to rush to be anywhere. Our muscles had started to relax.

He emerged from the kitchen with roasted potatoes, melted Drunken Goat cheese, eggs over easy, and this little flourish on top.

"What's that?" I asked, excited.

"Fried prosciutto."

It took him all of a few moments. I never would have thought to do it. But it made the meal so much more alive. Monday morning, every morning — it takes only a few moments to make us feel civilized.

FRIED PROSCIUTTO

6 prosciutto slices

Lay the prosciutto slices on top of each other. Roll them into a tube (more pencil than fat marker).

Slice them thin, in a chiffonade.

Into a hot pan add a bit of oil until it is almost smoking. Add the prosciutto. Sautee for 30 seconds or so, until it crisps up.

Serve on top of eggs over easy. This could also garnish potato-leek soup, black beans, or a quinoa-shrimp salad.

kale

Tue, 21 Oct 2008 04:34:00 GMT

At my 40th birthday party, in the middle of a sunlit field, two of my friends wore t-shirts that seemed to compete with each other. Sharon, chattering away and waving her hands in the air, wore a shirt that read: Yum Yum Doughnuts. Mary, earnestly listening to her left, wore one that read: Eat More Kale.

I seem to remember everyone looking a bit dubiously at Mary, skirting away from her silently, as though she might lecture them on vitamins and nutrients. (She is a nutritionist, after all. But she's also a comedian, who often performs one-woman shows. The last one was called Judy Blume Owes Me. Then again, she did write a little ditty called The Broccoli Song.) Someone who espoused kale on her clothing couldn't be that much fun, right?

For years, I thought of kale as one of those foods I really should eat more often. You know, one of those dreary obligation foods, a super-nutritious, so-not-enjoyable vegetable. A food that made me grit my teeth while eating it, a food that made me feel virtuous so I could relish my chocolate without guilt. That meant I didn't eat much kale, for years.

One of the gifts of going gluten-free is that I was forced to experiment with every food I could find, as long as it did not contain gluten. That led to meandering around farmers' markets. And within a few visits, I realized I'd have to start buying kale.

Kale exists ubiquitous around the Northwest. It grows best in cool climates. All our rain keeps the green going. And in those slender-on-the-sunshine, dreary months of winter, kale shows up at every stand, every week. Eventually, I gave in and started going home with dark green leaves draped over the top of my shopping bag.

Thank goodness.

Kale deserves a better reputation. When it's cooked right, kale has a robust taste, greenness intensified, something earthy and palpable. It's part of the brassica family, the same group that contains brussels sprouts. (There's another misunderstood vegetable.)

Heidi created gorgeous olive oil and kale mashed potatoes last year. Molly informed us last week that boiled kale can be sensuous when lavished with poached eggs. And sometimes all I need is some lacinato kale roasted with olive oil and sea salt to make an afternoon feel complete.

The Chef says his favorite kale recipe is olive oil, salt, pepper, fine-diced shallots, and a hot cast iron skillet. When everything is popping, throw in the kale and watch it wilt. Pull it off the burner and eat it, immediately.

Still, I know there are plenty of other ways to enjoy kale, whether it's curly kale, red kale, or lacinato kale. (That dark, crinkly beauty is my personal favorite.) I'd love to know your passions.

I'm not going to implore you to eat more kale. Instead, I'll ask you: how do you eat kale?

p.s. The Chef and I haven't made any public appearances in months. We've been happy to stay in with the baby. But it's time to come out and play again. For those of you live near Seattle, we're teaching a one-time class next Monday at the Whole Foods on Westlake. We'll be cooking four dishes we're trying out for the new cookbook:

spiced walnuts
forbidden black rice with chickpeas, bok choy, and tamari sauce
seared lamb chops with lavender, mustard, and bread crumbs
chocolate peanut butter brownies

The class is only $35, and we'd love to see you there.

Please sign up by Thursday, October 23rd.

p.p.s.

The lovely Hilary Davidson is running a splendid website for those of use who live gluten-free and wish to live as fully as we can: Gluten-Free Guidebook. A few weeks ago, I had the wonderful pleasure of talking with Hilary -- we couldn't stop talking! -- and she wrote a piece about me for her site. I'm humbled. Thank you, Hilary.

buttermilk biscuits, gluten-free

Fri, 17 Oct 2008 02:50:00 GMT

"Biscuits in the oven going to watch em rise...
right before my very eyes.
Hey hey."

We have been dancing around here, to music we never expected to love.

Our friend Monique gave us a cd before Little Bean was born, telling me it was one of her kids' favorites. When I saw the name, I wanted to cringe, but I resisted. Raffi. I had heard of him, and I thought he was cheesy. I had a flash image of concerts with kids in the audience, all waving flags, everyone singing music that the parents couldn't stand to hear again. Before Little Bean was born, I swore we would never listen to music meant just for kids. Instead, we'd teach her how to sing with Johnny Cash, and Alison Kraus, and Elvis Costello. All our favorite music was good enough for her, right?

So I took the disc and thanked Monique and tucked it away.

One afternoon, about a month ago, Little Bean was crying. It was late afternoon, the time when babies grow fussy, mysteriously. (Does anyone know why that is?) She's such a sunny little being, with the wide-open eyes and tiny pursed mouth of a cartoon character, that her crying took me by surprise. I went through the usual routine to soothe her. Nothing worked. I danced her around the room to Prince, which had just come on the iPod. She was having none of that. We went outside. I took her in the kitchen to smell herbs. She jiggled on my knee. I tried to stay calm, which calmed her for a moment, but she went right back to crying in jagged sobs.

Exhausted, I remembered Monique's present. I flipped Baby Beluga into the cd player and turned it on. I swear, from the first high-pitched squeaks and giggles of the whale in the opening moments, Little Bean was transfixed. She forgot to cry. She started to smile.

"Hell with it," I thought, sinking back into the couch cushions. "Kids' music is fine."

When "Day-O" came on, I started to sing, exaggerating every syllable with my mouth, like Harry Belafonte on steroids with a face made out of rubber. Little Bean looked up at me, and she stayed looking. At that point, she only made glancing eye contact. The Chef and I both longed for her stare, the adoring eyes. Until that moment, the ceiling captured all her grins. But when I sang to her, the words tumbled from my memory, even though I didn't know I held them. As she bounced on my knee, she watched my mouth, looked at my eyes, and took me in, for the longest time since the day of her birth.

That was the point I began to love Raffi.

Since then, the Chef and I have been playing this album for her every day. She loves it every time, her eyebrows flinging upward, her feet beginning to kick. Each song makes her happy (except for one called Joshua Giraffe, which goes dark and stormy in the middle, and she cries every time). She always dances.

Here's what we never expected, however. The Chef and I are hooked on this music.

He'll call me from the restaurant and say, "I've been singing that one song all day."
"Which one?"
Now, normally, the answer might be some sappy country music song we heard on the radio on the way to work that made us both teary. Or some old song by the Clash that mirrors any anger in our minds. Or any of two dozen Beatles songs that are important to us.
But lately, it has been: "You know, that jaunty one, how oats and beans and barley grow."
And I start whistling, right away.

(I'll ignore, for the moment, the fact that barley contains gluten. We'll come up with another grain when she's older.)

These are great songs. I'm not kidding. They're funny and loving, memorable and whistle-able. (I don't care if that's not a real word.) And more than that, they are the kind of music we want Little Bean to listen to, as she's growing into this world.

One of the songs, "Thanks a Lot," feels like the only kind of prayer we're likely to say around the dinner table. A traditional song that Raffi sings so sweetly, "To Everyone in All the World" reminds me every time that our political system would be mighty much better if we lived like this: "I may not know the lingo/but I can say by jingo/no matter where you live, we can shake hands." And perhaps for obvious reasons, one song makes me cry every time:

"All I really need is a song in my heart
food in my belly
and love in my family."

Whenever that one comes on, the Chef and I scoop up Little Bean, hold her in our arms, and dance her around the living room, singing.

Okay, so we have become those parents. And you know what? We don't care. Little Bean has been in this world for less than three months, and already she has encouraged us to let go of ridiculous expectations. There's nothing wrong with admitting it: we love Raffi. If he were still giving concerts, we'd be first in line to wave flags and sing earnest songs that we still love to hear.

(So if any of you have recommendations for great kids' music that's still pretty damned cool for parents, we'd love to hear them.)

Besides, the best song on the disc is all about biscuits. "Biscuits in the oven, going to watch 'em rise...." After weeks of singing this to Little Bean, I couldn't stand it any more. I had to make biscuits.

I remember my mom making biscuits from scratch some evenings. Now, I realize she used Bisquick as the base. What does that matter? She still put them together with her capable hands, cut through the pillowy dough with an antique cutter given to her by her mother, and pulled the golden warmth from the oven to our oohs and ahhs. I remember standing beside her in the kitchen one day, when I was about seven or eight, and watching her hands make biscuits. They seemed so sure, so reassuring. I wondered if I would ever be that strong.

Now, I look down at my hands, almost exact replicas of my mother's at my age. And I wonder if, a few years from now, when I am making gluten-free biscuits inspired by the Raffi song, Little Bean will look at my hands and wonder what hers will look like when she is an adult.

I found, this week, that I had to create a gluten-free recipe that worked for me. The first two years of living gluten-free, I didn't really care that much about baked goods. But now that our darling, hilarious daughter is here, I realize I want to make her biscuits some evenings and have her ooh and ahh at the warmth I am pulling out of the oven with my hands.

"When they get ready going to jump and shout
roll my eyes and bug them out.
Hey hey."

BUTTERMILK BISCUITS, GLUTEN-FREE

Of course, the only problem with baking biscuits in this house after hearing that song is that gluten-free biscuits simply don't rise the way that regular biscuits do. Why? No gluten. That doesn't mean they can't be darned fine, however.

I've been baking biscuits for days around here, cutting butter into different flours and waiting in anticipation for the moment I could open the oven door. The first batch was horribly disappointing — the expected gluten-free hockey puck. But I love this trial and error process. Every batch taught me something different. And by the time I crafted the recipe you see below, I really was jumping and shouting to see them, like Raffi sings in the song.

The egg white takes the place of the protein gluten provides to a baked good. Lately, I've been finding that just a bit of egg white gives strength and structure to gluten-free goods.

I'm pleased with the softness of these biscuits, the fluffy center with air holes, and the crispness of the bottoms. They're a little bit pillowy, and a little bit crusty. Frankly, I'm glad I found the recipe I like, because I have to stop eating so many biscuits now.

1/2 cup sorghum flour
1/2 cup tapioca starch
1/2 cup potato starch
1/2 cup sweet rice flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon xanthan gum
1 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
4 tablespoons butter
1 egg white
3/4 cup buttermilk (give or take a bit)

Preheat the oven to 450°.

Combine all the flours, the baking powder, and the salt. Stir them up well so they are one. Sift them into a large bowl.

Cut the butter into small pieces and drop them into the flour mixture. Using a pastry blender (also known as a pastry cutter), or two forks if you don't own the fancier tool, cut the butter into the flours. You should have a good blend, with the butter the size of small peas, by the end.

Froth up the egg white with a fork or small whisk. You are not looking to make meringue here. Simply whip some air and volume into the egg white.

Pour the egg white and the buttermilk into the dry mixture. Stir them in slowly with a rubber spatula, taking care to not overwork the dough. When the liquids are incorporated into the flours, stop stirring. Bring it all together with your hands.

Drop small balls of the biscuit dough onto an ungreased cookie sheet. (I prefer these biscuits small, about the size of a plum, to help the middles bake through.) Slide the tray into the oven.

Bake the biscuits for about 20 to 25 minutes. Test for your own version of doneness.

Makes about 8 biscuits.

leaving the restaurant

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 03:08:00 GMT

Before Little Bean entered the world, people who were already parents told us, repeatedly: "Your entire life is going to change."

It seemed safe to assume. Little to no sleep, a fierce little creature at the center of our lives, crying without words, and all those diapers to change. We imagined the worst, but we knew we would love it more than others assumed. We thought we were prepared.

We had no idea.

Much in our lives is still the same. We still love food, the Beatles, overcast days, driving and singing country music songs together, teasing each other, and farmers' markets. We still adore each other. We still live in the same house and have the same names.

Nearly everything else feels different.

It's subtle, sometimes. We still have long mornings together, and they still feel languid. It's just that we wake up at 6:30 now, instead of 8 or 9. The first part of the morning, instead of being spent looking at each other and laughing, is spent looking at this tiny being in our bed and saying, "My goodness, we made her." The afternoons and evenings always raced by, especially when I was absorbed in writing. But now I look up, and the sky outside the living room window has turned that rich, crepuscular blue, and I think, "How did it come to be evening already, when all I've been doing is dancing a little girl around the room?" The Chef and I still laugh and share our stores at the end of the night. Now, however, we can barely keep our eyes open past Letterman's monologue. We stumble into bed.

It's more than the schedules, the sleep deprivation, the sighing we do over her for hours. Our hearts have exploded open.

The sweetness overflows into everything around here. And then, when Little Bean cries, she's the potent force with which to be reckoned. She has a powerful set of lungs, and she doesn't mind using them. She's dear and sweet and not fussy in anyone's book. But when she cries -- oh, it pierces our hearts. She has taught us. Compassion is not a concept anymore. Everyone I see, no matter how annoying, reminds me: "You were once a baby."

Poor Chef, however. He has the mornings with us, and then he is gone for hours on end. By the time he comes home from the restaurant, it's late at night, and Little Bean is fast asleep. No matter how many photographs I send him on the cell phone, it just isn't the same. The other day, he said, "Every morning, when I pick her up, she's heavier than the day before. And I missed all of it."

All of this change is prologue, a way of explaining the next sentence I am about to write:

The Chef is leaving his restaurant.

As of October 18th (next Saturday), the Chef will no longer be cooking at Impromptu.

Some of you, the ones who have eaten there and the ones who had wanted to, will be shocked at this. We're grinning with happy surprise ourselves.

You see, the Chef has been working in restaurants since he was 15 years old. As much as he thrives on the rush, and adores feeding people, he has simply never had a break. If he's going to keep cooking, and dancing in the kitchen, he needs some time off, to find his perspective.

Along with this, the manuscript for our cookbook is due to the publishers on December 31st. That's alarmingly soon. We have been working on the book for months, long before Little Bean was born. But, in a revelation that will come as no surprise to anyone who has been a parent, it turns out that trying to complete a book and be home alone with a baby all day? Those flavors don't meld so well.

Having the two of us at home, though? Oh, what a joy that will be.

Mostly, the Chef wants to be the house husband for awhile, like John Lennon was with Sean. He wants to dance Little Bean around the room in the afternoon, sing her bouncy songs, and take her on long walks while I write. He wants to be a father, before he is a chef.

And so, for the next few months, the Chef will be at home, with us. After the cookbook is done, I'm sure he'll return to cooking, in some form. Perhaps he'll pick up some shifts at a favorite restaurant, or teach cooking classes full time with me. We don't know.

That's what feels so great, what feels so honest to where we are. We don't know what comes next. But right now, in this moment, when Little Bean is eleven weeks old? We want to be with her.

We don't have much money, but we have just enough money in savings that we can do it, if we tighten our belts. In these tumultuous economic times, prudence says to not take any chances, to hunker down. However, after the terrifying start we had with her, we both know that there are no guarantees in life. We have to seize this moment, as it arises.

We're saying yes.

The Chef would like everyone to know how much he has loved cooking food for the people who have come into Impromptu:

"The last two-and-a-half years have been amazing. It has been such a gratifying, rewarding experience to cook for people. There are so many people who have a gluten allergy and they are afraid to go out to eat. People who don't have a food allergy can take food for granted. Eating is such such a joyous event, whether picking up a snack with a friend or having a three-hour meal. Most people with gluten issues are still scared to eat in restaurants. I've wanted to give people the chance to eat safely and not grow sick. It has been such a great feeling for me, because I have been cooking the food that I have wanted to feed Shauna. And in doing that, I have been able to feed a lot of other people."

(You see? He won't be able to stay away from restaurants that long.)

Impromptu will still be open after he leaves. And he is training the new chef to cook gluten-free, and keep the kitchen safe from cross-contamination, so that people may still eat safely. It just won't be the Chef in the kitchen making your food, after October 18th.

What will he be doing instead?

For the next three months, we're going to play with food, test all our recipes, develop some kick-ass gluten-free baked goods (pasta, focaccia, dinner rolls, multi-grain waffles, etc.), and live in food together. We have big plans for how to step up this website. (More news on that later.) The Chef can look after Little Bean for four or five hours a day and give me time to write. And then, in the evening, we can give her a bath, put her to bed, and have dinner together before midnight.

We'll be parenting together.

The Chef adores food — lives it, breathes it — more than any person I have ever met. It turns out, however, that he loves his daughter more.

Those babies. They really do change everything.

winning him over to oatmeal

Fri, 03 Oct 2008 12:48:00 GMT

The Chef and I don't always agree.

If you've been reading this site for awhile, you know how the Chef and I feel about each other. From the time I announced his existence on this site in June of 2006, it was quite clear I was moony and madly in love. If he had his own website, he would have used entirely different words to say the same thing. We're made for each other.

Our love has changed, of course. We can never go back to the exuberance of finding love and feeling it flourish with each moment. These days, our love is more mundane, and deeper, than in those first days.

Now, our love is the worn place on the couch where he sits with the remote in his hand, flipping to Jon Stewart, while I lay with my head in his lap, exhausted and exhilarated from a day of being with Little Bean. Plates scraped clean of food sit on the coffee table before us. I'm in my pajamas, again. He smells of the restaurant. His socks are dirty. We should be in bed; we're both tired, and the baby will be crying in only a few hours. But these moments at the end of the day — devoid of adventure and out-loud romance — are our favorites together. We know each other so well that his hand on my shoulder feels like an extension of my body. We don't need to talk much. We're no longer in that first gush of knowing each other, when we want to share all our stories for the first time. He strokes my hair. I hold his hand. We laugh and gnash our teeth at politics. My eyelids droop. I don't fight it. I fall asleep, curled into him, feeling safe.

And at 6 in the morning, I open my eyes and look over to the corner, to see him sitting in the rocking chair, feeding our daughter. He looks down at her with adoration, the awe in his eyes clear, behind his smudged glasses. His bathrobe needs washing — there is always laundry to be done — and his hair is a hilarious mess. He looks so beautiful to me that I'll never be able to say it. When I see him cradling her in his arms, and see her look up at him with wide eyes, I tear up a little. And then I drift back to sleep.

We couldn't know those moments when we first met. I love being here now.

Reading this, and everything else I have written about him, you might assume that we have the perfect relationship. Clearly, we never fight, right?

What, are you crazy?

Put two passionate, strong-hearted people into a relationship, have them share every intimate detail of each other's bodies and minds, and repeat, day after day for years. Do you really expect there to be no disagreements?

The other day, the Chef and I were driving to his restaurant, Little Bean in back, asleep in her car seat. We were talking about the techniques he wants to teach in the cookbook we are writing. Somehow, we began talking about artichokes. They used to intimidate me, those thorny creatures. I wanted him to demonstrate, with photographs, how to take them apart and reach the thistly heart. He wanted to use the space for something else. "No, but artichokes are really scary to some people. It would help," I told him, gesturing with my hands while I drove. (That drives him crazy.)
"They can use baby artichokes if they're scared. We have more important things to show," he said, waving his hand and looking out the window. (I hate when he won't look at me.)
We spent the rest of the ride going back and forth, talking about the first days of cooking, about what's important to him in this book, about our different perspectives. That all sounds pleasant, doesn't it? Actually, we sometimes interrupted each other, spoke abruptly, and never did come to a consensus.

That was a great conversation. Really.

Disagreement? It's good for people. Honest, kind debate -- not the staged presentations we've been seeing in the national spotlight -- is how our brains grow. And I think if we had never fought, we would be a little unhealthy at this point. What would we be hiding from each other? There have been tense discussions in the kitchen at midnight, misunderstandings that blurted into bigger problems, conversations in bed that hurt for a bit. Honestly, there haven't been many, but there have been some doozies. Every one of those moments has taught us something important.

We don't yell at each other. Or call names. That's the last resort of people who don't know how to talk. And we work at it -- we won't go to bed mad, even if it means staying up until our eyelids start to hurt.

(Frankly, most disagreements never make it that far. Staying mad at each other through a meal is too painful not to bend and apologize.)

We try to save our arguments for matters that really matter. After the scare we had with Little Bean after her birth, only the consequential deserves our attention.

And would you be surprised to find that most of the times our disagreements end in laughter? In fact, the other day we had a few festering moments that ended in a spontaneous pillow fight, both of us falling on the bed and giggling.

I love sour and sweet together.

So, for those of you who have been wondering (and the angry woman who wrote to me this week, insisting I must be lying about our relationship because no one is that perfect): yes, we fight.

I just haven't written about it here. This is a food blog, after all.

But I will tell you about one major disagreement we seem to have solved this week.

The Chef won't eat oatmeal.

I adore oatmeal. Before I had to go gluten-free, I ate steel-cut oats every morning. Not because I had been told they are healthy, but because I just plain love the taste. The heft of them. The way my belly is filled with warm softness after I finish my bowl. Once I found gluten-free oats, I would have happily returned to my earlier habit.

Except, the Chef thinks oatmeal is gross. Now, I maintain that's because he ate instant oatmeal out of a packet when he was a kid, just like I did. This is the man who regards American cheese as an abomination. Anything that artificial doesn't move him. Therefore, he doesn't want oatmeal.

However, on the few occasions when I have made up a pot of oatmeal for myself, and offered him some with brown sugar, blueberries and pecans, he looks up from his bowl and says, with wonder, "Hey, this is good."

Well, exactly.

Except, when I say, "Hey honey, how about oatmeal for breakfast," he doesn't even look up from the newspaper before he says no thank you.

Harumph.

This week, however, I came up with a recipe for oatmeal pancakes. And guess what? He loved them. "Hey, these taste like oatmeal, but they're pancakes. You can make these for me again."

I looked at him for a moment, until he heard his own words.

"Okay, I'll make them next time," he said, laughing.

Being married to each other is never boring. All it takes is a little compromise. And some pillow fights.

OATMEAL PANCAKES WITH BLUEBERRY COMPOTE

These pancakes, adapted from a recipe in The Joy of Cooking, are enough to sway the most stubborn oatmeal loather. Soft with cooked oatmeal, but crisp on the edges, they taste like childhood Sunday brunches. (I can't wait to make these for Little Bean someday.) However, they seem to do best in small sizes. When I made them the width of the pan, they sagged in the middle. Stack up the pint-sized pancakes and plunge your fork into the middle.

I found that oat flour makes these pancakes nearly indistinguishable from regular pancakes. Until Bob's Red Mill starts making oat flour from their gluten-free oats, we simply have to make our own. We have an especially powerful blender, thanks to the generosity of a good friend, which turns any grain into flour within minutes. But a strong food processor and some steel-cut oats work well too. Try it. You'll want to make everything with oat flour soon.

Oatmeal pancakes

1/2 cup oat flour
1/4 cup sweet rice flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 eggs
1 1/2 cups cooked oatmeal
1/2 cup milk (or soymilk, for those of you who have to be dairy-free)

Combine the oat flour, sweet rice flour, baking powder, and kosher salt. Set aside.

Whisk the two eggs well.

Combine the oatmeal and milk. Slide them into the eggs and stir them together, quickly. (If the oatmeal is hot, the eggs will begin to cook a bit when they meet. This is why you want everything ready to go.) The batter will be lumpy with the oatmeal.

Grease a small skillet with canola oil or butter. Put it on medium heat. Pour 1/4 cup of the batter into the skillet. Don't touch the pancake until bubbles appear on the top of the pancake and begin to pop. Flip the pancake. One minute later, put the pancake aside.

Make yourself a stack of pancakes, keeping the first ones warm in the oven (at 200°).

Makes 8 small pancakes.

Blueberry compote

2 pints fresh blueberries
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup orange juice
cinnamon stick
2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons water

Bring the sugar and orange juice to boil. Add in 1/2 of the blueberries, as well as the cinnamon stick. Turn the heat down to simmer and allow everything to cook until the blueberries start to fall apart.

Mix together the cornstarch and water to make a slurry.

Add the remaining blueberries to the mixture. Stir and let simmer for a minute. Take out the cinnamon stick.

Dollop in a little bit of the slurry and stir the mixture. Continue this until the compote has reached the thickness you desire.

Take the compote off the heat and spoon it on top of the blueberries.

Save the rest of the compote, cooled, for the top of ice cream, or folded into yogurt.

Blueberry Cupcakes

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 10:18:00 GMT

Noobcook had her first successful bake, Blueberry Muffin and it didn't look like it was her first at all. Bluff! ;P Blueberries are very expensive here. I never thought I would try them till I saw a local supermarket was having them for sale, organic some more and it was a mere S$2.30 a punnet!! I grabbed 3 and went back to check out Noobcook's recipe.

She's using imperial measurement whilst I'm more comfortable with metric measurement and I was too lazy to do the conversion. I had to abandon the idea of using her recipe and used one of the regular cupcake recipe I had instead.

The next time blueberries are on sale again, I shan't be lazy and do the conversion because her muffins look too darn good!

Here's my recipe if you prefer meteric measurement and especially blueberries. They are yummy!

Ingredients:

220g Butter, soften
200g Caster Sugar
4 Eggs
220g Self Rasing Flour
2 punnet Blueberries

How to do it:

Cream butter and suger till light and fluffy.
Add one egg at a time and continue beating.
Add in flour and beat well till mixture is smooth and pale.
Fold in the blueberries till combined.
Spoon batter into muffin cup.
Bake for 20 minutes in preheat oven at 170C.
Cool on rack.

Roasted Sweet Garlic Ribs

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 09:17:00 GMT

This is one of my many favourites. In fact, my kids and friends too. This is like 'char siew' (sweet roasted lean meat). Maybe if you use lean meat, it will look more like 'char siew'. I prefer to use ribs ... because I like to eat with my hands. :P Yeah! Hold the rib by the bone and clean the meat off. It's especially nice with a little fat on the meat. ;)

You can leave the garlic if you don't like it but me and the kids love garlic. Did I say my daughter loves to eat fried (minced) garlic on its own? ;)

Ingredients:

500g Ribs
3 tablespoon Minced Garlic (optional)
2 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon Cooking Wine
1/2 tsp Salt
500ml Chicken Broth
1 tablespoon Honey

How to do it:

Blanch the ribs.
In a new pot, add ribs and all the other ingredients except honey.
Bring to a boil.
Reduce heat to low fire and simmer for 45 to 60 minutes, till the ribs are tender.
Remove the ribs and place on foil and retain the sauce.
Add honey to the sauce to be used for basting.
Bast ribs with sauce and roast in oven at 170C for 10 minutes.
Repeat for a few times or till ribs are brown.

Note:
If you don't have an oven, you can shallow fry the ribs till brown. Bring the sauce with the honey to a boil and then coat the ribs evenly with it.

Baked Portabello Mushroom with Ham and Cheese

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 01:15:00 GMT

I started blogging in mid June 2006. No, it's not my Blog's aniversary post.

It all started when I make friends with some mummies in a parenting forum and continued to chatting on MSN. We are still in contact and had recently met-up with one of them all the way from Dubai. :) Anyway, I was just learning how to cook then and we often exchange pointers, err ... maybe me getting more cooking pointers out from them. :P

I was tried replicating the particular dish I had from the Cafe from Borders I had years ago and was chatting about it with my friends. It occurred to me that it would be so much easier if I had it record down (somewhere) so anyone who is interested can see it. ( I didn't know it's blogging then. hehehe ...) Then one of friends told me to try MSN Space which was giving me lots of problems after 3 months and I decided to move 'house' to Multiply and I got all my friends to start blogging there too. And that started the blogging craze in my little circle of online friends. I moved 'house' 3 months later to Blogger and settled down here in December 2006.

Well, that's my (food) blogging history and that dish that started all these is ... Baked Portabello Mushroom with Ham and Cheese.

I'm posting this dish and some of the other 'older' dishes later with the little changes I made in cooking them. If you have not been cooking a particular dish you once loved, maybe it's time to heat up your wok and surprise your family with the familiar taste.

Ingredients:

1 Portabello Mushroom (I'm using medium sized here)
2 teaspoon Butter
1/2 slice Ham, cut into 3 or able to fit mushroom
1/2 slice Cheese
Parsley Flakes (optional)

How to do it:

Remove stalk from mushroom and clean it with a damp cloth.
Spread some butter on the cap of the mushroom abd put the rest on the underside. If you have butter spray, use that instead.
Put the mushroom with underside up.
Bake in preheated oven at 180C for 2 minutes.
Turn the mushroom around and continue bake for another 1 minutes.
Turn the mushroom underside up again and place ham on it and spread a little butter on the top ham. If the mushroom is to dry add more butter.
Bake for a 1 minute.
Top with cheese and continue baking till cheese melts.
Remove and top with parsley flakes if you like.
Serve immediately.

Stir Fry Pork with Mushroom in Miso

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 09:13:00 GMT

This is one of my many cooking experiment. I was trying to finish my low salt miso paste. :P The kids hates it when I use that to make miso soup. So I had to use it on other cooking.

I kinda like it. My husband said it's nice. I guess if you like miso, you might like this.

Ingredients:

200g Lean meat, sliced
6 Fresh Shitake Mushroom, cut into quarters
a handful of (Brown) Shimeiji mushroom, stems removed (optional)
1 teaspoon Minced Garlic
1 teaspoon Light Soya Sauce
1 teaspoon Corn Flour
1/2 tablespoon Oil

Seasoning to be mixed together:

1/2 tablespoon Miso Paste
1 tablespoon Water

How to do it:

Marinate pork with light soy sauce for 30 minutes.
Add in corn flour to pork prior cooking and mix well.
Heat wok with oil.
Saute garlic till fragrant.
Add in pork and stir fry for half a minute.
Add in the mushroom and continue stir frying for 20 seconds.
Stir in the seasoning.
Continue cooking till pork is completely cook and sauce has thicken.
Dish and serve.

imagining her future

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 12:14:00 GMT

Sometimes you catch a glimpse of what your life might be like someday.

This weekend, the Chef's brother Kevin came into town for a day, on his way to Whistler for an avalanche control conference. His daughter, the Chef's lovely niece Kelly, drove up from Eugene with her long-time boyfriend James to spend the day with us as well.

Who am I kidding? Really, they were all there to meet Little Bean.

I understand. She's hard to resist. With her cooing alone she could conquer the world. These soft sounds rush from her lips and we are mesmerized. She smiles and everything stops. If she giggles, we talk about it all day long. And in between those dazzling displays of babyhood, Little Bean furrows her brow when she's confused by why our mouths are moving and these sounds coming out. She cranes her head to follow the light in the room. She eats, she swings, she sighs with delight when we dance with her, she listens to stories like nobody's business.

She is, we know, like all babies at nine weeks old.

We don't care. We think she's tops.

And so did the Chef's family. Once Kevin arrived, we spent the day playing pass the baby, from one set of loving arms to the next. Hours passed, in conversation and concentrated staring at that little face, as they do when I'm at home alone with her, all day.

Every evening I look up and think, "Wait, how did it get to be 7 pm again?"

(Between caring for this being I love beyond words, and reading political blogs far too often when she's asleep, and attempting to write every evening — the Chef and I do have a manuscript due to the publishers at the end of December after all — my days are full full full. Each day feels three minutes long, in the best way.)

And so the day rushed by too fast, once again.

But one of the moments of the morning has stayed with me the most.

James and Kelly are more centered and compassionate, funny and loving, at 25 and 24 than most people in their 40s. They are both incredible athletes -- skiing in the winter, trail running the rest of the year -- and more fit than I will ever be. And they are both without a stitch of arrogance. If I were their age, I would hate them. They have it so together.

But they both grew up in small towns, in grounded families. They were both taught to respect other people, to listen deeply, to not always assume they are right.

So we're standing around the kitchen, talking about food. What else? We had just eaten pancakes, with Skagit River bacon, our fingers still sticky from jam. Thick mugs of coffee sat on the table. Little Bean was napping in her swing.

The Chef and I proposed we go to the farmers' market, even though the rain slated down outside. Kelly and James had just discovered the Saturday market in Eugene, and they spoke about local produce in the tone of the recently converted. We all talked about the joy of developing relationships with farmers, knowing where our meat comes from, and the taste of fresh food. Oh, the taste of a peach just picked that morning.

At this point, James' face grew soft with remembering. He talked about going out to the garden of his family's New Hampshire home, and picking green beans and eating them, snapped out of his hand. He recalled the strawberries, the fresh vegetables that made his little-kid mouth water. There was no sense of obligation there. He actively, avidly, loved the food from his parents' garden.

"And my dad used to make fried green tomatoes," he said, in this voice filled with longing. He'd dip them in egg, coat them in flour, and fry them up for us." On top, a dollop of melted cheddar cheese.

That did it. The Chef and I knew what we wanted to make for dinner that night. Along with steelhead salmon, shrimp cocktail, roasted potatoes, and salad, we had to have fried green tomatoes.

There were so many lovely moments from that oh-too-brief visit with the Chef's family. But it's that moment that has stayed with me the most. James, in remembering, was no longer in our kitchen. He was walking in his family's garden, a little kid again, feeling safe and exploring, eating real food and loving his life.

I've thought about it for days. That's the way we'd like Little Bean to look back on her childhood someday.

We have so many hopes for our daughter. We're trying not to turn them into expectations, because that only creates disappointments. But we can hope.

I hope she never does that nose-dive of self-confidence that seventh-grade girls go through sometimes. I hope she doesn't pretend to play dumb just to fit in.

I hope she always asks questions, never takes anything at face value, even our opinions, and resists the urge to give in to shiny statements and attack ads.

I hope she learns how to throw a mean curve ball, and leaves the boys amazed with her triples over the third-base line.

We both hope she learns how to love humanity, even when it's hard to do sometimes.

We have so many hopes. That's part of what fills the days, isn't it? The gorgeous attention required to be in the moment with her. And the endless possibilities we can dream for her.

But in an elemental sense, I think what I'd like for her most is that, at 25, she's as kind and clear as those kids are, and in remembering the food she ate as a child, her face grows soft with remembering.

We really need to learn how to garden.

FRIED GREEN TOMATOES

You can't really call this a recipe. I'm sure everyone has a favorite way of using those green tomatoes that never went red at the end of the summer. But maybe this will just be a reminder to go grab them from your tomato plants bent over from the weight of the season, and make some of these for dinner.

green tomatoes (or orange or red, if you wish), as many as you want to eat
salt and pepper, pinches of each
good olive oil
eggs, beaten
buttermilk (just for proportions, we used 1/4 cup buttermilk to 2 eggs)
P.A.N white cornmeal (the same kind you use for arepas)
grits (we like Anson Mills)
your favorite cheddar cheese (oh, the jalapeno one from Estrella Family creamery)

Turn on the broiler.

Slice the tomatoes (or cut the plum ones in half). Bring a skillet to heat. Season the tomatoes with salt and pepper.

Dip each tomato slice in the beaten egg-buttermilk mixture. Dredge the slice in the white cornmeal, and then the grits. Put the slice in the skillet.

Repeat with as many tomatoes as you can fit in the pan.

When you have browned both sides of the tomatoes, put a little cheddar cheese on top of each slice and slide the skillet under the broiler. Watch it closely.

Eat them up. Yum.

Corn and Celery Soup

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 09:15:00 GMT

Half a year ago, my husband when for his regular check-up and was told that his cholesterol was rather high.

Now, if you can recall, I did many fish dishes as that was what he was advised to eat more. Well except for promfet and ikan bilis WITH heads on, as both will bring up the cholesterol level especially the later which is extreme high on cholesterol. Don't even think of using it to make stock. So next time, buy those without the head on.

Anyway, back to my husband's little 'diet'. He took very little meat and seafood. His dinner is mostly fish, vegetables and soup. This is one of the regular soup I made for him. Celery soup. Do you know celery can help lower cholesterol?

The bad thing is, he hates celery. So in order to bring down the taste of celery. I added onion and corn together with celery to had it sweeter. Sometimes with carrots. It's very much like the 'ABC' Soup except this has more celery in it. It's really not that bad. Maybe, I like celery. ;)

Although, his cholesterol is back to normal now, I still make this regular. Maybe I should try my luck and make him eat salad with lots of celery - raw. ;P

Bacon Nuggets

Tue, 23 Sep 2008 09:19:00 GMT

Wow! It's has been more than a month since my last update. I had been busy for the past few weeks. Had lots of activities - gatherings (at my place, so lots of cleaning and cooking), birthday celebrations, get-together with relatives coming back to Singapore to visit, kids' school activities, then the kids were sick and now I'm sick. But anyway, this update shows that I'm still very much alive. Did anyone miss me? :P

Just a quick post 'cause I'm still not very well. I have been coughing my lungs out. :(

This is a kid's favourite and I bet it will be a great finger food for parties. The basic ingredients are streaky bacon and fish paste. I have added grated carrot here though you can't really see it.

Shorten the streaky bacon by cutting it in half. Spread some fish paste on it and roll it. The ends of the bacon should be touching or overlapping each other a little.

If you would like to add in some chopped or shredded veggies or mince meat, mix them in the fish paste first before spreading on the bacon. Do not put it too much fish paste as it will expand and the bacon will shrink a little when cooked, then the bacon may burst open - not very nice visually. ;)

After that, pan fry it with the ends of the bacon facing down on low to medium fire and don't add oil. Once the ends of the bacon had 'stick' together, turn to other sides and continue cooking till the fish paste is cooked.

Alternatively, you may want to steam it first before pan frying it. It's faster to cook and healthier too. But do remember to use toothpick to hold the bacon together.

Before serving, dab the bacon nuggets with paper towels to remove excess oil. And there you have it, Bacon Nuggets. Enjoy!

granola bars are for grabbing

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 13:33:00 GMT

For years, my brother has made fun of my father. About string cheese.

You see, my father simply grabs a stick of string cheese and takes bites. To my brother, this is ridiculous. "Why buy string cheese, then?" he queries, a little querulously. The point of string cheese is not the taste, which is bland grocery-store mozzarella. It's the novelty factor, the chance to rip tiny shreds of salty whiteness and dangle them above the lips. You miss all the fun when you simply bite down and chew like it's cud.

My father, who runs more toward the prosaic than the poetic on such matters, simply answers, "But it's convenient."

This is the point at which my brother and I scoff, and say, What's so great about that?

Well. Andy, if you're reading this, I have to tell you: since Little Bean was born, I eat my string cheese like Dad does.

In fact, I think I ate 1/3 of my calories when I was pregnant in string cheese. When I was out and about, and ravenous again, it was hard to find something I could hold in my hand and eat as I walked, something that didn't have gluten in it. When in doubt, I grabbed another string cheese.

However, when I walked through the world slowly, with the enormous belly, I still relished the chance to dangle a slender thread of cheese above my mouth.

Now, home with a baby (a darling-hearted baby), I'm gobbling my string cheese in bites, not shreds. I feel sort of guilty, and I know what I'm missing, but really, there's not much else of a choice.

Eating is still pretty interesting around here. Little Bean is bigger now, no longer a newborn, and her sleeping habits are more and more predictable. But if I take the time, during one of her naps, to make an elaborate meal, I'm asking for her to wake up. She always does. And so, I snack and nibble.

I can't tell you how many half-eaten salads were left around the house the first weeks that Little Bean was home. Soup seems easy, but soup is hot. I don't want to spill hot zucchini-lemon-egg soup on my daughter's forehead. Full meals can only happen at breakfast and dinner (at nearly midnight) when the Chef is here. And so, for most of the day, I need food I can hold in my hand.

Sandwiches were, of course, invented for this purpose. And I can have sandwiches, on gluten-free bread. Only, I haven't had the time to make much bread from scratch, my favorite gluten-free bakery is quite a long car ride away, and the sandwich bread from Whole Foods is about $9 a loaf. We're spending our money on wipes and diapers these days. Overly priced loaves of bread are a splurge item now.

There's cheese, of all kinds, which can be bitten in small portions. I'm in love with the stick pepperoni made by Brent at Olsen Farms, and I buy some every Saturday at the farmers' market. But if I eat cheese and pepperoni all day long, I won't be able to leave the house through the door, eventually. There are hard-boiled eggs, handfuls of walnuts, and carrot sticks with hummus. (Plus, the occasional coffee cup full of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce.) And fruit. Fruit is the world's gift to new mamas. However, after 12 Italian plums in one day, I lose my gratitude for that gift.

This is the time in which my passion for good food is truly tested. I'm sure many people give in to tv dinners, fast food, and packaged snacks at this point. I feel the lure. Here's where having to be gluten-free comes in handy. I can't.

Instead, I eat simply. I still insist on the best ingredients for myself. Little Bean's big debut into the world was at the farmers' market, and we've been back to one a couple of times a week ever since. Red Haven peaches from Rama Farms have bristly skin and juicy flesh. The sweet Italian sausages from Skagit River Ranch make a great lunch with rice. The fat heirloom tomatoes from Billy Allstot have broad shoulders and wild colors. This is the time of year when food doesn't need much fixing anyway.

Every time I eat, I feel like I'm teaching my daughter how to be in the world. So many people have told me, "Oh, wait until you have children. You'll have to give up this making food from scratch, everything fresh, a different recipe every night stuff. Eventually, you'll settle for the chicken nuggets too." May I politely say? No thanks.

There may not be many five-hour, tasting-menu degustation experiences in the near future for me and the Chef. It may be months before I prepare a meal that requires more than several steps in the kitchen. But I'm not settling for frozen foods and snacks that don't taste like much of anything but fats and salt.

Right now, for awhile, I may have to eat my string cheese in bites. But if most of my food has to fit into my hand, I still want it to be the best palm-shaped food I can find.

Gluten-Free Granola Bars

Granola bars are perfect for this particular eating dilemma. Packed with nutrition, sweet with dried fruit, and compact for the hand, power bars and granola bars have taken over the land. However, most of the commercially packaged ones have gluten in them. And other kinds of bars, while mostly good, grow bland after awhile.

So I set out to learn how to make my own. While the Chef held the baby and played with her, I set up in the kitchen: all ingredients arrayed out; saucepan, casserole dish, and big bowl waiting; good music on the player. While he's home, I sometimes take my space and make the kitchen my own again. Half an hour later I was dancing to Bill Frisell and patting down the last of the granola mix into the pan. Life felt good in that moment.

There are so many ways to make granola bars. I was inspired by Heidi Swanson's recipe in Super Natural Cooking and a dozen more I found on the internet. This is really only a template. Find the fruit you like best. Play with cereals and grains. Use honey instead of agave. Just find a way, as I did, to make these. They're sweet and nutritious, crunchy and chewy at the same time, and really quite addictive. And with their density preventing me from eating more than one at a time, they'll be around for a bit, waiting for me in that emergency situation where I have to eat now, but there's no time to eat.

2 cups rolled oats, certified gluten-free
1 cup hazelnuts

1 cup agave nectar syrup
1 cup muscovado brown sugar
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1/4 cup sunflower seeds
1 cup brown rice cereal
2 cups mixed dried fruit (here I used mangoes, raisins, and cranberries)

Preheat the oven to 325°. Line a small casserole dish with parchment paper. (If you want thick granola bars, use a small casserole dish. For thin ones, choose a larger casserole dish.)

Slide the oats and hazelnuts onto a baking sheet and into the oven. Let them toast, turning them once in a while, for about ten minutes.

While those are toasting, put the agave nectar syrup, brown sugar, butter, vanilla, and sea salt into a saucepan. On medium heat, bring the syrup to a slow boil. Set aside.

In a bowl, combine the toasted oats and hazelnuts, the sunflower seeds, brown rice cereal, and dried fruit. Pour the syrup over this concoction and stir it all up, making sure everything is evenly coated.

Pat the mixture into the casserole dish, on top of the parchment paper. Smooth the top with a rubber spatula. Put the dish into the oven to bake.

Bake for 20 to 30 minutes, depending on how crunchy you want the bars to be. Allow them to cool for at least an hour before cutting them up into bars. (You'll probably have to hack at them a bit. These aren't soft granola bars.)

Feeds 20.

clafoutis! clafoutis! clafoutis!

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 11:02:00 GMT

I baked something today.

Ordinarily, this would be quite an ordinary statement. Something unremarkable, hardly worth remarking on. After all, I’ve been baking all my life. And after going gluten-free — aside from the first, three-month mourning period — I’ve baked more in the last three years than most of the years before it. There’s something satisfying about scooping flours into a measuring cup, cutting butter into small squares, inhaling a whiff of vanilla flavoring before adding it to dough. When I am anxious or wandering, all I need to do is bake, and I am home.

However, with a newborn in the house, there’s not much baking going on. Sure, I could bake up a storm in the mornings, when the Chef holds our daughter, and looks down into her eyes and smiles. However, I’m far more likely to want to sit beside him, and coo along with him, or at least take photographs of these papa/daughter days. This, I tell myself, is why the kitchen is such a mess. Because I’m entranced by the sight of my darling-hearted husband holding our daughter in his arms.

Well, that and I’d rather sip my coffee slowly while cringing at political blogs as he puts her down for a nap. To sit, unencumbered (other than with unnerving campaign news) while the Chef takes care of the baby? A sigh of relief, a soft silence, a little space alone. And then my arms start to miss her, and I pick her up again. The dishes? They can wait.

And when I’m home, alone with the baby, during the rest of the day, baking seems out of the question. Holding her in my arms and standing in front of a hot oven? No, thanks. Or putting a batch of cookies into bake, and having to let them burn because she is crying fervently for mystifying reasons? (I know. I could just let her cry, but I’m no good at that. I’d rather sit with her, and soothe her. Cookies for myself feel pretty selfish in that moment.) I think I’ll skip that scenario.

However, as Little Bean has grown more predicable, and content, I have felt that urge to bake return to my hands. She coos on her playmat, staring at black-and-white faces, making conversation, for at least 45 minutes. She’s fine. And in fact, she seems to like some space. And I would like to bake again.

Having a baby means that my former identity has been obliterated, for awhile. My life will never be the same. I welcome it. I adore this daily practice of love in action. But really, it is time to start baking again.

So I’ve been perusing my baking books, looking for a recipe to adapt with gluten-free flours. Warm crinkly ginger cookies? Thick cinnamon rolls with a nub of vanilla buttercream frosting? Angel food cake? Or zucchini bread to use up all the baseball-bat-sized squashes squatting in our garden?

And then it came to me. Clafoutis.

I grow a little obsessed with words sometimes. The sounds of them rebound around my mind, in an endless tape loop, until I write them down. Prestidigitation. Corby Kummer. Mellifluous. Fandango. Please don’t say an unusual-sounding name with a certain euphony to me, unless you want me to walk around repeating it all day long. (And please tell me I’m not the only one who does this sometimes.)

Well, for days, I have been repeating the word “clafloutis” in my head. It reminds me of that silly song from “The Sound of Music.” [oh my goodness, as someone pointed out in the comments, I must be tired. This song is from The Music Man. However, I do enjoy the image of this being in the Sound of Music, instead.] Do you know the one? “Shipoopi! Shipoopi! Shipoppi!” The big dance number, grandiose and nonsensical to the plot of the film, full of exuberance and sung out loud. When we were kids, my brother and I giggled about this song, because, of course, it contained the word poop. That alone made me sing it in my head for years.

And so, I’ve been singing clafoutis to the tune of Shipoopi. Can you blame me?

Also, the towering Italian plum tree in the far corner of our backyard has bending branches heavy with fruit. Every time I take a stroll with Little Bean, I reach up for one of the egg-shaped fruits, dusty with pale purple, which burnish to a dark shine with the touch of my fingertips. These plums are golden-green inside, slightly tangy tart, and much more sassy than typical fat plums. Last year, we missed them all, since we were headed for our honeymoon in Italy. This year, Italy feels very far away. But at least there are plums.

This afternoon, my parents came to see Little Bean. I could be coy and say they came to see me, and they will say that too. But really, it was all for the baby. They perch on the couch and hand her back and forth between each other, marveling at her tiny toes and waiting for her giggle. (She did giggle the other day, for the first time, in the middle of a check-up EEG. What kind of kid laughs for the first time with 42 electrodes attached to her head?) I remain so utterly grateful that they are entranced. Their presence gives me the chance to slip into the kitchen and do something decadent.

And so, today, I made a clafoutis. With a name like that, I assumed it would be difficult, sophisticated. Instead, this recipe calls for nothing more than mixing ingredients in a blender, and coming up with something like a thick pancake batter. That, I can do.

By the time my parents had to leave, the clafoutis rang out from the oven, golden brown and bubbly. I put the baby in her swing and bent my legs to pick up the pie pan. (It doesn’t weigh nearly as much as the baby, of course. My body remembers how to pick up Little Bean and transfers the knowledge to everything else.) I wanted a bite, but it was too hot. Besides, the baby called out for food first.

It’s funny that clafoutis is a French dessert. It feels and tastes so British instead. Clafoutis reminds me of the lovely burnt sugar taste of sticky toffee pudding, without the stickiness, and plush custard texture of each pappy spoonful. This is comfort food, the kind that a nanny with sturdy shoes would serve for elevenses. Ignore the name — this is food for the people.

You really should make some too.

It took all my reserve to save the rest of the clafoutis for tonight, so I could feed the Chef after work. I might just make another one for breakfast tomorrow morning. Cherries, figs, perhaps even peaches that would melt into softness underneath the crust — almost every fruit would work for clafoutis.

And me? I’m just happy to be baking again. I’m going to start tackling baked goods I haven’t made yet, gluten-free. I need projects to push me into the kitchen. If you have suggestions of something you’d like to see on this site, let me know.

I’d like to tackle puff pastry and graham crackers and great chocolate cake in the months to come. By the time Little Bean is eating sweets (years from now), I want to be baking her the foods she will associate with her childhood.

This child won’t feel deprived without the gluten. Not with a mama who bakes.

Gluten-Free Clafoutis, adapted from Julia Child

When I wonder what to make, I skip back to Julia Child. How much would I have loved to have met her? I thought, for a few moments, about forcing myself back to cooking by making all her recipes, one by one. But someone else has already done that, and I just don't have the time.

But her clafoutis recipe? Eminently do-able. Truly. All you need is a blender, a pie pan, a hot oven, and some fruit you love, right now. You can't go wrong.

Here, I used sweet rice and amaranth for the flours. The sweet rice is inconspicuous, finely textured. And the amaranth is slightly nutty, a little sweet, and perfect for baked goods. However, you could probably use any gluten-free flours you like. Experiment to find your favorite ones.

Oh darn. That means more clafoutis for you.

3 cups Italian plums, chopped into bite-size pieces
2 tablespoons honey
1 1/4 cup milk
1/3 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 cup sweet rice flour
1/4 cup amaranth flour
1/3 cup sugar

Preheat the oven to 350°.

Toss the chopped plums with the honey and let them marinate for a bit. Set aside.

Throw the milk, sugar, eggs, vanilla, salt, and two flours into a blender and puree them up until the batter resembles a slightly thick pancake batter.

Pour a thin layer of batter onto the bottom of deep-dish pie pan. Put it in the oven and let it bake until the layer has set.

Spoon in the honeyed fruit, evenly, over the bottom layer. Sprinkle on the remaining sugar. Pour in the remaining batter.

Bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour, or until the top is lovely and crusty.

Serve warm or room temperature.

Feeds 4.