"Sasha" Onion Soup

So, I guess I'm going to start off this installment with a little confession. I'm a flake. A big flake. I had wonderful intentions of getting in here and posting a couple of times a week. Intentions of sharing my life, my love, my food with you. My mother says the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I got caught up in whatever I thought a food blog was supposed to be. I wanted it to be about me cooking. I wanted it to be beautiful. I wanted to talk about gourmet crap and layers of flavor. Turns out that is not my life, my food, or my tongue. My husband does most of the cooking. I work long hours and I come home to his wonderful meals. I do however take the pictures. I write the blog. I eat the food.

Gourmet isn't what this is going to be about. Layers of flavor isn't what I'm going to talk about. All of the food here will be 100% gluten-free. I can have it no other way. My husband is a wonderful man who reads labels and works hard to make sure that I don't have any major discomfort due to Celiac Disease. He not only makes sure that I don't get ill, he makes sure that what I am eating tastes good. He makes sure that I don't have to spend dinner time pining for days when I ate whatever struck me as interesting. He keeps everything interesting.

Tonight, for instance, he took the broth from our pot roast on Friday and was going to make French onion soup. Part way through he announced that is not what he was making at all. He was making "Sasha" onion soup. In our house, it doesn't matter what is served, I never think there are enough onions in, on, or around it. He decided that most French onion soup had a few onions drifting in the bottom of the bowl, but that just wouldn't do for me. Instead he turned the idea into a delectable dish I can equate more closely with stew than soup, and he topped it with a Provolone covered slice of gluten-free Country White from Deby's.

My taste for onions sated, and my confessions done for this evening, I will try to come back more frequently. No pretense. No worries about who cooked it. I really just want you to know how normally I eat without a worry for gluten.

(I still reserve the right to whip out a fancy recipe if I feel the urge...)

Dinner Time

I have tremendous feelings of guilt over writing yet another post on something I had no hand in cooking. This is supposed to be my journey through the kitchen, and yet I keep finding myself back to leaning on my husband who has always been my rock in the kitchen. Would that make him a kind of soup stone?

Even though I didn't cook these, they were part of my adventure. They were something that I needed to experience. They were Salmon Roulade. Purchased in a roll from the grocery store all he really did was slice them and put them on tiny "toastlettes". I think I may have just made up a word, but they struck my as "toastlettes".

I've never been able to like fish. If you say that sentence out loud it sounds absurd. That is exactly what I intended to say, though. I've tried to like fish. Especially salmon. All of its purported health benefits scream that I should be eating it every day. Yet, everytime I put the luscious looking pink flesh to my lips, it turns funky and fishy and I can't possibly make it past the first bite. Still, it always calls to me when I see it. I want desperately to want to eat it.

Once upon a time, in the mystical kingdom of Fairbanks, Alaska, I rode a riverboat. At the end of that riverboat ride they served some salmon all mashed up and from a can. It was delicious. It was heaven. It was the only time that salmon has ever tasted good to me.

On a trip to South Carolina last year I had grouper and it was divine. I tried the same fish here in Denver. It was a completely different animal. I am well aware that different fish have different flavors. That is what I am told. Excepting these two instances, I have only ever experienced them in varying degrees of rank fishiness.

You are probably thinking that I just don't like fish because I am so terribly land-locked and am not getting it fresh. Not so. My parents are residents of Alaska and go dip netting regularly. My mother smokes and vacuum seals the salmon and ships it to me. Still - fresh and smoked by me own mother...blech!

So there was this package of Salmon Roulade. That pretty pink color wrapped around cream cheese and dill. How could that be wrong? Home they came with us to reside until dinner time.

I can't imagine why I continue to try. I don't know what it is in my head that continues to tell me that these are going to taste good when time after time they turn my tongue sour. But try them again I did, and thank goodness!

Evidently, it just has to be a combination of flavors for me. At first, from the smell, I though surely these were not going to be any good. They smelled like every other bite of salmon that ever crossed my lips. On it's little "toastlette" it made it's way to my mouth. The fish taste did hit first and I was frightened, but it quickly combined and turned creamy and sweet with the dill creamed cheese. The flavor of the gluten-free country white bread from Deby's held up well to the flavor of the Salmon Roulade and as all the flavors washed over my palate I finally found what I was looking for. Some kind of strange ancestral memory that has compelled me over and over again to put this fish in my mouth was finally satisfied as the flavor came to new definition in my mouth and mind.

With renewed vigor I will be perusing the world of fish. I know now that I'm not crazy! It really can taste good to me! I must find again that satisfaction. I'm sure there must be some way to cook all fish that would suit me. I just have to find it.

And of course, it's 100% gluten-free, so I really don't want to rule it out. Next time, I'll cook it myself, though. I promise.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig!

Travelling the world growing up my only cultural constant was my mother. I was an only child and an army brat, so everything around me changed every three years, except for my mother. My father worked long hours and was gone on lengthy field maneuvers quite often. I credit him with imparting great wisdom to me, often in servings larger than I was equipped to handle, but the lessons have stood with me through a lot of difficult times in my life.

My mother, though, she was our family. She was our tradition. She was our rock. Due to my excessive use of the word was, I feel the need to share that my mother and father are still living and well far away in the frozen North. I say was, because I have not been a part of their traditions for a long time. They are still my family, and many of my fondest memories involve them, but they have been far away from me for a long time. I miss them terribly and wish desperately that plane tickets were less expensive. Anymore, our family traditions center mostly around making sure we call each other on holidays and special occasions (not to mention the three or four times a week I chat with one or both of them just because).

My mother sang songs to me. There were songs that all of us know. My mother is a grand repository of Disney songs and musical numbers. There were others though. Some of them other people know when I sing them. Some of them are completely foreign. I don't know if they were songs of her childhood. She never shared that. I have always assumed that someone must have sang these songs to her when she was a child.

One song she used to sing to me it took me years to comprehend. I had always thought that the words were nonsense all run together as they are. Maresy Dotes and Dosey Dotes And Little Lamsey Diveys. A Kidulley Divey Too Wouldn't You? I was 23 or 24 when I finally deciphered that one and called my mother laughing hysterically at the grand joke on me.

The following she sang to me the most regularly though, and I find myself still singing it as I arrive home after shopping.

To market, to market,
To buy a fat pig.
Home again, home again,
Jiggety Jig.

To market, to market,
To buy a fat hog.
Home again, home again,
Jiggety Jog.

(Some time ago I made the delightful discovery that this rhyme is etched into the stone signage for Broadway Marketplace here in Denver.)

When I read that this was Some Pig Blogging Weekend, the sing-song melody filled my head and hasn't left me alone. I knew that I had to come in here and join in this glorious praise of pigs. I have always been a lover of pigs. I even had a pet pot-bellied pig named Charlotte for awhile. Apartment living didn't agree with her, and the myth of the easily trained pig was thoroughly busted. We found Charlotte a lovely home with other barn-yard friends more her speed.

Pigs were a gift from the gods to a Welsh king (Pryderi) according to Celtic legend. Their sweet meat was coveted and subsequently stolen by a neighboring nation. It of course ended in war. People love their pigs.

I spent seven years of my childhood in Germany. One day while we were off in search of yet another castle to tour, my myopic mother had removed her glasses. We were driving through the vast farmlands that border many of the roads I can remember when my mother began asking my father why they were keeping their pigs out in the fields. My father I laughed until our sides nearly split, and when my mother put her glasses on she began laughing as well. Those were cows in the field, but we still tease her. Even if it's a moose on the side of the road, we might ask her if she saw that pig over there.

Mostly, the consumption of pig has always been at the top of my list of My Favorite Pigs...I meant My Favorite Things....wonder what that slip meat.. I mean meant. Whew! Maybe I should go eat something.

Ham has always been my feasting item of choice. That was a tough one when my father was stationed North of Chicago at a base that no longer exists. I went to a school where the cafeteria was kosher and we had so many holidays off between Christianity and Judaism it's suprising we ever learned anything. Oh, and there was always that Casmir Pulaski day. I never did figure that one out. Ham just wasn't on the menu at community social gatherings.

Bacon goes in anything that I can slip it into. (Word of warning. Bacon bits do not work well with Marinara. I still have bad dreams about that one. We were very, very hungry.) I don't like my bacon overly crisp. Some people cook the fat right off the bacon. I love that long succulent strip of fat along the side of the salty pork. Keep your lean turky bacon away from me. Houston (my sweet husband) won my heart with his meatloaf which is part burger, part pork breakfast sausage, and has slices of bacon sandwiched between a top and bottom layer.

Houston and I have long been known for serving his pork roast at every party we have ever thrown. It is a staple. Houston spent 6 years working in the oldest restaurant in Denver. We order our pork roast through them. We tried one from the grocery store once. It almost wasn't worth serving. (It was pork so we ate it, of course. Even poor quality pork is still delicious.)

Pork loin is served for dinner in our house at least twice a weak. We substitute it diced for meatballs in spaghetti. We spice and chop it into our salads. We service it with rice and tropical fruit. What can't you eat with pork loin?

And when it comes to breakfast...

The celiac diagnosis has made life difficult on many frontiers, but the quality of our pork sausage isn't one of them. We learned very quickly that most commercial sausages have fillers. Those fillers usually contain gluten. If you buy a good quality pork sausage you still need to read the label. They will sneak fillers into some of them. The best sausages, pork or otherwise, do not contain fillers. 100% meat means 100% gluten free.

I fretted all day yesterday with that "Jiggety Jig" melody in my head, trying to figure out what I was going to feature for my pig blog. I had all but given up, silly me, when the solution presented itself. We were running late at the store and worrying about what to throw on the table for the kids when Houston picked up a package of pork sausage. There it was. My precious pig. All wrapped up in a pork casing and ready for dinner. He fixed them up with some pan fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, and the toast on the side is from a Country White loaf direct from Debys Gluten-Free Bakery and Cafe. An assortment of Stonewall Kitchen jams, including my favorite, Rasperry Peach Champagne, were set out on the table. My hungry children gaped at their dinners and my husbands stomach was rumbling audibly as they waited patiently for me to take some photos.

Blessed be the pig. Dig in.

I discovered this community of food bloggers this year through Gluten-Free Girl. I've been lurking and reading ever since. New to cooking and new to this amazing world where people write about food just for fun, I haven't ceased to be interested in them for months and months. Finally I thought, "Hey! I can do this, too!"

Lurking around some more and following links here and there - I discovered the food events that are taking place all the time. Then I discovered the hub - IMBB. What a marvelous place. The inspiration to get in the kitchen and cook and photograph and write is never-ending. I was already into writing and photography (of the amateur digital type). Cooking is like the doorway into a magickal world for me. Discovering that I actually enjoy being in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot, and concocting new and delicious foods to sustain myself and my family has been wonderous.

So here I am. My first food event. That girl that is always lurking in the corner has decided to talk a little. Try not to look shocked. You might frighten her.

I had to add this extra note when I realized that I didn't delve into my mouthwatering childhood memories of German style Cordon Bleu, or my recent discovery of Prosciutto..I hope that I continue to be suprised, delighted, and sated by glorious pig (cue etherial music) for the rest of my life.

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Technorati: pig, pork, ham, loin, sausage

Gnocchi!

It still hasn't ceased to amaze me how many things are already out there that actually don't require gluten at all in order to come out properly. I was spending a leisurely evening at home watching The Food Network. I know a lot of people don't like them. Or maybe that is too strong. I know a lot of the other blogs I read don't find them useful at all. I wouldn't be here writing about food if it weren't for Rachel Ray and Emeril. I spent long seasons growing up without stepping foot in the kitchen for more than a glass of ice tea. When I began feeling the urge to step into the kitchen I had no frame of reference. How to chop vegetables, handle raw meat, and the differences between simmer and boil were completely foreign to me.

Since my mother lives 3,000 miles to the North of me, and she has lived there since I moved to Colorado at the age of 17, I can't toodle over to her house and lean over her shoulder to watch her. Rachel and Emeril have become my kitchen "Mom" and "Dad". I guess that makes Alton my "Uncle". I watch these three regularly. It probably seems silly to a lot of people, but I watch them for context as much as content. I really have no idea what I'm doing when I step into the kitchen. Rachel made me believe that I could do it. She had no pre-chopped ingredients off to the side. She chopped everything right there in front of me. Emeril made it exciting.

The first time I saw Emeril I was at a friends house. This was sometime over the past year. I know he has been around for quite a while and it must sound as if I have been under a rock. I just didn't ever do anything with food except eat it, and usually on the go. We were chatting as Emeril was puttering around his sound stage inside the box, when suddenly "BAM!" He scared me clear off the couch. It upset me quite a bit. I didn't think that scaring the bejeebies out of people and cooking really went together. It took a couple of months, but I ended up watching him again. Slow night on TV I guess. He went long enough without yelling at me that I fell in love (kind of like my husband....).

Had this not coincided with my discovery of Gluten-Free Girl, it probably wouldn't have gone anywhere. Shauna is like a cheerleader for gluten-free home cooking. Her anyone can live this way happily attitude has really kept me going. She romanticized the kitchen and cooking for me. I needed to go do something in the kitchen so that I can be just like Shauna when I grow up.

All of this of course leads up to my adventure with gnocchi. I could hardly wait all week in anticipation of the weekend when I would have time to make this Italian potato pasta. Discovering foods that are by their very own nature essentially gluten free is always a moment of glee for me. When I saw Rachel Ray eating these little noodles and she mentioned they were made out of potato...I set out to investigating.

It didn't take much. I spent very little time actually, because of the amazing resource Epicurious. That is where I found this recipe. The only real modification that I made to the recipe was the type of flour I mixed into the potatoes. I just substituted Bob's Red Mill All Purpose GF Baking Flour.

Well...I also had a serious lapse in brain-power. Until I started to make the gnocchi, the potatoes were already boiling, I didn't realize that it called for a potato ricer. I honestly had to look it up to make sure I knew what the recipe was calling for. In order to get the potatos to the propper consistency and keep them light you are supposed to use a potato ricer. I don't have one. Yet.

I used my hand mixer on the lowest setting and only for a minute. I still didn't comprehend the full ramifications until I had them spread out on the counter cooling and I could see all the little pieces of whole potato still lingering. All description of gnocchi are light and fluffly. Not chunky. Still I held out hope.

I needed the dough with the egg and spices and began adding my bean flour. I would have blamed the bean flour for the sticky texture were it not for the warning in the recipe that this dough will stick to your hands and work surface. "Repeatedly rub this rough dough from your hands and scrape it with a knife or dough scraper from the work surface back into the dough as you knead."

It then recommends washing your hands. This is actually quite a task as the starches from the potatoes had bonded to my hands like super glue. After plenty of scrubbing and some time later I was able to continue this adventure...

I proceeded through the recipe, having skimmed it in speedy fashion, of course. I cut my rolled potato and bean flour dough in 1/2 inch sections and began dropping them into boiling water. While waiting for the first batch to float I realized that I had made another error. Each 1/2 inch section was supposed to be rolled into a ball and then across a fork. They are supposed to come out looking like this. Obviously not my gnocchi, nor is it my photo. I hope Tyrannosaurus Reflex doesn't mind my use of this picture to demonstrate how truly inept I can be in the kitchen. Had I done enough research I would have seen what they were supposed to look like. It might have clued me in a little.

In the pot however, these were proceeding exactly as the recipe had indicated. They would begin to float and I would skim them off the top. I put too many in at one time on the next batch and by the time I got the last ones skimmed off they had been in too long and were disintegrating in some fashion.

Essentially what it is the picture above is my first feeble attempt at gnocchi. They were delicious in spite of the tiny whole potato bits and the dumpling shape. Yes dumplings. That is what came out of the pot. All my gnocchi hopes went in, and potato dumplings came out. They were gluten-free and delicious and warm and filling, and I recommend you try them yourself as soon as possible. I ended up covered in flour and laughing at myself (in an incredibly ego-boosting healthy way), and no matter your level of experience you should have a go at these as soon as you can.

I recommend salting them and adding as much fresh ground pepper as you like, before adding the sauce of your choice.I quickly whipped up the creamy tomato sauce pictured above. I like a lot of fresh ground pepper. I never knew that I did, but in gathering the ingredients for this recipe I finally broke down and bough a pepper grinder for home. Wow! If you haven't, you should. IMMEDIATELY! I'm peppering everything now. I ate a microwave meal last night (Late night, no excuse, right? Thank goodness for Amy's Organic Gluten-Free Microwave meals!), and even put fresh ground pepper on that.

I will be trying these again very soon. As usual, I'm always sure I can do better. And being new at this is always a good excuse to make a mess of things.

Look, Ma! I can cook!

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Technorati: gnocchi

Red D'Anjou Pears

They sound far more pretentious than I think they really are. D'Anjou, translated using the google language tools means simply, "from Anjou." That's a frustrating answer. Kind of like someone telling you "just because" is a reasonable answer for any question. Presuming that it means Anjou is a place, I proceeded on a little journey through google land to this explanation of Anjou. Whew! That was quite a bit of reading for nothing.

I noticed a little sticker on the pear (where I read the name from to begin with) that sends me to the site where I find this. Everything I really needed to know about my lovely red treasures.

These were my reward today for being adventurous.

This morning we tried desperately to wake early, but those plans were quickly canceled. When I was finally able to roll myself out of the bed and gobble down some cream of buckwheat, we made our way off to the Denver Zoo. My dear Houston and I had promised each other we were going to do something this weekend that did not involve spending money. We live 2 miles from the zoo and are members, so we make frequent trips to roam the Tropical Discovery exhibit in the winter.

I have been waiting all week to try and make gnocchi. After seeing Rachel Ray eating them on the food network and learning they were made primarily of potato, I knew that I had to give it a try. Anything that can be made gluten-free is a worthwhile adventure in itself. This post is about the pears though...

Someone at work who lives in the same Denver neighborhood I do told me about an Italian grocery nearby. I was amazed that I had never noticed or stopped in, so after the zoo we made our way over to check out Spinelli's Market. True to the description I had received it was a small market nestled in the neighborhood. I immediately headed into the produce aisle, where prominently placed were these burgandy colored pears. I gaped at them for a moment before continuing down their aisles of fresh organic produce. Many were presented in large baskets and crates. It was a little step back into a smaller world and a slower pace. I took my time perusing the vegetables.

I had been sent in particular for their Italian sausage. I only had a moment to peer into their meat case before a sharp man asked me in an impatient tone if I needed something. I try not to get bent out of shape at first impressions, so I asked him if their sausage contained fillers. I have food allergies (which while fundamentally untrue because Celiac Disease is an auto-immune disorder seems to be the most easily understood in the world around me) is what I told him. He said he really wasn't sure and stood there staring at me. I explained that I couldn't purchase any without knowing. He answered that he would have to look at the packaging. He made no move to do so and looked anxiously over my shoulder at the woman behind me. I stepped aside.

I think that I should have been more assertive and forced the issue, but for all I know his dog may have passed suddenly that morning thus causing the stick in his...well, you know... I have plans to stop into the grocery and try again. I didn't let it run me off completely and made a mental inventory of other items of interest that I knew were not off limits to me. The pasta aisle of course was out, and their pre-made gnocchi contained wheat flour. They had some that intrigued me though. They were pumpkin gnocchi. It sounds like my gnocchi adventure is just beginning.

I selected a lovely rolled prusciutto and mozzarella to go with the gnocchi I was making this evening, and stopped back through the produce where I placed three of those lovely pears in a small paper sack. The word foodography played heavily across my tongue and lips and the color and texture of the pears drank in my eyes.

I have been photographing them all evening. Later, it will be all over. No more photo ops. I shall slice one of them in half, warm it slightly in the oven, and place a small scoop of vanilla ice cream in the hollow created by it's absent seed. Simple and delicious, I had better eat it quickly before it melts.

Flourless Almond Torte

Let me start by apologizing for the horrid lie I told in my last post. My most heartfelt apologies for leading you to believe that I had never made a cake that didn't come from a box. Unfortunately, my memory seems to be leaving me early in life. According to my mother, this runs in the family. She expressed this to me as she was apologizing. She had called to tell me that she had just discovered my birthday card in the backseat of her car. My birthday is 6 days before Christmas, and my parents have been under a lot of stress this year with opening their new business, so I had assumed it had just slipped past them. They hadn't forgotten my birthday entirely. They had a pot of burgundy Chrysanthemums delivered to my office on my birthday. Had it not been for the flowers, I surely would have mentioned it. I've lost my train of thought now....

Ahhh - the lie. It slipped my mind that I had baked another cake this year. I'm sure that it had slipped my mind because it isn't a conventional kind of cake. It isn't a cake in the sense that I have always thought of cakes. The recipe actually says it's a torte. I'm not sure what that means....let's look that up, shall we?

Torte: A rich cake made with many eggs and little flour and usually containing chopped nuts.

Okay. A torte is definitely a cake, and I am definitely a liar. The photo above is the all the evidence needed to convict me. The picture above was taken by me, of a cake I baked, that had absolutely nothing to do with a box. The eggs came from a carton, the sugar from a bag, the almonds came from a bag....hmmmm....I think I made this cake, er tortey sort of thingy from scratch.

It started with this post from our favorite Gluten-Free Girl. After reading it I was compelled by forces previously unknown to me to hunt down this recipe. It took several hours of internet searching to find exactly what I was looking for, but there it was. A gluten free cake reminiscent of my youth. As I mentioned in my previous post, the one where I lied, I am an Army brat. I lived in Germany for 7 years on and off growing up, and developed a fair taste for the pastries of Europe. We were a rotund family upon our final return when I was 14. My mother calls it the food across Europe tour. We just ate our way through as many countries as we could.

After my diagnosis last year, I thought that all the wonderful pastries in life were dead to me. Alas, Shauna discovered something that had I ever cooked in my life I might have known. Pastries are not made of wheat alone. This glorious torte came at a time before delicious gluten-free chocolate cake mixes. I was so excited as I set out to find all of the ingredients and get under way. It felt like the door to another world had creaked its way open and I walked through to a land where I wanted to spend time in the kitchen. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I was ready to find out.

With all of this build up it sounds like this must be difficult. Let's remember who is talking here though. I am the Anti-Chef. This recipe is so simple that it's a shame not to try it at least once. I even purchased a spring-form pan for just this occasion. I have used it quite a few times since, but it was christened with a flourless almond torte.

When complete it sat on the plate like a giant cookie. It comes out very dense with a crisp outer layer and a moist chewy center. It holds together very well, and I topped it with sugar melted in lemon juice. I took the leftovers to work and fed my department. It goes down happily with a hot cup of coffee in the morning.

Again my apologies for telling such a fib. I've made a cake. From scratch. Really....

(Looking back through my notes I discover that recipe I ended up using actually calls it a cake, not a torte, and it's from Spain. Details.....)

Flourless Almond Cake

Cake in a Box

It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I have never been anyone to spend much time in the kitchen, but this year had to be different. It was Houston's birthday, and there simply had to be cake. I don't remember what lies I told myself in 2004. It was shortly after the diagnosis, and nothing had really sank in. I actually have very foggy memories of that entire time period. I imagine that I just ate it anyway and made myself ill, but I can't actually tell you for sure if we had cake at all.

I am an only child. Was an only child. Now I'm an only adult. Does any of that make sense? In 8th grade my French teacher, Frau Cox, told me that it was expressed en fracais as "Je suis unique." That sounds better to me. I am unique, as I am sure many of you are.

As such, my parents, like something straight out of the sixties (which they were), decided to raise me differently. The only responsibilities I had were cleaning my room and doing well in school. I know that my parents were trying to afford me opportunities that they didn't have. Unfortunately it was crippling. I didn't develop the perspective to appreciate what they had done until well after they were done taking care of me. I moved out when I was 17. A military brat - my father had orders to report to Fairbanks, Alaska. I settled down in Denver, Colorado.

As a child who didn't ever learn to cook or clean, my idea of baking cakes were these marvelous little boxed mixes that went in the microwave. I think they were Duncan Hines. I ooh'ed and aah'ed and wow'ed myself at my baking prowess as the dinger told my family it was time for yet another chewy spice cake. As ill equipped for life as I was when I left home, I had my microwave spice cake.

Eventually I did graduate to more complex mixes, but I never did learn to bake a cake on my own. As my income increased over the years I discovered specialty bakeries. They were even easier than mixes. I was a little more removed from the kitchen every year, until I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease in 2004.

This year however, there had to be cake, and it had to be gluten-free. I'm sure that not all cities were as fortunate as Denver in 2005. In August we were blessed with the opening of our very own gluten-free bakery here in Denver. Deby's Gluten Free Bakery and Cafe, where everything on the menu is 100% gluten free. Cakes, cookies, breads, and pastries stock the shelves and display cases. They can be made to order as well, but...

I have been working very diligently this year to spend more time in the kitchen. Cook more foods for my family. Imbue our diet with what good energy and love I can impart to it during the process. I thought it would be nice to make the cake myself, and very conveniently Deby's produces a mix. Reading through the directions I was relieved that I got through my fear of egg whites over last summer. Much baking in the gluten-free world seems to center itself around folding dry ingredients into a large bowl of stiff peaks. This was no different.

I followed the directions, which include 1 cup of pureed pineapple, which astonishingly enough leaves no trace of fruity taste or fibrous texture. I smeared the thick batter into the cake pan and baked it for 25 minutes. A beautiful chocolate cake emerged from the oven.

It cooled for several hours and I coated it with a homemade buttercream frosting before serving it with candles alight to my huband smiling widely. The buttercream is an adventure for my next post and the photos should be avoided by those with heart conditions. It didn't come out pretty, but the cake. Mmmmm. Moist chocolate ribboned its way through the cake which held together as any respectable gluten bearing cake would. There was simply no difference, and if you are comfortable with egg whites, is simple as any Betty Crocker mix ever was to bake. I don't ever recall finding anything this good at the end of an instant cake before, and over the following two nights of eating the leftovers it never dried out as I had expected it to.

I have plans for 2006 that include attempting gluten-free baking without mixes. It seems that the only thing I have given up since my diagnosis is convenience. I can have everything I had before, sans gluten, if I am willing to put forth some effort. This cake mix brought a little bit of convenience back into my life, and made me feel a little less deprived.

Thank you, Monica. I didn't think I'd ever eat cake from a box again. (As silly as that sounds, I know!)

(Monica is the incredibly friendly, jovial, knowledgable and helpful owner of Deby's. Deby is her incredibly sweet and helpful 10 year old daughter.)

COMING SOON!

I am working on republishing some food and Celiac related posts, so you may notice other entries appearing below...thank you for your patience.

Tomato Corn Basil Soup

What can I say? WOW! The entire experience was spectacular. Early in the morning, spreading the produce out on the counter I gently washed each item in the sink examining the way the morning sun through the window made the droplets on my tomatoes glisten. There were other projects to take care of in the house, but I became engrossed in just this one. Like a good book I just couldn't pull myself away from the organic rhapsody on my counter.

This is a pretty quick recipe, so I knew that I couldn't start cooking before 4:30, but I couldn't resist the urge to prep every detail. The corn called to me and I gently pulled back the husk revealing the soft nubbly end of the corn that contains no kernels. I understood in that moment the significance that corn held for ancient fertility rites. It's golden masculinity rippling beneath my fingertips as I cleared away the corn silk and rinsed the pale asymmetrical imperfect kernels beneath my running faucet.
I remember growing up in Germany they didn't serve corn. In fact, you couldn't buy it in a German grocery. You had to get your corn at the commissary. My mother told me that they believe corn is pig food. Recently, someone told me that this might be slowly changing. To each his own, I say. More for me!

Unfamiliar as working with fresh food is I had a task before me: peel the tomatoes. Both my mother and husband gave me the same advice. Dip each tomato for 15 to 20 seconds in boiling water, let them cool and the skins will slide right off. I counted slowly to 20, so I am sure I left them in long enough. The skin slit and pulled away as if shrunken, but I wouldn't say they slid off. It wasn't difficult, but I did have to peel them away a piece at a time. They did not slide off like a nylon stocking does a leg as I had imagined. Maybe if I left them in longer.

Eight ears of corn lay in a shiny stainless steel bowl on my counter. The sun hitting the side of the bowl was nearly blinding, and the surgical look of the bowl clashed in sharp contrast to the glorious cobs. I kept thinking, "I'm sure there must be some autumn craft I could use those husks and cobs for..." and "I wish we had a composter for all this vegetable matter..." but crafts and composts aside, the spoils of cooking ended up with the trash man Monday morning.

Using a steak knife I cut the kernels from the cobb, careful not the cut too far back into the cob. I don't think I've ever eaten cobb, but my soup recipe certainly didn't call for any. I got terrible marks for following directions in elementary school. I try harder now. After I spent some significant amount of time surveying my handywork with a steakknife, I swept the kernels off the cutting board into another industrial aged stainless steel bowl. My Vignalta Sea Salt had arrived via mail order from www.cooksshophere.com. I tossed a palm full into the kernels. I think it may have been some attempt at coming up with a justification for running the kernels through my fingers. I guess I may have some guilty associations with the tactile qualities of my food.

Completely uncharacteristic of my normally type A, anal retentive, obsessive compulsive self (my boss calls me Miss Monk), I didn't bother measuring the corn. The recipe called for 3 cups of corn, but recommended using frozen organic sweet corn. I couldn't bear the thought of making my first soup with frozen produce from box. I'm turning over a new leaf right? No more square food. (Well maybe brownies...)

It also called for canned organic tomatoes, but we already know I escaped that pitfall. I doubled the garlic requirement from the recipe and peeled and chopped the tiny fragrant cloves. I peeled the papery skin away from my onion and cut off the ends as I have watched my mother, and numerous roommates, and my husband do countless times. I expected the sharp smell that makes your eyes water. It never came. I know that there are different kinds of onions...maybe this was Johnson's Tearless? Everyone please feel free to post any education on onions. I am obviously in need of some schoolin'.

With everything but the basil prepped, and a flourless almond cake lemon glazed and sprinkled with powdered sugar ready and waiting on the counter, I poured some olive oil in the bottom of my pot and put it on the stove to heat. I'm a little spacey on the time involved. I know that I stared into the pot waiting for something to happen. I wasn't clear on sauteing so eventually I grew impatient and tossed in the onions. Is the oil supposed to do something before you put in the onions? I may never know...

The recipe said to wait until the onions began to brown to put in the garlic. A couple of tiny onion bits browned, but after 15 minutes of trying to leave the onions alone to brown I decided I didn't have enough experience with onions to know if they were changing color or not. I threw in the garlic.

The tomatoes were next in line. The recipe said to put them in the pot and leave them until they released their juices. This sounded fairly dramatic, so I trusted that I would know if when it happened. I mashed each tomato once with a fork before I put it in the pot. I tried to imagine that canned tomatoes, even nifty tasty organic canned tomatoes, would probably not be whole in the can. I've also never know canned goods to not have sodium, so another palm full or so of the Vignalta went in. I stirred and walked away. 10 minutes later and I wasn't disappointed. The tomatoes had released their juices creating something that already looked like it had made half the journey to being soup without me while I wasn't looking. Good thing this isn't a babysitting gig.

The recipe now called for 1 cup of filtered water. Easy. My fridge has a filter. (Cue ethereal music in honor of long awaited ice and water in the door.) Then put the corn in. No problem. It said to wait five minutes, add the basil and serve. The phone rang. Houston was running behind. No problem. I realized I had forgotten to get a loaf started in the bread maker and asked him to stop at Whole Foods on the way home to pick up a half dozen of their GF Creamy Biscuits to go with the soup. I had a feeling this soup was going to require sopping the end out of the bottom of the bowl. Bread product a must. After five minutes I put the soup on low on the back burner. Chopped up my beautiful sprigs of basil as best I could (we need a new set of knives desperately) setting them aside to go in right before serving and laid down for a nap on the couch. I woke to the phone again. Houston on his way. All total 2 hours late. I went to check on the soup. The smell was well on its way to Nirvana, but I worried that it wasn't seasoned enough. Luckily I stopped on my way to salting it yet again and took a little taste. A gutteral noise issued involuntarily from my throat as I nearly swooned. No more seasoning needed. As with arts and crafts and many other endeavors in life, sometimes the most important thing you need to know is when to stop.

Houston eventually made it home. I couldn't stay mad at him and eat my soup. He actually complimented it which makes is quite a coup for me. Each bite of the first bowl elicited the same primal noises, and the first bite of the leftovers I took to work on Monday did as well. The looks from my co-workers said that I might have just gone too far into the realm of self complimenting. I guess I should have brought some to share. Maybe next time. 'Til then I shall bask in the self satisifaction of knowing the best soup I have ever eaten in my life I made myself.

(Thank you, Shauna, for encouraging me to get the Vignalta. I don't think the soup would haved held up as well without it. You encourage me daily with your Blog and I don't think that I would have made it this far into the Magical Realm of Kitchen without your romantic vision of food stuck in head every day.

Thanks to Dr. Weil for leading me along a journey to optimum health. I've been on his path for years now and drew a lot of strength to keep questioning bad diagnosis that didn't feel right from reading his work and encouragement towards a better road to healthy. The recipe for Tomato Corn Basil Soup is from his website www.drweil.com any changes that I made to the recipe were in the spirit of all I have learned from his program.)

Blessed Bounty

I felt almost etherial on Sunday as I poured my bought treasures on the counter and perused the vista of abundance. Touching the produce elicted feelings of wholesome piety and natural reverance. It was one of those moments that I don't feel troubled by the Celiac. Truly there are so many things in this world to nourish me, the elimination of a few grains is nothing.

A week ago Saturday I was out shopping for a couple of cooking utensils when I spied the farmer's market in Cherry Creek. I've seen it before. Usually I'm not out of the house early enough on a weekend to make it. It could have been different that day. Houston and I remarked that we should stop over there, just as soon as were finished in Cost Plus. Unfortunately it was already late, and when we came out of the store, the booths were closing down.

I vowed this weekend would be different. I had chosen a couple of recipes to try over the weekend, and tasked myself with finding as much as possible ingredients that were organically grown and local. Infected once more by the bursting joyful exuberance of the GlutenFreeGirl, I set out on yet another adventure. This time outside of my kitchen.

We arrived just after 10am to a bustling crowd. On the verge of oppressive, but not quite, Houston's aggitation as they pressed in on us was tense as he dragged me along one side of the long bending isle that is the Cherry Creek Farmer's Market. A couple of times I saw lovely food that begged to be fondled, but Houston insisted that we make it to the end and double back. I could purchase only after we had made it to the end. If I tolerated crowds better on my own, I might try a slower more leisurely pace, but I'll settle for a gallop if it's all I can get.

All the colors were bright and I found the fact that the soil that nourished my food was still crusted to it, like an earthy yolk, fascinating. There were several booths with bread. I didn't bother stopping to ask if they had any gluten free alternatives. I did holler the word Celiac to a pretty young girl tempting me with her fresh pizzas. Whether she knew what that means I'll never know, but she smiled and backed away. Maybe I looked panicked and skittery. Pizza is one of those foods that I sometimes think might be worth dying for. (Note to self: work on finding more palatable GF pizza crust.)

Flowers were availabale throughout. Amazing and beautiful gigantic flowers. A little beyond my budget. I did remark on the woman selling the most beautiful oversized spikey floral arrangements. Long gray streaked hair braided down the center of her back, she wore a blue gray caftan style dress. There was a color to her skin like smudged soil and a sparkling twinkle to her eye. Her dirty feet were in worn leather sandles and she looked like she was one of the happiest people I've ever seen in my life.

With bunches and bags we left the bustling farmer's market. There were a few items that I had to toodle to Whole Foods for. I'm okay with that. I like them. There is a Whole Foods across the street from the Farmer's Market, but we made the journey to the Grand Opening of the new Whole Foods near my work. Everyone was lovely and there were fruits I had never seen before. Dragon Fruit? Quite expensive. I might have to budget a couple in just to play with them. They reminded me of a brightly colored spikey squishy toy that Houston recently bought me.

As I boiled and peeled tomatos, chopped onions, and especially when I shucked my corn, I felt so connected to the season of Harvest. Connected to the cycles of the earth. Connected to and blessed by the abundance that is my life. I have nothing to complain about.

Mmmmmm....Brownies

Tonight, for the first time in years, I made dinner. It didn't involve calling for take out, either. My dear Houston didn't feel like making dinner, and being budget wise I couldn't justify going out to dinner twice in one week (we are meeting friends at the GF Italian place Abrusci's tomorrow night), I decided to try a small step forward into the land of home cookin'.

Leftover rice from last nights bountiful experiment had Houston planning a stir fry, so I went with it. Made him stand in there and show me how to cut up chicken. He wasn't nearly as overbearing a teacher as I have seen him in the past. Very particular that I do it his way, but never a terse word. Growth?

Not to bore you with a thousand details, I wok'd the chicken in peanut oil, garlic powder, sea salt, black pepper, and what I hoped would be LOTS of red pepper flakes. It wasn't. Added in some Del Monte canned tropical fruit and the rice. Voilá, dinner is served. It's something that Houston makes all the time (with even less red pepper flakes), so the flavor wasn't all that suprising. Somehow, though, knowing that I had done it made all the difference. Not to mention, crisis averted once again. Houston was about to add soy sauce to the pan when I asked if he had rechecked the ingredients. Carmel coloring! Poor guy! Ehhhh...he and the kids put in in after it was served. I don't think they minded. Next time definitely more red pepper flakes.

Cleaned up the kitchen and got an idea that maybe I should make that gluten free brownie mix that has been hanging around in the cupboard for a couple of months. Pamela's brand. Seems to be a pretty popular one. The directions were just about my speed. Pour mix in bowl. Add an egg, 1 stick of butter melted, and 1/4 cup of water. Mix with a spoon. Oops, guess I deviated. I used a fork. The mix was incredibly thick. It was like stirring wet clay. Took a while by hand. I definitely recommend the electric mixer on this one. I'll be using it in the future. Then the directions said to pour the mixture into the pan. HA! You caught the wet clay part right? The lump landed in the middle of my as yet unseasoned stoneware baking pan. It took some liberties with the instructions and pushed it around and flattened it until it touched all the edges and looked somewhat even.

With the oven preheated to 350 I put the pan in the oven. I licked the fork as the kids made short work of what little remained stuck to the sides of the mixing bowl. Over the next 18 minutes the most gloriously delicious smell wafted through my home. The smell of domestic victory! Freshly baked brownies.

I left the pan to cool for quite a while before attempting to cut them. The kids developed these tortured little orphan eyes as I repeatedly advised them that the brownies were still too hot. Eventually I figured out that the wonderful thing about stoneware is that it keeps your food warm on the table. The downside? It prevents your brownies from cooling to eating temperature.

Once I became the stoneware smart girl that I am now, I cut the brownies up and placed them on a plate to cool. Cutting into them sent rushes of endorphins rushing through my bloodstream. I was definitely on some kind of domestic brownie high. I guess this food thing could really become addictive. They stacked so beautifully on the plate. No crumbling which was very encouraging, but still much to warm to eat, right? Okay, so I now I'm just stalling til Houston is ready to come in from the garage and eat brownies with us.

At 8:30 I was done waiting and went outside to get him. He was finishing up an experiment casting plastic bones for a costume piece. It was easier than expected. I went in and got plates on the table and little glasses of milk for everyone (icy cold, yummmm). I sat down for just a moment to watch the Food Network with the kids when a cleaned up man appeared at my table.

I bit into the first brownie and was pleasantly suprised at the dense moist texture. It filled my mouth with rich chocolate flavor and followed that up with an encore. Chewey edges! REAL chewey edges! The kids are a true test for me, and they loved the brownies. Even Houston had a smile on his face. I VERY rarely drink real milk. It was cold and coated my tongue in some kind of dessert Nirvana I will probably dream about tonight.

So, overall I would recommend the mix. It goes together kind of "funny", but if you use an electric mixer to avoid wrist injury, the results are delicious.