High-Rise cocktail

Hello, everyone! So, it's been about six months since I've ruffled the waters of this reticent food blog. I'd like to imagine that it's been absently humming to itself, completely relaxed in a warm, summery field, somewhere along the coast of the internet. I won't offer meandering excuses as to where I've been or fluffy reasons for a long absence, but they involve an archaic, finicky oven and the need to replenish a disappearing blogging mojo. I'm still trying to deal with the latter, but I *think* I have managed to grab onto its tail (my mojo's spirit animal is an elusive, prickly arctic fox).

Instead of confections, I've resurfaced with a libation (my very first!). You will be smitten with this coy, little intoxicant, I promise.

sir thomas sharpe's dark chocolate + garden mint cookies

Rain

a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening, the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
isn't there?
he came to hear the
music.

~ by Charles Bukowski, from Selected Poems

September feels both aloof and intimate this year. The days are hot, damp...marvelously slow & yet bittersweet in their attempt to casually hold onto mid-July's warm embrace. A small fistful of russet-tinted leaves have fallen onto the still verdant earth. They remind me of overexuberant guests who always arrive too early for the party; yet you can't help but get swept up in their contagious, breathless excitement. September is my birthday month, but I can always sense autumn's approaching grey skies & deceptively soft chill. I have no quarrel with autumn, don't get me wrong, I'm only all too aware of what follows, and I will never be ready for it.

lemon meringue pie

"There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath
the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation
when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it." 

                                                              ~ from The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950 - 1962

wild Ophelia's triple berry pie

"When I start to think, I freeze. And when I freeze I write like a lady who came from a clean, honorable, intelligent and quiet home. And what sort of writing is that?" 
                                                                                             ~ Martha Gellhorn, from Selected Letters

I've spent too many costly sympathies on an ill fated Ophelia and spun too many broken, unfulfilled yearnings into The Lady of Shalott's loom. For once, I would like to live, to write...to be uninhibited. Mornings & spring are heavy with promise, and something far more dangerous, hope. There's a fleeting, blissful moment when I first wake up; the tree outside my window is lush with foliage, the sun is bathing my no-longer-flannel sheets and, best of all, the worries & burdens & what ifs have not yet burst through the confines of my tranquil mind. If only I could hold onto that serenity and wear it like a bee-sting necklace, infusing frozen, distraught veins with a doses of halcyon weather, as needed.

This post & its photos have been waiting for me to (re)find myself; my own authenticity. I'm too easily disappointed. When lofty plans & far-fetched wishes tumble to the ground, I tend to retreat inward and wallow a bit too long in a state of melancholy. This blog is not immune to my occasional bouts of despondency. But that part of me IS a part of me. After 30 + years, I'm beginning to accept that I'll always be 'sometimes' moody, but maybe I can tap into the depths and turn a sorrow that's sprung from lost grasps at imagined perfections, into an untamed savage beauty. (My mother is half Irish, after all.)  I'm still organically lost and hunting through the overgrown moss-green forest of my (as of late) unkempt mind, but I this site is my child and it's been neglected far too long. And however fanciful, I'm still holding a candle for Tom Hiddleston (even through choppy, rumor-filled waters). There are perks to the idiosyncrasies of being a practical idealist.

flourless maple walnut peanut butter cookies + a giveaway

"The pearls weren't really white, they were a warm oyster beige, with little knots in between
so if they broke, you only lost one. I wished my life could be like that, knotted up so that even
if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart." 
                                                                        
                                                            ~ from 'The White Oleander' by Janet Fitch

I'm still guilty of neglecting my blog, yet I can't come up with a valid excuse. My thoughts, which have been buried +  scattered across the months of January & February, are slowly thawing. I'm trying to process the fact that it's actually warm enough to gently *pry* open my bedroom window at night. After a lengthy absence, it's hard to know where to (re)start. My writing voice is filled with an assortment of plump little winterling birds, each one longing to fly out and test the warm ambiance (at last!) of  March. I can't release them all at once so I'll start with the quiet ones and gradually work my way up to the brash confidence of squeaky wheels.

Today I'm sharing a sweetly simple recipe for maple walnut peanut butter cookies. Simple because unlike most cookies, you won't have to suffer the agony of chilling dough. They are also flourless. I'd label them gluten free but, being relatively unfamiliar with the gf world, I'll err on the side of caution. I enjoy peanut butter much too much, a jar of the good stuff will only last about a week in my cupboard. As soon as I arrived home with my beloved maple madness peanut butter, I whipped up these tender little gems. Feel free to omit the walnuts & chocolate, if you prefer. While both additions gave the cookies a pleasant nubby texture, I think they almost masked the peanut butter's maple flavour.

guest post: banana hazelnut pound cake

Once again I find myself tumbling swiftly through 2015 without a clock or parachute. Winter has been an absolute lion this year, its frigid, gigantic paw planted firmly on my shoulder, holding me in a frozen state of lethargy. Icy fingertips & drafty kitchen, I've simply been too busy to procure the required space of time to bake + blog. Thank goodness for (heroic!) fellow food bloggers. I'm elated to introduce you to Nik, from the exquisite A Brown Table.

Nik's food photography is stunning. He captures the perfect mood of each ingredient and makes the process of baking (and cooking) a work of art. I also love the fact that his recipes are unique and often include helpful hints & photos. If you're new to his food blog, I'm sure you will be immediately smitten, too!

Thank you so much for helping me keep my blog afloat, Nik. She's all yours... xoxo

Happy Birthday, Mom (& Tom Hiddleston)! a mid-winter dark chocolate + blood orange cake

"Decadence: where the tasty and the unsavoury, the harmful and the delightful are no longer discernible from one another." 

                                            ~ Wieki Somers

Oh hello again, everyone. The holiday season left in flurry of wind & salt. It slammed the door (with its typical jubilant-yet-oblivious manner) and left a mess of strewn confetti & unfulfilled expectations in its wake. I'm never prepared for Christmas, but I find I'm even less equipped for its abrupt departure. The breathless excitement felt at the top of a December's Ferris wheel makes January's plunge all the more grey & vacant. In an effort to soften last month's harsh edges, I decided to take a break from blogging. I simply wanted to bake for the sake of baking. My camera took refuge on a cosy pile of photo prop linens and we both enjoyed an unspoken truce. I'm sorry that I didn't announce my absence...it was a flight of fancy and I did not want to tarnish a rare act of spontaneity by over-explaining the motive behind it. An elephantine Thank You to everyone who inquired about my lack of posts (it's lovely & humbling to know they were missed!). xoxo 

This cake made me blissfully silly, again, & it reawakened my blogging nerdiness. It's embarrassing how many photos were taken (all while listening to an idiosyncratic mix of Tom Waits & the Amélie soundtrack). At first glance the recipe appears dramatic & lengthy but, if you take on each component individually, it's completely approachable. The cake is an experience. It's devastatingly rich...beyond anything I've ever made. I will have euphoric dreams about this cake for a very long, long time.

apple-berry + hazelnut streusel bars

"let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go
it was sworn to
go

let them go - the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers - you must let them go
they were born to
go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love."

                                    ~ 'let it go' by e.e. cummings

Wishing everyone a vivaciously blithe (mind-dust free) 2015!  Sometimes my tiny space feels lost in a hidden pocket of the blogosphere's ether; thank you for visiting, commenting and constantly reminding me why I keep returning to this cosy, flour-speckled nook. xoxo

{At some point in 2015, Tom Hiddleston will play Recuerdos de la Alhambra (for me) on guitar, I'm convinced.}

Hiddles Darling holiday cookies

I inherited my mother's delicate hummingbird bones and gregarious knees {as a teenager, my knees were more talkative than I was in the early mornings}. Even though I prefer the calm serenity of yoga,  every other year or so I take up running for a handful of months.

When the mercury plummets, I resort to using as archaic treadmill that dwells in my damp, stone-walled basement/dungeon. For some idiosyncratic reason I don't like the jarring feel of running shoes on vinyl, instead I wear yoga socks with sticky, grippy dots (aka, Spiderman socks!). The socks, apparently, are not as Spidey as I had hopped...at least not when they're up against rogue cats. Last week, Niles, in the midst of a phantom mouse chase, decided to take a short cut across a moving treadmill. In an effort to avoid a collision, I performed an inventive, square dance-esqe sidestep; my loquacious left knee was not amused. What began as a tickle, has morphed into a throbbing pain that radiates down my entire outer leg. I *loathe* being inactive. If I'm careful, I can eke out an errant yoga or pilates session, but even gentle movements sometimes ignite my knee's understandable ire.

What does this have to do with cookies (or Tom)? Not much, really. As I was soothing my knee in a hot bubble bath, I focused on a bottle of St. Ives oatmeal shower gel that was sitting on the ledge. The word 'Ives' is comforting; almost like ivy, which, for someone who loves all things verdant & green, is delectable. Ivy eventually led to eyes and eyes led, naturally, to Tom Hiddleston. Kind eyes and chewy cookies are capable of alleviating woes, ouches and fluttering knees.

mile-high apple cranberry pie

"I don't know which to prefer,
the beauty of inflections 
or the beauty of innuendos.
The blackbird whistling 
or just after." 
         ~ Wallace Stevens, from "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" 

Happy December, everyone. For several weeks now, one of my oak trees has served as a stark meeting nook for a pair of ravens. They form various ink blot patterns against a milk grey, late-autumn sky and crooked branches. As a lover of all things Poe, I have always been fascinated with ravens; their errant, melodic *caws* are a welcome addition to the morning symphony of coffee grinding and soft spoken NPR news.

Heart fluttering holiday chaos + slippery (white-knuckled!) driving aside, I'm slightly enamored with the chivalrous month of December. Its ephemeral light makes it difficult to squeeze in food photos, but unlike January and February, I don't mind the time constraint. I'll sigh at the 4:30 pm sun & occasionally rap two fingers nervously against my lips whilst rearranging plates and napkins, but that's the extent of Decemberling angst. By mid-winter I'm a fidgeting, disheveled basket case. If they're still around, maybe the obsidian feathered visitors will keep my mind focused and clear - even during winter's bleakest streak. My whimsical half, the part who relished fabled stories and grew up watching Faerie Tale Theatre, is convinced they are Odin's Huginn and Muninn. Maybe Loki isn't too far behind...

cinnamon walnut pear cake with whiskey-mocha fudge

"But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods...for their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them." 
                                                      ~ L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars 

Half my kitchen lost power two weeks ago, a term apparently known as a brownout; unfortunately my oven was included in the bereft half. Adding briny salt to the wound, my archaic boiler also stubbornly refused to produce heat properly (three cheers for farmhouse living!). Thankfully *knock on wood,* everything is now functioning perfectly. 

Currently there's a heavy blanket of snow coating the ground, trees, and a befuddled picnic table. Heat is crackling through vintage cosy vents and the oven is content to procure its beloved pies and cakes again, but I am not ready for the glacial chill. I don't know why snow and winter tap into an almost primal feeling of claustrophobia; as though the oppressive milky-grey sky will never again yield to spring's blue or the lush stormy celery greens' of summer. I was literally just beginning to allow myself to melt into the earthiness of autumn. If I dust off the philosopher's stone, there's a tiny part of me, as sharp & shattering as a hip bone, that relishes the grey and the cold and the endlessness. Maybe I fear yielding to this darker half completely, someday. But aren't we all a heady smorgasbord of idiosyncrasies? I doubt I'd feel complete without the sporadic brooding and occasional bout of melancholy.

Four days without heat in 30 F. temperatures makes one extra introspective, obvs. It also induces savage cravings for spiced cakes + wicked dark chocolate things.

salted cinnamon dulce de leche tart with whiskey whipped cream

" Another year gone, leaving everywhere 
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering 
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wandering of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever 
in these momentary pastures."

~ Fall Song, by Mary Oliver 

There's a peculiar, raw umber coloured piece of gnarled wood on one of my ceiling beams. Depending on what shade of mood I'm in, it either resembles a whimsical Mark Twain with a daisy tucked behind one ear, or the foreboding profile of a clown (aren't most clowns a bit ominous, anyway?).  I stare at this nonconformist bit of gnarled wood as I'm polishing off the last few minutes of yoga (or pseudo napping on the sofa). This morning, whilst enjoying my morning coffee, I happened to gaze upon it from a different angle. Instead of a brilliant, wild-haired writer or psychotic clown, I saw a Celtic ash tree with three stoic ravens + spiraling branches that appeared to be leaning away from a glacial northerly wind. I suddenly felt morose. The newly discovered tree is bewitching, but its bare boned silhouette and stark sentinels remind me of November's abruptness. How is it possible that the leaves have already fallen so completely from every tree? I still have lofty plans for 2014. The me from last March is pacing, anxiously, hoping that this time things will be different. The thought of another unending heartless winter, claustrophobic eight hour days; not being capable of quieting the ghosts who ask me to try the impossible, again & again ...it's almost too much to bear.

This time of year always saturates my thoughts with fevered woes, worries, aspirations & whimseys that were never fully wrung out. Contrary to my contrary self, I'm still ridiculously hopeful. More than likely, it's the remnants of a willful head cold.

Best *cinnamon* Chocolate Chip Cookies

The last several days have been a tousled mix of rough sand and jaunty stardust. My *attempt* at conjuring a verily belated birthday crêpe cake was an epic disaster (incriminating evidence is still stuck to the disenchanted stove) and, after what should have been a 10 minute excursion, I was overwhelmingly reminded why I avoid big supermarket chains in favour of my cosy local market. Also, Cookie Monster unfollowed me on Twitter. On the upside, I defied a beguiling fear of working with yeast; via challah bread + handsome buttery brioche cinnamon rolls (aka, Tom Hiddleston sticky buns), and I discovered a cosmic, new-to-me, coffee that's dark & smouldering without a bitter curtain call. Also, these cookies!!

Tom Hiddleston's cinnamon-pecan sticky buns + a giveaway!

When I fall in love (with an ingredient), I tend to use it with reckless abandon. Lately cinnamon has made its sprucey way onto my yoghurt, oatmeal, ice cream, countertop (and yes, even rice). I cannot get enough of this nimble spice. It was only a matter of time & space before I introduced my beloved butter to fickle cinnamon.

Why Tom Hiddleston? I chose the title because of the way it flows off the tongue. It's not exactly seamless but it purrs and crunches and has a lush texture. Also, well...you know; maybe, perhaps, serendipitous-stratosphere permitting...

Peach + Curry Buttermilk Doughnuts

Now, as the wind courts a glacial nuance, I wear my hair short enough to expose a wide forehead and seashell ears to the elements (timing has never been a strong suit). When tresses brush against my neck, i feel constricted...pulled too fiercely against the earth. In another life I must have been one of Titania's faeries (Peaseblossom or Cobweb?). Shorn + tousled hair suits my elfin stature & distracted countenance.

I have my father's eager, aforementioned, protruding ears and vast forehead. Mayhaps luckily, I also inherited his propensity for wistful, impromptu daydreaming. It's usually when I'm lost in enchantment that I come up with romantic confectionery ideas and chimerical flights of fancy; usually Tom Hiddleston playing Recuerdos de la Alhambra  on classical guitar or sweetly verdant schemes involving the planting of moss & honeycomb on the cold, north-facing side of my house. While soaking up one of September's rare summerling days, I had a savage craving for something peachy enough to hold the warm lioness of August in its grip, whilst acknowledging the cosy blazing ambiance of autumn. I'm not a massive fan of fried food, but, every now and then, we need the unwavering comfort that arrives in the form of crisp sugar-drenched doughnuts.

Honey Marshmallow Crème Swirl Dark Chocolate Chunk Cookies

    September

Their summer romance
over, the lovers
still cling
to each other

the way the green
leaves cling 
to their trees 
in the strange heat

of September, as if
this time
there will be
no autumn.
                             ~ Linda Pastan, from "The Months"     

September drifts through the year like a distracted moth. It's a manic 30 days and I often find myself equally disoriented. It feels as though I'm trudging through an ethereal bayou; unfulfilled hopes are willingly tangled in summer's beckoning reeds as idealistic eyes catch the first willowy blush of leaves and the promise of a new chapter. My heart can't process which season, what ambiance, it wants to embrace.

This hungry fidgeting month, with its quiet longing for a place to land, still manages to put on a marvelous show year after year. September hides her sorrow behind a sweet honeycrisp breeze and smoldering sunsets. Her rain, though not as verdant and lush as June's, is soft and cosy and drips with moss covered sylvan aromas. I empathize with my mercurial birth month, we're so very much alike with our unquenchable ache for the intangible (and stubborn reticence to simply reach for errant helpful branches).

We're also, apparently, besotted with honey. September is National Honey month! I don't bake about it often but honey is an infinite source of comfort + pleasure. It's been a warm, edible blanket since early childhood days spent with Winni-the-Pooh (and my beloved Eeyore!).

Blueberry Coconut Macaroons

"Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into heavy wine."  

                                           ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Autumn Day (translated by Galway Kinnell)                    

September, my birth month. Growing up I unfairly wove September into the obscure first-day-of-school ambiance. It carried the scent of pencil shavings and new plastic binders - it felt awkward; an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the scrapping of chairs on shiny linoleum floors. Now that I've outgrown itchy plaid uniform skirts and falling knee socks, I'm in love with September. It's mercurial and temperamental, but, when in a benevolent mood, September is a magnificent host of two seasons.

Prospero's raspberry + ale pie; an arbitrary farewell to summer

"Now my charms are all o'erthrown
and what strength I have's mine own,
which is most faint: now 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
or sent to Naples. Let me not,
since I have my dukedom got
and pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
in this bare island by your spell;

But release me from my bands
with the help of your good hands:
gentle breath of yours my sails
must fill, or else my project fails,
which was to please. Now I want
spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
and my ending is despair,
unless I be relieved by prayer,
which pierces so that it assults
mercy itself and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
let your indulgence set me free." 

                                          ~  William Shakespeare (The Tempest, act 5, epilogue.)

 I fell in love with The Tempest my freshmen year of high school, during a performance at a local theater. The play was ethereal; ambient mist, primal music, sylvan costumes and lush acting...I'm convinced there was a metallic taste of magic in the air each time Ariel took the stage. I was so enamored, I accidentally dropped a box of lemon heads. The cacophony made by each tiny candy striking an unbearably hard wood floor was deafening (I was mortified!). Thankfully the resulting frigid glares were fleeting, and confused...my eyes made a subtle glance towards the person sitting next to me. The play continued and I imagined myself in the role of Miranda, or Ariel. As Prospero was delivering his infamous epilogue, I was smitten, completely, especially knowing that the speech may have been Shakespeare's adieu. 

Initially I was only going to include a few lines from Prospero's speech, but it's so lovely in its entirety - chopping his farewell into pieces would be barbaric. I'd like to think that summer, if she could speak, would deliver an equally robust swan song before handing the zephyrs to autumn.

Blueberry White Chocolate + Thyme Scones

Summer held its breath until the 13th hour. Finally, upon exhalation, the weather is sticky, languid as molasses...deliciously perfect. I'm odd to relish humidity and that spot on the small of the back which never completely dries during (and after) meandering through a non-air conditioned farm house. But I am in love with summer, even especially during her passionate fits of temper. Yesterday was particularly ethereal + lush; a spirited mix of hazy sunlight and distant reverberating thunder. My red entry door, now flushed and expanded with heat, brushes fiercely against the sisal rug. I find wicked amusement in hearing people huff and occasionally curse when, upon swift entry, they're met by an immobile rug + a pregnant door. It's also proving to be an excellent alarm system and gives me ample time to hide baked goods from prying hands. Sometimes the most exhausting element of food blogging is simply keeping people (and photobombing cats) away long enough to snap pictures.
    
My next recipe, if I can stop eating the star player, will be a raspberry something. For now, as you can see, I'm still riding the sanguine blueberry wave. Scones don't require too much baking sorcery but they are difficult to photograph. No worries, I will not bore you with more photography angst, but I hope it's okay to experiment with both light & dark backgrounds/moods. My cheeky heart inadvertently strays to the dark side, but I'm attempting to build bridges with the bright and airy.

Midnight in Paris Blueberry + Mint Pie

"A light white, a disgras, an inkspot, a rosy charm." 
     ~ Gertrude Stein, Tender Buttons: Objects, Food, Rooms

August is a matchstick. It burns too fast and too hot and I'm never ready for pensive September. The lion of August has not been its usual fiery, passionate self - which only makes me more anxious. After finally falling in step with the bass rhythm of summer, I'm utterly ill-prepared for autumn. The errant back to school ads that popped up in mid-July were noxious. We're constantly thrust forward at a stomach-lurching pace while trying to heed the contrary advice of enjoying the moment we're "in." It's manic and disquieting and I wish I could wish back the month of May and to spend my re-summer in Paris. Since I'm surrendering completely to fiction, preferably 1920's Paris; surrounded by Hemingway (I know he would find my writing too floral), Eliot, Stein, and, of course, Fitzgerald (oh, if he happened to be Tom Hiddleston fulfilling a similar wish...).

Alas, it's mid August and I'm not sipping wine at a café in Montparnasse. Luckily I am surrounded by local farmer's markets, and as I nurse a too-sugary, not at all French, caramel macchiato, if I let my imagination take the reins, I can *almost* imagine I'm strolling through a cobblestone Parisian side street; surrounded by the aroma of artisan bread, fresh peaches, plums, and melons. The only missing petal is a cheesemonger.