hungry thoughts

Today is the 9th of Av, a day of fasting and mourning for the lost centers of Jewish holiness. There's a whole constellation of concepts that go with that, but I'm going to point you to Eicha and leave it there. I'm too hungry to do the subject justice. Instead, all I can think about (4.08 pm, fast ends and 8.56? 8.57 pm? so that's what, 4 hours and 49 minutes to go - unless it's 46 minutes and I should really look that up which means that if I can get through feeding the kids dinner then it ice cream a couple of hours later and damn, my stomach is gnawing on my  collarbones) is food.

We've been eating peanut butter around here, every since the Eldest was veeerrrry carefully fed pb in a hospital setting, surrounded by a group of people who were only the teeniest bit disappointed when nothing happened. As it happens, when you don't grow up with peanut butter, it's a tough sell. Sticky on the roof of the mouth, a sort of strong taste that you've already been taught is dangerous, and now? now you should forget that and fall in love? Instantly? Um. Guesses as to how this goes?

It might help if one's mother lit up more at the idea of pb&j. But I'm frankly a little ooked by the idea, and me, I'm holding out for the barley allergy to go. I want my Vegemite. Peanut butter + toasted sesame oil, soy sauce, a leetle vinegar and a bunch of garlic, maybe some pepper and water and stir...now, you are talking. So, talk to me about peanut butter when the sesame allergy goes.

Clearly, now that we've kicked a couple of allergies, I'm turning into the demanding type. Either that, or peanut butter has simply never been all that central to my world. Until we discovered PB&J cookies. Gluten free, egg free, and nut free (if you can find a safely nut free peanut butter), these are delish. And pretty darned quick, too.

Our Imperfect thanks to rae1954 and eHow for the (slightly adapted) recipe:

PB& J cookies

1 cup peanut butter (smooth)
1 cup sugar
1 Tb soy flour (or other high protein flour)
2 Tb water, plus more as needed to get a workable consistency.
Jam of choice

Preheat oven to 350F. Dump all ingredients (except jam) in a mixing bowl. Mix, adding water until the result will form a ball when rolled between your palms. Cover a cookie sheet with baking parchment, or spray with cooking spray.

Drop balls of dough (roughly 1 coffee scoop, or 1/4th cup) onto cookies sheet. Use your thumb to make an indentation in each. Invite the kids to drip a wee bit of jam into each thumbprint, and take photos.

Bake 16-18 minutes, until slightly browned. Cool on cookie sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack. Consider the possibility that PB goes with a slightly caramelized J, and that other versions of this lovely combination are worth tolerating - conceptually, if not in practice. They are, after all, not that far from a fairly delicious truth.

did someone say go?

Somehow, speed and this oh my gawd, it be hot doesn't seem to go together in my eyes - but the boys seem to operate according to an entirely different set of specs. Which would explain, come to think of it, oh so much.

A couple of months ago, we were given a hand-me-down bike. Gig fell in love with it, mourned when it was too big, and reluctantly allowed the Eldest to sit on it. Briefly. When removed from the bike, the Eldest screeched bloody murder - the bike was too tall for him, also.

The Man shook his head. Maybe if we took it to a bike shop? 


Upstairs, the boys squabbled over the blue bike - no, the purple! - the one with the bell! - but can't Mum move the bell? - oh, yeah, but I want the one without the training wheels - oh, me too! said his sibling, gloriously indifferent to his lack of two-wheeled experience. Me, too, he repeated. Firmly.

1.2 inches of seat adjustment later, and we had ourselves some speed. Irregular and slightly scraped at first, but then? Then we had this:

And, to be fair, they did slow down so that my poor wee camera could capture them.

********************************************

Feeding the speed demons requires an equally speedy dinner, because while they might be fast on the road, the lads flag quickly when its time to come inside. But this salmon and salad meal gets thrown together in about 20 minutes, with a little advance prep.

garlic, with a little yogurt & dill sauce:

adapted from (no joke) Garlic, Garlic, Garlic - credit for the adaptation goes to one of our favorite children's librarians. 

1 1/2 cups plain yogurt

1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

2 fat cloves garlic, pressed or minced

freshly ground pepper

1 tsp dried oregano, or 1/2 tsp fresh

1 big handful chopped dill

optional: a sprinkle of mint

Mix thoroughly, and set aside. Covered, the sauce should keep in the refrigerator for a week.

Meanwhile....take a slab of salmon, drizzle with olive oil, salt, freshly ground black pepper. Drizzle a bit of maple syrup on top. Grill or broil until it flakes gently in the middle.

Into a bowl, toss a whatever is in the fridge salad. Yesterday, this salad looked like this:

1/2 of a small Napa cabbage, thinly sliced

a shred of a radiccio

a handful of lettuce from our garden

thin strips of apples

2 scallions, sliced

a big spoonful of green olives

1 underripe mango, sliced into strips

Toss in the bowl, along with a dressing. Yesterday, our dressing was: olive oil (drizzle on salad, toss until salad is coated), salt, pepper, garlic powder (toss again, until spices are distributed). A spritz or two of Bragg's (a recommendation from a wise friend, whose children eat kale - think of it, kale! - with Bragg's sprayed on top), a drizzle of honey (1 Tb?) and a tablespoon or so of vinegar.

Serve with a bowl of leftover rice, or some boiled potatoes - preferably the wonderfully lumpy ones that Gig picked out at the market, and then was only reluctantly persuaded to share. The slightly charred, caramelized flavors of the fish match up nicely with the slightly sweet salad. There might be more subtle ways to balance this gentle, summery sweetness, but I'm not a subtle person. I like the coolness and the garlicky bite of the yogurt sauce, and I know that tomorrow, it'll be lovely with just the boiled potatoes, a pickle or two, and a peach. The day after, I'll probably use the sauce as a salad dressing...but I'll wait a couple of days after that, before I use it as a dipping sauce for some pan-fried tilapia. 

And then? peas.

and the weather outside is - well, you know.

 Welcome to winter. We're knee-deep in this winter business here, and the wind is amusing itself by carving pretty patterns in the evidence - once it's turned our cheeks the traditional cherry-red, of course.  The boys tucked themselves up in my bed, with a library's worth of books and a grandparent, while my shovel and I worked on a peace treaty. Preferably before the ice sets in, making negotiations impossible.

Whoo, said the Toddles, watching the steam rise from my hair. It must be cold out there.

After two hours of being one with the snow shovel? Um. Yes.

Inside, however, we were warm. And, where that warmth needed a boost, there was a recipe for crystallized ginger. And oh, ginger has such a fresh, springtime scent when peeled, that it was just what we needed, while the wind roared past the windows. Fresh, crisp ginger peeled from the mandoline, and steamed its way to tenderness.

A half-hour later, the ginger had simmered in sugar water, mellowing into translucence.

Admittedly, the first time I'd made this recipe, I had managed to make a delicious crystallized ginger. This time, some quirk left us with a ginger-embedded toffee. Which, surprised, I poured onto a baking sheet and let cool. The piece that clung to my thumbnail, trailing threads of toffee, was fiery and sweet and wholly impervious to the carving, cold wind outside.

But I'm gonna need a hammer to crack anything off that mass in the baking sheet...it will be worth it, the grandparent predicted. And proved herself right.

Note: the boys would like you to know that they are too wise to touch the stuff. Instead, they ate their body-weight in oatmeal coconut cookies (the recipe simplified by an all purpose GF flour mix) and considered the warming merits of a justly waged war. They took this photograph to illustrate, complete with the shadow of the Toddles, who was experimenting with the Dark Side of the Force.

And yet, outside, it was cold.

c'est ci n'est pas une post - nor is it a recipe

Dear brain,

would you please shut up about the To Do list? Some of us would like to stop staring at the unscalable mountain, and get some frickin' sleep, Sir Hillary.

sincerely, body

------------------------
Dear body,

sucks for you, don't it? Just complete one more item on the List, and then - maybe - you can sleep. It'll just get longer if you don't, you know.

-brain
----------------------

Brain, go re-read your How to Get Things Done books. Don't you know that if I don't get sleep, then you don't get to be effective in accomplishing your goals? And how much do you think you can get done, anyway, with me chanting, tiiiiired, tiiiiiiiired, tiiiiired, tiraliralay in your ear, hmm?
-b
------------------------
just one more thing? Come on, you know you can.
-b
-----------------------
NO.
-----------------------
[points]
-----------------------
[looks]

Note to self: post the tomato-and-black-bean soup recipe, before my mother drives over here, to wrest the thing from my shaking hands.

-----------------------
oh, cripey. She's already called twice this afternoon. Oh - augh - okay.
-b
-----------------------
[points]
-----------------------
[looks]

Further note to self: how the hell did I make that soup, anyway? There was a recipe, but it had little impact on the outcome. My failure to repeat the miracle is not heartening.

---------------------

oh, you bastard.
-b
P.S. I accept chocolate as a bribe. So, I suspect, do you.
*************************************************

Despite my mother's very reasonable request, what follows is a recipe in narrative form. With apologies to the grandmaternal.

For nearly 14 years, the Man has accused me of hidden mathematical talents. Now, while I have a number of remedial math teachers who still insist on hiding under their beds, I'm fairly certain that I could assemble a rebuttal. And he would reply with one, inarguable fact: I have a bad habit, when under pressure, of forgetting that my brain should probably be allowed to operate my mouth. And that at times like that, I do tend to come out with surprisingly accurate calculations.

Or, to put it differently, I fail to think in grand style. I may even be good at it.

I would not be so petty as to describe a visit from my parents as a pressurizing experience, but I will admit to a bad habit of over-hostessing. I get into the groove, cook too much food, and fail to use my leftovers until after they leave, at which point we [sic] joyously laze my way through days worth of not-having-to-cook dinners. Lego with the boys, endless and minute Star Wars narratives, yarn and oh, storytimes both on paper and on limited engagement, This Night Only! Which is only encouragement to keep it up, printing reams of recipes I might cook before they come, testing one, two, and then oh, the pleasure of watching the fresh, ooo-yum produce come in, and the steaming/tossed/mmm/crunch/smell-that food go out. Can't beat it, from any angle.

But it is a bustle. So, I prep: beans to soak, things to defrost, sous chef work that the Man can do? mixes of dry ingredients that we can have ready? Always, there is more to prep than we could possibly manage - therefore, regardless, the bustle.

And there you go, background aplenty. And here it is:

A Bustled Black Bean-Tomato Soup
serves 6, unless you can manage otherwise.

I based the recipe on Martha Rose Shulman's Black Bean and Cumin soup, from the NY Times Recipes for Health. So,
2 tb olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped - oh, heck, 2? 3? onions, and finely chopped
4 large garlic cloves, halved - or, hey, just smashed with the side of the knife, and then peeled
1 dry cup of black beans, unless you've forgotten to soak and boil and ooops, so 1 big can of ready to roll black beans and thank you, Goya, for that nice ring pull lid because where on earth did the can opener go? I'm going to need it for the - oh -
14 oz can of tomatoes, and there's no ring pull on that one. Fine, then 2 cups of fresh tomatoes (so there!), chopped with love and a bah, who needs that canned stuff.
6 cups water, except that I am so very, very awesome and have finally learned that awesomeness is based on listening to my friends who tell me things about how easy it is to keep the ends of my carrots and the limp stalk of celery and the clean peels of my onions and turn them into broth. See? I listened. And while you might cavil at my awesomeness, I now have 6 cups of veggie stock, simmered slowly for 2.5 hrs. So neener, neener, neener, I'm using stock instead of water.

No, I'm not sneering.

Oh. I'm especially not sneering - toasted cumin seeds? ground? Um. Oh. [casts about kitchen]

Note to the reader: from here, there are one of two choices. Either, my previous, slightly self-mocking note about mathematical genius (did I say genius? okay, functionality. happy now?) is correct, and what I cast, I will reap with gustatory pleasure. Or not. And we send out for pizza. Or possibly, send my parents out for pizza, none of which comes in a suitably supervised kosher, Imperfect-able format.

I cast about, and find Chloe Coscarelli. Her vegan panini had won a contest in March, beating out any number of very very non-vegan contestants. And I had a recipe for this panini, including a spiced chickpea masala - and oh. A jar of turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, cloves - oh, no, I skipped the cloves, and used allspice - and cayenne - no, wait, I used chili powder. Right.

[thank you, Chloe]

Except that, oh, hm. I add a bit of cinnamon, and another bit of cumin. Sniff. Yes, that's better. I need the equivalent of 2 tsp of the I'm-not-gonna-do-that toasted cumin seeds, except how much is that when ground? No clue. Okay, let's go for 1 Tb of spice mix. But first, saute the onions, let them brown - add spices, yes! now! garlic? in it goes - and sniff the pot.

[sniff]

Oh, yes.

[sniff]

Hm.

Okay, how about a dash of the barbecue spice mix from my wonderful Nicole Routhier? I just rediscovered her Fruit Cookbook on my shelf, and I made some fish on Friday - oh, okay, here we go. Her barbecue spice mix is definitely going to be a happy camper at this singalong, um, okay, here it is:
1 Tb cumin seeds, 1 tsp coriander seeds, 1 Tb brown sugar - o, was I supposed to pack that? bah - 1 tsp ground cinnamon, 1 tsp grated orange peel (yeah, because who has tangerines lying around, I asks youse), .5 tsp salt and .5 tsp fresh black pepper.

I close my eyes and reach for what might possibly be the tablespoon measure. Toss. Add the beans, tomatoes, broth - ha, ha! - and

[sniff]

yes.

6 bowls, 6 people herded to the table, 1 smaller one re-herded, then lifted and plonked down in front of salad and yesssssss, say the people. We all stare sadly at the empty pot. How unfair of the pot to be empty, and whose idea was that, I want to know. What's in it?

Oh, cripes, say I, and realize. I have no idea. Later that week, sniffing, I will still have no idea. And my mother, considering her options, will realize that her best chances of another bowl do not lie in letting me off the hook. 

-----------------------------------------
Dear brain,
well, there you go. I still think you are going to be in the crapper for this one. Did you really call this a recipe?
-body
-------------------------------
body,
thanks for your concern, but I have already taken steps to alleviate the situation. Do note the slightly erudite
(yet informative) post title, which should offer fair warning as to the limitations of that which is being offered here.
-brain
----------------------------
Oh, sure. But she's still going to kick your medulla, dude.

But what do I care? I'm going to sleep.
----------------------------
Dear limbic and frontal lobes,
please, please, please be gentle. Also, do accept this nice basket of fruit.
-brain

the uneven days of winter vacation

where one boy gets dressed, and the other - well. Our daily rhythms have vanished in a startled, grinning burst of winter break.

We've had playmates, the Eldest's first and eminently survivable sleepover, houseguests and important self-discoveries, such as my discovery that, if I must have reading glasses, then by golly: purple.

And houseguests (hat-making, farm-building, kid-loving guests) and chatter and amazing sushi and ooooh-warm soups and holy-freakin-moly cold, and - yes - talk. The Man and I had a series of those spiraling, serious conversations about how we parent, and how we want to parent. We believe strongly in explaining our parental lines in the sand, but that's developed into a compound 'do X, because otherwise there's natural consequence/irate parent consequence Y' approach. Which does not work so very well.

When you do that, the Eldest informed me, I can choose between the consequence and what you want me to do. He raised his eyebrows, waiting while I winced. Tucked under his covers, the Toddles looked up, clear-eyed and thoughtful. Good to know, I admitted. I'll have to think about it. I certainly don't like being the kind of parent who threatens. The Toddles shook his head. Me, neither, he told me.

Wincing, laughing, the Man and I began hammering out a new plan. Possibly involving a lot of hugs. Certainly requiring us to be honest about what we are capable of. Which one of us is more likely to be set off by a recalcitrant, naked person at 38 minutes past bedtime? Which parent can best manage a shrieking, you're so unfair rant over toothbrushing? A shoeless, shirtless small child whose backpack and lunch are still politely at the top of the stairs, while parental teeth grind, trying to herd the kids to the car - and the morning commute? We sat and talked on the futon, on the kitchen floor, curled up in bed, talking about the boys, about who we were, the parents we want to be, the people that we are - and could be. It was necessary, cathartic, and brutally honest. A good way to end the year, we told each other, and talked until a small boy arrived to insist that someone curl up with him.

And then it was quiet.

But in the quiet, gears turned,

How does it work? the Eldest mused, and ran for paper and pencil. He drew carefully, copying sculpture titles, the artist's name, and the details he could find. Oh, said a venerable gentleman observing one sculpture. It's using gears. He looked at the Eldest, to see if the child appreciated this bit of wisdom. Having just fought a round of the duh* wars, I held my breath. But the Eldest merely looked patient. Yes, he said. And there is the motor. And do you see the two springs?

...eyes looked,

taking notes on the wonders of rocks. The Eldest spent a full hour, drawing, wandering, exclaiming. My favorite is the aquamarine from Brazil, he told me. I rather liked some of the lapis lazuli, myself, but was struck by some of the more bulbous rocks. The Toddles, drawn to the meteors, stroked them comfortably. He showed me their inclusions, but discovered the joys of grin-and-duck when I aimed the camera at him. Urgh.

....hands worked,

[this photo blocked until Gamma has received her birthday gift]

And, alas, worked some more. This project took over three weeks, as the Eldest designed, budgeted, and redesigned once his materials arrived. And then, ack! had to re-engineer his work on the spot, as we learned some rather basic lessons about wire. But, said the Eldest, I wonder if we can do things with wire like Arthur Ganson does?

When we took Gamma's birthday gift to the experts (help!), we picked up some supplies. Maybe. Not, I suspect, as effectively as Ganson, but let's try and see, I said. Doubtfully.

...and oh yes, snow fell.

It's been a snowy pair of weeks, with bone-chilling winds. But snow somehow transforms teeth rattling cold into fun. So, the boys happily shoveled the walk on Thursday, stopping periodically to fling snowballs. It's not the best snow for snowballs, I was informed. It's too fluffy! But they cleared the sidewalk and stairs regardless.

Cheeks glowing, the snow critics headed inside for hot soup (see below) and onion tart. And a sense of deep satisfaction - right until the moment when the smaller critic was informed that he was overdue for a nap. [insert wail, whisk and roar here]

Folks, I'll be back with Part Two of the OT/sensory integration story, but for now, I'm off to help the Eldest sort recycled (okay, rescued) glass beads. He's singing quietly to himself at the table as he works, and his peaceful pleasure, the quiet, satisfied vibration of his work ripple outwards. In the kitchen, washing lettuce, I find myself smiling.

And then, he looks up. I love you, Mum.

My throat tightens, thickening. I love you, too, kiddo.

It's been a thoughtful, honest, loving - and as always, slightly cranky- end to the year at Chez Imperfect. With any luck, we'll begin the new year as we've ended the old one, ripe with the awareness of our gifts, and ruthless in considering our needs. But before I head over to join my order-from-chaos kidlet, I did want to say:

from all of the Chez Imperfect denizens, we wish you all a happy new year, rich with ripples of love, satisfaction and the work that makes us sing. And, of course, the imperfections that make us shine.

*****************************************************

A Wintry Day's Soup:

3 medium potatoes, washed and chopped roughly

2 large onions, or 1 large onion and 1 (washed) leek, chopped roughly

7-8 Jerusalem artichokes, a.k.a. sunchokes, washed and chopped roughly

1/2 inch ginger root, peeled and sliced into thin strips, or 1 tsp ground ginger

1 can of white beans of your choice: navy beans, chickpeas, butter beans, even Roman beans are good here. Drain and rinse.

salt and pepper to taste

3 bay leaves

6-8 cups water, or vegetable broth

1/3rd cup leftover white wine (or cooking wine, if you are so equipped)

4 Tb olive oil

optional: a sliced carrot

Saute fresh ginger and onions/leeks in oil until browned. (if using ground ginger, add when adding the rest of the spices) Add potatoes and Jerusalem artichokes, beans, spices, wine and enough water to cover the veggies by 1 inch. Let simmer for roughly 20 minutes, or until the potatoes are quite cooked.

Puree. Return to the stovetop and simmer for perhaps 5 minutes, adjusting seasonings. Serve hot, wishing you hadn't eaten all the garlic croutons yesterday. I like sprinkling them on top, said the Toddles, wistfully. Can you make some really, really quickly? And be done making them already?

Um, no.

*in which one side offers various sarcastic, oh jeez that's so OBVIOUS sorts of comments, while the other side suggests that perhaps those are, um, obnoxious. If not also disrespectful and somewhat indicative of the opinion that He Who is Dismissing is far superior than the Dismissed.

dribbles of competencies

In case you were wondering, while I can get blood out of just about anything, I'm a little stumped about the black greasy stuff on my hands. But in a non-neatfreaky shift, I'm loving the black goo.

Last night, my car declined to start. I sat on a random street, betwixt and between errands. And stared. The lights on the dash flared, then faded. The radio went silent. I turned the key, suggested politely, then firmly, finally used the evil mom growl. The car was unimpressed. This, I knew, was many many miles outside of my range of experience.

The lights were on, I said out loud, then they were off. And the NPR - where did it go?

Alas, said the AAA emergency roadside kit booklet, it went with the battery.

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick, said the engine, agreeing. This, I thought, is why I hid a chocolate and peanut bar in my bag for tonight's outing. I'd known that tonight was going to need it.

The chocolate was silky and the peanuts crunched, and mollified, I merely grinned when the booklet informed me that my troubles would be solved if I signed up with AAA. Failing that, said the booklet, find someone to jump-start the battery. I called a friend, it's going to take me a while to get to you, to drop your things off. I sadly looked at the empty bar wrapper, contemplated the lack of chocolate and peanuts. Would tea fill the void? But perhaps we can help, replied the friend. I'll send competent male out to jump-start your car.

Competent male turned up, and was indeed competent.* We compared AAA kits and happily, he knew how to use his. Except that, to his chagrin, there was his car, running - and the keys locked in it. Spare set of keys, he told me, and ran home to fetch them. Spare battery? Not so much.

We finally unlocked his car, untangled the jumper cables and compared identical AAA booklets on What To Do. We were attaching the jumped cables when roadside assistance turned up, and gasped with horror.

Don't do that! exclaimed the RA guy. You'll fry your computers.

Competent male and I looked at each other. We will? Competent male shrugged, and left me in clearly professional - and non cable-using - hands. Battery jumped, I drove home, weaving around and through my route in an effort to charge the battery. But don't expect the car to start again tomorrow, warned the professional. That battery is done.

But the next morning, it did. And when it started, I was prepared: had driving directions in hand, apples in bag and Eldest in the backseat, and we drove straight to AutoZone. Bought a battery. Watched the store's guy try and fail to unscrew the strap holding the old battery in place. Watched the car try and fail to turn on. The hours, which had been sliding away, giggled and picked up speed. Lunchtime came, and the Eldest finished his apple, two bags of potato chips and a pair of cookies. I'm still hungry, he told my rumbling stomach, having eaten my share of the snacks along with his own. I clamped my jaws shut, and worked to preserve any illusions of loving motherhood that he might have left.

Ah, but this time: spare battery.

One Roadside Assistance call later, the troublesome nut had spun off, we had a new battery in place, and I had been talked through hubcap replacement by the RA guy. I drove home considering this - the Home Depot guys are of the opinion that I can do nearly anything myself, including cutting tile. Is the RA guy of this ilk? I'd be disappointed in you if you couldn't, said a friend. I eyed the tires dubiously. Where I grew up, you called a guy. Competent, RA, handy or otherwise. Or caught a bus.

Sure enough, my first efforts popped off. The next round looked oddly askew - I'd covered the air thingie. Bloody car. Need a pack mule. Telecommuting, mutter mutter mutter something about a bicycle. Four new hubcaps and black goo later, I'm of the opinion that competency is a slippery, fluid concept. But I might - possibly - perhaps have dribbles of it.

perhaps. occasionally, I mused, spreading putty over the rusting holes in my paint. But, from the look of the swirling, delightedly unsmooth putty, not terribly often.

*please note that I say this with all sincerity: comparatively and otherwise, he was competent.

*********************************************************************

on an un-lunched day like this, when I'd rather have been doing any number of things other than considering my own dubious compentencies - and not so dubious ignorance of things vehicular, a serious pick-me-up is crucial. Mine? Steaming wedges of plain potato, coconut curried chickpeas from this wonderful cookbook, and unMarthaed green sauce.

unMarthaed green sauce

based on a recipe for green sauce, from a Martha magazine, picked up and carried reasonably far in a slightly chimicurried direction.

1/2 of a red onion

3 cloves garlic, peeled

1/3rd tsp red pepper flakes

most of a bunch of parsley, including stalks (if your food processor is up to the challenge, that is)

3-4 stalks fresh oregano, leaves stripped off (even if your food processor can handle it, the stalks are woody in flavor. I'd pass.)

1/3rd cup stuffed green olives (plain green are fine, too)

juice of 3 lemons

1/4 c rice vinegar, unless you have red wine vinegar (I didn't)

1/3rd to 1/2 cup olive oil

salt, pepper and ground coriander to taste

Add ingredients to the food processor: heavier ingredients first, then leafy and spices. Keep the liquids in reserve as encouragement to the machine when it falters, or has trouble chopping the elusive leaves. A nice, percussive pulse should do the trick: you want your sauce to be finely chopped, and not pureed. Mine was puree, however, and I managed to love it regardless.

Adjust your flavors to suit you - add olive oil if you need the sauce to have less zing, and more smoothness of flavor. Add lemon juice if you need more zing, salt if the flavor feels wimpy, extra onion for more pungency, capers and cornichons if you are having a Marthaesque moment of piquancy, anchovies if you are feeling traditional (but for heavens sake, add the anchovies early on in the percussion, 'k?). In short, have fun.

And when you are done, consider the simple, wonderfully neutral steamed potato as a backdrop to all that flavor, hmmm?

dinner? anyone?

Note to self: anyone making a highly aromatic soup on a fast day, gets what she deserves.

(siiiighhh)

*******************************

Badly Timed, Deliciously Smelled Tomato Soup

(serves 4)

6 cloves of garlic, smashed and peeled

2 tsp cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

3 slices of ginger root, matchsticked (note: smaller or larger slices as per your ginger-lovin' preferences)

2 cardamom seeds

1/3rd tsp coriander seeds

3 bay leaves

3-4 Tb olive oil

4 nearly overripe tomatoes (or canned equivalent), plus 28 oz diced tomatoes

salt and black pepper to taste

4 cups water/broth

toss spices and oil into a large pot, and let them heat - and start sizzling while you finish smashing and peeling the garlic. Fling the garlic in as you go along, because surely dinner should have been on the table 20 minutes ago? And hey, isn't anyone setting the table?

While you holler for the kids to come and bring plates, forks, knives and spoons to the table, roughly chop the fresh tomatoes, if you are using any, and toss those in. Remind the boys to bring glasses, also, while you open the canned tomatoes. Stir the pot, toss in anything remaining, cover and abandon to simmer while you go and chivvy the troops.

And dig up the napkins - how on earth did they end up down there? Hmmm. Resist the urge to go and find the guilty party (and congratulate him on his creativity), because at this point the soup's been simmering nicely for about 20 minutes, and you need to find a stick blender.

Use the stick blender.

Remind the children that dinner is traditionally eaten at the table. Remind them again. Disentangle the younger one from his Lego, and airlift him to his seat. Pour soup, and pass bowls of toppings, like cubed avocado, the slightly crushed tortilla chips from the bottom of the bag, bits of cucumber, and consider the days when you might've plopped sour cream on top.

Note: if you have, for some unimaginable reason, just discovered that your defrosted salmon went into the oven with a lovely pomegranate sauce (open bottle, pour) with a hint of plastic (take scissors, release salmon, release plastic), then possibly you are 1. overtired and 2. could happily dump a can of small white beans, great Northern beans or another mild white bean into this soup. Cook briefly, puree and serve with salad and maybe some of Gamma's improbably good croutons. Or, consider some leftover chicken, shredded and added post-puree, or possibly as a topping.

Note the second: this would never happen to me. Nope. Nuh uh. And especially not after a long, thoughtful conversation with the Man whilst returning home from Rosh Hashana, in which we identified a prompt 6 pm dinner as being the key to many happy widgets. Like timely bedtimes, less tired children and smoother evenings and mornings. Nope. I'd pick that plastic out before it melted into an alarmingly viscous sauce and swirled into the lovely pomegranate stuff. Yep. That's what I'd do.

on the care and management of husbands

I feel dizzy, the Man commented. 

Four feet ahead of him, pushing a sandy, exhausted Toddles in the stroller, I nodded, noted and filed the remark. We'd spent hours at the park that day, relaxing in the shade while the boys played, picnicking on a patchwork of towels: luxurious. Walking home, it occurred to me that dizzy wasn't  the word I'd expected the Man to use on this day, at this time. Tired, sure.  Sleepy, oh I'm right there with ya. Relaxed, absolutely. I tucked away dizzy, sure that I'd understand it eventually, too busy floating on the pleasures of the afternoon to muster a proper worry. 

And oh, that afternoon.

The Toddles had stood under the jets of water, soaked and fascinated, his mouth open with pleasure - when it wasn't netting water. I'd filled my mouth instead with the tastes of summer shabbat: this week, it was Thai basil, grilled chicken, scallions and roasted plums. Ooooh. The Eldest, bolted barely enough to score dessert, then vanished to experiment with hydrodynamics. Dripping and banned from the sand until he dried (somewhat), he then found that the snazzy brushed metal of the park's slide and climbing structure made wonderful, resonant sounds. Boom, bim, bim boom, said the structure, as the Eldest swing his arms, concentrating. Nearby, the Toddles spluttered and laughed at his faceful of water while I grinned at the Man, who excused himself to help the percussionist. 

(and was promptly sent away, percussion being a solo affair, it seems)

So, I feel dizzy, the Man commented, and I barely blinked. Walking along, ripe with relaxation and smiles, I suggested that perhaps skipping his morning coffee did not help. It hadn't, as it happens, but that was merely ancillary.

Days before, the Man had felt dizzy - a moment here, a moment there, but nothing worth mentioning. He's made of stern stuff, our Man, and will lower his forehead and keep on keepin' on even when he's sick. I've yelled at him for it, and accidentally exploited him when he's done it. Sometimes, irritably, not so accidentally. The Man's lack of care for himself is legendary among the adults in the family, and hopefully not as well known to the children... Although today, the Eldest asked why the Man doesn't carry his own EpiPen - he carries one of mine. Um.

Over the week, our stubborn, determined guy felt his world teeter, then twirl around him.  Thursday was a fast day, and the Man felt - like the rest of us - lousy. And dizzy. He racked up some dehydration and didn't do much about it, hovering on the edge of slightly desiccated until Sunday. When the boys and I came home from a play&celebrate to find our guy in bed.

He had not eaten. (oh, wait, said he, a piece of toast. And, um, some jelly beans) He had not drunk. (well, perhaps some coffee) My raised eyebrows aside, it was clear that he could do neither now. And oh, he felt sick. I cultivated an air of mild irritation and pleasant care, and offered him some apple juice before going off to find out why Shaymin Level X was crucial enough for fratricide.

No apple juice.

No water.

Lemon slices? no, not helping the nausea. And urgk, the spinning room. 

There he lay, his eyes shut. I considered worrying.

The Man admitted at this point that no, he did not have a primary care doctor for me to call. I tamped down on a lecture that I'd given cyclically over the past couple of years - clearly, it hadn't been effective. Right, then. The ER it would be.

Dizziness is, apparently, a fairly common cause for a run to the ER. It can be triggered by stroke, by blockage in a major vessel leading to the brain, by dehydration, by something upsetting the inner ear - or even a canal of the outer ear. There could be a tumor in the brain, a viral infection, or a funny, spasmodic twitch of the eyes that fools the brain into seeing motion in a still, placid world. The eyes move, the world does not.

If I'm being fair, it sounds amazingly uncomfortable. My poor guy, staggering from the car and acting like he had the world's nastiest case of car sickness. He had an unstable, twirling world, and a zip through the potholed streets in our neighborhood had managed to give his internal twirl a nice high-kick and bounce.  

splaaaat.

So he won the door prize: IV fluids, dramamine, and a rookie doctor digging a ginormous chunk of eeewwwww, funky wax out of one ear. Whoa, said the doc, and carefully saved it. Ah, said the doc's boss, respectfully. That should do it, they chorused. And sent us home, where in fact, that did not do it. And so back we went the next day, this time to a different ER where the Man was again hydrated, prodded and invited to follow my finger with your eyes. The doc grinned, and showed me the slight twitch that was spinning the Man's world round, round, round. But, he pointed out, this muscular fillip should have responded to the dramamine. He offered some IV valium to the Man, and while our lad snoozed, the doc and I considered cheery things like tumors.

One MRI later, the boys were asleep in the Man's hospital bed, and I'd abandoned Cosmo (the Obama's sex life! your g spot!) for Good Housekeeping (spice rubs! pantry soups! remodel on the cheap!).  Muttering, I'd sewn together a felt fish that the Toddles had traced, ordered to be cut and designed. The boys had been admired, and shifts had changed. The Man had been lectured on the usefulness of primary care doctors while I made quiet-ish choking sounds, and had slept through the news that, in fact, he did not have a tumor. Nor a blockage of a useful vessel to the brain.

Sitting in the dark room, the sleepers piled on the beds we'd cadged, I began to breathe again. I'm often the only one awake at such times, it seems, standing guard over my family in the dark. Waiting for news to emerge quietly from corners. At some point in the long, well-trodden hours of that day, my carefully cultivated loving, mild irritation had faded. And I'd begun to worry. Just a little. By midnight, the worry had folded itself, origami-like, into a complex, fragile structure as I waited for the MRI's results. And then I set it aside, collected the sleepers and went home.

Why did you bring the boys? a friend would ask the next day, and I didn't have a good answer. They'd been left with friends on Sunday, but were very clear on Monday that they wanted to be with their dad. So I brought them. Because they wanted to go, and I suspect, needed to. 

Look! I'm learning so much! the Eldest exclaimed, maneuvering cannily.  I knew what he was learning, and thanked the friend who offered to help relocate the boys. The boys would stay, and watch their father take a rare turn at being not-quite-right. And yes, I knew that this trip would probably bolster our family myth that the ER is where you go to be bored and ultimately, fine.  Still, I brought them partly to share the vigil, partly to distract us, partly because we have no fear of emergency rooms, and know that we can ask the nurses for an extra blanket, a couple of pillows, and we can make sock puppets from the silly, thick hospital socks. We can laugh. 

The laughter is part of the mythos, of course.

And sometimes, we do all of that almost incidentally, focusing instead on the serious business of being together, loving and a family in a place that would otherwise leave you feeling silenced and alone.

***********************

The next day, I had a check-up. Women, mused my doctor, come in to the office for a range of reasons. Men, however, typically come because their wives make them. The doctor paused. Maybe that's why married men live longer?

I went home, and tossed my ideas of respectful partnership out the window. Flipped open the laptop and found the Man an insurance-approved doctor of 20+ yrs experience, evening hours, working in a practice at a major medical center, checked a couple of patient reviews - and signed our lad up.  You've got a check-up in August, I informed my love. You'll be seeing Dr. Z. 

He nodded, and humbly thanked me. I patted him on the shoulder and went to try a spice rub.

*******************************************************

I'm doing a lot of cooking with the boys this summer, and they're happily recording their favorite recipes in their very own cookbooks. It's a mixed experience, especially when we're getting close to dinner time...but this spice rub was a lot of fun to put together with the Toddles. We smelled and touched everything, and grinding the spices was tops on the Toddles-O-Meter. Eating it did pretty well on mine.

The Tilt-A-Whirl spice rub

1.5 tsp black peppercorns

2 tsp fennel seeds

1 tsp coriander seeds

1.5 tsp cumin seeds

.5 tsp coarse salt

grind in a coffee grinder, or mortar & pestle, if you have a strong arm. Very strong arm. 

I dredged some tuna steaks in it, courtesy of a friend with good taste in fish, heated olive oil in a pan, and seared them for perhaps 3 minutes per side. I'll happily try this again for chicken, and definitely for tofu.

oooh, yum, said the Eldest. That's the most yummiest I've ever had! the Toddles trilled, and briefly set aside his current dislike of edibles to eat most of a slab. With ketchup. (sigh) And our current favorite salad!

Summer's Just Peachy Salad:

Like all my salads, this is more narrative than prescriptive. Or, as the Eldest likes to say, it's a matter of food math. You have your basic elements: green + something onion-y, x something crisp + something soft/mellow divided by something(s) sweet, salty, sour. Got that? Right.

For the specifics-lovers, try the following: 

a bowlful of greens, preferably one of those ridiculously soft, melting farm-fresh red leaf lettuces. Or romaine, if that's what's surviving in your fridge. Or a mix of anything - but go easy on the arugula, watercress and other tangy greens. 

2 scallions, chopped

a handful of pitted kalamata olives (I like Trader Joe's), or some other mild olive - pimiento stuffed olives are probably fine, too

2 rather crisp, underripe peaches

....and anything else you like. Can't imagine a salad that would go badly with toasted, slivered almonds, and this one is certainly happy with avocado, garlic croutons, and many other somewhat improbable things, including (no, really) a scant handful of blueberries.

 

Fill the bowl, then dress the salad. How? Well, try tossing with olive oil, sprinkle with chili powder (or cumin), garlic powder (fresh garlic will come in with big, heavy combat boots and stomp on everything in this salad, so don't use it - and did you ever think I'd say that?), salt and pepper, toss again. Drizzle slightly with a mild vinegar, and toss a third time. Woot!

and to all, a belated wish

Happy Mother's Day. 

For the mothers who are made, shaped and discovered: thank you. There are many mothers in our Imperfect world, and I am grateful to all of you for your support. 

*********************

8am, Sunday morning: roll over and crack an eye at the clock. Close eyelid.

8:20 am: crack the other eye. Review the various things that need to happen before it's time to leave the house. Compare that list to the noises from downstairs: are those getting dressed sounds? breakfast sounds? Mmm - breakfast. Stomach rumbles, slam eyelid shut and require both to be patient.

8:35 am: okay, patience sucks. Did breakfast/clothes/making snacks/pouring water/finding the hats/finding the soccer ball (soccer today!) happen? And speaking of breakfast, am I getting my own? Roll over and grump quietly into the pillow

8:40 am: stop grumping. Follow the sound of keys tapping down the hall, and gently ask the Man if I can get up now? He stares at me. Get up? I blink. Get out of bed, I clarify. He stares some more. Get out of - OH. Uh, um - OH. No. You can't get out of bed! I try not to grin wickedly, and offer some highlights from the list of Things To Do in the next 30 minutes. He hyperventilates, and I suggest that perhaps I'll take a shower now, while he regroups. I escape down the hall while he splutters.

8:49 am: Mid-rinse, the bathroom door opens and the Eldest pops in. You have mail! he sings. I spit out some bubbles and say something coherent like, what? hello? But he has gone. When I get out of the shower, I squint nearsightedly at something that might be a card. Sitting on the toilet seat. I resolve to be nearsighted, and squelch down the hall.

9:10 am: Mouth full of toothpaste. The Man whisks in, did you get the card? can you get the kids dressed? can you make snacks for them? can you fill their waterbottles? I have to take a shower and get ready to go. I am faster on the draw this time, and spit out the bubbles before he vanishes - but only just. Sure, and I did get the card. Kid left it on the TOI-let. I crack a significantly arched eyebrow at the Man. I'm going to open it in the car, to make it a family moment. He huffs and races down the hall, trailing his towel.

(I do the petty thing oh, so very well, eh?)

9:35 am: we're in the car, and I make a production out of opening the car. It is wonderful, all snarks aside - the Man got the boys to make handprints, slipped a really terrible pun, and all three of them signed their names. The Man, in unreadable swirls; the Eldest, in tidy cursive; and the Toddles in oh my goodness readable printed lettering. Which, the Eldest delightedly points out, the Toddles did all by himself. With no-one holding his hand! I melt ever so slightly. No, a whole lot. I admire everybody's signature lavishly, and decide to hold off on explaining to the Man exactly how lame he is. (the toilet? a card-and-run? hello?) Oh, I am not going to get teary over the Toddles' writing his name. No. Not at all. Just a little damply proud.

10:05 am: I am climbing out of the car, and we're stuffing an extra kid into it. The car pulls away, leaving me and a bag of ripped clothes behind - I'll have a sewing mama-date with another soccer mom, a semi-regular Sunday arrangement.

10:06 am: there is coffee, there is a fabulously cute baby (oh yes, and his mom), and look! I'm going to sew that damned button on the skirt that has been waiting for the past seven weeks for me to get to it. Ha. I am alarmingly pleased with myself, and breakfast? Sure. Let me just grab a pan and scramble some EGGS. Yep: eggs, baby. Scrambled. With butter. Heh.

10:40 am: and there goes the ripped sweats, now reincarnated as shorts. I forget that I'm insisting on the righteous indignation thing and grin. Whee! I reach for the Eldest's unraveling kipa and hm -whazzat? 

10:42 am: ballet? what? WHEN - wait, ballet? Quick inhale. Quick jog down the memory, small grin. Bigger grin.

10:43 am: honey? honey? what do you think about me skipping out for a matinee? There's a last minute ticket - yes, I know. Oh, you didn't have anything planned for the afternoon? Really? Great!

12:57 pm: I have not a single fucking thing to wear. Pants are falling off my bony butt, and when on earth did that happen? Clothing is flying in my neat-freaky room, piles of things that used to fit are looming, and oh cripes, what is left? I swear quietly and creatively, trying not to wake up the Toddles, who is sleeping in my bed. 

1:03 pm: the Eldest pops his head in and cheerily informs me that my cab will be here soon. I remind myself not to snarl at the kid, and settle instead for informing him that I'm having a somewhat difficult time, and perhaps now isn't a great time to be here? He settles on the bed, and happily offers to help. Teeth clenched, I propel him out the door. I hate getting dressed. It's like playing Old Maid with a stacked deck: the pairs I want vanish, and giggle. What on earth did I use to wear with this shirt? Surely not that - why would I do that? Ack.

1:12 pm: I'm dressed. I'm also mocking myself in the mirror, but who cares? Cab should be here momentarily and oh, need to change the ratty burlap bag, okay, can do that, and hell. That was a ripping sound, wasn't it. Oh, bugger. 

1:20 pm: cab's here, I've found some things that kind of work, the hair is, well, it's pinned firmly on the back of my head, so I can't see it, and ignorance is probably bliss. Bag's changed, got a warm layer - right! Time to go.

1:20:56 pm: my dad? calling from Kosovo? Aaaahgrlfk - hi, Dad. 

1:22 pm: cab's gone. Call cab back. Chew nails. Curtain is at 2pm, furiously calculate just how late I'm going to be.

2:11 pm: standing in the dark theatre, waiting the usher to seat me in the second row from the freakin' holy hell front, I'm entranced. It's Eifman's Onegin, and it is wonderful. For the next two hours, the snarks and petty grumps will drop away. The muscles will relax. The jaw will drop, the vocabulary will be temporarily silenced. Instead, I'll watch elegant, brutal, thoughtful dancing, set against a backdrop of a carefully designed set, with a brilliant mix of classical and modern music, classical and modern dance.  The patterns of the ballet - a color theme here, a trail of prop there, an echoed dance step, bend of an elbow - piece themselves together in my head, and I stare at structures forming in my brain, intricate and deliberate. I remember those structures, remember building them inside my skull, lo these many post-grad years ago. And then onstage, a dancer will move and -

oh. 

OH. 

For two hours, I'll sit in  another world. When I step out of it and on to the train home, I'll carry wisps of it with me...and I will smile. And yes, no problem, love - I'd be happy to go online and order myself a gift. From the bit of paper I'd posted on the fridge a few weeks ago?The Man eyes me suspiciously, waiting for the petty, the snip or snark. Instead, I smile. I'm brimful of the oh.

OH. 

I drift off happily, completely forgetting about the thingamibob that we've budgeted for. I have, after all, been well celebrated today. At bedtime, I'll reopen the card and admit that yes, I am after all sniffling a bit over the handprints and the carefully - laboriously - written names. And the guy who had the foresight to make it.

***********************************

A Mother's Day lunch: for a fast lunch, I had a bowlful of this, happily reworking the sabbath's leftover brown rice.  I suspect it would make an excellent meal for a new mum, baby in one arm, spoon in another...got to remember that. If only to bring it along to a virtual baby shower sometime.

B'sha'a tova*, Seamaiden.

Far From Leftover: Sweet Gingered Brown Rice Salad 

(based on "warm brown rice salad," Boston Globe 4/22/2009, G25)

serves 4.

salad:

3 cups cooked brown rice

1 small crown broccoli, cut into small pieces (stems and florets)

2-3 scallions, sliced somewhat finely

1/3rd c toasted sunflower seeds (or slivered almonds, pine nuts, or some other mild crunch.)

1 punnet cherry tomatoes, rinsed

1 can chickpeas, drained

optional: add more! I considered craisins and thinly sliced carrots, but you could replace the chickpeas with cubes of leftover chicken. Have fun.

Pour brown rice and broccoli into a oven-friendly casserole. Pop into a 300 F oven while you assemble, chop and mince everything else. 

dressing: 

1/8 c. maple syrup

1/8 c. tamari soy sauce (regular soy sauce has wheat)

1/3 c. olive oil

1 clove garlic, smashed and chopped rather finely

1/2 inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced. Yes, minced. Just do it.

1.5 Tb maple syrup

Whisk the dressing together while the rice and broccoli are warming up. Pull rice and broccoli out of the oven - the broccoli is now that bright green color that shows that it's barely begun to be cooked. Add the rest of the ingredients to the salad, and toss gently with the dressing.

Serve, having reserved a bowl for yourself. Eat that for thirds - it's only the fast and the cleverly prepared who are going to get that much. Fair warning, people.

* in a good hour. Meaning, may what happens come in the right time, and the right way - however that way, and whenever that time may be.

a time of rest (and food)

this is the view through the hole in the wall.
And this is on the other side: unfurling growth,

 a place of testing and trust,

a breath of peace,
and a pause for memory.
And always, but always, a spot of vibrancy and joy

 not to mention play! Much of which happened on shabbat, when I could not take photos. 

What photos I do have, I'm saving for spousal blackmail. But do imagine the Man on a child's pink tricycle, knees up by his ears and careening around corners. Me, screeching with laughter, while a crowd of sane adults cheer for him, or for the equally scrunched up athlete behind him.

With the children delightedly in grandparental arms,  the Man and I flung ourselves into the car. For a weekend, we lived in a fantasy in which we slept, ate and walked around the lake. I was persuaded to try acupressure, courtesy of a group of volunteers. I then managed to be persuaded to try massage, then reiki, then any number of excellent slices of angelfood cake with oooh, lemon-orange sauce. (Eight parts confectioner's sugar to one part lemon juice, said the chef, plus orange zest. Because you know, I really had to ask.) And endless cups of tea. And popcorn. And how-to insurance tips. And yes, you've got me, there were sketches of our ideal home. Mine was not, by the way, the only one with solar panels and a veggie garden. And I was totally out-greened by the person with the imaginary goat. And in-house claims manager. 

Damn.

Oh, but we talked. And talked. And laughed immoderately. And, while I was relaxing in a haze of not-my-allergens and people who know how to find the knots in my back and persuade them to relax a bit, the Man was reaching. 

He made it to one handhold and paused. Then he reached for another. And another. Until, blinking and alarmed, he was at the top. (need a visual? Scroll back up. Yep, that's it.) Roughly 35 feet off the ground, the Man sat down and laughed. The guy hates stepladders, you know. Made no difference.

Those Holes in Walls can hold the damndest things. Reliably, I fail to describe the place, let alone explain it. And I'm not even going to try now. Suffice to say that oh, it brings laughter and joy.

*********************************************

No KoolAid so far from the HitWGC folks, although there were many carbs rich with dairy and gluten. I tried hard to eat my weight in allergens, and I think I nearly succeeded...

We staggered to the car and drove home - where most of our GF, allergy-friendly fridge had been emptied. The grandparents nearly trampled us when we walked into the door, fleeing, perhaps, to more culinarily friendly climes? Well, maybe not. Taped to the countertop was a list of requests for recipes...one of which is below.

Curried Chickpea Polenta

(adapted from the Voluptuous Vegan, serves 4-6, can be made 1-2 days in advance)

2 onions, somewhat finely chopped

4-6 Tb olive oil

1-2 Tb curry powder, depending on your tastes (and the heat of your curry!)

2 tsp salt

1 c. chickpea flour

.5 c medium ground cornmeal/polenta

4.75 c water

In a cake mixer or food processor, blend the chickpea, cornmeal, water and salt. The stuff will clump, so a fast whipping is helpful. You can try mixing the water and salt while slowly adding the cornmeal and chickpea flour - sometimes that helps avoid lumps. Personally, I embrace my lumpiness (to a degree), and just move on.

In a pasta-sized pot/medium pot, saute the onion in the oil until deeply browned. Add curry powder, and stir for a couple of minutes, until the curry powder is warmed and smells wonderful. Pour in the batter, and stir to mix. Heat uncovered over medium heat, stirring occasionally until it comes to a boil. 

warning: this stuff will splatter a bit, so take me seriously when I suggest that...

Once the mixture begins to boil, turn the heat down to med-low and stir constantly. The mixture will start to thicken, but keep stirring for another 20 minutes or so (almost constantly, slightly less so if you have a really kickass nonstick pot). The chickpea flour can have a beany flavor, but heating it steadily like this will mellow that flavor wonderfully. At this point, you can add optional yumminess, like fresh corn kernels, freshly ground black pepper or a sprinkle of minced fresh herbs, or whatever else makes your mouth happy. 

Spray a springform pan (or other pan, I like the springform because it's easy to uncrate the thing after baking). Pour the batter in, and let the pan sit on the counter for a 30-45 minutes. Then, bake at 350F for roughly 30 minutes.

The top will be golden and somewhat cracked - and entirely delicious. Serve it warm! 

note: for the non-vegan/dairy consumers, a grating of Parmesan might just be perfect here. If it is, for heaven's sake don't tell me, okay? I think I might just be dairied out for now.