Is March coming in like a lion or a lamb? Cold yet sunny might be more lamb-like. All I know is that in three weeks, it will officially be spring and then no one can deny that we have reached a turning point.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit of my family this week and how they shaped my interest in good food. Eating patterns reflect family patterns and I was brought up with some good ones. From my perspective at our dining room table as the youngest child in my family, I breathed in much information: not only about food and manners but also about community, values, the world around me and parenting to name a few. There was always a table to sit down to. Rarely did we eat on the run. We gathered at the table as a family at the end of the day. Being the daughter of a pastor meant that often my father’s seat was empty because he had been held up by a lengthy meeting, a parishioner needing a listening ear or a phone call from someone asking for assistance. I remember answering the phone for him and saying that I was his secretary and would they like to leave a message. Or writing him a note in my childish script to put down in front of him while he was on the telephone in his office: “Dinner is ready!!”. I didn’t want to share him during our meal together! When these delays happened we waited as long as we could and then would sit down, four children and their mother, to not only eat but also share the stories of the day.
When my father joined us, I always knew that there would be something to learn. The lively conversation would seesaw from English to French. A discussion about politics and war, a critique of a news story, a detailed review of a historical event, a briefing on philosophy, an explanation of a religious view, these all were part of our supper table and often we would have to pull out the big encyclopedia to ascertain a date, a spelling or a definition. One year, we were going to Italy on vacation so every night we would learn an Italian word or two before we started in on the food.
I also learned that others were always welcome at our table. Sundays after church, guests would often accompany us back to our house for dinner. We didn’t always know who might be coming but my mother seemed to know how to make the food stretch so no one would leave hungry. Roasts would be cooking in the oven while we were at church and as we came home, the smells would welcome us in. At my family’s table, I met people from all over the world and from all walks of life and observed how everyone was fed and treated equally with warmth and acceptance. This is where I learned that food does more than feed the body. From these guests, I discovered that the world was more than just mine. I also found out that different people eat different foods as I saw my mother planning a meal for a vegetarian visitor.
And then, there was the food. My mother made meals with love and lots of planning. The food she put on our table created an atmosphere of sharing and enjoyment. Her menus combined flavor, colour and nutrition all in one big package that said Bon Appetit! Sometimes a simple meal of soup, cheese and bread gave us all the nourishment we needed. Colourful tablecloths, luminous candles and fresh flowers were little things that contributed to an overall feeling of comfort and pleasure.
Today, when I host guests, I hope that I can offer at least half of what my parents did, and I will feel that I’ve done a great job! Thanks to them for being role models of a world where good food coupled with good conversation brings out the best in people. Here is a recipe we worked together on in the kitchen.
Sweet Sour Pork
1 c. pork tenderloin, in cubes
1/4 c. peanut oil
1 c. green pepper
1/2 onion, sliced thin
1 c. pineapple
1 c. diced tomato
Dip pork pieces in batter made as follows: 1 egg, 2 T. milk, 1/4 c. flour 1/2 t. salt. Combine and beat until smooth. Let stand 10 minutes. Fry pork. Add pineapple, onion and peppers and cook together for a few minutes. Add sauce made as follows: mix 1/3 c. brown sugar, 3 T. cornstarch and 1//2 t. salt. Add 1/2 c. vinegar, 1 c. pineapple juice and 3 T. water. Slowly blend this sauce into the veggie and meat mixture. Cook until thick and transparent. Last fold in the tomatoes. Serve with rice.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Grandma Hollopeter is my example
On a cold and windy February night, I think of small changes I see around me. The sun is setting a little later and there are a few more minutes of light to enjoy. Small buds on trees show that I’m not the only one thinking about the end of winter. Talk of spring break edges into conversations. And we all know that February is the shortest month of the year. This Saturday the Clay Guild hosts its Empty Bowl Fundraiser to benefit Interfaith Hospitality Network and that always closes out the month of February and ushers in March.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my Grandmother Hollopeter. Maybe it’s because my mother showed me a picture of her and her siblings taken when she was ten. It shows them standing by the old barn on their property. In my mind, I went back to my grandma’s house in Ohio. Whenever we came back from Belgium, usually every three to five years, we would always set feet first at her house. It was a safe place to land, familiar among an unfamiliar culture, enough in the country that we were protected from the shock of too much too fast. The house itself was an old farmhouse with a large front porch sitting back from the road. It had enough room that our family of six could find their own space in it. I say, my grandma’s house but my grandpa lived there also.
Grandma, though, was the rock. She fed us and listened to us and carried on in a comforting way. I slept upstairs in a room with a screened window that was open to let the summer air and smells float in. Sometimes at night the sound of the train’s whistle just down the road would bring me out of a deep slumber. In the morning, I would go down the stairs into the kitchen. Grandma would always have a big breakfast spread for us. Coffee, milk and orange juice, eggs and bacon, toast and cereal, even Long Johns and donuts would cover the table. It was a feast for the eyes and the stomach. The kitchen was the central hub of the house and I remember the sun streaming in the windows as I sat and ate foods that I hadn’t had for a long time. Built-in cupboards lined the one side of the kitchen and behind one of those doors, Grandma had a glass chicken that was always filled with pink peppermint candy or cinnamon red hots. We knew we could sneak a few of those as needed.
Grandma also had a garden and since we usually visited in the summertime, there would be tomatoes and corn and produce from just outside her back door. In the apron she always wore, she would carry things back to the house with our help. I think the thing that stands out the most from my visits there is that she accepted me without question. If you lived there, you were part of the household and life kept on going. She had a natural way of making me feel totally at ease. She never put on airs. If we disagreed, that didn’t change a thing between us. The family bond was greater than that.
So this week, my mother reminded me that my grandma was a coffee drinker. I continue that tradition as a third generation coffee drinker. And I hope that I can also be like my grandma in other ways: calm, hardworking, honest and natural. Here is one of her passed on recipes which I made this week in my new Le Creuset cooking pot that my daughters gave me for Christmas.
Swiss Steak
Pound a 1/2 c. seasoned flour* into both sides of a 3 lb round steak (2 inches thick). Brown 2 onions (sliced) in hot fat in heavy skillet. Remove onions and brown meat on both sides. Top with onions and add 2 c. cooked tomatoes. Cover and cook slowly until tender 2 1/2 to 3 hours. (8 to 10 servings)
*Seasoned flour: 1 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper mixed with a 1/2 c. flour
(I followed my mother’s notes: “My steak is never 2 inches thick! I do mine in a roaster, covered in the oven for 2 hours or so. I test it to see when it is tender.” I fried my onions in olive oil. The meat took 2 1/2 hours at 300 degrees. I served it with boiled potatoes.)
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my Grandmother Hollopeter. Maybe it’s because my mother showed me a picture of her and her siblings taken when she was ten. It shows them standing by the old barn on their property. In my mind, I went back to my grandma’s house in Ohio. Whenever we came back from Belgium, usually every three to five years, we would always set feet first at her house. It was a safe place to land, familiar among an unfamiliar culture, enough in the country that we were protected from the shock of too much too fast. The house itself was an old farmhouse with a large front porch sitting back from the road. It had enough room that our family of six could find their own space in it. I say, my grandma’s house but my grandpa lived there also.
Grandma, though, was the rock. She fed us and listened to us and carried on in a comforting way. I slept upstairs in a room with a screened window that was open to let the summer air and smells float in. Sometimes at night the sound of the train’s whistle just down the road would bring me out of a deep slumber. In the morning, I would go down the stairs into the kitchen. Grandma would always have a big breakfast spread for us. Coffee, milk and orange juice, eggs and bacon, toast and cereal, even Long Johns and donuts would cover the table. It was a feast for the eyes and the stomach. The kitchen was the central hub of the house and I remember the sun streaming in the windows as I sat and ate foods that I hadn’t had for a long time. Built-in cupboards lined the one side of the kitchen and behind one of those doors, Grandma had a glass chicken that was always filled with pink peppermint candy or cinnamon red hots. We knew we could sneak a few of those as needed.
Grandma also had a garden and since we usually visited in the summertime, there would be tomatoes and corn and produce from just outside her back door. In the apron she always wore, she would carry things back to the house with our help. I think the thing that stands out the most from my visits there is that she accepted me without question. If you lived there, you were part of the household and life kept on going. She had a natural way of making me feel totally at ease. She never put on airs. If we disagreed, that didn’t change a thing between us. The family bond was greater than that.
So this week, my mother reminded me that my grandma was a coffee drinker. I continue that tradition as a third generation coffee drinker. And I hope that I can also be like my grandma in other ways: calm, hardworking, honest and natural. Here is one of her passed on recipes which I made this week in my new Le Creuset cooking pot that my daughters gave me for Christmas.
Swiss Steak
Pound a 1/2 c. seasoned flour* into both sides of a 3 lb round steak (2 inches thick). Brown 2 onions (sliced) in hot fat in heavy skillet. Remove onions and brown meat on both sides. Top with onions and add 2 c. cooked tomatoes. Cover and cook slowly until tender 2 1/2 to 3 hours. (8 to 10 servings)
*Seasoned flour: 1 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper mixed with a 1/2 c. flour
(I followed my mother’s notes: “My steak is never 2 inches thick! I do mine in a roaster, covered in the oven for 2 hours or so. I test it to see when it is tender.” I fried my onions in olive oil. The meat took 2 1/2 hours at 300 degrees. I served it with boiled potatoes.)
The Day We Almost Fell off the Mountain
So here it is February. After a January chockfull of surprises and of events beyond my control, it’s now time to recover and find an even keel. It amazes me how both our bodies and our minds slowly throw away the piercing pain and the bad memories and what we keep is the good. That’s what I call healing. And so after a few balmy days, we almost forget that we are still in the middle of winter.
Several years ago, Jim and I were on our walking trip. One of our adventures led us to a beautiful mountain town in the Southern Alps of France. In this column, I’ve already described the village of Guillestre and our stay in an eleventh century renovated stone mill. Set in the middle of the mountains, we were both eager to climb the trails that led out from all sides of the town. Guillestre is on one side of the river Guil, which runs turquoise down in the valley. Across the chasm, on the other side, sits Fort Mont-Dauphin, an old french fort and village built in 1693 and finished in the eighteenth century. During our one week stay there, we were hoping to take trails that would take us into all those surrounding mountains and to the fort. Our enthusiastic hostess gave us helpful maps that described the trails very clearly and gave excellent directions. Dazzled by the deep blue sky and sun, on our very first day we decided to tackle one of the longer trails which sounded both manageable and beautiful though it did mention one difficult passage. After a filling breakfast of cafe au lait, bread, Nutella and orange juice, we packed our small backpack with the required water bottles, maps, toilet paper (you never know) and also included snacks and a healthy lunch. We made sure to wear something on our heads to be protected from that high mountain sun: Jim opted for his baseball cap, I wore a green bandanna. We also layered our clothing, knowing that hiking up would make us sweat but cool mountain air would make us chilly. So by 9:45 we were off. We headed out of Guillestre up the hill and onto a forest road which followed the one side of the Guil river below in the canyon. It was a fairly easy trail through piney woods with incredible views of the canyon and the town. The trail took us down to the the river which we crossed on a road. From there the trail climbed back up 1,000 feet, zigzagging back and forth along the side of the mountain. The vegetation here was more brushy and prickly and we saw salamanders slithering through the underbrush. We could smell pine and lavender as the sun shone warmer and we finally reached the top. In a little meadow, we stopped for lunch in the shade. In my journal, I wrote: Very relaxing! The next part of the hike was on a stony trail down the side of the rock with hardly any vegetation except for scrub pines, thorn bushes and clumps of grasses. We followed this trail down for awhile, thinking that it was O.K. to be going down rather than up! And so it was here that all of sudden, we realized there was no longer a trail but rather that difficult passage. What had been a trail that crossed the gorge at its deepest had been washed out by a stone avalanche. Loose shale covered the path to the other side. Since I was leading I took one step and discovered that if I didn’t move quickly and exactly right, I would be the avalanche going down the mountain! Somehow I made it across, with Jim holding on to my back pack! The trail then continued very slippery and very narrow along the face of the rock. Somehow we made it across and down that mountain, happy to finally get our feet on solid ground in the next little village. We decided to walk the rest of the way “home” on the road. After a quick stop at the grocery and bakery, we got back to the mill at five and sat down to a snack of apples, raspberry tarts and Orangina. We still talk about the day we almost fell off the mountain but in my mind, the fear that made me sore from head to foot the next day has been replaced by the memories of incredible peaks covered in snow, craggy canyons with a thin turquoise line, villages tucked into the mountains and fantastic weather. Time heals and so does food like this spaghetti recipe from a friend in Barcelona.
Spaghetti a la Carty
1 1/2 lb. ground beef
1/2 lb. ground pork sausage
2 medium-sized onions, diced
1 large green pepper, cut in thin strips
5 tomatoes, chopped
5-6 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 lb. mushroom, sliced
3 celery sticks, diced
1 can tomato paste
1/2 c. red wine
spices: basil, oregano, chili powder, pepper, salt
Fry meats under medium flame with a little olive oil. Add onions, garlic, celery and spices. Fry until meat is coked and veggies soft. Add green pepper, then mushrooms. Add tomatoes. Mix tomato paste with one can of water. Add to mixture. Let simmer 10 minutes then add wine and bring back to temperature. Serve with spinach spaghetti. Serves 6.
Several years ago, Jim and I were on our walking trip. One of our adventures led us to a beautiful mountain town in the Southern Alps of France. In this column, I’ve already described the village of Guillestre and our stay in an eleventh century renovated stone mill. Set in the middle of the mountains, we were both eager to climb the trails that led out from all sides of the town. Guillestre is on one side of the river Guil, which runs turquoise down in the valley. Across the chasm, on the other side, sits Fort Mont-Dauphin, an old french fort and village built in 1693 and finished in the eighteenth century. During our one week stay there, we were hoping to take trails that would take us into all those surrounding mountains and to the fort. Our enthusiastic hostess gave us helpful maps that described the trails very clearly and gave excellent directions. Dazzled by the deep blue sky and sun, on our very first day we decided to tackle one of the longer trails which sounded both manageable and beautiful though it did mention one difficult passage. After a filling breakfast of cafe au lait, bread, Nutella and orange juice, we packed our small backpack with the required water bottles, maps, toilet paper (you never know) and also included snacks and a healthy lunch. We made sure to wear something on our heads to be protected from that high mountain sun: Jim opted for his baseball cap, I wore a green bandanna. We also layered our clothing, knowing that hiking up would make us sweat but cool mountain air would make us chilly. So by 9:45 we were off. We headed out of Guillestre up the hill and onto a forest road which followed the one side of the Guil river below in the canyon. It was a fairly easy trail through piney woods with incredible views of the canyon and the town. The trail took us down to the the river which we crossed on a road. From there the trail climbed back up 1,000 feet, zigzagging back and forth along the side of the mountain. The vegetation here was more brushy and prickly and we saw salamanders slithering through the underbrush. We could smell pine and lavender as the sun shone warmer and we finally reached the top. In a little meadow, we stopped for lunch in the shade. In my journal, I wrote: Very relaxing! The next part of the hike was on a stony trail down the side of the rock with hardly any vegetation except for scrub pines, thorn bushes and clumps of grasses. We followed this trail down for awhile, thinking that it was O.K. to be going down rather than up! And so it was here that all of sudden, we realized there was no longer a trail but rather that difficult passage. What had been a trail that crossed the gorge at its deepest had been washed out by a stone avalanche. Loose shale covered the path to the other side. Since I was leading I took one step and discovered that if I didn’t move quickly and exactly right, I would be the avalanche going down the mountain! Somehow I made it across, with Jim holding on to my back pack! The trail then continued very slippery and very narrow along the face of the rock. Somehow we made it across and down that mountain, happy to finally get our feet on solid ground in the next little village. We decided to walk the rest of the way “home” on the road. After a quick stop at the grocery and bakery, we got back to the mill at five and sat down to a snack of apples, raspberry tarts and Orangina. We still talk about the day we almost fell off the mountain but in my mind, the fear that made me sore from head to foot the next day has been replaced by the memories of incredible peaks covered in snow, craggy canyons with a thin turquoise line, villages tucked into the mountains and fantastic weather. Time heals and so does food like this spaghetti recipe from a friend in Barcelona.
Spaghetti a la Carty
1 1/2 lb. ground beef
1/2 lb. ground pork sausage
2 medium-sized onions, diced
1 large green pepper, cut in thin strips
5 tomatoes, chopped
5-6 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 lb. mushroom, sliced
3 celery sticks, diced
1 can tomato paste
1/2 c. red wine
spices: basil, oregano, chili powder, pepper, salt
Fry meats under medium flame with a little olive oil. Add onions, garlic, celery and spices. Fry until meat is coked and veggies soft. Add green pepper, then mushrooms. Add tomatoes. Mix tomato paste with one can of water. Add to mixture. Let simmer 10 minutes then add wine and bring back to temperature. Serve with spinach spaghetti. Serves 6.
Baking is a Passion
Cold days followed by even colder nights are the norm for January. It sometimes feels like the longest month of the year. Waking in the dark and going home in the dark make for short periods of light. But we are turning a corner. A small warmup announces February and since it is the shortest month, it won’t be long now until things start stirring below the ground and slowly waking and regaining momentum for growth.
One thing that keeps me going year-round is The Baking. I write it in capital letters because it has carried me through all kinds of experiences. During the high times and the low times, I turn to baking as a way to work out my struggles or my celebrations. As I work the flour and feel the dough against my fingers, as I punch and roll its bulk against my palms, as I pat it and cover it for its rising, my heart goes along for the ride. I punch it down then I shape and bake it. Just as the baking goes through its full cycle so do I. I can start all over again the next time.
Baking is a passion that I have no matter the weather or the season and those who feed it are my friends: the millers. I have two childhood memories about millers. One came from a book my mother read to me about a boy who thanks his parent for his nice warm roll and is sent back to find the source of the roll. He goes to the miller who grinds the grain that the farmer grows. My other memory is a Christmas play we would listen to every year where a miller whose wife has left him stops grinding grain and even ties the sails of his windmill so that they will not turn the wheel to grind. But when Jesus is born, the windmill starts up and grinds the finest flour that he has ever seen and he immediately bags it up and takes it as a gift to baby Jesus.
I remember seeing the bags of flour in the back entryway of the bakery down our street. Now I have bags of flour at my bakery. I like to know where my food comes from and so around here, I’ve been lucky to find some millers who grind the wheat for baking. Here in Elkhart County, Bonneyville Mill grinds flour from May through October. The mill there is powered by the river and turns out a variety of flours for the passionate baker. I’ve enjoyed using their corn grits for a bread I call “Jimmy Crack Corn”. A little further afield, New Rinkel flour is milled close to Howe, Indiana. My life and baking have also been enriched by a miller named Howard who ground wheat, rye and corn on a stone wheel. He always had a story to tell with each bag he brought. Once I even received a special bag of blue cornmeal from him. And more recently, Justin or his wife, Melissa, have brought me bags of freshly ground wheat. The smell of the grain turned into fine flour is amazing. And every miller I’ve ever met seems like the most interesting person in the world.
If you have never met a miller then you probably don’t know that when you see them, they will have flour stuck somewhere on their clothing or shoes. Even as a baker, I find that my dark shirts turn into lighter shades as the flour insinuates itself everywhere. It’s the opposite of being a coal miner; instead of black dust, it’s white dust. So, if you decide to do some baking in these cold winter months, I recommend you find some locally ground flour (New Rinkel is available at grocery stores) and relax with a batch of bread. Things will work themselves out.
Oatmeal Bran Bread
In a large bowl, mix:
2 c. whole wheat flour
2 c. regular rolled oats
1 c. oatmeal bran
2 1/2 T. sea salt
Add and stir in:
1/2 c. honey
2 t. oil
4 c. hot water
In a measuring cup, mix 1 c. warm water and 2 scant T. yeast .
When the ingredients in bowl are lukewarm, add the yeast mixture. Stir in 3 c. whole wheat flour and enough white flour to make a soft dough. Turn out onto a counter and knead until smooth.
Let rise in a greased bowl, covered with a moist cloth. When doubled, punch down shape into 3 or 4 loaves. Brush with a mixture of egg white and water. Sprinkle with rolled oats. Let rise again until almost doubled. Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes.
One thing that keeps me going year-round is The Baking. I write it in capital letters because it has carried me through all kinds of experiences. During the high times and the low times, I turn to baking as a way to work out my struggles or my celebrations. As I work the flour and feel the dough against my fingers, as I punch and roll its bulk against my palms, as I pat it and cover it for its rising, my heart goes along for the ride. I punch it down then I shape and bake it. Just as the baking goes through its full cycle so do I. I can start all over again the next time.
Baking is a passion that I have no matter the weather or the season and those who feed it are my friends: the millers. I have two childhood memories about millers. One came from a book my mother read to me about a boy who thanks his parent for his nice warm roll and is sent back to find the source of the roll. He goes to the miller who grinds the grain that the farmer grows. My other memory is a Christmas play we would listen to every year where a miller whose wife has left him stops grinding grain and even ties the sails of his windmill so that they will not turn the wheel to grind. But when Jesus is born, the windmill starts up and grinds the finest flour that he has ever seen and he immediately bags it up and takes it as a gift to baby Jesus.
I remember seeing the bags of flour in the back entryway of the bakery down our street. Now I have bags of flour at my bakery. I like to know where my food comes from and so around here, I’ve been lucky to find some millers who grind the wheat for baking. Here in Elkhart County, Bonneyville Mill grinds flour from May through October. The mill there is powered by the river and turns out a variety of flours for the passionate baker. I’ve enjoyed using their corn grits for a bread I call “Jimmy Crack Corn”. A little further afield, New Rinkel flour is milled close to Howe, Indiana. My life and baking have also been enriched by a miller named Howard who ground wheat, rye and corn on a stone wheel. He always had a story to tell with each bag he brought. Once I even received a special bag of blue cornmeal from him. And more recently, Justin or his wife, Melissa, have brought me bags of freshly ground wheat. The smell of the grain turned into fine flour is amazing. And every miller I’ve ever met seems like the most interesting person in the world.
If you have never met a miller then you probably don’t know that when you see them, they will have flour stuck somewhere on their clothing or shoes. Even as a baker, I find that my dark shirts turn into lighter shades as the flour insinuates itself everywhere. It’s the opposite of being a coal miner; instead of black dust, it’s white dust. So, if you decide to do some baking in these cold winter months, I recommend you find some locally ground flour (New Rinkel is available at grocery stores) and relax with a batch of bread. Things will work themselves out.
Oatmeal Bran Bread
In a large bowl, mix:
2 c. whole wheat flour
2 c. regular rolled oats
1 c. oatmeal bran
2 1/2 T. sea salt
Add and stir in:
1/2 c. honey
2 t. oil
4 c. hot water
In a measuring cup, mix 1 c. warm water and 2 scant T. yeast .
When the ingredients in bowl are lukewarm, add the yeast mixture. Stir in 3 c. whole wheat flour and enough white flour to make a soft dough. Turn out onto a counter and knead until smooth.
Let rise in a greased bowl, covered with a moist cloth. When doubled, punch down shape into 3 or 4 loaves. Brush with a mixture of egg white and water. Sprinkle with rolled oats. Let rise again until almost doubled. Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes.
Sweet honey
As I swing into a new year, I start to look for ways to unclutter my life. The weather helps by keeping me inside most of the time. With a stinging wind and hills of snow to trudge through, I’m glad to get back into a warm house. Spending time indoors means I’m surrounded by things and since it is a new year, it’s time to pare those things down. First, it’s time to take the Christmas tree down and accompanying greens. We always keep these trimmings up one week too long! So we get to take them ourselves to the Enviro center for recycling. Then it’s time to reorganize our living space, find places for newly received gifts and decide what will have to go. I try to stick with the useful: what works well and does a good job. But sometimes I just keep it because it brings beauty! There’s something cathartic in letting go of those things you just don’t really need.
After the holidays, a coworker brought me the perfect gift, something useful and beautiful: a handmade ceramic honey pot with its own little honey swirler. When I think of items that truly serve a purpose, this would be one. It’s only made for honey and it works perfectly. You lift the lid off the jar to fill it--no screwing or popping required. The opening is wide enough to nicely fill it with those golden ribbons of honey, and the server is the best way I know to get honey out of a jar without making a sticky mess. You twirl the honey on it and then twirl it off into your cup of tea or your buttered bread. And to top it off, it was made by a local potter who earns her living making pots.
Honey is one of those ingredients that I always keep in my pantry. It makes its way into all types of cooking and baking. I use it in my whole wheat honey bread and my granola. It flavors a chicken curry that I bake in the oven or a lentil casserole. It sweetens salad dressings or butternut squash. From morning to night, from oven to fridge, from baked item to raw, honey just adds a little bit of goodness to food. I call it liquid gold because there is nothing as rich as honey as it swirls out of a jar in a smooth ribbon of sunshine.
As a matter of fact, honey also has uses outside of the kitchen. If you’re looking for a natural way to cleanse and tighten your facial skin, you guessed it: honey. Spread a thin layer on your face. Let sit for ten minutes, licking what might want to drip off. Then rinse off gently with warm water.
But back to food, when my daughters were young, we often used honey in a quick energy snack that tasted good and was healthy. These days, when I get the urge for a buckeye (like the ones they sometimes make at the Electric Brew), I go to the pantry and look for rolled oats, powdered milk, honey and peanut butter (the natural kind, from a small company, that hasn’t been affected by the recall!!), and mix up a concoction that I shape into balls. And there you have them, honey milk balls. Easy to make and even easier to snack on! And they go very well with hot tea.
Here is the recipe:
1 c. rolled oats
1 c. milk powder
1/2 c. peanut butter
1/2 c. honey
Mix all together and knead until smooth. Shape into balls the size of walnuts. Eat as needed.
After the holidays, a coworker brought me the perfect gift, something useful and beautiful: a handmade ceramic honey pot with its own little honey swirler. When I think of items that truly serve a purpose, this would be one. It’s only made for honey and it works perfectly. You lift the lid off the jar to fill it--no screwing or popping required. The opening is wide enough to nicely fill it with those golden ribbons of honey, and the server is the best way I know to get honey out of a jar without making a sticky mess. You twirl the honey on it and then twirl it off into your cup of tea or your buttered bread. And to top it off, it was made by a local potter who earns her living making pots.
Honey is one of those ingredients that I always keep in my pantry. It makes its way into all types of cooking and baking. I use it in my whole wheat honey bread and my granola. It flavors a chicken curry that I bake in the oven or a lentil casserole. It sweetens salad dressings or butternut squash. From morning to night, from oven to fridge, from baked item to raw, honey just adds a little bit of goodness to food. I call it liquid gold because there is nothing as rich as honey as it swirls out of a jar in a smooth ribbon of sunshine.
As a matter of fact, honey also has uses outside of the kitchen. If you’re looking for a natural way to cleanse and tighten your facial skin, you guessed it: honey. Spread a thin layer on your face. Let sit for ten minutes, licking what might want to drip off. Then rinse off gently with warm water.
But back to food, when my daughters were young, we often used honey in a quick energy snack that tasted good and was healthy. These days, when I get the urge for a buckeye (like the ones they sometimes make at the Electric Brew), I go to the pantry and look for rolled oats, powdered milk, honey and peanut butter (the natural kind, from a small company, that hasn’t been affected by the recall!!), and mix up a concoction that I shape into balls. And there you have them, honey milk balls. Easy to make and even easier to snack on! And they go very well with hot tea.
Here is the recipe:
1 c. rolled oats
1 c. milk powder
1/2 c. peanut butter
1/2 c. honey
Mix all together and knead until smooth. Shape into balls the size of walnuts. Eat as needed.
Ice Storms, Families and Coffeecake
I am sitting on the couch, knitting furiously, my new warm slippers on my feet and a piping hot pot of tea in front of me. My cat is sound asleep at my side, giving us both extra warmth. These are the nights of winter. Frost collects on our front porch windows, snow falls quietly and I retreat to my own world, slowing down my internal clock. Take a slow breath in, let it out even more slowly-- aah, it’s January!
The Christmas season goes by so quickly and this year was no exception. With breads to bake and food to make, I was suddenly in the midst of family gatherings not quite knowing when I got there. My family journeyed here from out of town from east and west. So Jim and I hosted the large get-together at our small house! With everyone contributing, including a delicious Yule Log from my sister, it wasn’t too much work. It was my first day home for the holidays so we started a puzzle and all the women pulled out their knitting. Despite the outdoor temperatures, inside it was toasty. And you know how families are: a collection of imperfect human beings each with their quirks that somehow make it work when we gather. Each of us brings our experiences and our set of filters but they still are based on a common memory. It was a happy time!
From one family to the next, we were expected in western Pennsylvania late Friday afternoon for the Shenk family Christmas. Our contribution there would be breakfast in the form of my favourite coffee cake that I wanted to make fresh for them on Saturday morning. When we got up early Friday morning ready to hit the road, we had no idea of what the day would bring. It looked cold out as we packed our bags, our gifts and the ingredients for breakfast. We decided on a leisurely mug of coffee while waiting for our nephew to call and check in for a ride. Jim started to load the car and that’s when we realized that our trip might have to be delayed: our street had become a solid ice skating rink overnight! We still decided to give it a go and so off we drove to pick up our nephew. As we headed out of town at a snail’s pace, we discovered that the roads were no better than in town, if not worse. Trucks stalled at the bottom of hills, pickups in the ditches and a line of traffic backed up to the toll road. Jim desperately tried to find a way to get to the toll road but after seeing a car overturned on its roof and realizing that the roads east were even icier than the roads west, we slid home to wait, thinking we would leave the next morning, missing the opportunity to make my coffee cake! But after calls from the family and a couple of hours rest from a harrowing morning, we started out again, car packed with goodies. The next seven and a half hours remain a blur of intense traffic, steady to hard rain, fog and darkness. When we pulled into the lodge in the laurel covered hills of Pennsylvania, it was the beginning of a new day. We were happy to be there, they were glad to see us. And after a few hours of sleep, I woke up the next morning ready to whip up a couple batches of the coffee cake. Sitting together, enjoying breakfast, I thought again about the meaning of family. It was a merry Christmas!
My favourite coffee cake
Filling and topping:
1/2 c. brown sugar
2 t. cinnamon
2 T. flour
2 1/2 T. melted butter
Coffee cake batter:
1 1/2 c. flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. sugar
1/4 c. softened butter
1 egg
3/4 c. milk
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Melt the butter for the filling in a square baking dish. Mix the filling ingredients together in a small bowl, including the melted butter.
In a larger bowl, mix the dry ingredients for the batter. Cut in the butter. Beat egg and add milk. Combine liquid ingredients with dry ingredients. Spread half the batter in the baking dish. Sprinkle with half of the filling. Add the other half of the batter and sprinkle with the remaining filling. Bake for 25 minutes or until done.
The Christmas season goes by so quickly and this year was no exception. With breads to bake and food to make, I was suddenly in the midst of family gatherings not quite knowing when I got there. My family journeyed here from out of town from east and west. So Jim and I hosted the large get-together at our small house! With everyone contributing, including a delicious Yule Log from my sister, it wasn’t too much work. It was my first day home for the holidays so we started a puzzle and all the women pulled out their knitting. Despite the outdoor temperatures, inside it was toasty. And you know how families are: a collection of imperfect human beings each with their quirks that somehow make it work when we gather. Each of us brings our experiences and our set of filters but they still are based on a common memory. It was a happy time!
From one family to the next, we were expected in western Pennsylvania late Friday afternoon for the Shenk family Christmas. Our contribution there would be breakfast in the form of my favourite coffee cake that I wanted to make fresh for them on Saturday morning. When we got up early Friday morning ready to hit the road, we had no idea of what the day would bring. It looked cold out as we packed our bags, our gifts and the ingredients for breakfast. We decided on a leisurely mug of coffee while waiting for our nephew to call and check in for a ride. Jim started to load the car and that’s when we realized that our trip might have to be delayed: our street had become a solid ice skating rink overnight! We still decided to give it a go and so off we drove to pick up our nephew. As we headed out of town at a snail’s pace, we discovered that the roads were no better than in town, if not worse. Trucks stalled at the bottom of hills, pickups in the ditches and a line of traffic backed up to the toll road. Jim desperately tried to find a way to get to the toll road but after seeing a car overturned on its roof and realizing that the roads east were even icier than the roads west, we slid home to wait, thinking we would leave the next morning, missing the opportunity to make my coffee cake! But after calls from the family and a couple of hours rest from a harrowing morning, we started out again, car packed with goodies. The next seven and a half hours remain a blur of intense traffic, steady to hard rain, fog and darkness. When we pulled into the lodge in the laurel covered hills of Pennsylvania, it was the beginning of a new day. We were happy to be there, they were glad to see us. And after a few hours of sleep, I woke up the next morning ready to whip up a couple batches of the coffee cake. Sitting together, enjoying breakfast, I thought again about the meaning of family. It was a merry Christmas!
My favourite coffee cake
Filling and topping:
1/2 c. brown sugar
2 t. cinnamon
2 T. flour
2 1/2 T. melted butter
Coffee cake batter:
1 1/2 c. flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. sugar
1/4 c. softened butter
1 egg
3/4 c. milk
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Melt the butter for the filling in a square baking dish. Mix the filling ingredients together in a small bowl, including the melted butter.
In a larger bowl, mix the dry ingredients for the batter. Cut in the butter. Beat egg and add milk. Combine liquid ingredients with dry ingredients. Spread half the batter in the baking dish. Sprinkle with half of the filling. Add the other half of the batter and sprinkle with the remaining filling. Bake for 25 minutes or until done.
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