Roasted butternut red pepper and goat cheese pie

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Roasted butternut and red pepper pie

Roasted butternut and red pepper pie

There’s this thing I’m quite taken with at the moment. It’s an “app,” I guess, but I’m not sure exactly what makes something an app. It’s called What Would I Say, and it takes random words you’ve written and combines them to create short statements. I suspect it’s only remotely interesting to the person whose words are being combined, and most of the statements are repetitive or very dull or so nonsensical they’re not worth reading. And yet there’s something very addictive about it! I love words, of course, and in a very self-involved way I’m fascinated to see which words I use very often. And I love the randomness of it. There’s something freeing about having words combined for you, about not having to think about it at all, and having completely no control over it. I spend so much time thinking about how I’m going to put words together that it all starts to feel very heavy and tangled. This is like throwing the words in the air, and watching them flutter all around you, or float away, and searching for meaning in the patterns that they make. It’s like found poetry, and I love the fact that words mean different things when combined in different patterns, and I love the feeling of my brain scrambling to make meaning of it all, and to remember why I used the words in the first place. It’s like a confused, shifting memory, like a dream of only words. I like the fact that many of mine end with the phrase, “And Isaac’s the lead singer.” This is a phrase I feel we could all end more sentences with, as we go through our day. This one, for instance, “Isaac, holding a crescent of cantaloupe, I stole the mooooooon, and Isaac’s the lead singer.” I like this one, which sounds like an ee cummings poem, “If you have a field far away to the air, but we’d glued the boys’ feet behind me, waving them sit on the flowered air, beneath the rising from mounds of the 2 coryadoras, and we don’t know” And this one sounds like a poem to me, too. Maybe cummings via Basho, “A little boy oh boy who could not sure the best lack all conviction, while I’m depressed by the windbeaten orchard, near the way.” But mostly I like when they’re very simple, and oddly perfect. LIke this one, “Watching around town, we have the best kind of each other.” And my favorite of all, “Thanks for there is a handful of today.” I love that! I wish I’d thought of it myself!

Roasted butternut and red pepper pie

Roasted butternut and red pepper pie

I sort of thought of this as a savory pumpkin pie. It’s got a yeasted whole wheat crust, which is vegan, although the rest of the pie is not! It’s got a soft custard of roasted butternut squash and ground pecans, a pecan frangipane, almost, which is flavored with allspice, nutmeg, ginger, smoked paprika and sage. It’s got goat cheese to cut through all of the sweetness of the squash and peppers, and smoked gouda to add to the roasty smokiness of it all. I thought it was very tasty! Maybe next time I’ll throw all the ingredients in the air and let them combine themselves randomly, and see how that works out!

Here’s Word Play by A Tribe Called Quest.

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Apple apricot chocolate nut cake

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Fruit and nut cake

Fruit and nut cake

I feel as though I don’t listen to whole albums any more, unless I’m in the car, which isn’t very often. I’m so distracted most of the time that I’ll listen to a song here or a song there, or sometimes a big mix of songs. But when I do listen to an album as an album, I remember the very great pleasure of it. And the part that I like best is when there are one or two songs in a row that I love together. Usually it’s three songs, and it’s the part of the album I most look forward to…the jammy filling in the middle of the album, or the transcendent ending. For instance I love Franks Wild Years, which ends with Cold Cold Ground, Train Song, and then Innocent When you Dream. Does anybody else listen to albums in this way? With a trio of songs they look forward to somewhere in the mix? If so, add them to our Sunday interactive playlist, or leave a message in the comments and I’ll try to add it myself. It could be two songs or four songs, and it could be songs from a mixed tape that you’ve made or somebody made for you. The rules are very flexible here at The Ordinary!

I wanted a fruit crumble, but also something I could carry around with me, something that would last a little longer, so I made this cake. It has apricots, apples, golden raisins, hazelnuts, pecans and almonds, as well as chocolate chips. It’s like a fresh fruit cake, or a fruit and nut cake, or a trail mix cake. Good in the morning with coffee.

Here’s a link to your interactive playlist. Hopefully it works this week!!
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Masa harina biscuits

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Masa harina biscuit

Masa harina biscuit

I found a little scrap of paper from Isaac’s homework folder that said, “Mr. Hartwell snapped the shade open.” And I decided to write a story about it as a sort of exercise, because I’ve been thinking too much lately about what I’m writing. So I didn’t think about this at all!! Mr. Hartwell snapped the shade open. This was something he was good at, a skill he’d perfected as a child. If you snapped it too fast, it came unhinged, it went round and round, fast and loose, and you couldn’t pull it down again to make it stay. If you went too slowly, it only half-rose, and remained limp and bobbing halfway, neither up nor down. The sudden shock of sunlight set him back a step, and he stood blinking and reeling as if hit by an actual wave of something strong and warm. He realized how long it had been since he’d left the house. The days added up, they piled up into a dusty mass in some dark corner, and he never noticed until he snapped the blind open. He thought about opening the window but he couldn’t tell how warm it would be. He thought about going outside. “How skinny the leash, how thin the arms that hold me.” This sentence had been in his head all night, he stopped now to wonder what it might mean, as he stood in the blinking sunshine. Of course no arms had held him in a while, but he didn’t want to think about that. Who would want to think about that? He thought about dogs, and how they don’t know they’re on a leash. They never know. They’ll walk around a telephone pole or a parking meter and when they get stuck they’ll stare up at you with an expectant wagging smile, wondering why you’ve stopped them. Maybe this meant something, maybe it didn’t. He’d been busy, writing. He’d been writing his essays, his diatribes, and when you’ve been writing you become accustomed to wondering about meaning. When he left the house he found that the world hadn’t changed as much as you might expect, and he headed to the park, although he knew it would be full of people. He had a sentence in his head, and it made him think of the park. “If you have a field far away in the air, but you’ve glued the boys’ feet behind you, and you’re waving to them to sit on the flowered air, beneath the rising from mounds. And we don’t know…” Where had he read that? He couldn’t remember. The bench was only a little damp, so he sat down. Only when the prickling cool water seeped through his trousers did he realize how warm the day, how bright the sunshine, and the park was teeming with people. All of the voices yelling for attention, laughing and calling, lost or joyful or indignant, were like the words going round and round and round in his head asking him to put them in order. Someday the world would know all that he thought and wrote about, he had no doubt about that. He used to send his writings out, he used to submit them, but he didn’t any more. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need to. Someday the world would know. A child sat next to him on the bench, and next to the child sat a young woman. His nanny, probably. She was reading a book, and the boy was filthy. Green crusty nose, smears of chocolate on his chin, jam matted in his hair. He stared at Mr. Hartwell, and his eyes were luminous green, with a glow in the center, they seemed so clean and clear that Mr. Hartwell felt very confused, and though he needed to leave he also felt that he couldn’t, and he wondered if the boy was trying to hypnotize him. He half stood, and remained crouched and foolish, limp and bobbing, neither up nor down. The nanny noticed him for the first time, and she looked scared, and she grabbed for the boy’s hand to take him up the path. But the boy wound his arms around Mr. Hartwell’s arm, and he could feel even through his jacket how strong they were. The nanny pulled the child free, and it was as though she’d released a stuck balloon. The boy took off in one crazy floating jagged movement and he was gone. Mr. Hartwell looked down at his jacket, the golden wool tweed was smeared with jam and chocolate and glistening with snot. It almost formed a pattern, he almost felt that he could read it. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know. When Mr. Hartwell went home he pulled the blinds down, but they snapped up again and scared him. He left them but he couldn’t write so he lay in bed with the blankets pulled up around his face, shivering in the warmth of the day. He fell asleep and dreamed about falling from a great height, but he wasn’t scared.

Masa Harina biscuit

Masa Harina biscuit

I’d almost forgotten about masa harina! These are a little like corn muffins, but they’re made like biscuits and they have masa harina instead of corn meal. I made them in a muffin-top sort of a tin, with wide flat holes, because I wanted them to be skinny and crispy. But you could make them in a normal muffin tin. They’re a little sweet, a little savory, and very easy to make. Nice with soup or stew.

Here’s Tom Waits with Falling Down.

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Scorpion cake!!

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Scorpion cake!

Scorpion cake!

Isaac says he thinks he laughs more in November than in any other month. For those of us who don’t travel gracefully into winter, and who don’t welcome the increasing darkness and cold, this makes Isaac very nice to have around. He does winter right…flannel pjs all day, snuggled up to radiators and a warm grey dog, reading comics and drawing: he makes it look good. It’s our Isaac’s birthday, he’s eight years old! That makes today a holiday for those of us who study his teachings. I’ve joked in the past about being a follower of Isaacstentialism, but in truth you could do worse, you could do a lot worse, than follow the wise words of my little eight-year-old. You’d learn to be warm and cheerful, and spontaneous and generous with your warmth and cheerfulness. You’d say “I love you,” when you feel it, even to your cranky older brother, who will probably just shrug and walk away or tell you to fetch him a snack. You’d say “you’re fun to be with,” when you feel that, too, never realizing that you’re the most fun to be with. You’d tell jokes even if you don’t understand them and nobody else does either. You’d believe sincerely that you can’t judge dogs for being gross from time to time, because they’re different from us and you would extend this understanding to all creatures. If you felt like drawing something (and you always would) you’d sit down and draw it, with quick complete attention, and you’d tell a story as you drew it, and when you were done you’d be happy with it. You wouldn’t hurry, ever, especially not in walking somewhere, because you’d understand that time will stretch itself out for you. You’d never be bored, you wouldn’t mind waiting, because you’d have so much going on in your head, and you’d probably tell everyone about it in perfect surprising words. You would sing constantly, whatever words happen to be in your head, to a tune as meandering as your feet. You would dance a crazy dance, and you wouldn’t stop because somebody was watching. You wouldn’t be easily disappointed in your own efforts of the efforts of others. If somebody made you a silly-looking cake, you’d love it anyway. You’d be happy with whatever gift you get. You’d want to share your gifts with your older brother. You would invent games nobody else understands and be emphatic about the rules. You would have a ridiculously infectious laugh. You would shine and glow.

Scorpion cake

Scorpion cake

Isaac asked me to make him a scorpion cake. (He’s a scorpio, don’t you know.) As you can see, I employed my usual technique of confusing them with candy. If you put enough twizzlers on a cake, nobody worries that it’s sloppy and crumbly and the color of drier lint. I used on oblong cake pan and a bunch of cupcakes, and everything stuck in the pans and I got very cranky and discouraged, but I think it all came out okay in the end. I know Isaac will be pleased with it, no matter how it looks.

Broccoli rabe and black beans with ginger and tamari (and tofu!)

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black-bean-broccoli-rabeIn my dream I decided to legally change my name to Clairey the Observer. And in my dream this was my job (my dream job!), I was a professional observer. I just sat back and watched people and then I wrote about it. I made observations. I half-woke up and thought about what a nice job this would be in real life, I imagined myself on a high perch, taking notice of all that happened around me, and I thought about writing stories based on observations of people. I want this job! Unfortunately I didn’t dream about the part where you apply for the position, so I don’t know how to go about it. But then when I was fully-woken up, I looked up “observe” in the OED, as one does, so I’d be fully apprised of the job description before I undertake the employment. Observe. It’s such a rich and fascinating word. According to my understanding of the term in my dream, my main responsibility as an observer would be “To take notice of, be conscious of; to notice, perceive, see.” And then “To remark or make observations on.” If I was actually applying for this job, I would write in my cover letter, “I think I would be very good at taking notice and being conscious of things, because it’s very important to me to notice things, and not to just let them pass me by. I want to observe things and collect and keep them, and not just let life wash over me as though I was in a sleepy stupor. I want to be a keen observer, and notice even the small things and feel them, too.” Further duties of an observer would include acting “To watch over, look after, keep safe.” And I feel confidant that I could do this very ably. Just ask my dog or my sons, if anything I’m likely to keep too close a watch and generally look after too fondly and anxiously. I also understand that as an observer I might be called upon to abide by or adhere to or to maintain or uphold a mode of existence, a covenant, or a promise, and I assure you that in my day-to-day existence, I will strive to observe principles of curiosity, creativity, generosity, honesty, and, of course, verbosity and I will faithfully observe such small daily rituals as necessary to ensure a life fully lived and thoughtfully observed, as far as I am able. In summation, I would like to share the words of Francis Bacon, “If men will intend to observe, they shall finde much worthy to observe.” I hope that you will consider me for this position of observer, howsoever it shall be found and remunerated, yours sincerely and henceforth, Clairey the Observer.

Malcolm picked out some tofu at the grocery store. I only like tofu when it’s fried very crispy, and I don’t like the way my kitchen smells when I do that at home. So I had the bright idea to take it to work and ask the chef to put it in the fryer for a few minutes. And he very very kindly agreed, for which I am eternally grateful. I brought it home, and Malcolm and I made a sauce for it, consisting of tamari, honey, balsamic, and a bit of ginger. I decided to use this same treatment on some black beans, and pile these on some broccoli rabe as a backdrop for the tofu, so that is what we did. Quick and simple meal, but quite tasty, too. You could use broccoli instead of broccoli rabe, and just add it to the beans and cook until bright and tender.

Here’s Niney and the Observers with Blood and Fire.
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Isaac’s chocolate chocolate pecan cake

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Isaac's chocolate chocolate pecan cake

Isaac’s chocolate chocolate pecan cake

David recently bought The Blind Leading the Naked, by The Violent Femmes. What a time warp!! It’s such an evocative album, and it’s funny because it’s evocative for David, too, and it’s not like Violent Femmes’ Violent Femmes, which is probably evocative for everybody who was a teenager in America at the time. It brings back strange specific memories. I remember going for a long trip in a friend’s car, and he was obsessed with this album. I fast-forwarded through a song I didn’t feel like hearing, without asking (cassette tape!) He got really angry, because it was a thoughtless and self-centered thing to do, which, in all fairness, it was. And later he stopped being friends with me on grounds of thoughtlessness and self-centeredness, which in all fairness was probably true of me at the time, too. But mostly the album brings back pleasant memories, of adventures with friends. And it brings back memories for David of the same time and the same part of the world, but we didn’t know each other at all. But we might have crossed paths, we might have been in the same city, listening to the same song, and not even knowing it. And now Isaac likes the album, too, and he has some of the lyrics memorized with uncanny awareness and precision (we’re going to have to be very very careful what we listen to around this boy!) One song in particular, I want to listen to over and over. It’s Good Friend. It seems strangely perfect to listen to it now, to remember a time when my heart probably was in a mess every time I turned around, but to be sitting next to the best friend I’ll ever have, sharing our separate memories. I particularly like the part in the middle where he talks. The music grows hushed, you’re waiting for it, you’re ready for it. Like all talking parts in the middle of songs, you know he’s going to be sincere and serious, you know he’s going to be sincerious, and in a few lines his personality and his peculiarly stylish style shines through with such clarity. I love it. So this week’s interactive playlist is songs in which the singer talks in the middle, songs with that beautiful part where you get to the bridge and you find somebody on it, talking to you about all the things in his or her heart. Conversely, we can also have hip hop songs in which the rapper sings unexpectedly, because I love those too.

Isaac designed this cake. His birthday is coming up, and this cake was sort of the rehearsal. He wanted chocolate cake with chocolate chips and pecans. He wanted vanilla and cinnamon, and he wanted powdered sugar and brown sugar. I decided to make it in the style of a genoise, because I find that a fun cake to make, and I didn’t want it to be too much like pecan brownies. So this is dense but softish, too.

Here’s a link to the interactive playlist. This is one of those subjects I’m going to need help with. I always hear a song with a taking part and think…I’ll remember that to use in a playlist, but then I always forget when the actual time comes.

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Roasted butternut, chickpea, & apricot pies

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Roasted butternut, chickpea, and apricot pies

Roasted butternut, chickpea, and apricot pies

Malcolm is an owl and Isaac is a ghost bat. They’ve been home from school for two days and they’ve been wearing two-year-old halloween costumes most of that time. Like Max in his wolf suit, they’ve been bad. Like Max in his wolf suit, they’ve chased the dog around the house. A manic owl and a screaming bat. Or maybe it was the dark day of cold november rain and homework and no fun. Some of us tackled each other, some of us whined and shrieked, some of us yelled. We all feel bad about it now. This morning we had to get out, we had to leave the house.
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It’s a golden day. A wintery white-gold glowing day. Really the only leaves left on the trees are the golden ones, and they fall all around you in a bright shower. The boys flew out of the house, gleaming, a bat and an owl with fiendish expressions and madly flapping wings. They chased each other down to the towpath where fallen leaves of every color trail along the surface of the fast dark water like strings of christmas lights. Isaac loves this weather because he was born in this weather. I tell them about the day they were each born, unseasonably warm for November, unseasonably cool for July, both perfect perfect days. When we got to the part of the towpath where the trees have brown-paper leaves that smell like burnt sugar, a whole pack of teenage girls ran by. A track team, maybe. They were very serious, staring straight ahead. I know they know Malcolm, they’re not much older in actual chronology, but they didn’t say hello. He was quiet and thoughtful in his owl suit, for a minute or two. I thought nothing gold can stay, nothing gold can stay. And then he raced ahead after Isaac. Clio pulled me ahead and the boys fell behind, lost in serious conversation.
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I looked back at them, with their bright heads bent together, and I wondered what they were talking about. It was what they would do if somebody took Daddy and me away. They’d walk miles to Dad’s shop and get a bow and arrow. They’d buy a thousand nail guns. They’d save up their money for a paintball gun and fill it with pebbles. Then they’d find us somehow. We got to where we were going, a big field, and heavy indigo clouds rolled in, and the trees were bright like fire against the dark sky.
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Everbody flew around the field, and Isaac gave me hugs to knock me over. His skin smells beautiful, like sunshine and summer. I told Malcolm it wouldn’t rain, but of course he was right and it did rain, a fine cold rain. Isaac put up his ghost bat hood. We made it home, and the boys filled the house with the scent of clementines while they waited for warm lunch. Just a bat and an owl sitting together and resting a moment, before they return to their dizzying flight.

Roasted butternut chickpea and apricot pies

Roasted butternut chickpea and apricot pies

My friend treefrogdemon (yes that is her real name) happened to mention that she ate a chicken and apricot pie. It sounded so good! I resolved at the time to try a version with chickpeas and apricots. And when it came right to it, I decided to add roasted butternut squash, pecans, sharp cheddar and some spices…ginger, nutmeg, coriander and allspice. The result is a pretty, tasty, autumnal pie. A nice holiday meal for vegetarians, I think!

Here’s Park Life, by Blur, because my boys are completely obsessed with it at the moment.

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Roasted sweet potato and shallot pizza

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Roasted sweet potato and shallot pizza

Roasted sweet potato and shallot pizza

Isaac’s second grade class was given an assignment. They were told to write a short essay about their favorite place to go. They made a list of places they like, chose one, and started in. Isaac chose his imagination. The teacher told us about this in a parent-teacher conference, and she was obviously delighted with his answer and of course I loved her for that. And of course I love Isaac’s answer. I can’t visit his imagination with him, but he’s drawn me pictures and told me stories–he’s sent me postcards. There’s never a dull moment. It’s an exciting place, a destination. Later on at Malcolm’s conference they told us what a good job he’s doing with the focussing and the paying attention and the being prepared. And then they said, but sometimes he’ll just be…gone…for a few minutes. Just staring into space, and he’ll look so happy and content. And I said, “Oh yes, didn’t you know? He can travel through time and space. He can close his eyes and be in a different world. Yeah, he told me all about it just the other day.” Heh heh! Of course I didn’t say that!! I didn’t want them to think I’m crazy! What’s cute and clever in a seven-year-old is cause for alarm in older children and their parents. But I’m proud of Malcolm’s world-to-world traveling abilities, and I’m so glad and grateful that both boys have this prodigious talent. I consider it a very solid and serious real-world skill. Just think what it means! They’ll never be bored! They’ll never be stuck in a dull place with nothing to do! It costs nothing, they can’t lose it but they can share it, and nobody can ever take it away from them.

Sweet potato and shallot pizza

Sweet potato and shallot pizza

I thought this was a very delicious meal. It made me happy to make it and to eat it. It’s a pizza piled high with deliciousness. Sweet potatoes are diced quite fine and roasted with shallots and balsamic vinegar. They’re piled atop goat cheese and mozzarella and smoked gouda, and on top of that we have tomatoes and capers. Fresh and sweet and smoky and satisfying. Very autumnal.

Here’s Places and Spaces by Donald Byrd.

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Red lentil, red bean and yellow split pea curry (with sweet potatoes, red peppers and kale)

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Red bean, red lentil and yellow split pea curry

Red bean, red lentil and yellow split pea curry

Isaac likes to ask questions he knows the answers to. He’ll ask them again and again, and there must be something reassuring in getting the same answer every time. Of course this is dangerous when you have a mother who earned the name “Miss Snide” in her youth because of her snarky response to every question with an obvious answer, and who can’t give the same answer twice. So frequently our walks to school go a little something like this. “Mom, do you think Clio is cute?” “No, I think she’s a hideous beast.” “Mom, do you think Clio is cute?” “No, I think she’s foulfiendish.” “Mom, do you think Clio is cute?” On and on until I finally break and yell, “Of course I think Clio is cute, I only tell her so ten thousand times a day!” Last night when we were reading before bed it was, “Mom, what’s your favorite color?” “You know the answer, you tell me.” “GREEN! What’s your other favorite color?” “You tell me again,” “Blue!” And then Isaac recalled a time when one friend, who is a girl, said that her favorite colors are pink and red, and another friend, who is a boy, said she couldn’t like red because it’s a boy’s color. And then both Malcolm and Isaac said “There’s no such thing as boy colors and girl colors! Any body can like any color!” Isaac said it’s a made up myth. And Malcolm said that it sucks for girls, though, because they only get two colors, but boys get every other color there is. Well! It seemed like such a wise thing to say. It seemed like such a perfect metaphor for so much else in life, and I’d never thought about it before in that way. Pink and purple. I mean of course I’d realized how ridiculous it was to think of these as girlie colors, or let colors be so defining, and I’d always been proud of my boys for liking pink and purple in defiant solidarity. But I’d never realized how imbalanced it was. I’d never really thought about how every single other color belongs mostly to the boys. I had a funny sort of flash of “What else do we just live with and take for granted that I need my eleven-year-old to state with brilliant matter-of-fact clarity?” This week Isaac had to fill in a big poster about himself, and in the box for favorite color he drew just about every color known to magic markerdom. I love to think about my boys refining the light of the entire spectrum through the perfect prism of their ridiculously lovely combination of imagination and good sense. I love to think about them glowing with all the colors, with every color in the world.

Red lentil, red bean, and yellow split pea curry

Red lentil, red bean, and yellow split pea curry

Speaking of color! This dal had red lentils, yellow split peas and red beans. So it was very warm and autumnal. It also had red peppers and sweet potatoes, to add to the warmth and autumnalness. It was tasty, too, and satisfying. If you cook if for a nice long time, the red lentils will break down into a sort of background creaminess, but the split peas and red beans will retain their texture. We ate this with basmati rice and some Ooto flatbreads.

Here’s Louis Armstrong with What a Wonderful World.
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Cannellini with kale, fennel and yellow peppers

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Penne with chard, fennel and yellow peppers

Penne with chard, fennel and yellow peppers

    All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant’s revolving door.
    Albert Camus
    At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.
    Albert Camus
    Don’t you stay at home of evenings? Don’t you love a cushioned seat in a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet?
    Oliver Wendell Holmes
    If you leave the smallest corner of your head vacant for a moment, other people’s opinions will rush in from all quarters.
    George Bernard Shaw

Maybe success is just around the corner. Maybe you’re sick of being stuck in a corner. Maybe you like being stuck in a corner, because your little corner of the world is your favorite place. Maybe you’re standing on the corner like just-got-in-town-Jasper, and you’re deciding which way to turn next. Maybe you’ll stop in at the corner shop for directions and gossip. Maybe you’re just standing on the corner, watching the world go by. Whether the corner is the center of all the action or a dusty forgotten place, today’s Sunday interactive playlist is songs about corners. Add your song to the list, or leave a comment and I’ll try to remember to add it through the week.

This is a quick meal! But it has lots of flavor and good textures. Anise-y fennel, earthy beans and kale, sweet peppers and raisins, tart goat cheese. The boys ate it with penne, but I ate it with arugula and pecans, as you see in the picture.

Here’s a link to the playlist.
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