Pink of Perfection

There is much to be said for what discomforts a change of scenery can ease. And because I have been nursing a cold with a sore throat that only tom yum soup, apple cider, and hot tea could make feel better, we went apple picking.

It was 80 degrees, and the pumpkins and hay bales looked completely out of place in the hot sun. Sebastian and I piled into a wagon filled with children and their parents and rode into an orchard where rows and rows of Piñata apples were––literally!––ripe for the picking. It was so pretty there, with tiny apple blossoms and lush, glossy leaves on the trees, dark green grass below our feet and a big blue sky above. We wandered between trees to the Empires, then the Golden Delicious, and finally the Suncrisps. Later, with our modest five-pound haul, we walked back to the orchard entrance and bought some cider donuts, still hot in their white paper bag. We shared a cold bottle of cider and sat in a shady spot in the grass. I wondered what had taken me so long to do what has long been on my fall fun list.

Colds lead to thick, murky thoughts and minutes lost to staring off into the distance. And so Sebastian had to figure out what to make with all those apples. Wouldn’t you know that the rookie would come out of the gates with a grand slam? My mom makes the simplest of apple pies: just peeled wedges, sugar, cinnamon, and dots of butter. What Sebastian baked was ultra-rich, and bubbled over with a caramel-like sauce. It might have been the best slice of apple pie I’ve ever had. We shared a single slice hot from the oven late last night and pronounced it a victory. (But I’m still partial to tarte tatin.)

I didn’t intend for this post to be about Sebastian’s triumph in the kitchen or to tell you about the killer apple pie recipe he found. Both were just serendipity! I set out just to recount this kind of magic moment in the weekend where even with an aching throat there was something so sweet about wandering, foggy-headed, through an orchard in the sunshine. Why did something so simple feel so utterly divine?

We play this game in our house from time to time, “what was your favorite moment?” And the surprising thing is that it’s never the fancy dinners or big to-dos we planned for, spent money on. It’s always something unassuming and random, like a nice walk, or seeing some hilarious dog, or reaching up into an apple tree, grabbing a piece of ripe fruit, and biting right into it.

Continue reading “Sweet Suprises and Apple Pie” »

I don’t know Jennie. But I know the reliable warmth of her writing and her creative recipes, and I’ve thought about her more this week that many of my real-life friends. Jennie’s husband died.

Just writing that makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

People like me, who love Jennie through the fibers of the internet, have felt achingly helpless. But I read her lastest post and felt grateful for some direction:

For those asking what they can do to help my healing process, make a peanut butter pie this Friday and share it with someone you love. Then hug them like there’s no tomorrow because today is the only guarantee we can count on.

Pie I can do.

I went to the grocery store this morning for the ingredients, and came home to bake. I tried to be mindful as I was mixing. Before this unimaginable news, I had been thinking about what it means to be married, how to share your life with someone and uphold the promises you make. I had been wondering about timing, and when to take the next steps in life. When is it time to buy a house? To have a baby? To take that trip we’ve been putting off? As I botched the cookie crust and struggled to spread the melted chocolate I thought, This is love. Making mistakes and making a mess. And extending the whole sticky mess as an offering.

If we walked around all the time, aware that at any moment our time with the people we love most could almost be up, it would drive us insane. So there must be some line we can walk, one where we are filled up with gratitude and so much joy for how lucky we are, but without making ourselves crazy over how fragile life is.

The pie smells delicious, and it’s sitting in the refrigerator right now. Tonight I’ll carry it upstate on a long train ride, resting securely on my lap. I’ll cut into the whole mess and watch it fall apart when the crust doesn’t hold, then pass out slices to old friends and my guy. And then we’ll dig in.

Time’s a wastin’.

Continue reading “Jennie’s Peanut Butter Pie” »

I’ve been wondering what will come next. Cupcakes have had their day. Pies currently rule the school, but really, how long can that last? At first I thought I’d move to nominate the humble cookie. It’s simple, it’s unassuming, it’s individually-portioned. But then I thought how sad it is to watch a dessert rise and fall like a teenage pop star.

I like to see the cookie as trend-proof, like the perfect trench or red lipstick––perennially delicious and always in style. And really, that’s what I’m looking for: the wardrobe additions and the ways of thinking and the recipes that will continue to delight me––and maybe even improve my life––long after the dessert du jour’s reign is up.

These cookies are marvelously simple: super rich, not-too-sweet, and with the added benefit of feeling, well, sort of healthy, right? Just think of all the protein!

Continue reading “Almond Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies (They’re Gluten-Free!)” »

Here we are at the tail end of a cold and snowy January and until yesterday, I hadn’t baked a loaf of bread. But yesterday was the perfect time to do it. I was having one of those days where everything is hard––tupperware tumbling out of overstuffed cabinets, pictures falling off the walls, glass breaking, frames busted. It was of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day variety.

But then I made some bread. First, I cursed the fact that I was making bread. I was hosting book club that night and we were having a dinner so simple it was bordering on ascetic. A still barely warm loaf of bread iced with salty butter seemed like a necessary touch of luxury. I was fighting the process every step of the way––pissed that I got flour on the flour, pissed that I didn’t grind enough oats, both devastated and pissed that I read the ingredients incorrectly and used whole wheat pastry flour instead of all-purpose. But then I got to the kneading, my favorite part. I slipped off my rings. Things got messy and a little sticky. I added more flour, and pushed and pulled and gave quarter-turns. It was probably the first time all day I had given myself up to the moment.

That’s something I’m thinking about these days: how to be present in the here and now, instead of casting forth into the future. I keep lists of so many things in the future: recipes I want to make, things I want to buy, books I want to read. A good deal of my life exists in the “Things I want in the future” department.  But cooking––especially the parts that require getting your hands in there, like sorting through beans, kneading bread, chopping an onion–– can become our access points back into the moment. We get out of our heads, out of our kicking resistance to the day, out of our laundry list of to dos and to buys, and into whatever this moment really, like smooth, elastic dough on the countertop.

Sometimes this moment is Excel and email and calling the insurance company. Harder to accept that moment, but probably still possible, maybe just by finding our breath and surrendering to it. At least for the moment.

I’m about to have a slice of this with a poached egg for breakfast, and I’m going to try to be really there for that breakfast, instead of letting my mind wander into the next hour. This is really hard for me. The future is fun and filled with possibility and shiny new things and unknowns still so unrealized they are imbued with adventure rather fear. But now? Well, more often than not it’s got a drippy faucet, a headache, an unmade bed, a lone sock. Figuring out how to appreciate the rough edges and imperfections for what they are is another way of figuring out how to be cool with the everyday. And while it may seem mundane, I have a feeling there’s some magic in that.

Continue reading “Seeded Oat Soda Bread” »

I’m not really one to pat myself on the back all that often. Naturally modest, self-effacing people delight me much more than the squawking peacock types. But I’ll be the first to give credit where its due. And y’all, these cookies are crazy good.

Here’s what happened: I’ve had a bit of a thing for chocolate chip cookies the past couple months. It’s the one aberration to my grown-up yearning for plain, simple, healthy food. I sprang for a bag of chocolate chips at the grocery store, only to discover at home that we were out of two key ingredients: brown sugar and vanilla. No matter, I thought. I’ll just double (!) the white sugar. But as I was rooting around in the pantry, there it was on the top shelf, a remainder from a waffle party: a lone, forgotten jar of Nutella.

I’ve never been nutso for Nutella, am not the type to eat it with a spoon (and those types are out there––I believe I’m related to one). This recipe has changed me. And when one of the dearest, goodest people I know was driving in from Wisconsin to make his New York debut, I knew that he would need home-baked fortification. I wrapped warm cookies in paper towels slipped inside a ziploc bag and carried them into a club where people were decidedly more interested in free vodka. But my friend ate one before he changed into his costume, stepped on stage, and proceeded to steal the show. Perhaps a small sugar rush played a part? All I know is I walked away so inspired at the kind of guts it takes to drive your van onto Delancey Street and outshine everyone with your fierce wit, super fun dance beats and ineffable Midwestern charm. Not quite the same guts it takes to swap in Nutella when you’re out of brown sugar, but, well, related.

Continue reading “Nutella Chocolate Chip Cookies” »

On Saturday night, I had a chicken in the oven, my sister on the couch, and a bottle of prosecco in the fridge. I was telling myself (and anyone who would listen) that it was my Jesus Take the Wheel dinner party. Sometimes when life doesn’t feel like it’s going your way, the best thing to do is give up the illusion that you are at all in control, cast your fate to the winds, and sit down at the dinner table with your family. And eat cake. You must eat cake.

My sister, husband, and brother-in-law carried their chairs into the kitchen to keep me company while I chopped. Squeezed into the tiny space between the garbage can and the fridge, they were nibble garlicky olives and duck pâté with pistachios (it’s nice to have a sister who can be relied upon for a touch of luxury). And then we moved to the table, switched the Pandora stations to the Magnetic Fields, and toasted to something likely worthwhile and sweet and tender. I wish I could remember.

Roast chicken is the ultimate comfort food in my book. It makes me think of Sunday night dinners in cozy kitchens with a cat curled up on the windowsill and Nina Simone on the stereo.

Would you believe though, that the salad really stole the spotlight from the bird? We all (vegetable-phobic paramour not withstanding) flipped for the earthy, green salad of shredded Brussels sprouts and Swiss chard, sweetened ever-so-slightly with maple syrup. Who knew cruciferous vegetable could be such scene-stealers?

Continue reading “3 Cozy Fall and Thanksgiving-Friendly Recipes” »

Yesterday was a take-a-glass-of-wine-and-a-chocolate-chip-cookie-into-the-bathtub kind of day. But with the soul-crushing doubt and epic lowness that led me to carry glassware into a bubble bath, came also a reassurance in the ability of the simple things to set me right again: a sweet email from a friend, a simple pasta dinner, an episode of Family Guy, and, of course, alcohol and chocolate.

There was a surprise spirit-lifter yesterday that I hadn’t anticipated, though. I hope in two weeks time I don’t regret admitting what I am about to admit, but here goes: I’m doing National Novel Writing Month this year. If you don’t know about NaNoWriMo, allow me to introduce you. In the month of November, a bunch of crazy people with a wild sense of adventure and can-do spirit decide to write a 50,000 word novel by the stroke of midnight on November 30. The goal isn’t to write the next Great Gatsby, of course, but just to get yourself writing a lot, fueled by community and a deadline.

So yesterday, when what I really wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, I couldn’t. I had a word quota I had to meet (and who wants to throw in the towel on Day 2?). So I propped myself up with pillows––I could still indulge the woe-is-me feeling by writing from bed––pulled out my laptop and got to work on my story.

I have never, mind you, written a word of fiction in my life (unless you count the stories I wrote in grade school, including one I was particularly proud of with the scintillatingly original title, “A Girl and Her Horse.”) I like real stories, and spinning some kind of worthy yarn out of the everyday. But what I hadn’t anticipated was how absolutely delightful it would be to sink into my own imagination and follow wherever it leads. You can write the book you’ve always wanted to read!

It’s Day 3, and technically, you are already 5,001 words behind. But if you have even the tiniest spark of interest, I recommend jumping into NaNoWriMo with both feet. I kind of think of it like quitting smoking––even if you have to try a bunch of times before you can successfully do it, each attempt brings you closer to your goal. But maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to make the whole thing a hell of a lot less scary.

A few words about this bread: when my friend Gregor sent me the recipe the subject line was “Make this and fall in love with the fall all over again.” He need not have said another word, especially since I have a soft spot for dill and find it underutilized in general. The magical thing about this bread, in addition to the lovely golden crust it achieves in the oven, is that it somehow manages to taste even better the next day. It’s an absolute star buttered generously and served alongside a bean soup for the best kind of humble, homey dinner, and––though this will probably come as little surprise–– equally delicious topped with an oozy poached egg for breakfast.

Continue reading “Gregor’s Dill Bread” »

My book club last night was Mad Men-themed, with one member rocking a clingy woolen turquoise dress that would have made Joan Holloway proud. What’s for dessert when you’re feasting on steak and martinis? Why, apple betty, of course, inspired by the evilest wackadoo of all.

The question came up: what makes a betty different from a buckle or a crumble? I have now had the opportunity to consult the Epicurious food dictionary and can shed light for inquiring minds. Dating back to Colonial times, a betty (or brown betty) consists of sugared, buttered breadcrumbs mixed and layered with chopped fruit (usually apples) that has been tossed with lemon juice and flour. The lack of eggs and milk makes it an entity separate from a bread pudding, in case you’re wondering. End history lesson.

I was one martini in when it came to dessert (can’t say enough good things about Farmer’s Gin) so I cannot, unfortunately, give an in-depth account of this betty’s virtues. I can vouch for her wholesome, warm simplicity, and a sweet, homespun fragrance irresistible to men on public transportation. I can also say having learned my lesson the hard way: gin martinis––insanely delicious, but watch out.

I haven’t seen the season finale yet, so pretty please: no spoilers in the comments!

Continue reading “Apple Betty” »