Done with this

Still snowing off and on. Yesterday afternoon I stepped off the back steps, headed to the hospital to visit a friend and saw the snow had collected on the pansies, covering them with what looked like sugared icing. Tempting. It took some of the bitter edge off the fact that it is late April and still winter. Someone remarked that the photo of the flowers were  “amazingly beautiful …. like life in a nutshell.” Yes, I think so. God knows I hate being trite and yet how I fluctuate from slobbering sentimentalist to mean cynic. But who can help exclaiming when our best efforts are capped with icy beauty beyond what we could imagine.

Then I rescued a couple and fed them to Honeysuckle. She’s another beauty and a sucker for anything that makes photosynthesis.

We were innocent back then

     Marsena snuck into the bedroom when we were visiting last summer. I was reading The Girl With theDragon Tattoo. Denis, well, you can’t tell, but he says he was reading Last Call a book about prohibition. He takes the jackets off hardbacks to keep them nice and doesn’t allow me to handle them. Last Call. Don’t you think the title is a little disturbing for someone his age? I was thankful when he was done so I didn’t have to check on him in the middle of the night. Forty-three years of marriage. You were probably curious, weren’t you? You thought we climbed into bed, reviewed Daily Light on the Daily Path, held hands and prayed for our grandchildren. Stop lookin at me like that. I have nightmares and must be very careful. Last night I taunted a lion and it came after me. Denis had to wake me up. I’m not kidding. It only gets better.

Chickens for Toad Hall

      I've always wanted more chickens ever since we had a few hens back in the dark ages in Albuquerque, and I was putting us through eating hell. One of my little phases of you- may-not-eat, in this case, sugar of any kind. So for the paradox and inconvenience of my philosophy we kept bee hives,  fought the desert to raise broccoli, and included pinto beans and green chili in every dish. 

     Today I have a new flock. Anita knitted them. They require very little care and it looks like they’re already laying. Little Cadbury eggs. How nice. And so you know how far I’ve come, this afternoon I'm eating two of their eggs and am also baking a strawberry rhubarb pie – with sugar – to take out to Heartbeet Farm to share with Joe and Becca for the evening meal.

Beer Bread for the weary

Lots of folks don’t have the option of getting into the kitchen and leisurely prepping an evening meal. I understand this. So let’s not use words like puree, truss, stuff, or – God forbid – French.  I remember Little Miss Sunshine and feeling tender toward the mother, who came home from a whacked-out stressful day with a bucket of chicken and two liters of soda and tried to get dinner (a strained use of the word) on the table and the family together. The grandfather went off on her with a swearing tirade about chicken. #$%!! AGAIN?!!  Made you want to put a little strychnine in his drink.

I’ve noticed that the scent of something baking in the oven can work like freebasing Zoloft. It’s that powerful. A kind of calm sweetness diffuses through the house; traffic tickets, tyrants, terrorists, and skinned knees are forgotten. For a moment you are forgiven and soothed. The anticipation that announces something good is coming, is a gift I love to give because I know it’s more than food, it’s spiritual. There’s something sacred in this simple act. Since I can’t do it for that many, being finite and all, I share this instead.

There aren’t many recipes for a yeasty-tasting homemade bread this easy. It’s great company for nearly any meal. A few left-over slices make good toast the next morning. Putting it together and throwing it in the oven last night took me six minutes. Seriously. I timed it. And all the ingredients were put away, too. However, you must give enough time to bake (50 minutes) and cool (about 5 minutes). So, yes, it does require a little forethought.

Beer Bread

1 c. whole wheat or ¾ c ww and ¼ c. cornmeal (optional, can use all white)

2 c. white flour

1 t. baking powder

½ t. baking soda

1 ½  t. salt

2 T honey

12 oz beer

3 T melted butter

Mix dry ingredients in bowl. Add honey and beer. Stir together just until mixed. It will be sticky and moist. Transfer to a buttered loaf pan or a shallow baking dish. Bake 25 minutes at 325 degrees. Melt 3 T. butter and spread on top. Return to oven for another 20-25 minutes. Makes one loaf.

Margie tips:

* Wet your hand with cold water and pat the batter to smooth it down. Then it won’t stick to your fingers.

* Don’t use a whisk. It gets completely gunked up. Use a wooden spoon.

* An ale or dark beer gives a more beery taste. I like a lighter beer. Okay. A girly beer like Honey Weiss.

Waiting

We normally think of history as one catastrophe after another, war followed by war, outrage by outrage – almost as if history were nothing more than all the narratives of human pain, assembled in sequence. And surely this is often enough, an adequate description. But history is also the narratives of grace, the recounting of those blessed and inexplicable moments when someone did something for someone else, saved a life, bestowed a gift, gave something beyond what was required by circumstance.    - Thomas Cahill

In the aftermath of the earthquake, stories emerge from the rubble of Japan. Strange stories of grace that break our hearts but give strange hope. Each day we wake and we think to pray for the people of Japan. We know as they face another day, nothing will ever be the same for them. We pray that out of this catastrophe there will be arms to enfold them. That Jesus will give them rest. That he will call many to a glory that will be eternal. Our brothers and sisters.

Last night our small group studied Psalm 130. A short Psalm that begins in the depths, crying out to God. Then comes the waiting and waiting and waiting in the dark feeling both weariness and fright. We are assured of both God’s forgiveness, his steadfast love and his plan for “full redemption” of which we have a taste, but we haven’t eaten the whole thing yet.

I picture full redemption being like the rolling back of the tsunami. In one of the most painful videos we’ve seen, people are watching from an air terminal as it comes across the land, rolling  the parking lots, pouring over the walls, sweeping over the walls, tumbling cars, trucks and people. And you hear the mounting cries of terror and lament. Full redemption will reverse the destruction of life. It will be pulled back and back to restore the earth to something better and more beautiful.

We are going to Chicago today on our own small mission of helping our daughter move. I’ll be away for a few days, but will be back soon.

Loser's Coffee Cake

The weekend before last I used the sunny weather as an excuse to make a berry pie which was good, but not perfect. This past weekend I woke to darkness, the sky thickened by fog as snow slowly melted. It began raining gloom, exposing more dirt and dog doo along our sidewalk. It’s kind of disgusting to walk your dog, leash in one hand and loaded bag swinging in the other. Most owners responsibly pick up, and seriously, I don’t watch them, you know. But this one guy,  owner of a big ruffy dog, without a bag, annoyed me a little when he paused right in front of the kitchen window as I was doing dishes. No way to pick that up and too loose to kick onto the street. He needed a giant leaf bag bag, but I grabbed what was handy and ran out to offer it. I’m glad I curtailed my spleen because he was very shame-faced and kind of sweet. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be imperfect. Big aside.

Once again, I was using the weather as an excuse to bake something. Why should I do that? It really doesn’t matter what the weather is. It’s March. We’re all mentally ill from lack of sun. Just watch, next I’ll be complaining about how hot it is. But while it’s still chilly and with Easter coming, it’s time to make the one coffee cake I’ll make all season. The one that has a crunchy cinnamon-y wave through the middle of a moist sweet inside and crispy golden crust outside.

I found a recipe on the web called Loser’s Coffee Cake. Not because the recipe is a loser, they said, but if you are. It was acclaimed as super-easy and so good, a no-fail. I have an affinity for losers whether we’re talking about the kitchen or figuring out where the volume button is in iTunes. The concept attracts me. So I made it.

When I could handle it without getting third degree burns we ate a piece. And someone ate another, not me. I was thinking: this IS a loser recipe. It’s not that good. But why would that be? As I remembered, the old recipe, buried somewhere in my archives, had all the same ingredients. Excepting chocolate chips. I left them out because coffee cake should not have them. It’s wrong. It had to be something else, not the chocolate. So I dug out the old recipe from Nancy Fyke to compare. The difference was: twice as much sugar, a little more fat, and twice the amount of cinnamon filling and topping.

So. If you’re going to make a coffee cake, and it comes once a year, perhaps on Christmas or Easter morning, then don’t skimp on this, just go for it. I mean. It really DOES make a difference.

Here’s the winner’s recipe – No more difficult than the “Loser’s” and way, WAY better.

Sour Cream Coffee Cake

1 c. butter softened

2 c. sugar

2 c. flour

2 eggs

1 c. (8 ounces) sour cream

1 t. baking powder

1 t. vanilla

½ t. salt

Cream butter, sugar and vanilla beating until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. Add half the dry ingredients and stir with a spoon until blended. Add sour cream, blend with spoon. Add remaining dry ingredients. Do same thing. Don’t over stir.

Cinnamon mixture:

1/2 c. sugar

1/3 c. brown sugar

2 T (tablespoons) cinnamon

1/2 c. chopped almonds or other nuts

Combine all ingredients in small bowl.

Sprinkle 1/3 of the cinnamon mixture in bottom of a well-greased, floured Bundt pan (you can use a 9x13 cake pan, but then skip putting the cinnamon mixture on the bottom and add to middle and top only). Spoon in half the batter. Sprinkle with another third of the mixture. Add remaining batter. Top with final third of cinnamon mixture. Bake at 350 degrees for 60 -75 minutes. Cool 1 hour before removing from pan. (Otherwise it comes out in chunks. I know from another of my loser experiences. Still tastes good but looks like a squirrel dug it up.) Also. This might look like any old boring coffee cake, but it is fantastic.

Blog for Pie

The sun shone for about two hours last Saturday. The flow of rays onto the kitchen counter was strong enough to melt butter and keep the French press warm. I was rooted there and to justify standing in one spot absorbing vitamin D – justification being the saving oil for souls who think worth is measured by what they do, among other complex cravings and addictions – demanded pie. The answer to many moral questions. We still have several freezer bags full of blackberries that Anita picked in Washington last summer. Blackberry banana vanilla soy milk smoothies have had their place this winter, but it’s been a long time since we’ve had a lip-staining blackberry pie. I wasted thirty minutes looking for a recipe that didn’t call for tapioca. No sense making Denis feel sicker than he did with fisheyes. Couldn’t find anything, but with shameless audacity I thought adding 2 T. of cornstarch to a cup of sugar and 5 cups of blackberries would be just perfect.

The pie looked gorgeous when I took it out of the oven. But it wasn’t perfect. Why couldn’t it be? Why is nothing ever perfect? Why does my eye always settle on that little flaw – the dot of wall paint left on the white ceiling, the stain on the floor where I dropped India ink, the scratch I put in the car when the train gate dropped on the trunk, and na-nah, na-nah, na, na.  It wasn’t just the decorative leaves and berries I’d made for the top crust that now looked like flying-bird dropping poop; it was the juice leaking along the edge and flowing onto the catch pan below. Turns out 2 T. of corn starch isn’t nearly enough. Nor was the sugar. I cut the first piece and poured ¾ cup of juice out of the pie remaining in the pan and dumped more sugar on each piece.. Denis loves soupy anything from lasagna to pie, so, happy, happy Denis. Sweet Denis. I admit my crust is a ten, a thing I can’t help or really claim. It’s like Kristi Yamaguchi doing a sit-spin, just nothing to it. But happy Margie, I did stand in the sun for thirty minutes and you can hardly go wrong with that even if you don’t get the thickening right.