my first loaf of bread from scratch

One thing that’s been on my bucket list for years is to make bread from scratch. I remember having a conversation with a hippy named Seamus in a dark D.C. bar more than four years ago who said that making bread, building furniture and skiing where the three things that made him feel connected to the earth. I wasn’t interested in the guy, but those comments stayed with me.

One of the reasons we moved to the California desert nearly six months ago was to have time, space and money to do things we’ve always wanted to do. Here, the rents are cheap, the skies are blue and we have zero distractions, including obligations or places to go in town. That gives us energy to create.

Last week, I received an email from our farm box supplier Abundant Harvest Organics: “Our baker is going on a well-deserved two-week vacation.”

“Noooooooo!” I thought to myself.

And then I looked at the sky. Overcast. Actual clouds in our desert skies. I took that as a sign.

So I bought some yeast and whole wheat flour and started the process while C. was napping. I halved the recipe because we have only one bread pan. And maybe I chose the right recipe on Epicurious, but the oatmeal wheat bread was easy. I kneaded it for about 10 minutes: the majority of the process was to let the bread rise.

my seasonal treat: strawberry smoothies

I have an unhealthy addiction to sugar. Luckily, I married a man who doesn’t care for it the way I do. He makes a disgusted face when I put a spoonful of sugar on my Cheerios (for a while I sneaked it, then I stopped buying Cheerios altogether.) And he eats plain Greek yogurt, which is what we give C., so now, at the grocery store, I walk past those cartons of yogurt filled with 22 grams of sugar.

Anyway, I probably get my max daily amount of refined sugar in my espresso I make myself every morning. And then, of course, I put brown sugar on my oatmeal. And we usually have dessert after dinner — a scoop of ice cream from Baskin Robbins, dark chocolate with almonds. Needless to say, I’m maxed out.

So I’m looking for ways to eat natural sugar. And I need look no further than strawberry season. That’s right, folks, we’ve been buying a big box of strawberries from a Mexican man with a cane who drives them up every weekend from Oxnard and sits on the corner under a green tent. I love this man, and I kind of freaked out on Saturday morning when he wasn’t there at 9:30 a.m. I went back at noon and when the green tent came into view from the car, I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. I got out of the car and said: “I’m so happy to see you!”

I don’t even like strawberries very much, but I found (and adapted) a recipe for a strawberry smoothie and I’ve been making it nearly every afternoon while C. naps. I sit on our patio, listen to the birds sing, and read or write. I save some for C., who sucks it down through his “taw.” And then I’m not hungry till dinner time and not snippy if A. is home late.

Yes, I’m loving this thick, delicious treat. I hope you do, too.

Strawberry Smoothie

(Adapted from Smitten Kitchen)

A 12-oz. glass of frozen strawberries, plus one or two
A banana (a big one — if they’re small, I put in two)
Half a glass (same glass I used for the strawberries) of whole milk
A spoonful of plain Greek yogurt
A spoonful of honey
A generous handful of rolled oats (not instant)
A generous handful of sliced almonds
A splash of vanilla extract
A few shakes of ground cinnamon

Put it all in the blender and mix away.

magic muffins: third time’s a charm

When A. and I went to stay with my aunt in Atascadero on the California coast for New Years, she offered us delicious magic muffins. Why are they magic? Because her friend, who’s a nutritionist, gave her the recipe and they’re not only addictive, but also full of good-for-you ingredients.

The first time I made them I cut my hand on the food processor and had to get five stitches (ow). The second time I made them, they were a little undercooked. I was beginning to think these muffins were cursed. Well, I made them yesterday, and I have to say that I nailed it.

I’ll admit, the recipe calls for skim milk and I pilfered from C.’s stash and used whole milk. I also didn’t fill the muffin tin to the top so that they cooked perfectly. Now, C. keeps asking for “muh-muh”s. They’re delicious and filling and perfect for travel and breakfast.

Blueberry Oat-Flax Muffins

(This recipe was in an old-fashioned binder. Now it’s digitized. Thanks Aunt. J.!)

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups unbleached flour
3/4 cup flaxseed meal
3/4 cup rolled oats (not instant)
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
3 tsp cinnamon
1 cup shredded carrots (peel on)
2 cups shredded apples (peel on) (I used Macintosh)
1 cup chopped walnuts
3/4 cup milk
2 eggs beaten
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup fresh blueberries

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Rub a bit of butter in the muffin tin.

In a large bowl, mix the flour, flax, oats, brown sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt and cinnamon. Mix in shredded carrots, apples and walnuts.

In a small bowl, mix together milk, beaten eggs and vanilla.

Gently add liquid mixture to dry ingredients. Don’t over mix. Fold in fresh blueberries.

Fill muffin tin almost to the top and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean.

morning scones = joy

When I lived at 21st and O streets in D.C., I had a roommate from Washington state, H. H. was a lawyer who often woke up at 6 a.m. And every Monday, when I’d roll out of bed around 8, there would be freshly-baked scones on a baking sheet on the stove. The smells of freshly-baked dough and freshly-brewed coffee filled our two-bedroom apartment. H. was a morning person, so she would look up from her computer at the kitchen table when I walked in groggy, rubbing my eyes, and she’d greet me with a smile.

“You amaze me,” I’d say. I loved that that was the way we started our week.

I thought of H. this morning when I woke up at 6:45. Both of my boys were still sleeping. I threw on a fleece and slippers and came into the kitchen, the morning sun filling the room, and I put dollops of vanilla chai scones on a baking sheet and my espresso on the stove.

A. walked in about a half hour later. He looked at the stove with the scones, still soft, and then looked at the clean counters and in the sink. “You made these?” he said, obviously surprised there wasn’t flour and sugar and gunk everywhere. I laughed and nodded.

I never knew how easy it is to make scones. Perhaps I’ll create a new tradition — because they taste wonderful first thing in the morning.

how i poisoned my family

I have a new ritual Tuesday afternoons — and it’s all I think about that day. I pick up our large box of fresh vegetables and fruit from Abundant Harvest Organics. The truck is parked in back of the Women’s Center, the stacked black crates line the wall in a courtyard. Two bearded guys sit at a folding table with a sheet of paper, and when it gets dark, they use mini flashlights to check off our names. The crates are loaded with loose spinach, carrots with the tops that makes me think of Bugs Bunny, strong spiky rosemary, dirty potatoes, apples and pears and persimmons — and they’re separated by sheets of paper.

Each week, I also pay extra for treats: homemade wheat bread, NY strip steak, crunchy dark chocolate-covered almonds, Sierra Nevada raw white cheddar cheese and [cue horror movie screams] fresh organic cranberry beans.

So, I’ve never been much of a cook — my mom’s favorite story she likes to tell anyone who will listen was how when I was about 20 years old (yes, it was a summer when I was in college), I called her from my babysitting gig and asked her how to cook a hotdog. (Ew, hotdog.) Turns out, you just boil it.

But now I’m experimenting with these local organic veggies — and they taste so fresh and crisp, I’m not sure I’ll be able to buy veggies from a grocery store again. It’s kind of like having a washer and dryer in your apartment — you’ll never go back to using a laundromat again. In the last two weeks, I’ve made a delicious pot of kale, lentil and potato soup, a carrot and cumin salad, a beet and fennel salad and spaghetti with roasted tomatoes and zucchini. And I’m actually enjoying myself — I turn on NPR, drink a coffee or glass of wine, depending on the time of day, and get to work.

But I struggle with what to do with beans. And so when I got the 4 pound bag of cranberry beans, I thought: minestrone soup! Yes! I’ll have a pot that lasts all week.

Catch is, I had trouble finding a recipe that explained how to cook them before adding them to the soup. The recipe I chose didn’t say anything at all about cooking them first. And so I didn’t. And the beans turned out crunchy — you-might-break-your-teeth crunchy.

Which wasn’t so bad at first. But last night, I felt so tired, I thought maybe I was pregnant again [cue horror movie screams]. And this morning, A. woke up sick as can be.

“I’m pretty sure I poisoned you,” I said.

“You sure did,” he said. “It couldn’t have been anything else.”

And, later, “I hope I make it through work today.”

“Me too.”

Pause.

“Guess you’ll have to cook from now on. Every single night.”

[Cue horror villain smile.]

food made with love

Last weekend, as I left for a run in 90-degree weather, I said to A., “Can you make C.’s lunch?”

“Sure,” he agreed without hesitation.

When I returned, sweaty and tired, I saw a recipe, written in beautiful writing on a yellow legal pad in our living room: Mango brown rice, mushy-style. It was like a love letter.

“There are two portions in the fridge,” A. told me before he left for the climbing gym.

And then he called from the car on his way home.

“How did he like it?”

C. loved it. He leaned in, his bib swinging from his neck, and opened his mouth for more, more, more, giving me those “damn I love you” eyes. Mango rice has become a staple in C.’s diet.

Since C. started eating solids nearly two months ago, I’ve noticed that my relationship with food is changing. I often get in food ruts, where I eat the same thing every day. I know what I like, I guess, but I get bored with myself. Fast. I made a rule several years ago that every time I go to the grocery store, I have to buy something I’ve never bought before. That helps.

What helps even more is getting excited to feed C. new flavors and textures. Now I’m buying veggies and fruits that I rarely eat, like organic cauliflower, juicy nectarines, extra firm tofu. I’m going to the farmers market and picking out summer favorites, like peaches and vine-ripe tomatoes. And, of course, if I’m feeding it to C., I’m trying it, too.

I’m also inspired by A. He’s great at dreaming up with recipe ideas — not only for C., but for us.

On Sunday, he went to the grocery store while I put C. down for a nap. He walked in with a big smile and announced, “Tonight, I’m making chicken tikka masala!” He used the recipe on a jar of sauce he found at the store. We ate it on our couch that night, watching baseball, drinking beer, taking a break from doing our puzzle. The dish was a little chalky, we both agreed, but still tasty. We both had seconds. And all through the meal, I was thinking, “Damn, I love you.”

the case of the invading tomatoes

Last week, I called A. at work, giggling to myself.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“You are so funny,” I said.

“Why?”

“There’s a tomato plant growing in the pot on our deck! You planted it!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.” (A. likes to play practical jokes.)

“No, I really didn’t.”

[Silence.]

“Really?”

“I really didn’t.”

“Then how did…” my voice trailed off.

We get little sunlight in our living room. And so my plant of 8 years — one that survived the fire in 2006 and moved with me three times — slowly wilted since we moved in September. The leaves fell off, one by one. Finally, when they were all gone, I heaved the plant to our deck. Maybe sunlight would revive it, I thought. That was at least three months ago, if not more.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a weed — quite a beautiful one — growing from the pot. And then, last week, to my bewilderment and delight, I noticed tomatoes growing on the weed.

A. insists that he didn’t plant the tomato.

“I wish I was that smart,” he says.

But I’m sort of tripping out about it. I can’t for the life of me figure out how a tomato plant got into our pot.

On Friday, we were up on our neighbors’ deck. And I surveyed the decks within sight, craning to see if there were tomato plants. I didn’t see any. A. suggested that maybe a tomato seed got in the plant when we grilled kebabs for a couple in our birthing class. But that was in November, pre-baby — and when the plant was definitely still in our living room.

The only thing I can think of is that maybe we dropped a tomato seed in there when it was downstairs, next to A.’s lounge chair, where he often eats. We do eat a lot of tomatoes. But it still seems unlikely.

I don’t know why the mystery is driving me crazy. We’ve had at least four conversations about how it could have happened (most of them start with me saying, “I think you planted the tomatoes,” or “Come on, you planted the tomatoes, right?” and him saying, “I really didn’t!”).

So now, instead of trying to solve it — in order to keep my sanity — I’m focusing on caring for the plant. I watered it yesterday, and I keep checking on the fruit. I hope the tomatoes are delicious.

my perfect breakfast

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. (I love the Simply Breakfast blog and check it now and then to get inspiration.) This breakfast, inspired by A., who makes breakfast for me as often as he can, has been my go-to for the past week. I make it after I put C. down for his morning nap. Heaven.

sunny-side-up egg, bacon, half of an English muffin and slices of avocado and extra sharp white cheddar

homemade granola

I made granola, peoples. It doesn’t sound like a big deal (and the recipe was super easy). But I’m someone who will say, “I’d like to cook more,” and then when it comes down to it, I rarely make the time. I’ll even buy a cookbook — because I love books — and then never make a recipe out of it.

So the fact that I made granola yesterday, one of my goals on maternity leave, while caring for a grumpy baby who refused to take a morning nap, well, let’s just say I’m proud of myself. And it’s tasty if I do say so myself. I love granola with milk, strawberries and bananas. (Recipe after the jump.)

inspired by new york

Every time I go to New York, I’m inspired.

When I get off of the train at Penn Station and spill onto 7th Avenue into a throng of people, I often see women wearing beautiful skirts, or unusual shoes or unique earrings. I usually feel the antithesis of hip, but it doesn’t bother me — I go to steal ideas. The hustle and bustle of New York — yes, even the car horns and flashing lights — gives me a burst of energy (though I know I couldn’t live there at this stage in my life).

Last weekend, I went up for a two-day excursion with my dear friend S., who has gorgeous 19-month-old twins. It was a girls’ weekend getaway — the goal was to shop, walk, talk and eat good food. And that’s where I found my inspiration this time, in the food. Actually, more precisely in the drinks.