Borscht

I live laden with food. Not burdened, but bundled. It is not uncommon for me to find a forgotten jalapeño in my pocket or a lemon left in my purse. Rosemary twigs line my jackets and cinnamon sticks wriggle their way into my chest of drawers. Food should be personal. 

This is what I am making tonight, to fill our kitchen with warmth and delight. I hope this Sunday finds you sweetly.

Borscht Soup

4 cups stock to water

1 ½ cups thinly sliced potato

1 cup thinly sliced beets

                                                                                     

1 ½ cups chopped onion 

2 Tbs. Butter  

1 scant tsp. Caraway seeds                                                         

2 tsp. salt

2 tsp black pepper 

1/2 tsp. fresh Dill weed

1 large, sliced carrot                                                                       

1 stalk chopped celery                                                                        

1 Tbs. + 1 tsp. Cider vinegar

1 Tbs. +1 tsp. honey           

1 cup tomato puree

toppings: sour cream, dill weed, chopped tomato

Place potatoes, beets and water in saucepan.  Cook until everything is tender.

(Save the water)

Begin cooking the onions in the butter in a large kettle.  Add caraway seeds and salt.  Cook until onion is translucent, then add celery, carrots and cabbage(optional).

Add water from beets and potatoes and cook, covered until all the vegetables are tender.

Add potatoes, beets and all remaining ingredients.

Cover and let simmer for at least 30 minutes.  Taste to correct seasonings.

Serve topped with sour cream, dill weed, chopped fresh tomatoes, and extra vinegar. 

Trusting in Strangers

We are waiting on the side of the road. It is our first time and we are nervous but both pretend not to be. We both pretend we trust strangers and we both pretend that this is the adventure we want. I wish that we were warm and had a bed to sleep in but I don’t say anything. The sky looks like it could drench us soon and my cracked heels beg for a fresh pair of socks. Our spaghetti supply is getting low and we frugally limit ourselves to one meal a day. We are hoping to make it to a town soon to replenish our food supplies and have relative peace in the safety of camping in someone’s backyard.

We thrust our thumbs at every car that passes by, which isn’t too many today. We give our best desperate looks and I smile hopefully at each driver but their taillights keep getting smaller in the distance.

We start to worry that we will have to find a quiet meadow to spend the night when we jokingly throw our thumbs out at a passing 18 wheeler. “Oh God, I hope he doesn’t stop.” He does. We look at each other, crooked smiles, pretend we are braver than we are, and shrug our shoulders. We snatch our packs off the ground and awkwardly run, our hands still carrying mate. We peek our heads in and he beckons. I send a silent prayer to my guardian angels, and before I know it, Aaron has thrown my bag into the front and he is lifting me inside. Our driver is playing Kenny Rogers and as we start moving, “The Gambler” begins to play.

It is almost too much to believe. I felt like Jack Keroauc, even though I have always abhorred him. It feels like we are in a movie, thumbing down rides and listening to Kenny Rogers. Except that I have never been as cool as I pretend to be. We are in the bottom of Chile and the entire ride all I can think of is the knife in Aarons pack and how quickly I could access it if needed. I am too nervous to talk and Aaron doesn’t speak enough Spanish so we spend the ride listening to Kenny Rogers on repeat. I know the rules, and I know it is our job to entertain our silent chauffer—but today and this ride, I am a nervous wreck. I sit wringing my hands, thinking of how no one knows where we are and we could be dead for weeks before our parents back home might worry. I sit thinking of my survival skills and wondering how well Aaron could throw a punch. Every slight movement the driver makes I am convinced is the beginning of a slaughter or violent rape. I sit. I worry. I listen to Kenny Rogers. We do not speak.

In a few hours after many listens to Kenny Rogers Greatest Hits, we make it to Cooiyhaque and the driver lets us out at the edge of town. We say thank you over and over again—Thank you for the ride and also sorry for thinking you were a hitchhiker killer. Thank you for delivering us and allowing us to continue to trust in the great Mystery.

We laugh, we buy beer and we shake off the fear. There are many more rides to thumb, many more drivers to entertain, and many more stops on our journey. We cannot waste any more energy on fear.

Ginger Cookies Baby!

I have absent for so long I will be surprised if anyone even reads this now. But I keep writing, because it is my silent understanding that beauty is nothing if not shared, and so even these slices, even these insignificant stories and recipes must be thrown out into the void to create unknown ripples.

I suppose I have been absent from myself as well, but that is all too familiar a feeling. I suppose also, that I have felt that I have nothing to write. That the peace and insignificance of our lives here is somehow unworthy and boring. That somehow I am so afraid of melting into the void that I have slipped into it unknowingly.

But in the meantime there are the most delicious ginger snaps you've ever had, and they are begging to fill your kitchen and bellies. They are seriously AMAZING and they are meant to be shared and eaten warm.

Chewy Ginger Snaps 

1/2 cup chopped crystallized ginger
2/3 cup sugar + extra for dusting
6 tbsp butter

1/4 cup molasses
1 large egg
1 tsp vanilla

2 cups flour
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cloves

Combine 1/3 cup sugar and butter together and mix until white and fluffy. Mix chopped ginger and rest of sugar and mix well. Add molasses, egg and vanilla, mix, then scrape down bowl. Add flour and rest of spices and mix until just combined. Refrigerate for an hour or so, or until the dough is cool enough to handle. Shape into 1 in balls, then roll in sugar.
Bake at 350 for about 11 min. They will still look soft but don't worry, they will harden when cool and still remain delightfully chewy.

Firebrand Artisan Bread

If you live in Oakland, eat Firebrand Bread. 

If you want to eat well, eat fresh bread. If you want to eat fresh bread, make sure it is baked with good hands.

Everything you need to know about someone, you can tell by looking at their hands. His hands are tattooed and leathery. They have “Hard Work” stamped across the knuckles, as if the 36 hour shifts and incredible speed at which he works isn’t enough of an indicator. His hands are strong but never cruel, and they inspire respect. This is not a man you want to displease—his hands command dignity and you want their approval.

She has small hands, but they are also strong and she uses them with deft and a fierce tenderness. She loves the bread, but she does not coddle it and wait around for it to grow up. She fiercely, but gently, shapes pretzels and baguettes, calmly and quickly, making each dough believe that’s what it wants to be. She does not force the dough, but also does not ask its opinion. Each roll and batard believe that they are shaped as they should be. She is assertive and not afraid of asking for what she wants, but also understand that she is the farthest thing from a bully.

My mother’s hands are big and leathery too. I have never seen them painted. I asked her once if I could paint them and she just smiled. My mothers hands are shaping hands too. Good at shaping bread and dinner, but also at shaping people. Kneading her children into good people so that we too, like Colleen’s baguettes, believe that we are exactly what we are supposed to be.

I have known many hands in my life. Soft hands, mean hands, timid hands, misshapen hands, desirous hands, questioning hands, soon to be gone hands.

So if you find yourself under the bridge, near a row of buildings, underneath the single street light, look closer. There is a strip of light shining from under the roll up door. And even though the night seems quiet and abandoned, look inside. There is a hive of activity; florescent lights, Social Distortion, smoke, oven doors opening and closing, and the scramble of hands shaping, legs strutting, and mouths moving. You’ll see past the temporary shifting bodies to see a man and a woman. They stand, never quite still, flittering and humming, insane and dedicated, to each other and their work.

Absent minded and Snowballs

I have been absent. Absent from this blog, absent from work, absent from myself. There is a shell that looks and talks like me, that walks and laughs like me, that works just as hard--But the filling has flown the coop.
I'm not quite sure where I've gone. Maybe that is what is left to be decided. My bones are tired and my hands swollen, and the space of a day, filled with an infinite amount of work and chatter, there simply isn't enough space for my heart to catch up.
So I lay here somewhere, in this liminal space, this purgatory of neither happiness nor sadness, and I suppose part of be is just waiting. Waiting for time to pass, for some sign, for some shoe-shaking, dust-raising, hair-flinging lightening bolt to show itself.
I don't have enough time in this life to wait, but I also don't seem to have the will or drive in a day to do anything else.

So in the meantime, I bake holiday cookies, I go to work, I read, and I try to let my hands relax every once in a while.

These are cheerful cookies. They are light and round and bright and it is hard to be sad when you are munching on one. They are easy too and very satisfying. They are small clouds of sugar dust to melt in your mouth and make the world seem just a little lighter.

Snowballs

1 cup butter
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 1/4 cups flour (or cake flour if you have it)
1 cup chopped pecans
1/4 tsp salt

1/3 cup powdered sugar (for rolling)

Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add vanilla, flour, pecans and salt. Mix until just combined. Roll out into little balls on a baking sheet. Make them smaller than you might think. Imagine a large marble. (They are so much for satisfying when you can pop a whole one in your mouth).
Bake at 350 for 12-15 min. They won't look much different, but their bottoms will be golden.
Roll in powdered sugar when cool.

Date Cake

One of my favorite and best cakes. It is moist, delicious, and filling. It is also a great holiday treat!

Date Cake

9 oz dates-pitted and chopped

¾ tsp baking soda

1 ¼ cup water

2 tbl Grand Marnier (optional)

2 tsp instant espresso powder (Optional)

¾ cup butter

1 cup brown sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 ¼ cup flour

1/4 tsp clove

1/4 tsp nutmeg

3/4 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp salt

½ tsp baking soda

Preheat oven to 325.

In a small saucepan combine chopped dates, water, and baking soda. Cook over medium heat until dates are soft and it is one big gooey mixture. Do not worry—It will turn brown and even slightly green. Do not burn, but cook until the mixture looks like one cohesive jam. You can keep cooking this at a low heat while you mix the rest of the cake.

Cream butter and brown sugar together. Add eggs and vanilla. Slowly add flour and spices until just combined. Add date mixture and mix until just combined. Do not over mix. Pour into prepared pan (9” cake pan or 9X13 pan) and bake at 325 for 40-60 min.

Breathe deeply anyways

It grew on crooked lumber and broken glass

It grew in potholes and highway divides

It grew in sidewalk splits and rusted drains

It will grow. Trust this. It will grow. Whatever we plant will grow, so make it worthwhile.

Our love and California poppies line the sides of the road and fill the spaces between hope and grief.

We must carry grief, gratitude, and grace. And we must do it humbly and nobly.

There is no greater gift and pain than the opportunity to be human.

There is no task more important.

Give your heart to itself and to the world. Learn the dance of space between and fill it. Keep your bones in your skin and keep your skin a part of humanity.

Believe in magic. It is the only thing that will carry you through. Bend your knees and say thank you, and then rise to your feet and give it all back.

The world is in the palm of your hand. It was placed there gently the moment you took your first breath. The air has become polluted, but breathe deeply anyways.

We must carry grief, gratitude, and grace. And we must do it humbly and nobly.

There is no greater gift and pain than the opportunity to be human.

There is no task more important.