A Great Fit of Wasted Energy

I entered into this fall season dragging my feet. In a sense, I willfully filled the soles of my shoes with lead and resisted the change with a great fit of wasted energy.

Even with all my struggling, the sun's face shied away. I lost my early morning running routine, late evening opportunities for dinner outside in a sun dress, and the satisfaction of a chilled glass of white wine. It had been a peaceful, enjoyable summer, and I did not want to let it go.

I am ashamed to admit that it took me until November to recognize my full resistance. It took this long to release my grudges against 7 a.m. darkness and limited access to fresh flowers. It took being startled by the season's own unique beauty to realize the blindness I had been living in.







In my longing, I had ignored the transitions and gifts of September and October, and all of a sudden, November was here. It came with a strong, striking posture and commanded attention through explosions of color. Even though half the trees had unburdened themselves of brittle leaves by the time my eyes chose to see, there were still mosaics of yellow, brown, pink, and orange across the sidewalks my feet cross daily, and some of the most brilliantly yellow and red trees are holding on. (My favorite scene is bright coral pink leaves reaching up toward a grey sky. I could live in this color combination.)





The season had to change, and just as fall is threatening to call itself winter, I am opening up my palms and willingly receiving. I don't run as much as I did during the summer, but I walk to and from work everyday, and those half hour segments of time in which I simply cannot hurry along slow me down and force me to reflect, think, articulate, and observe.

I'm finding winter ales to an excellent replacement for those glasses of white wine. I don't get as many evening dinners with my roommates, but our household gatherings are all the more precious when they spontaneously come about.

Little by little, I am seeing why I don't want to be anywhere but in this season right now. Some moments, the contentment is pure enough to nestle in -- the enjoyment of one day helping me look forward to tomorrow without wishing myself there too quickly.

So, winter, I anticipate your mittens and mulled wine and snowy pine branches. These are going to be lovely when they arrive, but I'll count and file away each mental and photographic image of autumn until the day to say goodbye comes. I intend to make it swifter, more gratitude-filled, and less selfish than the last transition. Until then, who's up for pumpkin pie?

Rhubarb: Long Overdue

I have the fickle weather to blame for this recipe, which bounces between the flavors of summer and fall as often as the temperatures here fluctuate between sweater cozy and flip flop breezy. Yesterday morning I headed out the door at 8 o'clock with a scarf looped around my neck, and today I am back in sandals and a t-shirt. So, can you see why I found myself in the kitchen last week with two stalks of tangy rhubarb in one hand and sweet Bartlett pears in the other?



As spring ripened into summer this year, I spent a good deal of time reading about other bloggers' mouthwatering rhubarb recipes but never managed to acquire any for myself.

I have sweet memories of walking the worn trail along the tree line of our property back in Bellingham, Washington on warm summer evenings with a wrinkled grocery bag and my mom's butcher knife. The path dipped unevenly and awkwardly and felt best on the soles of bare feet, even if I had to brave a portion of gravel once I got to the end and crossed our neighbors' driveway. But beyond that driveway rhubarb grew against an old shed, its massive green leaves fanning up and out from grey walls of old untreated wood. As I bent over to part the green canopy and reach my fingers down toward the dirt, Tanir, our family dog, who had trotted ahead of me the whole way here, would dart after an invisible rabbit. Raising each stalk of rhubarb in front of me, I would swing my knife through the air and slice cleanly through it, letting the poisonous leaves accumulate in a decomposing pile to the side.

Not every rhubarb gathering day was sunny and peaceful. Some involved my mom prodding me to put on a jacket and face a chilly breeze or drizzly rain, and I would head out simply to get the job done, forgetting to notice the deep green, towering pine trees around me (I promise never to take them for granted again!). Surely what occupied my mind as I counted the number of stalks filling my sack and thus mom's quota, was the idea of a house smelling of rhubarb-y baked things. Warm muffins with brown sugar piled on their craggy tops. Custard bars with rhubarb in the creamy middle, a cookie crust, and whipped cream cheese on top. Dark, nutty coffee cake.

These are the things that made me yearn for rhubarb starting in late spring and through this summer. Even into the middle of fall, I hesitated to give up the idea of going without for a whole year, which is why, when I saw rhubarb at the Central Market in Dallas two weeks ago, I didn't have to debate with myself very long before grabbing two stalks. However, when I put the produce sticker on the bag and saw that I had just committed to paying $6-something my jaw almost dropped. Sure, it's Texas (where produce doesn't come cheaply or abundantly) and, sure, these were probably rare late bloomers, but I don't think I've ever paid for rhubarb before! It always could be gathered at our neighbors' or tracked down through other friends.

From all that reminiscing comes today's recipe. It has to do with that rhubarb I payed a black market price for and took form when I realized the ends of the stalks were starting to turn brown and soften. Not wanting to lose an inch more of my precious purchase, I surveyed the contents of my fridge and cupboards, and gleefully concluded that a clafoutis was the only fitting solution. I opened my mom's cookbook to her Apple-Raisin Clafouti recipe for inspiration and, in need of a bit more fruit, grabbed two perfectly ripe pears.



Now, my mom put her clafoutis recipe in the dessert section of the cookbook she made for her children, but I think it could just as agreeably be found in the breakfast section. After all, the batter is a lot like that of an oven pancake and it's loaded with fruit, so why not?



Rhubarb and Pear Clafoutis*
Adapted from my mother.

Serves 6.

3 cups rhubarb, small cubes
2 cups Barlett pear, small cubes
1/4 cup Turbinado raw cane sugar
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
2 Tbsp. butter
2/3 cup flour
1/2 cup milk
3 eggs
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 Tbsp. vanilla
Powdered sugar, for sprinkling

1. Preheat oven to 350°F.

2. Combine first four ingredients in a large bowl.

3. Melt butter in a 2-qt. baking dish in oven. Place fruit mixture on top of melted butter, and bake for 15 minutes, or until fruit is soft.

4. While waiting, combine the rest of the ingredients in a blender and whir on high for 1 minute.

5. Pour batter over hot mixture and return to oven for about 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from oven and cool slightly. Dust with powdered sugar and serve warm.

*My mom spells Clafoutis without an s ("Clafouti"), and from Googling it, it seems like both spellings are acceptable, but if I'd love to learn more about the two forms. If you're a French speaker, please pipe up!

Tuesdays with Dorie: A Dose of Honesty

I sit before you as the same tired girl who was here last week, but I'll refrain from sharing the details of my all-night escapades because 1) "escapades" is a far too exciting word to use -- they're quite boring -- and 2) many of you lead equally crazy lives.

How does life get so crazy? Personally, I have to admit a lot has to do with this laptop resting on my legs. I can't live with it, and I can't live without it. Email and Skype keep me connected with friends too far away to hug, Picasa keeps my photographs stored and organized, and good ol' Microsoft Word keeps words flowing (or stumbling) out of my brain and into typed words that eventually make their way onto crisp white paper in the hands of the professors who, as my graduation date draws closer, seem to hold my future in their all-powerful hands. And, yet, this computer works against me by offering a million less important distractions from the things that I must accomplish before sinking into bed each night.

Tonight I'll be researching the works of illustrators such as Lane Smith, and committing the mood and sway of Glen & Mar's album to memory through iTunes, all from the comfort of a cleared spot at the end of my bed, which as gone unmade for a shameful eight days (not to mention that it is now sheet-less, because I washed them two days ago and haven't put them back on).



Why am I admitting all this to you dear people (who I'm sure have a squeaky clean image of me and are surely quite surprised to learn I'm not perfect)? Well, I tend to be quite honest when I'm tired.

And, along the lines of being honest, I have to counter that I can live without this laptop. People do, and I can learn to, again, if need be. I'm very grateful to the generous friend who gave it to me, but I don't ever want to get so attached to something as fleeting as a computer (which can be killed in a few seconds with water dumped across its screen and keys -- I would know), or convenient as a cell phone, or even as luxurious as $8 New Zealand honey (totally worth it, that once -- I hadn't tasted it since my childhood on our regular visits to the honey shop between Waiwera and Auckland).

But, as long as I have access to a kitchen and the internet, I will likely continue to take pictures and blog about my gastronomic experiences, so thank you so much for joining me tonight.



I have been retracing my steps all evening long, ever since I started scooping this muffin batter into its designated tin and wondering why it was so thick. I can't figure out what I did wrong. Dorie Greenspan presents a lovely sounding pumpkin muffin recipe in Baking: From My Home to Yours, and I have been looking forward to trying it for a couple weeks. But what I pulled out of the oven in no way outshines other pumpkin quick breads or muffins I have made. The most appealing way to describe its appearance was "rustic." The batter was too thick to fill out the muffin liner while baking and remained piled on top.

The only things I changed were that I made a one and a half recipe, switched out 1/3 of the all-purpose flour for whole-wheat, and used a very runny and sour yogurt instead of buttermilk. I do no see how these could have dramatically affected the consistency.

On the bright side, they're pumpkin flavored, so they're hard to hate (who are you crazy people saying you don't like pumpkin?) and loaded with cranberries (another minor alteration) and pecans and coated with crunchy sunflower seeds, but I could easily add these things to one of my preferred pumpkin muffin recipes.



These are my thoughts on Tuesdays With Dorie's recipe this week, but I'm looking forward to finding out how others' baking sessions went (as soon as I find the time). I could have just encountered something weird and only relevant to my kitchen; I'm willing to give Dorie the benefit of the doubt.

The recipe can be found here:
Pumpkin Muffins

Urging Fall into Existence

The walls of my bedroom are empty. I still haven't gotten around to putting up my maps, photos, and artwork since moving in and haven't minded so much, but today their white scratchy texture is ominously silent. I think it's time to let myself settle in a bit more.

One year just sounds like so little time until I pack up my bags, tuck my college diploma under my arm, and head off to another chapter of life.

Yesterday I came back from a couple days in Dallas, and sometimes it is leaving that reminds me that I don't mind staying. This apartment in Abilene is the closest thing to home I have right now. So it's time to decorate the walls.

It's time to let myself move in a bit more and release some grudges against this place that has become home against my will. One grudge I hold right now is against the weather. It is so dang hot here, and we just stepped into October!

I'm looking forward to the night I can crawl into bed and pull all my warm, heavy blankets on top of me. I've tried, but within a couple minutes, I end up kicking everything except the sheet down to the bottom of the bed. I'm hanging onto the idea of baking on a Saturday and enjoying the warmth from the oven, versus walking into another room as often as possible to cool off. And I'm anticipating the foods of fall. Right now, they just don't suit very well. But still I try.

Last night I tried to whip up some fall fare, and it was delicious, despite the fact that as we sat down in the coolest part of the house we could find, our warm bowls did little to keep our sweat at bay.

But if you are in a cooler place than I am, then I encourage you to pull out your cornmeal and make some classic polenta. Its golden yellow color just goes so well with the changing leaves. And even if you're not heading into fall (because I know spring is beginning for my southern friends), polenta is just so good. I don't think your stomach can ever protest against this stuff.

I took my leftover french red onion soup, which I had gratefully been working on since making a big pot of it, and found that age allowed the flavors to mellow out very pleasingly. Slowly softening them a little while longer, and scooping them onto creamy polenta, with the gruyère I bought to accompany they, made for a very happy combo.

It's perfect for fall. Or for those of us who just like to pretend.

Basic Polenta
Based off so very many sources but mostly common sense.

6 cups water
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups stone ground cornmeal
1 tablespoon of butter (or up to 3)

Bring water to boil in heavy saucepan. Add salt, and reduce heat to low. Then slowly pour in cornmeal, stirring with a whisk as you go.

Attentively whisk for the next five minutes or so to prevent lumps. Then cover and stir every few minutes. Continue to do this until cornmeal grains have softened and begins to pull away from sides of the pan, about 30 minutes.

Remove from heat. Stir in chunks of butter until melted and combined. Serve immediately.*

*The picture you see at the top of the page is of my polenta the next day, so it has more form to it after being in the fridge in a container. Yours should spread out more on the plate or within the bowl.

French Red Onions
Adapted from this recipe

Red onions, prepared according to this recipe**
3 tablespoons port wine
Gruyère

Using a generous amount of butter (depending on how many onions you have and how much softer they need to get -- I had about half of my soup left and used 4 tablespoons of butter) heat red onions (strained from broth) in a heavy skillet at medium-low heat.

Occasionally stir, slowly letting onions soften, about 30 minutes (mine needed this much time because they never got as soft in the soup-making process). Pour in a generous splash of port. Allow all to combine for a couple more minutes.

Spoon onions and sauce over polenta. Shred gruyère over top.

**I had made the soup earlier in the week. Obviously, you don't have to go through the exact same process to get these red onions. I have ideas for how to get the complex flavor of the already prepared onions without a lot of broth left over, but since I did not do it, I do not want to give you specific directions. I'm sure you can figure it out with some experimentation. Just don't neglect the anise. (It's not so bad after all.)