Something Old, Something New: Rye Brownies

"A place for everything, and everything in its place," my father was fond of saying.  He was a master of organization.  Or at least, he strove to be one.  He was certainly more type A than my mother, who claimed to have places for things in piles on the dining room table.

I hear that voice in my head as I've started to bring things, little things, to our new house.  We're only moving 20 minutes away, so it shouldn't be a big deal, but on the other hand, the world is slowly tilting upside down.  Where will the cups go?  The plates?  How do these old things fit into this new (larger, but differently configured) space?

There is a closet that I know is right for a roasting pan, a footed cake server, our assortment of lesser-used small appliances.  There is only one really right space for dishes, so the silverware (it seems to me) goes in the drawer beneath them.  The mugs and glasses go on either side of the stove, and close to the sink.

And of course, the smaller questions mirror the bigger ones.  How will we fit, this old configuration into a new place?

Something old, something new.  A place for everything, and everything in its place.

It's a strange process, this imposition of order.  Every day the old house becomes imperceptibly less full.  Every day I live, for a few minutes, anyway, in the new house.

Someday, maybe it won't seem so new anymore; it will just be our house.

Rye Brownies
I've been making homemade brownies since grad school, when I realized how easy it was to melt chocolate and butter together.  When I started seeing recipes for rye brownies in my feed, I rolled my eyes.  Could they be better?  And yet, there's something appealing about them.  Earthy, chewy moist.  Something old, and yet also something new.

11 T. unsalted butter, cut into 1/2" cubes, more for greasing pan
10 ½ oz. bittersweet chocolate (60 to 70% cocoa), chopped
1 ½ c. rye flour
½ c. unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
½ t. baking powder
1 t. salt
4 large eggs
1 c. sugar
1 c. light brown sugar
1 T. vanilla

Heat oven to 350 and grease a 9x13" baking pan.

In the microwave, on half power, melt the butter and chocolate, stirring ever minute or so with a heatproof rubber spatula. Let cool.

In a separate bowl, whisk together rye flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt.

Beat eggs, granulated and brown sugars and vanilla until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in melted chocolate mixture until smooth. Beat in flour mixture.

Transfer batter to prepared pan (it will be quite thick, not even really pourable) and smooth the top. Sprinkle with sea salt, if you like that sort of thing, and bake until brownies are mostly firm, but the tester still comes out with wet crumbs, about 25 minutes. Let cool completely before cutting into squares. Serve or freeze.

#Microblog Monday: Food for the Dead (Arborio Rice Pudding)

Our road was thick with cars this weekend, even after the hordes of Halloween revelers departed, leaving streets littered with candy wrappers.  On Sunday, I wondered momentarily about the traffic as we walked up the block to the farmer's market before I realized: of course. All Souls Day.

We joke about the Catholic church on our street, the weekly parade of speeding SUVs in a rush to be saved, and in a rush to get to brunch afterward (no offense to my Catholic readers intended: I believe that this behavior is a particular feature of the people who go to this church).  But truth be told, even though I left the church years ago, I sort of like the proximity of this one; walking past on Sundays, I think about my father, who would never miss a service, and the weekly ritual of mass, and the children's choir, and after-church trips to the park to see the zoo and ride the miniature railroad.

I remember All Souls Day as one of those hard-to-breathe holidays, not because it affected me emotionally, but because the air in the church was heavy with incense.  My father loved incense-laced holidays.  Though I liked the drama of the incense-swinging, to me, holding my pre-adolescent breath and hoping that the smoke would clear quickly, it seemed like an oppressive way to celebrate anything, or to remember the dead.

Years later, I learned that the Day of the Dead had been previously celebrated in Mexico during the summer, and was changed by the Spanish conquerors of Mexico to November in an effort to convert the indigenous people to their beliefs and get them to celebrate All Saints Day and All Souls Day. The contrast between the incense-filled Catholic church and the colorful outdoor parades and altars of Mexican culture couldn't be more striking.  During my years in LA, I loved the Day of the Dead celebrations, with their parades and music and stories and food.  Now, as a veteran of loss, I'm glad to see Day of the Dead celebrations becoming more common, given what I think is our cultural ineptitude at talking about death.  We need a better language for public grief, one that doesn't wave away the holes left behind by loved ones, but brings us together over them, and lets us speak their names.

As my children and I walked to the market yesterday, noting the creative parking jobs of the larger-than-usual-crowd, I told stories about my father, joked about how he'd disapprove of my not going to church, remembered him as a talented artist, told my son that he would have been proud to have a grandson that just might be interested in architecture.  And though I didn't build an altar, I imagine that his departed spirit would have appreciated this adaptation of arroz con leche, similar perhaps in flavor to atole left for the dead in Mexican celebrations, to fuel them for the journey ahead.

Arborio Rice Pudding

1/2 cup Arborio rice
4 cups milk
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, split
3/4 teaspoon almond extract

In a large saucepan, place all the ingredients, except the almond extract.

Bring it to a gentle boil and then turn it down to a gentle simmer, stirring occasionally to keep it from sticking to the bottom, for about 30 to 40 minutes. Taste the rice to check for doneness. The rice should be very soft and plump.

Take the pudding off the heat and stir in the extract. Pour into dessert bowls and stir in some dried or fresh fruit. Serve immediately.

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is?Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

Legacies, Motherhood, and Pear-Cranberry Crostata

Seven years ago, I started a moms' group.

Though I'd never imagined that I'd be the sort of person to identify first as a mom, it started, as many convictions do, with rejection.  Another mother and I had tried to join a stay-at-home mom's group to make friends for ourselves and our one-year-old children, but there was one catch: we both worked full time.  As you might imagine, that didn't work out so well.

Desperate for connection with other local parents, we'd sometimes even take a vacation day from work, just to attend a playdate.  We hosted get-togethers on the weekends when we could, which no one attended.  We posted to the bulletin board online, trying to befriend the other members.  Our efforts weren't enough; finally, the leaders asked us to leave the group, citing the threat to group safety from people who weren't fully committed, who didn't attend enough meetings.

I don't remember which of us suggested creating our rogue group first; all I remember is that she asked me to be in charge.  Comfortable with overcommitment, I agreed.  No problem.  We decided to host the group on Meetup, and to see what might happen.

At first, we were small.  Five or six mothers who got together on a semi-regular basis with and without our children, none of us likely friends.  I remember watching the friendships form, thinking how funny it was that I'd somehow linked these random strangers, how eventually they found themselves unable to imagine a life without each other.  They were inseparable, in person, but especially--because we were all so busy--online.  They were lifelines for each other in the worst storms.  They watched each others' children, supported each other through separation and loss and divorce.  And though I was never exactly part of the network, I was satisfied with the knowledge that I was the glue that held them together, the connective node.

We grew, and though members came and went, the core remained stable, long after the stay-at-home-mom's group we originally left had dissolved.  Children grew up, more children were born.  Eventually, the members with the oldest children no longer attended playdates; they'd found the people they'd set out to meet, and they no longer needed the group to organize.  They'd send around invitations to each other to get together for drinks, or to birthday parties, or to  meet at the park.  I kept the group running, knowing that newer members still needed it, and watched the others go their separate ways, together, taking my glue with them.

Then, two summers ago, my co-founder, recently separated from her husband, was found dead in a hotel room in Atlantic City, her two children, then 3 and 5, trying to wake her up.  The police, the prosecutor, and so many people I talked with again and again on the phone and over coffee at my dining room table called it an overdose.  Thought we were never able to convince anyone with authority to believe us, those of us who knew her knew that the pieces didn't add up, that what happened was something much more terrible.

On the night before her burial, we gathered on the porch of the funeral parlor, some of us smoking, all of us blaming ourselves for not staying together, wishing she'd called us that night, promising to remember her, promising to see each other more often, talking smack about planting a tree in her honor, like the thin promises in high school year books.  I was angry, wondering whether her death would mean anything, even to these women whose friendship we'd made possible.

Still, I kept the group alive, half-heartedly, feeling like it was important, but not knowing why.  Only one of the members besides me remembered my co-founder, and finally I handed the reins to her late last year, feeling like I no longer had time or motivation to organize events.  Though my daughter is now the age of most of their children, I felt disconnected; acutely aware of the fact the my first child was so much older than theirs in conversations about feeding and bathroom habits, I realized I'm more like an older sibling than a peer.  It was time for me to step aside.

And yet, a few weekends ago, after initially declining the invitation, my daughter and I went to a birthday party for one of the members' children.  I wasn't sure I'd know anyone there, since it had been so long, wasn't even sure I wanted to go, but as the guests started to arrive, it dawned on me: most of them were members of the moms' group, the newest incarnation of the core.  Watching them connect and disconnect, looking after each others' children at the indoor playground, made my heart feel like it would explode.  It didn't matter that I didn't know them all that well.  What mattered was that we had laid a strong enough foundation for a sustainable future.  The glue had stuck after all.  For the first time, I felt at peace walking away.

I don't usually see ghosts, but I've been seeing my co-founder everywhere lately.  Driving a SUV past me as I'm stopped at a light.  Walking down the street, holding her children's hands, sporting her signature sunglasses.  Enjoying a cone at Rita's.  Every logical cell in my body knows that it can't be her, but every time, I do a double-take, and every time, I'm reminded of the ripple effects of my smallest, most inconsequential actions.  This is legacy: the continuity of belief, of ideals, of opportunity.

I know I'm supposed to be craving berries right now, or lemon, or things that remind me of spring.  But something in me still wants motherhood and apple pie.  I saw something like this dessert, which I made about a month ago, in the dining hall the other day, and I cut myself a generous slice, heart somewhere in my throat, grateful for the chance to make a difference, in this, and in so many things in my life.  Here's to you, S., and to the little legacies that matter, to one person, or to thousands.

Pear and Dried Cranberry Crostata

2 1/2 c. flour
1/4 c. granulated sugar
1 t. salt
3/4 c. very cold unsalted butter, diced

6 T. ice water

3 lbs. Anjou pears, peeled, cored, 1/4" slices

3/4 c. dried cranberries
3 T. flour
1/2 c. sugar
1/4 t. ground cardamom
1/4 t. ground allspice
3 T. Poire Williams (pear brandy) or other similar liquid

1 egg, beaten
1 t. sugar

For the pastry, combine the flour, sugar, and salt (preferably in a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Pulse a few times to combine). Cut the butter into the flour mixture butter is the size of peas. Add the ice water 1 T. at a time and continue to pulse or cut in until combined but stop just before the dough comes together. Gather the dough into a ball; flatten into a disc. Wrap the disc in plastic and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

Roll the dough into a 14-inch circle on a lightly floured parchment paper. Transfer to a baking sheet.

Combine the flour, sugar, cardamom, and allspice in a large bowl.  Add the pears and cranberries; toss to combine.  Add Poire Williams (or other similar liquid of your choice) and toss again to moisten.  Turn the pear mixture out onto the dough, leaving a 1 1/2" to 2" border.  Gently fold the border of each tart over the pears, pleating it to make a circle.

Beat the egg and brush the edges of the crust with beaten egg.  Sprinkle coated crust with sugar.

Bake the crostata for 1 hour or until the crust is golden. Cover the edges of the crostata with aluminum foil and bake another 15 minutes or so, until bubbly.  Let the tart cool for 5 minutes, then use 2 large spatulas to transfer it to a wire rack to cool completely.

The Bookshelf, and a Bittersweet Chocolate Tart

When I was younger, my dreams were filled with libraries.  I'd always been a reader, bending over my literary contraband until the light was too dim to read, knowing that I couldn't be caught with a flashlight; but it was libraries and bookstores that really captured my imagination: places where walls of stories and ideas literally surrounded you.  It wasn't until high school, though, that I started to realize I could live in my own library.  After shuttling shopping bags full of reading material back and forth from their house for me, my English teachers had invited me for an overnight visit so that I could come browse for myself.  I remember my astonishment when I realized that an entire room in their home was dedicated to mysteries, another to literary fiction, a nook to children's literature, a corner to miscellany like radios and camping.

As a misfit adolescent, I found solace in their private library; I imagined my own home, the place where I'd settle one day, a place where shelves of books dominated the walls.  In my teachers' house, I learned to read bookshelves as a window into the intellectual and spiritual lives of book owners.  Later, in graduate school, I would scan the titles on shelves in new places, head cocked sideways, looking for clues, finding myself in their intellectual wanderings, but also finding welcome novelty and difference.  People who lived in houses lined with well-loved books were the people I most wanted to be, the people I wanted to befriend.  The shelves were, in some profound way, metonyms for their owners.

I worked diligently at building my own library.  Over the years, I accumulated books like some people accumulate jewelry: high school literature surveys, college reading assignments, the literary theory of my first graduate school career, the sociology and philosophy and historical texts of my second.  When I returned to New Jersey from Los Angeles, my books took up most of the space in the moving truck.  Some of them were my trophies, but more of them--even the ones that collected dust--were my most reliable friends, the one constant thing in a life of flux.  Like the shelves I read in the homes I visited, my books represented me.

And like me, eventually, they learned to share space.  For a while, my books coexisted uneventfully with my husband's (engineering, science fiction, outdoors, mountain guides) in marriage.  They occupied unequally divided real estate on the shelves, but neither of us seemed to mind.

Then we had children.

It started with a concern for the books: we moved things up out of reach, gave things away, wanting to put our children's toys within their grasp, wanting to avoid telling them not to touch.  Though our bookshelves were still largely bookshelves, with adult books, as my children's toys and books started taking up a little more space, I began to winnow out the things I no longer read, telling myself that they could find kinder  homes elsewhere.  I worried a little bit more about making sure that I didn't hog the available shelf space from my husband, like a thoughtful partner might worry about hogging the marital bed.  Each year, some of my books would find their way to the Friends of the Library Book Sale; I wondered who bought them, where they ended up.  Still, I didn't feel that I'd sacrificed my house of books for my offspring.

When I left my job in June 2011, I brought home the books I'd accumulated in my office.  They'd been the hardest thing to pack; somehow, removing my books from those shelves represented the finality of my decision.  I no longer belonged there.  At home, after I unloaded my mini-library, our quarters felt cramped.  For a while, the books lay stacked on the floor, a representation of something abandoned.  Finally, reluctantly, I found spaces for most of them among the others, stacking them horizontally, in precarious places, as if they never really quite belonged.

Last year, in December and January, after two years of job hunting with no promising leads, I decided that I'd no longer need any of these books: my career was dead, and I was not the intellectual or professional I pretended to be.  I no longer cared about ideas, or words, or language, or anything.  In my sweatpants and fraying sweaters, I ravaged the fortress of paperbacks and hardcovers that had defined me and protected me, purging relentlessly.  Boxes of books made their way to my town library for sale, or for recycling.  On one trip downtown, the head librarian peered into the box and gasped audibly.  "But ... your Nortons," he said.  "Are you sure?"

My Norton Anthologies.  Yes, I was sure.  I was trying, desperately, but carefully, perhaps not even entirely consciously, to erase myself.  The books I kept on our shelves at home were thoughtfully chosen, things that I imagined perhaps my children could use some day, or the stories I loved too much to give away.  At one point, after dropping off the last boxes, I found myself in tears.

Mostly, I stopped reading.

Thankfully, I applied for one more job.

This summer, I started doing fellowship advising in an international programs unit.  My trailer office had a single flimsy metal bookcase, which remained mostly empty, but I brought a few travel books from home, and tentatively shelved them there.  Maybe they would inspire my students to explore the great unknown.  Maybe they would inspire me.

Two months later, through an astounding series of fortunate events, I started another job.  In an office with a large leaded glass window, and wooden overhead built-in bookshelf.

The secretary asked me if I needed help moving from my trailer.  My books, she said.  I shook my head.  I had nothing to move.  I joked about it over the next few weeks as I gradually transitioned to my new light-filled space, but the truth is that I felt a great longing for the books I'd thrown away.  One wall of my boss' office is filled with books, floor to ceiling, and an entire store room in the basement of one of the buildings at our college is filled with boxes of his personal library.  In the faculty master's office, books from across the disciplines dominate the walls, and cover every surface.  In his house across the street, there are three--no, four--entire walls of books.  I mourned for my own lost library, the artefacts of my past lives.  Proof that I existed, intellectually, in another time and space.  But I was relieved, too, to miss that part of myself, when in the darkest months of the past two years, I thought for sure it was dead.

***

Two weeks ago, I turned 40.  And I posted this request to Facebook: for this milestone birthday, send me the name of your favorite book.  To rebuild my library with friends, and friends of friends.  The names, and in some cases, the books themselves, came tumbling in, with stories about their discovery: the best, most treasured kinds of gifts.

I love my new office, and my new job.  My bookshelf remains mostly empty, but I know that this will change, over time; the ideas and stories will come again, accumulating gradually, as good libraries do, both enlarging and revealing the intellectual and spiritual lives of their owners.  And though the losing and the finding has been bittersweet, though I still have space to fill, in the end, I feel like I'm home.

What's your favorite book?  And what's your story about discovering it?  What does your library say about you?


Bittersweet Chocolate Tart

9 (5- by 2 1/4-inch) chocolate graham crackers
5 T. unsalted butter, melted
1/4 c. sugar

For filling:
1 1/4 c. heavy cream
9 oz. bittersweet chocolate (less than 65% cacao), chopped
2 large eggs
1 t. vanilla extract
1/4 t. salt

For glaze:
2 T. heavy cream
1 3/4 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
1 t. light corn syrup
1 T. warm water


Preheat oven to 350F.

In a food processor or blender, process the graham crackers and sugar until the crackers are finely ground.  Add melted butter and process until thoroughly combined.  Press the crust mixture evenly into a 9" tart pan, taking care to create a 3/4" rim.  Bake crust until firm, about 10 minutes. Cool 15 to 20 minutes.


Place the chocolate in a medium sized heatproof bowl.  Bring 1 1/4 c. cream to a boil, then pour over 9 oz. chocolate and let stand 5 minutes. Gently stir until smooth.  In a separate small bowl, whisk together eggs, vanilla, and salt, then stir into melted chocolate.  Pour filling into cooled crust.

Bake until the filling is set around the edges but center is still wobbly, 20 to 25 minutes. (The center will continue to set as the tart cools.) Cool completely in pan on rack, about 1 hour.

To make the glaze, bring 2 T. cream to a boil and remove from heat. Stir in 1 3/4 oz. chocolate until smooth. Stir in corn syrup, then warm water.  It will be fairly runny; don't let this trouble you, since it, too, will harden as it cools.

Pour the glaze over the tart (which should be at room temperature), then tilt and rotate the pan to coat the top of tart evenly. Let stand until glaze is set, about 1 hour.

Garnish with fresh raspberries and freshly made lightly sweetened whipped cream.

Bye, Bye Miss American Pie: Moosewood Apple Krisp

People can be particular about pie.  I should know.

I'm one of them.

According to my pie Rule Book, apple pies have apples in them.  In fact, when you cut an apple pie, you should have to use a knife.  None of this spoon nonsense.  If it's so full of goop that you need a spoon, you might as well be eating custard.

The problem with having pie standards like these, of course, is that they're impossible to meet on short notice.  You can't drive to the diner (blessed as we are in New Jersey with said establishments) for a slice of apple pie ... and expect pie.  That three dollar pie from the supermarket?  No dice.  Basically you have to make it yourself.  Which happens sometimes around here after 9 p.m., but not often.

Both S. and I have been craving pie, though.  And when I told him I was going to the supermarket for condensed milk to make Diwali sweets, he said, "if you're going out, pie would be good."

Of course pie would be good, we agreed.  But where would I get pie?  There's no pie around here.  Or at least, nothing worthy of the title.

I rummaged in the refrigerator, preparing lunches and snacks for tomorrow for the kids, informing my son, who had been in the shower for about half an hour so far, that he would have to eat around the bruise on his apple.  I don't think he heard me.

"I don't want to be here when you tell him again," commented my husband.  And then, thoughtfully: "Maybe it's a good night for crisp."

There's an idea, I thought.  Cook the damn apple, and my son will be none the wiser.  "Shall I start it?" I asked.  Of course I should.  I sprang to action.  An hour later, with marginal work: crisp.  Which is almost like pie.  Or at least, more like pie than pie pretends to be around these parts.

Moosewood Apple Krisp
I love the Moosewood version of apple crisp, because you don't need to feel too guilty about it, and because it comes together quickly.

8 - 10 medium apples, peeled, cored, and chopped
juice of 1 lemon
1/2 c. butter
1/3 c. honey
2 c. raw oats
3/4 c. flour
1 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. allspice
1/2 t. salt
1/4 c. pumpkin seeds
1/4 c. chopped walnuts
1/2 c.orange juice

Preheat the oven to 375F.

Toss the apples with lemon juice and a little cinnamon.  Spread half of them into a large baking pan.

Melt the butter and honey together.; add oats, flour, nuts, seeds, salt and spices. Crumble half of the oat mixture over the apples in pan. Cover with the remaining apples and the rest of the topping. Drizzle orange juice over the top.

Bake 40 - 45 minutes (25 minutes covered, 20 minutes uncovered).  Serve warm with ice cream.

Light in the Darkness, and Doodh Peda (Indian Sweets)

"Your first night driving home in the dark," my boss commented, nodding towards the window as I gathered my things to leave work.

I said something dismissive about having driven home in the dark before, because I've spent a few late evenings at events on campus, but as I crested the mountain in the middle of my drive, in the pitch black, tensely hunched over the wheel as I scanned the road ahead for deer, I realized he was right, in a way; this darkness felt different than it had just three weeks ago.  More permanent.  Or at the very least, more sustained.  I could sense winter coming.  There would be snow in these mountains.

Diwali, the five day Hindu festival popularly known as the "festival of lights" and the first in a two month series of  light-filled holidays from various traditions, began on Sunday this year.  The festival celebrates the victory of light over dark, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance, honoring of the return of Hindu god Rama and his wife Sita to their kingdom after years of exile.  During Diwali, celebrants clean the house and light small clay lamps filled with oil to make the goddess Lakshmi (of prosperity) and Ganesh (remover of obstacles) feel welcome, and there are lots of sweets shared with friends.

More importantly, perhaps, the holiday celebrates awareness of the inner light, the light of higher knowledge dispelling all ignorance, the awakening that brings compassion, awareness of the oneness of all things, and eventually, ananda (which my yoga teacher translates as "bliss").

While of course the parallels between the celebrations and the daylight hours depend on the hemisphere in which you live, there's something to be said for looking inward when the light outside wanes.  I've written here before about the practice of pratyahara, withdrawing from the senses, in order to better focus our inner awareness; though I haven't been to my beloved yoga teacher's studio in a while to practice there, I suspect that's what they're preparing to do this month and next.

So as I headed into the valley, I turned off the radio, slowed down, lowered my high beams, and listened.

The silence was wonder-ful.

Happy Diwali; wishing you all the light of andanda.  Enjoy the darkness.

Doodh Pedas
I love Indian sweets because they're so different from our cloying candy.   These are pretty easy to make, and the "dough" is fun to play with, whether you have kids or not.  Next time I might even add a drop or two of rosewater, just for the heady sent .

1¾ c. powdered milk
1 can sweetened condensed milk
2 T. butter
6 green cardamom pods, peeled and seeds crushed to fine powder
small pinch of saffron, dissolved in 2 T. warm water or milk
small pinch of salt
nuts (cashews, almonds, pistachios etc)

Microwave the butter in a deep bowl for 20-30 seconds until just melted. Add the milk powder and condensed milk and stir well until you no longer see any lumps.

Microwave the mixture again for 1 minute. Mix well again, and microwave once more for 1 minute.

Add the cardamom, salt, and saffron, and mix well. Microwave for one more minute.

Allow the mixture to cool a bit, and dump it onto a piece of waxed paper or parchment. Cover with another sheet of waxed paper or parchment, and roll the dough into a 1/2" thick round. Cut with a cookie cutter or into whatever shape you like, and press nuts into the center. (The dough, as it cools, becomes lots of fun for children to play with.) Cool completely.

Jane Eyre, Feminism, the Gothic, and Cardamom Scones

I was eleven.  My aunt and uncle, in a moment of uncharacteristic attentiveness to my interests, had bought me a copy of Jane Eyre for my birthday; the 500-and-some-page Illustrated Junior Library edition, it boasted a full color hard cover and plastic dust jacket.  Though I remember my mother saying something about the fact that I was probably a bit too young for Jane Eyre, there was something special about that book from the beginning, about the thickness of the pages, the tantalizing illustration on the cover, its sheer weightiness.  My first real literature, perhaps.  And though I struggled a bit with the tangled language and the length of the sentences, I soon fell in love with its heroine, just as I'd fallen in love with Louisa May Alcott, Girl of Old Boston, even before I read Little Women, and Anne of Green Gables after that.  Jane Eyre is one of the few non-children's books I've read multiple times in my life, some assigned, and some not.

A few weeks ago, on the anniversary of the book's 1847 publication, the Huffington Post featured what amounted to "lessons we can learn from Jane Eyre."  I found the piece a little Pollyannish : one of the author's takeaways is "Be Positive!" as if Victorian heroines had any choice but contentment with their lot, or at least the forced moral fortitude to embrace it as a "lesson."  After all, Helen Burns tells Jane that "it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear."  Still, it brought back fond memories of reading the book and identifying with Jane, as I identified with Alcott's Jo March: a plain, outspoken young woman who lived both completely in the world and completely apart from it.   To this day, there's something about the name I find powerful; it was on my short list of names for our daughter.

There's the proto-feminism, of course; as she leaves Thornfield, knowing that a relationship with Rochester would mean the loss of her self-respect, Jane (and, by extension, Brontë) offers some thoughts about independence which I think are relevant even now: “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.”  While I think that oversimplifies things (do we respect ourselves for being "unsustained"? or is there something respectable about knowing how to lean on others, too? what lessons do we teach our children about finding balance between independence and interdependence?), I confess, it's a principle by which I've lived most of my life. 

And then there's the fact that Brontë gets Romanticism right for me: though I wouldn't consider myself a sucker for Romantic novels of the Victorian period, I wept through the death of Jane's friend Helen from consumption, wondering whether one got consumption now, and whether I should be wary of catching it. I remember, too, wishing for a champion like Miss Temple, and resolving to have tea in my chambers for students, should I ever end up teaching in a boarding school--a resolve which was later re-kindled by my crush on Professor Keating of Dead Poet's Society.

I was also drawn to the Gothic aspects of the novel, especially the powerful shadow-figure of Bertha Mason, and feeling sorry for her, even long before I read Wide Sargasso Sea, which attributes Rochester's rejection and her subsequent descent into madness to her (literal) "dark" Creole heritage.  Jane defends her without knowing, in her first weeks at Thornfield, musing that women "suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation"; they are, quite literally, trapped.  Bram Stoker was born the month after Jane Eyre was published, and dressing my son as Dracula this year for Halloween, I found myself thinking about the madwomen in the attic, about how Halloween enables us to plumb our own darker sides, to play with the shadows within us.  As he moved from house to house, I watched my son begin to walk differently, cape billowing behind him, fangs brilliant against the ghostly face I'd painted; he was absolutely getting into the character, in a way he hadn't done in Halloweens past.

What are the books you've read again and again?  Which literary characters have spoken to you over the years?  Did you channel your inner madwoman for Halloween?  What are your thoughts on the balance between independence and interdependence?

Cardamom Scones with Cranberries
Miss Temple offered Jane and Helen seed cake during their first visit to her chambers.  While these aren't exactly cake, I suspect that they're more like what Miss Temple had in her room, given the conditions at Lowood school, and the cardamom pods count as seeds in my book.  Enjoy them warm out of the oven on a dark night or cloudy morning,with a cup of tea.

3 c. flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
3/4 t. cardamom pods (or, if you must, 1/2 t. ground cardamom)
1 stick unsalted butter
3/4 c. plain Greek yogurt
1/2 c. sugar (I used evaporated cane)
2 eggs
additional sugar for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 350F and line a baking sheet with parchment.

Mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Peel the cardamom pods and grind the seeds with a mortar and pestle (or use a very small knife and carefully chop until you have powder).  Stir the cardamom into the flour mixture.

Cut the butter in with a pastry blender or two knives until small crumbs form.  Add yogurt, sugar, and one egg, and mix (you can use your fingers).  At this point you can also add anything else you want (candied ginger, cranberries, raisins, chocolate chips).

Divide the dough into 12 equal parts (you can also use an ice cream scoop to get rough 1/3 c. balls); place the dough on the parchment.

Whisk the other egg and brush over the dough.  Sprinkle with additional sugar.

Bake 25 minutes, or until pleasantly golden brown.  Serve warm.

The Weight of Being Interesting, and Pumpkin Spice Cookies

I work at one of the most prestigious institutions of higher education in the world.

The students, while they do come from all over the map, both geographically and academically, are, by and large, freakishly amazing people.  They bring a wealth of experience and leadership to the table; they have collected more AP scores than anyone ought to collect; they ask intelligent, probing questions; they throw themselves into work weeks whose intensity level is far beyond what I experienced until I started studying for my quals in graduate school.

And yet, they worry about not being (interesting, smart, talented, whatever) enough.  The other day, I sat at another awards dinner, this one for juniors who had been awarded a fellowship to spend the summer after sophomore year doing something that contributed to their personal growth and exploration: one followed Che Guevara's Motorcyle Diaries travels; another apprenticed to a jewelry designer in India; another studied traditional fiddle music; another traveled in the footsteps of her grandmother who was a Holocaust survivor, and plans to collaborate on an intergenerational book; another interviewed siblings of special needs children and adults; another--a countertenor--studied Baroque music both domestically and abroad.  (And while the projects and students were not quite as polished as those at my previous dinner this month, they did make me wonder what I would do with carte blanche and $4000.) 

When all of the students had delivered their versions of "what I did with my summer vacation," the two graduate recipients of a parallel award, who spent a year on a project, stood up to give their speeches.  The first worked on women's health and health education in India, addressing everything from breastfeeding education to cancer screenings and shifting the cultural view of sick women as burdensome.  The second stood up to introduce his novel, and after some tripping over his words (affected or not, we weren't sure), and making some self-denigrating comments, said: "I forgot what being at [X] is like.  It's like ..." he gestured around the room " ... like this."

It's not the first time I've heard something along these lines.  All summer long, as I talked with students applying for fellowships, I heard from them: I'm not good enough.  So-and-so is brilliant.  I'm not really sure if my project is compelling.  I don't have grades like my roommate does.  Etc., etc., etc.

The awkward thing about being at a place where everyone is freakishly amazing is that it's hard to take a risk to do something as a mediocre novice, even--ironically enough--in the context of a fellowship that rewards your exploration of something as a mediocre novice.  And I get it: when I walk through the Common Room of our college, there is often someone at the grand piano, playing the equivalent of Rachmaninoff; it's no wonder that no one wants to venture a few bars of "Heart and Soul," and even when the room is empty, I resist the urge to sit down and work on my rusty rendition of Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu (I would never confess to these people that I played in Carnegie Hall, for fear that they might expect me to produce something impressive).

It can, if we let it, work the same way in blogging and writing.  If you read enough freakishly amazing writers, you start to think that there's nothing much you can contribute to the conversation.  Best to leave the work of writing and thinking to those who are more talented than you, you think, those who have something important and compelling to say, and who say it in innovative and impressive ways.  Perhaps you stop writing entirely, and become a passive consumer of language, pining away, somewhere deep within you, for your lost voice.

It can even work this way in the kitchen: if you read enough recipes, you can start to wonder why you should bother coming up with something new, since it's bound not to be much good the first time around anyway, and there are probably already fifteen better versions of what you're making already out there, under contract for a cookbook.

On the other hand, you could look at it this way: if you're surrounded by enough interesting people, or if you are friends with enough fabulously talented bloggers, or if you immerse yourself in enough cookbooks, you can't help but swim in those waters eventually yourself.  While my Chopin still isn't very good, it's better than it was at the beginning of the summer, when I didn't practice it, because I wasn't inspired to do so by the freakishly amazing Rachmaninoff-players.

The pressure to be interesting can feel like a two ton boa.  But it could also be liberating, given a safe and judgment-free place to take risks.  Part of me keeps thinking I should create a "Mediocrity Hour" at my place of employment, during which everyone can try or practice at something they're not very good at.  Because we are our harshest critics, and naming a forgiving space would take some of the pressure off, allowing for the "interesting" to happen organically.  Sort of like it did in my kitchen the other night, when I was desperately craving pumpkin spice cookies, but didn't feel like starting to play with butter at 10 p.m, and didn't want to commit to anything more elaborate equipment than a bowl and a whisk.  Sure, there about a billion versions of pumpkin spice cookies out there.  But these were mine.  And I won't tell you how many of them I've eaten since they came out of the oven.

Pumpkin Spice Cookies

2 eggs (or flax egg to make it vegan)
1 c. sugar
1/2 c. canola or corn oil
1 c. canned pumpkin
1 t. vanilla
3 T. natural apple butter (no sugar added)
2 c. flour (any kind will do)
1 t. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 t. ground cinnamon
1 t. ground ginger
1/4 t. nutmeg
1/8 t. cloves
chopped toasted walnuts, optional, or anything else you think they might need

Preheat oven to 350F.

In a large bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients (from eggs through apple butter).  Sift in the dry ingredients into a small bowl and then gently fold them into the wet ingredients.  Or if you're feeling extremely lazy like I was, dump the spices into your wet ingredients, stir to mix completely dump in the flour, baking powder and soda, and salt, and mix to stir again.  Add in some nuts if you're feeling like you might want some.  Or something else: white chocolate chips, toffee bits, raisins.  Decide if you want more spice, and add it.  No one will think less of you if they are not perfect, and you can always play with the rest of the batter if the first batch isn't exactly right.

Drop by generously rounded tablespoonfuls onto parchment covered baking sheets, leaving about two inches between cookies.  Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until puffy and dry.  Cool, and store in an airtight container for just a few days, if they last that long.

On Living Well, and Arroz con leche

When I was in graduate school--the second time around--I took a Philosophy of Education course in which we were assigned Aristotle's Ethics.  I remembered hating Aristotle from some other course, so I wasn't looking forward to revisiting it, but in my re-reading I was drawn to the concept of eudaimonia, which--often mistranslated as "happiness"--really means "doing and living well."  As I was boxing up some books to take to my new office the other day, I took Ethics off the shelf and began to thumb through it fondly, realizing, with some small degree of horror, that I ended up loving philosophy after all, and thinking that perhaps I hadn't had enough life experience to fully appreciate Aristotle when I read his work the first time.

Skimming my marginalia, I was surprised to notice how much Ethics reminded me of my study of yoga, how much living well was bound up with the activity of right intention, which Aristotle calls "virtue" (but which isn't exactly virtue as we tend to use the term now).  Most of us think of happiness as a state of consciousness, something internal, and even passive.  But the way Aristotle describes it, eudaimonia involves real, messy, being and doing in the world--even if slightly limited by the fact that his is a state-backed model of the good life.  Eudaimonia comes of habit (according to Aristotle), like the "practice" of yoga texts. Even considering right action in yoga discourages attachment to outcomes, where for Aristotle the means are oriented to the end through the process of rational thought, there are striking parallels between Ethics and the Gita.*

My yoga attendance these days has been sporadic at best; I don't get home early enough for the Thursday night class I used to take, and I try to spend my weekends being available to my kids instead of commuting to Frenchtown where other people are trying to breathe through vinyasa.  I brought my mat and yoga pants to work today, hoping to escape for an hour during lunch, which I ended up eating (in the form of an apple and a granola bar) at my desk, trying to manage a situation that was stubbornly resisting management.  Given the sort day I've been having, I felt deflated.  On the other hand, what I was doing was sort of along the lines of right intention.  It just didn't have a very physical dimension.

What we know about anatomy suggests that the mind-body connection isn't a connection at all, but is really one in the same thing: essentially, two nerves connect our bodies to our brains.  Body is mind, and mind is body--even for Aristotle, in a way.  My daughter reminds me of this constantly, (still) learning by touching everything, expressing herself (despite her advanced verbal skills) by jumping up and down or rolling around on the floor.  I could practice yoga on my own, but my best practice is in sangha, in community.  Which makes sense to me, after all; if living well is practicing right intention, then it follows that the practice of yoga, which is also about living the best life by cultivating a space for right action, entails not abstracting oneself from the world, but figuring out how to immerse oneself in all of its dimensions.  Doing yoga all the time.


Remember that Mary Oliver poem, "Rice"?

I don't want you to just sit at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk into the fields
Where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there,
far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with mud,
like a blessing.

Don't just sit at the table; fill your hands with mud.  Get down and dirty, out in the field. That's happiness.

*(Philosophy PhDs and yoga experts: go ahead, tell me where I got it wrong.)

Arroz con leche
This is a simple dessert from my childhood, which I find myself craving when the weather finally takes a turn towards fall.


4 c. milk (of your choice)
1/2 c. short-grain rice
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 t. dried orange peel
pinch salt
1/4 c. sugar
3/4 T. butter (optional)
1 t. vanilla 

Add the milk, rice, cinnamon stick, orange or lemon peel and salt to a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat. Immediately reduce heat to very low and simmer, stirring often and scraping bottom, for about 45 minutes.

Add the raisins and sugar and simmer for another 15 minutes. Stir often to keep from sticking to the bottom of the pot.

Remove from heat and stir in the butter and vanilla. Adjust sugar to taste and serve hot or cold, sprinkling the top with some ground cinnamon.

Gas, Graciousness, and Blueberry Peach Crumble Bars

Plink.

The yellow gas light flicked on, and I may have cursed under my breath.  That light never goes on, because I am slightly obsessed with keeping my tank at least half full, certain that some day I will forget, and get stranded with an empty tank at dusk in the Sourland Mountains, where I will be eaten by wild turkeys or possessed by the ghost of John Hart.  My commute takes me through long stretches of nothing, which is beautiful, but also a little inconvenient.

I was grateful to see the gas station at the bottom of the hill, where I'd half-remembered passing one in that subconscious driving state you hit mid-way through a commute, and pulled in, kicking myself for not filling up at the ExxonMobil with my husband's company discount Speedpass.

"Hallo, ma'am," the attendant greeted me.  (I can not seem to get used to being ma'am.)

"Hi, there.  Fill it with regular, please?"  I always use my 'cheerful' voice for the gas attendant.  I imagine--perhaps naively--that life gets pretty boring at the pump.

He nodded.  I fiddled with my iPhone, responding to the five email messages that had come in during the twenty minute drive to this point in my commute.

"Ma'am?" He cranes his neck slightly to see me, nozzle in his hand.

I reel myself back out from email.  Yes, sonny? I think.  "Hm?  Oh ... yes?"

"You know, if you ever need your iPhone fixed, I fix them."

The unsolicited advertisement takes me a little by surprise.  I don't expect my gas attendants to be engineers.  "Wow.  Really?"

He proudly holds up his iPhone.  "Cracked screen, new button, I do anything.  See this one?  I did it myself.  I like the black button with the white background.  Better contrast. Like it?"  He has an audience now, captive by the hose connecting me to the pump, and tells me how difficult it is to take the front off, how comparatively easy it is to take the back off, how long it takes him now that he knows how to do it (20 minutes, instead of the four hours it took him the first time).  I listen, admittedly rapt, and assure him that I'll remember him if I ever need his help.

There have been other memorable gas stops: the night I discussed New Jersey politics with the surprisingly informed balding attendant who welcomed me from his lawn chair, feet propped on an overturned plastic bucket, before he said "have a good night, sweetheart."  The night I worried over the attendant who clutched at his chest and braced himself against my car, and asked him repeatedly if I could call someone for him, concerned that I might be leaving him alone in the middle of what looked to my untrained eye like a heart attack.

And yet, there's also this no-touch rule at the gas station.  I give the attendant the SpeedPass (or my credit card, or whatever), which he (because it's rarely a she) gingerly removes from my hand, swipes, and returns with as little human contact as possible.  The odd mix of anonymous potential intimacy and complete disconnect, which happens only in New Jersey, home of the full serve.

It's sort of like blogging, isn't it?  Because naked as we are, our patrons still drive away at the end of the night, after we've handed back the SpeedPass, touching them, and yet not touching them at all.  And if we're not terribly good at promoting ourselves, they might not travel that highway again.  Graciousness.  Intimacy without actually touching.

I have a number of friends from the American South who excel at hospitality, in the broadest sense of that word; they come from a culture that cultivates graciousness.  I have other, more suspicious friends who are uncomfortable with graciousness, who worry what they'd find under the veneer if they stuck around long enough.  For me, graciousness springs from the instant when you look someone in the eye, recognize their humanity, and decide to be kind and compassionate, just for that brief time.  Once, long ago, that bothered me.  Now?  Not so much.  Because honestly?  I don't think I feel too badly about the drive-by nature of the beast, as long as the conversation was real.

Blueberry Peach Crumble Bars
If I were Southern, graciousness and hospitality might involve peach pie.  But my husband is a Yankee, so we are also a blueberry and crumble kind of family.

1 c. white sugar
1 t. baking powder
3 c. all-purpose flour
1 t. dried lavender
1 c. cold unsalted butter
1 egg
1/4 t. salt
Zest and juice of one lemon
2 c. fresh blueberries
2 c. peaches, peeled and diced
1/2 c. white sugar
4 t. cornstarch
1/4 to 1/2 t. cinnamon
1/3 c. rolled oats

Preheat the oven to 375F and grease a 9×13 inch pan.

In a medium bowl, stir together 1 c. sugar, flour, and baking powder. Mix in salt and lemon zest. Crumble in lavender.  Cut in the butter and egg with a pastry blender, and pat 2/3 of dough into the prepared pan.

In another bowl, stir together the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon and lemon juice. Gently mix in the blueberries and peaches. Spread the fruit mixture over the crust.

Add the rolled oats to the remaining dough and mix with a pastry blender (or your fingers).  Crumble the dough over the fruit.

Bake in preheated oven for 50 minutes, or until top is slightly brown. Cool completely before cutting into squares.

On Vulnerability, and Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Bars

The visiting minister who gave the sermon at our church this past Sunday said that every minister has one sermon that they keep preaching over and over again, with different scaffolding, different illustrations, different stories to drive the point home.  I think that the same thing goes for many writers: that is, that we're trying to exorcise our demons, to write our way out of a problem that we, too, are stuck inside, in one way or another.

This minister's one sermon, she said, was about the spirituality of imperfection: the profound connection that can result in willingness to be vulnerable with others, and with ourselves, about who we really are, instead of who we think we ought to be.  We've heard this before from people like Brené Brown, whose Ted talks and books and appearances on Oprah have catapulted her into the public eye.

One of the things that came up in the discussion after the sermon (because for those of you who aren't UU, that's how we roll: we talk back after the minister talks, even if we do let said minister have the last word) was when it was useful to be vulnerable, given the tendency to overshare in social media.  Though the question was really more about Facebook, the question applies equally to bloggers, and about whether the kind of vulnerability Brown describes is really what we're doing here.

When Brown talks about being vulnerable, with sharing our stories of shame, she says that we can't just be vulnerable with everyone.  In fact, there are several kinds of people we want to actively avoid:

"1. The friend who hears the story and actually feels shame for you. She gasps and confirms how horrified you should be. Then there is awkward silence. Then you have to make her feel better.

2. The friend who responds with sympathy ("I feel so sorry for you") rather than empathy ("I get it, I feel with you, and I've been there"). If you want to see a shame cyclone turn deadly, throw one of these at it: "Oh, you poor thing." Or, the incredibly passive-aggressive Southern version of sympathy, "Bless your heart."

3. The friend who needs you to be the pillar of worthiness and authenticity. She can't help because she's too disappointed in your imperfections. You've let her down.

4. The friend who is so uncomfortable with vulnerability that she scolds you: "How did you let this happen? What were you thinking?" Or she looks for someone to blame: "Who was that guy? We'll kick his ass."

5. The friend who is all about making it better and, out of her own discomfort, refuses to acknowledge that you can actually be crazy and make terrible choices: "You're exaggerating. It wasn't that bad. You rock. You're perfect. Everyone loves you."

6. The friend who confuses connection with the opportunity to one-up you: 'That's nothing. Listen to what happened to me one time!'  "

--Excerpted from http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Brene-Brown-How-to-Conquer-Shame-Friends-Who-Matter#ixzz2SZs1J32F

Basically, Brown says, we need to honor our struggle by sharing it with someone who has earned the right to hear it.
 In real life, I can attest to the fact that Brown's assessment feels pretty accurate.  Even as an adult, even in the past year, I've had my share of being vulnerable with the wrong people--not people who tore me down, but people who didn't value the gift of my vulnerability.   People who came back with "oh, yeah, that happened to me" ... except it didn't, because I'm not you, I thought.  I walked away from those conversations feeling hurt, strangely violated, strangely tossed aside, wishing that they'd told me instead, from the very beginning, that they didn't really want to hear my story.  But of course, that's for me to judge, not them.

Of course, we don't all share everything online.  There's a lot I don't tell you, or that I tell you only in veiled ways.  I am not my blog.  But our blogs are the places where some of us do feel we can be vulnerable.  Why is that, given what Brown says about the privilege of being empathetic?  And does it matter to us whether our audience has earned the right to hear our story, if that story is difficult or painful in any way?  It certainly matters to us when people tear us down; so how do we walk the line between productive (for ourselves and for our readers) vulnerability, and self-preservation?

***

Then there are others of us who blog (and, for that matter, live) like we have our shit together.  These are the people whose DIY projects and food dominate Pinterest and Foodgawker.  They're the people who win all blogging awards, who have gazillions of followers.  They're the people whose statuses you hate to read on Facebook.

Mel wrote this week about the tricky business of admitting that we don't have our shit together,  and I think this has a lot to do with vulnerability.  She talks about the fact that we are drawn to confidence, to people who seem to know things.  Smart doctors.  Well-recommended dentists.  Bakers (oh, yes, for me this hits home ... I rarely eat a mediocre cupcake on purpose).  And she suggests that perhaps we look to others who "have it all figured out" because we don't.

I don't know.  I think I actually feel better about people who openly don't have their shit together.  Do I like to read a well-written novel?  Hell, yes.  For as much as Barbara Kingsolver's most recent novel has its flaws, I found myself practically weeping over the beauty and cleverness of her prose, telling myself I could never be that good.  But on the other hand, as a writer, I like reading other writers that struggle, that help me to do it better.  If I'm seeing a doctor, I like to know that she has gotten good medical training, and that she's had some success with patients.  But I also know that I'm not every other patient, and I appreciate when a doctor is honest with me about a course of treatment.  Maybe we'll try this, and if it doesn't work, we'll try that.  A chocolatier recently opened a little shop in a town not far from me, and I've already made friends with him.  He was making truffles a few weeks ago, and posted to Facebook something along the lines of "I have these truffles that are not very good yet; come taste them and help me figure out how to make them better."  So I did, of course.  I had a great conversation with him about taste and texture and mouth feel of a truffle.  I learned a lot.  And I was glad he was willing to stumble out there in public.  And yet, you don't do that with everyone, do you?

***

Recently, I joined what our church calls a covenant group.  These are basically once-a-month small group meetings outside of the regular church service where the members choose a topic, or series of topics, to discuss over a period of several months.  The members of the group covenant with each other to show up, to be respectful and supportive, to listen, to contribute, to value the contributions of others.  It's a lot like a vow of empathy, the way Brown might describe it.  And because of that covenant, the group becomes a safe place to be vulnerable.  I will admit, I have not become completely vulnerable with my covenant group.  But I do feel like I can trust more of them with my authentic self now, and I'm grateful for that.  I am drawn to those relationships.  I need them.  I need them even more than I need beautiful DIY crafts and perfect pictures and stunning prose.  I need to feel like it's OK to be imperfect.

I intended to make these bars from Flourishing Foodie for my covenant group when I hosted last week, but I got a little sidetracked, because I couldn't find fresh apricots in the store, then (after I'd bought the canned ones) realized I didn't have enough apricots.  It's also the wrong season for fresh lavender, and we didn't have any Grand Marnier.  And the powdered sugar went everywhere when I turned on the mixer because someone who lives in this house and who is under three feet tall likes to turn things on and walk away, so I had to add more powdered sugar after the fact.  And when I cooked the mango, there were little fibers in the bars that looked like hair, which was sort of embarrassing.  I disclosed all of this information before I let anyone eat one.  But everyone thought they were good anyway.  And maybe sometimes good enough is exactly what we need.

Where do you feel like you can be vulnerable?  If you blog, do you feel like you can be vulnerable on your blog?  Or do you feel like you need to have your shit together?  Are you drawn to people who are imperfect, or who make living look easy?

Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Bars
makes 16 squares
adapted from Flourishing Foodie, who adapted it from Baked Explorationsby Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito


12 T. unsalted butter, room temperature, cut into 1" cubes
1/2 c. powdered sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
3/4 t. finely chopped dried lavender
1 3/4 c. flour


1 c. canned apricots, chopped
1 c. fresh mango, chopped
1 c. fresh blueberries
1 c. white wine
1/2 c. of water
1/3 c. sugar
2 T. honey
1 T. Triple Sec
1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. chopped almonds
3 T. unsalted butter, chilled, cubed
2 T. oats

Leaving a 1" overhang, line a 9 inch square baking pan with parchment paper. You can also coat it with cooking spray if that makes you feel better, but it's not necessary.

Place the powdered sugar in your electric mixing bowl, and drop the butter in.  Stir gently a few times to coat the butter so that the sugar won't fly everywhere when you turn the mixer on.  Using an electric mixer, starting on a very low speed and pulsing gently, gradually working up to a full-on high mixing level, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy.  Add the vanilla and chopped lavender.  Beat again until combined.  Add the flour and mix on low speed, until everything is combined.  Place the dough into the pan and press flat. Chill in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

While the dough is chilling, prepare the filling.  In a medium saucepan simmer the apricots, blueberries, mango, wine, water, sugar, honey, and Triple Sec on low to medium heat.  Stir occasionally, and cook until the liquid has absorbed (45 - 60 minutes).  You may have to vary the heat as liquid begins to evaporate.  Set aside to cool.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Place the crust into the oven and bake for 30 minutes until golden brown. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature.

In a bowl, using your fingers, rub together, the flour, brown sugar, and butter. You want the mixture to lightly clump together.  Add chopped almonds and oats.  Set aside.  Once the shortbread has cooled, spread the filling over it, and top with the crumble. Bake for 25 minutes or until the top has just lightly browned.

Let the bars completely cool on a wire rack, in the pan, before serving. Once they have cooled, pull them out with the parchment paper and slice into bars.

Homework: Kitchen Sink Cookies

I've been good.  Really, really good.  No cookies, no cake, a spoon or two of ice cream.  Minimal processed sugars and dairy.  Low carb, and no refined carbs.  So when my son started his read-aloud homework last night, my reaction was understandable.

"The Cookie Quest?  Sounds like the story of my life," I said drily.  I listened with half an ear as he read, stopping him to ask about words he misread as other words, trying to entertain my daughter, who was making tea in the cupboard, uninterested in her brother's assignment.  At some point, the reading stopped.  I'd lost track of the details, but I had a vague sense of the plot: something about a mother creating a contest-winning cookie recipe, and her son's friend trying to find it out before it was published.  Not exactly a quest, in my book.  I reached for the pen to sign the sheet saying he'd done the reading.

"All done," he said.  "Oh, wait ..." He turned the page.  "Hey LOOK, Ma!  There's a recipe!  We can MAKE these cookies!"  He was practically shouting now.  "Kitchen Sink Cookies," he read, pointing.

"You mean I can make these cookies," I corrected him, knowing full well who was going to end up manning the mixer and dropping little balls of dough onto cookie sheets for two hours.  "Since when did your homework become my homework?"  I scanned the recipe quickly and turned back to N., who was now dismantling the cupboard.

Ignoring me, he continued, "SO?  Do we have all of the ingredients?"

I shook my head.  Negative, dude.  No chocolate in the house.  I can't be trusted.  Actually, I probably could be trusted now.  But I am not about to start taking chances just yet.

"Well, you can go shopping tonight and get the chocolate chips," he assured me.  "I'll copy the recipe for you."  And he climbed up onto the stool to reach a recipe card, beginning the painstaking process--for a first-grader, at least--of transcribing the recipe by hand, in pencil.  "I'm going to use abbreviations.  Do you know what 'tea' and 'tab' will stand for?"

I was beaten.  And really, what kind of a parent would I be if I didn't bake him cookies from his read-aloud homework book?

I didn't go shopping last night.  But guilt-ridden, I went to the store today.

I took a few liberties to make them a little healthier, but really, they're still cookies. I guess I'll have to send them to his teacher.  I hope I get an A.

Have you ever found a recipe in an unexpected place?

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Coconutties
The "real" kitchen sink cookies, in my book, are made with more stuff.  Like raisins.  Or butterscotch chips.  Or cranberries.  And maybe potato chips and pretzels.  Random bits of things in your cupboard.  You can do that and tell me how they turn out.  In the meantime, I think my name for them is better.

1/2 c. shortening (use Earth Balance)
1 c. coconut palm sugar (or use 1/2 c. brown and 1/2 c. white)
1 egg
1 T. vanilla
3/4 c. flour (whole wheat pastry will work OK)
1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
1 c. oats
1/2 c. chocolate chips
1/2 c. unsweetened coconut
1/2 c. chopped walnuts (or other nut of your choice, or raisins if you have nut allergies)

Preheat oven to 350.

Using an electric mixer, beat shortening and sugar until well combined.  Add egg and mix well.  Mix in the vanilla.

In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt.  Add to the shortening mixture and beat to combine.

Add in the rest of your mix-ins, and combine well, using your hands if necessary to incorporate all of the bits.  The dough may be a little crumbly in appearance; don't worry about that.

Mold the dough into 2 t. size balls (you can squish it in your hands to make the balls solid), and bake on baking sheets covered with a sheet of parchment for 10-12 minutes, or until browned.  Cool cookies for a minute or two on the baking sheet, and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.  Store tightly covered for up to 1 week.

A Birthday: Strawberry Cake

So we didn't celebrate the Superbowl.  We don't have a TV, anyway, I don't care about the commercials, and I wasn't really interested in Beyonce shaking her booty at me.

Instead, we celebrated my daughter's second birthday.

It's hard to believe it's been two years since that bright clear morning when I went for a walk, only to turn around and deliver a baby just three hours later.  We got out N's first year baby book and as she gawked at the pictures, I marveled at the fact that the tiny blob-like creature that I held in the hospital, convinced that she could not possibly be mine to keep, has become this spunky, opinionated, spirited, happy toddler, who selected the pinkest, poofiest skirt in the overpriced children's store (for which we had a very old gift card) to wear for her birthday. 

N. informed me, weeks ago, that we were going to have strawberry cake for her birthday.  I wasn't even sure if she liked cake.  But being the mostly responsive parent I am, I went scouring the internet for recipes.

Of course, after she had greedily licked the beaters while making the cake, and after we'd baked it and frosted it into a three-tiered celebration of the color pink, she didn't want any.  Wouldn't touch it.  Wouldn't even TRY it.  Wanted nothing but plain strawberries and a bowl of vanilla ice cream for her birthday dessert.

And of course, there were only four others there to eat this behemoth.  My mother, who has just recently rejoined Weight Watchers and agreed to the tininest of shavings; my husband, who doesn't really like strawberries in cake form; my son, who basically eats the frosting off of things; and me, still upset about the fifteen additional pounds I seem to have hung on my frame in the past year and pledging to follow a  mostly-vegan minimal-processed-sugar (I'm not entirely unreasonable) diet.

I cut two slices for the neighbors, sent some home with my mother for directions on freezing it for my brother (who had a Superbowl party to attend, and was doing due diligence on a platter of wings, no doubt), and there was still a half a cake left.

I spent the week eating it.  And finally, on the last day, my daughter took a bite of cake from the quarter slice left on my plate.  And demanded more.

Which pretty much just about describes her to a T.

The Brown Betty Bakery's Strawberry Cake with Strawberry Buttercream Frosting

(Adapted from The Brown Betty Cookbook, and from the beautiful baking blog Hummingbird High)

For the Strawberry Puree
32 oz frozen strawberries, thawed
1 T. lemon juice

For the Cake:

(makes a three 8-inch cakes)

4 c. cake flour
1 3/4 t. baking powder
3/4 t. salt
2 c. (1 lb.) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3 c. sugar
6 large eggs, at room temperature
2 large egg yolks, at room temperature
a few drops red food coloring (optional)
1/4 c. milk, at room temperature

For the Strawberry Buttercream Frosting:

8 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
2 t. vanilla

2 cups (1 lb.) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 cups confectioner's sugar

For the Strawberry Puree

Mash thawed frozen strawberries through a strainer until you get about 2 cups of juice. Set aside the mashed strawberries. Add the juice to a saucepan. Bring to a boil and cook until reduced to 1/2 cup.

Using a food processor or blender, finely chop the reserved mashed strawberries.  Add the cooked strawberry juice and lemon juice to the chopped strawberries and blend thoroughly. Set aside (you can even do this in advance and refrigerate it)

For the Strawberry Cake:

Preheat the oven to 350. Coat three 8-inch round cake pans with a nonstick cooking spray.  Cut rounds of parchment to fit into the bottom of each pan; lay the parchment on top of the cooking spray and coat the pans again, so that the parchment is now covered in cooking spray.  This will help with easy release of the cake.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the cake flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, using an electric mixer, beat butter until light and fluffy, then reduce the speed and cream the sugar and butter together.  Add the eggs and yolks, one at a time, beating until blended. Add 3/4 cup of the strawberry puree and 1/4 teaspoon red food coloring (if desired for a more pink color) and beat until just blended.

Alternately add the flour mixture and milk in four additions, beating on low after each addition, and scraping the bowl as you go.

Divide the batter equally among the prepared pans and bake until a wooden pick inserted into the middle comes out clean, around 35 to 40 minutes.  Let the cakes cool in the pans for 10 minutes before turning them out onto a wire rack to cool completely.

For the Strawberry Frosting:

Is your butter room temperature?  Make sure it is.  Same goes for the cream cheese. 

Once you're absolutely sure that this is the case, place the cream cheese in a large mixing bowl.  Beat cream cheese with an electric mixer on medium speed until soft. Add unsalted butter (cut into 1" chunks) and salt and beat until light and fluffy, using a rubber spatula to scrape the bowl as necessary, about 3 minutes. Reduce the mixer speed to low, add 1/4 cup of the strawberry puree, and beat until just blended.

Gradually beat in the confectioner's sugar, scraping the bowl occasionally, until well blended. You may want to try adding less sugar to start (about 3 c.) and increase the mixer speed to high and beat until the frosting is fluffy, about 1 minute. If you want you frosting to be a bit stiffer (I did), continue to add sugar.

Assembly

Level the first layer of cake if it's extremely domed, using a serrated knife to cut off the dome.  Place this first layer bottom-side up on your serving plate. Use an offset spatula (I own a plastic one of these now and it was worth every penny of the $2.50 I spent for it) to spread 1 cup of frosting on the top of the cake.  Spread just a bit of the extra strawberry puree on top of the frosting, to about 1" from the edge of the cake.

Repeat this process with the second layer: level if necessary, place the cake bottom-side down on top of the first, and spread 1 cup of frosting on top.  Spread a bit more of the strawberry puree on top of the frosting.

Top with the third cake layer, top side (domed side, most likely) up. Frost the top and sides of the cake with the remaining frosting.

Root Beer Cake

In my family, cake matters.

Birthday cake, that is.

Some birthdays, believe it or not, warrant cake from a box.  I know that you will all be horrified to read that we actually purchase box cake mix here, but it's along the lines of macaroni and cheese from a box: sometimes that's really what you want, and it makes for a slightly smaller disaster when you leave the slightly distracted six year old in charge of cake preparation.  Most times, though, if I'm baking, the birthday celebrant gets to choose the cake to commemorate the occasion. 

I don't know how this tradition evolved; not, I think, from my childhood.  In fact, this year I wracked my brains for some recollection of the cakes I ate when I was growing up, but all I could remember were the dimly lit Chinese Sunday buffet and pu pu platter at the Jade Palace, the flourescent lit stainless steel steam trays at the Cuban restaurant better known as the Union City Cafeteria, and the year that I had my birthday party at McDonalds and wore my Strawberry Shortcake dress, complete with apron.  Part of me considered calling my mother to demand if this were true, if I'd really never been baked a cake of my own choosing.  The sane part of me won out, and no phone call was made.

My son is a pretty easy-to-please client: most years he elects for vanilla cake with vanilla frosting.  My daughter has yet to understand that cake flavor and shape can be requested; I live in fear of that discovery.  My husband, though, likes to live on the edge, to look for something interesting just to see if it can be done.  One year, he wanted a meat cake (which you can view, to my vegetarian-sympathizer shame, in all of its meaty glory at the Meat Cake Gallery).  This year, he wanted either a less adventurous key lime cake or a root beer cake.  I elected to make the root beer cake, which was easier to throw together on a weekday with a toddler underfoot or in the ingredients.

It was OK, but not as fabulous as I'd hoped.  Then again, I don't much like root beer.  But maybe you do.  Either way, I've altered it below with some suggestions to make it better.

What cake would you want made for you to celebrate your birthday?
 Root Beer Float Cake

Adapted from Baked: New Frontiers in Baking


The original recipe calls only for root beer, but I found that the soda alone didn't supply enough distinctive flavor.  Root beer extract (also called root beer concentrate) is actually fairly easy to find in the spice section of your grocery store, and if you prefer more "natural" extracts, those are readily available online.  I also found the frosting too thick and powdery for the cake; though I've included the slightly altered original frosting recipe, I think that a thin ganache would work just as well, letting the flavor of the cake shine through.

2 c. high quality regular root beer
1 c. unsweetened (not Dutch process) cocoa powder
1/2 c. unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1 1/4 c. sugar
3/4 c. light brown sugar
2 t. root beer concentrate/extract
2 c. flour
1 1/4 t. baking soda
1 t. salt
2 large eggs

Preheat even to 325.  Spray the inside of a 10-inch Bundt pan with nonstick cooking spray, or butter generously and dust with flour, knocking out the excess.

In a small saucepan, heat the root beer, cocoa powder and butter over medium heat until butter is melted.  Add sugars and root beer concentrate/extract and whisk until dissolved.  Remove from heat and let cool.

Lightly beat the eggs in a small bowl, and add them to the cocoa mixture, whisking until combined.  Sift (really, it makes a difference) the flour, baking soda and salt together into the cocoa mixture, folding it in gently as you go.  Some lumps will remain, but make sure that you're not breaking apart lumps that turn into flour bits.

Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 35-45 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through baking, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.  Transfer to a wire rack to cool completely then loosen edges with a butter knife and turn out onto a cake plate.  Frost with root beer frosting or chocolate root beer ganache.

Chocolate Root Beer Ganache
1/3 cup heavy cream
3 oz. bittersweet (60% or higher) chocolate
1/2 tablespoon corn syrup or golden syrup
1 t. root beer extract/concentrate
1/2 tablespoon unsalted butter

In a small saucepan, bring the cream to a boil. In a heatproof bowl, combine the remaining 3 ounces of chopped chocolate with the corn syrup (or golden syrup), root beer extract, and butter. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate and let stand until melted, about 5 minutes. Whisk until smooth. Let the ganache glaze cool until thick but still pourable, about 5 minutes.

Pour the ganache over the cooled cake. Let the cake stand until the glaze is set, at least 30 minutes, before serving.

OR
 
Chocolate Root Beer Frosting
2 oz. bittersweet (60% or more) chocolate, melted and slightly cooled
1/2 c. unsalted butter, softened
3/4  t. salt
1/2 c. root beer
1 t. root beer extract/concentrate
2/3 c. unsweetened (not Dutch process) cocoa powder
2 3/4  c. powdered sugar

Using an electric mixer, beat softened butter and cocoa powder.  Add the melted chocolate, salt, powdered sugar, root beer, and root beer extract.  Beat together until smooth.  Spread on top of cooled cake.