Category Archives: recipe

Strawberry frangipane tart with balsamic caramel glaze

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Stawberry frangipane tart with balsamic glaze

Stawberry frangipane tart with balsamic glaze

One of the great pleasures of doing the same thing every day is watching for the small changes. This is never more true than in springtime, when the small changes are so glowing and growing and hopeful. We’ve been taking walks after dinner, which is one of my favorite things to do when the days start to stay lighter later. No matter how tired or full I am, or how much my feet and back hurt, I always want to go for a walk after dinner. Clio can be relied upon as a companion, Malcolm is almost always game, David comes if he has time, and Isaac needs to be persuaded, almost every time. We’re lucky to live along a canal with a beautiful towpath, and we’re even luckier that between that canal and the river is an old abandoned train track. It’s got a quiet, secret feeling about it, but it’s a shared secret: you won’t be overrun by people, but you’re likely to meet somebody you know. Last summer, Malcolm and I discovered a beautiful network of paths that wind from the train tracks to the river, through a low woodsy stretch of land crisscrossed by creeks. This is where we go. It’s a beautifully dreamlike landscape, and if you run through it trying to keep up with Malcolm and Clio, it can feel ecstatically like flying. After the storm in the fall, it was difficult to walk here. Fallen trees and debris and networks of crazed brambles changed the course of the path forever. Even now, in spring, everything is coated with a hoary grey vine, dried, dead, and wintery, but still clinging thickly to everything in its path. It’s a solidification of the damage that the storm did…a creeping tangling spirit of everything that got washed up and unrooted and washed under.
storm grasses

storm grasses


Lately beautiful small yellow flowers are taking over the landscape. In the dusky light, they glow like grounded stars, more and more every day. They’re tiny compared to the strangling vine, but they’re alive and growing, and the vine is slowly turning to dust. Each day we see more green, more gold, more leaves and flowers, we hear more birds, and watch as the creeks rise and fall with the spring rains.
the yellow flowers

the yellow flowers


The other night it was just Malcolm and Clio and me. A storm was predicted, and I’m predictably terrified of thunderstorms. I thought we wouldn’t go very far, I said we wouldn’t go very far, but I didn’t want to go back once we’d started out, and we followed almost to the end of the winding path. We walked back to a gathering of dark clouds over the river, and the rumble of thunder. I grabbed Malcolm’s arm. He shone his bright face at me and said, “Don’t worry, mom, it’s a sign of spring.” We tumbled into the house, laughing, as the real rain started to fall.

I think this strawberry tart is one of the best things I’ve made in a long time! And I’ve made a lot of good things!! I’m so proud of the stupid balsamic caramel. I feel as though I may have invented it, and I’m scared to google it and see how many millions of examples of balsamic caramel exist. So…we have a sweetened pastry crust shell, peppered with black pepper. We have a soft almond frangipane layer, topped with thinly-slice fresh strawberries. These are coated with an unbelievably delicious sweet-tart balsamic vanilla caramel glaze that’s perfect with the strawberries and the creamy frangipane. I’m patting myself on the back as I think about it!!

Here’s We Walk, by REM, live in 1983 (!!!!) Actually, the vine-clad terrain of our walks reminds me of the cover of Murmur!

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Chocolate-dipped framboise madeleines

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Chocolate-dipped framboise madeleines

Chocolate-dipped framboise madeleines

    He knew that the very memory of the piano falsified still further the perspective in which he saw the elements of music, that the field open to the musician is not a miserable stave of seven notes, but an immeasurable keyboard (still almost entirely unknown) on which, here and there only, separated by the thick darkness of its unexplored tracts, some few among the millions of keys of tenderness, of passion, of courage, of serenity, which compose it, each one differing from all the rest as one universe differs from another, have been discovered by a few great artists who do us the service, when they awaken in us the emotion corresponding to the theme they have discovered, of showing us what richness, what variety lies hidden, unknown to us, in that vast, unfathomed and forbidding night of our soul which we take to be an impenetrable void.

And you thought he just wrote about cookies!! That’s Proust, of course, from Swann’s Way. Here at The Ordinary, we’re fascinated by the connection of music, food and memory, as evidenced by the fact that we talk about it all the time. This morning I made my boys “flat” pancakes and fresh strawberries, which is a meal I remember as a special-occasion meal, for birthday breakfast or even a special dinner every once in a while. The smell of them cooking reminds me of that, and hopefully some day it will remind my boys of the mornings we made them. Likewise, I associate many things with many things, musically. Bob Marley’s Who Feels it Knows It reminds me of a long car trip to the midwest when my brother and I were in college. And his Hammer reminds me of the summer I met David, of his small, warmly glowing room with dried daffodils in the window. Lefty Frizzel reminds me of early morning bird watching and Dunkin Donuts, and the Bay City Rollers reminds me of the end of a long car trip back from Upstate New York in the autumn, stir-crazy and happy. Fly Me To The Moon reminds me of my first feature, one of the actresses sang it as we set up a shot. Jimi Hendrix’ Remember reminds me of walking to my film class, and John Lee Hooker’s Send me Your Pillow reminds me of long cold nights alone in my attic room. Belle and Sebastian’s Sleep the Clock Around reminds me of driving my brother to the train station and crying when the bagpipe started because it’s so beautiful. Fight For Your Right reminds me of parties in Highschool, and a manic release of teenage energy. So this week’s interactive playlist is “musical madeleines,” songs that transport you back to a certain place and time. Bonus points if you tell us where and why.

These madeleines were made with a bit of raspberry brandy or framboise. The taste is quite subtle – just a suspicion. You could use cherry brandy or plum brandy, or any flavor that you like. Something clear is probably best, though, so the madeleines don’t take on a funny color.

Here’s the playlist. As ever it’s collabarative, so feel free to add what you like, or leave a comment and I’ll add it for you.

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Carrots and cauliflower in carrot-ginger-lemon sauce with cashews

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Coconut ginger lemon sauce

Coconut ginger lemon sauce

It’s Saturday again, and you know what that means! It’s story time! Here’s your picture for the week. Who is this fellow, and how did he end up at Joe’s in 1954? As ever, my story is after the jump, and yours could be, too.
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Here’s a link to the post with the original idea for the series.

This was a delicious sauce. It had a lot of ginger in it, which gave a nice little zing to the tartness of the lemon and the creamy sweetness of the coconut milk. It would be good with other vegetables as well – broccoli would be nice! We ate it with long thin pasta, but it would be good over basmati rice as well.

Here’s Mississippi John Hurt with Joe Turner Blues

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Broccoli rabe, walnut and rosemary purée and roasted sliced potatoes

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Broccoli rabe walnut pesto

Broccoli rabe walnut pesto

We’re having a dinnertime problem, lately. I should start by saying that dinnertime is probably my favorite time of the day. I spend hours scheming about what to make, and making little parts of it as I go along. Dinner is the culmination of massive amounts of creative and emotional energy, dammit! It’s a work of mother-flipping art. Every…single….day. Of course that’s not entirely true. (It’s only a work of art 5 days a week. The other two…pffft, who cares!) Okay, so it’s never a work of art! But it is the best time of the day, and here’s why. Because the whole family is together, because we’re eating good food, or at least food that’s had a lot of thought put into it, because we’re most likely drinking wine (well, two of us are). We’re not just all in the same house, we’re all at the same table, we’re sharing food, we’re sharing thoughts. Ideally we’re sitting outside, sharing sunshine and cool breezes. I feel so ridiculously lucky that we get to eat dinner every day!! Lately it’s been stressful, though. Which is a horrible feeling–it’s that feeling of looking forward to something and having it all go wrong. The boys won’t sit still, they won’t eat, they won’t even try the food. If Malcolm stays in his chair for a second it’s with his head on the table (and his hair in the food half the time). If you ask him what’s wrong, he cries. For a few weeks now, I’ve been employing the it-sucks-but-there’s-nothing-I-can-do-about-it-hopefully-it-will-go-away-and-we’ll-all-have-lovely-dinners-together-when-they’re-out-of-college parenting technique. But then I started thinking about it from their point of view. You know, empathizing. I know that for a lot of people preparing dinner is a chore. Obviously, I don’t feel that way; for me it’s a delight. But I can see how it would become tedious in its day-in-day-out necessity. Well, it occurred to me that maybe for the boys eating dinner is a chore. Let’s face it, I make weird food. I can see that it might be stressful to have to taste something new night after night. I know they know how much I care about it, and they don’t like to hurt my feelings. I get that. And David and I are alone most of the day, on our feet, with our own worries and concerns piling up in our heads. It’s a relief to sit down, it’s a relief to have somebody else to talk to. But for the boys it’s the opposite. They’ve spent the whole long day of school trying to control themselves, and be silent and still, and focus their attention on words. They’ve spent the whole day navigating the choppy seas of social interaction–answering questions, forming complete grammatically correct sentences, coloring inside the lines and showing their work. It’s not relaxing for them to sit at the table and answer questions about their stupid day at school and eat the strange food their mom is anxiously watching them taste. It’s relaxing for them to sprawl on the floor with the dog eating grapes or race around the backyard watering plants with a water gun. It’s relaxing for them to be with each other, doing nothing, not asking each other how they did on their test, not asking each other how they feel about the homework due tomorrow, not trying to remember if they had a shower last night, not caring whether they eat anything but tiny tomatoes or drink a ginger beer so fast they’re not hungry any more. I’ve had a talk with Malcolm, and asked him to understand how important dinnertime is to David and me. And now I understand how important downtime is to Malcolm and Isaac, and I’ll tell him that, too. We’ll work something out. We’ll find a balance.

roasted sliced potatoes

roasted sliced potatoes

I LOVE GREENS!! I love chard and kale and spinach and broccoli rabe! And I love them puréed! Is there anything more comforting and delicious? I think not!! This particular dish started because I bought some frozen broccoli rabe. Why? I don’t know! It was winter! Fresh vegetables were sad-looking and expensive! Well, frozen broccoli rabe is not a happy thing. It’s all thick stems and withered leaves. After a good long boiling, though, it’s lovely puréed. It has that addictive bittersweetness, and with rosemary and walnuts it’s really wonderful. You could easily make this with fresh broccoli rabe and it would be even better! I ate this by the spoonful, but you could eat it any way that you eat pesto–on pizza, tossed with pasta, mixed into mashed potatoes, or…alongside roasted sliced potatoes. These were really simple. The only thing special about them was the shape, which was sliced. They were kind of like extra thick, warm potato chips. Lovely to scoop up some broccoli rabe purée!

Here’s Everybody Eats When they Come to My House by Cab Calloway
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Crispy rosebud herb roasted potatoes

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Crispy rosebud herb-roasted potatoes

Crispy rosebud herb-roasted potatoes

I’m feeling a little the worse for wear today, and I’m going to tell you why. It all started when a friend of ours invited us to their chalet in the south of France. Of course we flew over for the weekend, staying up till all hours drinking wine from their vineyards. On the way home we stopped in Barcelona to shoot a few scenes of a friend’s film and drink some robust riojas in the rooftop garden of their streamlined city loft. So, you know, what with the jet lag and the late nights… I’m lying, of course. I’m tired because waitressing is really hard work, and we were so busy this weekend that it made my head spin, and my head continued to spin after I’d gone to bed, and I lay half-awake waiting tables in my head all night long. And I threw my back out during the week, which made waitressing that little bit harder and more painful than usual. And that’s the unglamorous truth.
The other day, as I waited on a large party, I said “Can I get you anything else?” as waitresses do, and one woman replied “Do you have a million dollars?” And I laughed and said, “If I did, I wouldn’t be here!” But I thought about it, as the day progressed, and I’m not sure that’s true. The thing is, as strange as it may sound, I like waiting tables. Maybe I would stay on one or two days a week, even if I had a million dollars. A manager I worked with for a few years used to joke that she wasn’t in it for the money, she just wanted to keep “the common touch.” And there’s something to that… eating is something we all do, we have that in common, and it’s pleasant to see people in this way. I like this chance to talk to complete strangers, and learn a little bit about their lives. I like when they become regulars instead of complete strangers, and they’re glad to see me week after week. I like this way of almost being friends, but in a completely different sphere of life–in a way that none of my actual friends ever sees me. I like to be good at something, and I’m good at waiting tables, which is an incredibly complex and physically demanding job. I’m proud of that. I like the feeling of comradery you get from working with other people, that sort of backstage feeling you get from being part of the process of creating a meal for someone. So maybe I would stay on for a shift now and then, even if I had a million dollars. It might make a nice change from our trips to the rooftops of Barcelona.

These potatoes are so simple I feel almost foolish telling you about them. Except that they were so tasty! And they’re perfect for spring, which is finally making an appearance around here. I boiled some new potatoes for a few minutes, until they were just starting to soften, and then…I cut each one with an apple corer! Just a little bit, not all the way through–about three-quarters of the way down. This made them pretty, with a round central portion and petals on the side, and then I drizzled olive oil and herbs on them, and then I roasted them till they were nicely cripsy. And that was that! I used dry sage, because nothing is growing in my garden yet, but as the season progresses, I’ll try this again with fresh herbs – rosemary, tarragon, basil, thyme. The possibilities are endless!

Here’s Hotter Scorcher by Sweet Confusion, in honor of the warmth of the day, and because I think it’s the sweetest song!
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Almond cherry chocolate chip cookes

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cherry-chocolate-almond-cooMy boys are very close to one another. They’re hyperbonded. They love each other more than anything in the world, and they drive each other crazy like nobody else can. They share a room, and recently they moved their beds to be next to each other, despite the fact that this defied all reason, and that they blocked windows, doors and desk drawers. They lie in bed talking and giggling till all hours, discussing their secret world. I worry sometimes that they’re so content with each others’ company that they won’t make friends outside the family. But I think, in fact, they’re learning what it feels like to be a good friend, and to have a good friend. And that can only be a good thing when it’s carried out into the rest of the world. My brother and I have always been close–I can’t remember a time that we didn’t get along, and he’s always been an inspiration and a comfort to me. I have so many memories of discovering music with him, of trying to find my own music that he didn’t know about first. Of sitting in his room playing, and listening to an old boom box. Of riding in his car after he learned to drive, and listening to music that made us feel free, of dancing in somebody’s attic in the city where we both ended up for a time after college. Of arguing about the meaning of No Woman No Cry whilst walking the dark streets of Amsterdam, of dancing around the living room when we were all together in London for a week at New Years. Of course our parents had a lot to do with it, too. We listened to their records and liked what they liked. They danced around the living room, too. So this week’s interactive Sunday playlist is music that reminds you of your family. Music that makes you think about your siblings and their friends, or long family car trips, or certain holidays. Parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, friends-as-good-as-siblings, grandparents–all or any of these will do. And whatever your children are listening to will someday be the music that reminds them of you, so that counts, too. I’ve started the playlist here, so add what you’d like.

I was thinking that these cookies are perfectly Claire-y Ordinary-y cookies. I love cooking with almonds, I love the combination of bittersweet chocolate and tart fruit, and I love cookies that are crispy outside and soft in. And these are all those things! I added a bit of condensed milk, because I had some to use up, but I think these would work without it, so don’t not make them if you don’t have any.

Happy Sunday, everybody! The sun is shining here, and I hope it’s shining on you, too.
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Roasted butter bean, mushroom, and pecan galette

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Roasted mushroom and butterbean galette

Roasted mushroom and butterbean galette

As I’m sure you recall, we’ve been hosting a story-writing salon, here at The Ordinary. The cool kids have started calling it “Story Writing Saturdays at OOTO.” Yeah, it’s been wild. So far, one person has written a story (thanks so much, Laura!) And I’ve gotten one comment on my stories. (“Weird, very weird.”) Flushed with this unparalleled success, we’re marching on with the project. I love today’s picture, I think it’s a real beauty, and I hope that you do, too!
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As ever, my story is after the jump, and yours could be, too. My rules so far have been–make it quick, and don’t over think. But make your rules up as you go along.

I made this galette up as I went along, until it got to a place that I could actually imagine eating it, and then I knew I’d arrived at the right combination! I roasted some mushrooms and some butter beans. Roasted butter beans are one of my new favorite things! I combined these crispy-soft items with some fresh baby spinach and some crunchy toasted pecans, and then threw in some melty mozzarella, and I baked the whole thing up in a free-form pie. Delicious! And quite easy, too.

Here’s a song from one of my favorite storytellers, Mr. Tom Waits. Gun Street Girl.

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Cinnamon egg bagels

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Cinnamon egg bagels

Cinnamon egg bagels

If you love something, set it free, if it comes back, it’s yours, if it doesn’t, it was never yours to begin with. Remember that old chestnut? That old motivational adage from the seventies? It was usually printed in some flowery font over a blazing sunset that was meant to be inspiring but always looked more apocalyptic to me. Because the adage is all very well, but what if it goes, “If you love something set it free, and it probably loves you very much and fully intends to come back to you eventually, but it might chase a squirrel across the street and get hit by a car before it has the chance”? What about that scenario? This is how my mind works! When I love someone, I worry about them, and I like to keep them close beside me in the gentle prison of my anxiety. But I’m an equal opportunity worrier! Everybody gets this smother-love – David, the boys, the dog – there’s plenty to go around, because it feeds on itself and grows like a little worry culture. Putting a positive spin on this characteristic, I would say that it’s the result of my prodigious imagination. I can’t not picture a million different outcomes to every event, most of them dire. Sure they’re unlikely, but they could happen, they probably have happened, some time in history! Apparently there’s a name for this – David heard it on the radio. It’s called catastrophizing. He does it, too, which means that our boys are in for a real treat as they enter their teenage years. In an interesting turn of events, it’s Malcolm–my firstborn baby and probably the recipient of my most intense anxious affection–who is helping me to overcome it. Our old dog, Steenbeck, was a racer. If you let her off-leash, she’d take off, and she was scarily fast. She was a hunter, so her doggy instincts would override her sense of obedience and any persuasive influence of the comforts of domesticity, and she’d be gone. So I never ever let her off-leash. I never set her free. Well, things have changed this time around. Malcolm and I take Clio for walks. We came to a field way down the tow path, far from the street. “Let her go, mom,” Malcolm said. “Oh no no,” I replied, “we have to wait and see what kind of dog she is. We don’t know her well enough yet. In fact, we probably won’t know her well enough until she’s about fourteen, and too old to get very far very fast.” And then Malcolm just…dropped her leash. She raced around a bit, and then she came back! He threw a stick, she ran after it, and then she came back! She made little circles and explored different areas of the field, but we were always the center if her attention, and she always came back to us! The other night after dinner we went for a walk on the other other side of the canal, and I took her leash right off! She raced along side of us, collecting the boys when they got too far ahead or lagged too far behind. She danced between Malcolm and Isaac, and always came back to me, white paws flashing in a blur of grey, eyes bright and happy. And I felt happy, too, I felt nearly ecstatic. It feels good to let go for a time. The other day, Malcolm told me that I could have a lifelong play date with him until he’s eighteen. “What happens when you turn eighteen?” I asked. “Oh, I’ll probably live on the other side of the world.” And you know, I hope he does–for a while–when he’s ready. I hope I’m strong enough to let him go. It’s a comfort to know that when it comes time, he’ll be the one to help me through it.

My boys don’t like cinnamon raisin bagels. But they love cinnamon. I can’t find plain cinnamon bagels anywhere, so I decided to make them myself. I’ve been making bagels nearly every week since I first made the pumpkin bagels some months ago. I’ve been trying to perfect the skill. One week I burned them, one week I added whole wheat flour, which was good, but a little coarse. I think these turned out really well! Light and dense and chewy, just like a bagel should be. They have a little cinnamon sugar folded in, as well as cinnamon in the original mix, but it’s quite a subtle flavor. You could add another teaspoon of cinnamon if you’re interested in something pow-ier.

Here’s The Velvet Underground with I’m Set Free.
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Pumpkinseed, green vegetable, and cheddar soup

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pumpkinseed vegetable soup

pumpkinseed vegetable soup

I spent the morning cleaning. Let me tell you why that’s interesting. It’s not! It’s not interesting at all, to anyone! Cleaning is dull and tedious and repetitive, and it’s only satisfying if you’re good at it, which I’m not. You wouldn’t walk into my house and say, “This place looks great, Claire must have cleaned for hours this morning!” You’d more likely say, “Jesus, what a dump! How can they live in such squalor?” Cleaning is the most sisyphean of tasks, you clean, it gets messy again, you clean, it gets even messier. Especially if you have children or dogs. Honestly, I think cleaning a house with two little boys in it is the definition of insanity. They stand in the yard and throw dirt at things because it’s fun. They throw paint (and other substances) at the walls and the floor. Of course they do! Who wouldn’t? I’m a good mom for little boys, because I like dirt, as long as it’s good clean dirt. If they eat some soil in their lives, it can only be good for them, to take a bit of the earth into their bodies, right? But I don’t necessarily like dirt on my windowsills, and that’s what we had, in large quantities. I could have planted some seeds in there and they would have grown. Today I cleaned the windows and cleared out some cobwebs (literally–We share our home with many spiders). And that does feel good in springtime. To have a clear and unobstructed view of the world coming to life outside your windows. To remove some of the clutter that confuses your picture of the world. I don’t enjoy cleaning, but there are things I like about it. I like the fact that we all have to do it (or hire somebody to do it). There’s something comforting in that–cleaning connects us and it’s humbling and grounding for everyone. I like the clarity that it can bring, and the sense of renewal. My mind feels fuzzy and confused, sometimes, as though it is actually wrapped in spider webs, and cleaning my physical space can feel like opening a window in my brain, and blowing away some of that dust. Because cleaning is very good for freeing the mind. I have some of my best thoughts while sweeping the floor or scrubbing the tub, and if I get stuck on something I’m trying to write, cleaning is more than a way of procrastinating, it’s a way to keep thinking about something without consciously thinking about it. You shift the focus and alter the angle of the shot, and sometimes that’s exactly what you need. Sometimes when you clean you find a toy that you forgot you had, and you can stop and play with it for a while. And I like to think about spirits everywhere – angry pee spirits, mischievous dust spirits, the ghosts of little boy hand smudges, or phantom dog nose prints on glass–they all hold a little of the history or their happening. Even the clever spiders and their fantastical mysterious webs seem other-worldly at times. I feel that I make a deal with them when I clean. I’ll disturb them only so much, and then let them be. I’ll stir them up and make them dance around in a flurry, but I’ll understand that they’ll settle again, that they’re part of this house and have probably lived here longer than I have. So I spent the morning cleaning windows and clearing clutter, and my mind and my eyes are a little clearer, a little more ready for spring, and already the dust is softly settling around me once again.

This soup felt a little like spring cleaning the vegetable drawer. I had a lot of green vegetables and some were past the first blush of youth, because I wasn’t around much last week, so I decided to make them into a soup. I used broccoli, spinach, kale and cauliflower (not green, I know! But it doesn’t look ugly with green vegetables, and it makes such a smoooooth purée). YOu could use any vegetables you have on hand that you like together. First I toasted some pumpkinseeds, because I love their flavor, and they make the soup nice and creamy. And I finished it by melting in some cheddar, which added flavor and substantiality. I seasoned it with cumin, sage, oregano and cilantro, because I wanted it to go well with our leftover kale and black bean cornmeal cakes, but you could use any herbs and spices you like!

Here’s Van Morrison. He’s happy Cleaning Windows.
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Black bean and kale cornmeal cakes with fresh avocado cucumber salsa

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Black bean and kale cornmeal cakes

Black bean and kale cornmeal cakes

I’m reading Roderick Hudson at the moment. It’s Henry James’ “first serious attempt at a full-length novel,” and it’s quite fascinating. It’s youthful and ambitious, and about youth and ambition, which seems so sweetly unselfconscious to me. James tells the story of two young men–an irresponsible genius and his more mature but less interesting patron. These men are like lovers, almost, and they’re like two sides of the same person (James?). And they’re like the two styles of writing that seem to be battling it out in the novel. The impetuous, romantic and credulity-straining meets head-on with the dense and methodical, and this seems to make the characters unintentionally more human and appealing. But I hadn’t planned to go on and on about the novel! I planned to talk about this one sentence that struck me as very interesting, and here it is…”At times when he saw how the young sculptor’s day passed in a single sustained pulsation, while his own was broken into a dozen conscious devices for disposing of the hours, and intermingled with sighs, half-surpressed, some of them, for conscience’ sake, over what he failed of in action and missed in possession–he felt a pang of something akin to envy.” Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that James? I’m fascinated by the way that time passes differently for different people, or at different times in your life. When I was younger the days seemed very long sometimes, and I remember wishing time away, and trying to fill up the hours, trying consciously to dispose of them, as Rowland does. And I recognize his gentle sense of regret and self-reproach. How could he get so little done and miss so many chances when time moves so slowly? I understand perfectly why he admires and envies Roderick, who doesn’t think about the past or the future or the consequences of his actions, who took the risks Rowland was scared to, not because he particularly wanted to or cared about the results, but because…why not? I’ve never been like that. I’ve never lost track of whole days or forgotten the time, I’ve never been brave or impetuous, I’ve never been able to free my mind of regrets about the past or worries over the future. Time doesn’t travel fluidly for me. But it does go more and more quickly, which is frightening, and makes me rue all of the hours I wished away when I was younger. I never really have anything that needs to be done, and yet I feel as though there aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all, to do everything I want to do. My days will never pass in a single sustained pulsation, I don’t think, but I have this odd image of myself swallowing them in chunks, hungrily eating them one piece at a time, and then looking back with surprise and some sadness when they’re all gone, wondering where they’ve gotten to. Obviously, the thing to do is to make them delicious, to make every hour of each day as tasty as possible, and then to try to savor them, to take my time, rather than wishing it away.

avacado-cucumber-saladThese little cakes were confounding to my boys. They didn’t think they’d like them, so they didn’t enjoy their first half-hearted nibble. But after some drama and persuasion, they both decided they liked them and ate almost all of them. David and I liked them. They were crunchy out, soft in, with a nice balance of earthy flavors. They were a bit dry, though, as baked goods made with cornmeal alone tend to be, so eat them with a sauce. This little salad or salsa was lovely! I don’t know why I’d never thought of mixing avocado and cucumber before, but they’re really perfect together! Fresh and green and soft and crisp. I kept the seasoning simple – salt, pepper, lime and cilantro, which made the whole thing bright and clean, and just the perfect accompaniment to the cornmeal cakes.

Here’s Wildwood Flower by the Carter Family, because they say “Yes, he taught me to love him and call me his flower That was blooming to cheer him through life’s dreary hour.” No dreary hours!! We’ll have no dreary hours!!

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