Gluten-Free Pumpkin Streusel Muffins

My new pumpkin muffin recipe- with streusel topping.

This isn't a Thanksgiving post, exactly. Though Thanksgiving is just a stone's throw away- if you could somehow conjure a metaphorical stone to metaphorically hurl into the time-space continuum, piercing the veil of forty-eight hours that blows by in a singular exhale, surely faster than light. And this exhale, it was only following a previous breath- a breath I took yesterday- which turns out to be one year ago. A year since that Pumpkin Praline Pie I baked. I have a hard time wrapping my brain around this.

This is more a post about time.

Some days I feel as if I am slave to the calendar, an unwitting cog in the wheel of the year with Sundays and holidays appointed by proxy, designated by some superior force that rules my random wandering nature with an unforgiving fist, demanding obedience. Charting the course of my life.

Then I remember the truth.

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Pumpkin Polenta Recipe with Tomatillo-Avocado Salsa

My inspiration this week- pumpkin polenta with salsa fresca.

It's been a gloomy, rainy week here in West Hollywood. Weather-wise, that is. The kind of fallish, comfort food craving weather that has WeHo citizens ditching their flipflops and plucking pumpkin colored sweaters off hangers, while tucking umbrellas into faux leather satchels. If you can find the dang umbrella, that is. It's got to be around here somewhere, right? You used it last year.

Maybe.


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Gluten-Free Almond Flour Cookies

Almond flour cookies with the nutty crunch of pecans.

Here I am again. Baking cookies. It's one way I cope with the world. Which, in case you haven't noticed, is totally moon bat crazy. So what do you do? The older I get the more I let go. And it's not just letting go of the obvious stuff, like that box of canceled checks from your first marriage or those hideous platform shoes you bought after seeing Saturday Night Fever. I'm letting go of things I once cherished. Stuff I used to believe. Opinions. The Right Way To Do Something. Why?

Because the older I get the less convinced I am that I know what is best. Sometimes it's hard to tell. I know from experience that the best laid plans can will often fail. And that sheer dumb luck can plop in your lap and splatter you with an unbidden opportunity. I've lived long enough to see the truth in my favorite line from Little Big Man. Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it doesn't. So I don't grasp anything too tightly anymore. 

Which brings me to Cheez Doodles and why you need to let go. 

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56 Things To Remember

On the eve of my last birthday I wrote a post- Fifty-five Things I've Learned in 55 Years. Well, Babycakes. June is here again. There's another candle on the gluten-free cake. And fifty-six things I want to talk about. Or more accurately, remember. To remind myself. Because at my age? Remembering is an art not a science. So write this down. It's important. You know what they say.

Here today gone mañana.

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Gut Instinct

Nine days in the hospital. This is what a monkey gut can do. Nagging, for years, with its hot little protests and complaints. You blame gluten, or milk, or a parade of assorted culprits, from chili peppers to chai. And while these offenders may indeed play a part in the long burning dance of your life with food, a new realization begins to poke its way into existence. 

Your brain has a twin.

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Quinoa Mushroom Pilaf

Quinoa pilaf with mushrooms, scallions and bell peppers.

In between bouts of rain and nostalgia (I prickle using the word nostalgia, to be honest; it smacks of sentimentality, not a trait I cultivate or suffer gladly, but I'll get to that later) I've been craving quinoa like there's no tomorrow, as if I'm living in my own post-apocalyptic genre movie, foraging for nuts and berries on a desert highway in my fashionably shredded mud spattered get-up complete with goggles and chain link bracelets, wishing I had the taut burnished thighs of Tina Turner instead of my own wobbly, pale set of limbs.

Yeah. I'm talking voracious.

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Red Quinoa with Butternut Squash, Cranberries and Pecans

A dazilious red quinoa salad with fruit and vegetable jewels.

Today's recipe is a beautiful red quinoa recipe I tossed together featuring roasted butternut squash, cranberries and pecans. Serve this as a colorful side dish or stuff a vegetable. It would be fab and hip served in scooped out roasted vegetables such as big bell peppers or tomatoes. Red quinoa has a milder taste than the standard quinoa. So if you think you don't like quinoa, try the Inca red. I suspect you'll convert to quinoa love.

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Sweet Potato Pie

Gluten-free sweet potato pie- and vegan, too.

The afternoon sun is spinning the seaside air that particular autumn gold, burnished and warm and chilly all at once. Delicious. And gone too soon. The sun will officially set tonight at 4:50. I feel as if I am running out of time. There is so much I want to do- and never get done. I surrender my expectations day after day. The pile of choices snipped free by my dwindling energy is gathering a bulk and momentum akin to the dirty laundry (I’m still waiting for the post-menopausal zest promised by Margaret Mead).

But Santa Monica does not fade after dark. Her charms only deepen. So we walk after dinner to the Third Street Promenade and listen to the brave souls who risk their ego and their artistry (the unkind among us might quip, questionable talent) crooning songs or plucking violins or juggling. Palm readers and skateboarding bulldogs aside, it takes guts to stand in public and offer up a tune or a dance.

I come home inspired.

I am thinking a lot about my life these days. And what I want to do with the rest of it. Moving here is a new beginning (well, yeah, obviously). I am reinventing the woman I used to be. Spinning my own autumn magic from bits of bone and history.

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Fifty Five Things I've Learned in 55 Years

Last December, my blogging amiga Kalyn posted a list for her birthday: Sixty Things I've Learned in Sixty Years. Like so many readers, friends and fellow food bloggers, I was inspired by her post. So as birthday number fifty-five (fifty-five? how is that possible?) sat on the horizon as opaque and huge as June Gloom in Los Angeles, I was inspired to write my own list of hard won wisdom. Just to cheer myself up. And shake some cobwebs loose. Fifty-five just scares the pants off me, I gotta confess.

Fifty Five Things I've Learned in 55 Years

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Sticky Notes (on an anniversary)

Mist on the mesa- toward Abiquiu.

We choose our partners with a secret eye seeking the twin. Not the twin in the mirror, but the lost twin in shadow. The discarded, smothered twin we poked and twisted and kicked under the bed of childhood. The Other. The Everything We Are Not. The Abandoned One.

Forgotten in order to please.

If the stars are kind and align just right, you choose well. And The Chosen shimmers with your own potential, reflecting not what you have found but what you seek. And basking in their soul mate glow you grow- just a little. You stretch and you risk- just a little. With time and fledgling self awareness you notice a glint sparking back at you and you reach to claim it, knowing, This belongs to me. I am this, too.

And you take it back.

This unburdens your partner, piece by shining piece- who is, by design, if you have not done the work of reclaiming, either bored or chafing beneath the yoke of your golden-hued projection. Or worse- wandering off in search of eyes that see something new, or more authentic.

When people ask, What is the secret of a good marriage? I usually answer, Chemistry. And good manners. Especially when it comes to the toilet seat. And then I laugh. Because it's true. But only a slice of the truth. The more complicated truth (and one you don't share at dinner parties) is a messy, juggling, wrestling wrangle with the aspects of two separate selves discovering two mysterious twins in the marriage bed.

You see, it's not always safe to integrate.

The squelched and sore parts of you can knock apart your coupled equilibrium. Don't kid yourself. It's not ever easy to bid for wholeness. To grow. Growth means change. And change is challenging. Even in the best of circumstances. So some days it's frighteningly tempting to believe that the dust balled fragments skulking in the shadows are not worth the effort of excavation.

Denial and distraction can smell pretty good at first.

But one cloudy day when your mending hip is aching and your desert skin is itching, you glance up from the kitchen counter cluttered with sticky spoons and banana peels, and you meet a clear gaze that sees you for who you really are- not some projected angel in the house, not some idealized muse, or nurturing mother stand-in. But who you really are in all your unadorned, quirky, burnished glory.

And you thank not the stars, or luck, or even fate. You know better. You've done your homework. So has he. So you smile a slow smile and crack, What are you looking at?

The love of my life, he says.

Happy 13th Anniversary, Steve.

Screwed! But Sparky and Esteban Save the Day

Meet Sparky.

He's my new bed and blanket companion. Looking at him makes me smile. After the fall- there's an awful lot of imagery, sensation and emotion refracting inside this more-than-slightly addled post hip surgery brain of mine (this is a thinly veiled mea culpa for any bad writing that follows) but I wanted to send out a heartfelt thanks- lickity split!- to all of you, for your kind notes and sweet messages. I cherish every one.

My world has been whittled down to a queen size bed and some 800 square feet of floor space. I must keep- totally- off my left leg for a minimum of eight weeks to give my fractured femoral neck (screwed back together with three titanium screws) a fighting chance.

If you're a betting soul, here are the odds of me keeping my own hip: 50/50.

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Blueberry July

The view from our casita last night was a painting in progress- rapidly changing washes of color from east to west. The softest pink pushing into indigo. Cerulean dropping into sea green when you least expected it.

The day had been hot and dry and discouraging- I had realized abruptly, driving home in late afternoon glare to the beat of an REM song (I've got my spine, I've got my Orange Crush) that I had used a chicken bouillon paste in the previous night's green chile. I reached for it automatically. Without thinking. Just as I had the cup of herbal tea with lemon the night before that.

I felt like an idiot. 

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Santa Fe Style

Walking after dinner is a pleasure here in Santa Fe. The light is magic. The adobe walls throb with the heat of the day [you cannot resist raising your palms to it]. Solar power.

In less than two weeks we'll be moving north. Out of the city. Into the country. A place - once a pueblo- called Abiquiu. A tiny village. We'll have llamas and horses for neighbors. And two sour cherry trees and an apple tree to frame our view of the distant bluish hills beyond the Chama River. I'm itching to be there now. To breathe the sense of peace I feel when I turn down the county road and drive along the bosque, green with old cottonwoods.

We've picked out a carved Mexican bed two roperos (there are no closets!), and a couple of tables - a kitchen table carved from New Mexican juniper, and a beat up old wooden table with worn blue paint, perfect for a desk Two generous leather chairs. Some pottery made by local hands. A few mismatched dishes in violet, deep red, green and turquoise. Mexican glasses in various shades of green, blue and teal. 

I still can't decide on a KitchenAid color [or if I'll even need a standing mixer here at high altitude - baking here will prove a double challenge - gluten-free + high altitude = potential for baking disasters].

Any tips on baking gluten-free in the high desert are welcome.